If you are 😰 stressing out, just draw something on a paper, it helps at least just for that moment, but it may help you to stay calmer level!!!
Lately I have been dealing with something very bad in my life, relationship vise. And it has put me through a lot of crap mentally! I won’t get into details, that’s not what this post is about. The crap I’m going through made me realize a lot, about people especially close to me, about myself, and the whole world in general! One small thing I realized about myself that drawing ✍️ stupid weird stuff helps me relax and come down! No I’m not an artist and I’m not good at drawing, and no I’m not unique, I know that it’s a science fact. But I never thought of it before. Really, when you stressed out 😰 just grab whatever piece of a paper you have, a pencil, pen or marker or whatever. And just start scribbling, whatever it’s, don’t matter, don’t think about it, just let your hand do its thing, let the vibrations in your soul and body caused by the stress dictate what your shaking hand will draw on a piece of paper 📄. This morning when I came to work, I found a sticky note 📝 with kind of a spiderweb looking drawing on it (too bad I can’t attach it here). Honestly I don’t even remember doing it, well I do remember scribbling on a paper, but I didn’t realize what I drew until I saw this morning. but last night closer to the end of shift, I was on a phone with a subject person, and conversation wasn’t very pleasant. At the end of convo person said that surprisingly I handled myself very well unlike usually when similar convos happen. And I guess it’s because the whole time I was drawing ✍️ on a sticky note, it’s pretty much filled with ink, but has a pretty nice geometric/spiderweb type pattern to it.
Next time you are stressed 😫 out, JUST ✍️ DRAW! Hopefully it will help you!!!

My name is Alex. I’m 31 years old and I’m a tattoo artist for over 10 years.
For as long as I can remember, I always defined myself with art. I struggled with low self-esteem most of my life, and art was a way to overcome that feeling and prove myself that I’m good at something.
I can draw all day without eating or drinking water. I’m fascinated by the infinite possibilities a paper and a pencil can create. I love the process of creating. I love drawing.
A friend of mine introduced me to tattooing about a decade ago and I was immediately drown into that field.
After all these years I can humbly say that I’m good at what I do. I worked very hard to be able to achieve what I can do today. I’m proud of it.
However, there’s one side to that career which I struggle immensely.
Social.
It is my worst nemesis. I have a hard time genuinely connecting with my customers. Every question I ask is forced. If I could fast-forward the minute he/she walks in to the moment I begin tattooing, I would do. However, I think I can manage to hide it pretty well, yet I’m sure people can feel that distance somehow.
Throughout my career, I’ve worked on this issue. It’s not something I recently discovered.
My bookings are now slower than it’s ever been. And I think the main culprit might be this social problem I have.
I know a lot of tattoo artists experience this at the moment with inflation and weird/slow economy, but I also see others not having too much of a problem.
The thing is, right now I feel I’m at a crossroads. I’m feeling tired about fighting with myself over this.
My question is, should I find a job less socially demanding and let go all the hard work I’ve done to get to where I’m at, or should I continue this fight.
If you read all of this, I thank you. I would love to read your experiences. (I genuinely would love to 😇).

How I Wonder What You Are by Al Bruno III

I’ll know the time is right when the howling begins. It will be after sundown of course, the Mothers and Fathers of Jebsen only scream after sundown, and only on the clearest of nights.
There is no town of Jebsen listed on any map, even in its heyday of the 1940’s it was too small to be worthy of notice. It’s nothing more than a collection of buildings at the end of a dead end road. On one side it is bordered by long untended corn fields, on the other the swampy remains of Lake Campbell. The most noticeable of the town’s buildings is a red brick edifice with a wide domed roof of fractured glass. The rest is just barns and single story homes. Along the border of the swamp is row after row of barbed wire and bear traps.
I’ll let them scream for an hour or so, let them become tired. Even now it amazes me how I had learned to pick out the individual voices in the cacophony. The Widow Toth tires easily but the Garrets will be at it until dawn.
And what will I be doing while every able-bodied adult is on the rooftops? I’ll be slipping these pages into this mason jar and sealing it lid in place with the wax from a melted crayon. The Children of Jebsen won’t miss just one, especially not purple.
Twenty-five years ago a calamity befell the town of Jebsen. The authorities blamed it all on the after effects of an experimental insecticide but the Old Book the town elders read from every Sunday said otherwise. It told the citizens of Jebsen that a curse was carried by those twinkling dots in the sky. A malevolence traveling at 186,000 miles per second that would twist their Children into nightmares should a glint of it ever touch their skin.
That is why they scream at the starlight; hating it, cursing it, raging at it.
You can’t see what their Children have become and not feel the same way. The changes are heartbreaking and horrifying all at once but after you spend time with them you feel differently. There is mockery in the mis-set eyes that peer from those mollified skulls.
They know secrets. On quiet, cloudy nights I would put my ear to one families’ basement door or another and hear them murmuring and giggling as they writhe in their basement styes.
I think of their weeping mouths and soft teeth and remember that day half a decade ago the ill-advised shortcut and along the neglected county route 99. I remember approaching the train bridge and seriously considering turning around, it looked decades out of repair and I half suspected it would collapse as I passed under it.
But I didn’t turn back, my ego wouldn’t let me. I was right and the road was wrong so I drove under the train bridge, momentarily marveling at the strange and elaborate graffiti that covered it.
I was just past the structure when a small, bent figure ran out from the long grass.
The sounds are what I really remember; the squeal of the brakes, the thud of the body on the hood of my car, the thick crack of laminated glass.
I would later learn the name of the child I had hit was Julius McCarty but all I knew then was that there was an emaciated, bloodied shape lying halfway through my windshield.
Human instinct made me reach out, to see if the little boy was alive. When my fingers brushed his skin he twisted around to face me. His mouth lashed out proboscis-like and nuzzled into the flesh of my arm.
Pain bristled out from where the boy had latched on to me. I screamed, thrashed. I shoved the car door open and tumbled out onto the asphalt. The boy coughed once and died.
At first the wound held all my attention. How could it not? I had expected to see torn flesh and blood but instead the boy’s distended mouth had left behind a cluster of thick, festering ulcerations.
But then I became aware of the men making their way out of the tall grass. These were the Fathers of Jebsen understood immediately what had happened.
They had brought everything they might need to bring one of their Children back home to its basement; rope, bandages and cudgels. It was also everything they needed to make a captive of me.
They, dragged me away from the accident site, through the tall grass and over the collapsed remains of a chain link fence to leave me in the care of the Mothers of Jebsen. Those gaunt women had cudgels of their own and I was a mass of bruises and welts by the time the hole in the Earth had been made to their standards.
The menfolk returned carrying the child wrapped in a linen shroud. They dropped it roughly into the ground. There were no ceremonies, tears or headstone. It was well after dark by the time I had filled the grave back in.
Now here it is years later and I’ve had to dig a dozen more graves, one by one the Mothers and Fathers are dying out, it’s always a surprise when it happens. Every mother and father of Jensen is withered and white haired but every year a few more die in their sleep, or at work in the fields or at prayer in their red brick observatory.
The Children are dying too, not a one has ever lived past seventeen. One by one they waste away, except of course for the occasional accident like the one that trapped me here.
Despite these curse that has befallen them the people of Jebsen continue to reproduce, each mother convinced that this time she will give birth to the Great Redeemer as was foretold in the Old Book. Each time they fail and each time the result is locked away in it’s family’s basement.
You can’t imagine those basements, the smell of rotten meat, the ankle deep fecal matter and the perfectly clean toys. They draw equations on the walls, gold and silver crayons are their preferred color. Every Tuesday I have to visit each of those cellars and scrub the theorems and postulations away.
The youngest of the Children is a newborn, still angry from the womb, the oldest is seventeen and nearly rotted away. No matter the age they all taunt me as I work, sometimes with bites, sometimes with maledictions. Both have left unimaginable scars.
So many scars now, I’m marked, I could never walk among the people I’d known before. They’d refuse to recognize me and insist I was a stranger
The Widow Thoth says this is my penance for the death of Julius McCarty, she even went so far as to cite chapter and verse on the subject from Old Book itself. The Mothers and Fathers of Jebsen, base every aspect of their lives on that thick volume of prophecies and homilies.
I wonder if anyone will notice me as leaving. I doubt it, even when they’re not screaming their heads off a long dead suns they barely notice my comings and goings.
As I said before, the Mothers and Father’s of Jebsen have become so sure of me. Some families think I’ve become a true believer, the rest think the cinder block chained to my ankle is enough to keep me in my place.
I don’t know who you are or when you’ll find this message. My only hope is that you will believe me. If you do, please bring this document to the proper authorities. Don’t let my death be for nothing.
I go to the bottom of the swamp with two regrets. One is that I won’t be there when the town of Jebsen is discovered and burned to the ground.
The other is that six months ago I accepted Father Garett’s invitation to join in their celebrations. I went willingly with them to the old brick observatory. I prayed with them. I danced with them. I partook in all of their debasements.
And for a little while, perhaps an hour, I was happy.
They even asked me to give reading from the Old Book. I eagerly stopped up to the podium and began flipping through the thick volume.
Everyone waited for me to choose a passage and speak but all I did was shake and weep at what I beheld. My knees buckled. My mind shut down. I had to be carried out and put to bed.
You see, the Old Book was blank from cover to cover. You’re even holding some of those pages in your hands now.
I used them to write my story.

How I Wonder What You Are by Al Bruno III

I’ll know the time is right when the howling begins. It will be after sundown of course, the Mothers and Fathers of Jebsen only scream after sundown, and only on the clearest of nights.
There is no town of Jebsen listed on any map, even in its heyday of the 1940’s it was too small to be worthy of notice. It’s nothing more than a collection of buildings at the end of a dead end road. On one side it is bordered by long untended corn fields, on the other the swampy remains of Lake Campbell. The most noticeable of the town’s buildings is a red brick edifice with a wide domed roof of fractured glass. The rest is just barns and single story homes. Along the border of the swamp is row after row of barbed wire and bear traps.
I’ll let them scream for an hour or so, let them become tired. Even now it amazes me how I had learned to pick out the individual voices in the cacophony. The Widow Toth tires easily but the Garrets will be at it until dawn.
And what will I be doing while every able-bodied adult is on the rooftops? I’ll be slipping these pages into this mason jar and sealing it lid in place with the wax from a melted crayon. The Children of Jebsen won’t miss just one, especially not purple.
Twenty-five years ago a calamity befell the town of Jebsen. The authorities blamed it all on the after effects of an experimental insecticide but the Old Book the town elders read from every Sunday said otherwise. It told the citizens of Jebsen that a curse was carried by those twinkling dots in the sky. A malevolence traveling at 186,000 miles per second that would twist their Children into nightmares should a glint of it ever touch their skin.
That is why they scream at the starlight; hating it, cursing it, raging at it.
You can’t see what their Children have become and not feel the same way. The changes are heartbreaking and horrifying all at once but after you spend time with them you feel differently. There is mockery in the mis-set eyes that peer from those mollified skulls.
They know secrets. On quiet, cloudy nights I would put my ear to one families’ basement door or another and hear them murmuring and giggling as they writhe in their basement styes.
I think of their weeping mouths and soft teeth and remember that day half a decade ago the ill-advised shortcut and along the neglected county route 99. I remember approaching the train bridge and seriously considering turning around, it looked decades out of repair and I half suspected it would collapse as I passed under it.
But I didn’t turn back, my ego wouldn’t let me. I was right and the road was wrong so I drove under the train bridge, momentarily marveling at the strange and elaborate graffiti that covered it.
I was just past the structure when a small, bent figure ran out from the long grass.
The sounds are what I really remember; the squeal of the brakes, the thud of the body on the hood of my car, the thick crack of laminated glass.
I would later learn the name of the child I had hit was Julius McCarty but all I knew then was that there was an emaciated, bloodied shape lying halfway through my windshield.
Human instinct made me reach out, to see if the little boy was alive. When my fingers brushed his skin he twisted around to face me. His mouth lashed out proboscis-like and nuzzled into the flesh of my arm.
Pain bristled out from where the boy had latched on to me. I screamed, thrashed. I shoved the car door open and tumbled out onto the asphalt. The boy coughed once and died.
At first the wound held all my attention. How could it not? I had expected to see torn flesh and blood but instead the boy’s distended mouth had left behind a cluster of thick, festering ulcerations.
But then I became aware of the men making their way out of the tall grass. These were the Fathers of Jebsen understood immediately what had happened.
They had brought everything they might need to bring one of their Children back home to its basement; rope, bandages and cudgels. It was also everything they needed to make a captive of me.
They, dragged me away from the accident site, through the tall grass and over the collapsed remains of a chain link fence to leave me in the care of the Mothers of Jebsen. Those gaunt women had cudgels of their own and I was a mass of bruises and welts by the time the hole in the Earth had been made to their standards.
The menfolk returned carrying the child wrapped in a linen shroud. They dropped it roughly into the ground. There were no ceremonies, tears or headstone. It was well after dark by the time I had filled the grave back in.
Now here it is years later and I’ve had to dig a dozen more graves, one by one the Mothers and Fathers are dying out, it’s always a surprise when it happens. Every mother and father of Jensen is withered and white haired but every year a few more die in their sleep, or at work in the fields or at prayer in their red brick observatory.
The Children are dying too, not a one has ever lived past seventeen. One by one they waste away, except of course for the occasional accident like the one that trapped me here.
Despite these curse that has befallen them the people of Jebsen continue to reproduce, each mother convinced that this time she will give birth to the Great Redeemer as was foretold in the Old Book. Each time they fail and each time the result is locked away in it’s family’s basement.
You can’t imagine those basements, the smell of rotten meat, the ankle deep fecal matter and the perfectly clean toys. They draw equations on the walls, gold and silver crayons are their preferred color. Every Tuesday I have to visit each of those cellars and scrub the theorems and postulations away.
The youngest of the Children is a newborn, still angry from the womb, the oldest is seventeen and nearly rotted away. No matter the age they all taunt me as I work, sometimes with bites, sometimes with maledictions. Both have left unimaginable scars.
So many scars now, I’m marked, I could never walk among the people I’d known before. They’d refuse to recognize me and insist I was a stranger
The Widow Thoth says this is my penance for the death of Julius McCarty, she even went so far as to cite chapter and verse on the subject from Old Book itself. The Mothers and Fathers of Jebsen, base every aspect of their lives on that thick volume of prophecies and homilies.
I wonder if anyone will notice me as leaving. I doubt it, even when they’re not screaming their heads off a long dead suns they barely notice my comings and goings.
As I said before, the Mothers and Father’s of Jebsen have become so sure of me. Some families think I’ve become a true believer, the rest think the cinder block chained to my ankle is enough to keep me in my place.
I don’t know who you are or when you’ll find this message. My only hope is that you will believe me. If you do, please bring this document to the proper authorities. Don’t let my death be for nothing.
I go to the bottom of the swamp with two regrets. One is that I won’t be there when the town of Jebsen is discovered and burned to the ground.
The other is that six months ago I accepted Father Garett’s invitation to join in their celebrations. I went willingly with them to the old brick observatory. I prayed with them. I danced with them. I partook in all of their debasements.
And for a little while, perhaps an hour, I was happy.
They even asked me to give reading from the Old Book. I eagerly stopped up to the podium and began flipping through the thick volume.
Everyone waited for me to choose a passage and speak but all I did was shake and weep at what I beheld. My knees buckled. My mind shut down. I had to be carried out and put to bed.
You see, the Old Book was blank from cover to cover. You’re even holding some of those pages in your hands now.
I used them to write my story.

How I Wonder What You Are by Al Bruno III

I’ll know the time is right when the howling begins. It will be after sundown of course, the Mothers and Fathers of Jebsen only scream after sundown, and only on the clearest of nights.
There is no town of Jebsen listed on any map, even in its heyday of the 1940’s it was too small to be worthy of notice. It’s nothing more than a collection of buildings at the end of a dead end road. On one side it is bordered by long untended corn fields, on the other the swampy remains of Lake Campbell. The most noticeable of the town’s buildings is a red brick edifice with a wide domed roof of fractured glass. The rest is just barns and single story homes. Along the border of the swamp is row after row of barbed wire and bear traps.
I’ll let them scream for an hour or so, let them become tired. Even now it amazes me how I had learned to pick out the individual voices in the cacophony. The Widow Toth tires easily but the Garrets will be at it until dawn.
And what will I be doing while every able-bodied adult is on the rooftops? I’ll be slipping these pages into this mason jar and sealing it lid in place with the wax from a melted crayon. The Children of Jebsen won’t miss just one, especially not purple.
Twenty-five years ago a calamity befell the town of Jebsen. The authorities blamed it all on the after effects of an experimental insecticide but the Old Book the town elders read from every Sunday said otherwise. It told the citizens of Jebsen that a curse was carried by those twinkling dots in the sky. A malevolence traveling at 186,000 miles per second that would twist their Children into nightmares should a glint of it ever touch their skin.
That is why they scream at the starlight; hating it, cursing it, raging at it.
You can’t see what their Children have become and not feel the same way. The changes are heartbreaking and horrifying all at once but after you spend time with them you feel differently. There is mockery in the mis-set eyes that peer from those mollified skulls.
They know secrets. On quiet, cloudy nights I would put my ear to one families’ basement door or another and hear them murmuring and giggling as they writhe in their basement styes.
I think of their weeping mouths and soft teeth and remember that day half a decade ago the ill-advised shortcut and along the neglected county route 99. I remember approaching the train bridge and seriously considering turning around, it looked decades out of repair and I half suspected it would collapse as I passed under it.
But I didn’t turn back, my ego wouldn’t let me. I was right and the road was wrong so I drove under the train bridge, momentarily marveling at the strange and elaborate graffiti that covered it.
I was just past the structure when a small, bent figure ran out from the long grass.
The sounds are what I really remember; the squeal of the brakes, the thud of the body on the hood of my car, the thick crack of laminated glass.
I would later learn the name of the child I had hit was Julius McCarty but all I knew then was that there was an emaciated, bloodied shape lying halfway through my windshield.
Human instinct made me reach out, to see if the little boy was alive. When my fingers brushed his skin he twisted around to face me. His mouth lashed out proboscis-like and nuzzled into the flesh of my arm.
Pain bristled out from where the boy had latched on to me. I screamed, thrashed. I shoved the car door open and tumbled out onto the asphalt. The boy coughed once and died.
At first the wound held all my attention. How could it not? I had expected to see torn flesh and blood but instead the boy’s distended mouth had left behind a cluster of thick, festering ulcerations.
But then I became aware of the men making their way out of the tall grass. These were the Fathers of Jebsen understood immediately what had happened.
They had brought everything they might need to bring one of their Children back home to its basement; rope, bandages and cudgels. It was also everything they needed to make a captive of me.
They, dragged me away from the accident site, through the tall grass and over the collapsed remains of a chain link fence to leave me in the care of the Mothers of Jebsen. Those gaunt women had cudgels of their own and I was a mass of bruises and welts by the time the hole in the Earth had been made to their standards.
The menfolk returned carrying the child wrapped in a linen shroud. They dropped it roughly into the ground. There were no ceremonies, tears or headstone. It was well after dark by the time I had filled the grave back in.
Now here it is years later and I’ve had to dig a dozen more graves, one by one the Mothers and Fathers are dying out, it’s always a surprise when it happens. Every mother and father of Jensen is withered and white haired but every year a few more die in their sleep, or at work in the fields or at prayer in their red brick observatory.
The Children are dying too, not a one has ever lived past seventeen. One by one they waste away, except of course for the occasional accident like the one that trapped me here.
Despite these curse that has befallen them the people of Jebsen continue to reproduce, each mother convinced that this time she will give birth to the Great Redeemer as was foretold in the Old Book. Each time they fail and each time the result is locked away in it’s family’s basement.
You can’t imagine those basements, the smell of rotten meat, the ankle deep fecal matter and the perfectly clean toys. They draw equations on the walls, gold and silver crayons are their preferred color. Every Tuesday I have to visit each of those cellars and scrub the theorems and postulations away.
The youngest of the Children is a newborn, still angry from the womb, the oldest is seventeen and nearly rotted away. No matter the age they all taunt me as I work, sometimes with bites, sometimes with maledictions. Both have left unimaginable scars.
So many scars now, I’m marked, I could never walk among the people I’d known before. They’d refuse to recognize me and insist I was a stranger
The Widow Thoth says this is my penance for the death of Julius McCarty, she even went so far as to cite chapter and verse on the subject from Old Book itself. The Mothers and Fathers of Jebsen, base every aspect of their lives on that thick volume of prophecies and homilies.
I wonder if anyone will notice me as leaving. I doubt it, even when they’re not screaming their heads off a long dead suns they barely notice my comings and goings.
As I said before, the Mothers and Father’s of Jebsen have become so sure of me. Some families think I’ve become a true believer, the rest think the cinder block chained to my ankle is enough to keep me in my place.
I don’t know who you are or when you’ll find this message. My only hope is that you will believe me. If you do, please bring this document to the proper authorities. Don’t let my death be for nothing.
I go to the bottom of the swamp with two regrets. One is that I won’t be there when the town of Jebsen is discovered and burned to the ground.
The other is that six months ago I accepted Father Garett’s invitation to join in their celebrations. I went willingly with them to the old brick observatory. I prayed with them. I danced with them. I partook in all of their debasements.
And for a little while, perhaps an hour, I was happy.
They even asked me to give reading from the Old Book. I eagerly stopped up to the podium and began flipping through the thick volume.
Everyone waited for me to choose a passage and speak but all I did was shake and weep at what I beheld. My knees buckled. My mind shut down. I had to be carried out and put to bed.
You see, the Old Book was blank from cover to cover. You’re even holding some of those pages in your hands now.
I used them to write my story.

Question for discussion for teachers. I'm a new teacher and I've been seeing some conflict with old teachers and new teachers at my Title 1 school in a big city about how to handle certain interventions and behaviors, and it got me thinking where is the line for other people on some practices that students can genuinely appreciate but at the same can be interpreted as us being easy on them such as:
-Not starting 1st period exactly at the bell because there's like 4 students in the room, it's good for those who walk in late but it can send a message it's okay to come 10 minutes late every day.
-Having a huge stack of pencils every day; students like having that available but some get a new pencil every day knowing they never need to keep them
-Not locking doors/needing a tardy pass. They miss less instruction time for students especially if they have a good reason to be late, but then being tardy becomes no big deal
-Being allowed to use your phone for online assignments if their tablet is dead/they don't have it. Sometimes they actually do the work but it also makes them less responsible if there's less consequences for not having your school device and being ready
-Keeping all their papers in the room in a class period bin, less chance to lose it, but it makes them less responsible for their belongings.
If you guys remember any other examples please mention, but it's something there seems to be no clear answer for.

It was late, there were no visitors in the library anymore and I wanted to close for the day, when I noticed that an FBI agent was suddenly standing in front of me, asking if we could talk. I told him we could, sure. Then he pointed to a table right next to us with another FBI agent already sitting there, looking at us. I could swear there was nobody sitting at that table just a second ago. Oh and both agents looked completely identical to me I must say. Even their voices, mannerisms, clothing... everything. Super strange.
We were talking for about 10 minutes, they were asking about my favorite books (???), how many we had at the library, etc. All very superficial questions. Then they handed me a pencil and wanted me to write something for them. "Anything" they said. I must've looked very confused to them for a second, but then I stood up to get a piece of paper. That's when they stopped me and told me to just write. I told them that I won't write on the table and that I needed a piece of paper. They looked at each other and then one of them looked back at me. The other one was still looking at his partner for some reason. The one looking at me told me that it was alright and that they didn't need me to write anything for them after all. He thanked me, said they needed to go back to their HQ, and stood up. The other one kept sitting, completely frozen it seemed. It was getting seriously creepy at that point.
Well, the one standing helped his partner up and out of the Library. I was just standing there watching this all happen like if it was some movie scene. Then I saw 2 lights through the windows coming closer to the building, probably their ride. The strange thing though was that after the car got to them and after I imagine they must have gotten inside, the headlights turned off and I didn't even hear the car leave. No idea if they just drive at night with their lights off. That would be dangerous as hell.
And then I noticed the clock - it was 2 hours later. Not just 10 minutes as I thought. I have no idea how to explain the missing time. The FBI agents are getting weirder and weirder lately.

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I was at a disadvantage before, looking around in unknown territory, but here? This is my house. My country. My library! I have walked around these halls so many times that I have a pretty good mental map of where everything is. Considering the most requested academic tomes are under the protection of the Librarian, I go investigate the shelves on the first floor, where you find mostly reference books.

All this confidence I managed to build up disappears the instant I notice there’s a group of students in the lodges to the side of the hall, just minding their own business. My throat dries up, my knees shake a little bit.

Saints damn it, why aren’t you all on vacation!?

And they are sitting right on my way, between me and the shelves. I am sure the symbol has to be on the shelves…

“Time to turn tail and run, like always.”

“You can do it. Take a deep breath, look straight onwards and walk!”

Taking her advice, I do my best to not look at ANYTHING and just go straight as an ant to the shelves.

“Wait. What if any of them say hi? Oh no. Uhm. Take a quick look! But make it super, super quick!”

Damn it.

My eyes slowly turn to the left as I am walking. Are they looking at me? Did they look at me? WILL they look at me? They don’t seem to even notice me. Should I call for their attention? Should I say hi? I don’t even know them, that would be weird. But what if I do know them and I just don’t remember? There’s lots of law students around, maybe they are law students? I can’t see their books from this distance, maybe I need glasses. Would glasses make me look unassuming? I wish people didn’t look at me…

Eventually I reach the shelves without exchanging a single word with these people. I really, really hope I didn’t look like a nervous wreck while walking by, but I guess there isn’t much I can do about that now, can I? Ugh, I can barely focus as I start looking on the shelf itself, trying to find anything out of the ordinary…

“You’re nervous when there’s a lot of people, and you’re nervous when there’s few people. What will it take for you to be happy about something, huh!? Tiresome bitch…”

I sigh loudly. I left my S.O.S. at home, so I can’t really get rid of these voices tonight… I’ll have to brave them.

“It will be a hard time… but you can do it.”

Taking a deep breath, I continue trying to focus on finding that damn ‘golden symbol’ around the shelves, even taking out a few suspiciously out of place books, just to check if the symbol could be carved on the back of the shelf or something…

Nothing.

I spend a good long hour checking each shelf on the first floor as methodically as my body allows… before I know it, I have given up on everything and am sitting on a bean couch at the main hall, letting my eyes close slowly…

… When I open them again, I practically jump out of my chair.

Did I just fall asleep!?

“Oh boy.”

I pick up my phone to check… It's 2 in the morning.

“Oh boy! Who could have guessed things would go wrong, huh?”

I can still feel the sleepiness in my limbs, my eyelids feel so heavy. Saints, help your poor servant!

The lights feel so vibrant here, so annoying and white. I can practically hear them buzz… but then, I notice something else. The smell of decent coffee, recently brewed. I look around, quickly finding the librarian at her desk, serving cups of coffee to the group I saw… I think of going over and taking one but that would probably imply conversation. And I am not ready for conversation! I—

“Oi! You finally woke up!” The librarian catches me instantly with a knowing smirk. “Want a cuppa?”

I freeze. For a moment I think: ‘hey, let’s pretend I didn’t hear her!’, but I don’t have my headphones on and I made eye contact. I am trapped, TRAPPED.

“M-Mhm.” I manage to whimper, nodding my head quickly.

“Then come over, don’t be shy. We’re all night owls here.”

There is a sense of community there that’s quite alluring, but the curious looks of that group of students really feel like cold daggers on my chest. Still, I gather all my courage and robotically walk over to the group, taking a styrofoam cup, and then watching the woman fill it up slowly with coffee as black as my soul. Just like I like it… just with a hint of sugar, though.

“So you finally came around again. I was wondering what happened to you.” The old lady looked at me, knowingly.

“You… you recognize me?” I can’t help but feel a mixture of happiness and abject horror mounting on my back.

“My child, I recognize every single person who comes to my library! I know them all, believe it or not! Including these rascals over here.”

The others laughed. I just looked at my coffee while mixing a teaspoon of sugar in it. She’s probably joking, right? I mean… there’s no way she actually memorizes every visitor, right?

“Maybe she’s a witch.”

Knowing what I know now? I wouldn’t be surprised. I just take a sip of my coffee.

“You’re not here to study for the special tests, are you?” The lady again read me like a saints’ damned book. “You’re looking for something special.”

“It’s nothing that ominous.” I quickly cover. “I am just looking for a particular book, but I am not sure where I could find it in the library.”

“Why not ask for help? I am right here, precisely for that!” The Librarian puffed up her chest. “If I don’t get anything to do, I get bored.”

“Ah, well, you see…” I start getting nervous again. I can’t just tell her the truth! What if I slip and this woman turns out to be a cloak testing me? Or worse, a sleeper! I am quite sure the whole ‘Secret of magic’ is a very serious matter! I could get her and myself in a big pickle!

The woman seems to notice my distress… and instead of trying to reassure me, the damn crone just goes and says:

“Is it poooorn you’re after, boy?~”

Saints help me.

The others are laughing and looking at me all smiley, why!? Why must this lady put me in a situation like this!?

“T-There’s the internet for stuff like that!” I blurt without thinking. “I mean! Ah! Damn it!”

More laughs. At this point my face must be lighting up red and radiating hotter than active uranium.

“I. Can’t. It’s a symbol!”

“A symbol?” One of the other students tilted his head with curiosity. “What kind of symbol? Are we talking chemical or arcane?”

“Nerd spotted. You’re among comrades here, breathe easy.”

It’s hard to breathe easy when people are actively laughing at me, saints damn it!

“It… symbolizes gold.” I finally relented. “I am not sure which one of the many, many interpretations it could be. I thought of the alchemical symbol for gold, or a Sun, who knows…”

“That’s a little vague.” The student said, frowning a little bit and rubbing the back of his neck. “The symbol is in the book? Like, on the cover?”

What am I even supposed to answer to that!?

“I. Think?”

“Well.” The Librarian recovers the reigns of the conversation with a grin. “If that thing you are looking for isn’t here? It may be a literature tome. You know, on the second floor.”

“Y-Yeah…” I sigh. This whole conversation has just been so stressful.

“Well! It could be the Golden Ratio!” One of the girls says. “You know the Golden Ratio?”

“Isn’t that the whole shell inside a rectangle thing?” I blink.

“Yeah! They use the helenian letter ‘phi’ to represent it.”

The girl is nice enough to draw it for me…

Phi
I stare at the symbol on the paper for a moment. That’s… actually useful. And it does make sense! It could be this! Suddenly inspired, I stand right up and finish what’s left from my coffee in one gulp, not even caring that it burns my damn throat as I do so.

“Okay, this works. Thank you!” Without even feeling the anxiety attack me again, I bow my head and turn around to go right for the stairs!


When Tav had turned around and moved out, the Leader of the Coven looked at her young apprentice with a frown, shaking her finger slowly at the girl.

“You shouldn’t be so obvious with your hints, young girl.” The woman shook her head softly. “We could have had fun with her for at least another hour!”

“I didn’t feel like being cruel today.” The apprentice said with a sleepy grin, while some of the others ruffled her hair and called her a ‘softie’. “The Bastard needs a way to learn! And it would be sad to see the Overseer waiting for another night…”


I rush past the empty reception desk on the second floor, joging without even caring about the ‘No Running’ rule as I go head first into the wooden shelves of the literature section. And it doesn’t even take me that many attempts to finally see something: a symbol carved on the wooden side of one of the shelves.

Phi. Lower case. Small enough to not be disruptive, but big enough to be noticeable.

My eyes widen, and I immediately approach the symbol with awe invading my body. I don’t even dare to touch it at first, that’s how big my excitement is! Whatever does this mean!? Is this whole building the Elysium? Or just the second floor? Isn’t this place way too public for what they mean to do?

Finally giving up on trying to be cautious, I just touch the symbol. For a moment nothing happens, and I feel the panic starting to take over again.

“Trust the process, maybe it takes a moment!”

I keep my finger pressed on the carved symbol for a moment, taking slow, deep breaths as I try to keep myself from going into a saints damned anxiety attack. But then, something does happen. Octarine, that strange colour, starts filtering from my very veins and into the symbol, filling in the carving before flowing on the air like a river of vibrant purple-green. It advances in front of my eyes, dancing and spiraling before flowing deeper into the library.

“What…?”

“What are you waiting for!?”

“Follow it!”

I don’t have to tell myself twice! My legs don’t have the energy to keep running, but the colour is not flowing super fast, so I can just walk behind it until it reaches an empty wall on the deepest side of the second floor. I put my hand against it and push slightly, this time trying to cause the flow myself! My excitement knows no bounds when the colours flow from my forearm to my palm, and then spread on the wall like vines growing in all directions.

“Idiot! What if someone can see you!?”

Biting my lower lip, I quickly turn around. No one followed me, good! I can focus again on the wall, or in this case the lack of it: where there was a wall now there’s an entrance, a black hole just waiting for me to jump in. With a sigh, I decide to ignore my anxieties and just go into the darkness, being quickly surrounded by it as the wall quickly appears again behind me.

It takes a moment for my eyes to get used to the room, but when they do the way is clear: a spiral stairway going up.

“More stairs… why do people here love their stairs!?”

With a frustrated grumble, I take a step on the stairs, only for them to start moving on their own. Huh. Now that’s convenient! I just let them take me higher and higher, without even questioning how they move without mechanisms or electricity. Magic is just Like That™.

It doesn’t take long until the light hits me: a faint, gentle blue light, like a beautiful night sky. My observation proves right on the money, for what I find on top of the stairway is a tremendous planetarium: a dome of darkness with distant white lights showing the spectacle of the stars right above us.

There are some tables and chairs around, some bookshelves too… and sitting on one of them, was the specter of someone I know. The figure of a certain book vendor.

Miss Pelafina gently brushed some of her dyed black hair behind her ear to look at me with a mocking grin.

“Took you long enough, didn’t it? Kid.”

I want to like this gun, but every time I take this into a dive I scramble to make up for its shortcomings. (eg. taking lazer rover to deal with small bugs) It often only hits a single enemy despite being multi-shot, so you can be easily overrun by the smallest bugs or god forbid a patrol of hunters.
It also cannot clear eggs or shoot beyond medium ranges. Also has a higher chance for friendly fire.
But I like how it can take on the mid level bugs with its nice stagger.
I feel like the unlimited ammo is a trap, as much as I love this on paper. In practice, I just forget about the objectives while I endlessly explode bug heads drawing more and more aggro until the small critters and chargers prove overwhelming.
I haven't tried it against bots, but I presume the limited range would make it even worse there.

Hey all,
I have several notebooks of ideas and drafts that I’d like to convert to typed text. It’s getting to be too much to handle on paper. I’m trying to avoid manually typing it all out if I can. Do you all have any recommended apps or devices that could easily scan and convert? I went to Best-Buy with this question and got a lot of, “You could probably do that with the new iPad.” I currently have an old computer that cannot do anything like this, that I use to type when I have to, but I greatly prefer pen and paper. I’m not against buying a device, just don’t want to buy one and then find out it does this specific action very poorly. Most of my searches online for this just lead to ads for using the Apple Pencil directly on the iPad. Ideally, if a device is the answer it would also be a device that is easy to type and/or use an e-pencil on.
So basically how are y’all converting handwritten text to typed, and do you have any favorites when it comes to handwriting directly on devices?

Alice Munro, winner of the 2012 Nobel Prize in Literature and one of the all-time greatest writers of short fiction, recently passed away. She's been my favourite author since I first discovered her work, so while I go through my own re-reading of her bibliography, I'll be posting semi-regularly here to talk about aspects of her work that I find absolutely brilliant.
Of everything she's written, I think that "Tell Me Yes or No," featured in Munro's 1974 collection Something I've Been Meaning to Tell You represents a perfect introduction to her writing style, the feminism of her early stories, and the way in which she uses narrative construction to explore the subjectivity of her characters. It's also has possibly the best hook for a story she's ever written, as it begins:

I persistently imagine you dead.
You told me that you loved me years ago. Years ago. And I said that I too, I was in love with you in those days. An exaggeration.

Alice Munro regularly uses second-person perspectives in her writing, but never like this. Her stories are often epistolary, with letters featuring crucially into the plots of a couple dozen I can think of off the top of my head (Friend of My Youth and Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage are among the most effective, if you're curious). But rarely is a story directly addressed to someone by a protagonist, in the way that it is here. This story has a venom which drips from off the page.
After the narrative hook, the narratoprotagonist brusquely allows us into understanding the source of her contempt. We quickly learn how they met: she was a young mother and a University student, living with her husband in a dormitory of other married couples called The Huts; he lived there as well, as a graduate student, with a wife and child of his own. The student culture she describes is conservative and somewhat repressed: the wives/mothers of The Huts are "creatures of daily use" (87) who rise every night to insert diaphragms or to take other contraceptives, and sex has "shrunk" from an apocalyptic undertaking to another chore. Though there was "no infidelity in The Huts," and "flashes of lust" were uncommon, it is through this man that our narrator "got a glimpse of something [...] that we had not been thinking about — had put aside in your case, or not yet discovered, in mine."
And for a moment, a glimpse is all that Munro gives, as through prolepsis, the story advances to a later year and a remembered conversation, which is presumably also the time when this man told the narrator that he had been in love with her then. It's through this reminiscence that the story moves into the first moments of their emotional affair, : "We never said anything of importance. We never touched each other. [...] Next day, or the day after, when I was reading as usual on the couch, I felt myself drop a lovely distance, thinking of you, and that was the beginning, I suppose, the realization of what more there still could be." (88) Despite only a short walk across campus together during which nothing was said and no one was touched, both parties recall this moment as the significant one in their relationship. For the narrator, it has a transformative effect on her life: "This kind of tension was new to me then. I could not gauge and manipulate, as later with other men." (88) That she brings up manipulation, here, is interesting; we'll find out why, later, but I do want to highlight how Munro will sprinkle things like this into a character's narration which reveal so much of their interiority. Why is she, with this man, so concerned about being able to gauge and manipulate? And why, in the narration, does she go from kind reminiscence to immediately asking the question:

Would you like to know how I was informed of your death?

Mind, now, that it was never established until here that the person she is writing to actually is dead. In the opening, it's only an imagining, "I persistently imagine you dead." For the rest of the story it will seem as if this all is true, and that he has died; but the brilliance of the opening line, beyond its value to draw in a reader, is that now the entire narrative shifts to unstable ground. From now on every action that the narrator takes in the present could be a fantasy, or could be real. It's presented at face value: "I go into the faculty kitchen, to make myself a cup of coffee before my 10 o'clock class. Dodie Charles who is always baking something has brought a cherry pound cake. [...] It is wrapped in wax paper and then in a newspaper. [...] As I wait for my water to boil I see the small item, the modest headline, VETERAN JOURNALIST DIES. [...] Only then do I realize. Your name. The city where you lived and died. A heart attack, that will do" (88-89).
While detailing this narrative of hers, though, the narrator can't help pointing towards the invention of it all: "(The thing we old pros know about, in these fantasies, is the importance of detail, solidity; yes, a cherry pound cake)" (88). When she concludes by saying, "A heart attack, that will do," it isn't pithy, it's another aside, emphasizing the arbitrary construction of her fantasy. All right. So he's not dead. What follows, then, if not a real description of the narrator's subsequent actions, shows that a tremendous amount of thought has gone into building this fantasy. In my version of the text, the story runs from page 86-101, 15 pages; everything said so far has been to frame whatever else follows.
I'll not spend so much time close-reading from here, but briefly: the narrator mentions her habit of carrying the last letter she's received from this man in her purse; upon hearing of his death, the fact that she's not received a letter in a while suddenly resolves itself, and it's a weight off her shoulders. She confides in a coworker, a man named Gus Marks, who suggests she talk to a psychiatrist. She laughs at this, "For I am absorbed in another plan. As soon as the term ends [...] I mean to go visit you, to visit the city where you died." (90) Analepsis: the fantasy/narrative breaks for a moment once again to recall their meeting two years before, where the two confessed that they had loved each other; she learns about his wife's bookstore, he learns about her divorce; he drives her to the airport and she, "was not unhappy at the thought of never seeing you again" (91); instead of the airport, though, they arrive at a hotel together. She muses, "I loved you for linking me with my past [...] If I could kindle love then and take it now there was less waste than I had thought. [...] My life did not altogether fall away in separate pieces, lost." (92)
In the present (fantasy) she gets on the flight across the country, to city where he died. She's only been there once before (it's where they met and rekindled their romance), but now can't help searching the streets for memories of him. She recalls his character, how she saw him, and how he saw himself: "I would say that you are uncompromising [...] that there is something chivalric about you" (94); "You, on the other hand, would describe yourself as genial, corrupt, ordinarily selfish and pleasure-loving." This might be a good time to remember how the story starts, with the narrator describing her past love for him as "an exaggeration." If she was exaggerating then, she must have truly been in love with him here; which is what makes it so devastating when suddenly that love is taken away from her, with nothing to show for it but scraps of letters. "From the beginning, of course, I knew that this was a dangerous way to live," she says, and when the letters stop arriving begins seeking answers in the usual places, reading "case histories" of mistresses in women's journals, and confiding in a friend (a woman) who advises presence and living in the moment. "I have tried this, I will try anything, but I don't understand how it works." (95) So what does work for her?

I have bought a map. I have found your street, the block where your house is. [...] I don't go there yet. [...] That is a house you never meant me to see. [...] Now I can see it if I want to. [...] I go to your wife's store. That is what I can do. (95-96)

She loiters around important areas of this man's life, particularly his home and his wife's store, places that bear incredible significance to the person that she loved, but which he could never welcome her into. She mentions in an aside how these places are opposite to the ones they got to share: temporary spaces that wait for his arrival to come alive. Now she sees the wife, newly widowed in this fantasy, going about her day-to-day life. She recognizes her voice from their time together back in The Huts, and prays that she isn't recognized in turn. After a few days of loitering around the shop, though, she is confronted: "'I think I know who you are' [...] 'We've all noticed you hanging around here. At first I thought you were a shoplifter. I told everyone to keep an eye on you. But you're not a shoplifter, are you?'" (97). The woman gives her a paper bag full of letters, and smugly announces, as if we didn't know, that her husband is dead. In the bag is the record of their correspondence together, which ended when he died at his desk of that heart attack: "But then I notice that the writing is not mine. I start to read. These letters are not mine, they were not written by me." (98)
This, to me, is the true brilliance of the story. Because even if you accept that this is all a fantasy, the fact that something like this exists within that fantasy is so illuminating towards the narrator of this story. In her fantasy, she flies across the country to flaneur around the memory of the man she had an affair with. Alright. She loiters in the vision of her paramour's widow long enough to be recognized, caught, and admonished. And then she finds out that this wasn't even true: the letters aren't her own; he was having another affair with a woman named Patricia. Then, finally, she returns to the bookstore and returns the letters: "'I didn't write these letters' 'Aren't you her?' 'No. I don't know who she is. I don't know.' 'Why did you take them?' 'I didn't understand. I didn't know what you were talking about. I've had a grief lately and sometimes — I'm not paying attention.'" (99)
Her and the widow talk briefly, but they don't ultimately become friends. She walks away from the store, and, "In this city of my imagination," (100), she thinks about the other woman he was writing to: long uncombed black hair, sitting in the dark, "She confides in a woman, goes to bed with a man [...] She suffers according to rules we all know, which are meaningless and absolute." (100) This calls to mind the earlier description of nightly routines back in The Huts, of sex as an apocalypse-made-chore, and of the women who became "creatures of daily use" (87). When I talk about Alice Munro's feminism, it isn't that her characters suffer great tragedies on account of their sex. Instead they're trapped inside of metanarratives that leave them yearning for an alternative to such "meaningless and absolute" rules. Not only that, the narrator in this case tries to have a fraction of the power over this man that he's exerted, possibly without meaning to, over her:

When I think of her I see all this sort of love as you must have seen, or see it, as something going on at a distance; a strange, not even pitiable expenditure; unintelligible ceremony in an unknown faith. Am I right, am I getting close to you, is that true? (100)

She's now shifted herself into the place of the widow from earlier. She's understood him before as a lover; now she's trying to understand him as an adulterer, as someone who never took her that seriously, who possibly never loved her ("an exaggeration") as much as she knows that she loved him. More than that, she wants to get close to him, in an even more intimate way than she's ever been able to, before quickly realizing what a fool's errand that would be. Did he actually love her? He is the one who said it first. "How are we to understand you?" she asks, before withdrawing the question entirely:

Never mind. I invented her. I invented you, as far as my purposes go. I invented loving you and I invented your death. I have my tricks and my trap doors too. I don't understand their workings at the present moment, but I have to be careful, I won't speak against them. (101)

One thing I love about this story is how playful it is, despite the tone never shifting too far away from the contemptuous frustration of the opening passage. The more I read it (and I've probably read this more than any other Munro story), the more details I find to pick out in its construction, of how Alice Munro layered in all these details both to sell the fantasy of her character, and also the character herself. Talking to a man within the fantasy about how she really ought to speak to a psychiatrist reads to me now like Munro having fun with her protagonist's obsession. But I also love that this story is never presented as a woman losing control of herself, even though that would be so easy to do. By allowing the fantasy narrative to be as real as the "true" memories presented alongside of it, she never comes off as irrational or manic, or even jilted until the very end of it, even though to construct such a narrative, with such attention-to-detail and so many layers of fantasy does betray a person who is not coping with loss as well as she claims to be.
It's a strikingly real portrait of a strikingly plausible woman, who married young and therefore never experienced her idea of a romance until years later, rekindling with a man she briefly knew, only for him to disappear from her life again just as quickly. Twice, now, her life had been upended because he showed her something else from the life she had been living; but at the same time, he never truly fit into the narrative of her own life.
Along those lines, there are also a lot of details conspicuously missing from this story about the narrator's life apart from this man: her divorce is briefly mentioned, and experiences with other men; but we never know how much this affair factored into any of those relationships besides a guess at what may have been awakened. We see very little of her as a mother, except that she was pushing a stroller home from the drug store when they first met, and that their romance starts shortly after both her children are away at college themselves for the first time. It's not that any of these details are particularly relevant; I think it's actually interesting how irrelevant they are. One thing that the narrator is trying to do throughout the story is contextualize her feelings for this man within some idea of a life-story. Instead, what we're given is a fractured narrative, with only brief glimpses of real shared moments together, held together by a fantasy in which she portrays both the spurned lover and the homewrecker. The only way she can continue on with her life, therefore, is to persistently imagine him dead.
What Alice Munro does with narrative, in such a short-form as her stories take, is absolutely brilliant. I can't recommend enough picking up a collection of hers, opening to any story she's written, and see how effortlessly she manipulates time, memory and fantasy to suit the needs of the characters she's trying to create. This story ends with the admission that this man who the narrator's addressing is, for her own purposes, basically fictional. She will never understand him. Any love that she had for him couldn't possibly be real under such conditions. And yet, she did love him, despite being an invention, despite her own fantasy.
Because how else could you love a person, or even begin understanding a person, unless they were a little bit fictional to you, existing just a little bit within your imagination?

I compared Claude 3 Opus, GPT 4o and Sonar. I gave 3 instructions (queries) each and briefly discuss them. I am a psychologist, so it was best for me to discuss this topic. Traditionally, as a person whose English is not his native language, I apologize for my mistakes 😊.

1. I'm writing a psychology paper on "the most common causes of depression among men" and I'm looking for materials to help me understand this phenomenon · GPT 4o - The form of the answers, the use of sources and understanding of the topic came off perhaps best of all the models. GTP divided the topic into key aspects, and with this he scored strongly with me. In this inquiry it is a winner. · Sonar - did it very well for using sources. Maybe even better than GPT 4o. He also understood the topic well, but the form of the answer was worse than GPT. Sonar has nothing to be ashamed of. · Claude 3 Opus - Understanding of the topic and use of sources was good, but the form of answers and development of topics was the worst of all, so it gets the least points. GPT 4o - 3 Sonar - 2 Opus - 1
   
2. Compare for me two therapeutic currents in terms of effectiveness. I am referring to the CBT and psychodynamic currents · GPT 4o – Here again, the breakdown on key factors is perfect. GPT showed a good understanding of the subject as a specialist just as in the previous inquiry. · Sonar – He has no shame. Similar to GPT, but has less understanding of the subject as a specialist. · Claude 3 Opus – I got again a cluster of content from which goes to draw some conclusions, even not the worst. But compared to its predecessors it came off worst. GPT 4o - 3 Sonar - 2 Opus - 1
   
3. I'm looking for reliable information about the impact of social media on mental health among young people · GPT 4o – here was a sore point that has plagued GPT since the first versions, namely the "it depends" approach, where in the end the positives and negatives balance each other out. · Sonar – Also the same problem as above. Understanding of the topic and structure of the content similar to GPT 4o. I don't see any major differences. · Claude 3 Opus – Best of all he discussed the topic. Admittedly, there was less division into aspects of the problem, but he succinctly wove everything into the content. He was the only one who was not indifferent to the growing perspective of the harmfulness of social media, and that's what I like most about him, because it is in line with the latest scientific reports. GPT 4o - 1 Sonar - 1 Opus - 3
   

To sum up. GPT 4o is the winner, with Sonar and Opus tied.
Nevertheless, it all depends on what you need. I also haven't tested how AI models behave when you continue the conversation. I encourage you to dig deeper and share the information.

This post contains spoilers from character anecdotes and main story!!!
From the past 2 myths, it has been shown that there are clues in the game of what they could have been. For Xavier, in one of his anecdotes, there's the child who spends the summer with him because Xavier was suppose to be a strong huntesuperhero. The child expects to find Xavier in a superhero type outfit and is disappointed when he doesn't. Later in the story, we find out about Lumiere, who, for the event, is a superhero/movie star. These 2 instances don't connect right away, but since Xavier's new myth came out, it makes more sense.
With Rafayel, everything he has done has been connected with the sea and or water. The paintings, the fact that other Lemurians exist in the current world, before he moved to Linkon City-- Other than finding the MC, he was on a mission to return to Lemuria and save his people. We also find out that there's a darker side to him. Even if you didn't know much about Rafayel before then, you learn more about him from getting the memory "Whalefall Lament", where you go into the sea with him to look for a missing whale (which is how I found out more about him since I started this game a little over 2 weeks ago).
Xavier's roles based on myths and currently (not in chronological order) are Lightseeker > Deepspace Hunter > Lumiere. For Rafayel, it's Abysswalker > Painter > God of the Tides. For Zayne, Foreseer > Doctor > ?
Outside of standard interactions with MC, we haven't gotten too much when it comes to Zayne. The one that stands out the most is the Surprise Encounter memory. In Surprise Encounter, we find Zayne at a museum and we discover that he's drawing a heart on a piece of papyrus. He tells us a story about a doctor who prayed with priests everyday to try to save his wife's failing heart. MC eventually says that "This doctor was way ahead of his time" (just like Zayne is as a doctor atm). It also mentions Osiris and how the heart of the deceased has to be judged by him. If you download the Surprise Encounter image and turn it horizontal, you'll see a pyramid paper weight on Zayne's desk. If it goes this route, there's a popular speculation on TikTok that Zayne's new myth is Egyptian-related (where I got this information).
I started thinking about another possible option that also connects to the above information. In the official artwork below, there are a lot of broken Roman related items-- the pillars, headless statues, and shortswords/daggers surrounding Zayne. In history, the Romans defeated Egypt, but in the photo, it makes it seem like it's vice versa? Other than the obvious symbolism of the items, the thrones (depicted in 2 artworks), the pyramids, and the Roman pillars symbolize having power, being a ruler, and or having political power. The Staff of Hermes symbolizes peace, but was also worn as a badge where you had to show respect to ambassadors and heralds.
We also know that Zayne has combat skills and has fought on the battlefield before, however, unlike the other 2, we don't know how he learned the art of combat. He doesn't really fight anyone as a Foreseer, he fought in the mountains when he started his career in the current timeline, and in Dawnbreaker's timeline too. The only other times he fights (that I can recall), is in the Neon Night memory and in one of the story chapters.
In Neon Night, we learn after the fight with the Wanderers that Zayne believes in leaving no man behind, which was an unspoken rule when he went on the mission in the mountains early in his career (he states that in there). Also, this is where MC buys him a brooch as a gift that he chose, thinking it was for another man. This brooch ends up breaking in half after the fight, but Zayne wears it regardless. One thing a brooch symbolizes is class status.
In an attempt to put this all together, could it be possible that his new myth may be related to being some kind of war general or king? I had a conversation with the owner of the TikTok of the Egyptian theory and they brought up the Pharaoh, who would fit based on these speculations. I don't think they would make him a doctomedical-themed again based on the Myths we got for Xavier and Rafayel, whose Myths were somewhat similar but different enough to be their own thing. According to Google, Pharaohs were connected to the divine in such a way that he was god himself (similar to Foreseer) while a king is recognized by mortal men and rules over a territory.
The main reason I'm thinking war general/king is due to Zayne's personality. He's strict at times, but a nice person. He's good at keeping his emotions in check and always worries about others before himself (also leaving no man behind). When I learned more about the Pharaoh route, it seemed that it could be a route that makes sense. What do you think?

Well, Hi all! again! 4Th Wall here, I figured since I just got power back, I might as well play some catch up on both series. Hope you enjoy this episode!!
Yup, I fucked that up. This is a repost with the correct Episode number, LOL! It's been a while since I've done that.
First, Previous, Next (Patreon)
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Benjamin smiled, watching the girls skip ahead of him. Today was a testing day of sorts for him. Unwilling to release firearms into this world haphazardly, yet unwilling to go without them as a backup; he had pulled from one of his sister’s favorite video games. He had “melted down” his bowie knife, repurposing the metal to be used in his latest creation. The final product rode on his hip like a short sword, but Ben was satisfied in the design when the vast majority of the people he passed ignored it as just another adventurer’s blade. Benjamin hoped, that with the existence of Majik, that he would be able to pass off any… peculiarities... as the realm of the supernatural.

The three of them arrived at the tailor’s establishment, and the girls were met with a customary indifference that seemed to present itself when a slave’s “master” was present. The moment Benjamin entered, the seamstress ceased to pay attention to the girls, and instead addressed him directly, “Ah, The Forgemaster’s Protégé. What can I do for you this day.” She said cooly, bowing slightly in welcome. “I’m here commission some clothing for these two, a reward for good service.” Benjamin began. It was technically true; the success of the forge had afforded him much more coin than a mere apprentice could have made. Qort had taken him on as a true partner, and Benjamin earned enough to comfortably afford to cloth his “slaves” in whatever he chose.

Some stigma’s remained however, and the seamstress seemed to glare sideways at the girls as they perused the fabrics adorning the walls. “Is that wise? A slave could lose her place with such gifts.” she asked, her polite tone barely hiding her disapproval. Benjamin sighed internally, ‘oh for fucks sake’ he groaned in his own mind before putting on facad, “I find that proper reward, afforded on the right servant can result in” he paused, projecting a smug expression and blatantly looking the girls up and down. “a profound dedication to their duties” he finished with a satisfied smile as the seamstress covered her mouth with a hand to hide a smile of her own. The gambit worked, and the Seamstress was obviously satisfied that the “Aereesen slave whores” were being properly “used”. “Ah, I understand. What did you have in mind for them.” She practically moaned back at Benjamin. ‘This hag needs a good pounding….’ Benjamin’s inner monologue threatened to crack his facade, “That’s the fun part, my good lady. It’s their choice. The surprise is half the excitement.” He chuckled.

The seamstress openly smiled at him this time before nodding and stepping over to the two girls. Benjamin breathed a sigh of relief as she seemed to treat them at least marginally more warmly. The old racist bag didn’t need to know that Benjamin was secretly building a small nest egg for his girls, or that his sending them out to do errands for him was how he was teaching them about money, value, and the application of Mathematics. She also didn’t need to know that the full Cutlery set that she had purchased last week had been made by Vi’s own hand as her first full solo commission set. Benjamin had stamped his “mark” on them, because slaves were not allowed to own anything, including their own work; but Vi had begun with raw steel and finished with one of the finest cooking knife sets he had seen in this world or his.

Benjamin settled onto a bench outside, using the excuse of wanting to enjoy the morning air to afford his girls some privacy. Now that Viola and Valtrya were eating a healthy diet, and the right calorie amount; they had blossomed into absolute bombshells. Their hair had recovered, and both sported long flowing locks that boasted a silky satin black color and texture that betrayed hints of deep royal purple. The color reminded Benjamin of one of those expensive custom car paints that changed color depending on the lighting.

Their skin recovered almost as quickly as their hair. The sickly, scabbed look was quickly replaced with the same satin quality as their hair to the touch, but with a light grey coloring that almost seemed to tease the edge of hinting at a greyish purple. A dense pattern of Small freckles of the same dark, almost royal, purple as the highlights in their hair frolicked on both girl’s cheeks, and down the sides of their necks. Because of their early lack of understanding on modestly, Ben knew that those freckles traveled much further. The sad truth was that Benjamin understood fully why Aereesen’s were the prize of slavers and brothels, and he silently prayed that he could give them enough self-worth and skill to have a better life than that, once he got them out of the Principality.

A door’s soft creaking broke Benjamin from his thoughts as the two sisters stepped out smiling, “Get everything you need?” he asked standing as the three of them departed the establishment. Val nodded vigorously, and Vi smiled as she spoke, “I think so, but I had to practically beg the woman to stop showing us lingerie… what did you tell her?” Benjamin felt his cheeks heat as he responded, “What I had to. The old hag doesn’t get enough at home. It’s not my fault that your ‘enthusiasm’ is in the forge and your studies, not between the sheets. I didn’t lie to her, I just let her draw her own conclusions, sorry.”

Vi’s eyes twinkled for a second, “Oh,” She smirked, “Thaaat’s why she broke out the silk. Some of her options were..” She blatantly bit her lip at Benjamin. “You didn’t…” He asked in shock, and Vi lifted up on her tippy toes to brush her lips against his ear, “Not telling” she purred, setting Bens senses on fire. She backed up a step, openly smirking at his beet red face. “But your expression is adorable… My Lord” She stated the last two words with a deep sultry tone, knowing that Ben couldn’t scold her in public before taking his hand, “May we visit the bazar next? Val saw some jewelry she wanted to look at.” Benjamin gave her a pointed look, that turned into a smile as she beamed at him, “Ok, sounds good. I need to pick up some food for the week.”

It was later that afternoon when the three of them left the bazar. They found Jukha waiting on the bench in front of their home. “Jukha! How are you!” Benjamin called, clasping the Orc’s hand firmly as the girls rushed inside to put up their purchases. Jukha reciprocated, if somewhat stiffly, to the strange to him gesture. “Benjamin, it is good to see you well.” His tone stopped Ben in his tracks, “What is it. Is your wife, ok?”
Jukha shook his head, “Vilora is well, but I have been tasked with finding you.” He said carefully, “The slaver, the one you dueled for those two,” he nodded to Vi and Val as they stepped back out of the building, “The Heir of The Romoregin house is here. He has lodged an official demand for satisfaction, and he brought a champion.”

Benjamin stiffened, “Another duel? You said an ‘official demand’… what happens if I refuse.” Jukha winced at Ben’s tone, “It is an archaic practice of my people, rarely remembered, and even more rarely demanded. You cannot deny a satisfaction claim, but should you prevail, no further claims can be made upon your person. I am sorry Benjamin, but if you flee or refuse, your life is forfeit; and your property goes to the claimant.” Jukha looked pointedly at Viola and Valtrya. “The young puke has put me in danger as well, if I do not deliver you and them to the duel, I can be detained. If they torture me….” Benjamin’s eyes widened before hardening in understanding. “Jukha…” He turned to find Viola standing next to him, with his musket in one arm and his ammunition bag in the other, and sighed, “Fuck”. He loaded his musket with a single roundball cartridge this time, unwilling to fire buck and ball in the town streets. He pealed the ball out of the paper wading after pouring the poweder, reaching into his haversack to retrieve a small round patch made of pillow ticking. Jukha looked on in mild fascination as Benjamin spit on the cloth patch before wrapping the ball in it and ramming the whole thing down the barrel. It wasn’t much, but it reduce windage, ensuring at least reasonable enough accuracy from the smoothbore to keep from hitting innocent bystanders. It would also virtually eliminate blow-by, upping the chamber pressure and giving him a little more velocity. “I’m ready.”

The four of them entered the small city square to be met with Qort and three Org guards. These soldiers wore different insignia that Benjamin had been taught were the mark of the capital. “Beenjaymen Shayfe” one of them butchered his name, “I am.” Ben nodded firmly, the other guard nodded, “And your two slaves, good. Has Jukha informed you of the proceedings.” Benjamin scowled, “A legalized way to attempt a revenge killing? Yea, I’ve been told.” Ben didn’t bother to hide his vitriol, “So I have to kill a motherfucker for defending myself from his father?”

“Not quite. The Heir has brought a champion. The rules are simple, all forms of combat are allowed” The first guard began as the second one began chaining the wrists of Viola and Valtrya. Benjamin began to move before thinking, only to be held back by Jukha, “Peace albino. They must do this. Fighting them will cause a forfeit.” Benjamin looked at the terrified faces of the two girls. He forced himself to calm down outwardly, but Benjamin could feel the rage building. He had worked so hard to save those two, to get them out.. now some snot nosed brat was going to try to kill him because his father didn’t know when to fuck off. Benjamin stepped out from around the guards. The “heir” was a young Durr. Ben had no frame of reference for age, but the Heir was substantially shorter, and his facial tentacles were almost mere buds. Beside him stood a crimson colossus, the same species as the Hunter he had shot saving Jukha. He was taller than that female, and was wearing plate armor, gilded in silver. He hefted a great sword of some kind and smiled openly at Benjamin. It was not a pleasant expression. “Ah, so You’re the puke I’ll be cleaning from my blade. I am Krastorin. Come here, pale one, I’ll make it quick.”

Benjamin looked him over, subtly shifting into a shooting stance but keeping his musket looking like he was resting the butt of a spear on the ground. “You look accomplished, what makes you do the bidding of the boy.” He asked, blatant scorn on his tone. The Young Durr flinched, his small tentacle buds writhing violently. “H’Dare Yee!” he bellowed, voice cracking with the strain of fury, “Aye’ll ‘ave Yee Head on Me’Wall!!”
Benjamin ignored him, focusing on the Hellirine. The man looked back at the boy with a raised eyebrow, “The young puke promised me one of those.” He pointed at Vi and Val, who had reverted to their former trembling submissive postures that Ben had met them in. “It appears that they are as well kept as claimed. I look forward to sampling them.” He leered. Benjamin looked over at the Young Durr and found his face a mixture of relief and anger. ‘Ah, lied about daddy’s slaves.’ He turned to the soldier standing next to him, “Is the duel on?” he growled.

“Combatants! Begin!” was the Soldiers response, and the crimson mercenary lifted his sword from his shoulders advancing forward with a long confident stride, “at last, let’s get this over wi..” a clap of thunder echo’d through the Feral wood, and most of the crowd cried out in surprise as Benjamin disappeared, seemingly behind a bubble of fire, and brimstone. The single round ball ignored the mercenary’s plate armor. Punching straight through as the soft lead mushroomed out into a ragged disk that measured almost an inch and a half. The mangled projectile, still travelling at almost half the speed of sound, eviscerated the chest cavity of the Mercenary before blowing a one foot wide hole out of the crimson man’s back. The exit wound missed Krastorin’s spine by an inch, but it didn’t matter. The projectile embedded itself into a post, thankfully missing any bystanders by mere inches in some cases. The Young Durr, who was standing just behind and to the side of his champion, was screaming as he pawed at the bits of pale yellow blood, bones, and fragments of internal organs now covering him from head to toe.

Benjamin handed the smoking musket to Jukha, drawing his short sword and walking over to a sputtering, choking, and coughing Krastorin. The Hellirine lay face down on the ground, having fallen that way from the momentum of his initial advance. The back of Benjamins mind was sickly amused as he remembered the old Hollywood trope of bullets throwing people backward, and a pinch of regret sparked in his soul as his opponent death rattled. He stepped up to the Heir, resting the blade against his neck, “Are we done here. Be a better man than your father and learn when to save your own life.” The Young Durr froze, staring up at him in abject terror for several moments as a puddle formed at his feet. Benjamin opened his mouth to speak again when the boy simply passed out, falling into the puddle of his own mess as his mind refused to stay conscious.

Benjamin turned to walk back towards Jukha and the girls. “Unchain them.” Benjamin’s tone could have frozen a raging forge’s inferno. To his surprise, two of the soldiers drew their weapons on him, “You need to come with us. All Touched must be registered with...” Benjamin pointed his short sword at the one talking… and pulled the trigger. The percussion revolver built into the hilt of the short sword was zero’d using a notch Benjamin cut into the crossguard, and the tip of the curved blade as a crude set of open sights. The barrel of the revolver lay along one side of the blade, and was rifled. The speaking soldier orc’s took the smaller pistol round through the forehead, exploding the back of his skull in a cone of dark green and grey mist. The exit wound showered his companion in bits of bone and brains. Benjamin’s thumb found the hammer, and four satisfying clicks echo’d in the stunned silence, “HEAR ME!” He growled, “I, am touched by the Gods. I posses the power to end any life I choose using the power of Hell itself!” ‘if I have to show them a gun, might as well throw them off the trail’ “The violence of the raging volcano obeys my very fingertips.” His revolvesword bucked a second time as another soldier orc made a move to rush him. The smaller pistol round still punched through the orcs armor and out the back, but only left him screaming on the ground. Benjamin re-cocked, and leveled his weapon at the orc holding the chains to Val and Vi. “Now, release them.” This last remaining Orc did as asked, before gathering up his screaming companion as the girls rushed to Benjamin, he pulled them close, whispering, “I’m sorry we wont be able to pick up your dresses.”

The three of them packed up that night. Qort had understood, knowing all too well what the Principality would do to acquire a Touched of Benjamins ability. “Stay safe my friend. I pray our paths cross again.” Jukha snuck them out of the village that night, using his wagon to get them to his home. They stayed a week, laying low while they planned their next move. The girls spent their time learning recipes from Jukha’s wife, and ben took the time to unwind a bit. Jukha and He went on a hunt, and Benjamin was given a run down on the flora and fauna of the Feral wood. The two of them brought back a pair of Stags, and the three women cooked them a feast.

“Dinner’s ready!!” called Viola, setting the last of the sides on the table as the dutch oven roasted meat was brought off of the stove top. It was a simple yet elegant meal. Stag, potatoes, some kind of Kale style vegetable that Benjamin had never seen before. Soon enough, everyone at the table was leaning back, as full as they could make themselves. “So, pinkskin,” Jukha asked, “Where do you plan on going. I wouldn’t mind you staying with me. I could use another hunter, but I suspect that they would notice the extra product I brought to the village.”

Benjamin Hummed, “The Maridian Combine. Qort told me that they banned slavery over a century ago, the girls have learned so much already. It would be easy to find jobs for them.” Vi and Val drooped slightly but hid it well. Jukha noticed it but said nothing. “A good choice, their boarders are well guarded, you would need to free them before you cross, or end up in a dungeon yourself.”

“Good point, I can write up a simple writ of freedom. Something I can sign and give to them.” Benjamin nodded, “I can get started on that to…” he paused as a hand fell on his. He looked to see Viola staring at him, fighting back tears, “Hey, what’s wrong. You will be free…” Jukha nodded slowly and stood. “love,” he said to Vilora, “I need some help with the livestock” The Farie met his eyes in unspoken understanding, fluttering out the front door with Jukha.

“Vi, what’s wrong.” Benjamin asked gently.

“No… go… Val… stay…” Both of them turned to Valtrya in shock. She was trembling, “I wont..leave.”

“You speak?” Benjamin looked in shock, but Viola spoke next, “Benjamin, we don’t want to leave. We want to stay, with you. I…” She paused. Ben sighed, “I want you to stay too.” He said, finally admitting it to himself, “But I can’t own you. It’s killing me that you are my property.” He reached up and wiped a tear from Vi’s eyes, “You are so much more than property. I feel evil, every day that I wake up knowing that I could do anything I wanted to you, or worse, die and have someone else hurt you for the fun of it.” Benjamin bowed his head. Viola reached out, lifting his chin to look into his eyes, “Then come with us.” She whispered as Val stood up and stepped around the table, “yes.. You, come.” She wrapped herself around Ben from the side leaning in until she was resting her head against his shoulder, “I’m… staying.. with you.” she said softly. Viola nodded, “Benjamin, how old do you think we are.”

Ben looked at her in confusion, “I have no idea, I’ve always assumed you were teenagers. 13-14 years old for Val, maybe 16 for you, but that was when you were skin and bones.” He admitted.

Viola’s eyes widened in understanding. “You did not want to bed us because you thought us children.” Benjamin nodded slowly, answering. “And forcing sex on a child is the worst kind of crime on my world”. Viola and Valtrya looked at each other, before Vi spoke. “Ben, my sister will turn one hundred and three in a fortnight. I just had my one hundred and fifteenth birthday last week.” She leaned in, pressing her lips to Bens as she kissed him passionately for a moment. “We are no children,” Viola paused as Valtrya leaned in, kissing Ben lightly on the neck, “You are not forcing us to do anything, but leave.” Viola whispered as she began to close in to a surprised Benjamin for another kiss.

The door to the cabin flew open violently, and the girls pulled back to a more modest distance. Jukha walked in, carrying a panting Vilora. “What happened.” Ben asked hurriedly, hoping he wasn’t blushing as hard as the heat on his cheeks suggested. Vilora waved a hand as Jukha set her down in her chair, “The Vin… My sisters… they reached out… They wish to meet…” The Farie gathered herself, “They also sent a warning. We must leave, tonight… hunters.”
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If you made it this far, I very much appreciate it. I hope you enjoyed the episode! If you believe I have earned it, I have a Patreon that is two episodes ahead of the free releases for this series. I hope you feel taking a look is worth it. Either way, come hang out in the comments. Everyone's welcome! I've discovered Im a bit of a "warts and all" poster, so even critical comments are welcome. Hell, You might even teach me something (it happens more than I'd like to admit).
I have heard people off and on reference Royal road, So I am going to give it another shot. I'll be adding the Royal Road link from now on. If you like reading over there, It is on the same schedule as here. I would greatly appreciate a like/review/comment if you feel so inclined. Thank you again for stopping by.
First, Previous, Next (Patreon) Royal Road

About a month ago I posted my story about an ornery old lady demanding an oversupply of toilet paper in the bathroom.
Her and her husband returned yesterday, at 6:30 am wanting a room. I tell them that was no problem, but they would have to pay the early check in fee- $50. This sent them into convulsions. I thought they were possessed.
The husband rattled off the classic boomer,"glad to see that this is how you treat good and loyal guests." before they left.
Dear redditors, they are neither good nor loyal guests. They've only stayed here that once before and were menaces then to multiple staff members.
They come back at seven that night, wanting the room. Still complaining about their experience with me earlier and the early check-in fee. 2nd shift started the process and told them that with the veteran's discount it would be $111 and some change. They lost their shit. Because why would it be so much higher than last time?! Our soft spoken 2nd shifter explained how hotel pricing works and how on less busy days it tends to be cheaper to draw in business and on packed days it's more expensive because there is a higher demand. "Oh so you just enjoy price gouging." It's not price gouging. It's capitalism. You just don't recognize the negative effects of them, boomer.
They only booked one night, because they needed time to think over that price jump.
They paid $109 last time.
Anyway, after that they went up to the room and never heard of until the next morning. They didn't pull their previous stunt of having a temper tantrum that we only serve water from the juice machine and not the infused water at breakfast, but they did carry on with tradition of waiting outside the breakfast room an hour and a half before opening, trying to pry the door open multiple times, and having pout fests when the breakfast lady takes her pre opening smoke break. The doors open at 6. Not 5:45. Not 5:55, 6.
The lady walks over and asks if she had to pay the early check in fee if they extended. No? But, oops, looks like your room type is sold out. I have a king suite with a pull out, a hearing accessible single queen, and a mobility accessible single queen.
"But I need the double queens,"
Yes, but the queens aren't available.
"But I'm in it now."
Yes . . . but your checkout is 11. Someone has the room reserved tonight.
"How is that possible."
We only reserve the rooms for the amount of time you pay for.
"Fine. How much is the king?"
Evil smile. Evil laugh inside. 164 before tax.
"What? NO! We have a veteran's discount!"
Sure no problem. Evil internal laughter intensifies, after taxes with the discount it will be $166.79.
"WHAT? No. That's ridiculous!"
Sorry, that is the lowest I can go tonight. That's the price of that room type.
"I need a zero balance receipt. I'm not paying that!"
Okay, here you go!
and she snatches it, scrutinizing it before folding it up and jamming it into her purse with the bowl of creamers from the coffee station and three yoghurts. They went upstairs immediately and packed their bags. She put the keys on the edge of the desk as one final swing of her sword before leaving.

Well, I didn’t think things would come this far or have to be like this. I want to start off by saying that I am not perfect, I do make plenty of mistakes and i will continue to make mistakes. I’m writing this because a coworker of mine decided to make a post about me and completely lied.
I work for Jo-Ann fabrics and I love it, I love the atmosphere and I love the people- the customers and coworkers. Well, except one. For privacy I will call her Regina because she acts like work is the mean girls movie. I started working for this company October of 2023, I was hired in as the full time key holder. I do have a four year old that goes to school and due to kids having germs my daughter was sick a lot so I did have to call in, I don’t have much help babysitter wise so I HAD to stay home to take care of her. I didn’t call in every other day it was like twice every so often. Regina didn’t like that and resented me for choosing to take care of my daughter rather than work, so she told our boss that she should have the position because she doesn’t have a kid and would be available more. Our boss talked to me so I sacrificed the position so she could have it, now I’m not mad, upset or jealous that I don’t have the full time position it’s just hard to make a living working part time hours only making 10.55 an hour. If I knew what was to come I would have NEVER sacrificed the full time position. I do have a steady babysitter now so I’m working as much as I can so I can provide for my daughters need, kids are expensive and my daughters birthday is coming up so I asked for extra hours.
Days after Regina and I switched positions she started to act like she was made out of gold, like a golden child would. She would ALWAYS rub it in my face that she now was the full time key holder and always bragged how much more an hour she makes. She would ask all of our coworkers what their pay was and then would tell them how much she makes. I don’t care how much she makes, though higher pay would make my living situation easier. I grew up poor so I already adapted to a life of poverty and I’m honestly okay with it, sometimes it’s harder than other times but I make it work with what I have. Money to me is just paper, I can’t take it to the grave with me. Regina stoped me in the back room and said “I hope your not mad” I asked “why would I be mad” Regina replied with “because I make way more money than you” I smiled “well, I honestly don’t care. I couldn’t care less about money” Regina’s face got sour and cold because she knew she wasn’t getting under my skin. She replied with “oh, I thought you were”. I chuckled and said “no” and continued what I was doing.
Some time goes where nothing was happening but I could feel that something was brewing. It was the calm before the storm is what I’d call it. Now around this time I was going through a break up and was not feeling the best in my own skin and Regina knew this and used it as her ammunition. She started to call me her fat friend and then gave me hugs, I felt awkward because I do not like to be touched due to some very tramatic events . I’m bigger, I’m not skinny but I’m also not severely obese. Regina started to poke me and grab my fat and jiggle it. The first time she did, it was in front of two other female coworkers. They weren’t nice either, I’ll call them Gretchen and Karen, they were all in on this. When Regina grabbed my fat and giggled it Gretchen and Karen watched and laughed. I asked Regina “what are you doing” she responded with “I just wanted to feel how squishy it is”. Me being a non confrontational person I say “oh, don’t do that” still being nice and smiling, though I felt what was left of my self esteem completely shatter. I brushed it off and walked up to where all three of the mean girls were to ask a question about work since I was the only one doing something. Before I could even ask the question Gretchen goes behind me, makes a fist and lightly punched my back fat making it jiggle. All the girls laugh, I could feel my face getting hot and tears forming in my eyes as my heart sank to my stomach. I went to the bathroom for a moment to gather myself. This would go one for weeks, and every time it happened I would ask her to stop or to leave me be, each time she disregarded what I asked. During this time she would tell every coworker that I was a bad worker, I didn’t do what I was supposed to and if I did I would do a horrible job. There are so many other things she has said to others one that hurt the most was her saying it was annoying that I talk about my daughter so much. Now this whole time I thought we were friends, I’m a very forgiving person and I’m super nice even to people who don’t deserve it so when I heard about everything she was saying I was hurt I was so confused because she even asked to be my daughters god mother though she was never in my daughters life. I know friends don’t treat friends like that but I was just happy I could call someone a friend after years of having no one due to becoming a mom and losing myself in motherhood. I call my kindness and willingness to forgive a blessing and a curse because it truly is.
After finding out about everything she was saying, the drama and the physical touching which is actually bulling and harassment I finally went to my boss. It took me almost two months to tell her what was going on and how I felt. I hated every second explaining the torment to her, my boss is a lovey person and is super sweet. I couldn’t imagine how she felt hearing all of this, I truly felt like I was going to puke. I was so uncomfortable I couldn’t bear to work any longer without the help of my boss. My boss did talk to Regina and she said that she seems like she will be better and will stop the nonsense. A day after she was talked to Regina poked my back fat and laughed, she was shocked at how I responded. This time I wasn’t nice I turned to her and pretty much yelled “don’t touch me” she immediately apologized. I was surprised with how I responded as well, I actually stood up for myself and it felt nice. I did tell my boss she touched me again so Regina was talked to again and was extremely pissed. She started acting really passive aggressive, avoiding me and slamming things and being rude to everyone even customers. Me, being the nice person I am I decided that I would forgive her. Dumb of me, I know. I wrote her a four or five page letter explaining how everything made me feel , how bad of a friend she was and that I would teach her how to be a good friend. I even bought her a candle and some other stuff along with the letter I went as far as going over to her house to help her clean. She cried a lot when she read the letter and cried to me saying how bad of a friend she was, I hugged her back and said that it was okay and I forgive her. After that is was okay for a while until I witnessed her take drinks without paying for them and told my boss. After this, it was like a war.
I have never gotten in trouble with anyone, anywhere with anything, I guess I’m a goodie-two-shoes. Though I do have anger problems I have found ways to cope and deal with my anger, I’ve been working really hard to not get angry at Regina even though she deserves to hear what the mama bear side of me wants to say. I want to be gentle, I want to be nice and forgiving, I don’t want to be angry. But I knew I had to set some sturdy boundaries in order to keep my sanity. These past few weeks have been hell, in summary I caught her talking bad about me to my boss, she was lying about me, blaming me and others for things we didn’t do. With one situation in particular she turned the tables , when hearing this my adrenaline started to course through my veins, I stared to shake so bad. I went up to her and told her that was not how the story went. She got so scared seeing me so mad and shaking. She apologized to our boss for lying but not to me, my other coworker helped me calm down and thank god she did because I was going to quit right there and then. To summarize other things she has done I will just list them -tried to frame another coworker for theft to the point the coworker cried to our boss -tried to take credit for the work I did -talks bad about other managers and workers in other stores -gave out the phone numbers and emails of our hr and of our boss’s boss -made me work off the clock to train new people because she didn’t want to train them -purposely trained me wrong and is hesitant with teaching me new things to the point my boss has to and when I learn she gets mad and jealous because she’s threatened by my work ethic -yelled at me in front of a customer to the point the customer came back to complain about Regina to our boss and another coworker
And so many more but, the most recent is her blaming me for not locking the doors at close when it was her that didn’t do it correctly, the alarm company called my boss at night and the cops came to our Joanns and everything. I have several eye witnesses watch her do it. I told my boss to watch the cameras because I have nothing to lie about and Regina still is trying to blame me. This is where I draw the line, I will not forgive her so easily this time. Forgiveness without changed behavior is just manipulation. I am not the only one who has complained about her, many of our coworker have switched their availability to when I work or when my boss works because they don’t want to deal with Regina. Tension is very high and I’m afraid of what is to come.

One thing that I really enjoy when getting into stories is coming up with song compilations/playlists that remind of the work, the characters, and/or the ship (which I guess could be considered "fanwork" in some respect? But I was also considering the "appreciation" flair as well. Please let me know which is more fitting!). I have been working on creating some of these songlists for 188 couples, complete with sections of the lyrics which I think fit the best.
I recently finalised HanGu's first (more to come in the future), so I wanted to share it with the 188 subreddit in case anyone else was interested. Feel free to suggest other songs below as well!
Taeyeon - INVU
Falling in love
To you, I’m just an option
You and I were different from the beginning
Broken heart
Your missed mention
I’m used to it, yeah
"Don't lean"
"Don't even expect"
Even if I rеpeat it over and over
With your onе touch
Watching me collapse
How do you feel about it?
, no-no, no
I guess I lost my mind
Yeah, it's my kind of love (Love)
Like it's always the first time
It hurts me again since I'm so clumsy (It hurts me again since I'm so clumsy)
Before I get dull
Before I even get healed
I mess up my mind
So I can't love you
Even though I do
Even if I push you away
I can't beat you
Even I abandon myself
And lose myself more
The irony is that you shine more
It hurts but I can't stop it
So when you leave
Please make it easy
'Cause I-N-V-U
Hayley Reardon - Losing
And you walk on by with that stupid smile
And I’m trying to move on, but it’s not worth my while
‘Cause when I see your face, I lose all control
Why do I always have to play this desperate role?
‘Cause you love me then you don’t
You can have me and you won’t
Why are you so confusing?
It’s a never ending game, and what’s complicated is
I always end up losing
How am I supposed to know what you feel?
When it’s something that you won’t reveal
Emmelie de Forest - Only Teardrops
The sky is red tonight
We're on the edge tonight
No shooting star to guide us
So come and face me now
Here on the stage tonight
Let's leave the past behind us
Eye for an eye
Why tear each other apart?
Please tell me why
Why do we make it so hard?
Look at us now
We only got ourselves to blame
It's such a shame
How many times can we win and lose?
How many times can we break the rules between us?
Only teardrops
How many times do we have to fight?
How many times till we get it right between us?
Only teardrops
Svala - Paper
I can’t leave you
But you make me feel like
Paper
You cut right through
I’m stuck like glue to you
Paper
Your darkness pulls
I lose control again
Drawing every bit of my truth
Colour me in with your blue
Paper
You cut right through
A thousand words for you
Bebe Rexha & Louis Tomlinson - Back to You
I know you say you know me, know me well
But these days I don't even know myself, no
I thought I would own the way I felt, yeah
Oh, you stress me out, you kill me
You drag me down, you fuck me up
We're on the ground, we're screaming
I don't know how to make it stop
I love it, I hate it
And I can't take it
But I keep on coming back to you
Ellie Goulding - Something In the Way You Move
But this heart is open, bloodstain on my sleeve
When our eyes meet, I can only see the end
But tonight I'm here, yours again
There's something in the way you do
There's something in the way you
Push me closer, further
Break me just enough
Your lies always seem so true
There's nothing left for me to lose
There's not one thing I can do to change your ways
But I can't sit back and take the lonely days
When our eyes meet, I can only see the end
And tonight the rain pours again
But tonight I'm gonna lose it all
Playing with fire, I was the first to fall
Heart is sinking like a cannonball
Baby, kill it, what you waiting for?
Crusher-P - Thunderstorm
I have no place being here
No, not anymore
I should've run while I could
When it began to pour
The temperature drops at the sound of your name
Storm chasing is always a dangerous game
Like a tornado, you swept me off my feet
And like a blizzard, you chill every bone in me
I am left with nothing here
Empty handed in the rain
The people we once were got lost in the hurricane
I was the lightning
You were the sound that followed me
The storm is coming
Streets are flooding
But I can’t leave
I'd give anything for the eye of the storm
We were a natural disaster in the realest form
And all I've got left is the aching in my heart
And all I've got left is the rain coming down
Hard, hard, hard
Taylor Swift - Wildest Dreams
He said, "Let's get out of this town
Drive out of the city, away from the crowds"
I thought, "Heaven can't help me now"
Nothing lasts forever
But this is gonna take me down
He's so tall and handsome as hell
He's so bad, but he does it so well
I can see the end as it begins
His hands are in my hair, his clothes are in my room
And his voice is a familiar sound
Nothin' lasts forever
But this is gettin' good now
He's so tall and handsome as hell
He's so bad, but he does it so well
You'll see me in hindsight
Tangled up with you all night
Burnin' it down
Someday, when you leave me
I bet these memories
Follow you around
Lana Del Rey - Young and Beautiful
I've seen the world, done it all
Had my cake now
Diamonds, brilliant,
and Bel Air now
Hot summer nights, mid-July
When you and I were forever wild
The crazy days, city lights
The way you'd play with me like a child
I've seen the world, lit it up as my stage now
Channelling angels in the new age now
Hot summer days
, rock and roll
The way you'd play for me at your show
And all the ways I got to know
Your pretty face and electric soul
Will you still love me when I'm no longer young and beautiful?
Will you still love me when I got nothing but my aching soul?
I know you will, I know you will, I know that you will
Will you still love me when I'm no longer beautiful?
Adam Lambert - Better Than I Know Myself
Cold as ice
And more bitter than a December
Winter night
That's how I treated you
And I know that I
I sometimes tend to lose my temper
And I cross the line
But I could never
Leave your side
No matter what I say
'Cause if I wanted to go
I would've gone by now but
I really need you near me
Keep my mind off the edge
If I wanted to leave, I would've left by now
But you're the only one that knows me
Better than I know myself
All along
I tried to pretend it didn't matter
If I was alone
But deep down I know
If you were gone
For even a day, I wouldn't know which way to turn
'Cause I'm lost without you
You're the only thing in this world
I would die without
Marianas Trench - All To Myself
I don't patronise, I realise
I'm losing and this is my real life
I'm half asleep, and I am wide awake
This habit is always so hard to break
I don't wanna be the bad guy
I've been blaming myself and I think you know why
I'm killing time and time's killing you
Every way that I do
It's not enough, it's never enough
And I wish I could breathe without getting it stuck
Can't focus it, but I try it
Over and over again
Did you say, "Please just follow me?"
I thought you wanted me
'Cause I can't stay with someone else
I'll try and suck it up
I just keep fucking up
I want you all to myself
Did you say, "Please just follow me?"
I thought you wanted me
'Cause I want you all to myself
I can try and suck it up
I just can't suck it up
Make me feel like someone else
Selena Gomez & The Scene - Love You Like a Love Song
It's been said and done
Every beautiful thought's been already sung
And I guess right now, here's another one
So your melody will play on and on
With the best of 'em
You are beautiful
Like a dream come alive, incredible
A centrefold miracle, lyrical
You saved my life again
Constantly
Boy, you play through my mind like a symphony
There's no way to describe what you do to me
You just do to me what you do
And it feels like I've been rescued
I've been set free
I am hypnotised by your destiny
You are magical, lyrical, beautiful, you are
No one compares
You stand alone to every record I own
Music to my heart, that's what you are
A song that goes on and on
Selena Gomez & The Scene - A Year Without Rain
Can you feel me when I think about you?
With every breath I take
Every minute, no matter what I do
My world is an empty place
Like I've been wanderin' the desert for a thousand days
Don't know if it's a mirage, but I always see your face, baby
I'm missin' you so much
Can't help it, I'm in love
A day without you is like a year without rain
I need you by my side
Don't know how I'll survive
A day without you is like a year without rain

There is great benefit, these days, in having a name unlike any other: you float to the top of Google searches. Bolerium Books, in San Francisco, knows this well, although it wasn’t a consideration when it first opened, in 1981. Bolerium’s co-owner, John Durham, runs through any number of explanations for the name, depending on whose leg he wants to pull and how hard. “It was an ancient road in Roman times,” he intoned recently, “large, funny, and sluggish,” while another co-owner, Alexander Akin, roundly mouthed, “Not true.” (The word is a Roman one for Land’s End, in Cornwall, England. The bookstore was once a bit closer to the ocean.) Fittingly, there is no other place like Bolerium, not on the Internet nor in the province of the real. Similes come steadily, none of which really seem to fit. Perhaps Durham’s is best. “We’re like a platypus,” he told me recently, “ugly as fuck and all sorts of parts.”.
This moment of serious American protest against Trump has led to one of Bolerium Books’ best sales years ever.Photograph by Thor Swift / NYT / Redux.
At last count, the store contained 67,385 single titles in stock. Estimates of the time that has elapsed since the last deep cleaning ranged from a jokey “twenty years ago” to a hemming “define ‘clean.’ ” “Nature abhors a vacuum,” Durham quickly noted. A store map gestures at the sheer amount of stuff, with sections labelled as “Reef of Flotsam” or “Onset of Confusion” (right by the entrance), or, in one cramped corner, “Hell.”
The semi-barbed humor protects something serious and deeply essential. Few people walk in (“the door is locked to keep out the unworthy,” Durham wrote in response to a negative Yelp review, though he made sure to mention the password, “swordfish”). Those who do manage to enter find, three floors above one of the Mission District’s busiest intersections, a vast and quiet space populated by seven staff members, thousands of books about and from social movements, densely packed rows of pamphlets and ephemera, and, in the adjacent storage room, great snowbanks of paper. These snowbanks, or “midden heaps,” as Durham calls them, are from attics, basements, personal archives, and libraries across the country. They have all been sold or donated to Bolerium. In them, evidence of the past is to be found, possibly reckoned with, and then, hopefully, sold.
From Bolerium’s snowbanks have come copies of On Our Backs (a lesbian erotic magazine put out in response to the anti-pornography publication Off Our Backs), century-old postcards of pacifist Doukhobors protesting in the nude, intricate Black Panther posters and handbills, an issue of Lumberjack (“with appendix on musical saw”), and the famous inter-commune Kaliflower newsletters from early-nineteen-seventies San Francisco. But with a staff so expert that they can translate a Mongolian treatise on traditional Oirat law using a handmade cheat sheet, classifications like “famous” and “obscure” begin to blur. So do “past” and “present.” Rather than a platypus, maybe the store is more like an estuary: the disparate holdings mingle, rolling in and out according to murky tides. (If you visit the Web site and browse the digital catalog by date, the tides begin to feel more explicable; one week, for example, carries a huge wave of Alan Watts-related material. The next week brings a crush of gay romance novels.) At Bolerium, for better and worse, you can wade around in what Durham calls “the primary source material for history.”
Here is an 1838 publication by the American Anti-Slavery Society and a brochure arguing for the Equal Rights Amendment. A pamphlet from a 1928 speech by Marcus Garvey sits not far from a publication on “incidents in the Life of Eugene V. Debs” written by his brother, Theodore (once, before an important speech, a piece of barbed wire tore “a great rent in [Debs’s] trousers . . . the flap of which hung down like the ear of a Missouri houn’ pup”). Among many other small, sheeny pins is a button from the 1990 AIDS Walk in San Francisco. Here are fliers that passed from hand to hand at protests, meant to convince, assuage, and inflame, and here’s a lump of coal from a miners’ strike in Alabama with tiny chicken-scratch wording: “never forget.” Notably, this year of serious American protest has been the store’s best sales year ever.
Not marked on the map is that other part of American history that has, this year and every other, raged—a section that Durham loosely calls “the White Problem” and keeps behind the locked door of a different room altogether. Accessible to scholars and those who know to ask, the spindly bookcases contain titles like “Gun Control Means People Control” and “Fluoridation & Truth Decay,” as well as several publications by the John Birch Society. “You can’t understand American history without understanding the far right,” Durham told me. “What it’s done, its justifications, its tropes and idiocies.”
It was to the deepest corner of the storeroom that the archivist Lisbet Tellefsen was drawn one afternoon. (Tellefsen visits Bolerium as a “treasure hunter,” and has amassed the largest collection of Angela Davis-related material in the world.) One time, she idly tugged out an issue of The Bayviewer, a magazine that once served the historic black neighborhood that James Baldwin characterized as “the San Francisco America pretends does not exist.”
.
The magazine fell open to a page bearing the face of Tellefsen’s father, whom she had not seen since she was two, in an advertisement for his Oldsmobile dealership. That led to an ongoing saga of tracking down half-siblings and cousins found on Ancestry.com. “There is so much history there,” Tellefsen told me. She visits Bolerium once a month, wary of buying back her own consigned material. “It’s so rich with connections. We have an understanding of history, but places like that hold so much.” Bolerium’s official motto, “Fighting Commodity Fetishism with Commodity Fetishism since 1981,” does not quite distill the feeling of holding some of these discoveries between your fingers, or explain the way that ephemera can work to vivify history, very often through its ordinariness. A bit of light browsing recently unearthed a flier from a class reunion of Florida’s first accredited African-American high school, as well as an Electrolux manual from 1933 listing Pope Pius XI as a famous customer.
But history is ongoing, and the present moment needs its collectors. During the Occupy Movement, the store paid a dollar for each flyer or poster that people brought in, then put together a sweeping collection for the British Library. Holdings from contemporary social movements are fairly small, since so much planning, discussing, and arguing takes place on Facebook and Twitter. “Occupy was the last one to have lots of leaflets,” Akin told me, somewhat sadly. Currently, he is collecting material from what he calls the “shock-and-disbelief period” following the 2016 Presidential election. Only from “marinating in the sauce of time” do these things begin to accrue both value and interest.
.
Recently, in one snowbank, Akin found a sketch done in creamy pastel of a basalt mountain and drifting clouds. Tiny guard towers dotted the background. It was a drawing of the view from Tule Lake Segregation Center, the largest of the incarceration camps that held Japanese-Americans during the Second World War, and the one which held those people deemed by the government to be “disloyal.” The artist was a man named Tomokazu, surname unknown, who resided for over thirty-five years in Plumas County, California, before being imprisoned at Tule Lake. The piece of paper sat among countless others all bearing dispatches of one kind or another from the past, which is not a foreign country, really, but a place hovering just under our present, and made of paper and ink, buttons, and voices.
https://xenagoguevicene.wordpress.com/2020/08/12/bolerium-books-the-san-francisco-bookstore-where-the-revolution-ends-up-by-lucy-schiller-the-new-yorker-20-sept-2018/

For most Americans, college is no longer working. A bachelor's degree doesn’t reliably guarantee what universities say it delivers: an investment that prepares you for the workplace and the world. While the income gap between college and high school grads is well documented, the wealth gap is “indistinguishable from zero” due to unconstrained costs, regardless of race or ethnicity. Put differently, college grads will earn more but because of their student loans, they’ll have the same amount in their bank account as someone who didn’t go to college at all¹ . Barely one in ten (11%) business leaders believe that college graduates have the skills and competencies that their workplaces need² . Instead, employers report recent hires showing up without the requisite skills required to contribute as productive employees³.
Traditional universities spend more on non-instructional initiatives like research and athletics instead of developing knowledge and skills that prepare its students. Today, 1M students annually report that they didn’t enroll or they dropped out of college because of the cost⁴ . Americans carry $1.8T in student loan debt while universities have increased the cost of tuition by 30-40%⁵ since 2010. Economists report that over the next ten years, businesses will have increasingly more job openings for college graduates with no adequate supply⁶ . Additionally, as artificial intelligence threatens jobs across industries, humans will be pushed up or out – up to more intellectually intensive and integrative roles, or out of the workforce altogether. Our nation’s economy needs a sustainable, accessible, and effective approach to college if we’re to compete globally.
SOLUTION Polymath University will produce more-prepared graduates through a three-major curriculum, delivered year-round and remotely to same-city cohorts, who will serve apprenticeships en route to graduation in three years.
A polymath is someone who has built depth, breadth, and integration of knowledge. Specifically, polymaths can operate fluently and with expertise (depth) in three or more non-adjacent domains (breadth), and have built the critical skill of applying concepts and frameworks in one domain to complex problems in other domains (integration). Polymath University empowers leaders and problem solvers to thrive in a more complex and technologically-enabled world.
RANGE Polymath University’s approach to education, and its namesake, is built on ensuring that graduates are curious, creative, collaborative, and critically-minded. Polymaths have been proven to be more creative and more adept at solving complex problems, and more resilient against economic shocks⁷. Building a broad, generalist field of knowledge and expertise, as opposed to the hyper-specialization that traditional higher education encourages, makes graduates more valuable in the world and workplace. According to a 2012 study of serial innovators⁸, polymaths are described as having a high tolerance for ambiguity and as systems thinkers. Polymaths can connect disparate pieces of information in new ways, making them highly effective at innovative problem solving. And they are adept at repurposing what is already available and synthesizing information from many different sources.⁹ A Future of Jobs report highlighted the following skills being increasingly demanded by employers (all of which polymaths excel at): creative thinking; analytical thinking; technological literacy; curiosity and lifelong learning; resilience, flexibility, and agility; and systems thinking.¹⁰
REAL-WORLD APPRENTICESHIPS Polymath University will partner with employers to ensure that its degree programs serve the talent acquisition needs of regional business and organizations, and that those degrees include skill development that is often short-changed by traditional universities. In years two and three, students will serve as apprentices with those employer partners in high-demand, early career roles. Across the country, more employers are building apprenticeship programs as a key part of their talent acquisition strategy, with Department of Labor registered apprenticeships doubling since 2010 to 250,000. Many of these employers pay some or all of the tuition for their apprentices to concurrently earn a college degree.
REMOTE Educational outcomes lead all other priorities for Polymath University, and we must hold this as our north star. This means that the most important activity for faculty will be teaching or the associated development through coaching and mentoring their students. As Polymath University is led by the former CEO of the Pat Tillman Foundation, and counts ten Tillman Scholars on its Advisory Board, the Tillman Scholar community will seed Polymath University’s initial set of faculty, drawing on their service and academic experiences to support student learning. Courses will be delivered remotely, but to same-city cohorts that will facilitate week-long immersive and collaborative in-person experiences as well as informal study groups throughout the year, unlocking persistent relationships and networks within our community.
Learn more at PolymathU.org.
highereducation college education HigherEd StudentLoans Polymath Leadership apprenticeship Apprenticeships University talentdevelopment
¹ Emmons, William R.; Kent, Ana H.; and Ricketts, Lowell R. “Is College Still Worth It? The New Calculus of Falling Returns.” Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis, Working Paper, Jan. 7, 2019.
² Gallup-Lumina Foundation Poll on Higher Education; Higher Education’s Work Preparedness Paradox. 2013. Gallup; Lumina Foundation.
³ Hansen, Michael. “The U.S. Education System Isn’t Giving Students What Employers Need.” Harvard Business Review, May 18, 2021.
⁴ https://nces.ed.gov/fastfacts/display.asp?id=75
⁵ Kerr, Emma; Wood, Sarah. “A Look at 20 Years of Tuition Costs at National Universities.” U.S. News & World Report. Sep. 23, 2023
⁶ Tough, Paul. “Americans Are Losing Faith in the Value of College. Whose Fault Is That?” NYT, Sep. 5, 2023
⁷ Hanks, Andrew; Jiang, Shengjun; Qian, Xuechao; Wang, Bo; Weinberg, Bruce. (2024). Do Double Majors Face Less Risk? An Analysis of Human Capital Diversification. NBER.
⁸ Vojak, Bruce; Griffin, Abbie; Price, Raymond L. (2012). Serial Innovators: How Individuals Create and Deliver Breakthrough Innovations in Mature Firms. Stanford, Stanford University Press.
⁹ Epstein, D. J. (2019). Range: why generalists triumph in a specialized world. New York, Riverhead Books.
¹⁰ Future of Jobs Report; World Economic Forum. 2023.

Amethyst sat by a tree. She doodled and scribbled away in her sketchpad. A pile crumpled up sheets of paper sat in a pile beside her. The truth was, she was trying to design a dress she had in mind, but Amethyst couldn't seem to draw it. The dress was supposed to be a black dress with a white star pattern on it. She couldn't seem to get the pattern right. Whenever Amethyst tried to draw it, it turned into a floral pattern instead. Amethyst set down her pencil. She'd finished this next design, but it didn't look right. The design had started off as a star design, but turned into a floral design, again. Frustrated, Amethyst ripped out the sheet of paper from her sketchpad. Amethyst crumpled it up and tossed it aside with the other crumpled pieces of paper. She was never going to get this design right.