Penolepe mechaca feet pictures

TL:DR Rode too fast, couldn't stop in time. Fell into river and lost phone, airpods, and garage door opener. Also almost lost my life.
Well, as the title says, riding brakeless is pretty dangerous if you can't stop properly.
I thought I had control of my bike without brakes because I was able to go down some hills, and slow down enough to stop at lights, but I realized it's all sort of useless if you can't stop at a whim.
I definitely overestimated my abilities on a fixed gear. I outrode my lights which made me unable to slow down enough for the curve. I tried to skid to stop... but the gear ratio was too high (52:17), and my tires were at the perfect PSI (according to Silca's calculator 200lbs on 700cx32mm Continental Gatorskin Black Edition with pavement/some cracks and midrange/'butyl tubes). I was also clipped in the pedals (if I were in cages/straps, I would have tried to jump off the bike). With these factors in mind, I simply panicked and couldn't stop.
Thankfully I was on a trail, and the trail that I was on followed a river that led into a bay. (Now that I think about it, if the river wasn't there I would have died cause I wasn't wearing a helmet; the water prevented me from getting a serious head injury.) I fell in head first and both the bike and I were soaked. As I flailed around in the water, I lost my phone, both airpods, and my garage door opener. My mind immediately went to my bike. I did my best to get my bike out of the water and essentially threw it up onto the bank, and as I did so, I realized my phone was no longer in my pocket.
I had my apple watch on and realized that I could probably make my phone light up if I used the ping feature but when I tried... my watch said my phone was not connected. After realizing I would have to look for my phone myself, I tried to shuffle my feet along the river floor to see if I could "feel it out" but it was unsuccessful. I really tried hard to look for my phone. I used my bike light to see if I could see it underwater, and even OPENED MY EYES UNDERWATER TO SEE IF I COULD FIND IT but I stopped because I was scared I might lose my eyes to some weird bacteria. To be honest, I stopped looking because I didn't want to die from a fungus/parasite/bacteria/virus that could be present in the water (I might still die because some of the water went in my mouth (it was salty tbh) and ended up in my ears) so I gave up.
I rode home... wet, tired, and defeated (surprisingly my bike was fine... wait it's salt water.... I'll need to give it a cleaning in the morning). On the way, I was shaking the water out of my ears and rode into a tall hedge, lol. That gave me a nice bump on my head along with some new scrapes. After I picked myself up, I was able to make it home finally and was able to get my roommate to open the door for me.
I have to try to get a new phone tomorrow at the Apple store, I might lose the interest of a girl I was talking to because I can't text her now, and I am in a lot of pain. If you were able to make it this far in my wall of text, please, please, please ride with a front brake if you're new, ride with a helmet regardless of skill level, and make sure you have fun despite some idiot making a mistake.
I'd post pictures of my injuries and bike, but I don't have a phone lol
EDIT: TYPO

When I was a kid, 90s-early 00s, I read a picture book about an anthropomorphic world of cats, where there was a cat princess, and her father wanted to marry her off, and she stated that she would marry whomever could put carpet beneath her feet, and she would walk through the fields and some prince or other would lay carpet in them, so she would walk elsewhere, until a pauper who was desperately in love with the princess, gave her a pair of carpet slippers, the two married and lived happily ever after.
If anyone has any idea what this book might be called, please please let me know.
Thanks, 🙏

I’m typing this on a bench half a mile from my house. It just hit midnight, meaning our baby has been missing for 14 days. She pushed a screen out from a window, got herself stuck up a tree for eight hours. We hired a professional to scale the tree and come get her but she kept climbing higher and higher, until she couldn’t go further and fell ~30 feet. I tried to chase her but she got away from me, meowing the whole time. She was hiding under a car that I was standing over - then I took my eyes off her for a second and I haven’t seen her since. She’s an indoor cat and had never been outside before. She’s chipped but not collared.
I live in an area that’s halfway between urban and suburban (Manayunk in Philadelphia if you’re familiar) so a lot of houses close together but also some overgrown green space. We’ve done everything we’re told to do - left out things that smelled like her, things that smelled like us, a humane trap with fresh smelly food every night, used litter outside. If it’s a suggestion you’ve seen on this or any other website before, we’ve tried it. Posts on Facebook, pawboost, Nextdoor, ring neighbors, citizens app. At least 100 signs on utility poles on intersections in the area. We’ve also tried knocking door to door but even if everyone let us search their backyards that’s about 150ish yards in a .5 mile radius from her last seen location.
I’m starting to think one of two things happened:
1.) she climbed into that car she was hiding in and was killed by it 2.) she was injured during her fall and went away to die from those injuries
I want to keep searching but I’m so exhausted. I’ve come across almost a dozen strays or outdoor cats, none of them mine. We’ve had a few texts and calls but they all ended up being different cats or they weren’t able to get a picture so it’s a toss-up if our cat is even out there or alive.
It’s gotten to the point where my partner has told me they’re as worried about me as they are our cat at this point but I’m so scared to give up. I just wanna know what happened. Should I just accept that she’s likely met one of the above fates and start grieving?
TL;DR: I’ve been walking my neighborhood for hours in the dead of night (usually three hour chunks between 10pm-7am, though tonight I’m trying to walk around from 8pm-4am) for two weeks looking for my lost cat. Is it time to give up?

In 2022 I got out of a 6-month relationship where I was locked in a bathroom regularly and hit and shouted at both in public and private. I’m in a healthy relationship that’s almost at a year and a half and I am doing better than I ever have in my life. I’ve accomplished so much and I’m so proud of where I am but there’s times where I can’t fall asleep because I’m staring at the ceiling for hours picturing the inside of that bathroom and the tile floors. My ex has come to my work despite my requests and threats of restraining orders and he lives in my town with a very recognizable car. When I see him in person or on the road it’s like every coping mechanism I’ve built up over the last two years disappears. Just thinking about this now is sending me into a freeze response. I feel like I shouldn’t be letting this occupy my mind still but I feel so horrified at the things that happened that it almost physically sends me back to that place. I’m transferring schools soon and I’m hoping that as a side effect I will feel safer. But the thought of being in a completely different state and turning the corner to see him is sickening. I feel like I shouldn’t even be talking about this here because what if he sees. I feel like he would get enjoyment out of how I feel right now. I want to be done with this part of my life but it won’t leave me. The feeling of those tiles under my feet, the humiliation of being slapped in public, the utter defeat I felt being shouted at in the middle of campus. All of it is too much sometimes. In the very least I know that unlike him I’m not day drinking my issues away. In the very least I know I am deserving of love.

HI, I'm very interested in getting my feet wet in luthiery as I love all aspects of it.
I found this mandolin that I'm thinking of restoring. Can someone help me identify the bown and top woods? It's from the beginning of the century and Italian. Not expensive. That's all we know, in case it helps.
Below are some pictures.
Image 1
Image 2
Image 3

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Synopsis:
Juliette Contzen is a lazy, good-for-nothing princess. Overshadowed by her siblings, she's left with little to do but nap, read … and occasionally cut the falling raindrops with her sword. Spotted one day by an astonished adventurer, he insists on grading Juliette's swordsmanship, then promptly has a mental breakdown at the result.
Soon after, Juliette is given the news that her kingdom is on the brink of bankruptcy. At threat of being married off, the lazy princess vows to do whatever it takes to maintain her current lifestyle, and taking matters into her own hands, escapes in the middle of the night in order to restore her kingdom's finances.
Tags: Comedy, Adventure, Action, Fantasy, Copious Ohohohohos.
Chapter 240: Private Gallery
My, how quaint.
An underground maze.
If it wasn’t dark towers laden with bats, it was underground mazes filled to the brim with all the upholstery recovered from the Summer Solstice Festival’s annual bonfire.
Here beneath a barn utilised as little more than a cellar door, black was still the new black. An unending panorama of dark embroidery and furnishings to match any budding empress’s humble beginnings, ensuring I remained busy offering all the slightly different variations of wrinkling my nose could perform.
The porcelain vases featuring motifs of the wrong season? A mild scrunch. The candelabras burning below 98% of their height instead of being immediately replaced? Hints of a sneeze. The golden silk carpets clearly stolen from the cathedrals of the Holy Church? … A nod of my head.
But what I could have no complaints about was a door still swinging upon its hinges.
Poetry in motion, it painted the picture of a baroness desperate in her haste to stumble over her dress as much as humanly possible. Excellent news. We didn’t need to break another door today.
A surprise.
After all, the baroness seemed intent on breaking everything herself.
Bwoomph.
The sound of a heavy object being dropped came crashing through.
And then another. And another.
A commotion to rival the scuffling of two rival sons at our reception hall. The cadence of chairs, small tables and then backsides falling to the ground as insults became slaps and slaps became a scene of disgrace, all the while my sisters and I watched and snacked on the walnuts.
Sadly for the baroness, I chose not to stand idly by as she roughly squirrelled away her stolen possessions. And neither did Coppelia, who rubbed her hands together in gleeful expectation.
It was still the most innocent gesture she’d ever made.
“Should we let her gather up the loot pile some more?” she asked brightly.
I shook my head at once, my nose aching from the ceaseless wrinkling.
“Absolutely not. Even a moment is too long in this burrow.”
“We could double back and ominously stamp our feet to make her go faster, too.”
“Or we could merely offer our supervision instead. Come. It’s time to end our stay in the countryside. As well as this baroness’s grand misadventure.”
Already dreaming of my bed, I lightly pushed the door open.
A moment later, I was met by the sight of an adventurer’s most wanton dream come to life.
Within the centre of a bedroom chamber, chests laden with silver and gold crowns sat waiting for the first lout to claim as hardship expenses for chasing cats in an endless circle. The chests gleamed with an organised lustre, winking in unison as though counted and arranged to the coin.
It was a sight which contrasted with the desperate movements of the baroness.
Only brief snippets of her could be seen as she went to-and-fro in another room, accessed through a parted bookcase. Through the opening, I heard hints of calamity. Heavy banging as objects crashed to the floor, joined by the sound of ragged breathing to match a servant dashing up and down my bedroom tower to fetch grapes for me in quantities of one.
“Haah … haahh … hahhh …”
And now my curiosity was kindled.
Things worth more than chests of crowns. What could she possess, I wonder?
Sweeping past the gleaming pile of silver and gold, I made my way towards the parted bookcase, and then peeked through to see our baroness performing one last act of defiance.
With her golden hair as dishevelled as her dress, she was kneeling beside an assembled pile of what were unmistakably paintings. A veritable mountain of them, all framed in gilded brass. The scent of oil, watercolours and various pigments struck me more than any whiff of alcohol I’d experienced today.
Clearly a gallery of sorts. A secondary trove of treasure, but no less valuable. Rare paintings were worth their weight in silver and gold as much as any of the coins gathered in the chamber.
And also, to my horror, much easier to destroy.
“Haah … haahhh … hahhhhh …”
The baroness didn’t even notice our presence.
So absorbed was she in her final act of petulance, her only concern was to raise her feeble arms, weakened by all the disdain it required to gather so many heavy paintings in one spot.
All to set it alight.
With a look of desperation on her face, she raised a single candle, readying to set the oil upon the canvasses ablaze.
“Noooooope~”
“–Aah?!”
The same candle which was promptly plucked from her hand by Coppelia, who required no prompting to stop the destruction of precious treasure.
The baroness jolted in shock at Coppelia’s sudden appearance behind her, and even more so at the playful smile leaning towards her. A heartbeat later, she swiped at the candle, tearing away the topmost half. But it was too late.
The flame had already been extinguished.
“Noo … nooooooooooooo!!”
The baroness cupped her hands around the top, offering a tiny breath as she hoped to ignite it like the fading embers of a hearthfire.
She failed.
I took a step into the hidden gallery, ready to offer the coup de grâce to round off this minor detour into my countryside. A final reminder to my kingdom’s nobility, that whatever their rank, none were too lowly to be ignored.
“Ohhohohohohoho … how pitiable,” I said, my hand barely covering my lips. “Instead of a vain attempt to flee, you choose mindless destruction instead. I suppose I’ve no grounds to fault on this. You were wildly successful. Only that it was your own schemes which came to ruin.”
I gazed at the crumpled heap of the baroness as she turned around.
Her grey eyes widened as she viewed me.
All of a sudden, what colour remained upon her face drained to the point where if she threw herself on her bed, she’d be invisible against the white linen. Her only method of escape remaining.
It certainly wasn’t in the gurgling she made.
“Ah … n-no … wait …”
Her voice petered out, whatever words she spoke fading like a mousy squeak in the distance.
Ugh. The standards I endured.
Despite attempting a final act of spite, she didn’t even have enough vigour left in her to transfer that into the most cursory of insults.
“Now, this right here is what separates the barony from the city nobility,” I said, well and truly exasperated. “You may despise your peers, but know that Lady Tolent and Duke Valence at least performed their roles as expected. They were rude until the end. You’ve a considerable amount to learn.”
With a sigh, I took a step towards the mound of portraits.
Given what I’d seen so far, I doubted if any painting here was worth what the baroness deemed worthy enough to hide away like a dragon’s favoured treasure. But I was open to being pleasantly surprised.
Who knows? Perhaps she’d pilfered more than carpets from the Holy Church.
However–
“Wait!!!!!”
The baroness scrambled to her feet, arms raised as she blocked my path.
Despite her sudden burst of life, no colour returned to her face. It was like a ghoul raised as a puppet, desperately heeding the command of its owner.
“You … You can’t look!” she said, quivering. “None of this … none of this is for you!”
My mouth widened at the gall.
… Why, so she did have some insult left in her!
To insinuate I wasn’t worthy of judging these paintings was far more wounding than any generic disdain she could level against my superior wealth, standing, beauty and shape of my hair!
After all, I was exceptionally confident in my curating skills!
Anything less would see my own works being met by a chorus of snivelling! Amongst all who resided in my kingdom, it wasn’t traitors who were the most fearless to my ire! It was art critics!
“E-Excuse me! Rest assured that I’m more than capable of judging the qualities of any painting! When it comes to my assessment of art, my valuation leaves no detail unturned!”
Somehow, the baroness paled even more. Her eyes quivered like ponds in a gale.
A moment later–
“You can’t!!!!”
She threw herself at me.
A slow, lumbering tackle to match her anaemic state. I stepped to the side as she hurled herself past me, falling to a heap by Renise’s feet.
The maid looked down. She didn’t wear a single hint of animosity. Only pity and sorrow. Truly, she was too kind to ever have been in the nobility. I feared for her current role.
Still, I gave a sigh, before leaning over the mountain of paintings.
“Uwah~ this is a new one.”
As the light from the doorway fell upon it, Coppelia offered a hint of what was to be expected. She wore a peculiar expression, her smile oddly fixed as she gazed down at the nearest one to face upright.
I joined her.
And then–
“Hmm.”
I blinked as I assessed it.
A moment later, I glanced over those nearby. And then those nearby them.
Not only paintings. But portraits.
All featuring the same subject. A girl with long, dark hair and vivid eyes.
Many featured a dress hinting at a summer’s day. Shafts of golden sunlight was a common theme, along with a backdrop of a pristine tea table, laden with a familiar array of confectionery. Carrot madeleines and carrot cakes. The same ones I tactically placed for everyone else to eat at my mandatory tea parties.
Indeed. That made sense.
Since this was assuredly my tea table being presented. And that girl with a pleasant smile, unblemished features, a regal bearing and warmth radiating from her very presence was me.
I dug inside the mountain of portraits, lifting up another at random.
Yes.
It was me. Again.
In fact–
Every single portrait in this heap was of me.
At least a hundred or more. All framed and recently placed upon the walls of a hidden room. A private gallery to a baroness–one who was a keen painter. A corner had been transformed into a small workshop. Unlike the one found in her tavern, this one was far more organised. Easels and brushes were neatly tidied away, cared for as much as the paintings that had been created here.
“Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!”
Ignoring the cry of despair behind me, I gazed at the heap of paintings, hand against my cheek as I considered the sight.
A short hum was all I required.
I turned to the stricken baroness upon the floor, her mouth wide as she waited for my judgement.
And then–
“Oho …”
I began to laugh.
“Ohoho … ohhohohoho …”
But this was no mocking laugh which spilled from my lips.
No … it was a laugh of pure delight.
“Ohhhohohoohhohohoohhohohoo!!”
True, nothing here was fit to be placed upon the Royal Villa’s walls. But few paintings were. This didn’t mean they were without merit. On the contrary, even a surface level impression of my face was worth more crowns than even a mosaic of the Grand Duchess completed by a thousand master painters.
But while better artists than her had painted me, few had painted more.
And this I could use.
Why … with this many paintings, I could fill up Soap Island with my imagery!
I could ensure that every tunnel possessed my permanent smile and watching eyes!
No matter where the soap miners hid, seeking respite from their days of hard labour and repentance, they could be met by the sight of my angelic face reminding them that I know and judge their every moment of unsupervised rest!
How … How wonderful!!!!
“A 7/10,” I declared. “Individually, they range between passable and acceptable. Except this one. There is something wrong with the nose. But when taken as an entire collection, the overall composition is greater than the sum of its parts. Alone, each is a verse describing a princess forced to adhere to her mandatory tea parties even as summer blooms a window away. But together, it is the sonata of a princess who continues in her duties without care to repetition or fatigue, reminding those whose hands falter when they should be mining soap that I do not rest, and so neither will they. Not an overly complex message, but then I wouldn’t wish it to be lost.”
Thus, I clapped my hands together in satisfaction.
“... Indeed, I shall put these portraits to excellent use!”
I waited for the gasp of relief which usually came with any of my scores which didn’t plunge into negative numbers. The baroness would not be destroyed by the world of fine art. Only ignored. The baseline criticism. She’d survive.
Providing, of course, that she ever woke from her stupor.
Looking down, I was appalled to see all the light had vacated her eyes.
Far from offering her gratitude, she lay collapsed in an untidy heap upon the floor, her body prone and motionless, her expression locked in morbid embarrassment, and with no signs of life other than the trail of drool which began to leak from the edge of her lips.
“Wow~” said Coppelia, leaning down to poke her cheeks. “You managed to kill her with just the laugh.”
I was appalled.
If this was the reaction to my satisfaction, I may as well be disappointed! That was always easier!
“C-Coppelia! I didn’t kill her! … Why, anyone who dies looking so slovenly would come back to life just to fix themselves!”
Also kneeling beside the fallen baroness, Renise gently shook the girl’s shoulder. Only a weak gurgling came out, wishing for an eternal night.
After a moment, Renise sent a slightly pained smile towards me.
“Um, by any chance … do you not have any thoughts regarding seeing so many portraits of yourself?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well … do you not find it odd?”
I looked at her in puzzlement.
“... No? Why would that be odd? Isn’t it natural that people would wish to paint me? I’m a princess. And an excellent one, too. Better me than a fruit bowl, surely.”
Renise blinked … just before raising her hand to her lips in a small giggle.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
Words which advanced her on my family’s career ladder exponentially. I nodded profusely.
Mreoow.
At least until an unexpected sound filled the air.
I looked around in puzzlement.
“... Did I hear a cat?”
“Mmh~” Coppelia pointed towards the faux-vault door we’d passed. “More than one. There’s a whole bunch being kept nearby. It smells terrible.”
I threw up my arms in exasperation.
Why, no wonder the baroness sought the bliss of unconsciousness! It was to evade my utter disbelief!
The absolute state of my kingdom’s schemers!
First Trierport! Now Hartzwiese! To think it was an epidemic!
Just what were these people doing?! Truly, it’s one thing to undermine my kingdom. But that was a pale crime compared to their feat of singlehandedly fuelling the existence of the Adventurer’s Guild!
“It must be Tantrum and Peppy,” said Renise, far less aggrieved. “As well as all the others.”
I directed my bewilderment towards her instead.
“What is a … Tantrum and a Peppy?”
“They’re the names of the deputy guildmaster’s cats. The ones she was looking for. We should ensure they’re rescued before the night is done.”
I shook my head rapidly. No, no, no, no.
“I am not rescuing cats.”
“Hm? … Why not? Isn’t that the job of adventurers?”
“No, that’s the job of drunkards who mistake the commissions plastered on walls for requests to save a kidnapped princess. Besides, cats hardly need rescuing. Whatever bonds they find themselves in, they’re more than capable of slipping free by their own endless guile.”
Indeed, our only danger was that we tripped over a lazing cat hidden in the shade!
It’s a wonder they hadn’t escaped already. By the time we were done, I fully expected to see cats causing anarchy as they reclaimed the town, mewing from rooftop and windowsill with barely held contempt for the very people who fed them!
… Why, they should be ashamed!
“I see …” said Renise, with a hum of uncertainty. “Well, I suppose they’re known for their self-sufficiency. But even so, I feel that we shouldn’t leave them in the chance that their artfulness fails. There’s a very dangerous forest between here and the town.”
Coppelia clapped her hands together.
Her interest in the baroness severed, she leaned towards her next source of amusement, her smile alive with all the usual colours of the mischief rainbow.
“That’s right~ cats are pretty smart, right? There’s no way they’ll be caught by the slobbering horrors devoid of mercy and compassion which I kept from eating us.”
“Coppelia, you frightened them away with sticks.”
“Exactly. Sticks thrown using opposable thumbs which cats lack. And that means they know where they are on the food tree. They’re gonna stay here where it’s safe, waiting for the dumb humans to come fetch them like they always do, even though cats do nothing but hiss and scratch at them.”
I gave a cautious nod … all the while leaning further away.
“Yes, well, I’m glad you agree. We’ve no need to lift a finger to rescue them.”
“Mmh~ but even so, aren’t you willingly leaving gold on the table?”
“Excuse me?”
“I bet every cat has a poster somewhere up in the Adventurer’s Guild. That’s a whole bunch of change you’re leaving lying around that could be used for our apple strudel budget.”
I was aghast.
Not only at the suggestion our funds went entirely towards the apple strudels she ate before I could even touch them … but also because I knew exactly what Coppelia was doing!
My keen eyes could see through her deep subterfuge!
True, it was only prudent to ensure our personal finances were as secure as possible … but even so!
I had my pride!
In my darkest dreams, I still recalled the shame of rescuing a warehouse of cats in Trierport! There was no scenario in which I’d willingly suffer such humiliation again! Once my dignity was stripped, what was I, but a beautiful maiden without equal?
Indeed, I had no doubt in my mind!
I, Juliette Contzen, 3rd Princess to the Kingdom of Tirea, would absolutely not resort to saving lost cats!
“The Adventurer’s Guild will never be happier,” said Coppelia brightly. “I bet that in less than a day, a literal army of adventurers will be swooping in to claim all the free cats for themselves. They’ll be everywhere. Literally everywhere. Productivity will be at its highest. You’ll be actively supporting the livelihoods of all those guys you see drinking themselves into a coma!”
Renise blinked, then looked at me with an expression filled with new warmth.
“Oh, I see! You intend to leave these cats behind to be collected by new adventurers. That’s very thoughtful of you. I understand now. This must be how high-ranked adventurers help their juniors progress and gain confidence in their skills.”
Renise filled the ensuing silence with her smile.
And then–
She slowly waved a hand in front of my face.
“... Miss Coppelia, why isn’t she responding?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. Her cogs get stuck every now and again.”
“I see … ? Should we do something or … ?”
“Mmh~ I’ll scoop up the striped ones! You get the normal ones!”
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My cousin stayed over one night and fell asleep with his phone unlocked,being nosey I snooped..and apparently he has this REALLY extreme foot fetish and humiliation kink.he had 1000’s of foot pictures and videos of so many girls degrading him with their feet going back to 2017!but the freakiest thing was the fact that he has also been buying content from cousins and girls from our city!!theres 10-15 girls’ feet I saw that were his cousins. In his messages and socials he contacts them and these girls regularly for feet content…he seems to be way deep into a findom foot lifestyle, it’s weird because it seems like a few of the girls and cousins may know it’s him sending them money. Should I let these girls,especially his cousins know that it’s really him doing this for their feet pictures? I need advice

Previous case
We're back to business as usual at Orion. Sort of. I'll get into that in a minute. But first, I just need to put it out there that sometimes the clients drive me nuts. As much as I have an apparently irresistible desire to help everyone, some people really push it. Push it right off of a fucking cliff, that is.
I’m going to stop myself before I go off on an unhinged rant about the woes of dealing with the public. Instead, I’ll let yinz see for yourselves what I've been putting up with.
(If you're not familiar with what Orion Pest Control's services are, it may help to start here.)
We received a call from a client about mosquitoes running amok in her home. Since we had a few others to take care of that day, I informed her that the earliest that one of us could investigate the matter was in the afternoon. But because this woman is clearly so much more important than everyone else, her royal highness threw a hissy fit about having to wait like a common peasant.
I tried to be as nice as possible, “Ma’am, I understand that it’s frustrating, but there are others that called ahead of you, so we have to take care of their problems before we can take care of yours.”
The client huffed, “Okay, you clearly aren’t hearing me. There are mosquitoes in my house!”
“Yes, ma’am, I heard you. However, you are not our only client, so we ask that you please be patient and we will be there as soon as we can.”
I should also mention that this client talked out of the back of her nose, if that helps to paint a picture of how her cadence was equally as grating as her personality. “Okay, but do those people have mosquitoes? Like in their house, biting them and their kid over and over? My son could have Zika virus right now!”
Jesus Fucking Christ. I rubbed my temple with my free hand as I did my damndest to keep my customer service persona in place, “Again, ma’am, I understand that this is frustrating, but we have a wasp infestation and termites to deal with before you and those families want their kids to be safe, just like you. In the meantime, I recommend wearing bug spray or burning a citronella candle until we can get to you. We will be there as soon as we can.”
“You better be! And you really need to work on your customer service, sweetie!”
The client hung up on me.
I had to pace around the office after that one. Sweetie? Shove it up your ass, you entitled, snotty… You know what? Nevermind. I have many words to describe clients like that and none of them are pleasant. I hoped that she’d get mosquito bites in all of the most private areas of her anatomy.
It probably didn't help that I was saddled with some bitterness after the ‘dogging’ incident. I knew that there wasn't anything I could do about the mechanic other than stay out of his way going forward. And boy, did that eat me up.
On that note, I know what the mechanic is, however, even whispering the official title of these Neighbors is enough to draw them to you. I'm not sure if writing it counts and I'm not about to find that out the hard way.
Just know that if you hear wings beating from the west at night, hide and pray that you'll be passed by. Placing a line of salt on all of the doors and windows facing the west keeps them from coming inside. Once they set their sights on you, they'll never stop hunting you. Even death itself fears them. You'll still be running long after your heart stops beating.
But I promise, I’ll elaborate more on that later. I’m getting ahead of myself. Back to the case.
Reyna was at the point in her training where she could be trusted to deal with termites on her own. After I had the wasp nests taken care of, I set out to her royal highness’ home, and earlier than I’d told her, might I add. I will admit that I was tempted to dally a bit just to piss her off, but then I figured that it would be better and more professional to just get it over with.
She looked exactly like how I pictured her to look, complete with a weasley sneer that only the most unlikable of human beings are able to master.
“It’s about time.” She snapped.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Where have you noticed the mosquitoes the most?”
“Everywhere.” She said unhelpfully,
Her husband stepped in. “In the kitchen and basement, mostly.”
To make this call even better, the husband decided to take it upon himself to follow me around as I did my inspection, asking me pointless questions and giving me advice that I didn't ask for.
It got to a point where his hot breath wheezed into my ear as I shined my flashlight under their sink.
Stiffly, but politely, I asked, “Sir, can you please keep your distance?”
His wife chipped in, “Will you let her do her job, Curtis? It took her long enough to get here, and if you keep pestering her, it's going to take even longer!”
The husband puffed up and snapped, “Well, it's my house! I need to know that the person working in it knows what they're doing!”
They began screaming at each other. As obnoxious and uncomfortable as it was to have to bear witness to it, at least they weren't focused on me anymore. I shook my head and kept searching for the source of the infestation.
What I was looking for was standing water, which is essential for a mosquito's life cycle; you eliminate the standing water, you eliminate the infestation. The space beneath the sink was completely dry.
With the argument going on, I almost didn't hear it. An odd little sound. The easiest way to describe it was that it sounded like, ‘Kudo! Kudo!’
My head turned to follow it. That's when I noticed that one of the floorboards was slightly raised up from the rest.
I interrupted their marital problems, “You said that your son was sick earlier? Would he happen to have chills and a high fever?”
The client spat, “Yes, because some people-”
Not in the mood for her nonsense anymore, I cut in, “Ma'am, please just answer the question. I am trying to help you, I really am, but I'm going to need some more information in order to do that.”
She looked taken aback, her face bright red. While she balked, her husband answered instead, “Our son said he was feeling under the weather, but he does that whenever he wants to get out of something. You know how kids are.”
Good lord. Parents of the year.
“Have you noticed your salt going missing?”
The wife blinked at me, “How did you know that?”
I told them that I'd be right back and went to retrieve a cage from the truck. This critter is an odd one in that not only is salt not a suitable repellent for it, but it actually loves the stuff. It can consume as much as ten grams of salt per day. So if you find that the salt in your home has gone missing, it could mean that a False Egg has made a nest.
I returned with the cage and advised the couple to either move into another room or wait outside. Would it surprise yinz when I say that they refused? Not in the mood to argue, I just shrugged. Okay. Suit yourselves.
I set the cage up next to the lifted floorboard, took my salt off of my toolbelt, and sprinkled some inside the cage. It would placate the False Egg once I got it inside.
Using my knife, I pried the floorboard up. From behind me, the husband began to protest, but his wife snapped at him to keep still.
Meanwhile, my eyes met the beady gaze of a False Egg from where it hid under their floorboard.
At first glance, it looks like a white chicken's egg. If consumed, it causes the host to lay more False Eggs. That's how it reproduces. The telltale signs that you're looking at a False Egg include two dark spots on the shell near the pointed top of the ovoid. Those are the eyes, which they can leave closed to camouflage themselves. You may also notice two small holes at the bottom of the shell, which is where its legs can retract in and out. Mosquitoes follow False Eggs wherever they nest, though it's unclear why.
Generally, they're more of an annoyance than anything. However, they can cause flu-like symptoms in those that they feel threatened by, so they do pose a slight danger to those with compromised immune systems.
To my surprise, the False Egg leapt out of its nest and into the cage, tucking its legs back into its shell comfortably. Even though it didn't seem to have any intentions of moving, I quickly shut the door of its cage.
For the first time since I arrived, the clients were speechless. The woman had a hand over her open mouth while the man stared at the False Egg in a mixture of horror and disgust.
It wasn't until I stood up with the cage that the man asked, “What the hell is that?”
“The source of the infestation.” I replied. “I’ll take this guy out to the truck. The mosquitoes should follow him, but just to be sure, I'm going to ask that you all leave the house for a few hours so that I can apply a chemical treatment that'll kill off any stragglers. And your son’s condition should improve in a day or two.”
The couple didn't give me any trouble. They quietly collected their sick teenaged son, saying something about getting ice cream, then fucked off to do whatever while I dealt with the rest of the mosquitoes.
Once I was done, I drove off to release the False Egg somewhere where it could complete its life cycle away from humans. It is able to reproduce in any mammal. While forcing other organisms to lay eggs is bizarre and can be alarming for the affected individual, it doesn't appear to hurt the hosts, other than causing some mild abdominal discomfort. Once the False Egg is laid, the host goes back to normal, which is why we generally don't feel the need to kill them.
Unexpectedly, the False Egg talked to me.
It had a small, soft, mousy voice. “Thanks for getting me out of there.”
I glanced at the False Egg. I had its cage on the passenger's seat. Its eyes were visible, along with its little white legs as it sat on the bottom of its cage. It looked up at me as it wiggled its small feet absent-mindedly.
Whenever it spoke, a small crack that resembled a toothy mouth appeared in its shell. That was something to add to our records: not only are False Eggs capable of speech, but their mouths are located below their eye spots.
Stunned, I said, “You're welcome.”
The False Egg continued, “Oh, those humans are vile! I hadn't realized it when I first made my nest. Do you want to know why I made the boy sick?”
“Why?”
So that's how I learned every aspect of this family's lives. I'm sure yinz care even less than I do about some suburbanites’ interfamily drama, so I'll just say that it wasn't bad enough to warrant a call to social services, but enough that I can see why that kid probably couldn't wait to turn 18. Overbearing mother, father trying to use his son to relive his glory days as a high school athlete. The False Egg had done the boy a solid, giving him just enough of a fever to excuse him from lacrosse tryouts.
“Where are we going?” The False Egg asked after telling me all that information that I didn't know what to do with.
“Back to the forest.”
The False Egg kept swinging its little feet, “Can you take me somewhere nice? If it's not any trouble?”
Why not? Maybe some scenery would improve my mood.
So me and my little egg buddy took a little drive to the pond. It was a picturesque area as well as a nice environment for a False Egg. They prefer caves, but as long as they're near water, they'll be fine. When I opened its cage, the False Egg hopped out, its little eyes and shelled body swiveling to take in the peaceful sight.
“Oh, this is wonderful! Thank you!” Before it skipped off, it paused. “I think it would only be right if I told you something that could help, since you brought me here.”
It turned, its shell splitting to form a mouth as it hesitated before speaking, “If you hear whispers in the woods, even if it sounds like someone you care about, don't listen. The louder they are, the safer you are. They get quieter as they get closer to confuse you.”
Hold on. That didn't make any sense. The whispers had gotten louder and more urgent as I approached the mechanic's clearing.
Unless I was wrong and he wasn't the one doing it.
I asked, “Is the whispering thing disguising itself as a mechanic?”
The False Egg tilted to the side thoughtfully, “I'm afraid not. It doesn’t like to pretend to be human.”
So there was something else out there with me when I went looking for Victor. I remembered then that the whispers had stopped once I got close to the mechanic's clearing. When I unintentionally allowed them to lead me astray, they took me in the opposite direction of where he'd been waiting. Interesting.
With the False Egg wandering off to establish a new nest that was far away from humans, I headed back to the office, unsure of how to feel about the information it had given me.
Victor looked annoyed when I came in. The clients had called to complain about my ‘poor customer service.’ Wow. Okay.
“Next time, just leave the False Egg there.” Victor said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “They want to complain about poor customer service? We can show them bad service!”
“It's fine, Vic.” I replied. “Just let them leave their one star Google review and move on.”
“These fucking people…” He grumbled.
Victor's headspace hasn't been much better than mine. He's been pretty much stuck waiting by the phone for those ominous calls that the mechanic mentioned in the woods. They don't happen often, but when they do, he gets grim. Quiet. He hasn't told me in detail what has been requested of him. I don't know if he simply doesn't want to talk about it or if he's sworn to secrecy.
We'd had a long, uncomfortable talk during one of my days off while recovering from getting dogged. Victor stopped by with coffee and a box of donut holes. He drank the coffee, but left the donut holes untouched. We sat in my small kitchen, him staring intently into his black coffee, me quietly adding more sugar to my mocha.
I broke the silence. “What did you want me to see the other day?”
“I couldn't outright tell anyone that I was dead. Not without the mechanic finding out.” He continued after some hesitation. “It feels selfish saying it now, but… I just wanted someone to know what happened to me.”
Victor pulled the bandana aside with a finger, revealing that a jagged, red grin had been carved across his throat. I shuddered, being forcefully reminded once again how thin skin truly is.
He quickly pulled it back into place.
That prompted me to ask, “Is the mechanic the one that…?” I pointed to my neck.
Victor shook his head. I asked him who did.
His expression darkened, “Someone I used to use with. He didn't believe me when I told him that I was still clean and couldn't help him get his next hit. Everything happened so fast after that. Before I knew it, I woke up in his trunk. My chest felt empty. It's strange, you know? You don't notice your own heartbeat until it's not there anymore.”
I shook my head slowly, a knot in my stomach as I whispered, “Jesus, Vic. Where is he now?”
“He can't hurt anyone else. We'll leave it at that.” Victor muttered.
I took in a shaky breath. I couldn't believe that he'd been keeping all of this in. It was a lot to take in at once, so I could only imagine how much worse it was to be the one experiencing it.
Like I said, I don't blame him for what happened. He must've felt so alone.
After I regained my composure, I asked, “So… what does the mechanic have to do with this?”
Victor hesitated again, eventually saying, “He couldn't touch me while I was alive, so he made sure that death couldn’t get to me before he could. That's why I was trying to keep my condition quiet; I was hoping that I could outlast him long enough for the Reaper to catch up. Unfortunately, the fucker is good at what he does and knew that I’d drag someone else into my bullshit eventually.”
I shook my head, “I dragged myself into it. I could've just minded my own business, but I didn't. I chose to go out there, even though I didn't know what I was dealing with. And I chose to say the wrong thing to the mechanic to set him off.”
“You wouldn't have been in that position if I hadn't said anything.”
“So what happens now? You're just… forced to do these calls?”
Victor sighed, “It's either that, or I join the ones in the trees.”
The skulls. Grimly, I wondered if those trapped souls were still aware. If they knew what had happened to them.
I slumped down in my seat. “Is there anything we can do?”
“As of right now, no. We just go to work, keep our heads down, do what we have to do. And from now on, I'll deal with the mechanic, even if it's for something as trivial as changing a tire. He's my problem, no one else's.”
So that's where we're at. Victor's technically not alive or dead, but a secret third, worse thing.
Speaking of worse things, we got an emergency call in the middle of the night.
After we close for the day, Victor routes calls to his phone in case there is something that can't wait until the next day. Thankfully, this is an extremely rare occurrence; up until this incident, it's only happened twice since I've been with Orion. I joined Victor for one of those two emergency calls. Even though it's been two years since that night, I still hear the crunching of bones in my dreams.
Something yinz need to know about the farmers around here is that they know how to take care of themselves. They have more encounters with the atypical than anyone else and for the most part, they know how to live amongst things like the Neighbors in relative peace. They know about leaving cream out to appease them. They know about what measures to take to defend themselves and their animals. They're a tough bunch and they usually prefer to take care of things themselves. It's highly unusual for them to reach out to us.
So when Victor told me over the phone that the emergency call was at one of the farms, I knew it was going to be bad.
When he first described what the farmers were contending with, my stomach dropped. The client's brother was found on the porch with his chest entirely deflated, deliberately placed into a chair that was moved in front of the door where the family could see him.
The farmers were holed up in their home. The woman of the house was pregnant, due within the next few days, which made moving her extremely difficult. They could hear whatever killed the brother giggling and tapping on the windows, mocking them. Victor was already on his way there.
I arrived with my toolbelt along with a shotgun and shells filled with rock salt. This may sound ridiculous, but I also donned a collar that I'd made last summer by hammering long ass carpenter nails into the leather, then coating their pointed tips with silver. I looked a bit like a goth club reject, but when dealing with things that like to go for the throat, you gotta put your pride aside.
Victor's truck was in the driveway, but he was nowhere in sight. Shotgun at the ready, I glanced around as I approached the house. The body was still on the porch, untouched after the poor man had been posed there. It looked far worse than what Victor had described. His chest had caved in, like everything inside of him had been sucked clean out. His face was frozen in surprise rather than horror or pain. He'd been caught off guard and was dead long before he could react.
Wings. I turned, pulling the trigger just in time as the pest tormenting this family dove at me. It tumbled to the ground with an enraged shriek.
It appeared to be a woman. Well… half of one. Her legs were gone, brown entrails dangling sickeningly from her gray torso. Her leathery, hooked wings trembled as she used her bony arms to raise herself up to snarl at me, curling her lips to reveal doglike fangs. I shot at her again. She jolted as the shell took a chunk out of her skull.
That wouldn't kill her. Both her and I knew it. She skittered like a cockroach, an elongated tongue shooting out of her mouth, quick as a whip. I flinched, turning my head so she couldn't reach my face, grateful for the collar as I felt the proboscis slam into its spikes. The impact knocked me off balance, causing me to stumble. I leaned into it, hitting the ground and out of reach of the next swipe of her tongue.
I took aim again, knocking her back a few feet. A dark shape suddenly appeared from the barn, a glint of metal shining in the figure’s hand. Victor.
“I can't find the lower half.” He hissed when I was in earshot.
That meant we were going to have to keep her from rejoining the lower half of her body until sunrise. It was three in the morning.
Because nothing can ever be easy.
Victor had found chains and a padlock in the barn. They should be heavy enough to restrain her. We’d just have to get close. Without her sucking our insides out, preferably.
She was back in the air. I took another shot. I'd have to reload soon. I hoped that I'd have enough shells to last the next two hours. At the rate I was going, I'd burn through them in the next ten minutes.
Unfortunately, I missed as she soared towards the house. I used my last shot and thankfully knocked her out of the air. As I hurriedly reloaded, Victor rushed towards the fallen creature, kneeling on her chest to keep her from taking off again as he fought to get the chain around her.
I heard him make a terrible choking sound, followed by her retching. She'd gotten her proboscis down his throat, but had withdrawn it even quicker than she had gotten it down. I guess undead viscera doesn't taste very good.
As she gagged, Victor pressed his forearm against her throat, pinning her so that she couldn't sink her fangs into him. I raced over, setting the shotgun on the ground next to me so that I could help him restrain her. While he held her, I coiled the chain around her squirming torso.
She began to laugh. When she spoke, it sounded like an old woman and a young girl speaking in unison, “Do you think a chain will be enough to stop me?”
I kept going. She wiggled one wing out from beneath her, jabbing the hook into the hollow of my shoulder. I gasped as it pressed deeper into my skin. Victor roughly pushed her wing back down, the violent withdrawal of the hook making me see stars. Through all of that, I still kept going.
We turned her onto her side so that Victor could pin her wings against her back. She screeched the entire time, the proboscis shooting back to slap him in the cheek.
We almost had her. Then we heard a wail from inside the house. What now?!
The pest abruptly paused in her struggles to leer at us, then she sang, “The baby's coming!”
You've got to be kidding me.
Her fighting resumed with far more force than before. That man that she'd killed had merely been an appetizer for her. The baby was her true prize. Her eyes were wild with excitement, saliva dripping off of her fangs as she watched the front door open.
Shitshitshit!
“Go back inside!” Victor shouted as we both used all that we had to try to keep the pest in place.
The farmer yelled back, distress making his voice higher, “Something's wrong! I have to get her to the hospital!”
I risked a glance. The woman was white as a sheet, holding onto her husband for dear life as he half led half dragged her to his truck. Blood stained the inside of the woman's legs.
At the sight of it, Victor froze. I didn't like the way he looked at the woman then. Oh no. The creature went into a complete frenzy. She managed to get her fangs into Victor's arm, wrenching a cry of agony from him as she ripped a sizable chunk of flesh out. His hold on her loosened just enough that she could wriggle a wing out.
I screamed as I felt her beginning to slip away, frantically reaching for the nearest part of her, which was unfortunately her dangling intestines. It was like trying to hold onto oversized wet noodles, my hands slipping in her chunky blood as I struggled to slow her down.
They just needed to reach the truck. We just had to keep her here just long enough for them to get a head start.
I just hoped that I wouldn't end up having to protect them from my boss, too.
She roared as she turned and slashed me across the brow with one of her clawed fingers. My vision went dark in my right eye. Numbly, I wondered if she ripped my eye out, or if it was just from the pain. By some miracle, I didn't let go.
Fortunately, the bite seemed to snap Victor out of whatever had happened to him when he saw the woman’s blood. At least for the moment. He scrambled across the ground, seizing my shotgun. His first shot missed. The second one hit her left wing. The farmer had the truck's passenger side door open as he helped his wife inside. The pest reached a talon towards them, trying to drag herself closer. Victor was back on his feet and marched over to shoot her in the head. Once. Twice.
The truck's engine roared to life. With it, the pest screeched in rage, the sound warped by the damage done to her mouth after Victor had unloaded on her. She flailed as she watched her prize speed down the road.
But it wasn't over. The gunshot wound in her wing was already closing up. It wouldn't take her long to catch up to them if we lost her.
My cheek was wet. Turns out, I didn't lose an eye. I just had blood in it. Thank God. I crawled over her, trying the chains again as Victor went back to holding her wings against her body.
She called him every foul name in the book, words slurring from her destroyed jaw. One of them touched a nerve: “Bitch of the Wild Hunt.” He wordlessly snatched the salt from my belt and poured it over her face, holding her jaw to shove the container into her mouth. She gurgled and started to convulse as the salt was forced down her throat. That shut her up.
With the chain pinning her arms and wings against her body, Victor dug the padlock out of his pocket, using it to secure the links.
“I’m going to try to get her to the barn.” He yelled over the sound of her agitated howls.
I retrieved the shotgun and followed him as he carried the squirming, shrieking pest towards the barn. I pressed the palm of my hand to the cut on my brow. A flutter of unease went through my gut as it occurred to me that I could be in danger from Victor as well.
It didn't help that the pest had noticed it, too. She was goading him, “That girl smells sweet, doesn't she?”
“You want more salt in your mouth?” He threatened flatly. “We got plenty and we have some time until sunrise.”
She cackled, “You can't tell me that your mouth isn't watering thinking of her soft flesh between your teeth. Her blood warming your tongue. You long to feel warm again, don't you, dead man?”
The borderline pornographic way that she spoke about devouring me made me intensely uncomfortable.
“Keep it up and I'll pack the salt up your nose, too.” Victor retorted.
Once we got to the barn, we found an empty stall, which he tossed her into. I didn't follow him into the stall. My gut was telling me that something was off.
He drew a circle of salt around her. As long as it wasn't broken, it would trap her until sunrise.
I didn't think the boss would ever intentionally hurt me. But the way he looked at that woman…
What if he couldn't control himself?
Victor shut the stall door behind him, leaving the pest to wail and swear at us from her prison.
His eyes went to my forehead, “That looks like it hurts.”
I swallowed back the lump in my throat. There it was again. That look.
“Stay back, Vic.” I said calmly, my unease growing.
He took a deep breath, his eyes closing. I took a small step away from him, towards the exit to the barn.
I kept my voice even, “Vic, be honest with me. Is it safe to be around you right now?”
Victor stayed where he was, still not looking at me. He eventually answered, “Probably not.”
I took another step towards the door. “I'm going to leave.”
He nodded, eyes still shut, “I think that would be best. I'll make sure that she stays in the stall.”
As I backed towards the door, afraid to turn my back on him, I said, “I'll uh… see you at work tomorrow.”
“Yeah. See ya.”
I didn't dare turn my back on him until I'd left the barn. He didn't move a muscle the entire time. As I made my way back to my G6, I kept looking over my shoulder. Victor didn't follow me. I made it back to my car without incident.
I thought back to when I'd found him in the butcher shed. Looking back, I'm pretty sure that he'd been eating it.
Once I was in my apartment, I quickly drew lines of salt in front of all my doors and windows. It made me feel somewhat safer. I inspected the injuries on my forehead and shoulder. After cleaning them both up, I determined that I should probably see a doctor in the morning. In the meantime, I covered them both with gauze.
I painfully settled down onto my bed, my entire body aching. Even though I felt like a dish towel that had been wrung out over and over again, I knew that I wasn't going to be getting much sleep. My mind was racing too much.
Against my better judgment, I ended up texting Victor, ‘Are you a draugr?’
His response was, ‘i think so’
Draugr are known for their grotesque appetites. The joke Reyna and I had been making about him being a ‘high-functioning zombie’ wasn't all that far off, after all.
I reminded myself that Victor wasn't a complete monster. He'd at least had enough control over himself not to hurt me or either of the farmers. But the temptation had clearly been there. That begged the question of what his limits were.
Was it safe to work with him? Injuries aren't exactly uncommon at Orion. Maybe that's why he's been sending Reyna and I together for two person jobs rather than going on calls with us.
I received another message from him, ‘if you want to quit I understand’
I didn't, though. As stressful as working here can be, I do enjoy my job, weirdly enough. I've been treated better here than by any other employer and I like having only two other coworkers to worry about, especially since I get along well with both of them. But the biggest reason why quitting hasn't occurred to me is that I wouldn't be able to just walk away from all that I'd learned about the atypical cases. There was no way I could live a normal life after working at Orion.
I also wanted to keep an eye on Victor. Between whatever the mechanic was forcing him to do and his transformation, there was a lot that I was concerned about. As much as I didn't want to think about having to trap or kill Victor, if it came down to it... I'd do what needed to be done.
I sent back, ‘hazard pay? 👀’
His reply was, ‘😒’
A moment later, I received, ‘we'll discuss it when I don't have a manananggal mf'ing me’
Yinz see why I kept calling her a ‘pest’ rather than trying to type that long name out each time? I guarantee I would have misspelled it several different ways.
When the sun rose, I received another message from Victor, ‘it's over. thanks for your help’
We found out later in the afternoon that the hospital had been able to save the farmers’ baby. She was going to have to stay longer in the hospital, but otherwise, she and their newborn daughter were alright.
What was alarming was that the dead man's body had been desecrated at some point after I left. It was believed that the pest had been the one to take chunks out of his neck, shoulder, and chest. I wasn't going to be the one to tell the family the truth. They'd been through enough already without the news that the one they'd relied on for protection had gotten hungry.
I wondered if being exposed to so much blood had been the trigger. I suppose I should just be glad that Victor had eaten a man who was already dead instead of me or another living person.
Like I said, I'm going to have to keep an eye on him. In the meantime… maybe don't demand to speak to the manager.

In this dream i went to a past I never saw or recalled but the place I saw was a playground it was just dark I’ve seen this place before in an older dream but nothing was weird about it but now I’ve seen myself as a child chatting to my uncle my mom and dad laughing then im on the bed with my mom and dad holding a phone and getting into an app that just shows me some random pictures its all dark so I don’t recall anything but i heard my younger brothers voice tickling my feet and running away and something trying to take over me grasping me i was aware that im in a dream im trying to say اعوذ بالله من الشيطآن الرجيم then i hear my brother asking my sister if she will be ok if i say ‎ اعوذ بالله من الشيطآن الرجيم i try to open my eyes it took me a lot just to wake up i was lying on the bed just looking around for 10 minutes I don’t know what is this and why can anyone help me I know I sound weird but this is what I saw

Zack didn’t know why, but the hair on the back of his neck stood on end at the sight of his door knob. The eerieness of his near-empty room left a pit in his stomach and in seeing the doorknob that he hadn’t seen for years, suddenly jolted hidden or repressed memories of his youth. Times he would run from his bullies in the foster home Zack once lived in, now, this old building is being condemned and due to be demolished tomorrow. Zack can’t look away from the doorknob, the rust-covered bulb reminded him of his old life as a foster kid and being more of an outcast with the other kids in this house, Fists and insults would fly freely towards Zack daily, none more willing to be Zacks number one bully, Donny. Zack feels the palms of his hands start to sweat and the air around him completely conceals Zack in a fog of forgotten moments in his life here that he long wished had never come back. Hurtful moments… terrible moments…moments in this very room that Zack was slowly reliving in his mind, yet it felt as if it was happening in front of him. Beads of cold sweat stink Zack's eyes, forcing his eyes closed and rubbing them to help with the sting, to no avail. Zack didn’t feel like himself in this room, this place is as a time capsule for Zack. He was only holding terrible anxiety that had recently just been unearthed inside Zack and bringing with it, a long-buried trauma that Zack was not ready for.
The room itself felt darker to Zack and his eyelids fluttered to adjust to the new dim surroundings, A small beam of light broke through a crevice between some wooden planks blocking out most light from outside. The shaft lands solely on the doorknob, the old rustic metal seems to not exist and shines abnormally bright from the beam of light; Zack covers his eyes from the sudden flash and when looking about finds the room back to its original state all those years ago. “No this can’t be right” Zack rubs his eyes and looks back around to only see the room still as it was back then. Zack hears sounds that haven’t been heard around here for a long time, kids playing outside in the backyard. Zack walks slowly, very curious and at the same time nervous, not fulling understanding what is happening now. Looking through the window that was just covered in old wooden planks that were nailed shut, were now clear of all obstacles, revealing the source of the noise. Showing kids he remembered back when he was a kid here. All of them playing and yet he’d also be up here, away from the other kids, away from the insults and shame that the kids always brought for Zack. Zack gets a swift memory jolt again and remembers this day, he was standing right here when he saw Donny and his group of twerp friends messing around the yard as the others just tried to have fun playing kid games. Donny had his eye on the one person who showed Zack kindness here; Clair was tending to her patch of sunflowers she had been looking after ever since she came here. The boys around Donny watched as she watered them, all by herself, Donny took this opening to make his move on her. I couldn’t hear what was said, but it didn’t look like she was interested in his offer, this made Donny mad and his friends chuckled at his sudden rejection and fueled his anger more. She then got up and waved them all goodbye as she turned back and looked up at the window I was standing at. She then smiles and waves at Zack, but Zack gets confused and waves back at the past through the window. Donny huffs and looks up to the window as well and stares hate-filled daggers at me. Even a pre-teen that was the bane of my life here can still drive a familiar chill down Zack’s spine as Zack quickly drops his hand behind him and is frozen in fear.
The room is back to the eerie silence as before and the darkness creeps around Zack again as he backs up from the window slowly. Zack steps against the wooden floorboards don’t make a single sound, the cold sweat returns, falling from his forehead onto the dusty, dry wood under his feet, Zack wipes his forehead with a trembling hand and moves his gaze toward the door, thinking he needs to leave this room immediately but in reaching for the doorknob, it refused to turn, it was as if it was merely a prop, not turn even possible to turn it at all.”Oh no…what is going on with this door” Zack began to the knob hard and struggle with it, to no success, and Zack's annoyance, he took a second to calm himself and closed his eyes, and breathed in slowly. As it began to take effect and Zack’s heart returned to a normal rhythm, bangs from the door and the knob violently turned left and right. Zack jumped at the sudden crashing on the door, the banging and twisting of the doorknob Zack didn’t know what to do, just then A smaller hand reached out and held his trembling hand as the calming voice of a bygone friend to Zack heard; “It’s ok Zack” the phantom voice whispered in his ear, the violent crashing and splintering of the door in front of him sounded so muffed from the smooth, tunes of the voice, that it almost seemed nonexistent at the moment.” Donny likes to play rough Zack but I won’t let him pick on you anymore, ok”. Zack felt a warm sensation on his left cheek and even though he felt a hand in his, he was all alone in the room, the door was at the moment of burst but stopped as the room grew dark and still. The feeling of a friendly presence was gone and Zack felt the horror that he had always known his whole life.
The feeling of being utterly alone, and with the sense covering him like a thick weighted blanket, his eyes look again to the door knob. The single light beam falls back into sight of Zack, bringing him back to the present, the darkness engulfing Zack, matching the despair that covers him. Zack takes a moment to regain himself and steady his rapid heart rate before he is fit. The silence of the room was helpful for Zack to focus on slowing the pounding against his rib cage, The sudden rush of his rash past was something he was not thinking would be an issue, yet here he was, nearly having a panic attack in his old foster room. Zack’s eyes are closed, breathing in slowly through the nose and out the mouth. The Silence is then shattered by the sound of the rustic doorknob violently twisting left and right as if someone on the other side was trying their hardest to get the door open. Zack jumps at the sudden old doorknob twist in such a manner, and knowing that he is the only one left in this building, gives Zack pause to go towards the door in the first place. The doorknob popped and grind against itself on the turns Zack felt the person might just rip the worn knob off the door entirely. Zack’s mind wanted to reach out for the vibrating doorknob, yet he found his feet moving on their own, moving back slowly from the door.
A golf ball-sized lump of fear sat in the back of Zack’s throat; His fear of coming not just from the crazy moving doorknob, but now the voices Zack remembers hearing at a younger age. When running from Donny and locking the doorknob, holding back my tears, and shaking behind a closet door. Donny would beat on the door and nearly a few times rip the doorknob off the door of the room itself. One night Zack was talking with Clair and felt a tear come down his cheek, She knew Donny was the one behind all my troubles and had had her misdealings with his consent pursuits since we got around our teens, but she remained ever so kind to Zack.
Zack swallows that lump down his throat and whence at the door to the closest repeatedly banging and the doorknob loosening from the screws at this point, Zack decides to reach for the door and open it. Maybe it was blind fear, or maybe Zack decided to overcome whatever this place’s hold had of him and may still have. Zack's hands trembled as he reached a tentative hand towards the closest door and with each step a glimpse of a forgotten tragedy began to form inside Zack’s mind, images that flashed like a long picture book of some well-drawn sketch. Right footsteps first, as the moment of Clair and Zack hugging one another as young adults now, Zack had a bruise under his right eye and Clair was putting ice and tending to him. Something else was happening there. A second step; Clair and Zack's hands touched and a spark was ignited that was set the moment they first met. Zack returns with a light cruise of Clair's cheek and then they both share a lover's kiss, until now as Zack has this remembrance does he now know that Donny was watching this from outside through the window above that we proudly sat at and the kiss was on display. Only Donny was the only one there to see and he was not happy at all. Rage filled his eyes not because Clair wasn’t with him, but because she chose Zack over him. The third step and another, were the times after Zack felt happiest in the arms of Clair and she was happy in his. Just then a violent slam from Donny to the door to the room swung open with such force the shock of the noise scared Clair and Zack, Donny stood in that doorway with fire in his eyes and still…very still.
Zack feels the tips of his fingers reach the jerking doorknob and can’t understand the feeling that has overcome him here, but he is compelled to see this to the end. A final step and Zack places a hand on the knob and grips it, expecting the shake in his hand. No such thing, the door stopped pounding and the knob ceased its upheaval at Zack’s touch. Zack takes a huge breath and turns the doorknob. Nothing…No sound. No light. Empty and damp, say for a metal hook on the center back wall, stained with old, dry blood. Zack looks at it as if he can see it through the pitch black of the closet, then a hand grasps hold of Zack’s, and Zack gets a feeling of a female next to him but can’t see, any words or sounds of any kind yet Zack can’t help but see the hook and think back, back to that last moment with Clair, the kiss and the rage of Donny’s pain reaching us here. Donny in a fit of blind anger grabbed Clair by the hair and kicked Zack in the chest so that it nearly crushed his ribs in one blow. Screams from Clair for Donny to slop, but Donny does not do any such thing. He pulled her with him as he shoved Zack with his kick again, hard enough to land Zack into the broom closet of the room. Zack got up and almost hit his head on the jagged metal hook. Clair scratches Donny good in the face and Donny, In the attack Donny throws Clair from his grip, and Clair trips over lifted out of the rug, and crashes through the glass window facing outside. Zack and Donny are in a moment of frozen shock as the lifeless body of Clair lies mangled from the fall and the glass cutting her Donny then turns to Zack and tries to close the closet door on Zack and it is a struggle for both but eventually, Donny took a step back and then with a hard kick to the door, send Zack backward.
Zack is back in the dark closet and the room makes Zack feel alone and scared, like so many times before. A single tear forms and before it falls, a soft hand, gently wipes it away.
.

Nothing official, but since we were sort of milling around it in the comments of the other post:
I'll be parking my ass at the bar at Wild East Brewing (623 Sackett) around 530 until whenever I go over to littlefield. Please feel free to find me, it's very easy -- I'm 5 feet tall, fat-drogynous, ginger, covered in tattoos, look like everyone's butch lesbo redneck auntie, socially weird but can make friends with a cactus
I'm happy to serve as a meeting point since I'm flying solo -- fair warning that I'm a relatively new fan and sort of attending this on a whim (I was supposed to be at a weird music thing in Colorado this weekend but life had other plans) so don't ask me any hard questions EDIT: but please show me pictures of your pets if you need an opener

Seven
...
In 1945, Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac were students at Columbia University and were lodging in Joan Vollmer’s apartment on West 115th Street. Kerouac, a Catholic who had gotten in on a football scholarship described Ginsberg as “this spindly Jewish kid with horn-rimmed glasses and tremendous ears sticking out…burning black eyes”; the two men had a brief, awkward affair. Their friend William Burroughs was living nearby, on Riverside Drive, and after Kerouac and Ginsberg set him up with their landlady, he moved in, too. The gaunt and lanky Burroughs was more than a decade older than Ginsberg and Kerouac, and already seemed, Ginsberg recalled, to have the “ashen gray of an old-age cheek.” The younger pair admired him, Ginsberg wrote, like “ambassadors to a Chinese emperor.” Kerouac hailed him as “the last of the Faustian men.” Burroughs returned the compliment by introducing the other members of the “libertine circle,” as they dubbed themselves, to drugs, sailors, porn, bathhouses, and Wilhelm Reich.

After leaving Harvard in 1936, Burroughs had enrolled at the University of Vienna’s medical schools, Reich’s alma mater, with vague plans of becoming a psychoanalyst, but his stay was dominated by the administration of arsenic shots for the syphilis he had contracted in America, which left him feeling nauseated and depressed. He left after a semester. Back in New York, Burroughs was analyzed by Paul Federn, who had been Reich’s first therapist but whom Reich came to consider his nemesis. Burroughs was institutionalized in 1940 after he chopped off the tip of his finger in a Van Gogh - like gesture of unrequited love (Bellevue psychiatrists diagnosed him as a paranoid schizophrenic). Burroughs’s parents gave him an allowance of two hundred dollars a month on the condition that he seek further help, and in 1946 Burroughs was undergoing narco-analysis with Dr. Lewis Wolberg, who used nitrous oxide and hypnosis to stimulated the unconscious.
Burroughs would return from his sessions with Wolberg to practice “wild analysis” on his friends, interpreting their dreams from the comfort of a wing chair. He also played a game that parodied the Reichian character analysis that he’d become interested in. The group would play an adaption of charades to facilitate the exploration of the onion layers of their personality armor. Burroughs referred to these exercises in amateur dramatics as “routines.” For example, underneath Burroughs’s public persona as the distinguished heir of an important St. Louis family lurked a prissy, lesbian English governess (“My dear, you’re just in time for tea. Don’t say those dirty words in front of everybody!”). Scratch the governess surface and you reached Old Luke, a gun-toting, tobacco-chewing sharecropper from the Deep South (“Ever gut a catfish?”). The last stratum, at his very core, held a silent Chinaman, a contemplative, impassive character who sat meditating on the banks of the Yangtse. Ginsberg’s hidden self was “the well-groomed Hungarian,” and Kerouac liked to play the naïve American lost in the sophistications of Paris.
Alfred Kinsey met Burroughs, Ginsberg, and Kerouac on one of their nocturnal trips to Time Square through their friend Herbert Huncke, the male prostitute who coined the term “beat” and introduced Burroughs to recreational drugs. Kinsey paid Huncke
Taking advantage of the proximity of Cott’s office to his father’s home, and still buzzing in the mouth, Ginsberg chose to come out during a posttherapeutic visit. “You mean you like to take men’s penises in your mouth?” his father said unsympathetically. But Cott thought homosexuality a perversion, as Reich did, and was working toward establishing heterosexual primacy rather than trying to persuade Ginsberg to come to terms with his queerness. “Frankly I won’t trust that kind of straight genital Reichian,” Burroughs wrote in disgust at this dogmatism. “Feller say, when a man gets too straight he’s just a god damned prick.”
Cott terminated Ginsberg’s therapy after three months because he continued to smoke pot against the doctor’s advice. Ginsberg though cannabis an integral part of his aesthetic education; Cott feared that it would lead to a psychotic episode. The summer he quit therapy, Ginsberg began experiencing auditory hallucinations. “It was like God had a human voice,” Ginsberg wrote of his transcendental experience, in which he discovered his calling as a poet, “with all the infinite tenderness and mortal gravity of a living Creator speaking to his son.” Consumed by a desire to share his amazing experience, Ginsberg crawled out onto his fire escape and tapped on the next-door neighbor’s windows, declaring to the two frightened girls inside, “I’ve seen God!”
His father, still reeling from the discovery of his son’s sexuality, feared that he was suffering from the paranoid schizophrenia that had caused his mother to be institutionalized in Pilgrim State, a mental hospital on Long Island. She also heard voices, feared her husband was trying to poison her, hallucinated Hitler’s mustache in the sink, and thought spies were following her. When Ginsberg entered Reichian analysis, she was reportedly banging her head against the wall so ferociously that the doctors recommended a lobotomy.
Ginsberg phoned up Dr. Cott, his former therapist, and told him, “It happened, I had some kind of breakthrough or psychotic experience.” Cott, who followed Reich in rejecting the talking cure, and who was obviously still angry at Ginsberg for choosing pot over therapy, said, “I’m afraid any discussion would have no value” and hung up on him. Soon afterward, when Ginsberg was involved in a car chase in a stolen vehicle that ended in a dramatic crash, he was encouraged by a law professor at Columbia, where he was still a student, to plead insanity. Dr. Cott appeared in court to testify to his mental instability, and two months later Ginsberg was admitted to the Columbia Presbyterian Psychiatric institute, where he stayed for eight months.
During Ginsberg’s hospitalization, Burroughs wrote to Jack Kerouac to ask him to find out from Ginsberg what the “gadget made by Reichians” looked like. “I want especially to know its shape and if there is a window, and how one gets into it.” Kerouac doesn’t seem to have been much help in providing a blueprint. Burroughs built his first accumulator in the spring of 1949 when he was living on a rented farm in Pharr, Texas, with Kells Elvins, a friend from his Harvard days. They were both enthusiastically reading Reich’s The Cancer Biopathy and decided to build an accumulator in the orange grove Kells owned in the Rio Grande Valley. Built without recourse to any plans, the resulting device included some curious innovations. “Inside was an old icebox,” Burroughs explained, “which you could get inside and pull on a contrivance so that another box of sheet steel descended over you, so that the effect was presumably heightened.” It took them a few days to construct the box. The result was eight feet high, much taller than the ones Reich manufactured: “It was a regular townhouse,” Burroughs recalled.
The pair took turns sitting in the accumulator and obtained, Burroughs wrote, “unmistakable results.” Burroughs wondered what the Mexican farm laborers thought of this strange box that they entered “wrapped in old towels,” and came out of feeling “much sexier and healthier,” “with hard-ons.” Burroughs and Kells also made one of Reich’s smaller shooter boxes, with a funnel, which they used as a supplement to the big box. Their DIY was, Burroughs admitted, “a very sloppy job,” but it still have a powerful “sexual kick.”
"I have just been reading Wilhelm Reich’s latest book The Cancer Biopathy,” Burroughs wrote excitedly to Kerouac. “I tell you Jack, he is the only man in the analysis line who is on that beam. After reading the book I built an orgone accumulator and the gimmick really works. The man is not crazy, he’s a fucking genius.” Kerouac described Burroughs enthusiastically promoting the box in On the Road (1955). According to Kerouac, Burroughs said, “Say, why don’t you fellows try my orgone accumulator? Put some juice in your bones. I always rush up and take off ninety miles an hour for the nearest whorehouse, hor-hor-hor!”
Burroughs used an orgone box on and off for the rest of his life. (There is a picture of the rock star Kurt Cobain waving through the port-hole of Burrough’s last box, a scruffy, patched-up shed that he kept in the garden behind his house in Lawrence, Kansas.) In the 1970s he wrote an article for Oui magazine entitled “All the accumulators I have owned” in which he boasted, “Your intrepid reporter, at age thirty-seven, achieved spontaneous orgasm, no hands, in an orgone accumulator built in an orange grove in Pharr, Texas. It was the small, direct-application accumulator that did the trick.”
….
Perls concluded that any positive claims for the orgone box were attributable to the placebo effect. “I invariably found a fallacy,” he said of the orgone box users he met, “a suggestibility that could be directed in any way that I wanted.” Reich, Perls thought, had made a major contribution in giving Freud’s notion of resistance a body, but he erred in trying to make a verifiable reality out of the libido. “Now resistances do exist, there is no doubt about it,” Perls explained, “but libido was and is a hypothesized energy, invented by Freud himself to explain his model of man.” He thought Reich had hypnotized himself and his patients into the belief of the existence of the orgone as the physical and visible equivalent of libido.
Perls found that users of orgone boxes usually exhibited some paranoid symptoms. “Then I had another look at the armor theory,” Perls went on, “and I realized that the idea of the armor itself was a paranoid form. It supposes an attack from, and defense against, the environment.” Perls criticized vegetotherapy for encouraging the formation of paranoid features by encouraging the patient to “externalize, disown, and project material that could be assimilated and become part of the self.” Orgone energy, Perls concluded from his investigations into the orgone box, was “an invention of Reich’s fantasy which by then had gone astray.” The realization that the Reich he had met in New York was different from the one he had known in Europe, and that orgone mysticism was at the crackpot end of science, was tinged with melancholy. “The enfant terrible of the Vienna Institute turned out to be a genius,” Perls wrote in his autobiography, “only to eclipse himself as a ‘mad scientist.’”
In his own elaboration of character analysis, which he called Gestalt therapy, Perls turned the idea of armor around: where Reich had come to see character armor as a defense against a hostile external world, Perls saw that same layer of self as a shield for one’s own true drives - a straitjacket designed to safeguard against explosions of excitement from within. Thus, it wasn’t a shell to be crushed but something integral, to be owned. (Laura Perls said they tried to convince Rosenfeld to give up his box, that he could increase his physical vitality and mental agility “entirely on his own, without external devices.”) He wanted his patients to be aware of their bodies, to feel the present vividly in the “here and now,” to be “authentic,” to act on their desires.
Perls got his patients to act out their feelings so that they could assimilate and take responsibility for them. He had originally wanted to be a theater director - he’d been a student of Max Reinhardt’s when he was growing up in Berlin, and he’d become closely associated with the avant-garde Living Theatre troupe in New York. Julian Beck, a founder of the Living Theatre, explained to Perls’s biographer, Martin Shepard, of Gestalt therapy, “[Perls] had something in mind that was halfway between the kind of performance we were doing [direct spectacle, aimed at challenging the moral complacency of the audience] and therapeutic sessions.”
“You are my client,” Perls told one female patient. “I care for you like an artist, I bring something out that is hidden in you.” He described therapy as if it were a magic trick; the rabbit he claimed to pull out of the hat was a person shorn of the “neurosis of normalcy” and all the bourgeois niceties associated with it. This person, he hypothesized, was confident enough to be selfish, to act on rather than repress all her desires, whatever the social consequences. All the energy that others wasted on repression and concealment, Perls thought, should be available for creative self-expression. Another of Perls’s patients recalled, “Fritz loved some types - open bastard-bitch - open defenses, that type. He didn’t like anyone who would placate him or be too good to him or used good-girl or good-boy defenses - that drove him up the wall.”

Perls’s views ,and some of his methods, were much indebted to those pioneered by Reich in the thirties: Perls would habitually accuse his patients of being “phony” and was deliberately aggressive, much as Reich had been with him. Yet, his observations about the paranoid deviations in Reich’s terminology and thinking were painfully perceptive, precisely because he had built on those very ideas.
In 1951, Perls, Paul Goodman, and a Columbia professor of psychology named Ralph Hefferline published Gestalt Therapy: Excitement and Growth in the Human Personality. Rewritten by Goodman, and bearing all the hallmarks of Goodman’s exasperating style, the book blends Reich’s ideas about energy blocks and flows with Sartre’s cafe philosophy to create an American brand of existentialism turned therapy. The authors intended their self-help book to provide the reader with the tools for revolution: “In recommending [these experiments] to you,” they warned of their mass-market therapy, “we commit an aggressive act aimed at your present status quo and whatever complacency it affords.” They promised immediate liberation, without the hard grind of political struggle; all you had to do was unleash your “authentic” self.
The “excitement” to which the subtitle of the book refers is a generalized libido, an elan vital that is seeking various outlets, not all of them sexual. Life, for Perls, was a series of “unfinished” or “undigested” situation, frustrations that were all waiting their turn for satisfactory closure. “After the available excitement has been fully transformed and experienced, then we have good closure, satisfaction, temporary peace and nirvana,” Perls summarized his position. “A [mere] discharge will barely bring about the feeling of exhaustion and being spent.”
It sounded very like the Reichian orgasm. But for Perls, excitement was no longer exclusively genital, as it was for Reich, and this shift only served to open up numerous other slipways to pleasure. In Reich’s view, the libido theory was an inviolable article of faith. In broadening its range to celebrate oral and anal pleasures, Perls heralded a polymorphously perverse and heretical vision - one that, ironically, would prove particularly amenable to exploitation under capitalism.
In 1952, Perls, his wife, Goodman, Isidore From, Elliott Shapiro, and two others founded the New York Institute for Gestalt Therapy, headquartered in the Perleses’ apartment and with treatment rooms at 315 Central Park West. The seven founding members met on a weekly basis for group therapy. There was no bureaucratic hierarchy and everyone, including Perls, was subject to the honest criticism that was seen as the key to self-discovery. It was a very public form of character analysis: members of the group would draw one another’s attention to every repression or hang-up, none of which was to be tolerated.
Elliot Shapiro, an ex-boxer and the head of a psychiatric school attached to Kings County Hospital in Brooklyn, brought a friend to one session; Shapiro’s friend said he “had never witnessed the aggressive and profound battling that went on in those groups. Nobody, virtually nobody, was safe at any time.” Shapiro recalled, “We hammered at each other, and hammered, and hammered - every week. And it was the most vigorous hammering you can image….If you could live through these groups and take the corrections, the insults, the remarks…” Not all the participants had sufficiently thick skins to take such brutal candor. The psychotherapist Jim Simkin left the group because he felt that everyone was “loading elephant shit on him,” as did Ralph Hefferline, a coauthor of Gestalt Therapy.
To promote this new school, Perls traveled from city to city, introducing an audience of psychiatrists, social workers, and other interested parties to his “here and now” philosophy. He taught groups in Cleveland, Detroit, Toronto, and Miami how to be sensitive to their bodily needs and to follow their impulses, to be honest and unalienated. He’d be sharp and confrontational as he pushed his awareness techniques on the participants: What are you doing now? What are you experiencing? What are you feeling? Isadore From, who was part of the original New York group, remembers that these occasions were often very dramatic, with “a lot of shaking, trembling, anxiety” - effects that he thought were the result of the audiences’ hyperventilating under the strain of Perls’s relentless goading and questioning.
The New York Institute of Gestalt Therapy also ran public seminars, including one by Goodman, “The Psychology of Sex” (“What you can’t do, teach,” he said with a laugh). Following Reich, it was thought that neurosis could be treated by exposure to sexual pleasure. Goodman made this his area of expertise and people with sexual problems were often referred to him. One was a man who was worried about the quality of his orgasms after prostate surgery. Another thought he might be homosexual; the bisexual Goodman got his penis out and demanded that the patient touch it to help him make a diagnosis. In so doing he was no doubt influenced by Hitschmann, the Viennese analyst who once asked Perls, then tormented by sexual inadequacy, to show him his penis .
In one of Goodman’s group sessions, when someone complained of the lack of sexual companionship, Goodman went around the circle and set up a week’s worth of dates. “See, that wasn’t so difficult,” he reassured her. He was not beyond offering his own neurosis-busting services to patients of either sex, and once agreed to accompany a patient who invited him on an all-expenses-paid trip to Europe. He joked about setting up a College of Sex so as to put his vast experience to educational use. “I’m a sociopath,” he wanted a potential client. In a diary entry written in 1957, Goodman looked back on the previous decade and concluded that he’s made a “false cultus-religion (an obsession)” of sex: “The sexual act itself had just about the meaning of a ritual communion sacrifice.”

My name is (let’s use Zitra) and I want to know if I’m the A hole for wanting to sue my son’s father for child support. I met my son’s dad (Ken) I was 20 years old at my job. He approached me and asked for my number. Was hesitant at first but changed my mind and agreed. He called me 3 days later and asked me out and that was how we hit it off. I asked him if he was involved with anyone, or married, he said no. I was getting lots of gut feelings about him but he kept denying that he wasn’t cheating. I lost my job and he decided that I should not work and he will take care of me. Stupid me agreed and didn’t look for a job. He told me he was gonna pay my bills but didn’t do it and decided to ghost me the day of! My roommate was kind and decided to help me pay while I looked for a job. I was always sick but didn’t know why. We were very sexually active so yea, you guessed right! I was pregnant! I reached out to him and he didn’t respond. I sent a picture of the pregnancy test and he called me. He was very apologetic and was talking about him being sick, nauseous and feeling weird for some reason but that we need to talk over lunch. I said cool but what about the situation I just brought up. He said he is not ready to be a father and that I should abort. I said I need to think about it. So I went to my roommate (Abi) and she told me to say yes I will abort but I actually wasn’t. Tell him that it will cost $1600 to pay for it but it will be for rent and some baby stuff. I agreed and told him that and he gave to me the next day. Paid for my Uber to get it done but I went there to get an official test so I could get WIC. He came asking for the paperwork later and I confessed and said I had cold feet. He got mad and told me that I had to choose between him or the baby and I chose my baby and he said “I wish you and your baby the best!” And left. Was depressed for days! 2 weeks later I get a notification on instagram that he is on IG. I click on it and behold what my eyes saw! His wife and two kids. Ken was married with two kids and never told me. I had to find out on social media! Btw I forgot to add this! We were engaged too! All that started to overwhelm me so I decided to move back in with my parents. I told them what happened and they told me that since he is married and refused to be in the child’s life , I should not breakup his marriage and leave him alone. So I haven’t heard from him ever since. Fast forward baby is about to be 2 and I was talking to my godsister and she persuaded me to press charges and sue him. Idk if I should go ahead with it but I’m leaning on the “go ahead and sue his ass” type of decision. So AITA for wanting to sue him?!

Suitable for 1 person. $2250/mo
A perfect quaint studio to live alone and have everything you need, entertain guests, and sleep well in this beautiful unit in a great area of Echo Park, LA. Approx. 300 sqft plus small loft.
High ceilings, and big windows, original half-moon windows southwest facing, lots of natural light. New white oak flooring, full kitchen and bathroom. In-unit laundry, wall unit AC and heat, stainless steel appliances including a dishwasher. Private entrance, ground floor unit with added Ring security on property.
Shops and restaurants on Sunset Blvd. a few feet away, hikes and trails in Elysian Park a block away, Echo Park Lake and Dodger Stadium a stone's throw away.
BEST LOCATION in Echo Park. Walkable to everything you need! Permit street parking available.
Please email me or msg applications with some information about yourself. (Why you are moving, job/career, and anything else you think is important). Include a phone number I can reach you at!
Please READ THIS ENTIRE POST before messaging. I am an independent landlord NOT A COMPANY.
I am looking for a fantastic tenant & neighbor! Willing to do short term leases. I am not a rental company. Looking for the right fit and an awesome neighbor! NO CATS. No smoking. This space is suitable for one occupant.
Responsible, clean, easy going, and respectful tenants only. Auto-pay rent via Zelle. If this sounds like you, please message me!
UNFURNISHED UNIT ONLY. Pictures of furniture are for show only. Loft ladder included.
Utilities: gas water sewer trash gas included. Tenant pays electric, internet, cable
Wired for at&t fiber internet.
See details here:
https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/1341-Lilac-Ter-1-2-Los-Angeles-CA-90026/2076927732_zpid/

I'm in contract as the buyer for a home that was a foreclosure so it was listed by a bank on the other side of the country. House was listed as being 1,624 sq. ft. Just got the appraisal back an hour ago. It is actually 1,168 sq. ft., which is 28% lower than listed. This would really bring down my re-sale value or rental value if I want to do that down the road. It could also mean that the taxes are probably higher than they should be right (I'm assuming they got that value from taxes as the bank has never seen the house. Them= Texas, House= NY).
Thing is I really like the house, including the space/size (I am single no kids), and it had a lot less competition in a crazy market where I am. I also knew that the footage had to have been off, right when my agent showed it to me (I even commented about it to him). I was thinking 150-200 feet off not 450. The appraisal came back at the exact price we agreed upon. Thing is their listing probably would have likely started lower if they had more accurate. information.
What are my next steps? Feel like appraisers just agree to whatever the list price is in such a competitive market. I really don't want to walk away, it was still a really good deal in a market that is getting 30+ offers (this had no pictures, was foreclosed, and fell under the radar).