I am named after my 3rd Great Grandmother. When delving into her details I have found some quite interesting rabbit holes and I am convinced she is gifting me with information to pursue.
I found an obituary for her husband that I believe she wrote. The obituary details his leadership in the Confederate Army and ends with this:

• After the War, they (he and the Mrs. ) became members of the First Baptist Church of Atlanta in 1866. They never placed their membership elsewhere. Both of them became students of Emmanuel Swedenborg’s writings and enjoyed the wonderful spiritual and intellectual uplift which such study gives to a seeker after true religion.

Wow! If that doesn't start a few things! Baptist AND Swedenborg. I'd love to know more. I can document with a handwritten paper when they joined the church (what a treasure), and raised their children and served there until his death in 1920. She died in 1928.
She was a teacher and operated her own school for girls, preparing them for college and careers. I'd truly believe her work helped women progress and be granted the right to vote.
She wrote a short story late in her life that is fiction , but includes verifiable facts about her family growing up, and her parents being baptized by their oldest son in the river. The story talks about a rich, full life and ends (without credit), but I believe it was commonly recognized, of a poem called The Sleep by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. This poem seems to reference Psalm 127:2. He giveth his beloved sleep. Wasn't Browning a follower of Swedenborg?

Poem: Can change, change it's self By: Rashek Chandler
How can a hero save the world if they don't know he exist
Just a single image of confusion
That leaves a broken heart to be fixed
Just a single soul and spirit dying in a prison of flesh
Black folks against the world is commonly stressed
Mexican Independence is captivated with manipulation
If a man tries to feed his family they call immigration
Historically, we slaves and never free from our oppression
Money got us in handcuffs is the simplest direction
Every season tells a story
About death and life
Struggling to make something better to survive this fight
I pray for change but the challenge is to change one self
To many lies that keep us filtered no one really sees themselves
Is it fascism or racism or self hatred we trust
When economically we look at higher status as wealth
What happened to peace
No one wants it because money involved
Slavery stays the same when your poor because when your in property it's easier for a man to lose his pride
Give up his family morals while seeing a man with power as God Can change, change it's self

Backstory: This takes place in Reno Nevada by the way. My mother and my father got married and moved into his father’s house around late 1990’s. His father passed away shortly after and he has his wife’s (my grandmothers) name on the will for the house. Flash forward to 2008, my grandmother passes away from Alzheimer’s and she puts the will to the house in my uncle (we’ll call him Steve) name before she passes away, who lives in Las Vegas. So rumor, according to my father, is that Steve manipulated her to put his name on the will because she was deep into dementia before her death. I don’t understand how he legally got away with doing that but he did, or maybe I just don’t understand the laws around that. Anyway, me and my mother moved out of the house last year, just as Steve decided he wanted to sell the house. My father still lives at the house, and I wanted to know if it was possible to obtain ownership of it even though the will is in Steve’s name. Squatter rights or something? Because this is the house that my parents raised my three siblings and I in. All this time, my father being a carpenter doing his own renovations and fixing it by himself as things aged. In fact, when he was 19 him and his father are the ones that actually compeltely remodeled the house and property (basically built it since it was a double wide when grandpa bought it). Steve hasn’t been to Reno since the passing of my grandmother, and the passing of my grandfather before that. Hasn’t even stepped foot in the house since grandfather passed away. I think it’s beyond unfair that my uncle gets to sell the house and I want to know how I could go about this legally and if that’s even an option.

First time ever writing a poem, let me know what you think please 🙏🏾
Courage
Is courage to live knowing the sun will rise
Is courage to die unknowing what awaits your eyes
To lives to lie
Deaths the truth
A christian man I cannot lie
Is it not best I die
In the light I laugh and smile
Darkness my lover there I cry
In the light dare I cry
Darkness my lover my last goodbye
Words I speak, I and my
What of them and they
For them I’ll lie another day
Is courage to live when you want to die
Or to die when you want to live
Will I ascend to heavens skys
or reside with satans guys
A leap of faith is all it takes
A courageous step to take my life

Club Vlad sat near the confluence of Central Avenue and Washington Avenue, Albany’s two main thoroughfares. Two stories with blackout windows and a box office from when it used to be a movie theater, it was swarmed with people when Dom first spotted it ahead. He was somewhat familiar with it: He passed it every day on his way to work, and it was always busy around his time of evening, even on weeknights. Part of him always wanted to go inside and be a part of the scene, but he never did.
The man in sunglasses - his name was Joe - led Dom toward the club, and even before Joe spoke, Dom somehow knew that it was their destination. “There,” Joe said. “We’ll go around back.”
Dom and Joe had been walking for what seemed like an hour but couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes. Dom stuck as close to Joe as possible as if for protection, and had become accustomed to his pungent smell. It was noticeable only at extremely close range, part sickly sweet and part…something else, something Dom could not place but still somehow recognized. They were two blocks from the club, maybe three, and Dom could hear the pulsing techo/house/whatever music as clearly as if he were standing in the middle of the dancefloor. He could hear the chatter of the people inside, or at least he imagined he could. He could smell them too: Beneath the odors of perfume, desperation, and spiritual rot was something richer, something blissful. Dom realized for the first time that he was parched - so parched - and drool filled his mouth.
A crowd of people waited outside Club Vlad, talking and laughing; some vaped, some stared down at their cellphones like Gollum with his precious ring. Dom’s first reaction was to avoid them. Perhaps sensing this…or perhaps feeling it himself…Joe ducked into an alleyway two doors down from the club. “We’ll go in the back,” Joe explained.
The back entrance to Club Vlad was a single door underneath a bare bulb. The music was so loud that Dom’s head began to throb. Inside, a dark hallway terminated in an archway filled with throbbing white light. Dread filled Dom as they approached it - he didn’t want to be around people - but thankfully they went into a room off the hall instead. An office. A cramped desk, a filing cabinet. A set of stairs disappeared into shadows.
“Sit,” Joe said.
Dom obeyed, sitting in the swivel chair.
Joe went up the stairs and Dom was alone. The deep coldness that had long settled into his bones made itself known again, and Dom leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his chest for warmth. The muffled music vibrated in his skull, setting his teeth on edge, and the various smells wafting in from the main room assaulted his senses. He was alternately repulsed and aroused by the crashing din of scents: The good, the bad, and the mouth watering. A sharp pain cut through his stomach like the killing edge of a knife, and Dom hugged himself tighter. Had his throat always been this dry? His throat felt like sandpaper; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and getting it unstuck hurt so badly that tears sprang to his eyes.
Dom rubbed his arms with his hands and tried to still his chattering teeth. He looked around for a blanket, a discarded jacket, something to cover himself with, but there was nothing. Only drifts of glitter on the floor and walls. He supposed it came from a party or something. He’d never been to a night club but it seemed fitting.
A sound drew his attention to the door leading back into the hall. A woman - no older than a girl - stood there, looking confused and unsteady. She was dressed in black, wore glow sticks around her wrists and neck, and held a red solo cup. “I have to pee,” she said drunkenly and laughed. “I thought this was the bathroom.”
A cold wind washed over Dom, and Joe was standing next to him. “The bathroom’s up here,” he said.
“Oh, good,” the girl laughed, “I thought it was here but I didn’t know. This is my first time here.” She held her cup aloft. “Take me to it.”
Joe glanced at Dom. “Come on.”
They formed a party as they climbed the stairs, Dom in the tear and Joe at the head. The girl stumbled and held onto the railing, talking incessantly. Her voice hurt Dom’s head, but the hot smell wafting from her was intoxicating. Drool coursed down his chin and his breathing came in short, hot bursts. Another sharp pain rent his stomach, and he winced.
At the top of the stairs, where the lights were cold and white, a woman in black stood by a doorway, her back ramrod straight and her eyes vacant. Her face was gaunt, her white flesh pulled tight across her skull. She wore a black dress and her black hair long and straight. Dom only caught a glance at her before looking away again.
She looked like a ghost.
“Show her the bathroom,” Joe said.
The woman’s eyes slowly, ponderles, went from Joe to the drunk girl. Her expression, like Joe’s, was dead. She had no expression. “This way.”
She and the drunk girl disappeared down the hall, and Joe led Dom into a room. Though it was pitch black, Dom could still see; not very well…but he could see. Suddenly, a blinding white light flicked on in front of him, causing him to stop and fall back a step. Ahead, through an archway, sat a vaulted chamber, at the center of which sat a man. To Dom’s light dazzled eyes, he seemed a proud king perched upon a throne, the skulls of his many enemies piled around him. Dom blinked and turned his head slightly to the side. His eyes began to adjust, and the world came into focus.
The man was not, as it had first seemed, sitting on a throne. Instead, he was esconded in a motorized wheelchair. The piles of skulls were actually various pieces of machinery, the kind you’d find in a hospital room. A clear tube extended from one of them to the side of the man’s neck: Yellow liquid flowed from the machine and into the man. Another tube, this one in the other side of his neck, filtered out a mixture of what looked like yellow pus and black sludge. An infected malodor filled the air, and the machines whirred softly as they worked.
As for the man himself, his appearance was normal at first glance, Dressed in a flowing red velvet robe, a blue and green blanket with a plaid pattern draped over his shoulders, he was portly, about fifty, and had shoulder length grayish hair with a bald spot in the middle. If the local theater put on a production of Hamilton, they could cast a worse Ben Franklin than him.
On closer inspection, he was not normal at all. His complexion was yellow and waxy, like a statue, and his body was lumpy, misshapen, resembling an overfilled trash bag stuffed with cotton. His eyes were sick and yellow, and something about his posture seemed…off. It didn’t make sense, but the only thing Dom could think was: He looks impossible.
Joe stopped at the edge of the shadows, where the line between light and darkness lay. He seemed to stand up a little straighter, a general greeting his king. “Here he is,” Joe said.
The man squinted slightly against the glare of the light and motioned with one gnarled hand. “Step into the light,” he said. His voice was soft and kind, that of a senile though loving grandmother. Dom imagined he felt a pull toward the man, and did as he was bidden, wincing as the light stung his eyes.
For a moment, the man stared at him, his waxen features frozen fast as stone. Then, a subtle look of compassion flickered across his face. Dom did not believe in God, but he suddenly felt like a man standing before God, his every thought, feeling, and transgression laid bare. He had never felt so naked in his life, so exposed. He had the sense that the man before him could see everything, knew everything.
“You’ve been through a lot,” the man said. It was not a question, but a statement.
Everything Dom had been through over the past couple of days came back to him in a rush, and hot tears filled his eyes. He nodded.
The man nodded slightly, more to himself than to Dom. “Kneel down,” he said, “I want to look at you.”
Dom knelt without question.
The man lifted one hand and touched Dom’s face, tilting Dom’s head from one side to the other like a farmer appraising a horse. His fingers were long and bony, his nails ragged and unkempt; his touch was like ice. He brushed his knuckles over the purple bruise on Dom’s cheek, and there was such gentleness in that one act that Dom broke down sobbing. He leaned into the man’s touch like a cat and gave voice to his misery.
“Shhh,” the man said, “it’s all over now.”
“W-What’s happening to me?” Dom asked.
In his heart of hearts, however, he already knew.
“You died,” the man said patiently. “And you came back.”
Hearing it stated so plainly, Dom cried even harder.
“Only a handful of people throughout history can claim to have defeated death,” the man said, stroking Dom’s hair, “and you’re one of them. You should be proud.”
“How?” Dom asked between sobs. “What am I?”
The man stroked Dom’s cheek. “You’re the same thing I am.”
At that, Dom looked up at the man. “What are you?” he asked.
A little, knowing smile touched the man’s lips, and when he spoke, his canine teeth were longer and sharper than before. “I’m a vampire.”
“No,” Dom moaned and shook his head, “no, no, no.” He grabbed the man’s hand and held tight, his tears coming faster. He trembled like a frightened animal and squeezed his eyes closed, as if by doing so he could escape the hell his life had become.
But there was no escape.
“You have a lot of questions,” the man said, monologuing now rather than speaking directly to Dom, “I had the same questions when I was your age. I have spent the last forty-two years of my life trying to answer them, but every answer I find leads me to still more questions. There’s one thing I’m certain of, though.”
Dom blinked the tears from his eyes. The last of them had been squeezed from his dead tear ducts and he had no more to give. He simply stared into space, trying to come to grips with his situation.
“There is freedom in death,” the man said. “Death is easy. It’s simple. Once it’s over, you feel no pain, no sadness, no grief. It’s living that’s hard.”
As he spoke, he brushed his long nails across Dom’s scalp. It was a soothing feeling, and served to calm him. “People have so many troubles.” A note of revulsion crept into his voice. “So many needs, so many desires. People are complex but we’re not. We’re easy to please. A vampire wants only two things: A little blood and one more night.”
The combination of his touch and his voice had pacified Dom to the point of almost tranquility. “I’m scared,” Dom heard himself mumble.
Nodding almost reluctantly, the man said, “Fear is one of the only emotions a vampire can’t escape. Everything feels fear. Do you want to know a secret?”
Dom nodded.
“I’m afraid too,” the man confessed. “I’m afraid of death. Well…death as it were. I’m terrified that my body will rot away and leave me a pile of bones somewhere, unable to move but still aware”
A shudder went through Dom.
“As I’m sure you’ve seen yourself, the movies lied. We rot just like any other dead thing. Our flesh decays, our organs turn to sludge, and we go from rational men to monsters whose only thought is feeding.”
Now it was his turn to shiver.
“But…you’re not like that,: Dom said.’
The man smiled. “I’m lucky, I guess” A thin yellow fluid began to drip from his nostrils. He did not seem to notice. “What is your name?”
“Dominick,” Dom said.
“I’m Merrick,” the man said, “and this is my family.”
Dom realized that they were now surrounded by others, ten in all. They stood ramrod straight, their eyes vacant and their faces devoid of humanity. They were mainly men, though one was a woman. Some were pale, others were blue or black, and one was little more than a skeleton clad in withered brown skin, a white button up and jeans hanging from its frame.
A thought occurred to Dom. “You said my brain was going to rot…”
“Not necessarily,” Merrick cautioned, “though it’s possible.”
“Am I going to be…?”
“Like them?” Merrick asked. “Braindead and staring?”
Sheepishly, Dom nodded.
“Maybe,” Merrick allowed. “But these people are free of everything that troubles humanity. You were human just a short time ago. I’m sure you remember all too well what it was like. The constant politics, the moral quandaries, the philosophical pontificating. Human beings - and make no mistake, we are humans - were not meant for all of that. We’re animals. We were made to hunt, fuck, and sleep. Somewhere along the way, we got pretentious and started complicating things.” He looked at Dom, sizing him up, seeming to read him. “Things that animals take for granted, people work their entire lives to achieve. If an animal wants to fornicate, it fornicates. If a man wants to fornicate, he needs to be tall, handsome, rich, funny, progressive when it suits women but traditional when it doesn’t. If a man wants a home, he has to work thirty years for it. An animal has only to dig a hole in the ground.”
Every word struck a chord with Dom.
Because every word was true.
“Unfortunately, the living won’t allow us to live that freely, so we have to hide. These people here - my children - need a guiding hand, a protector, someone who can lead them. And I, an old man, need help.” Here he smiled playfully and patted his bulging stomach. “My body is mostly sawdust and cotton balls at this point, so I can’t do much. I share my wisdom and my knowledge with them, and they take care of me.”
“Why haven’t you…rotted?” Dom asked.
“Embalming fluid,” Merrick said. “Blood doesn’t sustain you. Embalming fluid does.” He smiled at Dom. “It can sustain you as well. If you’ll stay with us. We’re not the most attractive bunch, but we’re a family, and we really wish you’d join us.”
A family.
Dom’s parents had broken up and he lived with his mother. He had never had a family before, and had always wanted one, a real one, like in the movies. Even as a grown man, he sought the love, acceptance, and belonging that a family brings. He sought it in the wrong ways, but that - and not sex, not romantic love - is what he had really wanted all along.
This is what he had wanted all along.
“I want to,” Dom said.
Working quickly, Merrick slashed his wrist open with his thumbnail. An ugly mixture of stale blood, siphoned from someone else, and embalming fluid leaked out. “If you choose to drink, my blood will be in you. You will be my son and I will be your father. You will obey me as your father. You will do whatever is asked of you for this family, as this family will do for you. You will not reveal the secrets of this family to anyone outside of it. You will protect this family from all threats, both inside and out. Do you accept?”
He held his bleeding wrist out to Dom.
Dom did not question, nor did he hesitate. He grabbed the hand of his father, brought it to his mouth, and drank from the seeping wound. The fluid was cold, thick, and vile.
It tasted like belonging.
“Have you fed yet?”
“No,” Dom said.
“Before you do, I have a question for you. Who did this to you? Who made you?”
Dom thought. Everything was hazy. “Was it someone in this room?” Merrick asked.
Dom shook his head. “Her name is…” he wracked his brain. “Heather.”
Merrick nodded. “So there’s another out there.” He looked at Joe. “Did you turn her?”
“Yes,” Joe said.
Merrick looked annoyed. “I’ve told you not to go out and feed on your own. You have no self-control. You drink too much and create others, which creates headaches for the family. Tomorrow night, I want you and Dom to find her and bring her here.” “Okay,” Joe said.
Merrick looked over Dom’s shoulder. “Jess? Can you come here?”
The black haired woman from earlier came out of the shadows, the drunk girl with her, arms tied behind her back. The girl looked dazed. “Max,” Merrick said to the skeletal corpse-thing, “help her.”
Max, Jessie, and another vampire named Matt tied chains around the girl’s ankles and hoisted her aloft via a pulley system. Upside down, she swung back and forth. Merrick instructed the others to leave the room. “Max,” he said.
On his way out, the corpse-thing produced a knife and dragged it across the girl’s throat, slicing her skin; blood spurted out. Max leaned in to taste it, but Merrick shooed him away. When he and Dom were alone, Merrick told Dom, “Go to her.”
But Dom was already on his feet, his eyes transfixed by the crimson life flowing from her pumping throat. The hot, rich smell filled his nostrils and tantalized his senses. Saliva filled his mouth and his stomach panged with hunger. Some small, human part of his decaying brain screamed at him to stop, but he did not listen to it. He had been human for almost thirty years, and he had been miserable. Now, in this chamber of the undead, he gave himself over to his dark thirst. Like a man in a dream, he shuffled to her, inhaled the sweet scent of her blood, and shivered. He was so lost in lust that he hardly noticed the strange, cumbersome feeling of his descended fangs.
“Drink,” Merrick said.
Opening his mouth wide, Dom sank his teeth into the girl’s neck. Her blood filled his mouth and splashed down his throat. Warmth thawed the ice in his marrow and spread through him. His dead heart began to flutter, then to pound. His knees shook, his body trembled, and his mind rolled away on a tide of ecstasy.
As it was his first meal, he couldn’t drink much. Before long, his stomach was hard and distended and his body burned with fire. He collapsed to a heap on the floor and twitched as random nerve endings, stimulated by the blood, began to misfire. He felt full, warm, and drunk. He closed his eyes and let himself drift.
Dominick Mason had died.
And this…
This was heaven.
***
With all that was happening in the city of Albany, the last thing Bruce Kenner needed on Thursday morning was a visit from Bertha the bitch, but that’s exactly what he got. She flew into his office like she owned the place and instantly started in on him. Young man this and have you talked to Joe Rossi that. You’d think she was his boss. And if she were his boss, he’d quit and find another line of work. He heard McDonald’s was hiring.
Bruce almost snapped at her. He’d been up most of last night riding around Albany and looking for Dominick Mason. He and Vanessa expected him to drop dead somewhere close to the medical examiner’s office, but if he had, he’d done so in a super secret location.
“I’ve been busy,” Bruce said, “but I’m going to go by his place of work today.”
Tired and still confused over that bullshit from last night, he had no energy to argue with the old crone. He could spare a few minutes to talk to Joe Rossi, he figured. He assumed that Jessie was safe but he owed it to her to check. If he found the girl, he’d take her back to her grandmother (sorry, kid, really) and try to avoid arresting the guy. Unless he came off as a creep, then he’d bust his ass. See, people assumed that an older guy with a younger girlfriend was some master manipulator hell bent on evil deeds. Sometimes they were, but hell, his grandparents married when his grandpa was twenty-one and his grandma sixteen. They were married for fifty-five years and loved each other to the end. Maybe it was innocent, maybe not. It wasn’t his job to judge either way. Just gimme the girl so I can get her grandma off my back and no one gets hurt.
“It’s about time you started doing your job,” Bertha said, “I heard on the police scanner last night that you people lost a body. What kind of town is this? Your coroner is a drunk who makes up stories about bodies walking away. He probably sold it to black people.”
Bruce couldn’t help it; he snorted laughter.
“Now what would black people want with a dead body?”
“Probably to use it as a prop in one of their rap videos.”
Bruce didn’t know much about music videos, but he was pretty sure that the people who made them didn’t like the smell of corpse any more than the rest of us. “I’ll be sure to round up all the local rappers for questioning. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Luckily for him, there was not, and Bertha left shortly thereafter. Alone and able to hear himself think, Bruce sat back in his chair and went over his mental checklist for the day. First order of business, go to Club Vlad. Second, find Dominick Mason. There were others, but that was the most important. He wanted the body found so someone could get to work explaining this whole weird thing. There had to be an explanation. The thought that there wasn’t, that a dead guy literally rose from the grave and disappeared into the night, deeply disturbed Bruce, and the more this whole thing remained ongoing, the more disturbed he would become.
Needing some fresh air, he decided to hit up Club Vlad.
Outside, the day was hot and sunny. Waves of heat shimmered from the pavement and not a single breath of air stirred in the whole world. Bruce slipped on a pair of sunglasses and drove over to Club Vlad. It occurred to him that the place might be closed during the day; it was the only place Joe Rossi was associated with. His address in the computer system was Glens Falls, far to the north. The messages he sent Jessie indicated that he lived onsite at Club Vlad.
The build, wedged between a corner store and a check cashing place, was as grimy and dumpy looking as it had always been. The front windows were blacked out and covered with posters and fliers for punk concerts, house bands, and far left political organizations: The Albany Social Justice Center, something called Bash the Fash 2025, and Bruce’s favorite. ACAB. He caught some kid spraying that on the side of the police station once, and under extreme police torture (ie, a good tongue lashing), the kid told him it meant All Cops Are Barnacleheads.
Bruce shot the kid on the spot and planted a gun on him.
How's that for barnaclehead?
Calm down, he didn’t really do that. He made him clean the graffiti off with a toothbrush. LOL he was out there for hours.
The sidewalk in front of the former theater was empty save for some little. The box office was abandoned. There was no open sigh, but then again, there was no closed sign either. He parked his cruiser at the curb, killed the engine, and got out, sweat instantly springing to his brow.
To his surprise, the door opened. Inside, a couple steps led down to a dance floor. A bar lined the wall to his right, and a couple more sets led up to a railed platform filled with tables. Above, a huge balcony looked down on him. A giant disco ball hung from the ceiling like a pair of glittery nuts and there were cages here and there. Presumably where girls danced go-go style. Oh yeah, nothing hotter than a woman behind bars. Why do you think Bruce became a cop in the first place?
Speaking of glittery nuts, there was glitter everywhere. On the floor, on the tables, on the bar. It twinkled like flecks of diamond and swirled around your feet when you walked. Bruce imagined big buckets of the stuff raining down on the dance floor at midnight and he shuddered. Imagine having glitter stuck in your hair. That shit would never come out.
Music played from the sound system, not as loud as it would be during operating hours. It sounded like ‘80s metal, not exactly what he expected from a place like this.
Some say life she's a lady
Kinda soft, kinda shady
I can tell you life is rich
She's no lady, she's a bitch
Being morning, the place was deserted except for a man behind the bar, busy at cleaning the countertop in anticipation for the night’s events. He was tall, Hispanic or Italian, and feminine, with a single earring and a tank top.
Bruce moseyed over to the bar and the barkeep looked up, missing a beat when he realized the fuzz was here. He sat down his rag and walked over. “Can I help you?” he asked in a whispy voice.
“Yeah,” Bruce said, “I’m looking for Joe Rossi. Is he here?”
“I don’t know,” the bartender said. He looked nervous. “I can check.”
Before Bruce could answer, he scurried off, leaving him alone.
They suck my body out
But friend there is no doubt
I'm gonna pay the devil his dues
Cause I'm sick of being abused
Bruce looked around, his fingers absently drumming on the countertop. Club Vlad was a clashing mix of grunge and glam that made his head hurt. He imagined what the place must be like at midnight, packed and noisy, and nodded to himself. Yeah, this was the spot, he guessed, the place all the cool kids went, if they went anywhere anymore. Hell, if he was thirty years younger, he might come here.
He had been waiting for almost twenty minutes when a voice spoke behind him. He turned with a start, and beheld the strangest man he had ever seen in his life. Short and plump - lumpy, even - he sat in a wheelchair, a red blanket draped over his shoulders and his hands resting on his knees. He was about fifty with sparse gray hair falling to his shoulders and a plastic-looking face. He looked like a wax statue of Ben Franklin come to life, and a deep sense of disquiet stirred in the pit of Bruce’s stomach.
Just can't fight the temptation
It's become my inspiration
Gonna get myself an axe
Break some heads, break some backs
It was only then that Bruce noticed the sickly sweet smell of death.
It seemed to come from the man in waves.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the man said, “my name is Merrick Garvis and I own Club Vlad. Maybe I can be of assistance.”
Bruce grew up in the south where manners and saving face were paramount. His mother and his grandmother both taught him that it was impolite to stare. Maybe he'd been in New York so long that he’d forgotten himself, or maybe Merrick Garvis was just the strangest looking man in the world. Either way, Bruce couldn’t help gaping at his strange appearance. Recovering, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, I -”
Merrick smiled and waved one hand. Why was it so goddamn skeletal? “Don’t worry. I was injured in a fire a long time ago and this is the best they could do for me. To be honest, I’d stare too. What can I help you with, officer?”
“I’d like to talk to Joe Rossi,” Bruce said. “I understand he works for you.”
“He did,” Merrick said, “but I had to let him go. Did he do something wrong?”
Bruce sighed. “Well, yeah, he’s shacked up with a sixteen year old runaway.”
A look of concern crossed Merrick’s features, such as they were. “Oh, my, that is concerning. I haven’t seen him in several days. I assume he went home. He lives in Glens Falls.”
Bruce nodded, his mind working. If Rossi really was in Glens Falls, that meant the whole mess was someone else’s problem. He could send Bertha up there to bother some other poor barnacle head and be rid of her. Yet…he didn’t think Rossi was in Glens Falls. Bruce had a knack for knowing when people were lying, and he was certain that Merrick Garvis was doing just that. It couldn’t be a facial tick, as his features were largely unmoving, like clay. Maybe it was something in his cloudy eyes. Maybe it was the tone of his voice. Or maybe Bruce had the shining and knew things just for the hell of it. In any event, the certainty that Merrick Garvis was lying grew stronger with each passing second.
“Why’d you fire him?”
“He got drunk and hit one of the customers.”
“What did he do?” Bruce asked. “What was his position?”
“He was a bouncer.”
“Aren’t bouncers supposed to hit people?”
Merrick fumbled. “Well…not to punch them in the face for bumping into them.”
“How long did he work for you?”
“Six months.”
“Did you ever see him with an underage girl?”
“Of course not,” Merrick said, “you have to be twenty-one to get in. I make sure everyone’s ID is checked at the door.”
“What if she had a fake ID?”
“Then I guess she’d get in, but I’d assume she was of legal age.”
“You said he shoved someone, when did this happen?”
“Last week,” Merrick said.
“I thought you said he hit someone.”
Merrick again fumbled. “I did.” Now his face seemed to darken a little. A strange yellowish liquid, too thin to be snot, began to drip from his nostrils. Bruce barely suppressed a smear of disgust. “I understand you have a job to do but playing mind games with me isn’t going to solve anything. I can give you his address. Other than that, I can’t help you further.”
“Fair enough,” Bruce said. “But I’d like to see your ID please.”
Merrick glared at him. “I suppose you want my name, rank, and serial number as well.”
“Actually, yeah, I’d love that.”
Merrick drew a deep sigh. “Okay.”
In five minutes, Bruce had Merrick’s ID, social, and all other relevant information. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have bothered, even though he was well within his rights to ask for this information from someone he was questioning. But something about Merrick Garvis was off, and not just his weird face or strangely bulbous body. Bruce was just smart enough to realize that something was going on here, but not quite smart enough to even begin to imagine what.
When he had everything he needed and saw no reason to stick around, Bruce bid Merrick farewell and left the club. Before he could do anything else, he got a call from dispatch: Officer needed assistance in Pine Hills. Bruce slipped behind the wheel and went forth to help, momentarily putting Merrick Garvis out of his mind.
But soon or later, he would get back to him.
Oh yes he would.

Since when was leatherface a two tap and since when can he stun lock ? He may as well be a one tap if I can’t move for 3 seconds after I’m hit. Ana used to take 4-6 hits from leatherface with 45 endurance now I’m getting one tapped ? Then what’s the point in making him a two tap if you lose control of your character for a longer period of time than he takes to recover ? Stun locks are not skill, man. We told y’all about sissy stun lock, we told y’all about Johnny stun lock, we told y’all about Leland stunlock, we understand y’all want people to play leatherface and leatherface should be stronger than all of the other killers, yes. But it should NOT be auto death when you run into him, his stamina and strength and savagery is way too disproportionate, he has no weaknesses as he’s now fast enough to get around a corner before a victim can crawl through. The game is pretty amazing but it just ruins the gameplay when you cant even get into a chase scene with leatherface. I prefer dying from a good chase, but if I don’t even get a chance to run wheres the fun in that ? Then leatherface being stronger and faster than his friends makes it even less reasonable to have 3 killers if leatherface can solo all 4 victims. Why are there still 4 victims ? Make it a 3v5 with 4 minimum requirement, why don’t the killers have to do anything ? They don’t have to place traps feed grandpa or anything if they don’t want to, but victims are FORCED to play the game. It should be the killers job to keep the victims inside, not the victims job to fight the killers. We should be much faster than the killers with way more stamina, there’s just so much BS y’all sprinkled in it to make it seem like it’s balanced when in actuality y’all cut corners to appease to people who were complaining about being worse than the other team. Stop complaining because you’re losing to more skilled opponents, I’ve been around since release and certain glitches and bugs had to be reported on FOR MONTHS before the devs realized it was ruining the game. Idc if people aren’t complaining as much because leatherface isn’t popular, he’s still too broken to even be considered a killer. Games without leatherface are balanced and every killer has at least one kill if the victims don’t escape. Once leatherface shows us he kills all 4 .. which doesn’t make any sense. 2 new maps and 3(?) new characters after 8-9-10 months ? I see why people say this game is only life support, but it’s easy fixes. I just paid for Virginia, don’t make me regret my purchase already 🤦🏽‍♂️

Hello, we are a plant based family and our daughter is almost 2.5. We haven’t run into many instances where meat is an option and it’s been easy for us to just offer something else. But she’s getting older and more curious. Anyone have advice on age appropriate ways to tell her why we eat differently? She is a highly sensitive child and I worry a bit about explaining these are dead animals will severely upset her (we also haven’t had the ‘death’ talk, so it might be hard to explain, also don’t want the death talk to be around what’s on grandpa’s plate). She is very upset if she sees a hurt animal or a squished bug, and feels very deeply. But any other simple ways to help her understand?

The Cenacle 124 April 2024 29^th Anniversary Issue
https://scriptorpress.com/cenacle/124
[Size = 13.6 MB]
Hello everyone,
Here comes the just-released Cenacle 124 April 2024. Returning to the desired quarterly issue cadence that has been missing for the past couple of years. It was hard doing this issue without the usual many years’ involvement of my dear poet friend, the late Judih Weinstein Haggai, but her poetry features in this issue nonetheless, & will remain so in each issue ever on.
Thus far, 2024 for the human world has been a fairly dark one. The global Pandemic has not ended, though millions risk sickness & death for themselves & others by choosing to join in a kind of mass amnesia about the crisis. Meanwhile, the climate crisis continues to get the same kind of hostile indifference. The genocide in Gaza goes on unabated by any of the many powerful & supposedly democratic nations of the world. And a likely felon has jazzed the US electoral process, its weaknesses & flaws among its many strengths, to be within reach of again taking over &, as he has vowed, taking revenge.
I can’t tell you that this literary journal operates toe to toe on the global scale to oppose these various human catastrophes, but I can say that if we don’t seek Beauty, & Nature, & look beyond the petty fuckeries of the current day, we are much more likely to be lost than if we find a way to do this.
This fine anniversary issue features new poetry by Tamara Miles, Martina Reisz Newberry, Colin James, Sam Knot, Jimmy Heffernan, Judih Weinstein Haggai, & myself.
Also new fiction by Timothy Vilgiate, Algernon Beagle, & myself. And classic fiction from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
And new prose pieces by Nathan D. Horowitz, Charlie Beyer, & myself.
There is also new graphic artwork by AbandonView, Epi Rogan, Louis Staeble, Kassandra Soulard, Sam Knot, Tamara Miles, & Nathan D. Horowitz.
Contents of this new issue include:
From Soulard’s Notebooks [Excerpt]
I find myself leaning back often into 3 questions that I believe most influence human psychology & human culture:
1) Why are we here?
2) Where are we from?
3) What are we supposed to be doing?
* * * * * *
Feedback on Cenacle 123 [Excerpt]
I made it to the first poem by Judih Weinstein Haggai, sank into it, breathed it, needed it, and couldn’t go further into the issue yet. But it’s beautiful. And Kassandra Soulard’s cover photo: wow.
(Tamara Miles)
* * * * * *
From the ElectroLounge Forums:
Selections from Unknot 24, Part 1[Excerpt]
A project that I expect to work on for the rest of my life and never finish is a kind of art project playing with meaning making and the first few layers of knots, so this is all part of that really. I suppose it is a way to give a kind of focus or even kind of “abstract grounding” to some other kind of activity which isn’t necessarily even directly related to or about it.
(Sam Knot)
* * * * * *
Haiku from a Silent Retreat (7/31/2021) [Excerpt]
by Judih Weinstein Haggai
Everybody!
Are you everybody?
I’m not either
* * * * * *
Notes from New England:
Dream Raps, Volume Thirteen [Excerpt]
by Raymond Soulard, Jr.
Now that my friends are gone, the very shy Creatures who sometimes visit my hovel begin to come out, sniffing friendly their hellos. Accept my offer to cluster with me under the blankets, them being cold as ever when outside of the White Woods. White Bunny, Hedgedyhog, Peppermint Bears, Kittees & their Friend Fish. Alvinarah Poesy, & his dear friend Naria Narwhal. Even that cackling little Imp is under there somewhere. They never stay long, but I love them passing through. They’re excited about the Rutabaga Festival & Fleastock in the White Woods, I’m guessing.
* * * * * *
Becoming Archaeology: A Eulogy for Living Moor. (Part Two) [Excerpt]
by Sam Knot
It moves me more than any painting
or poem, seems to encode more meaning,
personal & planetary, than any other art,
this simple offering. This intricate gift.
* * * * * *
Notes Toward Many Musics [Excerpt]
by Raymond Soulard, Jr.
I believe a Narrative should always lead with the best it has, its most potent moment or image or the like. And let this lead set its standard. When I think of the Narrative options for these poems, I come back every time to starting from the start. These poems build on years & years of the work it took to get the six Brother-Heroes reunited rightly, after telling their unique stories as rightly as possible too. I did the best thinking & writing that I could.
* * * * * *
Poetry by Martina Newberry [Excerpt]
Tall on the dirty stage,
from my notebook I conferred
my poems. No time limit,
no faces, noises of shifting
dust and cars out there somewhere,
I read for many minutes,
emoting here and there,
hands rising and falling,
singing through some.
* * * * * *
Rivers of the Mind (A Novel) [Excerpt]
by Timothy Vilgiate
I could not help but fear that he’d attack me as I laid there; I lost count of how many times I got up to check my locks or to peek underneath the bed. I turned over and over, rocking the mattress like an unsteady boat, straining to keep my eyes shut. It was no use. Midnight came, and I was still awake; my hair matted over my irritated face, my blanket clutched in between my hands over my mouth as I tried to stop myself from sobbing. But I couldn’t let it see me cry. I couldn’t let it even see me blink.
* * * * * *
Poetry by Tamara Miles [Excerpt]
A lion’s music—a carnival of sound, beyond the roar of reserve, park, zoo, circus, and
safari, the wild kingdom beyond the definition of safe and unsafe, cruel or kind, in
sub-Saharan Africa, or in India, Gir forest, where the heart beat and drum beat and
incense are heavy.
* * * * * *
The Lagoon of the Air Goblins (Travel Journal) [Excerpt]
by Nathan D. Horowitz
I’m dehydrated from the sun today. I haven’t rehydrated. My hydration’s out of wack. It seems an eternity, maybe two, since I ordered a glass of papaya juice. Inside the café, mysterious café things may be happening, involving blenders and workforce and fruit and power. Time’s ticking by and it sounds like trees falling into a river. I glance at the red and white checkered tablecloth and remember I’ve always hated red and white checkered patterns. Serafín the educator said he would meet me here to tell me about the Secoya cosmovision, and he isn’t showing up.
* * * * * *
Poetry by Colin James [Excerpt]
Episodically craved by adolescents,
Prometheus displays his tats
behind The Dollar Store in Bonita.
The one with the plastic pillars.
* * * * * *
Mad Jack (Prose) [Excerpt]
by Charlie Beyer
We were longhaired teenage criminals. I looked like Jesus and my best buddy had flaming red shoulder-length hair, the devil to rival my divine look. Scott the Red. We were all hair, except Mad Jack (or Bob, as I knew him), who was as shaved as a plastic bag. We all sat in the car outside the 7-11 in the night rain. Blue smoke trickled out of the cracked window. Inside was a haze of marijuana smoke tainted with opium. We were high and crazed.
* * * * * *
Poetry by Jimmy Heffernan [Excerpt]
The moment to which we have access
So Nature can “see” through time
And what is this but awareness?
A tunneling from the immediate future
Back into the present
* * * * * *
Bags End Book #21: What is the Creature Carnival? Part 3 (Fiction) [Excerpt]
by Algernon Beagle
It makes me remember how our teacher Mister Owl in Bags End teached how different places have their different ways of thinking & telling. So if you’re gonna watch a Creature production, whether it’s the Carnival, or a Grand Production, or this time both, you’re gonna be in 4or a good crazy ride.
* * * * * *
The Hound of the Baskervilles (Classic Fiction) [Excerpt]
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as a “Penang lawyer.” Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch across. “To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.,” was engraved upon it, with the date “1884.” It was just such a stick as the oldfashioned family practitioner used to carry—dignified, solid, and reassuring.
* * * * * *
Labyrinthine [A New Fixtion] [Excerpt]
by Raymond Soulard, Jr.
I’m distracted just as this strange fellow appears on stage with some kind of tool in his hand. He is very fancily dressed, some kind of home-made tuxedo? Or one sewn from many scraps? And he starts to recite a poem, I think, in a tongue I don’t know, when something distracts me.
Peace,
Raymond Soulard, Jr.
Scriptor Press New England
scriptorpress.com
[editor@scriptorpress.com](mailto:editor@scriptorpress.com)

Hi all.
Last night, I had a nightmare (which very rare for me. I have like one a year). It was brief, but in the dream I saw an apparition of my late grandfather, even in the dream he is deceased and dream me thought I was seeing his ghost. However, it was dark. I felt terrified. I ran away and went to my grandma and told her "I saw poppy. He just stood there staring at me and wouldn't respond to me. I was overcome with fear" and she went "That's not poppy...that's something bad".
My grandpa was an incredible man to everyone who knew him. He was described as "a living saint", "the epitome of a gentleman", etc. I adored him, he was a wonderful grandfather. The only trauma I have associated with him was watching Alzheimer's slowly take him away. Even then, unlike some Alzheimer's patients he never got mean or anything, it was just traumatic to watch this incredible, wise, hardworking man become a shell of himself and have to lose him twice - once to Alzheimer's and once to death. So I don't see how this can be trauma or guilt related? I have had positive dreams about him since his passing, this is the first nightmare.
I am asking for help as to what this could be. I grew up Catholic and I am very spiritual so I do not mess with anything demonic. I have a rosemary smudge stick and am debating cleansing room. I already have a cross above my bedroom door and a box with black tourmaline and the works, but I'm freaked out, I've never had demonic dreams before and if somethings trying to attach to me I'm not fucking with that. Any ideas what this dream could mean? I did take melatonin last night which always makes me dream but doesn't usually cause nightmares.

As the title says, I have a 96 Evinrude 20hp and its been giving me hell! The engine only has a few hundred hours on it and the compression is about 124lbs/ cylinder. I know the rough hours on it because it was my grandpas and mostly sat in his shed. Anyways, here is the problem I'm having with it. The engine will run great on anything but idle. It seems like every time I take it out I have to constantly play with the idle screw to make it idle right and not sneeze to death. It only wants to idle right if it's pig rich on idle,, to the point smokes rolling out of the exhaust ports. If I slightly lean it out any it starts bucking and sneezing to the point it dies. But, say i take it out the next day, the current setting it's at wont let it run right so i have to either richen or lean it out again. Im ready to throw it in the lake at this point! I've cleaned the carb 3 times and replaced all the gaskets on it, thats why I'm so frustrated with it. If anybody has any suggestions on what to do next or if you've experienced this and found a fix, please let me know. I've tried the vacuum leak test with carb cleaner and couldn't get the engine to rev, I've checked the idle timing with a timing light and it's spot on.

I am not The OOP, OOP is u/Nocontact4you
None of my family knows this trip will be the last time they see me.
Originally posted to TrueOffMyChest & Poems
Thanks to u/lolfuckno for suggesting this BoRU
TRIGGER WARNING: Infidelity, cancer, ableism, bullying, abandonment, emotional abuse of a child, verbal abuse, neglect, lies, mentions of miscarriage
MOOD SPOILER: Depressing
Original Post Feb 4, 2024
Firstly, I’m okay, physically anyway.
Honestly, I have no idea who this is for, but I think I just need it out of my head.
The circumstances of my birth were complicated. I broke up two marriages, and my family has never been shy about how they feel about me for that. Only one of my brothers has gotten drunk enough to tell me to my face that he resents me for existing, but I know it exists within all of them, at least in some way. Im much younger than all my siblings, and there was so much that happened out of our hands that I made excuses, but my whole life, I’ve never quite felt “part of the family”.
As a child, I told myself we’d make up for lost time once I got older and we could talk as equals. Now, at 23, I see glimpses of the life I wished I’d have, but in the end, I’m always too much trouble to involve. I hear EVERYTHING from my father. I had to find out my niece was in a car accident from him; I had to find out my other niece had a miscarriage from him; I had to find out my oldest brother had a BRAIN TUMOR haphazardly on a phone call with my father, which he didn’t even know I was unaware of.
I’ve known for a while I’m the only one trying, but for the sake of my dreams, I’ve given every opportunity for them to let me in, but I just can’t do it anymore.
I have a psychiatric service dog who aids me with CPTSD. He is the single greatest thing to happen to me. Not only did he save my life from myself, but he has made life livable. He can tell when I’m panicking and he knows pressure therapy to help me through an attack. He stops me from hurting myself in meltdowns, sits with me until the only noise I can hear anymore is his snoring on my lap. He allows me to go grocery shopping by myself. He is my soulmate, and anyone who knows me knows how important he is to me.
My dating life isn’t thriving, so I took a shot in the dark and asked my niece if she minded if I brought my service dog as my plus one for her wedding at the end of this month. I have to fly across the country to go, so I will be bringing him anyway since I cannot fly alone. I figured it couldn’t hurt to see if he could not have to stay in the hotel all night. I do not technically need him for the event, since I’ll know every guest and I will be drinking pretty heavily to cope, but getting to spoil him with a bow-tie, dancing, and STEAK, sounded like the perfect reward for helping me on my flight. Several times, I emphasized that I understood it was an odd request and she could say no if she wanted.
She was EMPHATIC that he could come! She said even if I found a date, he could come! I was elated! For once, I felt seen, I felt cared about, I felt valued. And then I got a call from my dad. No one wanted to make things awkward, but the mother of the bride was NOT okay with a dog being at the venue. I explained that he is a trained service animal and will not impede the ceremony in anyway, and I’d of course remove him if he did. Still, he said they didn’t like it. I was so tired of hearing everyone else’s words through my father. He won’t be around forever and sooner or later, they will have to start talking to me
I had one request: let the bride tell me. When I asked her, she said yes, and until she told me she changed her mind, I was under the assumption he could go. Well, I never heard back. My dad kept dropping hints when i’d call him, but I told him what my expectations were. When I RSVP’d, I put my dog as my plus one on the response to let them know I wasn’t backing down this time. At this point, I didn’t even care if she said he couldn’t go. I just wanted to hear it from her.
The next morning, I woke up to an EMAIL from my father. Not even a text, a fucking email explaining that my niece didn’t want to be the bad guy, but my dog was NOT welcome at the wedding. He said he was sorry, but he could still come with me to the hotel if I wanted.
Something inside me broke, I think. I think I realized this is truly a helpless case. They are never going to respect me the way I crave them to. To this day, not one of our conversations has been started by them. I always initiate, and now, the one time I request a direct contact, I get an email.
Family means everything to me. Over the last few years, i’ve redefined what a family can be, and if right now, my family needs to be a very damaged orphan and their service animal, I’m grateful I have that much.
So, I’m going to the wedding, and then I’m never going to talk to any of them again.
And the sad part is, I didn’t even think they’re going to notice.
Update:
First, thank you to everyone for the kind words, and all the advice. It sincerely means so much that so many people care. I want to address all the questions about why I want to go to this wedding at all. There are plenty of practical reasons that I can name, but the truth is, I need to go for my own closure.
I have a strange relationship with death, and loss. My mother died when I was 5; my family split up right after. I’ve lost several caregivers to serious diseases, grieving their death as they lived. I’ve learned how to navigate MY grieving process. If I don’t go to this wedding, I will regret it. Not only is it my last chance to see my childhood family all together in one place, but if I don’t go, I show them they can bully me. I do not want to make a spectical of my trauma with them, but that does not mean I have to walk away with my tail between my knees.
I’m not scared of them. My relationship is non-existent, but I did see my siblings/cousins/neiecesandnephews fairly regularly. When I was a kid, they intimidated and bullied me into silence, but I’m not a child anymore. I lived with these people; I can manage one night, if for no other reason than to prove they cannot control me.
Thanks again for all the kind words. Happy to provide a pupdate if someone can tell me how to post pictures from the app?
RELEVANT COMMENTS
When told not to go to the wedding

I spent $700 on a plane ticket and $200 on a suit. Least I can do is go drink someone else’s liquor and dance my worries away. Besides. It feels like goodbye

&

The cherry on top is they are all very conservative Christians, and I will be going in a suit with my hair dyed green and makeup done to the nines, so this will be my biggest “fuck you, I’m here anyway” I can pull off. Truthfully, my father’s memory is starting to go as he gets older, so even if I did explain my feelings, he will end up sharing anyway, so I’ve made my peace with the fact that it will be a one-way-street because lord knows they’re not gonna ask what I’m up to.

When told to call the bride directly

The last 20 years of trauma will not be solved with one phone call. This was their last chance to prove to me they want me in their lives. It’s not about the dog. It’s the fact that all I asked is to be treated like a person and talked to directly, and they have proven to me they don’t care, so I’m leaving. I already did my job of reaching out to her and she said yes. Why is it my job to reach out and make sure she hasn’t changed her mind?

When told her father is an asshole and he is the one responsible for everything

THANK YOU! I have felt like the only one who cannot fathom how that conversation could be had over EMAIL?? It’s sadly not uncommon for them to communicate through him, and I always have the receipts after the fact when they’re no longer worried about the awkwardness. My brothers don’t even know where I work. I am building a career around my job. They couldn’t tell you what my relationship status is, and I’d be hard pressed to tell you if they knew my middle name to be honest. My father is not innocent, but they are responsible for their part in our relationship. I have stopped reaching out to them directly because I barely hear back, and it’s clear they don’t really care what I’m saying. I could honestly write a book on the road that’s led me to this choice, but who’s got the time in this economy?

Pupdate for Everyone Asking! Feb 6, 2024
He’s a 2.5 year old, Black and Tan Coonhound☺️
Dog tax
Update Feb 26, 2024
Original Story Here:
https://www.reddit.com/TrueOffMyChest/s/2MfJ98m6kP
POST-WEDDING UPDATE!
So, I went to the wedding. It went about how I expected it to go, though one can never be ready for a spontanious conga line. Sadly, there was no secret last minute invite, nor any secret plot of which the bride was unaware. She felt bad saying no, so she lied, and she didn’t want to tell me that, and she still didn’t, even at the wedding. No one really said much at all, in fact. The mother of the bride did not speak to me at all, my brother tiptoed around the subject until the end of the night. To his credit, he did apologize, “for all the dog stuff” as he said goodbye. Strangely, the apology didn’t make me feel much better.
There was no big confrontation either, mainly because no one cared to listen to me if I tried. As the reception began, part of me wondered how much I was going to miss the people, the environment, the vibe, really. Truthfully, I surprised myself with how ready I was to leave. Goodbye was short, and bittwersweet.
The venue was pretty and the alcohol was free, so I made the best of my night, but I got what I needed out of it, I think. Getting home tonight felt like a weight lifting off my shoulders. I know more than ever that I need to do this, and what I once saw as cutting my family in half, I can now see is clearing space for new family, one that cares.
Thank you for all your kind words, and all the support for my dog!
Arrogance is Bliss March 25, 2024
You don’t love me.
You love an idea of me you fabricated in your mind when I was a child.
I’m no longer a child.
I’m far from perfect, but I’m growing, I’m glowing, and I’m grieving the reality that none of you will ever know the person I become.
You call it love, but my scars disagree.
You hate my hair, my style, my beliefs—you hate me.
And the saddest part is, I don’t even think you know you do.
THIS IS A REPOST SUB - I AM NOT THE OOP
DO NOT CONTACT THE OOP's OR COMMENT ON LINKED POSTS, REMEMBER - RULE 7

As the title states, (and despite the existential risk to myself - as I am disabled, impoverished, and my survival is reliant on the room I rent in her attic - given her recent threat to have have me thrown out by the police because she could not handle the feelings she had during the argument that she initiated), I have finally drawn a bright red line in the metaphorical sand regarding her treatment of me. This is the culmination of 8+ years of sustained, one-sided, unreciprocated, and unsuccessful effort on my part to sustain, salvage, repair, or improve our "relationship"
 
I've learned a lot from the stories and people on this subreddit, and I know if anyone can understand the way that I'm feeling about this it's you guys.
 
Any input, commentary, criticism, insight, commiseration, etc, is very welcome, and I appreciate anyone who takes the time to read it.
 
Anyways, enough preamble, here's the letter in all of my ridiculously-verbose inglory (the square-bracketed disclaimers, etc, were part of the letter as delivered to her, since she is selective illiterate whenever there's something she doesn't like):
 
[START]
 
[This document begins with a 382 word AI-generated summary (titled "AI- GENERATED SUMMARY:" below the square-bracketed opening remarks), estimated at 1m23s time required to read. If you are unable or unwilling to make it through even this brief summary, then there is literally nothing else I could possibly do to assist in your comprehension of my positions. The full message following the summary is approximately 2100 words, estimated at approximately 8 minutes to read.]
 
[If you would like assistance in understanding things I've written that you're struggling to interpret or comprehend, you can go to chatgpt.com (no account necessary), or download the ChatGPT app from the Google Play Store on your phone. You can simply interact with the chat in natural language (in other words, type as though you were texting another person) and it will understand what you are saying. If you are struggling to understand how to interact with it effectively, you can simply inform it of that (in any wording you choose) and it will assist you with altering your approach to receive more effective results.]
 
AI-GENERATED SUMMARY:
 
Your son's message is a powerful declaration of his boundaries, grievances, and intentions within your relationship. Here's a breakdown to help you understand:
 
Preface: He advises you to read with an open mind and, if needed, with assistance due to the emotional complexity.
 
Declaration of Disengagement: He firmly states his decision to disengage from any form of interaction or acknowledgment outside of essential landlord-tenant matters.
 
Condemnation of Abuse: He accuses you of perpetuating a cycle of abuse that has deeply impacted his health and stability.
 
Rejection of Coercion: He dismisses the idea that being evicted is a viable solution to the abuse, highlighting the coercive nature of such a choice, and how it leaves him vulnerable to further harm.
 
Criticism of Your Behavior: He unreservedly condemns your actions, particularly your exploitation and manipulation, emphasizing the gravity and effects of your conduct.
 
Challenges to Your Claims: He directly confronts your claims regarding his efforts in the relationship, asserting that he has consistently made extensive attempts to maintain it, despite your accusations to the contrary.
 
Commitment to Compliance: He unequivocally affirms his commitment to compliance with all landlord-related demands, demonstrating his unwavering respect for your authority as the homeowner.
 
Demand for Clarity: He demands clear and unambiguous knowledge of the requisite terms when any changes to living arrangement paradigms are demanded, underscoring his willingness to comply with any directives you may issue.
 
Defense Against Gaslighting: He firmly asserts his unwavering commitment to respecting your property and authority, preemptively refuting any attempts to accuse him otherwise.
 
Insights into Your Behaviour: He offers insights into patterns in your behaviour, linking them to moments of vulnerability or distress in your life.
 
Call for Self-Reflection: He urges you to seek professional help for your narcissism and unresolved childhood traumas.
 
Caution Regarding Gravity: He states that failing to address your responsibilities would be a missed opportunity for both of you to salvage the relationship and resolve underlying issues.
 
Reiteration of Hope: Despite his current stance, he leaves the door open for reconciliation if you undergo necessary personal growth.
 
Closure on Unequal Effort: He firmly states that he can no longer sustain the one-sided effort in the relationship and won't continue to do so.
 
It's evident that he's deeply hurt and demanding acknowledgment, change, and resolution in your relationship.
 
[end of AI-generated summary; my full, non-AI-generated message follows below]
 
[I recommend that you read this in its entirety at a time and capacity level where your literacy and comprehension are at their highest level, and preferably with the interpretational assistance of a knowledgeable and competent support person or technological assistant.]
 
[Presumably, after reading a few sentences or less, your defense mechanisms will be activated and you will eject. However, as with the vast majority of the things I have said to you that have gone unacknowledged, I am completely certain that the contents are cogent and comprehensible, and I believe that with competent support and vulnerable effort you undoubtedly have the raw cognitive capacity necessary for comprehension if you are able to stabilize your emotional reactions and put real effort into the actions necessary for you to understand my words.]
 
I will not talk to you.
I will not look at you.
I will not approach you.
I will not acknowledge you.
 
If you attempt to interact with me on any interpersonal level not related to your role as a landlord, I will reserve the right to express just how fucking despicable it is to treat such a vulnerable person with such utter disregard and abuse for so fucking long.
 
The cycle of abuse you have maintained to destabilize me for your own pathological reasons has caused - and continues to cause - extensive damage to my health, stability, and existence. However, since I know your response to this would likely be some variation of "you're not a victim here [my name], so if I treat you so bad, just leave", I'll preemptively and unequivocally condemn such coercive and abusive tactics, and state again (as I did the other day), that the forced choice between your abuse and life-threatening-homelessness is obviously no choice at all, and leaves me perpetually subject to your coercion and abusive control.
 
Such exploitation by you is absolutely disgusting, and honestly I understand why you run away from yourself at every single instance where you're in danger of having your lifelong house-of-cards ego even slightly threatened. I know if I treated another human being the way you treat me for even a moment, let alone for the literal years you have done so, I would not be able to face myself in the mirror either. You should be fucking ashamed of yourself.
 
You say I "don't want to be your son anymore", as though it has been someone other than me making hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of hours of efforts and attempts in order to try and single-handedly keep our relationship alive, and as though it has been someone other than you who has stonewalled me for years about every single legitimate and valid time I attempted to gain even the slightest foothold as a full human being in the owner-pet relationship you have fought so hard to maintain. You siphon, in fact demand, emotional supply whenever you so choose, and then fucking discard me as soon as it appears that I might do anything that would result in you losing even a fraction of a percent of the 99% to 1% imbalance you believe is an immutable part of our "relationship".
 
I will do my absolute best to be in my room as much as physically possible when you are home, so as to minimize the need to be physically adjacent to you in the course of our respective activities of daily living.
 
I, again, remain unequivocally committed to my position of deference and compliance towards any rules/demands related to my existence, presence, or activities as your tenant.
 
As you refuse to provide any sort of unambiguous guidance or clarification whatsoever regarding your shifting demands affecting my ability to access/perform basic activities of daily living, I will continue to act in good faith with respect to my adherence to all previously-established arrangements and protocols (whether codified or de facto) regarding such activities. To the full extent of my abilities, and to the extent that it is physically possible, I will immediately and unequivocally comply with any alterations, additions, or excisions you choose to impose regarding the nature of our physical coexistence as landlord and tenant, regardless of your disregard or intent for any harm to my stability that will ensue as a result.
 
If you intend to attempt to manipulate or threaten or gaslight me to illegitimately and dishonestly accuse me of failing to comply with your rights and demands as the homeownelandlord, then I can assure you that such efforts will be ineffective and inadvisable. The extensive history of my genuine, documented, and unwavering commitment to absolute respect of your home, property, and landlord-tenant authority is unassailable, and nothing has or will change about the good faith nature of my efforts to simply live peacefully and work on stabilizing my health and continuing to attempt to develop basic protocols that offer me the opportunity to seek the ways and means required to sustainably exist, survive, and seek meaning and fulfilment as a human being.
 
To try and make it a bit more bite-sized (without warranty as to the efficacy of said efforts), since I know when your ego is threatened you conveniently - and dishonestly - become completely unable to read a couple thousand words:
 

• I have never been more disgusted by the actions of anyone or anything more in my entire fucking existence.

 

• I will continue to be an absolute model tenant, despite the harmful effects of your constant abuse, and I will unequivocally comply with any demands you make with your authority as my landlord. I will explicitly and aggressively defend against any attempts to gaslight me, or attempt to dishonestly accuse me of failing to comply with any such demands.

 

• Feel free at anytime in your life to decide that maybe it might be time to face the fact that - though skillful in your delusion - you are the same scared child you were 40 years ago, and if you ever want to truly and meaningfully experience what it's like to be secure with yourself beneath the false veneer of superficial and ego-protecting interactions you surround yourself with at the exclusion of true and honest existential vulnerability, then you need to seek, engage with, and be honest and vulnerable with, professional clinical care for your intractable narcissism and the lifelong effects and deficits associated with same. In other words, to reductively and rhetorically restate what you disgustingly told me the other day as a means of deflecting from the fact that you couldn't go more than two seconds without contradicting yourself, “get your fucking meds adjusted”.

 

• When faced with any sort of challenge to your control or authority, your lifelong fear of abandonment has caused you to push people away before they have the opportunity to leave you, resulting in premature, self-created, and misdirected sabotage of significant relationships at the first sign of disturbance or genuine vulnerability. I know you're terrible at recognizing or interpreting patterns or facts, but think, for example, about when your efforts to remove me from your life and/or house have been at their most intense:

 

• (a) in 2016(ish) when conflicts about my role in helping with the [redacted address][job of cleaning out my grandpa's apartment after Alzheimer's took hold] triggered feelings of grief and fear in you at the decline of your father's health and the inevitability of his then-upcoming death,

 

• (b) in late 2019 through 2020ish, in the leadup to and aftermath of your father's death, where you threatened or demanded my removal from your house during damn-near every single minor conflict about utterly insignificant household disputes. The vulnerability and grief you felt surrounding his death triggered the core-level unresolved sense of abandonment you carry as a result of the lack of parental affection you received because of, inter alia, the level of care required by your [editor's note: dying of CF as a teenager] sister and resultant lack of parental support available to you as a result,

 

• (c) in 2021ish, surrounding your mother's acute medical events and her subsequent death, where your treatment of me followed effectively the same patterns and underlying causes as the item above (sans explicit threats of eviction, opting instead for the more oblique and covert references that have been your MO until the recent regression to explicit threats within the past few days).

 

• (d) in 2024, surrounding the final decline and subsequent death of [dog], where all of the same behaviours described above returned and steadily escalated, culminating in telling me to get the fuck out of your house because I wouldn't stop moving some boxes for 30 minutes, and then telling me that you were going to call the police to have me removed from your house as a result of your inability to force me to stop making accurate statements that damaged your ego and need for unquestioned interpersonal control in your self-appointed role as the sole ruler of the relational hierarchy you fought so hard to maintain.

 

• You need to actively and vulnerably seek and participate in professional clinical treatment for the lifelong effects of the hollow narcissism that has maladaptively protected you from your deepest childhood injuries and vulnerabilities, at the expense of truly genuine connection with, at the very least, your firstborn and only son.

 

• [note that the contents of this bullet point are neither a threat of suicide, nor an indication of any intent whatsoever to harm myself or others. I am including this disclaimer to preemptively remove your ability to selectively manipulate my words in order to further gaslight me]
  If you want me gone from your house, and life (and possibly my own life, given the extreme existential risk posed by homelessness for a vulnerable person with the significant disabilities I am faced with), then you will have to have me physically removed from your house in cold blood, and until the day you (or I, depending on the order) die you will live with that being the last time you ever saw the son that you took for granted and abused for 32 fucking years while he groveled at your feet begging for even scraps of affection or humanity from the person who constantly love-bombed and discarded him at her convenience to serve her own narcissistic desires worth no regard for the whole entire person she was subjugating to the role of, barely, a pet.
  

 

• Be aware that if you choose to remove me from your life as a pathological and assuredly-ineffective avoidance mechanism to try and preemptively shield yourself from the fear of abandonment that is triggered in you as a result of my overwhelmingly valid and necessary actions to demand that you cease your lifelong efforts to subjugate me in your self-created hierarchical position at the top of our unequal relationship, then you will be doing yourself an irreparable disservice by extinguishing whatever sliver of opportunity might remain for you to get the help you need to allow you to finally see me as a real person and begin making real decisions and changes and efforts to participate in efforts to salvage whatever scraps of hope might remain for us to have a relationship before both/either of us die.

 

• Feel free to ignore and/or conceal the tens of thousands of words of documented history in order to share contextless excerpts of this text within your self-serving echo chambers in your efforts to receive false validation of your delusional victimhood. Or, alternatively, feel free to vulnerably share this in its entirety - along with the full corpus of my messaging regarding the severity of the harms caused by your behaviours - with a competent and knowledgeable mental health professional(s) for the purposes of seeking treatment for your underlying pathologies and working towards genuine growth.

 

• In the unlikely (though incomprehensibly-or-perhaps-delusionally-still-hopeful) event that you are still reading, I will conclude by saying that the possibility for any hope of salvaging our relationship lies firmly and solely within your control.

 

• After over 8 years of significant, relentless, documented, often-vilified, and absolutely unreciprocated efforts to single-handedly to put 100% of the effort into a relationship that you reaped the benefits of while remaining unwavering in your abdication of even the slightest of responsibilities, I have run out of ways, means, ideas, and capacity to continue unsuccessfully trying to do both of our parts.

 

• I am not closing the door to the possibility of reconciliation if/once you have undertaken the extensive individual work you need to do if you are ever going to be able and willing to put the necessary effort into repairing our relationship. But neither am I continuing to continue working outside your closed door hoping that one day I might be able to do enough to influence you to treat me like a full, real, EQUAL, human being.

 
I love you, and goodbye for now. I hope to see you on the other side, but I cannot force you to undertake the journey.
 
- [name]
 
[/END]
(any edits are fixing formatting/copy&paste errors)

today i lost my grandpa, the first of my grandparents to move on. while i believe in my faith, he was a devoted catholic, and is having a closed casket at our church followed by cremation and sent to their garden. i don’t know if im comfortable giving him currency as a symbolic gesture, especially with how catholic - oriented his death and cremation will be, and im faced with the idea of his idea of the afterlife versus mine. if anyone has had similar experiences please share, id just really appreciate anyone’s thoughts and advice in this situation

My dad smoked, his dad (my grandpa) smoked and his dad and so on and all of them drank daily except for my dad. My grandpa survived to live the longest out of the past 5 generations to die in his mid 60s. My dad is entering his mid 60s and quit smoking and started worrying about what he eats and such and now for whatever reason I've been thinking about death of myself and the death of my dad as he's in his 60s and it's been bothering me. I drink and smoke too, but I view it as life. Like you shouldn't be OBSESSED with every little thing just to live the longest, because your still, everyone is still gonna die at some point. I've talked to my mom about this too and she recently told me that she has extremely high blood pressure as in stroke and heart attack territory and was told that she's at high risk and that any moment and with time the risk gets higher and that she could pass away suddenly. I'm sorry this is long. I'm just looking for answers. So how can I stop worrying about life and death and also how do you process the thought of your own death and the death of loved ones?

So I binge-watched Shogun in the last 5 days, which I know is a travesty because I should have drawn it out longer, but here we are. I knew absolutely nothing about the show beforehand except that it had been recommended as "good". I didn't know it was based off a book (books?), or that it had been a TV series before. I will be honest, the first episode had me a little wary. To be frank, I was less than enthused about the prospect of ten episodes with Pilot/Blackthorne as the protagonist, as I thought might be the case. What followed was probably one of most surprising TV watching experiences I have ever had. I've never cried more times watching a TV show, let alone in such a short span of time. I am not exaggerating when I say that-- Mariko's near-suicide? Cried. Next episode when she is revealed dead? Cried. Blackthorne safely leaving Osaka? Lady Ochiba finishing the poem? Yabushige's death? Fuji spreading the ashes? Each time.
This show emotionally wrecked me so profoundly in just 10 episodes. The performances of the central cast were unbelievable. The show had an emotional clarity and a level of intentionality in certain scenes that I can't recall seeing recently in television. I'm used to watching some shows with very carefully crafted plots like russian dolls, where every scene fits into the next, and there is always a sense of "pace" and elaborate structure. It can be overwhelming an unwieldy. This show had scenes, like the tea room with Mariko and Buntaro for instance, that did advance the plot, but it was a scene that almost felt like it asked the viewer to -stop- the plot, and just watch tea being prepared. There were many moments like this.
Of course, there were many problems with the show as well-- in a first pass, there were a lot of things I didn't understand while watching, I had to watch them back or look up online afterwarrds in an episode recap to figure out what I had misunderstood in a character's actions-- which, you might say is my fault for not having read the books or seen previous shows, but maybe the show was a little disjointed. Also, I'm sure others have a lot to say about this, but maybe the beginning felt slow and the ending felt rushed?
All in all, one of the best acted shows I've seen, one of the most unique shows I've seen-- in the sense that they could have chosen to create a tv series with more fighting, action, sex, etc., but they wanted to make something that has those, but also grief, beauty, poetry, family, duty, etc. I know those are themes in other shows, I just appreciate how earnestly and effectively they were represented here.

Seriously why this boss is so easy compared to the previous ones? Before fight I was hoping that the last boss will abolutely destroy me, I mean completely fuck me up like his little bitch to the point when I will wish to unistall this game or even worse... play against chapter 3 boss. But honestly fuckin collector was closer to ending my run, he at least bring 3 of my heores to death doors and Im not sure if the final boss did this to at least one of my heroes.
I learned to enjoy failing, the longer I played this game struglling, the bigger smile I got, my winnings were earned and what did I get? A fuckin edgelord discord moderator who failed to kill 4 people constantly trying to kill themselfs for the whole run. How tf did he even destroyed the world so much if he cant beat a girl with matches like in some kind of Andersens' twisted stories, medicine student, a savage with agression problems and a fuckin man suffering from leprosy. Are you kidding me? You're not worthy to even stand next to the eye boss from chapter 3. This boss knew how to fight 40 critical every round by just looking at you. I wanted to rip my dick off after each lost battle. And you have what? Ability to cause PTSD and showing some mathematical problems. That could work on my grandpa or math student not on barbarian who probably cant even read like wtf
What am I supposed to do, since I beat this game? Do it all over again, like some kind of delirious man? I feel like flagellant on painkillers. Without goal. Red Hook give me new harder boss battles or I will just Red Hook myself on a tree.

My family is the only reason I’m alive, in fact the reason I’ve been alive for 17 years is for my family but, I don’t know what to do, I can’t take this life anymore, my grandpa, grandma, and my dog are dead, i am so used to these dark thoughts in my head and I can’t take them anymore, so im jumping off a bridge tomorrow and hoping i die, and if i do survive and my body gets messed up, then i could fucking care less because my body is already messed up. So tomorrow will hopefully be my last day on this earth, but I really do hope my family won’t be sad about my death.
So if you read this mom, dad, sister, I just hope

-by Swami BV Tripurari
"Mysticism is found in all of the major religious traditions. It constitutes a spiritual experiential orientation, as opposed to a socioreligious orientation to life. The mystic subset of Hinduism is yoga/Vedānta. The focus of such mysticism is to realize all of the implications of what it means to be consciousness: self-realization and God-realization. The means to do so is a systematic approach to isolating consciousness—one’s self/ātmā—from matter, both its psychic and physical dimensions. The idea is to experience and arguably demonstrate that consciousness exists independently of mind/matter. This subjective experience is arrived at by invoking a great deal of objectivity within what could be called a first-person introspective discipline. The objectivity takes the form of detachment from sense objects through a gradual process of external withdrawal and internal focus.
The yogin/Vedāntin is schooled in this detachment. That is, he or she is schooled as to the ephemeral nature of things—things of sight, sound, taste, smell, and touch—and thoughts themselves. The yogin learns that attachment to things and thoughts creates an illusory and selfish sense of self or ego/identity that, like things and thoughts, is here today but gone tomorrow. Desire for things, the Buddha teaches, is the cause of suffering. The Gītā teaches that attachment to the temporal is the womb from which suffering is born. Thus the pursuit of enduring life and happiness is not found in relation to things that are experienced. It is found in relation to the self that experiences. Armed with such reasoning, the mystic cultivates a sense of detachment. The mystic learns to control the mind and senses rather than being controlled by them and drawn through the flow of thought into an imaginary, worldly sense of self. He or she is objective to the extreme, as detachment from things allows one to look at them objectively, having dismantled one’s biases. The “boy-become-man” in Kipling’s famous poem “If—” sets the bar for a believable supernatural: a human who has risen above his or her passions and who practically speaking is human no more—a sādhu. This bar is the ground of mysticism, that which the mystic’s experience is rooted in.
The ideal of science is one thing. Scientists are another. Like other world citizens in human dress, scientists are also helplessly human. But the mystic is not a world citizen in any practical sense. Passions transcended, the world holds no charm. Living within, the mystic experiences a humbled yet heightened sense of self. He or she experiences the “more” that we intuitively sense we are—more than the fleeting sense of identity derived from attachment to sense objects. With objective sensibility as to the ephemeral nature of the world of things and thought, the mystic goes within and does not come up empty-handed. Without doing and without thinking in relation to things of the world, he or she has and knows more by way of direct experience of the consciousness we are constituted of. Indeed, go within or go without is the mystic’s mantra. A person profits more by gaining deep, abiding experience of the nonmaterial self than he or she does through material acquisition. “Being” derived from or identified with “having” is an impoverished form of existence in the very least. The mystic’s sense of being has nothing to do with having and it is rich with universally desirable characteristics.
While we refer to such a person as a mystic, he or she is really what we all agree constitutes the perfect human, one who loves one’s neighbor like oneself by way of experiencing that which all beings have in common beneath the superficial dress of differences in race, religion, psychological disposition, and so on. In the language of the Gītā, the perfect mystic is one who sees the suffering of others as if it were one’s own. Here we are not speaking of unverifiable subjective experiences, we are speaking about observable behavior that is rare yet undeniably ideal, sought after to one extent or another by different methodologies the world over.
However, unlike all of such methodologies, genuine ego-effacing spiritual discipline from mysticism is aimed exclusively at attaining this ideal. However, other than the arguably supernatural yet observable external results attained by such spiritual discipline, adepts also make objectively unverifiable claims as to the nature of their internal experience and its implications. They claim, for example, that they have realized that as a unit of consciousness, they are eternal, and thus survive biological death. Such claims are not unreasonable in that we can see that such spiritual adepts are largely aloof from bodily and emotional necessities. They live with less—much less—and offer more to the world in the form of their universal compassion. While their subjective experience is not something we can determine the veracity of in the laboratory, the objective and systematic methodology the mystics subject themselves to and the consistent results—the subjective experiences—the mystics report, when combined with the observable fact that such mystics have risen above human passion, must be given consideration in any honest effort to demystify or understand consciousness. While anyone can say anything about their subjective spiritual experience, we find remarkably consistent cross-cultural reporting of experiences among mystics from all religious traditions. With the effacing of the conventional ego self—the fleeting, selfish psychic identity—the mystics experience the more that arguably we are, the consciousness that is the ground of being on which the dance of actual love proceeds."

Edit: If you are going to comment on the length of this post, please don't. This is not a simple snark but rather an actual critical think piece about feminism and Taylor Swift.

Introduction

Pertaining to Taylor Swift, "Female Rage" has deviated from its intended meaning after Swift debuted a new performance of The Tortured Poets Department during the Eras Tour. Now, according to Swift's use of the phrase, female rage is interpreted as public backlash against Swift's dating choices rather than as a response to the broader injustices against women and women's rights. This post examines Taylor Swift's flawed feminism, philanthropy, branding, and the controversial trademark petition for the phrase "Female Rage: The Musical". Swift's background as an entertainer, indeterminate politics, and alignment with capitalism over feminism pervades her legacy, again threatening her public tolerance as not just an individual but as a brand.

Once Upon a Female Rage...

If you were cognizant in the early 2010's, you've heard countless jabs at Taylor Swift in the media. Magazines, radio, or online. Music critics did not take her seriously as a songwriter; parents put a woman on an unrealistic pedestal as the ideal role model for their children; she dated too much and used men as lyrical fodder. No matter the story, it inevitably spread, conjoined with everyone's respective opinions, and you'd be left to wonder, "Why does everyone hate this girl so much?"
Taylor's target demographic has always been young or adolescent girls, more so when Swift herself was one. She made music that spoke to the awkward misfit, cultivating a para-social relationship with fans on MySpace, then later twitter, Instagram, and YouTube, where Taylor posted relatable vlogs showcasing the life of a homegrown American girl. Taylor had a delayed public "growing up" and, compared to her female pop contemporaries, Swift never "gratuitously sexualized her image and seems pathologically averse to controversy" (and, apparently, never even had a sip of alcohol until she turned 21). She was more than happy to spin this narrative to allude to an inherent moral superiority above other women in the industry (Better Than Revenge, heard of it?), engaging in the very slut-shaming that she herself endured (the Madonna and Whore archetypes). The victim complex arose with the need to prove Taylor as a different type of pop girl. Based upon her holy and clean image, Swift had been dubbed "a feminist's nightmare", and that "[To Swift] other girls are obstacles; undeserving enemies who steal Taylor’s soulmates with their bewitching good looks and sexual availability." Feminism and Tennessee-Christian country values don't exactly mix, it seems.
Years later, Swift befriended Lena Dunham and thus experienced white feminism osmosis, where Dunham taught Swift that real feminists defend rapists, makes insensitive jokes about rape and abortion, and prioritize all-white casts. Swift then declared herself a feminist in 2014, saying,

"Becoming friends with Lena – without her preaching to me, but just seeing why she believes what she believes, why she says what she says, why she stands for what she stands for – has made me realize that I’ve been taking a feminist stance without actually saying so."

I suppose the male-centric songwriting subject that permeates Swift's discography contained covert feminism and that we just didn't see that. Perhaps, the "Bad Blood" song and music video were written only in jest and not about poor Katy Perry, for Swift, as a feminist, would "never make it a girl fight" or tear other women down (though all Katy did was date your terrible ex-boyfriend and allegedly steal three backup dancers from your tour). In 2013, Swift said, in response to Tina Fey and Amy Poehler's joke towards her serial dating, "There is a special place in hell for women who don't help other women."
There was that time in 2015 Taylor said that Nicki Minaj was "invited to any stage [she is] on" (as if Taylor expects to have access to every stage, award, and platform that Nicki might not otherwise have as a black female artist...yikes!) in response to Nicki's criticism of the white + thin VMA nominations. Later, Nicki responded with confusion, as Swift continued, "It’s unlike you to pit women against each other. Maybe one of the men took your slot..". Of course, this 'beef' was 'squashed' when Nicki performed with Taylor at the VMAs, with Nicki quite literally only having 38 seconds of stage time without Taylor. Maybe all that parading around with a legion of famous white women - similar to the way Taylor might've done with her numerous 1989-era handbags - was in fact a stance against gender inequality, and that this display of "girl power" should be enough to constitute Swift as a feminist icon.
Even while Swift says that Dunham informed her feminist outlook, she dances around the exact contents of those beliefs: "what she believes, what she says, what she stands for" is not exactly insightful towards what beliefs Swift might have inherited. Taylor never broaches women's rights topics such femicide, FGM, forced pregnancy & marriage, sex trafficking, women in slavery, women's financial and political oppression, women's educational rights, women's health, or women's autonomy, so we can assume she only gives a fuck about "girls supporting girls" (whatever that fucking means).
Despite some questionable (and sometimes vindictive) behavior, Taylor as a young woman did not deserve every media lashing that she received. We cannot deny that most headlines and criticisms perpetuated a misogynistic rhetoric which has plagued Swift for a majority of her career. Acknowledging events such as the development of her ED, her sexual assault trial, "Famous" lyric and MV depiction of Taylor, and the explicit Twitter deepfakes, for example, as both disgusting and unfortunate things that happened to a young woman in Hollywood does not negate the fact that Taylor is mostly a performative feminist.

Get Your Fucking Ass Up and Be a Philanthropist, It Seems Like Nobody Wants to Be a Philanthropist These Days

In 2013, Taylor Swift cut the ribbon at the grand opening of the Taylor Swift Education Center at the Country Music Hall of Fame in Nashville, Tennessee. The donation amount - $4 million - was the largest individual artist gift ever donated to the Country Music Hall of Fame, which is, of course, mentioned on Swift's website. The two-story facility features three classrooms, an instrument room, and an interactive children's exhibit gallery. Swift also performed at "All for the Hall" charity shows and has donated numerous artifacts from her career (such as notable guitars, tour costumes, etc) to the museum.
This was over 11 years ago, and it is still the only notable philanthropic contribution Taylor Swift has made.
For a woman of her net worth and stature, and a woman who recognizes the difficulties for women in film and music, you would think that Taylor Swift might establish a scholarship program for women to study the arts or something. Perhaps Swift might even consider becoming a member of organizations that support female artists, or one that supports LGBTQ+ causes (since she is now proudly an ally), yet she remains superficial with her graces. Broader philanthropy, such as donating relief aid to Palestinian women or women impacted by violence and discrimination will probably never receive any financial support from Miss Swift because then she'd be using her money towards philanthropies involving anyone but white entertainers.
She even says herself in Miss Americana, "My entire moral code as a kid and now is a need to be thought of as 'good'." Well, she's certainly thought of as good, though her actions say otherwise. She's more than happy to do a vaguely altruistic song and dance for a clip-worthy interview quote and mass appeasement, then fuck off to one of her mansions on a 20 minute private jet flight, rather than actually contribute to anything pertaining to the causes she has endorsed. Yet, far too many people continue to give a woman such as her their money, time, and energy, and she hoards these resources to herself.

I Like Some of the Taylor's Songs, But What the Fuck Does She Know About Feminism?

Swift continued with her self-proclaimed feminist campaign, positioning herself as a political activist and LGBTQ+ ally in the Miss Americana documentary. The primary focus of the documentary consists of the sexual assault trial, Andrea Swift's cancer diagnosis, Taylor's ED and body dysmorphia, media scrutiny, and, largely, finally speaking up about her politics publicly, mostly her opposition to the 2018 Tennessee Republican senate candidate, Marsha Blackburn, and Blackburn's beliefs. Swift says, following a scene discussing her experience during the trial,

"I just couldn't really stop thinking about it. And I just thought to myself, next time there is any opportunity to change anything, you had better know what you stand for and what you want to say."

We must ask ourselves, though: when has Swift ever spoken up to change anything? Okay, pulling her entire catalogue from Spotify because they didn't pay their artists enough and similarly pulling her catalogue from Apple Music are changes that she leveraged due to her revenue potential and power, but they are not pertinent to the average woman's rights. Moreover, these are issues that directly impacted Taylor's income, which was enough reason for her to protest in the first place. Swift has sold the most units for a female artist in first week sales, is the first female artist with 100k monthly Spotify listeners, is the first female artist to win the Album of the Year Grammy 4 times, and is the first female artist to do X, Y, and Z, all while being inoffensive and family-friendly to boot. The actual Taylor Swift seems unwilling to compromise the brand of Taylor Swift by contributing in meaningful ways to feminist causes, especially if it is for women outside of America and Hollywood.
The reason political anthems such as "The Man" and "Only the Young" of the Lover era feel disingenuous and corporate is because, well, it is. Taylor has taken every opportunity to advance her career or public image at the expense of other women. What is truly genuine to Taylor's outlook on other women is vying for male attention, taking down female competition, and vocalizing feminist injustices only if they directly impact her and her money. Some will argue that it's satisfactory for a woman with such a huge platform to even TALK about feminism, but that just isn't enough. It's even less impressive when you candidly look at the scope of her feminist lens: "If I was the man, then I'd be THE MAN", or "I really resent the ‘Be careful, buddy, she’s going to write a song about you’ angle, because it trivialises what I do", and, of course, "We all got crowns". Feminism, but only when it happens to me. It gets worse when you look at Taylor's track record of copying other famous women and removing other female artists as potential threats to her pop prowess.
It's good for PR to align yourself with certain blanket feminist and political beliefs, therefore good for branding, therefore good for ticketing and merchandise sales, therefore good for business. And Taylor Swift is a business.
She's not a feminist. Taylor Swift is a capitalist.

I Can't Pay Those Sweatshop Workers a Livable Wage or Benefits! How Else Would I Make My Billions?

Recently, Taylor's team filed to trademark the phrase "Female Rage: The Musical" after Taylor said during Paris N1 of the Eras Tour,

"So you were the first ones to see The Tortured Poets at the Eras Tour...or as I like to call it, 'Female Rage: The Musical'."

This trademark petition was filed last week on Saturday, and news comes about just as numerous unofficial fan-made merch designs have cropped up with this phrase plastered on Fruit of the Loom basics. I'm of the opinion Swift's team motioned for a trademark so that they can send out cease & desists to all those that make knockoff merch, which disrupts potential sales for Bravado, UMG's choice merchandising company; however, since it was filed earlier, perhaps Swift has bigger plans with the bizarre use of the gendered phrase. One Swiftie referred to the phrase "female rage" as "a funny Eras Tour joke". Could it be a possible fourth version of the Eras Tour Movie? Whatever the reason, the motion to capitalize off of such a concept is disgusting, but not unsurprising, for a woman that profits on her vain feminism.
Swift, through her company, TAS Rights Managements, has also trademarked over 200 phrases, including "1989", where she owns the property rights to this calendar year on keychains, phone cases, sunglasses, stationary, bags, beverage ware, clothing, entertainment services, your subconscious, and, of course, Christmas ornaments.
The vapid consumerism in Swiftie culture is, frankly, disgusting. Bravado's sustainability statement is non-existent, the quality control is abysmal, and the materials they use are horrible. The materials, such as acrylic and polyester, are made from petrochemicals. This means they are non-renewable, shed microplastics, and are quite toxic in production. The manufacturing process to make all of those lazy-rushed Eras Tour logo graphic tees is a huge blow to environmental well-being. Apparently, though, Swifties don't give a fuck. They sell out products in seconds and either have to face the manufactured scarcity or buy from a scalper that resells for 200% of the already ridiculous retail price. This doesn't include the environmental impact of vinyl records, CD, and cassette production, of which Taylor produces many variants that sell unsustainable amounts.
If we're talking about women's rights violations, why is no one acknowledging the women that work in the inhumane sweatshop conditions that have to pump out fugly t-shirts and hats? The millions of plastic microfiber dander they are inhaling, or the toxic dyes that touch their bare skin? Are they being compensated fairly for their skilled labour and are they in safe working environments? Do these women have minimal bargaining power, and do they have authority over their worker's rights? Is Taylor Swift female raging at their injustices? Does Taylor Swift ever feels bad that her wealth was built on the backs of women of color, disadvantaged by the demands of the global economy and garment industry? Do you think she ever says a little white feminist prayer for them before she goes to sleep at night?
What's even crazier is not that Taylor herself doesn't care, it's that Swifties don't care. There CANNOT BE ethical billionaires. You only make a billion dollars if you are exploiting other human beings for capital gain. Based on public perception of the possible "Female Rage: The Musical" trademark, it seems like Swifties are already asking for merch with this phrase. "If Taylor made it, I'd buy it." Oh, cool. So not only do you champion Miss Swift's avarice and billionaire status, but you also are unashamed to admit to your blind consumption of her music and merchandise, no matter where they might originate in production or sincerity. Just as Swift takes and takes and takes, Swifties' consumerism of Taylor Swift cannot be quelled.
The tortured artist's most vulnerable and sincere poetry...available now in 21 different versions!

I Am Tortured Poet, Hear Me Whinge

Look - even if Taylor's intention is to characterize TTPD as more "tortured" and "angry", the main thread of the album is "I was ghosted by my decade-long situationship with a controversial indie boy and my fucking stupid fans wrote a 'Speak Up Now' open letter prompting me to drop him" anger, which is adequately expressed in the lyrics and performances. The extent of Taylor's "female rage" on TTPD is on tracks such as "Who's Afraid of Little Old Me?", which contends with relentless media scrutiny; "But Daddy I Love Him", where Swift firmly states she'll date whoever she likes no matter how "Sarahs and Hannahs" may react; and "The Albatross", a track mythologizing her reputation and the consequences of dating her. Of course, these coincide with deep psychological wounds that formed during Swift's early years in the media, and so, from her feminist perspective, these subjects tackle the misogyny and double standards that she faced.
Yet Taylor Swift still has no grounds to be claiming that TTPD best exemplifies female rage and therefore she, in the context of this album, is female rage incarnate. As the daughter of a stock broker and mutual fund marketing executive, Taylor was born into wealth and allowed privileges like trips and subsequent relocation to Nashville all so that she might get a record deal. Her father even invested at least $120,000 into the then-fledgling label, Big Machine Records, which ensured Taylor's place with Borchetta after leaving her dead-end development deal with Sony. The fact that her parents were able to buy her a fucking brand new guitar for Christmas and pay for music lessons says so much about the financial security and safety of her childhood.
Money is privilege and protection, and despite Swift's experiences with misogyny and loser boyfriends, she does not know what female rage is.
Her rage is derived from her frustrations with her obsessive fans pulling the moral superiority card on Taylor in response to her rebound with Matty Healy. That's literally it. She's just pissed that the monster she created is no longer obediant, it's become a feral, sovereign entity that depletes the world of its natural resources and thinks it is more intelligent than it actually is because it's mommy has started to talk to it with big words. Apparently, 'illicit', 'elegy', 'nonchalant', and 'precocious' are considerably big words for the oafish monster, and I find it strange that this level of literacy is present in a group of fans that allegedly have GPAs of 3.5 or higher, but I digress.
Taylor Swift has never been one paycheck away from destitution. Taylor Swift has never experienced racial discrimination. She may have instances of gender discrimination, but she possesses the ideal white, blonde American beauty standard and therefore reaps the benefits of being a conventionally attractive woman. Taylor Swift has sufficient social capital. Taylor Swift is a billionaire woman prolonging her victimhood though she, as a woman, has mostly had control over her image and music (unlike her contemporaries). Taylor Swift is NOT entitled to be championed for her "female rage", nor should she be. Taylor Swift has never even been the struggling artist, for fuck's sake. I don't give a fuck if she's trying to fill the empty lunch tables of her past. Taylor Swift purporting herself, her unpolished album, and her lukewarm feminism as a musical bleeding with female rage is asinine.

Sigh Try and Come For My Job, Poors

Out there in the world right now is a 23-year-old woman, a recent college grad, who works as a barista. She has to wake up and get ready to go into a minimum wage job because she cannot get a job in her field. She doesn't have healthcare benefits or sick time, so she has to go into work no matter how she's feeling. All day long she is berated by vicious customers and creepy men, and, exhausted from being on her feet, she knows she has to go home to her shitty roommate that never does the dishes and her roommate's shitty dog. To comfort herself, she considers getting a treat, but thinks against it when she remembers that matcha lattes cost $15 and they taste like milky dirt. She knows that she needs to buy groceries this week, and so the woman resolves to go home, but notices that her gas tank is low. She goes to put gas in the car, but the pump stops at $27.86 because that's all that she has in her checking account. The woman, bereft and reeling, sinks into the driver's seat. "Well," she thinks, her head in her hands, "at least I don't have Taylor Swift's job. I just couldn't imagine."
Fame is somewhat of a choice. If at any moment Taylor feels that she is misunderstood, misconstrued, or overwhelmed by public opinion, she can LEAVE the public eye - Lord knows she has the retirement fund and residuals to do so. In "I Can Do It With a Broken Heart", the TTPD song about meeting the demands of your career-zenith mega-tour while in the relationship trenches, Taylor ends the song by rambling,

"You know you're good when you can even do it with a broken heart...you know you're good...and I'm good, cause I'm miserable, and no one even knows!...try and come for my job."

Yeah, obviously we wouldn't know, you recently passed the billionaire threshold and are the most famous and in-demand performer in the world right now. Taylor Swift makes an estimated $10 to $13 million dollars A NIGHT on the Eras Tour. Furthermore, the Eras Tour movie grossed $261.6 million globally, (which, as the producer, Taylor takes home 57% of the ticket sales) not counting the streaming revenue from Amazon Prime Video and the estimated $75 million deal that Disney paid to have it on Disney+. We're not even considering the income from cheap plastic popcorn buckets and drink cups plastered with colored squares in her Era-specific likeness.
It's funny. Taylor Swift often said that being famous wasn't hard, that she "isn't complaining". I'm sure it is difficult to always have to present in a good mood, else you'll end up misrepresented in the media, and I'm sure it's invasive to virtually have no privacy or semblance of anonymity. Still, Taylor Swift shows up each night of tour and performs. For a majority of her career, she has penned her sad songs while on the road. Most of "Red", her breakup album, was written in the thick of the Speak Now World tour. Now, some Swifties say they almost "feel bad" for attending the Eras Tour with Swift's revelations in this song, that they have had a 'dimmed experience' upon hearing Taylor's misery whilst performing. Despite the fact that Taylor said that "this was the happiest she's ever been" at Gilette Stadium in May, the lyrics "boohoo, woe is me, smile for the cameras and make the fans happy!!!" are jarring for Eras attendees.
While Taylor Swift was making double-digit millions a night in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil and feeling miserable, Ana Clara Benevides Machado passed away due to heat exposure. The concert promoters, Time For Fun, are now the subject of a criminal investigation due to their lack of adequate hydration and safety. Taylor Swift cancelled the Sunday show that was to follow and offered VIP tent tickets to Benevides Marchado's family, which was a kind gesture, but perhaps incongruous to the incident of which they were offered as consolation. Everyone grieves differently, of course, but I'm not sure attending the very show at the very same venue that my daughter or sister passed away in two days prior, where the singer CONTINUED the show despite her death, would be healthy for closure.
There was no female rage at the show as Swift never saw Benevides Machado pass out. There was no female rage towards the disregard for fans as humans while Swift elected to proceed with her Brazil tour dates despite the country being in historic heatwaves (at risk of overheatting herself). If Taylor Swift was so shaken by touring with a broken heart or a fan's passing, she wouldn't have added an additional North American leg of Eras just two months after the Matty breakup. She's brokenhearted but willing to mend the cracks with your money and move onward with her worldwide female rage induced pillaging.
No matter what happens, even if you die at a Taylor Swift concert, Taylor collects a big fat check and flies away. She doesn't know you as anything other than a conversion rate or earning potential despite what her nearly 20-year long parasocial relationship with fans might otherwise indicate. She knows that, while some Swifties are without disposable income, they feel obligated to spend on a "48 Hours Only!" exclusive vinyl variant instead of necessities because they are so entrenched in Taylor Swift's intoxicating celebrity, they'll prioritize materialistic fandom before their needs. This is good enough for her because this means she can expand her real estate portfolio and finance her cat's lavish lifestyles. They're worth an estimated $100 million dollars. Her three cats could pool their net worth and solve world hunger.
While you and I might be denied bereavement leave and barely surviving the current political and economic climate, Taylor Swift has to, instead of gets to, perform for stadiums at full attendance for three nights in a row across the globe. You and I might be replaced by AI at our longtime jobs, but Taylor Swift is threatened with losing more and more money each time you listen to a "Stolen Version" of her songs. If we don't buy every variant of all of her albums, then who is going to pay for the fucking cats?
It is tone deaf to spend as she spends and lives as she lives in this economy, but this is her reality. She was able to donate $100,000 to all of her tour truck drivers, and that's wonderful, but it leads me to wonder about the ethos of the 2020s where one woman can hoard such life-changing amounts of money. Remember in 2014 when she gave a fan $90 ($120 in today's money) to get Chipotle because she had no fucking clue how much it cost? This is a 34-year-old woman who is increasingly out of touch with the reality for working class people and women in general. Normal everyday adults must wake up and go to their thankless jobs, and yet Taylor Swift, despite all her riches, incessantly references the lows of her life and career as a public figure and entertainer to farm sympathy and drive sales. And still, the corporate women have latched onto "I cry a lot, but I am so productive! It's an art!" as their cubicle battle cry.
Do you think that, from up in her private jet, Taylor Swift gazes at the world through her poetic, tortured eyes, and thinks, "All the little people, in their cars, walking, going about their lives...all those girls that don't support girls...do they know that I've made an album about female rage?"

Conclusion/TLDR

Thank you for reading. I would love to hear your critical insights towards this entire ordeal: TTPD, the trademark, the implications of it all.
TLDR: Taylor Swift is a bad feminist and is delusional to think that the TTPD eras set exemplifies female rage at women's injustice.

Is TCM a causal or competitive game? We all know the devs want this game to be party fun like F13 and that game was a fun causal game. This game needs to pick a side, you can’t have it both ways unfortunately. We can make the game more causal this way or competitive this way.
The 3v4: 3 against 4 will always be competitive, you have to keep everything balance enough where killers feel strong enough that they can kill and victims need to feel tough enough where they are survivable. One side has to be the stronger side and the happy medium is so much smaller in a 3v4 than a 3v5. The truth is ideally only 1 or 2 victims should be escaping, every escape should be a semi close call where a few seconds could have changed everything. The 3v4 is inherently competitive, I personally think a 3v5 would work better, there are already 5 free victims, you could easily keep the balance of the game due to one side having numbers over the other, having numbers can justify being the weaker side. The more players the weaker you can make victims without it being a problem. Note on the 3v5 queues would be so much better.
Speed of the game: the pace of this game is insane. Some matches LF gets everyone in basement, other matches Johnny picks off everyone in 5 minutes. On the other hand, no victim should be escaping in 45 seconds. There are tons of videos of both happening. The pace of the game must be slowed, family needs to be strong but victims need to be survivable. The family would need a rework, when the game first starts family would be at max “rage” being able to kill one victim then the rage would go down. Once down family can’t just kill victims but could leave them in a freezer or on a hook, maybe leave them in front of grandpa like in the movies but victims can save them. The more progress the victims make on objectives the more rage the family gets, more rage means they can kill another victim. Progress of the match = more family aggression. Every death resets rage but you still can “knock” a victim like the unconscious state the game already has.
Chat: you can’t talk to the other side, you are in two different chats like a ranked match. Proximity chat like in F13 would loosing things up, having everyone able to talk would create a much need causal feel. Yes there will be bad actors but there already are and Gun can handle them as they already do. It would bring both sides together instead of the us Vs them, you’ll be able to see the other person. It would also give everyone a reason to be on comms. Also a ping and a comm wheel would make things feel so nice.
The gameplay loop: for family the loop is so boring it is like being an ai, you can win if you want to be sweaty. Family shouldn’t have to feel like playing like a machine to win, both sides should be able to play like a human without auto losing. The loop is too competitive. Family should be able to remove fuse or valve and put it back, they should be able to relock doors (Idk up to 2 with each lock being weaker). The game is basically over if an objective is complete.
Rushing: no game should be over in seconds. Any non LF character shouldn’t watch the cutscene. Wells should start covered let victims open them and create a escape. Wells are a free fast travel with no downsides, you can easily reset. This will slow the rush meta and fix the pace. Grandpa having to pick only x bc y and z could one before feels so competitive let family vote or a tier system each grandpa levels gives a bit of the ability while level 5 gives the current perk. Now if we slowed everything than grandpa shouldn’t be max in less than 10 minutes. Ideally games now will take 20-30 minutes.
Just some random family mains view, lmk if you disagree or agree, want to add something. I’m open to discussing. Pls be civil.

I'd like to start this off by saying I have little to no knowledge on how wills and estates work. I am trying to find answers on behalf of my mother and will try to keep this as straight forward as possible but I am extremely overwhelmed and could really use some help
*I would like to include before people think I'm just after money.. I want nothing, not a dime. My mom has cancer and this money would quite literally change her life, and even if she received nothing, she just needs the closure to be at peace with the situation.
TLDR: Crack head "step uncle" is executive my grandpas will and is being dishonest
I live in Ontario, Canada. My dear grandpa passed away 1year and 10 months ago. Up until I was 16 he had no contact with my family, I reached out and we started rebuilding...10 years go, we formed a great bond. He then said he was in the process of changing the will to include my mother, brother and myself (as previously we were not named.)
Fast forward, my Grandpa started to get sick and mentioned to friends and neighbours that his daughter and grand children would be taken care of. He had never mentioned it to us, I never asked because I was not expecting anything. He got extremely sick and became non verbal, that being said, I was under the impression that the paperwork got done and but I don't think it did. We think the will stayed to say to leave everything to his new wife. My family and I continued a relationship with her after he passed and she ensured she was going to switch things to include us. Unforuntatley she died very suddenly less than 6 months later. I do not know what got done/didnt get done.
Everything was supposedly left to her son (for privacy reasons lets call him bob), Shy of a life insurance policy my grandpa took out on my brother when he was born.
Heres where it gets complicated. Bob is a crack addict. He was "handling" the affairs and progressively got worse. My grandpas will was in probate from June 2022 - March 2024. He has essentially strung my mom along for the past (almost) 2 years guarenteing that as soon as the probate went through he would give my mom a substantial amount of money. But giving her very limited information. It is estimated that including the house (approx $500,000) there is 2 million dollars in assets between my grandfather. I have only found this out by looking at paperwork laying around the house. I also know my grandpa had 200,000 in a hidden account from his wife and numerous stocks, mutual funds and investments.
"Bob" has said there was "next to nothing left" and only received 500,000. We haven't seen any papers, gotten any information, and he has been extremely secretive about the process. He also has mail addressed to my brother about the life insurance but refuses to give it to him. All I have is a death certificate. I read somewhere that I have 2 years in Ontario to contest this and as per my mother wish I kept the peace until today I went to discuss with bob and was threatened.
Im ready and hopefully not too late
I guess what I'm asking, Can I contest the will? How can I find out anymore information? Can my mother get anything from this? I don't have much money to afford a lawyer, are there resources I can use? How do I find out about his investments? is there anything I can do to get to the bottom of this? Where do I even start?
I'm likely missing information, its hard to all summarize. My family just needs closure. Any and all information helps, I appreciate anyone who took the time to read this. Thank you.