I’m really, really, starting not to like my hair. It bothers me that there’s all this extra work in order to take care of it properly, since it’s super curly (4b or 4c?)
My hair grows, and it’s quite healthy. The longest I’ve had it was to my butt. Right now, its just below my chest. So it’s not a growth or length issue. I’ve also never had it relaxed, I’ve been natural all my life. My routine and products I use are minimal, and I have the techniques down. I would say I’m quite experienced.
My main issue is that it’s not quite versatile. I know people mention all the things you can do to it, but it’s usually wigs, braids, or silk presses. I hate wigs, I hate braids, and constantly straightening your hair damages it and that’s its own set of upkeep. And if it is natural, the styles require a bunch of gel and tension.
For a few years, I had my hair in twists. That’s how I got my hair to my butt. But because of how long it was getting, I would only touch my hair once a month (I know, disgusting). It was getting to the point that I would start in the morning, and at best, end late in the night. I tried doing it more often, which did cut down on the time, but it still took basically all day just in more frequent intervals. I eventually decided to just take the twists out. Due to basically neglecting my hair, I had so many split ends and single strand knots I had to cut more than half my hair 😭
When I looked online for what to do with my hair, all I saw was wigs and weave. I get hot and sweaty easily, and I don’t like the idea of not having access to my scalp, so wigs are a no. I’ve had braids before, but I don’t like sitting down for hours to do my hair, and I didn’t want to continue waiting a month to do my hair or only having it in for 1-2 weeks and taking it out. I don’t trust myself to use heat, and I hate gel as it’ll make my hair greasy quickly. I also wanted styles where I didn’t have to worry about my hair too much, since I like to swim. But without those styles, it’s hard to have your hair looking decent.
My alternative to gel was to detangle and style my hair everyday. I would detangle it in the shower and style it when I came out. Since I didn’t moisturize it, that end up leaving my hair dry and with single strand knots, so I had to cut my hair again. Then I applied moisture every other day, which stopped the knots, but now my hair was getting dirty easily. Also, the routine of taking the time to section my hair, detangle each section, twist it up, and then find a style was getting tiresome. Finding a style while having kinky hair, there’s only a handful of hairstyles that work with no gel, so it was quite discouraging.
Eventually, I just decided to leave my hair in four braids and wash it once a week. My routine is simple: I detangle it in the shower before I start shampooing, I leave it in sections the whole time, leave the conditioner to sit while I wash myself, detangle and rinse it, use water and oil and braid them up. Throughout the week, as it gets frizzy, I detangle and braid it in the shower (which is about every other day).
I look back and I’m like, why all this work??? I watch people with straight and loose curls a lot and I wish I could do what they could with their hair. I wish I could just wake up, brush it out, and it’s decent looking or I can immediately style it. Or, even if I have to wet and detangle it, I wish I didn’t have to constantly section it off, and only let the water “reset” my curls. Since my curls are tight and can knot easily, I don’t wear it out without detangling it first which isn’t a simple ordeal either.
I wish I could do minimal to no sectioning, and when I’m done detangling I could take it all out and just brush through it. I wish it would stay decently detangled throughout my shampooing, and all I have to do is a quick brush through my head with the conditioner in before rinsing it out. I wish it didn’t take me almost 2 HOURS TO WASH AND BRAID MY HAIR EVERY WEEK! I wish when I styled it, I could leave more hair out and do cute minimal hairstyles, not worry about having to “stretch it out” or do looks that could be achieved with minimal to no gel (my hair just isnt like that lol). I wish I could just moisturize it and let it dry and be done with it.
I’ve had long hair: down my butt, lower back, and now I’m letting it grow out again and it’s about mid back. I can’t show off my length! I’ve always wanted long hair, and now that I do, I can’t even take it out and see it all because it’ll just shrink and be a hassle! I think my curls are pretty, but shrinkage limits styles so much and since they’re tight, wearing my hair out just leaves it vulnerable to breakage.
Another issue I have is cleanliness. I wash my hair once a week, but like I said, I’m hot bodied. I’m also active, so I sweat a bunch. My hair just gets dirty so quickly! My issues always been that I can’t just wash it, since it takes so long. I have a life! I have stuff to do! This is tmi, but I hate that I can’t wash my sweaty head! It grosses me out, and I’m always scratching it. I feel like no matter what I do, I’m a slave to my hair. This has to be my biggest issue, it gives me the ick.
My only hope is to shave it. I don’t mind wearing wigs if I have nothing underneath, if I decide to wear wigs. I can also wash it however often I want to. My only issue is my femininity. I love long hair, I love having long hair. I love measuring my hair from time to time and being happy with how much it’s grown. I love the compliments I get about my hair being (unexpectedly) long. Also, my hair wasn’t always long. Before I learned what to do and how to take care of it, my hair was the same length for years and I envied those whose hair was long and loose. I mean I still do, but it’s more for versatility and ease rather than it is about looks (although that does still play a role). Now that I have it, I feel sad about letting it go. It’s kind of like my identity, which is also a reason why I want to shave it off. I’m also already insecure about looking manly, so while shaving my hair from here on out might be freeing, I feel like it’ll amplify another insecurity.
I don’t know what was the point of me making this or if anybody cares but this is my dilemma and I dunno if anyone’s going through something similar.

I wasn't planning on watching Thrice Upon A Time. I had not liked the previous films and they seemed like a very inferior product compared to the original anime. However, the good reviews and opinions I saw about it encouraged me to do so. I did it with as open and tolerant a mind as possible, knowing that there was a good chance I wouldn't like the film. "What's the worst that could happen? That I don't like it and continue to prefer the original series? At least I'll be entertained for two and a half hours," I thought. What I did not expect at all is the deep feeling of disgust and repulsion that this film provoked in me, in a way that no other film has provoked in years.
I hated the movie from start to finish. I could spend hours talking about the boring action sequences, about its ugly, excessive CGI that ruins the already ugly mecha, about its disgusting hypersexualization of fucking 14-year-old girls, about how Misato's plans don't make sense, about how Last Kiss almost made me tear my ears off, or its plot full of Deus Ex Machinas with concepts conveniently taken by Hideaki Anno from the place that his last name suggests; but the real reason I'm writing this is because I feel like these movies spit on everything the excellent original work represents.
Not only because as adaptations they fail miserably, but also because they retroactively damage the original work (we'll talk about that later).
Before I begin to explain why the rebuilds are bad adaptations, I want to warn that I am going to do a relatively exhaustive review of the 4 films, so this rant is going to be very long, like staying up late on a winter night with chronic insomnia. That said, let's start to see the reasons:
WHAT IS NEON GENESIS EVANGELION?:
To understand why rebuilds fail as remakes, I must first ask you, dear reader: What does Neon Genesis Evangelion mean to you? (it should at least be familiar to you, unless you've spent your life under a bridge) What do you think about when you read that title, apart from Shinji fucking in front of a comatose Asuka? What comes to mind when you hear the most famous opening in anime history, apart from Shinji strangling the otter against Happy Thursday's throat? (in more ways than one). If your answer is: "It's a mecha anime for emos with a coomer protagonist", that's fine, I respect that; but please press the red "X" in the top right corner of your screen, you can now leave.
Now, I'm going to get serious and explain my definition: Evangelion is a work about the hedgehog's dilemma and the difficulties of forming emotional bonds that human beings have, as well as the consequences of trying to separate from them for fear of rejection. It is not a story about heroes. It's not a story about saving the world. In Evangelion there are neither heroes nor villains, but rather a group of emotionally broken characters trying to be happy in a world just as broken as them. The real enemy of Evangelion is not the angels. It is the lack of communication and empathy.
https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dilema_del_erizo
It is that same lack of communication and empathy that progressively causes everything to go to hell to conclude with a cathartic and bleak ending, but consistent with the themes of the work. It is therefore an existentialist work about human relationships disguised as a mecha anime. This, added to a unique visual style, daring direction, and mechas like never before seen on television, made Evangelion one of the most influential anime in all of history, as well as a true commercial success for Gainax Studio. Success that encouraged other studios to carry out projects such as Cowboy Bebop or Serial Experiment Lain, taking anime towards a new golden age.
Even today you can hear the echoes of that Third Impact of End of Evangelion in 1997. The list of works influenced by Evangelion both inside and outside of Japan is endless. Of course, it is not a perfect work, nor extensive in errors: its target audience is ambiguous, many of the biblical references are more for decoration than anything else, and several aspects of the ending(s) could have been explained better. However, many of these errors can be attributed to a lack of time and budget during the production of the original anime (which was quite chaotic and improvised); therefore, they are understandable and forgivable.
In summary, we can conclude that Evangelion is a dark, introspective, provocative and unique work (at least at its time). This is also combined with a unique visual identity and complex characters whose relationships intertwine and interconnect throughout the work. The sum of all these factors is what led Evangelion to be such a critically acclaimed work that it transcended its own genre and became an icon of popular culture. And this in turn constitutes the biggest mistake of rebuilds; because they commit the biggest sin that an adaptation can commit: denying everything that made the original work great.
ADAPTING WITHOUT A CLEAR PURPOSE:
One of the biggest problems with these remakes (as well as a clear example of what I'm saying) is their total narrative inconsistency. Let me explain: the first rebuilds movie (1.11) is a literal copy-paste of the first 6 chapters of the original anime, with practically the same scenes, dialogues and even music. This makes the film completely redundant and unnecessary (and makes one wonder why it exists); But in any case, the message is being conveyed that the purpose of these remakes is to adapt the original series as faithfully as possible to the cinema with a current animation style.
However, the second movie (2.22) is a... something. A pastiche of new and old things where the plot broadly follows that of the original anime, but with many things changed (of course, for the worse) and a different ending. All this compressing no less than 14 chapters of the original anime into two and a half hours. Here the message that one can infer is that it seeks to adapt the original story (very briefly) by changing and rearranging certain elements, now more in line with what an adaptation is.
However, then we get to 3.33 and... well, after a 14-year because reasons timeskip, we're now in a post-post-apocalyptic world (repetition intended) where ex-Nerv members fight against Nerv itself. Nerv in giant spaceships, there are mechas everywhere, Misato is a sociopath, and Shinji and Asuka still look exactly the same because "DAMN JEBA." Here we can infer that what is sought is to create a totally new story and take it in different directions than the original. The following movie (3.0+1.01) is the only one that is consistent with this purpose.
Whether all these narrative pirouettes were planned in advance or not (clearly not), we can see that there is a clear incongruity between what is intended to be done and what is finally done. All of this generates a strong narrative chaos where the elements and themes of the original anime are mixed with the new ones, creating a total inconsistency. Since also in 3.0+1.01 it is revealed (unfortunately to me) that everything is part of the same universe and this is not really a remake, the excuse of "they are different universes, they don't have to be the same" doesn't work either.
In fact, one thing that you will see me comment a lot throughout this article is the lack of narrative consistency of these remakes, especially in comparison to the original work.
A HEDGEHOG WITHOUT TICKS:
No character in Evangelion better embodies the central theme of the work than Shinji Ikari, its own protagonist. Shinji is not a hero: he is not brave. He is not a genius. He is not charismatic. He is not selfless. He doesn't want to save the world. His reason for piloting the Eva is to gain recognition and appreciation from others; especially from his father, whom he hates, but at the same time admires; He feels that she despises him, but he also wants (and needs) that she loves him. Shinji spends the entire series in the dilemma between escaping from what hurts him (classic avoidance behavior) or accepting it and moving on, even at the risk of being hurt again.
This theme is rock solid throughout the entire original series: from the first to the last chapter of the anime, and from minute one to the very end of End of Evangelion. Even the opening itself makes several visual references to Shinji's hedgehog dilemma. This can make Shinji an infuriating character for audiences accustomed to typical anime protagonists; but it's those same things that make Shinji such a unique and special character. He deconstructs and subverts the hero's journey. And it's not as if this hinders the plot: Shinji is not proactive, but he also does not spend the series crying, as many often claim.
https://files.catbox.moe/eolho0.mp4
https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monomito
And as you may already be imagining, the Shinji of the rebuilds does not have a hedgehog's dilemma. Or rather, he has it, but only during the first movie (copy-paste of the original anime) and part of the second. This is a problem, because it creates a strong narrative inconsistency (again) where it seems that two Shinjis exist at the same time or that this one is bipolar. As of 3.33, Shinji's entire character arc is based on trying to redeem himself for his past mistakes first by unleashing "Almost Third Impact" (what a stupid name) and subsequently preventing Kaworu's death while trying to right said mistake.
Is this a bad thing? Not necessarily. The problem is that I have already seen the arc of the hero who fails to eventually rise up and succeed in 100 trillion works, while the hedgehog's dilemma in none more than in Evangelion (at least in my case). Which makes Shinji a much less interesting character. Some might argue that in 3.0 + 1.01 Shinji does have such a dilemma because he spends half the movie crawling on the ground; but there is not a hedgehog's dilemma, but rather depression for having seen Kaworu's head go KAWOOM (I know, the joke was very bad, but if he didn't do it, I would explode too).
End of Evangelion's Shinji did have such a dilemma because the reason for his depression was having been manipulated and used by someone he had previously opened up to and then forced to kill him, not for failing in his mission (in fact, he was very efficient in her mission to separate Kaworu's head from her body), which in turn brings sexual (and later, deadly) results for Asuka. I insist: narrative consistency. But this is not the worst: the worst thing is that at certain moments in these films, Shinji becomes the typical shonen savior hero, betraying the central point of his character in the original series.
https://youtu.be/E-x-f2OrWeA
A perfect example of this is the ending of 2.22, where the fight in chapter 19 (COINCENTLY from where the original anime starts to get more introspective) is transformed into a ridiculous shipping attempt, with Rei turned into a damsel in distress and Shinji into a savior hero while spouting all the typical cliché lines, topped off with a disgustingly cheesy ending. But of course, how could it end otherwise? With Shinji's Eva practicing cannibalism on Zeruel's corpse (the original scene)? Too disturbing for current times. Shinji and Rei fighting as a team to defeat him? Yes of course. Rei has enough not being in the kitchen. Besides, Asuka already takes care of that, hoping to receive her alpha male's cock as a reward.
https://youtu.be/TPS0Uk0TkP0
Because, like any good modern anime protagonist, Shinji now has a harem.
FETISHING WITHOUT CONTROL:
Of all the characters who are now part of Shinji's harem, the one who is most harmed by this is Rei (Asuka's case is different, and the other character is an infernal creation from Anno's sick mind). Not only because acting like a bitch in heat goes totally against her personality and because of the murky situation, considering that she is a clone of Shinji's mother, but also because her character is reduced to a mere fetish object that does things cute to produce tenderness in the viewer and make coomers buy their figurines.
Rei is an interesting character because he raises numerous existential questions based on the ship of Theseus paradox: the concept of identity, to what extent we can consider ourselves still ourselves, the construction and definition of a "self", etc. But here, her screen time piloting her Unit 00 is minimal (COINCENTLY most of it in 1.11) and her exploits are practically irrelevant or non-existent, also being reduced to a mere damsel in distress at the end of 2.22, as I said before.
https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paradoja_de_Teseo
In 3.0+1.01 he doesn't even get to pilot an Eva. Her role in the film is to cause pity and produce tenderness with her total ignorance (I see that the idiot Anno forgot that all the Reis are born with basic knowledge) while she is seen with different hairstyles, different outfits, working as a farmer, taking care of a baby, etc. In short, a fetish object where she wants the public to value her for how "moe" she is instead of for her abilities or as a character. In Anno's mind, feminism advances in reverse. Ironic, considering that it was precisely Rei who unintentionally started the moe culture.
Of course, it goes without saying that Rei is not the only one who suffers from this extreme fetishization of her character in these films. Under the excuse of paying homage to End of Evangelion, Asuka now always wears an eye patch (needless to say it has nothing to do with having been injured there), a cap with cat ears, in addition to having a very convenient trend for the coomer public of walking naked and semi-naked through other people's houses. She sometimes puts on the plugsuit, but near the end of the movie, it is conveniently torn off, lest we forget that this is made by the Japanese.
One of the best examples of how this hareminication has destroyed the main female characters is in the elevator scene. In the original anime, Rei tries to advise Asuka in a time of particular vulnerability and depression. Rei's limited social skills, coupled with Asuka being Asuka, cause her to misinterpret the attempt to help as mockery and an act of condescension, triggering a slap from her towards Rei and a worsening of her already strained relationship and Asuka's mental state. Rei doesn't fight back because she knows that doing so would only make things even worse.
It is an excellent dramatic scene because it once again brings to the foreground the hedgehog's dilemma and the difficulties between human relationships, very much in line with what Evangelion is. In 2.22, this scene is gratuitously introduced and turned into two horny bitches fighting over which of the two will let their alpha male penetrate first, with a highly OC Rei stopping the assault attempt in a 100% gangsta way to make her see more "cool." The scene doesn't even make plot sense, because Asuka at that moment is not even depressed, and in the original anime this occurs at a much later time under a very different context.
and speaking of asuka...
SOMEONE CALLED ASUKA:
When I started watching these movies, I was afraid that Asuka's character had undergone modifications to make her more "palatable" to new audiences. What took me completely by surprise was how radically different this Asuka is from the original. So different that they can't even be considered the same character. To show it very clearly, we are going to review the personality of both:
Asuka from the original anime: An energetic and outgoing half-German, half-Japanese girl (actually it's 1/4, but who cares) who loves to be the center of attention and have everyone praise her due to the lack of parental love received during her childhood having been abandoned by her father and supplanted by her mother, who suffered from severe mental disorders. She is extremely proud and competitive because she feels that being Eva's pilot is the only thing that gives her an identity and purpose, which makes her tend to become quickly frustrated when things don't go her way and become defensive when she feels like she is being outmaneuvered. . He loves to make fun of others (especially Shinji), to the point of being cruel at times, but he does not do it out of malice, but rather to compensate for his enormous inferiority complex due to the rejection suffered by his mother and having witnessed her. committed suicide (and possibly even tried to kill her) the day she was chosen as Eva's pilot and came running to wish her a Happy Thursday. She admires Kaji and wants to fuck him because she hates her own adolescence, she needs to feel adult and independent due to suffering from a certain Electra complex for having lacked a true father figure during her childhood. She has a sweet and vulnerable nature, but she rarely expresses it to anyone except her best friend Hikari and I better stop this now because too much text.
Rebuild Asuka (hereinafter "Asuka"): A girl soldier created by Nerv as part of a series of clones who has always been alone and thinks she doesn't need anyone, although she secretly wishes to have a family. She hits and insults others for no reason, she yells a lot, never smiles or makes jokes, and hates socializing with others, which doesn't stop her from looking for Shinji's dick within 2 days of meeting him. She always plays video games while someone is talking to her and at night she talks to herself with a doll like an autistic person.
As we can see, these two characters not only look nothing alike: several of their traits directly contradict each other. Because they look alike, they are not even alike in aesthetics: the original Asuka had red hair and dressed in the traditional feminine way, while "Asuka" is light brown and dresses in a tomboy style (which I'm not saying is wrong, I'm just commenting to show the radical difference). It's not that they have changed Asuka: it's that they have directly murdered her to supplant her by someone with whom she only shares her first name (not even her last name). And needless to say, the change has been VERY for the worse.
To describe the first character, I had to spend 15 damn lines, and even then I had to leave out many important facets of his personality, his development in the original series and his entire character arc in EoE, because if I didn't have one endless bible For the second, 6 lines were enough for me, and I could have had more left over if I had been more concise. The first character is a complex and three-dimensional character, with multiple facets, edges and layers. She feels like a real person. The second character is a generic tsundere that you can find in any mecha anime of the week. She is not even comparable to the first; She's not even a good character.
We cannot speak of Flanderization because not even the most basic traits of the character have been respected. Nor can we speak of a deconstruction because that same absence of basic traits means that there is no character construction on which to stand in the first place. Obviously, this change greatly resents the interactions between characters: the original Asuka was a charismatic and fun character with the ability to drive the plot on her own (as soon as she appears in chapter 8 of the original anime she is already changing the entire dynamic between characters) , while "Asuka" is mostly only in the background or to fight; He doesn't even have a character arc as such. In fact, in 2.22 he has even less screen time than several supporting characters.
His chemistry with Shinji is also non-existent (and I'm not just referring to the romantic level) and they barely have any development together. They like each other here because... ehhhh... she likes how he cooks and he thinks she's hot? It's not that the AsuShinji (or ShinSuka, or whatever the hell it's called) here is forced: it's just that it doesn't even make sense. The only reason people still ship them together is because they did it in the 90s. Yūko Miyamura's performance also feels very lackadaisical and lacks passion, which is quite unlike her. Although perhaps this is intentional, since her character always talks as if she has the spear of Longinus permanently stuck up her rectum. In fact, the few times she says her iconic "Anta baka?" This one feels very forced, in addition to not having her characteristic high-pitched tone.
In short, the character has suffered the same fetishization as Rei (gamer girl, tomboy, one-eyed, etc.), but also with the aggravating factor that not even her basic characteristics have been respected here. This is especially disconcerting when we take into account that the rest of the characters have their original personalities more or less intact (albeit simplified). Even more disconcerting if we take into account that Asuka is possibly the most popular character in all of Evangelion, and even more so if we consider that she is Anno's favorite character (in fact, the initial idea was for Asuka to be the protagonist).
https://evaresources.wordpress.com/der-mond/
Given this, the inevitable question arises: "Why?" What was the point of turning Asuka into an inferior and tsundere copy of Rei, even more so when there are already three clones? It has always been rumored that Asuka is not popular in Japan, but that is completely false. The only semi-rational explanation I can think of is that they did it to please the haters. It's no secret that a portion within the Evangelion fandom (and outside of it) hates Asuka with a passion. They see her as someone toxic and cruel who dedicates herself to screwing others for no reason, without understanding that you don't have to like a well-written character.
https://imgur.com/a/KznXE1x
What these people fail to understand is that Asuka's verbal abuse is a defense mechanism to avoid opening up to others, since Asuka constantly says things that do not fit with what she really feels or thinks (clear proof is chapter 16 from the original series). It's not like it matters much, considering they were never more than an extremely vocal minority. That the character is so popular is proof of this. The great irony of all this is that the new "Asuka" is a much more unpleasant and detestable character than the original, since she lacks the redeemable qualities of the original and her moments of comic relief.
And if until now I have been more or less benevolent with this remake, this is something I cannot forgive: because changing a character just because a group of people doesn't like it is one of the most cowardly and pathetic acts in the world. that a writer can fall. The fact that this was also at the expense of one of the best female characters in the history of anime and with a wonderful story arc makes it even more bloody. Any other halfway competent writer would have responded with this.
https://youtu.be/5Js0ea6yPKM
...although if we go by Ockham's razor, the most likely explanation is simply that Hideaki Anno is mentally retarded.
A CHARACTER TO DESTROY A FRANCHISE AND BIND IT TO DARKNESS:
Mari Makinami Illustrious A.K.A María Iskariote (what an appropriate last name) is one of the worst creations ever made by humans. Not since the atomic bombs has humanity created something so horrible. Worse than the holocaust. Worse than fascism. Worse than Facebook memes. Worse than stepping on a lego. I would even dare to say that it is worse than pizza with pineapple. No character better reflects Anno's mental decline or better embodies all the problems of the current anime industry than this trash.
This character contributes absolutely nothing to the plot, he does not contribute at any time to its advancement, he lacks his own development or story, he does absolutely nothing relevant in the 3 films in which he appears, and he does not even have a defined personality. So much so, that all of her scenes could be eliminated or replaced by any other character and she would barely affect the plot, or not affect it at all.
The character is so frighteningly one-dimensional that she doesn't even show different emotions or moods during the three films in which she appears, always being perpetually happy and carefree even in tense situations for literally no reason. This leads to moments as surreal as her starting to sing and hum in scenes that are intended to be serious or dramatic (or so I think; perhaps what they wanted was to turn this into an unintentional comedy), again generating a gigantic narrative dissonance. The last third of 3.33 is the best example of this.
But that's not the worst: this character is clearly made for otaku coomers to masturbate to. She has almost every fetish possible: glasses/lenses (whatever they call it in your country), pigtails, miniskirt, schoolgirl, saying "nya", big tits, obsession with smell and tight outfits, etc. To make matters worse in 3.0 + 1.01 we discover that she is 48 years old, so we can also add the milf fetish. Evidently, her tits always bounce in her plugsuit (she would swear that never happened in the original series) and there are many close-ups of her ass. In addition to constantly making sexual advances towards Shinji, which also turns this piece of shit into a potential pedophile.
If the thing simply ended there, we could say that this character remains a mere annoying and unnecessary secondary character. Unfortunately, the character is also disruptive to the plot, occupying long filler scenes that do nothing more than waste time that is already scarce in a film, and that could have been used on something else more interesting; like Pen Pen watching TV, Pen Pen eating a sardine, etc. Without going any further, both 2.22, 3.33 and 3.0+1.01 begin with a long filler scene of her hitting on her. Well, to be honest, the 3.33 one is more Asuka, but this abortion is still out there fucking and singing.
It would not be an exaggeration to say that discussing why this character exists is much more interesting than any other debate that can be created about these films. I still think about it. However, the ending of 3.0+1.01 gives a good clue: the character was created solely and exclusively to stay with Shinji. I can only imagine that Anno made this tired of the fandom shipping and the arguments over who Shinji should stay with, so he decided to end the matter by creating his own ideal waifu with all the fetishes he likes in a woman to end it. with this. It's disgusting, but considering we're talking about a Japanese, totally possible.
It's surreal coming from the man who harshly criticized the use of anime as escapism and the excessive female objectification and sexualization in it, but it's the only semi-decent explanation I can think of. Basically, he is what is called a mascot character in literature. That would explain why this character never shows doubts, nor any kind of internal conflict, or why he is a better Eva pilot than Asuka and Rei themselves. It is also very revealing about the quality of the Rebuilds: creating a self-insert OC just to be the partner of the protagonist or another main character is the quintessential trait of all bad fanfiction.
However, among all this tsunami of disqualifications, I also have to say something positive: spending three movies giving hope to the shippers only to have Shinji be cuckolded simultaneously by Rei and Asuka in the last one and end up with a character with which had zero development (before 3.0+1.01 I didn't even know its name) is a true trolling masterclass, worthy of the best of ball pumpers. Only a true emperor of evil would have come up with such a twisted and at the same time perfect way to screw over a large part of the fandom. I give you my tens, Anno.
THE ANTI-UNIVERSE OF ANTI-NARRATIVE:
Of all the new concepts that Anno brings up at the last minute from the place named after his last name, none stands out more than the "anti-universe." Or, as I like to call it, the "anti-good writing." Basically because it perfectly represents all the problems of the rebuilds and their script. In the final stretch of 3.0+1.01 we have the last-minute revelation of a quantum plane of existence capable of turning imagined worlds into reality and changing this through Lilith, which cannot be understood by the human mind (wow, WHAT CONVENIENT!) and whose existence has never been mentioned or even hinted at in the entire franchise until CONCIDENTLY the aforementioned last third of the film.
In other words, a gigantic Deus Ex Machina created in an improvised way to avoid repeating End of Evangelion and forcing a happy ending where Shinji creates an ideal universe for each character (although that is questionable, as we will see later). And it is far from being the only one: the spear of Cassius, the Eva of Infinity, the key of Nebuchadnezzar, the Book of Life, and so on. None of these concepts are integrated into the plot in an organic and natural way, but rather they arise spontaneously at its convenience when it needs it. Except for the new "Super Berserker Mode" of the Evas, which is simply a power-up to sell figurines.
As I said before, if at least this were an alternate universe separate from the original anime, all this bombardment of concepts pulled out of the ass would be a little better justified. But the revelation that everything is a cycle and we are in the same universe as the original work only makes it even worse, generating countless inconsistencies about why they never mentioned this or never used that (what's the point of the seeds of life If you can create universes simply by imagining them?). Although without a doubt, the worst of all these new concepts is "the curse of Eve."
Here we have a new concept with very strong repercussions completely launched, which is not even an explanation in itself, it does not answer anything and to make matters worse, the same films contradict each other several times. Needless to say, this is a cheap excuse for the three main characters not to grow up and continue sexualizing 14-year-old girls after the most gratuitous timeskip ever seen. And speaking of timeskip, putting such a long one in the middle of the story is a first-time writing error. If you are writers, never do that: the bigger the time jump, the more things you will be forced to explain, since the less you do it, the more plot holes will form as a result.
And of course, here it explains little to nothing of what happened these 14 years. Like where Nerv got such a tremendous base from, if in 3.33 it seemed that together with Rei and Kaworu it was made up of four people. Or how they have gotten such an army of pseudo-Evas, especially when these are supposed to be extremely expensive (wow, and SEELE with all her unlimited resources was barely 9 in EoE). Or worse yet, how Kaji managed to stop Almost Third Impact (seriously, the name couldn't be stupider). None of these questions are answered at any time. Obviously because they can't do it.
Evangelion has always been characterized by leaving things up to the public's interpretation, but here I feel that they are vilely taking advantage of it so as not to have to give any kind of explanations. And in the case at hand, do not even pay attention to contradictions. Like Touji and Kensuke got on Unit 01 and that doesn't stop them from being 28 after the timeskip. Or that Mari appears to be 14 despite looking like an adult in Gendo's photos and flashbacks, plus the fact that Evas, by simple logic, could not exist back then.
The height of absurdity is when near the end of 3.0+1.01 the "unexpected" revelation occurs (actually we all saw it coming) that everything is a cycle and we are facing a reboot of the original timeline, of which only Kaworu seems to be conscious. He let them guess without giving them any clues how many times Kaworu mentioned or even hinted at such a thing in the original series. Needless to say, nothing is ever explained about it: Who created that cycle? (Adam? Lilith? The First Ancestral Race? Hideaki Anno's last name?) For what purpose? How does it work? How long does it last? Why is Kaworu the only one who remembers him? Do these remakes make sense?
THE DEATH OF A STYLE:
Fortress-cities folding in on themselves. Designs and constructions oscillating between the nineties, the utopian and the cyberpunk. Meshes of flesh and blood animated with the souls of the dead fighting with classical music in the background. A mysterious and ambiguous lore where aliens, technology and conspiracies mix with gnostic, cabalistic elements and the most esoteric aspects of Christianity (did the History Channel predict Evangelion?). Minimalist posters moving quickly between frames. Monochrome backgrounds flashing aggressively (bad luck if you were epileptic). So consistent with its themes that the A.T. fields themselves. They were an allegory of the hedgehog's dilemma (I'm not making this up, Kaworu himself says it in chapter 23).
https://imgur.com/a/2M0eDVK
The sum of all these factors is what allowed Evangelion to build an absolutely unique identity, the one that allowed people to say "hey, that's an Eva!". Starting in 3.33, all that is lost to disappear in 3.0+1.01 in favor of giant spaceships, mechanical mechas made of pure CGI, battles full of colored lights, multiverses and time loops. I'm not saying these elements are bad in and of themselves, but I've already seen a thousand mecha stories with these. For that, I start watching any of the versions of Gundam or Macross. I could also complain about the boring shots without audiovisual language and always using the same color palette, but to be fair, that is an endemic evil of current anime.
And like any bad remake, 3.0+1.01 can't help but pay homage to several scenes from the original work, completely failing to understand the point of said scenes. As an example, we have Ritsuko shooting Gendo for no reason other than to pay homage to End of Evangelion, ignoring that the context between both scenes is very different. Furthermore, here they never explain the relationship that exists between the two, so the scene makes no sense; especially for those who never saw the original series, who will also find mentions of facts that these films have never shown or bothered to explain.
Even worse is when they try to pay homage to the iconic battle between Asuka and the Eva Series. Not only because of the total absence of the graphic violence and choreography of the original, but because what makes that fight so remembered is its emotional component, since it is preceded by a narrative catharsis in which Asuka discovers that the Her mother's soul was always in Unit 02, in addition to being marked by the constant tension of knowing if she will be able to finish the fight before the Eva's energy supply runs out. Here the Evas never run out of energy (why do they need the power supply, then?), so there is no such tension.
In the original fight Asuka may not be shooting 1387945 Evas with a super cannon larger than her as she falls through an... interdimensional hole?; But there you feel every blow, you can appreciate every movement in detail, and the dramatic tension in crescendo only improves the result. If this were a shonen, the logical thing is that Asuka would win. After all, her character arc has been wrapped up in a climactic way. Unfortunately, this is Evangelion. When the Evas Series manage to cause a mortal wound with the pseudo-spear of Longinus and the energy counter reads zero, the outcome is already decided. What happens next is horrific (Asuka's enemies are cruel to her even after she is dead), and just as horrifying are Yūko Miyamura's screams and Miki Nagasawa's performance as Maya announcing that Asuka is dead. In the Rebuilds there are no performances anywhere near that level.
End of Evangelion will be as dark and uncomfortable to watch as you want, but it is a film where all those responsible put their souls into achieving the best possible result, both on a technical and artistic level.
and well, I think that for today I have already downloaded too much, an apology for the large amount of text, I will make a second part at another time because I have so many things to comment on... anyway, I hope you have a good day/afternoon/night or when you read this .

When I was three years old I was in a really bad car accident. I didn't know it at the time, but that singular event would come to define everything about my life moving forward. What I remember about the accident is mostly a collage of backdated comments I was able to reel out of my father in the following years. He was driving me and my mom in his old '91 Chevy Tahoe through the twisting backroads of Southern Illinois, weaving his way through the gnarled branches of oak trees which interlocked into a braided ceiling overhead. A fog had rolled in, giving the impression that we were driving through a cloudy tube. Everything was simultaneously bright and opaque. I didn't mind though, as I was in the back seat working on a coloring book. My mom was in the front, talking with my dad or turning around to entertain my completed pictures.
Although I was of the age where my memory was just beginning to mature, I still recall two things very clearly from the accident. First was the sensation of breaking. I remember feeling the way a plate must feel to be dropped: weightless at first, then suddenly meeting a much larger, more solid object—the air popped like a firecracker, and the entirety of my body shattered into hundreds of fractals. And then I remember a hand. It was my dad's hand pulling me from the wreck.
I ended up hospitalized for weeks after the crash. My mom was less lucky. The impact had killed her instantly.
As I've alluded to, I was young, and at the time I didn't fully understand the implications of what had happened. I knew something was missing, but it was like a word on the tip of my tongue, or the forgotten vanilla in a cherished cake recipe—coloring my experience, but not the whole of it. Not like my dad. For him, it was the whole fucking cake. He had somehow made it out with only a few scratches. I'm sure he had a really bad case of survivor's guilt, and frankly, looking back, I wouldn't have blamed him if he slumped into despair and spent his days drinking away his sorrow. But he wasn't that type of man. He got help. It took him years before he was able to recall anything that happened that morning, and most of it is still repressed, but he shared with me what he could. Or at least that's what I had thought.
My dad was a Middle School teacher since before I was born, and he kept his job until very recently. As a result, we didn't have much by way of resources. I grew up on Disney Channel and TV dinners for the most part, but I didn't mind. When I became of school age, his job actually made caring for me pretty convenient. Since our Elementary and Middle schools were connected, he was able to drive me there and back each day.
It was around third or fourth grade that I realized I was different. I didn't understand the other children or even the adults most of the time. They would say things then immediately change their mind, or they would talk about something and in the next breath forget its existence entirely. I remember one day at lunch, I had just gotten my tray of hot food and sat down with some friends. One of the kids, Alex, was talking about a stuffed bird he had won for getting first place in Mr. Curtis's pop-up math competition. We were all admiring its blue wings and white belly and sharp black beak and beady eyes. I left mid-conversation to get a chocolate milk. When I came back, I asked to see the bird again, and Alex said "what bird?" I was perplexed. "The bird—the bluejay you were just showing us." I remember all of the other kids looking at me like I was crazy. I figured they were all playing a trick on me, so I got up and went over to Alex's seat and crouched down, looking under the table, then I sprung up and tried to open his lunchbox. "What are you doing!?" he yelled. I felt so confused and embarrassed that I ran to the bathroom to cry.
And then there was another time a group of kids were laughing about a joke one of the girls, Taylor, had made about our homeroom teacher's face looking like a seal. I knew it was mean, but at the time I just wanted to fit in so I played along, but when I made a comment about her resemblance to the semi-aquatic animal, they all looked at me confused. "What are you talking about? We never said that…"
These misattributions kept happening, and it led to me being ostracized from most of the little childish cliques that popped up. I developed a quasi-standoffish temperament which I used as a shield against a chaotic world that I didn't understand. My dad eventually had me tested for ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder), but I passed the test. He asked if I wanted to move to a different town with different schoolmates, thinking that perhaps I was getting bullied, but I told him it was fine. Somewhere deep down I felt like no matter where I went, this problem would follow me.
You may think that I was simply coping with the absence of my mom, and while I'm sure that her absence has left certain holes in my life, kindly, no, that wasn't what was happening. You see, at first I didn't notice the instances of what I'll call "blinking". I simply thought that I was misremembering things: objects, words, events. They were all little things anyway. A bird, a joke, my pencil box. It wasn't until sixth grade that I realized the magnitude of the phenomenon.
I was in my dad's 6th grade Social Studies class and we had just been assigned our "Ancient Civilizations" project which involved creating a diorama of our chosen civilization and presenting its features to the class. My friend at the time, Claire, had taken my first choice of Ancient Rome (which we had a heated argument about at lunch), so I was left with Ancient Egypt. At the time, all I pictured for Egypt was a plate of sand. However, my dad and I went through some illustrated history books and pictures on the internet and he really built up the project for me.
Over the course of a couple months, he helped me shape three pyramids out of small wooden planks and a bunch of tan clay. We placed them in the center of a giant square shoebox lid which served as the container for the diorama. Then he bought some small wooden mannequin puppets and we dressed them up in cloth clothes (mostly kilts and tunics) and colored their eyes, mouths, and hair. We added a few obelisks and some small box-huts which were collected into a little village around the Nile. Finally, we added a light glaze of glue where we felt would be necessary and then covered the whole project with golden glitter.
As we worked on each part of the diorama, my dad helped me understand what we were adding and why it was important to Ancient Egypt. I loved the way he talked about history. He spun everything into a miraculous story. To this day, I don't think I've ever had a teacher who came close to his level of charisma and creativity. As a result, I became really proud of my diorama. I memorized all the little details and rehearsed my speech in front of the mirror for hours leading up to the last couple weeks of class. And then, two days before I was supposed to give my presentation, everything fell apart.
First, I need to apologize for deceiving you about an aspect of my story. I thought it might help you to understand what I was going through at the time. What I'm about to tell you is going to sound insane. I get that. But please hear me out. The truth is that I was never assigned to present on Ancient Egypt; everything else about Clair taking my first pick and dad helping me with the whole project and my excitement leading up to the presentation was all true, but it wasn't a project on Ancient Egypt, it was a project on Ancient Sidovan, which was a civilization located on the eighth continent called "Catalan" (the same name as the spoken language, but unrelated) which was due West of Australia in the Indian Ocean.
I know this sounds incredible, and if you want to believe it's all in my head, I get that, but I remember clearly all sorts of facts about it: the Malagasy, the same people who populated Madagascar, were the first peoples to discover Catalan and settle it. However, about five hundred years later, Indian ships would arrive and create the civilization known as Sidovan. A pidgin language formed between the indigenous population and new arriving Indians called "Hiesa" (pronounced: Hai-E-suh or Hai-ʔ-suh). Catalan had a warm climate with plenty of natural resources, but Sidovan had a dense enough population to require agricultural production. They grew rice, grain, sugarcane, vegetables, and even tobacco.
I remembered all of these facts and more. My diorama reflected the main features of the Sidovan civilization. And then two days before my presentation, I woke up and my diorama was entirely different. The hilly grasslands were traded out for sandy dunes. The Hindu statues and stone palaces became clay pyramids and large spear-like pillars. And everything was covered with the ickiest yellow glitter I had ever seen. Tears stung my eyes as I trampled over to my dad's room and banged on his door. "Dad! What did you do!?" I yelled.
"Honey?" He responded, rushing over to the base of the stairs. "What's wrong?"
"The diorama. It's ruined!"
"It's what?" he asked and ran up the stairs, leading me to my room. He looked over it for a few seconds, checking to see if everything was intact, then said, "I don't see it, honey. Where is it ruined?"
I was completely dumb-struck. What did he mean he didn't see it? "All of it!" I shouted. "The whole thing is wrong. Where's the grass and the stone buildings and the lady with the four arms and the elephants? Where is my project!?"
My dad looked at me in silence. "Lauren, baby, what civilization do you think you were working on?"
"Ancient Sidovan, of course! We've been working on this for months now! Dad, please tell me you remember."
He knelt down and put his hands on my shoulders. "Honey, your project was on Ancient Egypt. There is no Ancient Sidovan."
"Y-you're lying." I protested. "Books, you have books. On your bookshelf."
He took me into his study and showed me all of his books. None of them were on Ancient Sidovan. He even turned on his computer and typed in the name of the civilization, but all that came up was a near match "Sidon". I remember feeling the sudden urge to puke. My entire body felt like it was pumping battery acid instead of blood. "I—I don't," I started but suddenly my head felt very light, and I fainted.
When I woke up, I was in the hospital. I had lost consciousness for over half an hour, enough time for my dad to call 9-1-1 and have the ambulance transport me to the nearest ER. They ran all sorts of tests on me, but they all came back fine. After a couple hours of IV fluids and monitoring, they released me with my dad.
I ended up skipping the rest of school that week. My dad didn't make me present my diorama. In fact, he never brought the subject up again. Part of me was glad. I just wanted to forget the whole thing ever happened. But another part of me couldn't move past what was clearly the most absurd thing to ever happen to me. About a week after the incident, I tried to broach the subject, but when I asked my dad about it, he didn't seem to remember our conversation at all. He said I had fallen ill and that's why I needed to go to the ER and miss class. I felt like I was going crazy. If I was older, I probably would have voluntarily checked myself into a psychiatric ward. But I was young and helpless and alone, and I decided that if I just ignored the changes well enough, I could still get along. This proved difficult though, as the blinking would only exacerbate in the coming months.
Up until the time of the project, I hadn't been able to directly observe the phenomenon. It was always in retrospect that things disappeared. It was during the summer after sixth grade that this changed. I still remember the first time it happened. I had just gotten out of the shower and was drying my hair in front of the mirror. After it was dried, I threw on my clothes then went to tie my hair up in a ponytail, but as I went to set the elastic tie, I felt its weight dissipate in my hand. I gasped and held my hand out. The circular black band was gone.
Fast forward to seventh grade and the blinking had spiraled out of control. Reflecting back on it, most people would probably have assumed I was drinking psilocybin-infused water, as the delusions were somewhat consistent with psychedelic phenomena: except these distortions were real (at least they felt that way to me).
I'd wake up and grab the box of Special K but end up eating Cheerios. The McDonalds logo would look yellow and red one day, but purple and black the next. I'd be watching a show, and then a different show, and then a different one. It was as if the entire universe was a Christmas tree with millions of lights, and the lights kept shifting hues randomly, faster and faster, and I was the only one who could see their changing colors. I remember one night my dad made spaghetti for dinner and we went out onto the porch to eat it. While we were sitting, I saw our neighbor's house, a two story townhome, blink and become a single story bungalow. I gasped, and my dad asked what was wrong, but when I tried to explain he just gave me a strange look. For him, no matter what changed, the world was "always that way". While for me, it didn't have "a way".
The situation peaked when Clair, that friend I mentioned before, disappeared. I texted her (my dad had bought me a BlackBerry at the beginning of summer break) but didn't get a response. When I asked her other friends if they knew where she was, I got the usual "what are you talking about?" look. I knew right away what had happened, even though I didn't want to believe it. I went to the teacher and asked if there was a Clair in our class. She said "no". I broke down in front of everyone. I couldn't take it anymore. I ran out of school. The lady at the front desk tried to stop me, but I just barrelled past her. I kept running until I got to a big park across the street and bawled my eyes out until the police arrived and escorted me home. When they tried asking me what was wrong, I didn't say anything. There was literally nothing I could say that they would understand.
That night I prayed to God for the first time. My dad wasn't a religious man. He went to Catholic church with my mom when she was alive, but after she died he never went back. Still, I knew how to pray, even if I never did it. I copied some of the people I saw praying in movies and interlocked my fingers and knelt down on my bed, stuffing my head into a pillow. "Dear God," I said, "Please, please, please help me." I told Him about my struggles and asked Him to make them stop. I spent an hour saying the same things over and over again. And when I was finished, my little body was so tired, I fell right to sleep.
I knew something was different the second I opened my eyelids. I didn't only feel relieved, but I felt… embraced. I felt like someone was watching over me. I felt like I wasn't alone. I moved through my day with cautious apprehension. I didn't want to get my hopes up only to be let down. But to my surprise, the blinking had stopped. At least I couldn't remember any of the inconsistencies, and to me, that was a win. I began to pray regularly, and the more I did, the more I could feel the sense that someone was looking out for me. It was like I was getting a big hug from some cosmic force that loved me and wanted me to be happy.
I made it a habit to pray regularly. I asked my dad if he could take me to a church, and he agreed to take me to St. Mark's, the same church that he and my mom used to attend. Over time, I realized that the actual church services weren't as important to me as the praying. For whatever reason, there was something about praying that was like a glue for my brain, holding the entire universe together. As I got older, I considered that maybe it wasn't that the changes were no longer happening, but that I simply didn't see them anymore. In other words, maybe I was just becoming like everyone else. Either way, I didn't mind.
In my teenage years, I got into mindfulness meditation. I thought that I'd want to go into religious studies and become a theologian, so I started to learn about Eastern traditions in addition to Christianity. I joined a bunch of different school clubs to meet kids of different faiths: Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam. I tried to find a common thread which linked them all and would explain what happened to me as a child. The metaphors of Heaven and Hell, Good and Evil, the Taoist Yin and Yang—duality. Every religion seemed to speak about a way of being that would lead to a better place. In some cases that better place was a physical future existence, and in others it was merely being in contact with the perfection of nature or the present. Metaphorically, the teachings could explain what I had gone through in a kind of loose way, but there were no explicit statements about my condition.
***
I want to fast forward to why I've decided to write about this now. To give you an idea of where I'm at, I'm now 25 and working on finishing my MA in Computational Linguistics. I know that's a bit of a switch from what I was thinking when I was a teenager, but I really only interested in religion because of the value praying afforded me as a child. I didn't actually have much interest in the subject, itself. After my first year of college, I changed to an English major, which ultimately led to me taking a linguistics class and enjoying it so much that I switched tracks in my Junior year. Considering the state of the world, I thought minoring in Computer Science might help me financially in the future, so I ended up charting a path which I figured might lead to something like developing translation software.
Anyway, everything was going fine until a few weeks ago. I was out at an all-night diner with a few of my friends from the program. There was Jeremy, Martin, Bella, Jordan, and Macy. We had been working on a group project together involving modeling construction grammars by generating primitive 3D structures using C# and running the code through a game engine (it's a bit weird, but essentially we were trying to create a multidimensional model for language using a similar but more advanced concept than other LLMs), and just had a breakthrough. It was 2AM though and not a brain cell existed between the six of us, so instead we focused on a different problem: Macy's ongoing breakup with her semi-long distance trucker boyfriend. We tried to explain why Mike wasn't going to work out as we ordered a round of milkshakes and waited for the lone overnight kitchen worker to scoop out three balls of ice cream from the Deans carton for each of us, blend it, then have the server deliver the vintage diner glasses on a plastic tray.
I dug into my thick strawberry shake with a spoon. It was delicious. I kept eating but focused back on the conversation. I remember feeling something odd about one of the scoops, but I was so entrenched in Macy's story that I didn't notice the metal shard in my ice cream until I felt it against my lip. "P-tuh" I spat out the shard and ice cream all in one motion, then covered my mouth which I was sure was bleeding. The silver blade was probably as large as my thumb, and it had two jagged edges, as if it was fastened for the purpose of causing damage. "What the fuck!" I yelled.
Everyone at the table turned to see what was the matter. "Hey, Lauren, you okay?"
I spoke through a covered mouth, using my free hand to point at the table. "That was in my—"
But it was gone.
"In your… shake? Was something in your shake?" asked Jeremy.
I froze. In that moment, the stories of my childhood that I had only remembered as faint nightmares came back in a wave of crushing terror. How could I have been so stupid to think they would simply vanish forever? No, this isn't the same thing, I thought. But deep down, I knew it was. I drew my hand away from my lips and saw that it was dry—no blood. When I looked back up, all of the blood in my veins went cold. My friends were… smiling at me. Their lips were elastic like taffy, stretching to reveal their teeth. I could feel them radiating malevolence, as if the only thing holding them back from picking up their utensils and stabbing me to death was some thinly veiled force field. The moment lasted for what felt like half a minute, then Jordan said two words which made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"Found you"
The words ricocheted in my now adrenaline powered skull. But just as he spoke them, the world blinked and my friends were back. Bella reached out and grabbed my hand. I pulled away, but when I saw her concerned expression, I relented.
"Sorry, guys, I think I'm going to have to call it." I said.
"You sure, L?" asked Jordan. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
"Yeah, thanks, but I just…" I stumbled for a lie, but when one wouldn't come, Martin stood up and said he'd walk me out to my car.
"Thanks," I said as I got into my little 2015 Jetta. "It's just been a long day."
"No problem, Lauren. You know, if there's ever anything—"
"I know," I said but didn't mean. Some things just couldn't be shared.
I drove for about five minutes before stopping at a gas station. I pulled in and parked near the back. Then I interlocked my fingers and prayed for half an hour. I apologized for not taking my praying seriously and asked to once again be granted peace. Unlike my younger years, I also drifted into other avenues of thought. I imagined my mom. I pictured the whole arc of my life, all of the little decisions that led me to where I was. I cried for a long time. I felt like that little girl again reaching out for help. I still felt so lost, so out of control; there were so many things missing, and I was so confused.
I decided then to take a trip back home and visit my dad who was now working as a private tutor. He made enough prepping affluent students for the ACT and SAT that he could spend his free time pursuing his real passions: reading and writing. When I arrived at his doorstep that weekend, he greeted me with open arms. "How are you, kiddo? It's been, what? A year or so?"
It was actually more like two years, but I didn't tell him. I just smiled and nodded.
"Well, come in."
The house was almost exactly how I remembered it. Linoleum floors, beige walls, a few scattered pictures, the scent of camomile. Everything minimalist. There was a quaintness, a prettiness to the way everything seemed to be well kept and in a perfect place. From the cherry wood chairs we'd sit in to eat, to the cream-colored loveseat. I felt at home.
I spent the drive thinking of what I would talk to my dad about, but ultimately I wasn't sure what I'd say. I loved my dad, but I think growing up it was easy to see him as naive. After all, arguably the most important episodes of my childhood were completely unknown to him. In that way, I kind of loved him from a distance. Maybe losing my mom also played into that. Maybe I just had trust issues. And after what happened at the diner… Luckily there hadn't been any blinks since.
I stayed for a couple days and he showed me around some of the different coffee shops where he'd tutor kids or write some of his stories. I met some of his friends, mostly other retired or part-time teachers who were in a similar place in life. I was happy for him. Then, on Sunday, he made me my favorite meal growing up: homemade carbonara pasta with chicken and broccoli. The sauce had a few different cheeses, butter, olive oil, and a raw egg yolk. It was the perfect blend of creamy, savory, and sweet. After we ate, he cracked open a scrapbook of some old photos and other clippings he had put together.
We reminisced about the past and laughed whenever I'd cover up one of my awkward pictures. He brought up some stories from school that I had forgotten, naming some teachers that I hadn't thought about in years. Apparently I had started at the end, because as I moved to the other end of the book, I kept getting younger and younger. I flipped to the last pages and noticed a couple pictures of my mom that made my heart sink.
"She was beautiful, wasn't she?" said my dad.
"Mmm," I agreed.
I flipped to the last page and saw a collage of newspaper clippings. One of them was related to the accident. It was headlined: "Two Survive Head-On Collision". After a cursory glance at the text, I noticed something odd. It said, "Both the husband and child, a three year old girl, sustained life-threatening wounds. The husband was found unconscious on the scene. The girl was found twenty meters away from the vehicle, crying." I swallowed, trying to remember back to what happened that day. The feeling of crashing, of the world slowing down, then breaking, returned. And then there was a hand. My dad's hand. Or was it? If he was unconscious, who pulled me out of that wreck?
I looked up at my dad. He was smiling.
I shot up and started backing up slowly toward the door. "No, not you, too. What is this? What's happening? Who are you?"
My dad, or whatever was controlling him, laughed."Oh, Lauren, Lauren, Lauren. You know who we are." he purred as he stood up. He lifted his hands and the lights began to flicker then bend in a way which shouldn't have been possible. Dark figures began to propagate from the shadows along the walls. The pictures nailed there began to blink out of existence. I turned to run toward the door but the handle was gone. Glass shards materialized all around me and swarmed like locusts. Certain I was going to die, I dropped down on my knees and once again turned to prayer, this time asking God to directly intervene and save me.
Everything went quiet.
"Honey? Are you okay?"
I didn't trust his voice. I knew if I opened my eyes, I'd see that awful smile. He was just toying with me. "It's not you," I said in between muttered prayers. "I know it's not you."
"Honey," my dad said, closer. I felt his arms wrap around me. This was it, I was going to be suffocated. I waited for the inevitable crushing weight of my chest collapsing. I waited to break all over again.
"I would never hurt you, Lauren. I love you more than anything in the whole world."
I burst out in tears. "No, it's not you, I know it's not you. You don't exist!"
My dad's weight dissipated. I opened my eyes and saw that he was no longer there. "Dad?" I called aloud. "Dad? Where did you go?"
I checked all over the house, but there was no trace of him. There were still pictures of him all over the house, so I knew he hadn't blinked out of existence like everything else, but somehow he was missing.
***
I left the house and got a room at a hotel, where I am now. I'm sure at this point that whatever is happening to me is no longer random. Something out there is actively trying to hunt me. Maybe it has been my whole life, but only now it can see me—however weird that sounds. If that's right, then God has been on my side trying to protect me from this demon or monster or devil or whatever it is. Regardless, the methods I was using when I was younger are not going to cut it anymore. I already posted my story in several other small circles and have gotten one reply. A man who goes by the name "Trent" (apparently it's an alias). He said that he has some insight into my "condition" and can offer help if I want it. I'm planning on meeting with him tomorrow. I'm not sure if it's a good idea, but at this point I need answers. I can keep you updated with my progress if that interests you, and to anyone who knows anything about what's happening to me, please… I could really use your help.
***
I was just about to post this when Trent sent another message. This is what it says:
Trent: We can do the \*** at **** O'clock. Also, if what you're telling me is true, your mother may still be alive.*

When I was three years old I was in a really bad car accident. I didn't know it at the time, but that singular event would come to define everything about my life moving forward. What I remember about the accident is mostly a collage of backdated comments I was able to reel out of my father in the following years. He was driving me and my mom in his old '91 Chevy Tahoe through the twisting backroads of Southern Illinois, weaving his way through the gnarled branches of oak trees which interlocked into a braided ceiling overhead. A fog had rolled in, giving the impression that we were driving through a cloudy tube. Everything was simultaneously bright and opaque. I didn't mind though, as I was in the back seat working on a coloring book. My mom was in the front, talking with my dad or turning around to entertain my completed pictures.
Although I was of the age where my memory was just beginning to mature, I still recall two things very clearly from the accident. First was the sensation of breaking. I remember feeling the way a plate must feel to be dropped: weightless at first, then suddenly meeting a much larger, more solid object—the air popped like a firecracker, and the entirety of my body shattered into hundreds of fractals. And then I remember a hand. It was my dad's hand pulling me from the wreck.
I ended up hospitalized for weeks after the crash. My mom was less lucky. The impact had killed her instantly.
As I've alluded to, I was young, and at the time I didn't fully understand the implications of what had happened. I knew something was missing, but it was like a word on the tip of my tongue, or the forgotten vanilla in a cherished cake recipe—coloring my experience, but not the whole of it. Not like my dad. For him, it was the whole fucking cake. He had somehow made it out with only a few scratches. I'm sure he had a really bad case of survivor's guilt, and frankly, looking back, I wouldn't have blamed him if he slumped into despair and spent his days drinking away his sorrow. But he wasn't that type of man. He got help. It took him years before he was able to recall anything that happened that morning, and most of it is still repressed, but he shared with me what he could. Or at least that's what I had thought.
My dad was a Middle School teacher since before I was born, and he kept his job until very recently. As a result, we didn't have much by way of resources. I grew up on Disney Channel and TV dinners for the most part, but I didn't mind. When I became of school age, his job actually made caring for me pretty convenient. Since our Elementary and Middle schools were connected, he was able to drive me there and back each day.
It was around third or fourth grade that I realized I was different. I didn't understand the other children or even the adults most of the time. They would say things then immediately change their mind, or they would talk about something and in the next breath forget its existence entirely. I remember one day at lunch, I had just gotten my tray of hot food and sat down with some friends. One of the kids, Alex, was talking about a stuffed bird he had won for getting first place in Mr. Curtis's pop-up math competition. We were all admiring its blue wings and white belly and sharp black beak and beady eyes. I left mid-conversation to get a chocolate milk. When I came back, I asked to see the bird again, and Alex said "what bird?" I was perplexed. "The bird—the bluejay you were just showing us." I remember all of the other kids looking at me like I was crazy. I figured they were all playing a trick on me, so I got up and went over to Alex's seat and crouched down, looking under the table, then I sprung up and tried to open his lunchbox. "What are you doing!?" he yelled. I felt so confused and embarrassed that I ran to the bathroom to cry.
And then there was another time a group of kids were laughing about a joke one of the girls, Taylor, had made about our homeroom teacher's face looking like a seal. I knew it was mean, but at the time I just wanted to fit in so I played along, but when I made a comment about her resemblance to the semi-aquatic animal, they all looked at me confused. "What are you talking about? We never said that…"
These misattributions kept happening, and it led to me being ostracized from most of the little childish cliques that popped up. I developed a quasi-standoffish temperament which I used as a shield against a chaotic world that I didn't understand. My dad eventually had me tested for ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder), but I passed the test. He asked if I wanted to move to a different town with different schoolmates, thinking that perhaps I was getting bullied, but I told him it was fine. Somewhere deep down I felt like no matter where I went, this problem would follow me.
You may think that I was simply coping with the absence of my mom, and while I'm sure that her absence has left certain holes in my life, kindly, no, that wasn't what was happening. You see, at first I didn't notice the instances of what I'll call "blinking". I simply thought that I was misremembering things: objects, words, events. They were all little things anyway. A bird, a joke, my pencil box. It wasn't until sixth grade that I realized the magnitude of the phenomenon.
I was in my dad's 6th grade Social Studies class and we had just been assigned our "Ancient Civilizations" project which involved creating a diorama of our chosen civilization and presenting its features to the class. My friend at the time, Claire, had taken my first choice of Ancient Rome (which we had a heated argument about at lunch), so I was left with Ancient Egypt. At the time, all I pictured for Egypt was a plate of sand. However, my dad and I went through some illustrated history books and pictures on the internet and he really built up the project for me.
Over the course of a couple months, he helped me shape three pyramids out of small wooden planks and a bunch of tan clay. We placed them in the center of a giant square shoebox lid which served as the container for the diorama. Then he bought some small wooden mannequin puppets and we dressed them up in cloth clothes (mostly kilts and tunics) and colored their eyes, mouths, and hair. We added a few obelisks and some small box-huts which were collected into a little village around the Nile. Finally, we added a light glaze of glue where we felt would be necessary and then covered the whole project with golden glitter.
As we worked on each part of the diorama, my dad helped me understand what we were adding and why it was important to Ancient Egypt. I loved the way he talked about history. He spun everything into a miraculous story. To this day, I don't think I've ever had a teacher who came close to his level of charisma and creativity. As a result, I became really proud of my diorama. I memorized all the little details and rehearsed my speech in front of the mirror for hours leading up to the last couple weeks of class. And then, two days before I was supposed to give my presentation, everything fell apart.
First, I need to apologize for deceiving you about an aspect of my story. I thought it might help you to understand what I was going through at the time. What I'm about to tell you is going to sound insane. I get that. But please hear me out. The truth is that I was never assigned to present on Ancient Egypt; everything else about Clair taking my first pick and dad helping me with the whole project and my excitement leading up to the presentation was all true, but it wasn't a project on Ancient Egypt, it was a project on Ancient Sidovan, which was a civilization located on the eighth continent called "Catalan" (the same name as the spoken language, but unrelated) which was due West of Australia in the Indian Ocean.
I know this sounds incredible, and if you want to believe it's all in my head, I get that, but I remember clearly all sorts of facts about it: the Malagasy, the same people who populated Madagascar, were the first peoples to discover Catalan and settle it. However, about five hundred years later, Indian ships would arrive and create the civilization known as Sidovan. A pidgin language formed between the indigenous population and new arriving Indians called "Hiesa" (pronounced: Hai-E-suh or Hai-ʔ-suh). Catalan had a warm climate with plenty of natural resources, but Sidovan had a dense enough population to require agricultural production. They grew rice, grain, sugarcane, vegetables, and even tobacco.
I remembered all of these facts and more. My diorama reflected the main features of the Sidovan civilization. And then two days before my presentation, I woke up and my diorama was entirely different. The hilly grasslands were traded out for sandy dunes. The Hindu statues and stone palaces became clay pyramids and large spear-like pillars. And everything was covered with the ickiest yellow glitter I had ever seen. Tears stung my eyes as I trampled over to my dad's room and banged on his door. "Dad! What did you do!?" I yelled.
"Honey?" He responded, rushing over to the base of the stairs. "What's wrong?"
"The diorama. It's ruined!"
"It's what?" he asked and ran up the stairs, leading me to my room. He looked over it for a few seconds, checking to see if everything was intact, then said, "I don't see it, honey. Where is it ruined?"
I was completely dumb-struck. What did he mean he didn't see it? "All of it!" I shouted. "The whole thing is wrong. Where's the grass and the stone buildings and the lady with the four arms and the elephants? Where is my project!?"
My dad looked at me in silence. "Lauren, baby, what civilization do you think you were working on?"
"Ancient Sidovan, of course! We've been working on this for months now! Dad, please tell me you remember."
He knelt down and put his hands on my shoulders. "Honey, your project was on Ancient Egypt. There is no Ancient Sidovan."
"Y-you're lying." I protested. "Books, you have books. On your bookshelf."
He took me into his study and showed me all of his books. None of them were on Ancient Sidovan. He even turned on his computer and typed in the name of the civilization, but all that came up was a near match "Sidon". I remember feeling the sudden urge to puke. My entire body felt like it was pumping battery acid instead of blood. "I—I don't," I started but suddenly my head felt very light, and I fainted.
When I woke up, I was in the hospital. I had lost consciousness for over half an hour, enough time for my dad to call 9-1-1 and have the ambulance transport me to the nearest ER. They ran all sorts of tests on me, but they all came back fine. After a couple hours of IV fluids and monitoring, they released me with my dad.
I ended up skipping the rest of school that week. My dad didn't make me present my diorama. In fact, he never brought the subject up again. Part of me was glad. I just wanted to forget the whole thing ever happened. But another part of me couldn't move past what was clearly the most absurd thing to ever happen to me. About a week after the incident, I tried to broach the subject, but when I asked my dad about it, he didn't seem to remember our conversation at all. He said I had fallen ill and that's why I needed to go to the ER and miss class. I felt like I was going crazy. If I was older, I probably would have voluntarily checked myself into a psychiatric ward. But I was young and helpless and alone, and I decided that if I just ignored the changes well enough, I could still get along. This proved difficult though, as the blinking would only exacerbate in the coming months.
Up until the time of the project, I hadn't been able to directly observe the phenomenon. It was always in retrospect that things disappeared. It was during the summer after sixth grade that this changed. I still remember the first time it happened. I had just gotten out of the shower and was drying my hair in front of the mirror. After it was dried, I threw on my clothes then went to tie my hair up in a ponytail, but as I went to set the elastic tie, I felt its weight dissipate in my hand. I gasped and held my hand out. The circular black band was gone.
Fast forward to seventh grade and the blinking had spiraled out of control. Reflecting back on it, most people would probably have assumed I was drinking psilocybin-infused water, as the delusions were somewhat consistent with psychedelic phenomena: except these distortions were real (at least they felt that way to me).
I'd wake up and grab the box of Special K but end up eating Cheerios. The McDonalds logo would look yellow and red one day, but purple and black the next. I'd be watching a show, and then a different show, and then a different one. It was as if the entire universe was a Christmas tree with millions of lights, and the lights kept shifting hues randomly, faster and faster, and I was the only one who could see their changing colors. I remember one night my dad made spaghetti for dinner and we went out onto the porch to eat it. While we were sitting, I saw our neighbor's house, a two story townhome, blink and become a single story bungalow. I gasped, and my dad asked what was wrong, but when I tried to explain he just gave me a strange look. For him, no matter what changed, the world was "always that way". While for me, it didn't have "a way".
The situation peaked when Clair, that friend I mentioned before, disappeared. I texted her (my dad had bought me a BlackBerry at the beginning of summer break) but didn't get a response. When I asked her other friends if they knew where she was, I got the usual "what are you talking about?" look. I knew right away what had happened, even though I didn't want to believe it. I went to the teacher and asked if there was a Clair in our class. She said "no". I broke down in front of everyone. I couldn't take it anymore. I ran out of school. The lady at the front desk tried to stop me, but I just barrelled past her. I kept running until I got to a big park across the street and bawled my eyes out until the police arrived and escorted me home. When they tried asking me what was wrong, I didn't say anything. There was literally nothing I could say that they would understand.
That night I prayed to God for the first time. My dad wasn't a religious man. He went to Catholic church with my mom when she was alive, but after she died he never went back. Still, I knew how to pray, even if I never did it. I copied some of the people I saw praying in movies and interlocked my fingers and knelt down on my bed, stuffing my head into a pillow. "Dear God," I said, "Please, please, please help me." I told Him about my struggles and asked Him to make them stop. I spent an hour saying the same things over and over again. And when I was finished, my little body was so tired, I fell right to sleep.
I knew something was different the second I opened my eyelids. I didn't only feel relieved, but I felt… embraced. I felt like someone was watching over me. I felt like I wasn't alone. I moved through my day with cautious apprehension. I didn't want to get my hopes up only to be let down. But to my surprise, the blinking had stopped. At least I couldn't remember any of the inconsistencies, and to me, that was a win. I began to pray regularly, and the more I did, the more I could feel the sense that someone was looking out for me. It was like I was getting a big hug from some cosmic force that loved me and wanted me to be happy.
I made it a habit to pray regularly. I asked my dad if he could take me to a church, and he agreed to take me to St. Mark's, the same church that he and my mom used to attend. Over time, I realized that the actual church services weren't as important to me as the praying. For whatever reason, there was something about praying that was like a glue for my brain, holding the entire universe together. As I got older, I considered that maybe it wasn't that the changes were no longer happening, but that I simply didn't see them anymore. In other words, maybe I was just becoming like everyone else. Either way, I didn't mind.
In my teenage years, I got into mindfulness meditation. I thought that I'd want to go into religious studies and become a theologian, so I started to learn about Eastern traditions in addition to Christianity. I joined a bunch of different school clubs to meet kids of different faiths: Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam. I tried to find a common thread which linked them all and would explain what happened to me as a child. The metaphors of Heaven and Hell, Good and Evil, the Taoist Yin and Yang—duality. Every religion seemed to speak about a way of being that would lead to a better place. In some cases that better place was a physical future existence, and in others it was merely being in contact with the perfection of nature or the present. Metaphorically, the teachings could explain what I had gone through in a kind of loose way, but there were no explicit statements about my condition.
***
I want to fast forward to why I've decided to write about this now. To give you an idea of where I'm at, I'm now 25 and working on finishing my MA in Computational Linguistics. I know that's a bit of a switch from what I was thinking when I was a teenager, but I really only interested in religion because of the value praying afforded me as a child. I didn't actually have much interest in the subject, itself. After my first year of college, I changed to an English major, which ultimately led to me taking a linguistics class and enjoying it so much that I switched tracks in my Junior year. Considering the state of the world, I thought minoring in Computer Science might help me financially in the future, so I ended up charting a path which I figured might lead to something like developing translation software.
Anyway, everything was going fine until a few weeks ago. I was out at an all-night diner with a few of my friends from the program. There was Jeremy, Martin, Bella, Jordan, and Macy. We had been working on a group project together involving modeling construction grammars by generating primitive 3D structures using C# and running the code through a game engine (it's a bit weird, but essentially we were trying to create a multidimensional model for language using a similar but more advanced concept than other LLMs), and just had a breakthrough. It was 2AM though and not a brain cell existed between the six of us, so instead we focused on a different problem: Macy's ongoing breakup with her semi-long distance trucker boyfriend. We tried to explain why Mike wasn't going to work out as we ordered a round of milkshakes and waited for the lone overnight kitchen worker to scoop out three balls of ice cream from the Deans carton for each of us, blend it, then have the server deliver the vintage diner glasses on a plastic tray.
I dug into my thick strawberry shake with a spoon. It was delicious. I kept eating but focused back on the conversation. I remember feeling something odd about one of the scoops, but I was so entrenched in Macy's story that I didn't notice the metal shard in my ice cream until I felt it against my lip. "P-tuh" I spat out the shard and ice cream all in one motion, then covered my mouth which I was sure was bleeding. The silver blade was probably as large as my thumb, and it had two jagged edges, as if it was fastened for the purpose of causing damage. "What the fuck!" I yelled.
Everyone at the table turned to see what was the matter. "Hey, Lauren, you okay?"
I spoke through a covered mouth, using my free hand to point at the table. "That was in my—"
But it was gone.
"In your… shake? Was something in your shake?" asked Jeremy.
I froze. In that moment, the stories of my childhood that I had only remembered as faint nightmares came back in a wave of crushing terror. How could I have been so stupid to think they would simply vanish forever? No, this isn't the same thing, I thought. But deep down, I knew it was. I drew my hand away from my lips and saw that it was dry—no blood. When I looked back up, all of the blood in my veins went cold. My friends were… smiling at me. Their lips were elastic like taffy, stretching to reveal their teeth. I could feel them radiating malevolence, as if the only thing holding them back from picking up their utensils and stabbing me to death was some thinly veiled force field. The moment lasted for what felt like half a minute, then Jordan said two words which made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"Found you"
The words ricocheted in my now adrenaline powered skull. But just as he spoke them, the world blinked and my friends were back. Bella reached out and grabbed my hand. I pulled away, but when I saw her concerned expression, I relented.
"Sorry, guys, I think I'm going to have to call it." I said.
"You sure, L?" asked Jordan. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
"Yeah, thanks, but I just…" I stumbled for a lie, but when one wouldn't come, Martin stood up and said he'd walk me out to my car.
"Thanks," I said as I got into my little 2015 Jetta. "It's just been a long day."
"No problem, Lauren. You know, if there's ever anything—"
"I know," I said but didn't mean. Some things just couldn't be shared.
I drove for about five minutes before stopping at a gas station. I pulled in and parked near the back. Then I interlocked my fingers and prayed for half an hour. I apologized for not taking my praying seriously and asked to once again be granted peace. Unlike my younger years, I also drifted into other avenues of thought. I imagined my mom. I pictured the whole arc of my life, all of the little decisions that led me to where I was. I cried for a long time. I felt like that little girl again reaching out for help. I still felt so lost, so out of control; there were so many things missing, and I was so confused.
I decided then to take a trip back home and visit my dad who was now working as a private tutor. He made enough prepping affluent students for the ACT and SAT that he could spend his free time pursuing his real passions: reading and writing. When I arrived at his doorstep that weekend, he greeted me with open arms. "How are you, kiddo? It's been, what? A year or so?"
It was actually more like two years, but I didn't tell him. I just smiled and nodded.
"Well, come in."
The house was almost exactly how I remembered it. Linoleum floors, beige walls, a few scattered pictures, the scent of camomile. Everything minimalist. There was a quaintness, a prettiness to the way everything seemed to be well kept and in a perfect place. From the cherry wood chairs we'd sit in to eat, to the cream-colored loveseat. I felt at home.
I spent the drive thinking of what I would talk to my dad about, but ultimately I wasn't sure what I'd say. I loved my dad, but I think growing up it was easy to see him as naive. After all, arguably the most important episodes of my childhood were completely unknown to him. In that way, I kind of loved him from a distance. Maybe losing my mom also played into that. Maybe I just had trust issues. And after what happened at the diner… Luckily there hadn't been any blinks since.
I stayed for a couple days and he showed me around some of the different coffee shops where he'd tutor kids or write some of his stories. I met some of his friends, mostly other retired or part-time teachers who were in a similar place in life. I was happy for him. Then, on Sunday, he made me my favorite meal growing up: homemade carbonara pasta with chicken and broccoli. The sauce had a few different cheeses, butter, olive oil, and a raw egg yolk. It was the perfect blend of creamy, savory, and sweet. After we ate, he cracked open a scrapbook of some old photos and other clippings he had put together.
We reminisced about the past and laughed whenever I'd cover up one of my awkward pictures. He brought up some stories from school that I had forgotten, naming some teachers that I hadn't thought about in years. Apparently I had started at the end, because as I moved to the other end of the book, I kept getting younger and younger. I flipped to the last pages and noticed a couple pictures of my mom that made my heart sink.
"She was beautiful, wasn't she?" said my dad.
"Mmm," I agreed.
I flipped to the last page and saw a collage of newspaper clippings. One of them was related to the accident. It was headlined: "Two Survive Head-On Collision". After a cursory glance at the text, I noticed something odd. It said, "Both the husband and child, a three year old girl, sustained life-threatening wounds. The husband was found unconscious on the scene. The girl was found twenty meters away from the vehicle, crying." I swallowed, trying to remember back to what happened that day. The feeling of crashing, of the world slowing down, then breaking, returned. And then there was a hand. My dad's hand. Or was it? If he was unconscious, who pulled me out of that wreck?
I looked up at my dad. He was smiling.
I shot up and started backing up slowly toward the door. "No, not you, too. What is this? What's happening? Who are you?"
My dad, or whatever was controlling him, laughed."Oh, Lauren, Lauren, Lauren. You know who we are." he purred as he stood up. He lifted his hands and the lights began to flicker then bend in a way which shouldn't have been possible. Dark figures began to propagate from the shadows along the walls. The pictures nailed there began to blink out of existence. I turned to run toward the door but the handle was gone. Glass shards materialized all around me and swarmed like locusts. Certain I was going to die, I dropped down on my knees and once again turned to prayer, this time asking God to directly intervene and save me.
Everything went quiet.
"Honey? Are you okay?"
I didn't trust his voice. I knew if I opened my eyes, I'd see that awful smile. He was just toying with me. "It's not you," I said in between muttered prayers. "I know it's not you."
"Honey," my dad said, closer. I felt his arms wrap around me. This was it, I was going to be suffocated. I waited for the inevitable crushing weight of my chest collapsing. I waited to break all over again.
"I would never hurt you, Lauren. I love you more than anything in the whole world."
I burst out in tears. "No, it's not you, I know it's not you. You don't exist!"
My dad's weight dissipated. I opened my eyes and saw that he was no longer there. "Dad?" I called aloud. "Dad? Where did you go?"
I checked all over the house, but there was no trace of him. There were still pictures of him all over the house, so I knew he hadn't blinked out of existence like everything else, but somehow he was missing.
***
I left the house and got a room at a hotel, where I am now. I'm sure at this point that whatever is happening to me is no longer random. Something out there is actively trying to hunt me. Maybe it has been my whole life, but only now it can see me—however weird that sounds. If that's right, then God has been on my side trying to protect me from this demon or monster or devil or whatever it is. Regardless, the methods I was using when I was younger are not going to cut it anymore. I already posted my story in several other small circles and have gotten one reply. A man who goes by the name "Trent" (apparently it's an alias). He said that he has some insight into my "condition" and can offer help if I want it. I'm planning on meeting with him tomorrow. I'm not sure if it's a good idea, but at this point I need answers. I can keep you updated with my progress if that interests you, and to anyone who knows anything about what's happening to me, please… I could really use your help.
***
I was just about to post this when Trent sent another message. This is what it says:
Trent: We can do the \*** at **** O'clock. Also, if what you're telling me is true, your mother may still be alive.*

Previous
​
So, if you’re just joining us, I work at a haunted zoo now. Since I’ve gotten some rest, it feels like I’ve got my head on straight, at least, so I’d like to continue where I left off.
I sat on the floor in the office after meeting the ghost until I’d settled my rattled mind (and realized I’d forgotten to ask her name, how rude is that?). I took a deep breath and got up off the floor. Walking over and falling into the rolling chair in front of the large screen of camera views, when I brought up the camera that covered the area in which I’d spotted her, she was still there, and it seemed she hadn’t moved an inch.
Sitting there, at a loss, I continued to watch her. The ghost hung around for another five minutes or so, appearing to look at a few things off-screen, though I’m not sure what. Then she walked off into the forest and left the view of the cameras. I wasn’t sure if she vanished into the ether or if she’d gone looking into the trees to look for something.
But that wasn’t the end of the job interview, so let me jump back there. It continued into what kind of animals the zoo had, with Andrew asking me how much experience I had with dangerous animals.
I took a moment to consider the question. “So, ah…I’ve been going hunting and fishing with a neighbor since I was sixteen,” I told him. “We always have to keep an eye out for gators, bears, and hogs. Then there’s snakes, of course…snapping turtles… Since I’ve lived here my whole life and been aiming for a job with wildlife for a long time, I know a lot about the animals in Arkansas in general. But good advice for all of the above is avoid them, so I’ve had encounters, but I don’t know if you’d say I have experience with them.”
“That’s fine,” Andrew said, nodding. “That’s an answer I’m satisfied with. Now, the ghost was the appetizer, Ripley; here’s the main course. To start with, the pay isn’t twenty-five an hour. It’s fifty.”
Staring in shock for a moment, I asked, “Are you serious?”
“Yeah. But that’d be weird to post online considering what applicants think we need, so I halved it.”
“That’s… Okay, why?”
“The animals are already here. You just can’t see them.”
I stared at him for a long moment, some disbelief worming its way into my expression, before saying, “Sorry, what?”
“There’s a chance you’d naturally never see them, or at least some of them,” he continued casually. “It depends on both your genetics and how long you stay on the job. I can naturally see six of them, but that’s it. Suzanne can see all of them, and more. Some are what people would label demons or ghosts. Or magic. Mostly you’d call them cryptids. The ghost was just a warm-up; I mentioned her first because it never takes more than a week to see her if you work the night shift. If you manage to handle her okay, soon you’ll be able to see the animals too. The more time you spend on the grounds, for weird reasons,” he said, wiggling his fingers in the direction of the back door, “the more you’ll be able to see.”
“So, this…this is a zoo for cryptids,” I echoed slowly. He nodded once, waiting to find out what kind of reaction I would have. I gestured vaguely around the room. “If this is a hidden camera show, will you cut me a check for showing up and participating?”
Andrew coughed out a chuckle and shook his head. “No joke. There are a ton of stories out there that have been written to death, pulverized until they’re not the Grimm stories of old and instead they’re Disney films. A lot of those stories come from what some humans have seen. There are dozens of other worlds pressed up against ours, and occasionally things come through by accident. If they’re smart, they’ll lay low and then make their way back when they can. If not, they become local folklore until someone helps them back. I’m just from London, but Suzanne is from somewhere else. She hires people like us for this zoo. Humans.”
Sighing, I shook my head. “That makes no sense. Why would she hire a muggle for a magic zoo?”
Andrew burst out laughing at that, and then waited to gather himself before he continued. “Fair point, but this is less about magic and more about animals, and you’re missing some information that will explain it. First of all, if I misjudge an employee, and they think they can make bank by outing the endangered and valuable animals we have, it’s easy to relocate the zoo.”
“Because magic?” I asked.
“Exactly,” he replied, ignoring the thread of skepticism in my tone. “That means it isn’t the end of the world if that happened, though it is a pain in the arse. But second…let me ask you a question. Speaking of reality shows, say the Discovery Channel put out a call to replace Steve Irwin when he passed. Imagine they had a line out the door,” he said with a gesture, “of people who thought they had the skill and natural talent to replace him, to take on everything he’d been doing his whole life. How many do you reckon would lose an arm, a leg, or their life, by the end of the day?”
My lips parted in surprise and I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re saying people from…wherever…they’re just as dumb as humans, but they’re worse, because they actually think they can handle these things.”
Andrew pointed the pen at me. “Things. Exactly. You called them things. Suzanne and her friends grew up with them and would call them animals. These animals have dispositions and temperaments that we’ve studied for as long as there have been scientists. Where Suzanne’s from, they know the weaknesses of these animals, and also they’re in enclosures here, even if you and I can’t see the walls because they’re invisible things called ‘wards’. If I hire someone who’s got magic on top of all that, they’ll have almost no instinctive fear.
“Everything here is nocturnal, and every one of them is a hunter. Some of these things? Humans see them and they pass out. Not that I want you passing out, but I need someone who is scared of these things, who knows to stay out of the enclosures no matter what. Not someone who thinks they can train them to do tricks, who gets close enough for them to grab a mouthful of hair and drown them. Once, we had a night shift manager injured, and once killed, because they didn’t take these animals seriously enough.”
Thinking back to the Sea World orca incident I knew he’d been referencing, I remembered wondering how someone at that level of her profession could be so careless as I watched the video on YouTube. It made sense when he explained it like that. I hesitated before mentally throwing my hands up and going all in. “So, why put this place here, then? If they’re endangered and also dangerous, why have a zoo at all instead of just a small reserve?”
He pursed his lips, looking disappointed in me. “Ripley. You know that already. You already said as much.”
Thinking back through our conversation, I said, “The rich humans who pay top dollar to see supernatural animals.”
“Not humans,” he told me. “But people, yes, and they are rich, and they’re making donations and spending their money on a ticket here because everything we have is endangered.”
“So…”
I just let my voice trail off and my mind started to drift. Andrew remained silent, letting me do so. There’s that thing people say, ‘I believe that you believe it,’ which is just a kinder way of saying, ‘Bullshit.’ Parents say it about closet monsters. Psychologists say it to people who say they’ve been abducted and probed by aliens. I wanted to say it to Andrew.
But I also wanted a job. If it meant working overnight at an empty zoo, that was fine. When it came down to it, especially when I took the tone of our conversation into account, this was a zoo specifically focused on preserving endangered ‘animals’, and it was allegedly doing important work. Also, if this turned out to be the real deal and I started seeing the animals, I would deal with it, just like I would deal with an enclosure that had a lion or tiger or gorilla. If it came with a ghost and invisible creatures, I really didn’t see what the difference was, if I couldn’t go in the enclosures either way.
On that note, I’d like you to imagine a kid who looks at a roller coaster, watching everyone screaming and grinning as they go up and down and all around and they’re like, ‘Heck, I could do that! That looks like a blast!’
Then they get on, the first drop hits, and they realize they’ve made a terrible mistake.
“All right,” I sighed. “I can’t say I’m going to turn down a job just because it’s going to be scary. Especially not one with this paycheck.”
Andrew smiled. “Awesome. There’s an adjustment process for anyone working here, similar to a dog that gets adopted, actually. I know the general guidelines of, ‘three days, three weeks, three months’ in terms of milestones, until they finally feel they’re where they’re supposed to be,” he told me, “and you can think of your time here along those lines. I really think you’re a great fit, and once you reach the milestone of working here for three months, I’ll officially consider you our new night shift guard. And I hope you’ll stay with us for many years.”
I nodded and smiled at the flattery of an employer wanting me to work a great job for them for a long time. I’d never had a dog, but those milestones were well-known among anyone who knew animals, especially dogs. The first three days, the dog is getting to know its new digs, exploring, and decompressing. At three weeks, they’ve gotten used to their environment and are starting to get comfortable with their surroundings and the routines of the humans they live with. By three months, they know the rules and follow them, they trust you, and they feel they are where they’re meant to be. I could only hope to be so lucky.
I saw the ghost two days ago and she has yet to make another appearance (for those who are curious, I asked, and her name is Leila), and I still hadn’t seen any animals. I did hear one, though, I feel compelled to note. A growling roar sounded from the lake on occasion, echoing across the vast zoo, sending a shiver down my spine. Whatever that animal was, it sounded gigantic.
Andrew said there was apparently a group that wanted to visit for a birthday and they were offering a huge donation, so he let me know they were making an exception and that this group would be walking through the park that night. That meant I’d be watching people watching animals that, as far as I could tell, weren’t there.
It was anticlimactic. Even the three people who came for the tour just looked like people, not like aliens or something eldritch from another dimension, and I stayed in the security office the whole time. Andrew was the one giving the tour. I watched them spend about five minutes at each enclosure, the hour or so that they were there passing without incident. It was clear that they were able to see all the animals, though, since they motioned excitedly at each enclosure and spoke to Andrew, who presumably answered any questions they had.
If they could see the animals, that was that. There was still that niggle in the back of my head, from my twenty-three years of life never encountering anything like ghosts or cryptids, telling me that this was ridiculous. Waiting for someone to knock on the door, a camera mounted on their shoulder, to tell me that it was a big joke and they wanted to see how long I’d play along. But from all I saw, this was a real place with real, invisible animals.
I do carry a taser and pepper spray in my capacity as a security guard. Though it isn’t for the animals, since they’re in the enclosures; they’re actually for the rare instance of a break-in. Andrew mentioned that it had happened several times it the past, someone trying to steal an animal in the hopes of selling it on the black market. They’d been successful before, but apparently my predecessor Roger was good at his job, and mostly they left in handcuffs.
I’ll be honest, I’m not a huge fan of confrontation, but my job was to call Andrew and then confront the person, not kick their ass. That’s what the police were for, or rather, the people Andrew would call in lieu of police in certain situations.
Fifty bucks an hour. That’s the key here.
Andrew hadn’t set up direct deposit, since he was sticking with a strategy of waiting to see if I’d continue to work there once I found out myself dealing with the animals (I’ve decided I am going to just call them animals). Instead, I got an old-fashioned check after my shift every Friday. The number on the first check was delightful. I went out that evening and had a big dinner at the local diner, order my most expensive favorites on the menu and a big slice of pie for dessert.
When it came to the paychecks in general, though, I had this weird feeling of not wanting to tell my dad and brother about the fact that it was actually $50/hr. I previously mentioned that my dad, his name’s Nathan if you’re curious, works at a local grocery store. Our town has a couple food franchises, but I think its size is just short of whatever threshold Walmart uses to decide where to open. He earns $14/hr. and that’s after the tiny raises he’s gotten over the past thirteen years.
That’s not to say he’d feel bad about not making as much as me. On the contrary, he would be ecstatic for me and really proud. But, like me, he’d be suspicious. That hourly rate was the biggest hint that this was more than just a private zoo for cryptids. And as soon as that fat check cleared without problems, my dad wouldn’t be satisfied with reassurances; he’d want to come visit the zoo and look around.
I’d told him it’s a private preservation with scheduled (expensive) visits only and that it had only eleven animals, so he’d been appeased by me brushing off the idea of a visit. Also, I took a few photos of my workplace; one of the security room, one of me sitting in my chair, one photo of the many screens I watched, and a selfie where I was feigning sleep out of boredom, slouched in my chair with my mouth open in a faux snore. That let him feel like he knew where I was and what I was doing, and that I was safe.
But if I told him I was making double what he thought, my father would practically order me to quit. No job was worth my safety, he’d tell me. I was quite of the opposite opinion, however, considering how crucial any and all conservation efforts were these days. Especially with the steep extinction levels due to humans competing with other animals for space, not to mention climate change. Working in any job that helped preserve species and keep ecosystems in balance, or put them back in balance, was so important.
Then again, my father would also point out something I had realized right away: the fact was that I was working with endangered species that were not from Earth. I wasn’t helping my planet. To be honest, though…that didn’t matter to me. Especially after that talk with Andrew about why he hired a human for this job, I figured whichever dimension these animals came from had the equivalent of us, razing forests to the ground, clouding the planet with pollution, and leaving the animals with no avenue of recourse when yet more land was taken from them.
I really do hope to keep working here for a long time, though, and not just because of the money. I can’t help it; I want to know what these things were, and I want to work with them, to do the job of a zookeeper. The same way you go up to the chain-link fence to get close to a carnivore on the other side who thinks you’d make a nice afternoon snack. You just want to be closer to them, to experience that incredible, daunting feeling of being in their presence.
Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t long before I got what I wanted.
The day after we had the tour go through, I was doing my sweep when I saw the ghost again. She was sitting on a small boulder in the same area I’d seen her the first time, looking identical, blood covering the front of her slashed shirt, the wounds visible underneath. I stopped and stood there for a moment before I decided to raise my hand in a small wave.
The young woman cocked her head at me and raised a hand in the air in an imitation of my gesture, her expression showing a bit of curiosity.
She was low-key, seemingly not concerned with my presence, looking at me as a novel phenomenon in her world. I wondered what that world consisted of. Was she always here, sometimes visible and sometimes not? Or did she have another world next to ours, in the ether, where she left everything in this world behind and floated in her disembodied form? Did she still feel emotions? Was that really curiosity on her face, or was I projecting? Did she feel happiness? Fear? Did she have the option of moving on, or was she stuck here?
Many questions that I might never get the answers to. And that was assuming Andrew knew the answers, since I’d never met Suzanne Cooper and he hadn’t even mentioned that possibility. This place was clearly her baby, but I’m sure running it was a lot of work. Plus, if she was rich enough to own it, she was rich enough to have other businesses and charities to run.
When it comes to the enclosures, they’re all wrapped by a barrier of some kind, though never one that seems adequate. There was not a single place with the ugly metal weavings of a chain-link fence, and no stretches of circular razor wire. Instead, there are nice fences. Black iron, or wrought steel fencing in a similar style to the one circling the perimeter of the zoo, just shorter and with different patterns. Or a spaced picket fence, the wood stained in some tone of brown, or a split two-rail fence. As if to say, ‘This is the border of your enclosure, but we’re just letting you know out of courtesy.’
When I started to pass enclosure number seven last night, a young woman’s voice spoke, “Hello.”
I startled, unaware that I hadn’t been alone. “Oh. Hi,” I said, staring at her standing a few yards in.
She had been next to a large tree and I hadn’t seen her. This enclosure was behind a picket fence, and she walked through the large area of wild grasses and flowers that stretched across the other side of the fence. There were fewer tall grasses closer to the fence, which I guessed was because it had been tromped down by her regular pacing along it when there were visitors, or if she wanted to see the various enclosures of the zoo. Her sudden appearance was a bit weird, considering I had been expecting to see a cryptid and instead I was looking at, it seemed, an attractive Asian woman.
She wore a black kimono, the soft silk robe draped gently over her body, with beautiful patterns of cherry blossoms, more so over her left side, and red and blue birds with their wings spread. A sash wrapped around her abdomen, she wore socks and sandals on her feet, and her hair was up in those rolls that gave volume to the style.
I was no expert on any fashion, much less that of another country, so I just assumed it was all traditional Japanese clothing. Most likely, the visitors who came liked to see a certain time-honored style and that’s what she stuck with. Or maybe she played on stereotypes. That would be amusing.
“I’m Yui. It’s nice to meet you,” she spoke, arriving at the border of the fence and holding out a hand for me to shake.
I’d been standing about three yards away from her, and I’ll be honest, muscle memory tried to kick in. But I only made it two steps, my hand starting to rise, before I froze, the hand falling limply at my side. “Nice to meet you, too,” I answered, my voice quiet.
Damn. I wonder how many times that honey trap works back where she comes from.
The pleasant look on her face faded, and she lowered her hand. “You won’t shake hands with me? Isn’t that rude?”
“I mean, I kind of like my hand where it is. You know, attached to me.”
Her demure smile widened into something more amused. “I would never do something so revolting.”
Looking her up and down, as if more visual information would give me more knowledge of what she was, I asked her, “What would you do?”
“I would be less wasteful,” she said softly.
A finger of ice trailed down my spine, and I had the sudden image in my head of her grabbing my outstretched hand in an iron grip and yanking me over the fence, leaving me to sprawl on the ground. Then killing and consuming me efficiently, without a single careless step, the same way humans slaughtered pigs, using everything from the hog but the squeal. I was struck with a shiver at the idea of her consuming everything from me but my screams.
Slowly, I took one step further down the path, then another. Just as I got to a walking pace, though, I realized the woman had started walking too, in the same direction. I’d have eventually gotten to the end of her enclosure and keep going, leaving her behind, but she spoke up. “Are you leaving?”
I came to a stop, meeting her gaze again. “My job is to walk the zoo every hour. Then I’ll get back to the security room and stay there until my next walk.”
“Have you met the others yet?”
I hesitated before saying, “Just Leila.”
She blinked languidly. “That means nobody welcomed you here.”
“Andrew did.”
She didn’t reply to that. Instead, she slowly started to lean forward, and I flinched backward a few steps further as I saw insect legs start curling out from her back.
No. Not insect. Arachnid.
The eight legs ended in small ‘paws’ with tiny claws, a layer of hairs covering the leg from top to bottom, like any typical tarantula. I took two more slow steps back and my mouth went dry as the jointed legs just kept lengthening, until they were large enough to lever her off the ground.
My gaze had been on the spider legs, but my heart skipped a beat as I realized her human legs had melded together and turned into a bulging abdomen. Her skin was shifting to a carapace, eventually all the way up to her shoulders and down her arms, her fingers elongating and her nails stretching to claws. From there down, her body was that of a pale tarantula with pedipalps the size of my arms and piercing fangs in her jaws that looked like they could take my head off.
There was a moment, my vision blurring, where I was worried that I might piss myself. The part of my brain that still had its humor intact in that moment told me that I should keep an emergency set of clothes in my car, or at the very least, start wearing Depends to work.
“I show you my true form,” she said softly, her voice now raspy like an eighty-year-old after a lifelong smoking habit. “Welcome to Suzanne Cooper’s zoo. The night shift guard for many years was Roger, before he retired and the zoo moved, and I miss him dearly. What should I call you?”
I choked on my words. There was no way my throat was going to cooperate enough for me to clearly get a sentence out. Instead, I realized my legs had taken control of the situation themselves, unsatisfied with my conscious brain’s decision to stand and stare, taking steps backward. I backed up a yard, then five yards, then ten.
My mind focused on the fact that spiders don’t waste anything, and pictured my demise. I’d be wrapped in a cocoon, killed, and made nice and mushy before she had me for dinner.
The whole time, my brain was a frenzied mess, my pupils were probably the size of dimes, and I was staring at that tiny, pathetic fence between her and me. There was so much adrenaline pumping through my body that I felt like my bones were vibrating. The fence was, to my eyes, the only thing between us. The only thing keeping her from tackling and killing me. My only hope was that she’d do it quickly.
But she didn’t move. As I absorbed her innocent, polite words, the look on her face was calm, and I wondered if this was typically the way a conversation went before she devoured her prey. I wondered how many people she’d eaten. Not humans, not people from Earth, but the ones from where she came from. The fact that she doesn’t scare the shit out of those people means they’re staggeringly dumber than humans.
Finally, I rounded a corner, both relieved at having her out of my sight and worried that she would take that moment to come find me. When she’d been within eyeshot, I had at least known where she was and could run in the other direction. But I didn’t hear the sound of faint footsteps moving rapidly toward me. All was quiet, in that deep, smothering way that only an empty business in the middle of the night in small town America could be.
My hands trembling, I barely paid attention to anything but the confirmation that my surroundings were free of the colossal spider as I finally got back to the door. Grabbing the handle and letting my eyes dart around for about ten seconds and my ears prick for the slightest sound, I finally swiped my key card across the pad and went inside, shutting the door behind me and engaging the backup deadbolt.
Maybe that was why they had decided on keycards. If I was running from something and panicking, using an actual key or inserting the card like at a hotel would keep me from getting to safety considering my hands were shaking enough to mix a margarita.
Walking over to my chair, I fell into it, letting my body flush itself of terror as I looked up at the cameras. There she was, still in arachnid form, exactly where I’d left her behind that rinky-dink fence, casually looking around and slowly pacing back and forth. I stared at her as my racing heart gradually slowed, and a minute or so later she turned on her eight legs and walked back into the trees.
Whatever invisible fences the enclosures have apparently work, which is nice, because I wasn’t keen on getting killed by one of the creatures here. And that’s what brings me here, spilling out everything that’s happened so far. Because nearly passing out from terror isn’t something I wanted to deal with at work, obviously, but I keep going over what she did in my head again and again, and I feel like I reacted like a child who spotted a wolf spider on their bed. I started to worry for my overactive sense of self-preservation, at least in my capacity as an employee here.
The spider didn’t even try to hurt me, and so I was feeling a bit foolish. Even annoyed, actually, at the fact that I’d freaked out so hard and took off instead of trying to engage in at least basic conversation. I got the sense that she wasn’t at human-level intelligence, but I was never going to be able to hold any level of conversation with an alligator.
Sure, she did mention that she wouldn’t be so crass as to yank off my hand because she’d rather just have my entire corpse, but wouldn’t a wolf do the same if it was hungry? Wouldn’t any carnivore? Actually, they probably would’ve been satisfied with one of my hands. The fear here was from the fact that she turned into a giant spider. If she’d turned into Clifford, I would’ve reacted the same way, if not better than, meeting Leila.
With that, I decided I’m staying on the job. Considering how frustrated I can get with foolish people, it’s a bit hypocritical, and I’m being a bit of an idiot. But…there are definitely wards keeping them in their enclosures. Also, I signed up for creatures for another dimension, whether or not I believed in them at the time, and I will not let encountering my first one in an objectively boring way be the reason I quit.
The money is a factor, I’ll grant you. Of course it is. And I can’t spend it if I’m dead, but all signs point to surviving as long as I don’t do anything dumb. Also, yes, I’ll admit there’s a not-so-little voice in the back of my head that’s desperate to know what else is here. I never thought I’d do something like this, but finding out these things are real, I honestly do want to learn more about them.
Still, though, I decided to call Andrew at the end of my shift to ask if the pepper spray and taser I carried worked on a certain spider, as well as the other animals I’d yet to meet.
​
Previous
***
/storiesbykaren

Events are all about creating memories. But let's face it, in the midst of the fun, it's easy to miss capturing those candid moments with your guests. That's where a roving photographer comes in! These skilled professionals weave through your event, capturing the joy, laughter, and connections that make your gathering special.
But with so many talented photographers in Singapore, how do you choose the right one? This blog will guide you through the process, along with highlighting the importance of having a roving photographer at your event.

The Importance of a Roving Photographer:

• Preserving Memories: A roving photographer captures the essence of your event – the interactions, the smiles, the unexpected moments of joy. These photos become cherished keepsakes for you and your guests.
• Engaging Guests: A roving photographer adds a fun, interactive element to your event. Guests love the chance to have their picture taken and receive a physical copy (often with instant printing services).
• Social Media Boost: High-quality photos from your event are perfect for sharing on social media. This can help promote your brand or simply spread the joy of the occasion.

Choosing the Perfect Roving Photographer:

Understanding Your Requirements

Before diving into the selection process, it's essential to understand your specific requirements. Are you looking for someone to document your wedding day, or do you need coverage for a corporate event? Do you prefer a roving photographer with a candid approach, or are you more inclined towards traditional poses? By clarifying your needs from the outset, you'll be better equipped to narrow down your options and find a photographer who aligns with your vision.

Researching Potential Candidates

Once you've identified your requirements, it's time to start researching potential candidates. Begin by scouring online platforms such as photography websites, social media channels, and online directories. Look for photographers who specialize in roving photography and have a strong portfolio showcasing their work. Pay close attention to their style, technique, and ability to capture candid moments.

Evaluating Portfolios and Reviews

When evaluating photographers' portfolios, pay attention to the quality and consistency of their work. Look for images that resonate with you on an emotional level and reflect the style you're envisioning for your event. Additionally, take the time to read client reviews and testimonials to gauge the photographer's reputation and customer satisfaction. Positive feedback from previous clients is a strong indicator of reliability and professionalism.

Assessing Experience and Expertise

Experience plays a pivotal role in photography, particularly when it comes to capturing candid moments in dynamic environments. Seasoned photographers possess the skills and instincts necessary to anticipate and capture spontaneous moments effortlessly. When assessing candidates, inquire about their years of experience, specialization in roving photography, and familiarity with your event type. Experienced photographers can offer valuable insights and recommendations to enhance your photography experience.

Communication and Collaboration

Effective communication and collaboration are essential for a successful photography session. Prior to booking a photographer, schedule a consultation to discuss your vision, preferences, and any specific requirements you may have. Clear communication ensures that both parties are aligned and enables the photographer to deliver results that exceed your expectations. Additionally, don't hesitate to ask questions and provide feedback throughout the process to ensure a seamless collaboration.

Pricing and Packages

When comparing photographers, it's crucial to consider their pricing and packages. While cost is undoubtedly a factor, prioritize value over price. Look for photographers who offer comprehensive packages that align with your needs and budget. Transparent pricing and flexible options can help you make an informed decision and avoid any unexpected surprises down the line. Remember, quality photography is an investment in preserving your memories for years to come.

Finalizing Your Decision

After thorough research and evaluation, it's time to finalize your decision and book your chosen photographer. Ensure that all details and expectations are clearly outlined in a written contract to avoid any misunderstandings or miscommunications. Confirm the date, time, location, and any additional services you may require. By finalizing your decision and securing your photographer in advance, you can rest assured that your event will be captured beautifully.
Event Photographer Singapore
7 Temasek Boulevard Suntec Tower One #12-07, Singapore 038987
+6587333678
https://goo.gl/maps/uMK9kVVmaKhDin1c7

While listening to this album I've noticed several instances where there is two of something or word is used only twice. I have a feeling there are more so please comment on the ones I've missed. I'm sure a lot of these are just because of how she writes and the themes she writes about but I'm wondering if some of them are actually linked.
It's interesting because of how many times she did ✌️ in photos before and after TTPDs release. Is she still doing it because that's her thing? Or maybe we are supposed to be paying attention to twos?
Two featured artists, Post Malone and Florence Welch
Two writers, Jack and Aaron
Two songs written solo (Who's Afraid and The Manuscript)
Braid - But Daddy I Love Him and loml
The Starting Line - The Black Dog and Fresh Out The Slammer (One is referring to a band and the other to the beginning of something, so maybe this one is a coincidence?)
Florida - Fortnite and Florida
Texas - Florida and I Can Fix Him
Cage - Guilty As Sin and Who's Afraid
Precocious - I Hate It Here and But Daddy I Love Him
Throttle - So High School and The Prophecy
Locks - Guilty As Sin? and Fresh Out The Slammer ** "locked me up in towers" The Albatross - don't know if this counts as a third instance.
Please let me know if there are any more doubles or if there are more times these things come up so they're not actually doubles 😋
**Update - more twins added by u/MarbCart and u/stranger_vs and u/Many-Parsnip-906
WAOLOM has a ton!

• “Let’s hear one more joke.” “Were you making fun of me with some esoteric joke?” - The Black Dog
  
• “At all costs keep your good name”. “I’ll tell you something about my good name.” - BDILH
  
• “The scandal was contained.” “A rose by any other name is a scandal.” - The Albatross
  

u/stranger_vs
“Aston Martin you steered straight into the ditch/ crashed my party and your rental car”
Two artist references: Blue Nile and Starting Line
“Pull you into the closet/ closets like cedar”
“So if I sell my apartment/ left your typewriter in my apartment”
“Just like any good trophy hunte where’s the trophy? He comes running over to me”
And some parallels or other albums:
“Blink of a crinkling eye/ wrinkle in time like the crease by your eyes” (Hits Different)
“In plain sight you hid/ I prefer hiding in plain sight” (Dear Reader)
u/Many-Parsnip-906
Empathy- "I don't cater to all these vipers dressed in empath's clothing" BDILH/"the empathetic hunger descends" HDIE?
Heat- "We came back when the heat died down" BDILH/"You can beat the heat if you beat the charges too" Florida!!!
Starry-eyed- "Gazing at me starry-eyed" TSMWEL/"I thought I was better safe than starry-eyed" loml
grow up- "said you were gonna grow up..." Pete"growing up precocious sometimes means not growing up at all" BDILH
Mind reading- "I can read your mind" ICDIWABH/"Are you still a mind reader?" Peter
at the sky- "looked to the sky and said please" The Prophecy/"screamed fuck you aimee to the night sky" TYA
Fools- "mine play out like fools in a fable" The Prophecy/"as the decade would play us for fools" Chloe et al
Towers- "I was in my tower weaving nightmares" Cassandra/"locked me up in towers but I'd visit in your dreams" The Albatross
not understanding- "I just don't understand..." TBD/"I can't pretend like I understand, I still don't know" HDIE?
u/ProfessionalSeat358

• Car: Buy the car you want (Fortnight)/crashed my party and your rental car (The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived)
  
• Tortured: Straight from the tortured poets department (TTPD)/stole my tortured heart (My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys)
  
• Planet: I’ll build you a fort on some planet (Down Bad)/when they found a better planet only the gentle survived (I Hate it Here)
  
• Wild: Me and my wild boy and all this wild joy (BDILH)/wild winds are death to a candle (The Albatross)
  
• Light: And that porch light gleams (Fresh out the Slammer)/But the woman who sits by the window has turned out the light (Peter)
  
• America: I’m the girl of his American dreams (Fresh out the Slammer)/Another fortnight lost in America (Fortnight)
  
• Swings: At the park where we used to sit on childrens swings (Fresh out the Slammer)/You have a favorite spot on the swing set (Robin)
  
• Crash: Crashing into him tonight…crashing over my grave (Guilty as Sin)/back to the moment I crashed into you (Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus)
  
• Dolls: At least the dolls are beautiful (Florida!!!)/the sickest army doll (My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys). Note: I’m pretty sure “doll” in Florida is supposed to refer to drugs, but the word choice is interesting—reminds me of Valley of the Dolls from the 60s/70s.
  
• Suit: In your suit and tie, in the nick of time (LOML)/in your jehovas witness suit (The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived)
  
• Phantoms: Dancing phantoms on the terrace (LOML)/can we watch our phantoms like watching wild horses (Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus)
  
• More: The crowd was chanting more (ICDIWABH)/beauty is a beast that roars down on all fours demanding more (Clara Bow)
  
• Game: We broke all the pieces but still wanna play the game (imgonnagetyouback)/lost the game of chance what are the chances (How Did it End?)
  
• Goddess: The goddess of timing once found us beguiling (Peter)/I changed into goddesses villains and fools (Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus)
  
• Bottle: Thought I caught lightning in a bottle (The Prophecy)/truth dare spin bottles (So High School)
  
• Poison: I’m poison either way (imgonnagetyouback)/poison blood from the wound of a pricked hand (The Prophecy)
  
• Pray: You don’t have to pray for me (BDILH)/but they never spared a prayer for my soul (The Prophecy)
  
• Fate: And at first blush this is fate (The Bolter)/when you blew in with the winds of fate (LOML)
  
• Ship: Waving at the ship (Down Bad)/and you say I abandoned the ship (So Long London)
  
• Ring: Wearing imaginary rings (Fresh Out the Slammer)/at dinner you take my ring off (TTPD)
  
• Blood: Down bad waking up in blood (Down Bad)/as the blood was gushing (thanK you aIMee)
  

Misc. Doubles: * Dylan Thomas/Patti Smith (TTPD) * Lucy/Jack (TTPD) * Like I lost my twin (Down Bad) * Two graves, one gun (So Long London) * Sarah’s & Hannah’s (BDILH) * You lowdown boy, you standup guy (LOML) * LOML- Taylor makes it clear in the song this has two meanings, love of my life/loss of my life * Poet trapped inside the body of a finance guy (I Hate it Here)

Hey all! I'm getting back into swimming after close to eight years, and I'm having a lot of trouble with keeping my hair manageable. Back when I used to swim, I had really short hair, but now it's down to my mid-back and causing me a lot of trouble.
For the past few days, what I've been doing is french braiding my hair into a ponytail, and then braiding that ponytail, but even with that hairstyle, it comes out incredibly tangled and close to being matted. I have very fine, wavy hair, and I don't know what to do.
Anyone with long hair have any tips on keeping it more manageable? I'm not looking for gorgeous photo-ready hair, I just need to be able to brush it T-T

I can't believe it's come to this, but there's a bit of context required I think.
So I never used to really care about being paticularly feminine, it has always been kind of jarring when someone mistakes me for a man (I'm 5'2 and have huge boobs and long hair) but I thought I was pretty comfortable in myself. I haven't ever been really interested in makeup, hairstyles or dresses but have always thought women who are good at that stuff look nice and appreciated the amount of effort they make - I never had any hate toward them for doing that.
Last year I caught my partner of 16 years on dating apps have online relationships with multiple women - it had been going on for about 6 months and had started with those AI girlfriends and ended with him being the victim of a pig butchering scam (karma?), there were some actual women mixed in too. All the women he was chatting to online were all well put together and beautiful in their photos. In his defense when I found out he stopped, let me go through his phone and have access when I needed to reassure myself etc. We hadn't been nurturing our relationship as we should have been, life had got in the way and he has bee pretty good since. It took time but I'm not suspicious of him anymore. I know what he did is his fault and so does he. We have worked hard together over the last year to be better together.
The part that lingers is how I'm feeling about myself and women who do being a woman better than I ever will. I feel ugly, like I don't compare, like even when I try to look more feminine I'm failing at it, like I look wrong and out of place. But what's worse is how I have started thinking about other women and I didn't even really clock it straight away. It was only because I was getting to know another woman at work a bit better and my perception of her shifted, I realised I had basically been hating on her because her body is better than mine, her makeup is on point, her hair is lovely, she dresses well, she's a little younger than me and ngl this woman is legit beautiful. Instead of thinking all that I had been imagining her as a vacuous bitch who is a threat to me (how? She's lovely and married with kids).
Other than making an effort to get to know more women like this wtf do I do?
I don't want any suggestions about leaving my partner, that is still something we're working through it could happen regardless but I don't think that will solve this particular problem anyway.

I'm not going to get into the details related to George Santos and the absolute clown show of his career.
But I was watching a story about him and one thing suddenly became perfectly clear, and made perfect sense, you might even say it's predictable despite its utter Madness and the thick fog of bullshit that surrounds everything about him.
He has repeatedly responded to established facts about his past and his actions and his background by just saying no I didn't do that or no that's not what happened.
If I actually went through all of the events and details he claimed about his past and his actions that turned out to be absolute horseshit and easily debunked then we'd be here all day.
But probably the one that stands out in everyone's memory is the fact that he was a drag queen for years, and an ambitious one at that.
Once press got a hold of irreproachable evidence for it, that fact was widely published and caused quite a stir given his location on the map of political ideology. But even though there were photos of him doing it, videos including one of him in drag proudly discussing how many venues where he had performed, and witnesses who knew him then all made public...
Santos just said no I didn't.
He gave the same response when being caught in many many other lies; I mean basically his entire biography is fiction cut from whole cloth. When and how his mother died, where he went to school, where he'd worked, pretty well everything he ever said about himself was absolute gobbledygook and reporters were digging up absolute incontrovertible proof.
But he just keeps saying no I didn't or you miss heard me or I misspoke.
Why?
It just hit me like a ton of bricks that George Santos is not an absolute mad man nihilistically weaving fairy tales for his constituents while assuming the press couldn't possibly uncover the mountain of evidence that disproves everything he says.
Santos was just following in the footsteps of the most successful Republican in more than a decade.
Trump does exactly that. Trump simply denies and dismisses things for which there's unquestionable proof.
Trump makes constant claims that are easily disproven.
And yet nearly half of Americans are 100% on his bandwagon. They have the incredible staggering ability to just ignore evidence and facts. No matter what the proofs are no matter how airtight they just say no he didn't do that because he said he didn't do that.
In a world of politics where there is absolutely no significant meaning given to what's provable or factual regarding Trump, where his followers' ability to blind themselves regarding reality and regurgitate absolute Fairy Tail nonsense like it's gospel is so powerful you could swear they were robots. Droids programmed to only accept particular input and only spit out particular affirmations with no possibility of reflection or serious consideration or even possibly changing that opinion just because they love that guy so damn much.
In a world where that is actually a thing it makes absolutely perfect sense for George to shoot his shot at just saying no to everything proof or not. To simply call people who are pointing out his lies liars.
Because it worked perfectly for the new Republican role model. He would have had at least some chance of pulling it off.
My opinion is that he failed to reach anywhere near Trump's level of safety from incriminating truths mainly because he's just a repellent human being and the accusations included drag which in America right now seems to be on a road towards being legally deemed so heinous as to Warrant the death penalty.
But he tried it.
And it damn well could have worked. That's where we are. Facts and proof mean nothing. If you're on the right team and you hate the right people you can do any horrid inexcusable thing, like taking a bunch of minors away from their homes to another state, passing them around for you all to fuck at parties with your buddies, have that indisputably proven, and still be extremely successful, laughing your ass off while you watch the Rubes who support you telling reporters that they just don't believe any of that stuff because you are one of theirs.
This is a terrifying new landscape where politicians who frankly were always widely believed to be overall a corrupt and crooked collection of individuals, can truly perpetrate the most absolutely horrible acts imaginable, seemingly especially rapes since Matt Gates and Donald Trump are both well known and proven sexual predators and yet our two extremely successful politicians to this day.
And all they have to do say no I didn't do that and the people voting for them immediately become impervious to all proof taking their word as the absolute gospel and closing their eyes and ears to anything that might run counter to that belief.
I don't think it's an exaggeration anymore just say that Trump could pull out a gun and shoot someone in the middle of Fifth Avenue then look at it a crowd of supporters and say I didn't do that and they would all cheer and emphatically agree that no he did not do that.
My God this is depressing. I feel like I could go drink a whole bottle of bleach right now. Maybe put my head in the oven but it's electric so probably won't help.
Thank you for attending my TED Talk.

In the verdant landscapes of Kerala, where the air is heavy with the scent of spices and the backwaters weave intricate patterns through the land, lies a hidden gem for travelers seeking authentic experiences – Kerala House Homestays in Palakkad. Nestled amidst the lush greenery, these homestays offer more than just accommodation; they provide a gateway to the heart and soul of Kerala’s culture, tradition, and hospitality.
Embracing Authenticity:
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Culinary Delights:
One of the highlights of staying at a Kerala House Homestay is undoubtedly the culinary experience. Kerala cuisine is a celebration of flavors, with dishes rich in spices, coconut, and fresh seafood. At these homestays, guests are treated to homemade meals prepared with love and care by skilled local chefs. From appam and stew for breakfast to traditional sadya (feast) served on banana leaves for lunch, every meal is a culinary journey that tantalizes the taste buds and leaves a lasting impression.
Immersive Experiences:
Beyond just accommodation and food, Kerala House Homestays offer a plethora of immersive experiences that allow guests to delve deeper into the local culture. Whether it’s learning the art of traditional Kerala cooking, trying your hand at weaving coconut leaves to make roof thatches, or joining the family for a boat ride along the tranquil backwaters, every moment spent here is filled with opportunities to create cherished memories.
Connecting with Nature:
Palakkad is blessed with abundant natural beauty, from lush forests and rolling hills to serene backwaters and cascading waterfalls. Kerala House Homestays provide the perfect base for exploring this pristine landscape. Guests can embark on guided nature walks through spice plantations, go birdwatching in the nearby forests, or simply unwind amidst the tranquility of nature, far away from the hustle and bustle of city life.
Personalized Hospitality:
What sets Kerala House Homestays apart is the personalized attention and care that each guest receives. Unlike hotels, where you are just another room number, here you are treated as an honored guest, with hosts going above and beyond to ensure your comfort and satisfaction. Whether it’s arranging customized tours, organizing cultural performances, or simply engaging in heartfelt conversations over a cup of chai, the hospitality extended at these homestays is truly unparalleled.
The Best Homestays in Palakkad:
While there are numerous homestays in Palakkad, a few stand out for their exceptional service, ambiance, and authenticity. Among them, "Nila Homestay" exudes old-world charm with its traditional Kerala architecture and serene surroundings. "Kairali Heritage" offers a unique blend of luxury and heritage, with spacious rooms overlooking lush gardens. "Manalur Illam" is perfect for those seeking an offbeat experience, with its rustic charm and close proximity to nature.
In a world where travel has become synonymous with ticking off bucket lists and snapping Instagram-worthy photos, kerala house homestay in Palakkad offer a refreshing alternative – a chance to slow down, immerse oneself in local culture, and forge meaningful connections with both people and nature. Whether you’re a solo traveler seeking solitude, a couple looking for a romantic getaway, or a family craving an authentic cultural experience, a stay at one of these homestays promises to be a memorable journey filled with warmth, laughter, and a generous dose of Kerala’s famed hospitality.

Photos of my current hair here: https://imgur.com/a/tqANpvc
I’ve loved the idea of a pixie for as long as I can remember but I’ve never gone for it. As a younger person I felt it might not suit me as I’ve always been overweight and I have a small head for my body 😅 I feel like a pixie might just draw attention to that? I’m almost 35 now so I have fewer fucks to give, but I also want outside opinions on whether my impulsive drive to chop all my hair off might be worth reconsidering 😂
My biggest motivator (besides wanting to look cool!) is having a low ish maintenance hairstyle. I have wavy, medium thick hair that’s currently around my shoulders. It’s pretty flat on top, but I find the shorter I cut it the more volume I can get in the top. I’m in a season of life where I don’t have a ton of time to style my hair, so I usually either sleep with it plopped up in a bunch of gel and let it down to air dry for hours the next morning (it takes forever to dry!) or I brush it out and let it air dry straight-ish and frizzy-ish, occasionally straightening it when I need to.
I’m not sure what kind of pixie style I’d want - I love the look of super short styles on folks with more feminine features, and I love the lol of longer styles on people who don’t seem to have as much wild frizz. Any suggestions are appreciated!

My cousin is getting married in July and having a beach destination wedding.
My aunt (cousins mom) is paying for the wedding.
Yesterday at a family gathering for Mother’s Day, my aunt says to me “no funny business at the wedding”
Confused, I asked her to elaborate. She said “none of that gay stuff. No makeup, no nail polish, no fruity outfits, no girly hairstyles… and for god sake grow some hair on your legs. You’re a man and you WILL act like one”
For reference, I’m gender fluid and gender non conforming. I have long (mid back) hair and a short well kept beard. I shave my body hair (except the beard). I don’t wear makeup everyday but I usually have my nails done and my clothing is a mix of both “masculine” and “feminine” attire.
I’m happy with myself and the way I present myself and have been for many years. This is nothing new, and I’ve never been given grief over it before by any family or friends, including her.
And, for what it’s worth, the outfit I have picked out for the wedding (which she already saw) is a tux for the ceremony and male dressy beach clothes for the after party.
Offended, I, “first off, this is not YOUR wedding, second, if this is such a big deal, why was I even invited??”
She said “I just don’t want to be embarrassed and have the photos ruined”
To which I said, “well I won’t ruin anything because I’m not going”
She got mad and said I had to because the seating and catering is already set and if I don’t go it will mess it up.
I’ve already cancelled my flight and explained in private to my cousin why I don’t want to attend anymore and she was very understanding.
TL;DR: AITA for backing out of my cousins wedding after being told that being my authentic self would too embarrassing for her mom to handle??