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Alain kicked in the door to the gun store, and they all flooded in. There was nobody there, as expected, so that gave them free reign to take whatever they needed. Alain immediately stocked up on ammo for his revolver and shotgun, slotting cartridges into the spaces on his bandoleer and belt. All the other men did the same, and a few of them grabbed an extra gun as well.
"Everyone good?" Alain called. They all answered back in the affirmative, and he motioned for them to follow after him as he sprinted back outside.
The remaining undead had taken notice of them now, and were closing in once more. Their group opened fire as Sable and Az rushed forwards.
"Watch your fire!" Alain warned as rounds passed dangerously close to the two of them.
"What the hell are they doing?!" Rusty called.
"They're clearing a path for us!" Alain shouted back. "Come on, we need to-"
A pair of sickening gurgles from behind him caught his attention. Immediately, Alain turned around, and saw the two sheriff's deputies standing there, their hands thrust through the backs and out the chests of Jack and Redd. Rusty raised his rifle to try and engage, but he didn't get a chance to fire before one of the deputies drew his own revolver and put a round between his eyes. Alain could only watch in shock as he fell backwards, dead.
The two deputies pulled their arms out of their unfortunate victims, then shook them to get some of the blood off as they advanced on Alain and Felix. Both men took a step back as they shouldered their long guns.
"Deputies Timms and Brayton," Felix surmised, looking at each man in turn. "You know, I almost didn't want to believe it when Alain first told me you were involved with all of this. The sheriff put you up to it?"
Timms ran a hand through his beard, uncaring of how the blood and gore from his victim left a trail of slick red through it. "He told us what we stood to gain if we helped him. After learning about that, how could we refuse?"
"And what would that be?" Alain growled.
Brayton grinned, showing off yellow teeth as he twirled his revolver almost absentmindedly. "What do you think would coerce someone to sacrifice other people?"
"I don't know."
"Ah, well… it doesn't matter; you'll all be dead soon, anyway."
"So confident of that, are you?"
"I'm confident enough, we'll say." Brayton turned to Timms. "You take the bartender, I'll handle the drifter."
Timms nodded, and then before Alain knew what was happening, Brayton had rushed towards him. He just barely managed to avoid the incoming arm thrust, the deputy's fingers brushing against his shirt, tearing through the fabric with ease. Alain fell back, discharging his shotgun as he went; the load of buckshot struck Brayton in the chest, opening it enough to expose his blackened heart, and he stumbled back, but recovered quickly.
Brayton let out a low growl, then drew his revolver and began firing off shots. Alain was forced to dive for cover behind a nearby building to avoid the incoming shots. Just as he reached concealment, however, a series of moans from nearby caught his attention. He turned and found several undead moving towards him. Without missing a beat, Alain fired off the remaining shell in his shotgun, taking one out, and then held it in one hand as he drew his revolver and killed the other two with a series of well-placed shots.
Alain wasted no time in reloading his guns once the trio of undead had hit the ground. He broke his shotgun open and ripped the spent shells out, then shoved two fresh ones in and closed the weapon. Before he could cock the hammers back, however, the building behind him erupted in a shower of splinters, and Brayton came marching through.
"I must say, you're not making this easy," Brayton told him.
"I thought you would've learned that by now," Alain replied as he cocked the hammers back on his shotgun. "After all, I did plenty of damage to you two back in the jailhouse earlier."
"A shame it didn't last."
"This will."
Alain shouldered his weapon and fired both barrels in the same motion. To his dismay, Brayton was able to duck back into the destroyed building at the last minute, avoiding most of the buckshot; a few pellets lodged in his throat and face, but it wasn't nearly enough to kill him for good.
It did succeed in getting under his skin, though. Brayton stepped out of the building, a scowl etched across his face. Without missing a beat, he advanced on Alain's position, drawing his revolver and firing it as he went. Several shots rang out, and Alain felt a sudden, searing pain in his left shoulder; he turned and saw a bloody patch on his shirt that was growing more intense with every passing second. He only stared for a second though, then turned and began to run, desperate to put some distance between himself and Brayton.
"There's no point in hiding," Brayton answered as Alain ducked back into Felix's bar, stepping over a small mountain of undead corpses in the process. "I'll find you eventually."
Alain sat down behind the bar, then tore open his shirt to get a better look at the wound. Brayton's round had apparently nicked his artery; it wasn't spurting blood, but it was bleeding heavily. Alain didn't waste any time, instead tearing his cartridge belt off his waist and cinching it tight just above the wound as a makeshift tourniquet. He then forced himself back onto his feet, and with shaking hands, reloaded his shotgun as he looked around.
The undead horde seemed to have been thinned out substantially in this part of town. That led him to believe that Az and Sable had instead moved on to another part of town, most likely closer to the mines, and were working on clearing a path for the rest of them. That meant they'd be of no help to him anytime soon – they were almost certainly too busy fighting the undead to realize him and Felix needed help.
So the two of them were on their own. Alain grimaced as the thought crossed his mind.
He needed to take care of Brayton and Timms, and fast.
Alain vaulted over the bar, wincing when he felt the movement disturb the bullet in his shoulder slightly.
"Not doing anything like that again any time soon…" he muttered as he propped himself up against a wall next to the opening where the door had once stood, then peered out into town.
From here, he couldn't see either of the deputies, but he could still hear sporadic gunfire throughout town, along with the moans of the living corpses that were still walking around. Cautiously, Alain stepped out from behind cover, his shotgun already readied against his good shoulder. He looked around once more, trying to see where either of the deputies or Felix had ended up.
The click of a revolver's hammer being thumbed back struck his ears, and Alain hit the dirt just in time for the bullet to scrape across the top of his head, taking a few of his hairs with it.
There was little time to dwell on that, however, as another round came from out of the darkness soon after that one. Alain rolled to avoid it, and just barely managed to get out of the way in time for it to embed itself into the ground next to him. Dirt, pebbles, and bits of spall impacted against his back, but once again, he managed to avoid serious injury. A vein pulsed in his forehead, and Alain forced himself to stand up before firing off two shotgun blasts towards where he thought the shots came from. He was rewarded with the sound of buckshot impacting against flesh, and knew he'd hit his target.
Before Brayton could have time to recover, Alain slung his shotgun and drew his revolver, then advanced upon his position. Sure enough, Brayton was busy pulling himself up off the ground; Alain emptied his revolver's cylinder into the deputy's head. Blood, bone, and bits of brain arced through the air, staining the ground and the nearby wall with a macabre mixture of crimson, white, and gray. By the end of it, the deputy's head had been sheared almost in half, with the remnants of his brain exposed to the outside world.
Alain stood there, wisps of smoke curling up from the end of his revolver's barrel. That should have been it for Brayton – no mortal would have been able to survive something like that.
Unfortunately, Brayton was no mere mortal. He let out a shuddering breath, then began to lurch forward. His movements were sluggish and slow, and there was a dull expression of pain on his face, but he was still alive. Alain paused at the sight of it, his eyes wide with surprise.
"Oh, you've gotta be fucking kidding me."
That was all he managed to get out before Brayton raised his revolver once again. Alain dove for cover; the bullet scraped across his lower back, just a few inches away from his spine. He scrambled to his feet, and only once he was back up did he realize that in the confusion, he'd dropped his revolver.
Alain went to reload his shotgun, but found that he was once again out of shells. He let out a muffled curse, then looked around for something he could use. Sable had told him that there were three ways to kill wights – removing the head, destroying the brain, and…
Alain's gaze landed on a nearby lantern hanging from an abandoned shop, swinging precariously from a rope. Even from here, he could see oil sloshing around inside it. A manic grin crossed his face, and he immediately made a mad dash for it. He got lucky – the deputy was caught in the middle of a reload, and was unable to shoot him. Alain ripped the lantern off the building, then hurled it at Brayton; it shattered on impact, coating him with oil. Once that was done, Alain reached into his pocket and retrieved a match.
"Mom always said those cigarettes couldn't be good for me," he said to himself as he struck the match against the building, lighting it. He turned toward the deputy, still coated in oil, and his eyes narrowed.
"I wonder what she'd say if she could see this."
He flicked the lit match towards Brayton, watching as it soared through the air. The flame made impact with the oil-slick deputy, and he caught alight immediately. An inhuman screech erupted from Brayton's throat, loud enough that Alain winced and had to cover both his ears. Brayton fell to the ground, his revolver dropping against the dirt and discharging harmlessly into the air as he rolled to try and put out the fire, but it was no use. In a matter of seconds, his movements stopped completely, his body reduced to little more than a charred corpse.
That wasn't enough for Alain. He sprinted over to where his Colt had fallen, retrieved it, and emptied the cylinder into what was left of Brayton's head, just for good measure. The body didn't even twitch as the rounds made impact, and by the end of it, his head had been reduced to little more than a jawbone still attached to the neck. Alain stood there for a moment, panting from exertion, before letting his arm fall.
Footsteps took him by surprise, and he rounded on them, only to relax when he saw that it was Felix, and he was apparently completely unharmed. The two exchanged a glance, and Felix's eyes widened.
"Shit…" he breathed. "What happened to you? You're covered in blood."
"I killed Brayton."
"Yes, I can see that. But did you have to put yourself through a meat grinder to do it?"
"Is Timms dead?" Alain asked.
"Yeah, he's done."
"How'd it happen?"
"I shot him in the head a bunch with my rifle. Why didn't you just do that to Brayton?"
Alain just scowled. Before he could reply, there were more footsteps – they both looked over and saw Sable and Az approaching. Both of them seemed a lot worse for wear, sporting more grievous injuries than they had before. Still, as Sable approached, her eyes widened when she saw Alain lying there.
"What happened to him?" she asked.
"Got shot," he grunted. "Hey, you needed blood, right?"
"Well, yes, but-"
Alain didn't wait to hear anything else, instead loosening his tourniquet. The blood began to flow once more, and he motioned towards his shoulder.
"Help yourself for a bit."
Sable went red in the face, but her shame didn't stop her. She immediately moved over to him, then latched onto the wound on his shoulder and began to drink. Alain winced when he felt her teeth lock into him and her tongue begin to lap up his blood, but he didn't stop her.
"I'm gonna be sick…" Felix said, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth as he watched the display in front of him.
Thankfully, Sable pulled herself away shortly after latching onto him. Alain turned towards her, and was surprised to see that many of her wounds were healed, though not all of them. Before he could inquire further about that, Sable began tearing strips off her gore-soaked dress, taking care to search for the few clean parts only, then wrapped his wound with them.
"You need a doctor," she declared. "But for now, that'll have to do. You can sit this one out if-"
"Stop," Alain managed to get out. "I'm not missing this. Help me up."
"Alain-"
"I said, help me up."
Sable hesitated, but ultimately obliged, pulling him to his feet. Alain stumbled a bit, lightheaded from pain and blood loss, but managed to maintain his footing. He slung his shotgun and reloaded his revolver, then turned back to the rest of them.
"Alright," he said. "To the mines."

Special thanks to my good friend and co-writer, Ickbard for the help with writing this story.

Originally chronicled here.
I am not the OOP. OOP is u/Lost_Beginning_2824
This was originally posted in TrueOffMyChest
2 updates
(recovered via pushpull)
Original post - February 6th, 2024
1st Update - February 28th, 2024
2nd Update - March 8th, 2024
Trigger warning: mention of domestic violence situation
I’m married to a woman who acts like a teenage girl – February 6th, 2024
My wife behaves like a teenage girl and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
This is just a rant. Curious to know how many full grown adults behave the way my wife does. I’d say out of all of the adult women I know, like friends, relatives, wives of my friends, none of them behave this way unless they keep it a closely guarded secret.
Editing right here to add that my wife is in her 30s, for context.
My wife is always obsessed with somebody, a man or sometimes multiple men at one time. Usually there is one or two main focuses at a time. When I talk obsessed I mean obsessed like a teenage girl or maybe even preteen girl would be. I’ve seen pictures of her bedroom when she was that age and they were literally wallpapers in posters of her favorite guys. That’s totally normal for a 13 year old girl. She still behaves that way as a woman in her 30s. Granted, our bedroom walls aren’t wallpapered in posters but they probably would be if I allowed it.
Her obsessions have ranged from rock stars, actors, non-entertainment industry public figures. It’s like one day she hasn’t even heard of the guy in question and the next day she’s super fan #1 and knows just about everything there is to know about him. She will read and watch everything there is to watch about the man. She will bring him up in every conversation. She will adopt parts of him into her own personality. She will suggest things that make it clear to me that she wants me to adopt characteristics of these men as part of my appearance or personality. She will openly admit to me that she’s masturbated over the guy multiple times in one day.
When she finds a new man to obsess over, she puts the others in her little stable of men who she always has a place for in her heart and in her fantasies, so they never really go away. The new man just takes center stage and becomes the main focus of almost her entire life.
So the current obsession is so strange to me. Never saw this one coming, but leave it to her to always find somebody new to fall in love with. The intensity that she has during these periods - it’s honestly like she falls in love with these men.
I’m laughing so hard just typing this all. Her current obsession is Bret Hart, former pro wrestler. This woman had never watched wrestling before in her life. Always thought that stuff was below her. And now she’s obsessed with this former pro-wrestler. She watched one show about him, for reasons I’m not aware of, and I could tell almost instantly where it was headed. I thought “here we go…” So now the Bret Hart obsession is in full swing. Has she already dropped close to $1000 in vintage Bret Hart shirts on eBay? Of course. Bought all the stickers and magnets and all sorts of other stupid crap she can find? Yep. Does she send me Bret Hart YouTube clips all.day.long when she’s supposed to be working? Yes she does.
So, I better get to work brushing up on my Bret Hart knowledge and tag lines. This is the key to getting laid when it comes to her. I’m used to this by now. It’s just not something that I can easily explain to anyone I know.
I mean, there’s are things I’m a fan of, but she is next level. I can’t think of anyone I know who is her age and acts like this. She was voted most likely to grow up and become a groupie when she was in high school, so this is absolutely nothing new for her. Sigh.
Many are lighthearted in the comments
plastic_Schedule_891
I mean he's the best there is, was and ever will be so that one makes sense at least .
You don’t think I’m hearing that 10 times a day now?
I better start planning that trip to Calgary.
Limerence is mentioned
poopchutethemoon
Yeah my bouts of limerence have been with people I’ve dated but reading that made me realize that I was very much being obsessive and it was totally all consuming. Glad it’s over honestly. Those feelings are exhausting.
Very interesting to hear you say the feelings are exhausting. It’s like a full time job for my wife, so I could see that. She told me she’s at work with her door closed pretending to be working, but she’s really watching Bret Hart videos on YouTube. She can’t even focus on her job.
OOP reveals more of the life he’s signed up for in the comments
get-bread-not-head
You've pretended to act like other men for 20 years?!
Damn dude, I hope you're finding ways to accept it and cope. That sounds rough, having to be someone else to have sex... stay strong king
Nah, I just learn their catchphrases or gain some deep fan knowledge that’ll impress her or maybe perfect a vocal impersonation of them that I can drop at the opportune time. The vocal impersonations work the best as far as making her like me and being like “ok, wanna have sex now?”
another_canoe
But what do you guys actually share *together*? That's not related to the obsession of the season? (I'm not going to even bother asking if she's tried to learn about any of your hobbies/interests).
NGL, this is all pretty grim to me, my man....and I'm someone who loves having a partner who is passionate about things and nerds out.
I fear that you've spent so long with her infatuations steamrolling over your own interests and preferences that you have convinced yourself that getting attention-by-proxy as your main source of validation from your SPOUSE is a healthy way to live.
If I told you that I was big into anime and Japanese RPGs and the only way I get interested in doing it with my actual wife is if she adopts the catch phrases /personality characteristics of my latest "waifu", would you feel some concern for my wife's mental health?
I'm also wondering about this spending....
She’s pretty dismissive of my interests and hobbies. I’ve told her I’d like her to try to pretend to show a little more interest sometimes. I make an effort to show real interest in her stuff and she does not do the same. I’m very into music and I do geek out over guitars and gear and things like that and she couldn’t tell you anything about any of the guitars I own other than “he has a blue one, he has a red one. “ We do love some of the same bands. Of course she wants to fuck the band members and I just want to talk about the chord progression on my favorite guitar tracks, but it’s close enough. We like a lot of the same movies and that sort of thing. We have the same sense of humor and can keep each other laughing for ages. We have a lot of the same views on life and on the world in general.
I don’t know, we just get each other I guess.
I would be concerned about the waifu thing, but I guess in my case she always likes guys who I think are pretty cool anyway. She has good taste, at least. If she has to be obsessing over some other guy constantly at least she does it over guys I can respect on some level.
Regarding the spending, I spend way more than she does. Only difference is it’s not usually fan merch I’m buying. But she tolerate my spending when it comes to stuff like guitar gear. She rolls her eyes and reprimands me but she tolerates it and just knows I won’t stop. I’m the same when it comes to her fan stuff. I get it, she wants the vintage 1993 Bret Hart shirt that costs hundreds…not a modern shirt that just anyone could go online and buy for $25 right now. She wants the cool, rare stuff. I’m the same with my guitars so I guess it’s like we understand each other in some way. I think it’s weird to become a fan of somebody and 2 days later drop thousands on them though. At least my money pit is consistent.
I think we both feel like we’re the only person who will semi understand and tolerate all of this stuff from each other
Not included here, but in several comments, OOP definitely brings up his wife’s looks as a positive in the relationship and he finds her antics at times amusing or even attractive.
1st Update - February 28th, 2024
I recently wrote about my wife suddenly discovering former pro-wrestler Bret “The Hitman” Hart one day after never even knowing of his existence, experienced love at first site, and is now even deeper than love with him then she was a month ago.
Tonight, I experienced a good hour of her sobbing, literal sobs, after watching the Bret Hart A&E biography. “I just love him so much. I love him with all my heart. I don’t want any more bad things to happen to him. Also, I’m very jealous he’s not my husband.”
She also went from not wanting any kids to suddenly wanting a baby so she can name it Bret (a girl or a boy, doesn’t matter…they will be named Bret). And she almost had me convinced, but I blame that on the heat of the moment.
She’s bought all sorts of clothes just like his. My wife now dresses like Bret Hart in and outside of the ring.
The past few days she’s been acting really annoyed with me. Finally I’m like “Wtf am I doing wrong?” I bought you Bret Hart stuff for your birthday! I call you Mrs. Bret Hart now, even though you’re my wife. I even sent you flowers at work from Bret. I mean that was supposed to get me points because she knew they were from me and I was playing into her obsession which she’s now apparently shared with everyone she works with. They’ve bought her a giant Bret Hart wall decal for her office.
Ok, so I did forget our anniversary which was very recently. Totally forgot it. Then again, so did she. She was too busy masturbating over Bret Hart to remember our wedding anniversary. I mean bad husband points for me obviously but all the birthday gifts had to have made up for it. I mean, I even ordered a Bret Hart birthday banner and got her a Bret Hart themed birthday cake as if she were a 7 year old boy in the year 1994.
So why is she acting so annoyed lately? Why does she act like she hates me and can’t stand to even be in the same room as me? She finally admits…I’m not Bret Hart. None of her obsession have ever been this bad. She’s seriously threatening me with divorce now because I’m not Bret Hart! She “just wants a guy like that.” She had to go walk the dog today and cry over it, how much she hates me and wishes she was married to Bret Hart. Oh fuck me you want a guy like your dad because that’s what Bret Hart is like…exactly like her dad, the same look, the same hair, the same damn age.
I told her I think she should get checked out for autism or some other sort of disorder. Her obsessions have never been this bad. She should make an appointment now because the waitlist is long. She just laughed. There’s nothing wrong with her. She just has different taste in men now, according to her.
Some comments
psychick
Therapist here - she needs to see a psychiatrist. This is mental illness to the extreme. Either she goes, or you leave. This is ultimatum territory. And, stop giving into her obsession. It makes it worse.
nualt42
Man, when she threatens divorce, take it. Jump at the chance.
Hell, sit, be a good boy and offer your fucking paw if that’s what it takes to get treated to an exit strategy. Don’t worry about dignity, sounds like you gave that up a long time ago.
She’s even looked up the divorce process for where we live and says we can be amicable about everything. She assures me she’s not looking to take any thing that is rightfully mine. She just wants a clean break.
Sophie3546
I’m surprised he even lasted this long. Calling her “Ms. Bret Hart” …..I can’t even fathom.
Excuse me, it’s MRS Bret Hart, not Ms.
NEW UPDATE - March 8th, 2024
Hi, you might remember me as the guy whose wife was obsessed with JFK (35th President of the United States), then experienced a world wind romance with former WWF pro-wrestler Bret Hart (the best there is, the best there was, and the best there ever will be), but now she’s met a new man. I thought the Bret Hart obsession was the worst one yet. Never has she threatened divorce or told me she hated me because I wasn’t the object of her desire. Luckily, that was a relatively quick love affair for her. 3-4 months is a short run for her and one of her men. But I should be careful what I wish for.
This new one is the first time I’ve felt that I should maybe, just possibly, feel legitimately scared. Her newly developing obsession is Patrick Bateman. Yep, the character from American Psycho. Specifically, the movie version played by Christian Bale.
It’s not like she’s just met the guy. She’s seen the movie before but it doesn’t appear that they hit it off initially. Now, she’s suddenly started making constant reference to him. Bret is gone and now it’s just Patrick Bateman and maniacal laughter and purchasing all of the items in his skin care routine. I’d like to see her do 1000 crunches though. That’ll be the day.
She has always admitted to living the 80s preppy/yuppie look. She loves assholes. Assholes are a weakness for her. Psychopaths? Hmm…that’s a new one, unless you count the time she was in love with the Menendez Brothers years ago. God, the pastel Ralph Lauren sweaters she used to try to make me wear. Pastels are just not my shades.
Now, there was a time many years ago where I did have to hide all the knives in our home. I was legitimately scared that she was going to murder me. I forget what she was upset about now. I am, after all, her type - an asshole. I did something that bothered her and she ran for the knives. I had to hide them and then lock myself in a bedroom because she was literally chasing me. That was before she decided that she’d be the female Patrick Bateman. Granted, she says “only mean in the looks and snob department-nothing else.”
She’s trying to determine what the female equivalent to a Patrick Bateman hairstyle would be right now. I’m just worried about the bank account with this obsession. The amount she’ll spend on business cards alone.
Comments
lemonade_sparkle
Your wife is severely mentally ill, and needs help quickly.
Is there no chance of persuading her to get help?
If not, what preparations have you made to leave her?
I’m a strange way, I think these obsessions are what keep her sane.
Her getting help is funny though. It’s not going to happen. Sure I’ve tried to persuade her to see a therapist but she just won’t.
ctIaTErA
I probably shouldn’t be laughing as hard as I am right now. This is truly bizarre. Does she narrate her morning routine in the mirror each day now?
But in all seriousness, she’s chased you with a knife? Thats far more concerning than any of the obsessions with these men, and yes I did read the post about the wrestler. I thought it was just very quirky behavior before, but she seems truly unhinged now.
It was years ago. Like 10+ years ago. I’m much stronger than her so it’s not hard to hold her down if need be.
I AM NOT OOP
NO BRIGADING, NO HARASSMENT

realized after transitioning that I don't know where men shop for clothes other than like...walmart and thrift shops. Where do short & fat little men buy clothes?

Dear Poetry Fanciers,
Welcome back for a special Victorian edition of Poetry Corner, brought to you by u/NightAngelRogue and a splendid accompaniment for our upcoming read of The Thrilling Adventures of Lovelace and Babbage. Just a reminder, if there is a special poem you would like to feature in Poetry Corner, just send me a message and we'll get it the schedule!
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Joke:
Q: Nelson Mandela, Tuberculosis and Long John Silver walk in a bar. Who are they talking about as they go in?
A: Probably William Ernest Henley (1849-1903).
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Poet, journalist, literary critic, editor, publisher, translator and Victorian-extraordinaire, Henley, was a good friend to Robert Louis Stevenson, who he inspired to write the character "Long John Silver" in Treasure Island. Stevenson, writing to Henley-" I will now make a confession: It was the sight of your maimed strength and masterfulness that begot Long John Silver ... the idea of the maimed man, ruling and dreaded by the sound, was entirely taken from you". The friendship was a tumultuous and long one.
Henley's sickly daughter, Margaret, was the inspiration of "Wendy" in J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan. She would not live long past her 5th birthday, the only child Henley had with his wife, Hannah "Anna" Johnston Boyle. Tragedy had long painted his life even before this sad event. He was diagnosed with a rare form of tuberculosis at age 12, that affected his bones. His left leg had to be amputated below the knee when Henley was a young man, and he was often in the hospital with various abscesses that need to be drained. Frequent illness kept him out of school and interrupted his professional work. Henley eventually sought out the advice of Joseph Lister, who was pioneering new techniques, including antiseptic operating conditions and doing groundbreaking research on wounds, when his right foot become affected by the tuberculosis. Still, his ill-health did not keep him from practicing his art. While Lister kept him under observation at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, from 1873-75, Henly wrote and published a collection of poems, which include today's selection, In Hospital (1903). This collection of poems is notable also because it was one of the earliest examples of free verse in English poetry. Henley and others in his group became known as the "Henley Regatta" for their championing of realism, such as the poor working conditions in the Victorian underbelly, in opposition to the Decadent movement in France and the Aesthetic movement closer to home. This would be the last collection of poetry and the most impactful of his work; his death would follow later that year. Unfortunately, a fall from a carriage reawakened the latent tuberculosis hiding inside him, which carried him off age 53. He was buried next to his daughter, in Cockaney Hatley, Bedfordshire. His wife would later also be buried alongside her family.
His legacy is one that is both inspiring and rather dispiriting. His poetry was used for jingoistic and imperialist causes, and to champion war, though much of it was about personal striving and inner resolve-the mythical "Stiff Upper Lip" of the Victorian era. This led to push back in the literary world, as D.H. Lawrence's short story, "England, My England and Other Stories" took flight from one of the lines from "Pro Rege Nostro", which is more patriotic than his usual work. Admittedly, he counted himself as a conservative and supported the imperial effort, as much of Victorian society did at this time. Still, his work fell into obscurity, with the main exception of "Invictus"-Latin for "unconquered". It is well known that Nelson Mandela recited this poem to his fellow inmates in Robben Island as a reminder to stay strong and keep one's dignity. There are also, of course, the Invictus Games, which are held for injured and sick service men and women and veterans in the UK.
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Winston Churchill to the House of Commons, September 9, 1941:
"“The mood of Britain is wisely and rightly averse from every form of shallow or premature exultation. This is no time for boasts or glowing prophecies, but there is this—a year ago our position looked forlorn, and well nigh desperate, to all eyes but our own. Today we may say aloud before an awe-struck world, ‘We are still masters of our fate. We still are captain of our souls.'” (link)
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Sidney Low, in "Some Memories and Impressions – William Ernest Henley". The Living Age (1897–1941) describing his friend:
"... to me he was the startling image of Pan come to Earth and clothed—the great god Pan...with halting foot and flaming shaggy hair, and arms and shoulders huge and threatening, like those of some Faun or Satyr of the ancient woods, and the brow and eyes of the Olympians." (link)
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Andrzej Diniejko on Henley as "poet as a patient" and his work predating modern forms of poetry "not only in form, as experiments in free verse containing abrasive narrative shifts and internal monologue, but also in subject matter". (link)
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"Invictus"
by William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
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This poem is in the public domain.
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Some things to discuss might be the title. How does the defiant spirit of this "Unconquered" opening play throughout the lines of the poem? There is also a reference to the Bible Verse Matthew 7:14 in the poem, "Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it". Why do you think this included? What lines stand out to you? How do you see him fit into the Victorian literary furniture, if you will? Have you heard this poem before? How does this fit in with the melancholy feel of the Bonus Poem, if you read it? What other poets do you enjoy from this era of literature?
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Bonus Poem: We'll Go No More a-Roving
Bonus Link #1: "Love Blows As the Wind Blows" (1911) song-cycle by George Butterworth, with Henley's poetry put to music and song.
Bonus Link #2: A literary review of the Victorian Era.
Bonus Link #3: Read the other poems included in the collection, In Hospital.
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If you missed last's month poem, you can find it here.

Wastelander
A thin veil of sand blew across the road, danced in erratic swirls over the cracked pavement, and then capered off into the dunes.
Kaelar watched it spin into a small dust devil that swept past the skeletal branches of dead shrubs and the faded remnant of an old sign sagging into the sand. Rocks and bits of concrete jumped from countless pits and holes weathered into the road, kicked out in front of him with each measured step.
The dust devil whirled up the face of a sandy hill and vanished down the other side. He fingered his water skin, still nearly full. Some of the old folk said dust devils could lead you to water. Kaelar had tried once, but all he’d found was more dust.
He returned his attention to the road and what lay at the end. Or rather, what he would do once he arrived. Most of the Old World had hidden troves of valuable artifacts in broken buildings and infrastructure, the decaying crypts that were once people’s homes. But the treasures were dwindling, and the waste was encroaching. Arable land was a unicorn, and clean water was scarce. And there was no shortage of violent gangs roaming the wastes, circling the small ramshackle communities like wolves, watching for any sign of weakness.
Towns were dying.
Hell, the planet was dying, some said. Murdered by the poisons unleashed by her children back before his father’s father’s time. Maybe it was true.
Kaelar put the thought out of his mind and peered through the shimmering heat at the shattered remains of a city rising out of the ash. Mercury, he called it, for he did not know its true name. In the distant past, something had destroyed the city, blasted its buildings and cratered its parks, unalived its people.
Now nothing remained but the dust of shattered dreams. You could walk an entire day and not cross Mercury. Unwise, but you could do it.
He passed another sign, larger than before but just as faded. This one straddled the highway on great metal legs that did not rust. The edges of the road crumbled and sagged into the sand, mirroring the slow decay of Mercury. Nothing grew out here in the waste but sun-bleached bones and stony cliffs.
He walked on.
The city loomed larger and took shape as the hours passed.
He could make out tiny details now. Windows gaping with no glass, rooftops jagged and crumbling, the rusted relics of countless vehicles choking intersections and the bones of an entire city scattered through debris-strewn streets. He detoured around collapsed walls blocking his way and ravines that had recently opened to swallow entire blocks. This took time, precious hours he did not have to spare. Crap.
Kaelar tipped back his wide-brimmed hat and glanced at the sun, blazing overhead. Ten hours til dark. He had to hurry.
Lowering his hat, he took a small sip from his waterskin. It was hot and tasted terrible, but soothed his parched throat. The air was hotter still, dry but stifling, and hard to breathe when the dust was up. Despite this, he wore old leathers, suffered them for the small protection they offered. A scrape could prove deadly.
He adjusted his canvas satchel, more of an extensive collection of mismatched patches than an actual bag, but strong enough to accommodate even the best hauls. His gloves were fingerless, and weighted across the knuckles in case he had need.
His eyes never stopped moving, scanning ahead, probing into the shadows gathered in doorways and alleys, ever wary of the dangers present within the Old World. Wild beasts were the least of his worries. Men were the deadliest creatures of all.
He dusted off his goggles and glanced at his pistol in a worn leather holster belted at his hip. Each cartridge in the gun’s cylinder was worth a week of clean water. He had four left. If I’m right, I’ll have more after today.
Kaelar moved deeper into the city, to the heart of the ruins. His destination was just ahead, a place he’d searched before but never found the heart to explore past the fourth level.
Today, that would change.
A sudden clattering sound came from an alley to his right.
Kaelar instinctively ducked and leaped to press himself against the side of a rusted-out truck. Peering over the hood, he listened; he watched. No movement. He was surprised to find his pistol in his hand, glinting in the sunlight. He didn’t remember drawing it.
His eyes scanned deeper into the alley, past refuse and debris. Nothing.
Kaelar turned, drew in a deep breath and rested on his haunches with his back against the truck. Something had made that sound. Was someone stalking him? Other scavengers could be dangerous. Some would open your veins just for stepping into what they perceived as their territory. Sweat tracked down through the dust on his face. A moment later he decided he couldn’t leave it to chance. Never leave an enemy at your back, his father had told him. That advice had served him well over the years.
There was no movement as far as he could see in any direction facing away from the alley. Just the skeletal girders and broken concrete of a dead city. That left the alley at his back.
He went to his belly and peered under the truck. Nothing. He stayed there for some time, watching and waiting. Sweating.
When nothing showed, he rose to a crouch and slowly advanced into the alley, pistol leading.
It was deserted. There was nothing of value, not a bit of lead. Clattering came from above, faint and distant. Jaw clenched, he holstered his weapon and shimmied up a drain pipe to the roof.
Strange machines made two neat rows on one side and a small shack with a single door on the other. Sunlight soaked into the roof’s black skin, shimmering up in waves. But that wasn’t what held his eye. A second structure rose beside the one on which he stood, snugged tight to it like lovers. The leeward wall sat in the shade, and something clung there to the brick.
Kaelar couldn’t believe his eyes.
His heart leapt for joy. He rushed to the wall, and reached out with a trembling hand to gently brush the white petals of the vines climbing the brick. It was real. It was alive!
“You can’t have them!” Kaelar felt a hot explosion in the back of his head. The world tilted on its side and the roof rushed up to meet him.
A figure stood over him, dark and terrible and haloed by the sunlight.
“Your kind are not welcome here, Wastelander.”
Kaelar reeled with vertigo. He opened his mouth to speak but a heavy boot snapped out and blasted away his world.
It was alive.

I'm hoping to get advice because I feel lost.
My boyfriend knew me before and after my transition and has always been supportive, but recently I've only been able to get positive attention from him when I dress 'feminine' (he likes for me to wear wigs or do makeup with my eyes or even dress in clothing that makes me look feminine). It's not that I hate these things in a way- because I think it can look pretty, but it just dosen't feel like it's me anymore. I like being able to look at pretty clothes or doing a cool look with makeup (especially goth) but it is a serious struggle for me to look at myself when I do these things.
I really like the attention he gives me when I dress fem for him, but it kinda makes me sad when he can't have that same energy for me normally. He's explained it as it's something he dosen't see me in a lot so he gets excited, but today he told me he prefers when I do these feminine things. I asked him if he wants a girlfriend or a boyfriend and he told me he wants me and appreciates both sides.
I feel ashamed being out in public knowing that I'm losing my ability to pass when I used to pass well at the start of the relationship. It's going back to the glares and the second looks when I talk since I have a deeper voice now.
I've been looking at a lot of trans men who are able to embrace femininity but I don't know how to do that without feeling miserable.

I had 4 friends. Close friends. And one husband. Of the four friends, one used my name to create a fake non-profit, one used my name to create an alternate identity for herself to go meet men without her husband finding out that it was her dildos and not mine that were coming to her house, one used me as an aliby to cheat on her husband so she could say she was with me, and one used my social profiles to talk to me with money and wives so she didn't get caught cheating on her husband or labeled a home wrecker by the respectable well-to-do wives. Facts. How do I know? Because you used my Skype to get a number so you could cheat. Because you got messages from the men who were chatting with you. Because you did!!! One of you at least chatted with my husband and knowing how much you like to be famous, you probably did a whole lot more than flirt. One of you still logs into my iCloud account with the watch. And one of you lied about me having relationships with younger people. All of you can kiss my ass and get on down the road with the bullshit. One of you has a whole lot of angry black women thinking I am the white bitch talking to their man. One of you has a whole lot of wealthy socialites thinking I have daddy issues. And one of you has the medication mafia thinking I am fucking with their money and benefits matrix. Throw in the ex-husband who can't stay his ass off Facebook Marketplace and dating sites to stalk people and knows good and well his ass is a cheater who thinks as long as he doesn't have all his clothes in the same place I live he can excuse his whores by using the we were on a break defense. All of you can go to hell. Accountants, loan officers, teachers, and state employees....Fuck you all. He is not good in bed anymore. In fact, it is flat out terrible. It is too much work to get it up and no fun when it finally does decide to wake up, but then he's asleep and it's too much like fucking a crash test dummy. Just not worth the effort or dealing with his bullshit. So no thank you again. I'm sorry I knew any of you. And bestie at the bank, darling, you do know that video from the group home is still on YouTube, which means you are the one who exposed the entire community online since the names of my students were in my Google Classroom, which you hid the camera and videoed. I let you take a nap using my lap for a pillow and stroked your hair because you had such a damn bad migraine and you let people say I was bisexual and messing with younger kids. Your ass was not anywhere close to being a minor and I certainly didn't hit on you. I was being a good friend. I actually loved you like a sister. But you are a whore. I was not chatting with your brother in law, Josh, Alan, or your son's father. So get the shit straight. And you really should delete the cash app for Blake's girl before your boss's wife sees that one and knows you been fucking two of her men.

Anyone start to feel inadequate after reading so many books about the cute, gorgeous, apple-bummed, messy-bunned, unaware of her own beauty, heroines in them?
When I started romance a few months ago, I started with the the younger man trope, where the women were still attractive in their middle age (as if 30s is middle-aged 🙄) but had muffins tops, stretch marks, etc., but the boys were still in love. It's was cute and liberating and empowering. But now I see that most of the genre isn't that, it's cute athletic college girls or professionals who are unendingly gorgeous in revealing clothing, or effortlessly gorgeous in no-makeup and sweats. I wish I were an effortlessly gorgeous college girl, but I'm not. Never was. Maybe as a kid, but more "Curly Sue." (Yes, there are books about the mousy nerd, but they're "She's all That" style, where the glasses magically hid all her hotness. 🙄)
While I still enjoy the books, it's got me feeling like an unfeminine, unlovable bridge troll, and questioning all my aesthetic choices. On one hand, I get that these are basically caricatures on the verge of cartoons, and even the authors themselves don't look or live this way (a sad statement in itself) on the other, it is true that life would be very different were I more attractive, and that seems to be what I'm focusing on. To be fair, I'm even finding real, "hot" men unattractive compared to the ones I'm reading about and creating in my head, so really, we can't compare reality with fantasy, at all, ever. We can't even compare with other people, or their social media; unless we want to be perpetually miserable.
Anyway, I'm not even sure what I'm asking but am I alone in this? And why do these authors perpetuate these stereotypes, which they themselves don't fall into? (And why do "diverse/inclusive" books feel either too far-fetched, or like remedial consolation prizes?)
Sigh I just want to read my fluffy escapist novels in peace, but how do I do that without basically being jealous of the fictional people I'm reading about, and their real-life put-together counterparts?
P.S. As an aside... despite MILF apparently being one of the most searched terms on the internet, the younger man thing isn't much of a thing in real life (beyond flings), for several reasons. Though some have tried to champion that as though the media were lying to us about what men actually find attractive in real life. Though, again, that seems to be debunked by the classic, "getting traded in for a younger model trophy-wife" thing that does happen. So... you can't win? How healthy is reading romance then? Not that relationships are the end-game, but this is a romance sub. Next mission would be to become the fun, crazy, exotic, single aunt who dances in the Trevi Fountain. How many books do I need to read to make THAT transition? (Though, I guess, none at all. :))

Hello. I'm going through a phase in my life where I'm living as a ladyboy (feminizing my appearance but still identifying as a man).
I like the attention I get from others because it feels like my "true-self" is finally being seen and understood after a lifetime of emotional repression. I especially like sexual attention from men because it makes me feel pretty (I've also never had sexual intimacy as a ladyboy, so naturally I want that). Sometimes I get jealous of other feminine men, because I feel like they'll get the love that I feel like I have yet to experience (I feel guilty and somewhat ashamed for feeling this way).
It also sometimes makes me feel slightly sad or angry (not enough to say anything) when people I'm close to (not strangers) seem to not register my appearance, because it feels like a rejection of my feelings (although they likely don't mean it this way).
I don't do well with negative attention. I'm an introverted, agreeable, consciencious type person (a nerd, perhaps) that just wants to be left alone most of the time. When I feel disagreeable, narcissistic, authoritarian type people are bullying me I usually lash-out in anger or even explode and get ready to physically fight.
However, I don't feel a compulsive need to go out in public and seek attention from others. I actually don't leave the house that often and prefer being alone. I do post my thoughts on reddit a lot, both because I like feeling understood and also because I like to be emotionally vulnerable in order to process my feelings of shame. I also don't enjoy hook-up culture with because there's just not enough intimacy in doing so.
With this information, would you say I have signs of personality disorder traits or is this just a normal human desire for wanting to be cared about?
As a side note, I have like 5 years of therapy under my belt. My therapist said my main personality disordered traits were probably Avoidant, but I was never officially diagnosed and I think it's extremely unlikely that I have a full-blown personality disorder (he wasn't the type of therapist who makes frequent diagnoses, though).

"The first act of violence that patriarchy demands of males is not violence toward women. Instead patriarchy demands of all males that they engage in acts of psychic self-mutilation, that they kill off the emotional parts of themselves. If an individual is not successful in emotionally crippling himself, he can count on patriarchal men to enact rituals of power that will assault his self-esteem."
– Bell Hooks, The Will To Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love, 2004
10 years ago, the Denver Nuggets drafted a 7 ft tall, unknown center from Serbia in the second round. It wasn't even shown on tv; the network was busy running a Taco Bell ad.
Jokic is fast, one of the strongest players in the league, and one of the best conditioned. He plays at a mile high altitude (18% less oxygen than sea level), and after every single game he plays, he goes back to the weight room with a trainer and lifts weights and does cardio for another two hours. He is also one of the most supremely skilled centers in history in terms of footwork, touch on the ball, making shots, and circus-style passes to teammates that absolutely defy belief.
But he doesn't fit the male gaze aesthetic box: he doesn't have a lot of definition in his arm muscles. He doesn't have a six pack. His arms flop and he shuffles when he runs. He looks nothing like a Michael Jordan or Lebron James, who play with flash and swagger and look and play like they just came out of a Marvel Movie. Stephen A Smith, a top sports commentator on ESPN, once famously called Nicola Jokic "A fat tub of lard who can't jump over a curb." He also got a reputation for "not caring" about basketball. He doesn't mean mug, flex, dance or celebrate after big plays. He very, very rarely talks shit, and when he does, it's wholesome and polite. He gives credit where credit is due in a calm and passive voice during interviews. And he refuses to play Hero Ball. The Nuggets are known for playing unselfish team ball, led by Jokic. He could be scoring 40 to 50 points a game, but instead leads the league in assists, passing the ball to teammates who are shooting hot or in better positions to score. His teammates (with the exception of maybe Jamal Murray, who can be a selfish shithead and often is) have embraced Jokic's ethics, selflessness, and philosophies behind team ball. Aaron Gordon, who was drafted to be a #1 star in Orlando and was traded to the Nuggets a couple years ago, has embraced Jokic' style of play and humility, even though he's often the third or fourth best player on the team. This interview the other day was really amazing.
In an age of American anti-intellectualism, Jokic is a robot brain who dissects strategy and positioning and plays chess when everyone plays checkers.
Even off the court, Jokic refuses to buy into the male gaze/toxic masculinity trappings. He has a nice house, but doesn't drive a flashy car or wear flashy clothes. He married his high school sweetheart, is the dad to a toddler daughter, and is fiercely devoted to them. You never see him living the high life, clubbing, or trying to be cool on TV. At most someone will snap a candid photo of him out at a dinosaur exhibit, with his daughter on his shoulders.
Despite his refusal to play the superstar game, Jokic has been wiping the floor with the rest of the NBA. He won MVP in 2021 and 2022. In 2023, sports commentators started pushing Joel Embiid to win over Jokic. Embiid is tall, strong, aggressive to the point of violence on the court, has a lot of swagger and ego. In other words, more of the masculine hero aesthetic and personality men want to see and emulate. Embiid flailed out of the playoffs early. Jokic and the Nuggets went on a tear, destroyed the playoffs, won their first championship, and Jokic won Finals MVP.
In a hilarious and famous interview after winning his first championship, instead of basking in the glory and the limelight and crowing about his accomplishments, Jokic was sad to find out he'd have to stay for a parade a few days later because it would keep him away from his beloved horses waiting for him on his farm in Serbia.
After experiencing Denver's joy and pride, Jokic was touched by the fan support during the parade and has loosened up a bit this year with the media. He also started doing a couple commercials. Not the cereal box and warrior-coded commercials. But goofy ones with a young teammate and a pony, and this recent hysterical one for Dispicable Me 4 (when this dropped during the playoffs, Jokic rolled up to the arena dressed as Gru).
The NBA brass and sports media have been beside themselves trying to push any flashy star besides Jokic and any other team than the Nuggets. Despite the Nuggets continuing to dominate in play, sports media rarely mentioned them and continued to try to push a lackluster, 10th place Lakers with Lebron James and Anthony Davis, who are much more likely to look good on a lunchbox. Strangely, the Nugget's scheduling had more exhausting back to back next day games by far than any other team in the league. Despite being a leading player in the league, referees refused to call fouls in Jokic' favor at the same rate as the other stars, or even mundane players, despite the fact that every game Jokic would sport multiple visible nail scratches covering his arms, sometimes to the point of bleeding.
It didn't matter. The Nuggets still swept the Los Angeles Lakers 12 games in a row, and the Boston Celtics. They tied for most wins in their division. And once again, Jokic won league MVP. The league and media institution were so sour that the "boring," "lazy," "fat" European won again, Shaqueel O'Neil opened up the awards presentation by telling Jokic to his face that another player should have won.
The Nuggets are currently in the second round of the playoffs. They were low energy and not great the first two games, dropping to a young and hungry Minnesota team with a 22 year old phenom named Anthony Edwards, who the media spent a week splashing across their screens and calling him the next Michael Jordan. The Nuggets and Jokic woke up and have won the last three games in absolutely embarrassing fashion. Last night, after accepting the MVP trophy at his home arena, Jokich played one of the most dominant solo games in the history of the NBA, absolutely wrecking an asshole 4 time defensive player of the year in Rudy Gobert like the dude wasn't even there. At this point, the opposing team, and the media, are shrugging their shoulders and begrugingly admitting there's nothing they can do. This guy is one of the best players in history, and nobody is going to be able to stop him.
Jokic's only acknowledgement in the press conference was a dry, deadpan, self deprecating admission that he's a freak of nature.
So if you're bored and want to watch a bunch of dudes subvert patriarchal expectations of what athletic men are supposed to be, Nuggets playoffs basketball is pretty fucking fun to watch. And they're dragging the NBA into prioritizing team play and humility over stars and aesthetics , whether they like it or not. The needle on what we should idolize in this country is moving.

For the first time since his incarceration, Bankman-Fried described his daily life in a detailed interview with journalist William D. Cohan of Puck:

On a recent Tuesday, I went to the Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn for an intimate chat with America’s most famous prisoner, Sam Bankman-Fried. During our 75-minute conversation, we discussed everything from Caroline Ellison and the travails of his new life, to his regrets about the demise of FTX and his forthcoming appeal.
I got the distinct impression that Sam still doesn’t believe he committed any crimes, only that he was the one responsible for putting FTX in a position where it was vulnerable to a bank run and the devious actions of its competitors

WILLIAM D. COHAN -- May 9, 2024
On Tuesday afternoon, I found myself in the most unusual circumstances—sitting on a small plastic chair at a cramped table in the Metropolitan Detention Center, the federal prison on 29th Street in Sunset Park, in Deep Brooklyn. Outside, it was a gorgeous day, the sort of picturesque and slightly humid one that inevitably reminds longtime New Yorkers of the weather on the morning of September 11th. Inside the prison’s visiting room, however, there was no natural light, no sunshine, only the Hitchcockian buzz of fluorescent bulbs and three vending machines standing in a corner. Posters on the wall attempted to compensate for the bleak atmosphere by buoyantly welcoming visiting families.
I first met Sam Bankman-Fried in December 2021, during the height of his power and influence, when he was the richest person in the world under 30. My friend Anthony Scaramucci, a.k.a. The Mooch, had connected us. On a cold winter night at the One Hotel, on Sixth Avenue, I interviewed him for a documentary I am part of making about Bitcoin and its developer, Satoshi Nakamato. Sam showed up an hour late, in a black t-shirt and cargo shorts, apparently having just flown in via private jet from the Bahamas. A month later, Sam’s cryptocurrency exchange, FTX, would raise its final $400 million round of financing from a group of highfalutin investors—led by Softbank, Temasek, and Paradigm—at a valuation of $32 billion, making the company one of the most valuable in the sector. At that moment, Sam was said to be worth $26 billion.
This week, we reconnected amid very different circumstances. Sam and I arranged for this visit through his Corrlinks email account, at the suggestion of his mother, Barbara Fried, and the family’s prison advisor. We met on Tuesday around 1 p.m. because that was the only day that visiting hours are permitted at MDC, a hangover from the Covid era. Prisoners can have visitors for one of two sessions, either starting at noon or at five in the afternoon.
We were meeting later than noon because of the staffing shortage at the facility. I was allowed to bring in $1 or $5 bills, up to a total of $30, in case I wanted to buy Sam some water, soda, or snacks from the humming vending machines. I was told to put my $20 bill as well as my wallet and iPhone into a locker. Sam was not permitted to buy anything himself.
Following about an hour of bureaucratic snafus (I went to the wrong building at first, and I wasn’t wearing dark pants—although an exception was made for me) and other forms of prison processing (shoes and belt off, metal detection, sticking my hand in a scanner) I was finally allowed inside the prison, without a phone, a watch, a recording device, or even a pad of paper and a pencil. (I knew this in advance, of course, and set about preserving my recollections of our conversation immediately after leaving the facility.)
After a few minutes of waiting, I looked up to see Sam Bankman-Fried, over in the corner, dressed head to toe in a chocolate-brown prison jumpsuit, along with the still-wild frizzy hair that has been his trademark. These days, Sam looks considerably thinner than the last time we met—it appeared he’d lost 25 pounds, at least. But he looked better and fitter than I thought he would, to be honest—less pudgy, less manic, less fidgety, no bags under his eyes.
He was sustaining himself on rice and beans, he said, because the prison food was unsurprisingly inedible, especially the vegan entrées he was served, which his fellow inmates thought literally smelled like shit. He wasn’t complaining, mind you; he noted that he was just trying to make the best of a bad situation. The rice he buys at the prison commissary has become one of the currencies of the realm inside MDC. We joked briefly about how the arbitrage opportunities in jail were better than anything he experienced trading crypto at Jane Street Capital or buying and selling assets at Alameda. He looked me in the eye pretty much the whole time, something he rarely did with people in the old days.
After we shook hands, he sat down in his own plastic chair as a camera watched us from the ceiling. We were surrounded by a couple of other inmates, dressed similarly, facing their visitors. Sam declined my initial offer to buy him some snacks but ultimately agreed to a $4 bottle of water and a small $2 package of Wheat Thins, which he eagerly consumed.
We talked for the next 75 minutes or so, the first in-person interview he has given to a journalist since he was locked up in the MDC last August and then subsequently convicted of two counts of wire fraud, conspiracy to commit wire fraud, securities fraud, commodities fraud, and money-laundering at his federal trial in November. In March, he was sentenced to 25 years in prison. Our chat, under these rather drastic circumstances, was a profoundly jarring and fascinating experience.

Prison Diaries

Sam began by answering my question about his life in prison. According to him, he lives in an area of the jail that was dedicated mostly to incarcerated women, save for the 35 men with whom he shares a dormitory-style existence in a big open room—bunk beds, no privacy, extreme boredom, and four television sets tuned to ESPN, Telemundo, BET, and a news channel. Sam said he could try to persuade his fellow inmates to change up the channel selection, but television bores him, so he has no interest in that challenge. He prefers watching a small selection of movies or playing some inferior video games on a tablet, without an internet connection, that the prison provides him and other inmates.
When I told him he seemed better than I had anticipated, he replied that he’d become good at faking it. So, yes, life inside the MDC is not the Bahamas. But, truly, I had expected to see him coping less well. At the MDC, Sam has mostly been permitted his prescription medications, and the cocktail he’s been allowed has him thinking clearly, he said, and energized for the legal battle he plans to wage soon against the verdict.
In the meantime, he told me, he doesn’t fear for his safety. He can use the bathroom and shower a couple of times a week in peace. He’s always been a light sleeper, and he’s still not sleeping soundly at the MDC, but mostly because people sometimes bug him during the night about those bags of rice, which they intend to use to barter. He has not been touched or abused, and he seemed notably thankful for that.
He acknowledged that he has a unique rap sheet at MDC, and his fellow prisoners indeed recognize him. He estimated that about half of the other 35 men in his unit were murderers who had been turned into cooperating witnesses for the prosecution in exchange for not serving a life sentence. In prison, many inmates consider cooperating witnesses the lowest form of vermin, lower even than child molesters. Sam also told me that some of the other prisoners tried to get close to him, thinking they would benefit financially from the proximity to a former billionaire. He doesn’t play along, he said.
We didn’t talk about his trial strategy or whether he intentionally siphoned off the $8 billion of FTX customer funds into Alameda. Both topics seemed moot at this point. We did discuss his onetime girlfriend, Caroline Ellison, whom he selected to run Alameda after lawyers kept hounding him about the inherent conflicts in him running both FTX and the hedge fund. (He chose to run FTX.) He acknowledged that he had asked a few other people if they would be interested in the role, but they turned him down. Ellison, he said, was a good manager of people and a good administrator but didn’t like making big investments and didn’t like taking risks. (Obviously, this seems like a bizarre aversion for a hedge fund manager, but I didn’t belabor the point.) In any event, Alameda ended up doing both.
He regretted that he had not tried harder to find another executive. He also said he should have ignored the lawyers and just kept running both FTX and Alameda, conflicts be damned, sort of like how Elon Musk oversees his various companies. Wishing he had ignored his lawyers’ advice emerged as a theme of Sam’s during our visit.

Legal Therapy

We did talk a fair amount about his appeal and about how he believed he was set up to be the fall guy—the victim of the old build-’em-up-only-to-tear-’em-down narrative arc. His theory of the case was that by the fall of 2022, it was every man for himself on a boat that looked to be sinking. By early November 2022, FTX was facing a liquidity crunch. Sam first sought a deal with Binance, which quickly fell apart or was never truly real, and was in the process of trying to raise billions in capital when his lawyers advised him to turn the keys of FTX over to John J. Ray III, which he did. Ray quickly filed FTX for bankruptcy and installed Sullivan & Cromwell, the company’s outside counsel, as counsel to the debtor.
Sam became the target of federal prosecutors, he told me, soon after FTX’s outside counsel at Sullivan & Cromwell made a presentation to them, on November 9, 2022, a day or so before the bankruptcy filing, about what they believed Sam may have engineered between FTX and Alameda, which has been described as the theft of $8 billion of customer money. In a sworn declaration about that meeting, S&C attorney Andrew Dietderich said he reported to the D.O.J. only what Ryne Miller, FTX’s U.S. general counsel, told him about a problem of “reconciling digital assets with entitlements” on FTX’s U.S. exchange, and nothing about Sam and his alleged transgressions.
Sam told me that had he not been persuaded by Sullivan & Cromwell and then by his personal attorneys to relinquish his job as C.E.O. to Ray, the company would not have filed for bankruptcy, and it would still be a thriving enterprise, worth $80 billion now. In this alternate reality, he would be worth $40 billion and he certainly wouldn’t be at the MDC. (S&C declined to comment on Sam’s theory of the case. It’s also fair to reiterate here that Sam was sentenced to 25 years in prison after a jury convicted him of the crimes described above.)
I got the distinct impression that Sam still doesn’t believe he committed any crimes, only that he was the one responsible for putting FTX in a position where it was vulnerable to a bank run and the devious actions of its competitors, not unlike how both Bear Stearns and Lehman Brothers failed in 2008. Why, Sam wondered, was he prosecuted when no one at either Bear or Lehman faced criminal prosecution? During our chat, Sam was contrite and certainly chastened, but not exactly apologetic: He was adamant about his innocence, aside from a few degrees of negligence—punishable, in his view, perhaps by civil consequences, not criminal penalties and a quarter-century sentence.
According to Sam’s theory, he isn’t in prison for commingling assets of FTX and Alameda. Instead, he’s an innocent guy who didn’t get a chance to negotiate a deal with the federal prosecutors, and wonders why he was even prosecuted at all for what he believes was a form of a bank run. Instead, they just presented him with his indictment and told him he could eat it— accept it and plead guilty and then get sentenced, or go to trial and try to fight it. Since there was no plea bargain on the table, he said, he fought the charges at trial, and lost. Unlike his fellow inmates, he told me, Sam speaks to his new attorney nearly every weekday for an hour or so, as the focus of his appeal comes into view. He expects to file it this fall. Yes, he will appeal, but most people think he faces long odds of success.
On the day of my visit, Sullivan & Cromwell, still counsel to the debtor-in-possession in FTX’s bankruptcy case, filed a first draft of a plan of reorganization that appears to give its customers and creditors all of their money back, plus a little more—a return of $15 billion on $12 billion of claims—in large part because of the investments Sam made through Alameda. The plan, which still has a long way to go before being confirmed, also gives Sullivan & Cromwell, along with other FTX advisors, “exculpation” from future lawsuits related to its conduct in the matter. This is not unusual in a plan of reorganization. But Sam has exhaustive thoughts on this subject, which I may explore with him in a follow-up conversation.

Go West, Young Man

I’m not sure how much longer Sam will be at the MDC, and neither is he. He has asked to remain in Brooklyn at least until the fall, when his appellate brief will be filed. But that’s not up to him, of course. If he gets moved, which could come at any moment without warning or explanation, I’m told, it would probably be to California, closer to Palo Alto, where he grew up, the son of two Stanford Law professors. At that point, the question will be whether he gets to spend his incarcerated years in a federal penitentiary, which are mostly nasty places filled with hardened criminals, or in more of a minimum security prison, as Mike Milken once did.
If he does get moved out of Brooklyn, his family and legal team worry, he could spend as long as four months on a bus, handcuffed to the seat, making his way, slowly, across the country. Such prison buses make frequent stops—picking up new prisoners, dropping off others—which explains why they take so long to reach their final destinations. There’s also a remote possibility that he could be placed on one of the many planes operated by the U.S. Marshals Service, a.k.a. “Con Air.” But he’s more likely to get the infamous “diesel therapy,” they fear. Either way, during this hypothetical cross-country journey, Sam would be completely incommunicado with both his family and his lawyers until he reaches his new home in California, deprived of the minimal access to the internet and email he now enjoys in Brooklyn.
Just as we were getting ready to discuss some knotty issues, such as his choices during his trial or the fact that many of the people who once worked for him had turned against him to save themselves, our visiting time was up. It was non-negotiable. We quickly shook hands again. Then Sam went back to his dormitory and I went back outside into a glorious spring afternoon.
Credits/Via: https://puck.news/exclusive-prison-chat-with-sam-bankman-fried/

I want to share my experiences as a short man since I started transitioning. Before transitioning I thought that my life would be better all around as a man. I was completely oblivious to the rampant and normalized heightism I would face as an abnormally short man in today’s society. I’m short and I have more feminine features such as small hands and a rounder face. I am quite muscular but I wear large clothes and I’m chubby so most people don’t know that I am muscular. I get treated with very little respect by strangers and I feel that to earn any respect I have to work towards it. I’m an extremely kind and respectful person so I’m generally well liked but the downside is that I’m seen as weak. Insecure men pick on me and are aggressive with me because they don’t see me as a threat. (I was recently choked out by someone taller than me, completely unprovoked, which led to me starting training in martial arts.) my friends, male and female, feel the need to constantly make comments to emasculate me and remind me how short I am. They don’t know I’m trans so the emasculating hurts even more. I’m called “buddy” all the time which I fucking hate. I’m just generally treated as weak and less than. The girl that I like is two inches taller than me. I literally had a female friend tell me the other day that she’s “more of a man” than me because she’s taller than me. I just don’t get it. I’m non confrontational, kind, and don’t try and compensate or portray myself as ultra masculine. So why do people still feel the need to pick on me and emasculate me? Why are we so hated?

Hello! I was wondering if anyone could help me and suggest some companies or products they have found actually fit a curvy woman…
Unfortunately the whole damn market seems to be tailored towards the slim petite frame, rather than the hourglass figure. So I find myself only buying things in a men’s L or XL. (Fox knee pads gave my ego a big hit)! I’m normally around a medium in other clothing.
I do have a full hourglass figure so clothes normally baffle me as my waist is 3/4 sizes smaller than my thighs and breasts. I’m 5’8 too which doesn’t help either.
In terms of fitness, I don’t think there’s much I can do to squeeze down to fit the sizes - I live in a Canadian mountain town, snowboard and tour all winter, then bike, skateboard and hike in summer. Eat healthy food and have an active job - my frame is just built differently.
So any recommendations for brands where I don’t have to compromise on waist size, or feel like a potato ordering XL would be great to know about! Thankyou :))

• also why on earth is the sizing so crazy tiny ???

Long story. TW: drug use, sex, sexual abuse, domestic abuse, mental illness, addiction.
I'm 25F and I have two siblings, 27M and 22F. I have a half sister who is in her late 30's I believe, and she went NC with our dad many years ago. My parents are in their early-mid 70's now.
My parents were in their young adulthood in the 70's in California, so there was lots of drugs involved. I'm assuming that's how they bonded in the beginning. That and they both have edured horrible abuse. My dad was essentially beat by his parents with a belt until he was 18 for what I now realize was because he has autism/ADHD like a motherf'er and he was bullied in school. My siblings and I are all on the spectrum (none of us diagnosed officially but it's plainly obvious) and it was never ONCE mentioned by my father. One time he tried to tell me I have a sixth sense when I was young, that's about it. He has abstract beliefs that he has special abilities and is a reincarnation of Jesus, and that we all are part of his heavenly mission or some shit. Every time he would take a week off work growing up he'd spiral and go into drug induced psychosis and try to talk madness to us when we were way too young to understand why he was acting so much more weird than ususal. He's obsessed with biblical stuff and studies latin/ancient mythology to try and crack the code of the universe. I believe he became addicted to stimulants because as we know, stuff like amphetamines makes ADHD folk 'more productive ' and can sometimes 'relieve' certain symptoms. He has also smoked two joints a day pretty much my entire life. He's always had the same routine though, kept a steady job and provided the basics. I'll give him that. He's never had a friend over. Cut off his family aside from a couple of other backcountry type weirdos.
My mom grew up very rural farm in Tennessee and was abused by boyfriends, having married off at 16 to a much older man and then being estranged from her family. She has terrible PTSD and became physically disabled after falling at work.
She manipulated me very young to genuinely believe my father was a monster who molested my sister (untrue) and I genuinely took her side for many years before I realized I was just a pawn for her. She was an alcoholic during my childhood and when she had custody of us she'd just drag us along to her 'boyfriend's house and we'd just sit around unattended while she was getting drunk in another room. I had to witness sexual stuff too because she was drunk/gone she didn't care. Eventually we all had to move in with my dad full time because she lost the house she had that was from the divorce split. It sucked but at least our dad made sure we had dinner to eat and movies to watch.
She moved to the woods into the family cabin that she recieved during the divorce assets split. She was MIA for quite some time. Over the course of my young adulthood I began to recognize that my mother is paranoid schizophrenic. I personally became her golden child and was always told I was the easy one because I was a doormat and her therapist. She exposed me very young to horrible concepts revolving around sex. She was molested as a child so I think her obsession comes from that. She told me very young (like 6) that men want to have sex with me and rape me. She told me her stories of being molested and raped when I was way too young to handle it, in graphic detail. I believed her and I thought we had a special bond because she and I were 'so close' but it was fucked.
It reached a breaking point when she assaulted government fire cleanup crew on her property with bear spray. It was on the news and everything. I found out because my cousin sent me the news article with my mom's mugshot. To this day she believes they were out to get her and that they had a gun. She served time in jail but they let her go after realizing she's delusional. She moved back in with my dad a few years ago as she had no other choice. My dad was there to pick her up when she got out. She's completely dependent on him and it's a horrible situation. My dad just gives her weed to smoke and she stays home all day. Her car doesn't work and she never leaves the home, never speaks to anyone because she's lost contact with everyone years ago, and she has no desire to connect because she's convinced of all these conspiracy theories.
I never received care or attention. I needed extra guidance and still do, due to me being on the spectrum, but I received nothing. I had to just sit back and be a witness to their horror show, so I began to disassociate very young. I was diagnosed with PTSD with dissociative symptoms due to my own development of delusional beliefs during the peak of the chaos. I started work at 15 just to get out of the house on the weekends when my dad was home. I fell in love with a teacher at school, simply because he showed me attention (nothing sexual, just friendly and fun) and I tried to confess my crush over email and got in trouble. It was a huge wake up call for me that I am way more fucked up than I thought. I still became fixated on older men. I fell to substance abuse myself during late highschool and began dating men in their 30's, eventually moving in with one who was himself an alcoholic and abuser. I went through a phase where I met up with strangers online (not dating sites, weird stuff like 'seeking amateur model' type predators) and ended up having sex with them. Much much older men. I was very fucked up for a long time and in many ways still am.
I got out on my own at 22 and in the last few months have made the push to move about 40 miles away from my hometown, got a full time job as a mail carrier, and am now left with this super peaceful existence. However now that I'm at rest, all the horrid memories are coming up. I've been getting triggered and dysregulated for days, having flashbacks and crying for hours. It's been like this my whole life and I still find it really hard to try and forgive.
My brother is doing surprisingly well and is successful in his independence and career, put himself through college and all despite suffering from depression and having his own interpersonal trauma separate from our home stuff. My younger sister was groomed by a 50yr old man when she was around 14yrs old and she is still with him today. Hasn't worked a day in her life, fully dependent on him. Once again, never got help for her autism and I honestly don't even blame her for taking her chance to get the hell out of our house. Obviously in the beginning I was the only one trying to get this guy arrested as my parents were clueless and unable to do shit. Now we've all just had to kind of accept it, but it's sad.
I'm seeing my parents wither away into madness. My dad is still functional (he's always held his engineering job) but lives in fantasy land. He just bought more property in the forest but doesn't even think to try and get my mom mental help. He recognizes how bad she is but is convinced he can just talk her down if she ever gets amped up/manic. Holy shit it's exhausting to just simply witness their shit. I yearn so often to just close the door gently and say 'bye bye'. I have fond memories of them. I don't think they're bad people. They are so deeply wounded beyond repair, though. I'm still walking the tightrope trying not to fall off and go back into my darkness. I'm finally feeling stable and now it's just a matter of...okay, I'm safe now. I don't rely on them for a single thing now. So what's in it for me to keep in contact? Not much. In fact I think it would be in my favor to stop contact.
My parents are really good at guilt tripping. Anytime I've brought up my side of things they just say 'I don't remember that' or 'At least you weren't ____" playing the 'I had it much worse' game and 'I did everything for you' even though it was the bare fucking minimum, if that. We were neglected our whole childhoods.
I have concern that if I do it and they get sick or die that I'll have to live with the burden of knowing I could have done something. But really, what can I do for people who have made their choices to be fuck ups? I see no intentions of trying to get better from either of them. Even if they did a 180 and started trying, I'd still be sceptical and unsure whether I could ever feel comfortable around them ever again. Its almost too far gone to come back from, you know?
To this day I've tried the forgive and forget. I've tried the empathy thing. I understand they are hurt people. But the young girl in me is fucking angry and she wants justice. I don't want to make the mistake of doing it just because I want to hurt them. If I do this I need to remember it's for ME. How they might react is honestly pretty irrelevant because that's not what it's about. It's about taking my power back...to sound cliche.
This is only a quarter of the picture but I hope this lays it all out in a somewhat comprehensive way. Honestly anytime I actually start to explain this shit to anyone the answer becomes obvious, but I just need support to feel like I'm not being a terrible selfish person for considering this.
TLDR: Parents neglected me and my siblings because of their drug use and general disregard for how we would be affected by their behavior. They both experience psychosis and deny that they ever did anything wrong when confronted. I'm finally stable. Do I cut them off?

Recently a new girl joined my gym, I'm not sure her age but I'd guess around 15-16 and clearly has experience prior to joining.
To put it bluntly, she's not a safe training partner for me. I suspect that she has probably only trained with bigger men before and that I'm the first person she's rolled with that is smalleweaker than her (for reference I'm 115lb and she has about 20lb on me). I've only trained with her twice so far and already she stacked my neck during a drill which caused me to have to leave class early, kicked me in the throat, and kneed me in the sternum.
The problem is that we were the only women in the class both times, so I understand that she wants to train with the other woman there and I'm closer to her size than the guys. I don't want to rude but I can't risk training with her anymore. Even no stripe white belt men with 60lb on me have been more considerate of my wellbeing than her. I've tried mentioning to her to not go so hard and to be more careful but she shrugged it off and told me that "I keep doing things wrong" which is definitely true lol but beside the point.
If I just refuse to partner with her when we happen to be the only women in class that day, then likely I just won't be able to train at all and neither would she which seems like the worst case scenario. Most guys don't mind training with me, but they definitely seek each other out because of similar size, skill, gender, etc.
Any advice?

I see a lot of posts about clothes but I couldn't find much for men. So here is mine.
I'm entering a new stage in my life (30s) and want to try new things. I've been working hybrid/remote for 4 years now. And I'm barely getting around to a routine/schedule.
Everyone knows there's benefits to dressing up even if you're home. However, I don't necessarily want to wear jeans and slacks and stuff. I hate wearing stiff clothes at home. When I go in, I dress business casual and it definitely gives me confidence but it's too much and sometimes my boots are too heavy for my feet.
I want to be able to change from pjs into clothes that I can lounge in but casual/good enough to go run errands and not look like a slob. My typical is beat up basketball shorts and active wear shirts. But looking for the step above that but below wearing jeans.
What do men wear to accomplish this?