Back in TO after a while and just walked through that canopy covered connection between Bay entrance and entrance to the subway. Whoever designed it apparently never thought about ventilation - does it always reek of piss and stale water?!? You can literally see streaks on the floor and where I suspect cleaning staff splashed water on the floors, and it’s all evaporating into a greenhouse like space.

I just rented a house and in typical Dutch fashion it did not come with floors, just pure cement. I bought PVC click floors and sub floor(for sound dampening) as the floor will have to be removed if I move out. I am aware that a 5 mm gap needs to be kept from the walls for possible expansion.
I am not a professional and this is my first time tackling a job like this so please bare with me.
What doesn't help is that baseboards and doors alluminum frames have been istalled attached to the cement floor and cannot be cut to allow the floor to slide under. This only leaves the option to cut the floor around each of them making the process much more complicated.
The gaps as shown in the pictures are very inconsistent but they will eventually be covered by matching trim.
Is there anything I can use to fill in especially the bigger gaps, like a flexible material (I was thinking silicone) that would allow expansion but also help to stabilise and secure the floor since it is not glued?
Any tips are going to be greatly appreciated!

Hi all, our son (6) really has upset us. We have tried to love him in every possible way.
Every morning, it takes 10-20 minutes to ask him brush his teeth and do a wee. If no one asks him to, he literally will not do it. It's been 2-3 years, every morning and sometimes before bed we have to nag about basic daily routine. Sometimes when we remind him for a few more times, he gets angry.
Always, we start out very gently asking him to do what he has to do (brush teeth, go have breakfast, homework, or we have to leave the house on time etc). If he doesn't listen, I would repeat myself after 2 minutes. I will repeat myself for 5 times before I will tell him "I am going to have to yell if you do not listen to me. I'm not going to repeat myself for the 6th time". Sometimes he would listen after the final warning but sometimes we'll have to resort to yelling. He'd start crying and everyone will feel shxt about it afterwards.
Whatever he wants to do, bowling, softplay, playground, we always try our best to accomodate it. We buy him lots of toys and spend a lot of time with him.
Yesterday he really started to break me. Right after his school, I thought I wanted to let him relax a bit and have some fun as he has done quite well at some tests last week at school. I offered him to either play chess with me or we can go to the playground. He wanted to go to the playground. We even persuaded his friend, who would have otherwise gone home, to come with us. I chose spending time with him at playground over finishing my own work, which I had to continue after he went to bed.
Spent 2 hours at playground, went home, time for dinner. Both my wife and I gently asked him to go wash his hands for dinner because mother has kindly cooked whlie we were outside at the playground. He just lay on the floor, playing with his toys. Didn't want to wash hands, didn't want to listen to us. After 3 minutes, we asked him again as it was getting late (7pm). Nope, just ignored us. After 3 more minutes, both of us asked him again, patiently explaining to him that he really had to start dinner as it was getting late and he needed a shower too after sweating so much. Nope. Just ignored us. I might have given him 10 more minutes if he could calmly explain to me why he really wanted to play with that toy. But nope, just silence, no reply, not listening.
I said 15 more seconds and we'd really have to have dinner. No one was yelling, no one was angry. When I said, 5,4,3,2,1, he threw a massive tantrum, covered his ears and made a really angry and sad face as if the whole world has violated him.
I still didn't yell. I just said to him, fine, if you don't wanna have dinner, you'll have not dinner. I said I was really disappointed. Then he started crying and said he wanted dinner and finally went to wash his hands. It was at that moment I really started to dislike him as a person. I know he is just a child but I feel like he is not appreciative of all the love given to him and things we have done FOR and WITH him.
I was thinking to myself, maybe we have been giving him so much unconditional love and care, he knows he will get away with anything he does to us. He was stomping on our kindness, tolerance and love. He doesn't care about us AT ALL. I even start to worry that he will become one of those teenagers who wreck things or even physically hurt their parents because "my mother doesn't let me do my favourite computer game".
We have had many "talks" with him already, explaning to him why we do what we do.
I honestly do not know what to do. I feel very discouraged. I can't help but think if we should start to love him less until he proves he deserves it.

Now that the sun has set on another season it’s time to reflect on our performance throughout and look forward to how next season could go.
TLDR; Much improved season but game management has cost us throughout. Continued strong recruitment for next season especially at Manager position.
Let’s begin with the raw stats.
We finished 10th for the second successive season but amassed our highest points total of 18 in the WSL alongside our best goal scoring season with 26 goals for and our best defensive season conceding 45 goals against. An improvement of 11 more goals scored and 3 fewer goals conceded than last season.
We finished third in our Continental Cup group losing only one game to Manchester United which ultimately cost us progression to the knockouts.
Furthermore, we reached the FA Cup semi final for the first time in our history, dominating lower league teams along the way.
Our top 5 goal scorers (in all competitions):
Rantala - 10 Cayman - 7 Petermann - 6 Tierney - 4 O’Brien/Whelan/Rose - 3
Top 5 assist providers (in all competitions):
Rantala - 7 Momiki - 5 Petermann - 4 Tierney - 4 Takarada - 3
End of season awards winners:
Player of the Season - Rantala Players player - Rantala Goal of the Season - Goodwin vs Liverpool Academy Player of the Season - Kiera Bell
Congratulations to all. Now on to the review proper.
We start with the positives. Recruitment has been great this year. The additions of Petermann, Rantala and Cayman have increased our goal scoring output and the acquisitions of Lietzig, Kop, Thibaud, Rose, Momiki and Takarada has added greater depth and quality to our squad and made us a more competitive team throughout the season.
We very rarely sat in against teams, aimed to play out from the back and press opposition back lines which served us well and earned plaudits from around the league especially early on in the campaign.
Additionally we have a very solid tandem of goalkeepers in Leitzig and Kop that have shown they can be rotated in for each other and not effect the confidence of the team in front of them which is a great bonus.
Finally, we continue to see success in our youth academy with them winning the double of the PGA Plate and County Cup as well as academy players continuing to get minutes in the senior team.
Now, unfortunately, the negatives.
Elephant in the room is the managerial situation. After Kirk’s dismissal for unprofessional conduct and Foster stepping down as interim manager with the conclusion of the season we are now searching for our fourth manager in three seasons in the WSL.
Something is very clearly not right behind the scenes when our last 2 male managers have crossed professional boundaries with players and our last permanent female manager was unceremoniously dismissed hours after a giving a pre match press conference. Questions have to be asked about how our next manager is going to be recruited, monitored and assessed by the higher ups. This inconsistency has been reflected in our on pitch performances and the players must be commended for how they have handled the off pitch turmoil.
To be optimistic, whomever the next manager shall be they need to keep pushing the progressive, attacking football we have developed under Kirk whilst making us a less porous side defensively and able to manage games better and see them out especially when we have the lead.
Which very neatly leads me to our biggest downside this campaign, our game management.
All of our 4 league victories this season came against two teams (Bristol City and Everton) half of those came in the opening two games of the season (where we were briefly top of the league 🙌🏻) and the other 2 came in three games at the end of January/beginning of February. That is a long time to go without success without it effecting not only our league standing but the morale of the team.
It has been a reverse of our previous seasons where instead of seeing us floundering at the bottom to pop up at the end of the season we have watched us have an electric start only to slowly but surely watch our league position erode away.
The story of our season was giving up leads and losing points from winning positions happening 7 times in the league. The most defining examples is being 2-0 up at halftime at home to Arsenal, being the better side only to be decimated in the second half and lose 6-2. Drawing 1-1 in stoppage time to a 10 player West Ham and both games against Brighton. First surrendering a two goal advantage in the final 10 minutes of the away fixture to draw the game and then taking the lead at home to only go 2-1 down, fight back to level the tie but lose to another goal conceded in the last 5 minutes.
Of those 7 leads and potential 21 points lost, if we win against West Ham and Brighton, that’s 9 points in our favour and we would be celebrating a much stronger finish to our season.
With regards to looking forward to next season I do feel we have very strong foundations to build upon and become even more competitive not only in the league but have strong cup runs as proven by our results in a tough Conti Cup group and our semi final appearance in the FA Cup.
As for personnel we have a squad full of internationals with at least half a season of chemistry with each other, excellent training facilities and the privilege of playing at the King Power for home league games.
Obviously we need a quality manager to lead us. I would have jumped at the chance to take on Carla Ward but she is taking time out to spend time with her family. Aside from her I am not so well versed in the women’s managerial landscape to make an educated suggestion. Maybe Melissa Phillips, formerly of Brighton who seemed to have good respect from her players and a decent track record with London City Lionesses and Brighton.
For players I would like to see another striker brought in. When Petermann isn’t available we lack a focal point up top and Siemsen hasn’t been relied upon much when fit.
Cover at full back would be a priority as well. Bott is outstanding and we can always rely on the experience of Cayman but depth is definitely an issue. Ale did a decent job towards the tail end of the season but is only on loan and Nevin has seemingly dropped down the pecking order.
Further depth in the middle with the departure of Whelan and a younger, more modern centre half (think Plumptre) to complement the guile and physicality that we have in place.
A third experienced keeper wouldn’t go amiss to cover for injury to Kop or Leitzig.
I’m genuinely excited to see how he play with a fully fit complement of wingers next year as that is where we are stacked with promise: Rantala, Rose, Cain, Goodwin, O’Brien and Momiki (on occasion) offer a truly dangerous outlet for us and pose any defender a headache.
One final note. Thank you to Whelan for her services as our club Captain for the last two seasons. She has lead by example, never kicked up a fuss not being a starter this season and always given 100% on the pitch. May she enjoy her retirement from football.
Feel free to add your own thoughts and opinions and we look forward to improving further in the off season.
COYF 🦊

Throwaway because coworkers know my main.
I moved to Belgium last year and have been renting a room in a shared flat. Since the beginning, there have been multiple issues such as pieces of the upstairs balcony falling off onto ours, an entire wall in my roommate's bedroom covered in mold, and severe WiFi-problems to name a few.
A few weeks ago, water started coming up from my and my roommate's shower drains (we have separate bathrooms) and the water in the toilets rose to just below the edge of the seat. That time, it was only water and the landlords sent a plumber to fix it within 2 days so I just dried the floors myself. Everything was fine until 2 days ago, when the water started coming back out of the drain. This time, the water contains urine and feces. On top of that, our downstairs neighbors informed us that water has been dripping out of their bathroom lamp, also since 2 days ago.
The shower tray does not have an elevated edge and there is no doocurtain so the water is just flowing onto the bathroom floor. About 60% of the bathroom (+ the shower itself) are now covered in this water. We cannot use any water so haven't been able to shower, use the toilet, cook, etc. I have asked the neighbors not to use water either, but at least one still seems to use it because the water keeps rising.
The landlords don't have an emergency number, only a chat. We informed them as soon as we noticed (and the downstairs neighbors did too). They responded yesterday evening that they'd refer the issue to the technical team and told another neighbor this morning that a plumber would come today.
Even if this is fixed today, I am scared it will happen again or that I'll lose my deposit, don't want to clean it up as it's not my fault, and would like to be reimbursed for all my items that are now covered in shit (towels, cleaning products, shower products/ utensils, bathroom accessories, etc.). I am a student and don't have a lot of money for a lawyer. Any advice would be highly appreciated.

When putting a thick 2 part light gray coat on the verticals of a garage floor then flaking, I notice that once dried the gray bottom coat seems to “suck” into the flake. Leaving spaces to where you can see the concrete behind the flake. The thing is it was put on nice and thick and covered properly. Are there any tricks to prevent this from happening? Maybe multiple coats before flaking?

“We’re a meat family,” my dad would proudly tell strangers. He’d wait for the quizzical look, then launch into detail, starting with how many freezers we had, how long we could sustain ourselves on the contents. It was just his way of starting a conversation, which made sense when you considered that raising and home-killing animals for food was, for want of a better term, his life-long hobby. His prize possession was one of those industrial-sized vacuum sealers: you could put half a pig inside and wrap it in plastic so tightly that every wrinkle and skin fold waxed unreal with shiny detail.
If we hadn’t lived in a rural area, albeit semi-urbanised, I guess it would have been pretty weird. But the mostly farming-stock locals only found his extra enthusiasm a little bit odd.
When he wasn’t being a bit embarrassing talking about it, I never really paid much heed to his hobby. I had a child’s vaguely grateful awareness that though our family went through some lean financial times, our stomachs never suffered like some of the families around us. All the beef, pork, ham and bacon in those big old chest freezers passed down from his dad really could have fed us for years.
I should preface all this by saying that I wasn’t a particularly bright kid, though neither was I dumb. I didn’t fail badly at anything in school, I just never achieved beyond a pass. I didn’t know it yet back then, still quietly dreaming about being a ballet star or a dressage champion, but mediocrity was my destiny. And I think that’s why I got on so well with my Aunt Liz.
Liz was my dad’s live-in youngest sister. She was one of those women who get described as ‘bubbly’ — not really pretty, not really smart, not a lot going on besides just being… well, all Liz. But she was salt of the earth; kind, caring, and great with kids. She was the only person who would willingly mind my two older brothers, who fought like hellcats and caused more trouble than the whole last generation of my family combined. People would privately lament to my parents that it was a shame Liz didn’t have kids of her own, but dad would just shake his head and say Liz liked it that way – that all the fun of looking after kids is being able to give them back to their parents.
I guess she was like me; nice, but mediocre. Lovely, but somehow forgettable when she wasn’t doing something for you.
But when Liz left us, I couldn’t forget her.
In hindsight, it was pretty weird timing that we had a big fortieth birthday party for Liz right before she disappeared. She was radiant that night; she’d hired a local girl to do her hair and makeup, and it was honestly the first time I’d ever seen her look pretty. She’d even worn a push-up bra under a tight red dress, which flattered her very plump curves well enough that the neighbour’s farmhand was spotted disappearing into the woolshed with her for a snog. In my dawning awareness, that gave a plain girl hope: if Aunty Liz could get a guy at forty, maybe things would turn out okay for me.
Anyway, I couldn’t forget how her pink cheeks, her eyes, her whole self, glowed that night before Liz went to bed. She said it was the best birthday ever, and that she was very much looking forward to the next stage of her life.
Would I have done anything different, if I had known? If I had realised what, exactly, that next stage was?
The week after the party, Aunt Liz said she was going on a little holiday up north, to visit some old school friends. She packed her things – she didn’t honestly have that many – and drove her little orange mini out onto the main road. And with a wave of one fleshy hand, she was gone. Nobody really thought much of it when she didn’t call, because nobody rural had cellphones back then. And Liz was, as I said, somehow kinda forgettable when she wasn’t right in front of you.
When we hadn’t had contact for six weeks, Dad tracked down the land line numbers for their old school buddies. They were surprised to hear from him — Liz had never arrived, so they had just assumed she’d cancelled her visit. No-one had thought to check. I eavesdropped on the conversation, and it sounded for all the world like *they* had forgotten about Aunt Liz, too.
From there it became a missing person case. The local cops came and talked to all of us; the farmhand who’d been seen snogging her was briefly detained, then let go, dad got grilled at length, even my hellion brothers were questioned thoroughly to see if this was one of their wild and dangerous pranks gone wrong.
But everything was a dead end. Nobody knew where Liz was, or what had happened to her.
The remains of her old mini were found halfway across the country, burned out on a beach, on a derelict stretch of ragged, rocky coastline. The police assumed murder and combed the area for remains. But even the most expert divers couldn’t conquer the incredible undertow and fast-shifting seabed of that coastline to look for evidence, so none was forthcoming.
Eventually the cops collectively shrugged and said that there was really nothing more they could do unless more information suddenly came to light. The locals knew nothing, no witnesses had come forward, and the trail was cold. As far as anyone knew, poor aunt Liz had been murdered on some desolate beach, far away from her home.
It didn’t feel fair to me. She’d once mentioned wanting her remains buried on our farm, in the graveyard plot beside grandma and grandad.
So, in my grief, I went into her room to look for something of hers to bury beside them.
Like I said, Liz didn’t have many things. Her room was pretty spartan, and her wardrobe was mostly sensible farm stuff. There was one exception: she, like me, did like to read, and she had a pretty good collection of well-thumbed books. I think it’s the escapism – even the most mediocre girl can lose herself in the plot of some trashy romance novel, imagine there’s still hope of being swept off her feet by that handsome stableboy, his inexplicable yearning for chubby plain girls.
So I set myself the task of going through the books, to find the right one to bury in the graveyard plot.
Most of them were exactly what you’d expect, but some of them were racier than I was used to. I felt various parts of my body flushing and tingling, as I read breathless prose about calloused hands touching the softest flesh of the protagonist. Okay, if I’m honest with myself, I might have got a little *too* invested in my project at that point. But that was also why I persisted going through her entire collection, until I found the ragged paperback from 1970, entitled Tawny Sands. And inside that trashy cardboard romance cover, I discovered not the tale of Tawny Sands, but some carefully hand-cut, stitched-in pages. A handwritten story in my Aunt’s rounded penmanship: Memoirs of a Long Pig.
I read her story twice in a row, utterly gripped.
Aunt Liz was no Stephen King – heck, she wasn’t even the Goosebumps guy – but her story was gripping and compelling, and I couldn’t put it down. Even if I hadn’t known her, I think that would have been true.
The gist of it was that Liz, when she was sixteen, had discovered that our family had a very long history of eating what she described as ‘Long Pork’. It’s an antipodean term, anglicised from the Pacific Islands: human meat.
Like me, young Liz still had some hopes and dreams. In one of her many failed attempts to find a special talent, she’d taken up cooking as a hobby. Naturally, with our family’s overabundance of meat, she’d scoured the freezers in the shed for ingredients: the racks of ribs and stacks of pork chops, butcher-paper wrappings all neatly labelled with the first letter of the name of the animal they came from.
She found familiar meat from Rodney, one of the pigs that had been recently slaughtered, emblazoned with an ‘R’ in her father’s strong, blocky lettering. There were cutlets labelled ‘M’ for Mary, from one of the lambs she’d hand-reared, and ‘F’ for Ferdinand, the steer they’d killed the month before. But she couldn’t explain the many, many curious parcels of meat on one side of the huge freezer, all labelled ‘J’ – at least, not until she took it all out and assembled it as well as she could on the scoured concrete floor of the killing shed. A big, frozen jigsaw puzzle without the box, her best attempt to discover what kind of beast the pieces had come from.
The animal, she quickly realised, was a Long Pig. Her own Aunt Jenny, who had died the month before – just after her fortieth birthday.
Fortunately, or perhaps not, for Liz, her father entered the shed right at that moment and realised his daughter had discovered the family secret. He sat down calmly on the lid of the freezer, and explained to her that this was a long-running family tradition, dating back to at least before his grandfather had been born.
“There are always people in life, Liz,” he’d said, “who won’t really amount to much. They want to be useful, want to be more. They strive and they strive, trying job after job, hobby after hobby, trying to hit on something they’re really good at. Something that makes them special. Those people can waste their whole lives, chasing dreams that never come true. Eventually they die unfulfilled, knowing that all their time has been wasted. That what they leave behind will fade quickly.”
His voice was oddly gentle as he leaned down and patted one of the neatly wrapped cuts of Aunt Jenny, still sitting frozen on the shed floor.
“Your Aunt Jenny was one of those people. So was my Aunt Irene.” He paused to gaze at his daughter, his next words peppered with emphasis. “But you see, my sweet Liz, they did find a purpose in life. They did find a way to be special, and they left this world utterly certain of their gift.” He stood up, stretched his back. “Let me show you.”
Liz waited while my grandad meticulously stacked the meat back into the freezer, all but one J-marked parcel that looked for all the world like a thick venison steak. He took her back to the farmhouse, and reverently unwrapped the deep red, heavily marbled meat to let it thaw. Then he laid it in the family’s ancient, cast-iron pan, basting it with butter and rosemary until a heavenly scent filled the kitchen, and Aunt Liz couldn’t stop her mouth from watering.
“Just try it. Let her show you. You’ll see exactly what I’m talking about.”
Even though she knew it was her aunt, Liz couldn’t stop herself from taking that first bite. There was something transcendent about the smell, overriding her natural revulsion that this was human meat, not one of their farm animals. For the first time, she truly realised it: we’re just another kind of animal. And weren’t her memories of Mary the lamb almost as fond as her memories of Aunt Jenny?
Liz explained then, in her curly handwriting, the explosion of taste that had assaulted her when she tried the steak. It was tender, it was succulent, it was rich beyond imagining. The fats melted on her tongue, lingering somewhere between pork and beef, but oddly neither. The flavour of the meat defied identification; something familiar, yet not.
But one thing she couldn’t deny; it was the most delicious thing she had ever eaten. Tears dripped onto her plate, mingled with the juice, the grease — not grief, but a pure, real, giddy delight.
“You’re tasting your aunt’s love for this family,” my grandad explained. “Her entire life was carefully curated, to eventually make unforgettable moments for us, just like this. This was her way of being special. This was the greatest gift she could possibly bring to our world – and because she realised that, she died with not a single regret. She knew her life had purpose. She was perfectly, completely fulfilled.”
I felt those words. I felt them lodge in my own belly, settling uncomfortably deep. I knew Aunt Liz, probably better than anyone else in the family. I’d seen how fucking happy she’d been on her fortieth, how goddamn fulfilled she was, despite apparently being a *nobody* and achieving *nothing*. Somehow, in the space of a single day, she had gone from being a forgettable background character to becoming the *main character*, immortalising herself in our family’s history with her sacrifice. Quite literally becoming part of all of us, forever.
I went to the killing shed after I finished with the book. I looked inside the freezers.
But there were no vacuum-sealed packages labelled ‘L’, no matter how deep I dug into the frozen stacks of plastic-wrapped flesh. Panicked now, not sure if I wanted to connect all the dots or unconnect them, I tried to think back over the last few months, recall any meals that had been unusually good. A few Sundays ago, we’d had a stew that really hit the spot and left me craving more. And I realised that the family had a really good night that night; my brothers behaved themselves, my parents didn’t fight, and grandma and grandad had been there. Hadn’t they looked far more… expectant than they should have?
I strained my brain, trying to recall if I’d seen the homekill bag on the kitchen bench – if I’d registered what letter it was. I knew it wasn’t an L. I would have remembered if it was an L.
And then it hit me, the memory, the connection, sizzling as if branded with a hot iron.
It had been an ‘E’.
E for Elizabeth. Not for Edward the pig.
I snorted at my own stupidity – of *course* Liz was short for Elizabeth – and as I comprehended my lack of smarts, I felt something give inside me.
I wasn’t clever, and nothing, nothing would ever make me smart. I had no big talents. I wasn’t beautiful, or even cute – and even if I had a million plastic surgeries, it still wouldn’t fulfill me. It wouldn’t be real.
I was a Liz.
I was a Jenny.
I was whoever the first aunt had been, the aunt who had dedicated her life to making her flesh as delicious as possible, who had worked every damn minute to be the best Long Pig she could ever be.
I wondered how many magical family evenings had been spent eating Aunt Jenny. How many glorious, satisfying, memorable dishes had been made out of her.
And… I wanted that. I wanted to finally know I had a *purpose* in life. One so simple, and so easy to achieve.
I wanted what Aunt Liz had.
***
It's my fortieth birthday today and I’m so fucking excited. For the last twenty-four years, I’ve dedicated myself to this moment; I’ve eaten exactly what I needed to, I’ve exercised just enough, but not too much, to maintain that perfect balance of marbling vs tenderness. I’ve relaxed and meditated to keep all those amazing flavours inside of me. I’ve researched all the greatest meats in the world, from prime Angus beef to A5 Wagyu. I really think I may have outdone myself.
I’m having my hair and makeup done at the local salon this afternoon, and I’m going to look so pretty; all prize piggy on show at the fair. I’m even going to have a big red ribbon in my hair, in memory of Aunt Liz.
Maybe there’ll be a cute boy I can snog in the wool shed, maybe there won’t – I don’t really care; because the most important, most certain thing is that I’m going to be the most delicious Long Pig in the history of our entire family.
I’m going to make everyone so damn happy, and I’m just so glad I can share my story with you all, instead of hiding it in a grubby book like poor Aunt Liz.
My only real disappointment? That you won’t get to taste me.
Reader, I have loved, loved my life. My Long Pork will be out of this world: once tasted, never, ever forgotten.

Kadillac Kirk had been a good friend of mine for several years. I had met him through friends from The Spring Stage; and he never had anything to do with The Imp, which is why he didn’t appear in the Married Mary saga. Mary would have totally thrown herself at him, and Kirk would have definitely “thrown it in her.” He loved the ladies and often remarked that there was no such thing as an unappealing woman, nor was there anything sweeter than finding the pearl of passion in an outwardly plain dame. Fortunately for Kirk, he never met Mary. This was probably fortunate for Mary as well, seeing as Kirk was a confirmed bachelor and his rakish nature might have broken her fat heart.
Kirk was an older guy. Not MOE old, though. He was in his early forties, but he easily passed for a carefree dude in his 30s... not that he lied about his age. I only mention this trait to juxtapose Kirk’s genuine youthful air with Moe’s unconvincing youthful farce. Kirk dressed normally, avoided stupid jargon, and never busted out gimmicks like tarot cards or spells. He just existed, behaved affably, and people liked him for it.
He drove a classic 1962 Cadillac El Dorado convertible with red leather interior, and he lived in a charmingly quaint (and ridiculously expensive) neighborhood. How he made his fortune remained a mystery, but he never bloviated about his wealth. He just threw spectacular parties and people showed up. And, to my knowledge, he never tried to lure women into bed with his money (although I’m sure he got his fair share of boom-boom thanks to his digs and his wheels, even if the gold-diggers denied their monetary agendas).
Kirk was legitimately handsome. He was a drummer, he had a full head of black hair, he was clean-shaven, he worked out, and he knew all the hidden gems in Wellsprings. So why hadn’t I tried... or even desired to date him? I don’t know. I just didn’t feel drawn to him like that. He felt like a cool uncle and he had, thus far, never done anything to change my perception. Plus, the age difference weirded me out a little. Kirk didn’t look forty; but knowing that he had so much more life experience than I did created a power imbalance that would have creeped me out if we’d been dating. As buddies, I just felt supremely cool riding in his Cadillac, smoking Fantasia cigarettes, and hitting the speakeasies and jazz clubs I would have never known about if it weren’t for Kirk’s connections.
And he had been a good person to talk to about my romantic woes. He never lecherously suggested that I should date him, and he gave the type of tempered advice that only comes with lived experience. But he often lightly mocked me for my crush on Dennis and he did a hilarious impression of Smegal popping too soon over his “precious.” So when Mary “got me back” by doing whatever she did with to Dennis, I called Kadillac Kirk and told him the drinks were on me if he’d be my designated driver for the night.
Why hadn’t I called Whisky??? Well, A) Kirk was way more fun to hang out with, at least from my past experiences up to that point. And B) I needed to bitch about a boy, something I couldn’t do in good conscience in front of a guy I was dating. So I put on the sexiest plunging halter dress I owned, applied heavy eye makeup and spikey accessories, braved a pair of stilettos, and sashayed out to Kirk’s convertible. I felt like a badass rock star. I probably looked like a try-hard hooker.
Kirk: Daaaaay-um! Somebody really did do a number on you, huh? I know you said you were upset, but the gents are gonna be writing thank you notes to that fat girl and that butt-fucking hobbit.
Me: I just need to feel pretty and numb. And I trust you to keep me from making a fool of myself.
Kirk squeezed my shoulder. “I’ve got you. You do whatever you need to do to get rid of these demons.”
He sparked up a J and offered me the first puff. I gladly accepted. He took one puff of his own, but said that the rest was mine since he didn’t want to drive stoned. See? He was responsible! Weed wasn’t legal in California yet, so I got a little bit baked before I stashed the sativa in the glove box and wrapped a scarf around my hair like a starlet from the Golden Age of Hollywood. Kirk sped out of the parking lot and said he was taking me to a downtown hotel that was hosting a party that night in their lush lobby.
Kadillac Kirk pulled up to the main entrance, paid the valet, and then opened my door. I was wobbly from the weed. And I had stupidly decided to wear heels. You can get high or you can wear high (heels). You can’t have both. Not if you’ve repeatedly injured both ankles (as I have). I had to take Kirk’s arm to keep from keeling over. “Can people tell I’m stoned?” I whispered. Kirk replied, “Nobody’s paying any attention to anyone else’s intoxication. I promise you that much.” I nodded, steadied myself, and strutted alongside my very cool friend, feeling a little more confident.
A live jazz orchestra was playing Cole Porter as we entered the lobby. Everything sparkled. The music was even more intoxicating than the spliff had been. “Just One of Those Things” brought tears to my eyes since the lyrics hit every raw nerve regarding the Dennis debacle. But I smiled. It might sound mental, but being distraught over a trash fire of a one-sided romance was exhilarating. Immature, for sure. But also exhilarating. You see, that kind of sadness doesn’t hurt. Not really. It stings. It leaves little bruises, but it’s very safe to wallow in because you haven’t actually lost anything. Melancholia over that which you never had is as sweet as it is bitter; and that type of twisted splendor is rivaled only by Stendhal.
“Here's hoping we meet now and then. It was great fun, but it was just one of those things.” I sang along with the band, and a fat tear rolled down past my melancholic smile and onto my chin. Kirk brushed it aside. “Too close to home?” I wiped away the remnants of the tear’s journey from eye to chin and smiled a more genuine smile. “The perfect distance from home. Shall we get drinks? Remember, I’m buying.”
Kirk: No, no. This is your time to heal. And I’m here as your pal, not your chauffeur. What would the lady like?”
I pretended to barf. Kirk knew I hated it when he got overly formal and overly attentive. So he did it just to mess with me. “Shot of vodka,” I replied.
Kirk: How many?
I thought briefly. “FIVE.”
Kirk: Five to one, baby. One in five...
Me: No one here gets out alive.
Kirk: Are you able to hold yourself upright, or should you come with?
I took a seat on an ornate, damask-upholstered chaise lounge. “I’ll be okay. And I was kidding about the five shots.”
I sat there lost in the music for a while. I thought very little about Dennis. Even less about Mary. And not at all about Whisky (whom I had shagged less than a week ago). My mind danced through the ornate lighting in the hotel lobby, and I suddenly felt the need to join the hoity-toity guests on the dancefloor!
Kirk returned with four shots of vodka. Two for him, two for me. That was quite reasonable of him. He knew damn well that I couldn’t handle five shots, but he also knew that I was in a... state. One that called for more than a single shot. I raised a both miniature glasses to “No more ninnyhammers or hairy-footed lovers.” Kirk did his hilarious Smegal impression, we double-toasted, and downed the shots. The band launched into “Let’s Misbehave,” and I kicked off my stilettos and made a beeline for the dance floor.
“There’s something wild about you child that’s so contagious. Let’s be outrageous! Let’s misbehave.” Kadillac Kirk swept me up, twirled me around, and dipped me as we both sang along with the lyrics. I wasn’t swooning for him, but I was enthralled by the moment. The music, the dancing, the combination of booze and bud... so I kissed him as he pulled me back to my feet. And he kissed back. In a way that Dennis never had. In a way that Whisky’s beard wouldn’t permit. I didn’t feel the visceral sensations that I’d felt when Dennis had kissed me, but it felt nice to feel desired. And then I noticed that other guests were watching us and applauding. Now, that was a dopamine rush if ever there was one!
I gently broke away from the embrace, high-fived Kirk and returned to the chaise lounge to put my stupid shoes back on. He followed me and smashed his face back onto mine. I pulled away and laughed. “It was a moment,” I told him. “I appreciate the dance, and that kiss was the perfect finale. But it’s not happening again.”
Kirk: Not to worry, Valerie. I know you. I knew all along that we were performing, and I was more than happy to be your scene partner.
Me: And dance partner! Those were some excellent moves! I didn’t know you had ballroom training.
Kirk: You name it, I’ve mastered it. Another drink for the lady?
I pretended to barf again. “Not yet. I’m not sad right now. Do you mind if I just sit here and enjoy the music?”
Kirk: Ah. My kisses do have healing properties...
I flipped my hand up at him. “Knock that shit off, bro. I wanted to hang out with you because I trust you not to get weird. Even if I get weird, I know you have the maturity to balance me out.”
Kirk: Are you calling me old???
Me: No. I’m calling you rational, responsible, and respectful.
Kirk: Well, now. If you can articulate an alliterative statement that fluently, then you clearly aren’t drunk enough!
I dismissed this comment as a joke. And he did indeed knock off the flirtation. We had a perfectly pleasant time chatting and dancing (no more kissing, though). And then I noticed a girl I knew from Into the Woods entering the lobby. She’d played Florinda and I’d played Little Red. I called her name and waved enthusiastically. She waved back. And then her date entered. It was D.E.N.N.I.S. I sank into the chaise. Kirk caught on immediately. “The hobbit???” he asked. I nodded silently. “You wanna make out again?” he enthused. I shook my head. I had to go say hello to Flo. And I had an idea...
I crossed the lobby, smiled, squealed, and hugged her.
Florinda: Lil’ Red! It’s been forever! So glad to see you!!! This is my friend, Denny.
From the corner of my eye. I could see Dennis shifting uncomfortably. I refused to look directly at him, neglected to acknowledge Flo's introduction and continued to converse only with her. "So glad to see you, too! What have you been up to since we left the woods?"
Dennis: C’mon, Val...
Florinda (appearing oblivious to the iciness between me and Dennis): Oh, I had some drama after the show closed. I'll have to tell you about it some other time... Have you seen Prince Big Bad (Scumbanger) lately?
I laughed. “Last time I saw him, he was hitting on some nasty fat chick at The Imp.”
Flo and I both scoffed at the pervy pest. Into the Woods was where I’d initially met Scumbanger. He played The Wolf/Cinderella’s Prince. Again... typecasting. There’s a whole essay in my brain about my first encounter with the pest, during which he quoted the song that he sang to me in the show, “Hello, Little Girl.” But it gets into some pretty uncomfortable territory because he made me feel... excited. Well, excited and scared. Nothing of note happened during Into the Woods, but our odd interactions did kind of set the stage for some extremely regrettable events during that Cats cast party.
I excused myself, saying that I needed to get back to my friend. And then I leaned in and said in a hushed voice to Flo, “Watch your ass with that one. If he’s the Denny I’m thinking of...” I gave her a look that only another female would be able to read. Her eyebrows shot up and she nodded. Dennis continued to shift as though he were trying to hold in a massive dump. “BABE! Uh...”
Flo apparently answered to that moniker as well. “What is it, Denny? Don’t worry. That was just telepathic girl talk. You apparently have a reputation...”
Dennis: Different Denny. I assure you I’m a pious gentleman.
Me: Ah. My mistake. Well, then. You guys have a good time! They’re playing Cole Porter, and the band is delovely. Great to see you, Flo!
I hugged Flo again, gave Dennis a curt nod, ignored the scent of mandarins and mountain air, and returned to Kirk.
I collapsed on the chaise lounge, exhausted from holding back the rage. I had no right to be mad at Florinda. I hadn’t seen her in three years, so how was she supposed to know that I’d had a thing with Dennis? Hell, I couldn’t even be mad at Dennis because the last time he and I had spoken in any meaningful way, I’d told him that I was no longer entertaining my crush on him. So why was I surprised to see him dating??? And why had he never taken ME out on a date like this??? And why wasn’t I smitten with Kadillac Kirk who HAD taken me out on a date like this, was an objectively excellent kisser, and a bona fide BALLER? What was wrong with me???
Kirk suggested going down the street to a quaint little bar and then sobering up at a diner closer to my apartment. I numbly nodded and followed him in silence for a few blocks. He assured me that I had “turned several heads” on the way to the new location, but I neither cared nor believed him. This wasn't the type of numbness I'd been aiming for. Now I needed to get schnockered. “Five shots of vodka, please.” Yes, I was serious.
Kadillac Kirk, my reliable designated driver, ordered only a beer and watched in something across between astonishment, concern, and delight as I slammed all five shots in rapid succession. I half expected to immediately retch all over the bar. But I felt fine. I half expected to immediately lose consciousness and wake up in the hospital. But I remained coherent. How I’d managed to take in that much hard liquor and suffer no direct consequences, I’ll never know.
I think I wanted to suffer. I wanted to either feel nothing at all or to feel a sickness bad enough to distract me from the scorching sting that pulsed through my being when I realized that I had lost the abstract notion I’d been addicted to this entire time. Hope. It wasn’t Dennis himself I couldn’t quit. It was that drug called hope. The hope that maybe, just maybe Dennis would give our romance a fair chance. The hope that maybe, just maybe he would make peace with himself, get his mind out of his crotch, and enjoy some agenda-free togetherness. The hope that maybe, just maybe he would stop bloviating about his admittedly impressive accomplishments for five fucking minutes and ask about my life. I had my own reasonably impressive accomplishments, even if they paled in comparison to his. A proper suitor would have enjoyed hearing about them.
But seeing him out with another woman, a woman who had no reason to parade her Dennis escapades before me as some means of revenge, a woman he was clearly courting of his own volition... My hope had died. It died before I’d had time to wean myself off it. Now I had to mourn the loss of hope, which is a very tricky brand of grief to navigate. Vodka wasn’t the answer, but it was what I had to work with. So it would have to do.
After enough time had passed without vomiting or collapsing, I asked Kirk to bring his car around to the bar so that I didn’t have to walk two and a half blocks drunk and in heels. He nodded and dramatically leaned in for a kiss. I recoiled. “DUDE! I told you. The moment has passed.”
Kirk: I beg your pardon. I misread your eyes. Thought I saw a green light...
Me: It’s fine. I just want to go home while I’m still feeling okay.
Kirk: Of course. Your chariot will be here soon.
He skipped off to fetch his Cadillac and I noticed that the lights in the bar were beginning to dance a bit. This should have been concerning. But then I realized that I was giggling. Wait... What? Oh shit. Sure, I was drunk from those shots. But what I was feeling in that moment wasn’t drunkery. It was stonery. Kirk probably misread my face because my pupils were dilated. Not from desire, but from drug use.
Some of you might be thinking that I was a bad friend for not introducing Lucy, an old dude connoisseur, to Kirk. Well... I did. Several years before the events of this story. He adored her. She, on the other hand, thought he was immature. And she wasn’t wrong. Lucy was astute when it came to sussing out a person’s true nature. Far more astute than I. Her initial assessment that Kirk was immature is about to be vindicated. Stretch those cringe muscles! It’s almost time for pie...
I somehow managed to get to his car. I honestly don’t recall how I got there. Did one of the bartenders carry me? Did some kind patron allow me to lean on him? Had Kadillac Kirk carried me out? I’m not sure. But my memory ceases to be fuzzy about halfway to the 24-hour diner. It might have been the very same 24-hour diner where Mary pulled her... shenanigans. I’ll never know.
Kirk: Would you say that you’re more drunk or more stoned?
Me: STONED. Definitely stoned.
Kirk made some sort of grunty noise and reached for my thigh. I slapped his hand.
Kirk: Stoned but not amorous? That’s rare.
I started laughing rather unkindly. “You’re a fucking horndog! I thought you were my safe straight male friend, dammit.”
Kirk: I solemnly swear that your safety is my primary concern, my stoned beauty.
I pretended to throw up.
Kirk: So... You’re not horny. But are you hungry? The diner I’m heading to makes this Maple Walnut Pie with the most sumptuous... sensual cream and exquisite drizzling of...
Me: Ew! Stop trying to bang the pie. Bro. Are YOU stoned? (Then I remembered the question.) Yes, I’m hungry. But I don’t like nuts. I’ll have banana cream.
Kirk made that repulsive grunty noise again. “Uhhhhh... Mmmmmm. Cream. Yessssss. Yes, we’ll be there in just a minute.” He was squirming in the driver's seat.
Me: GROSS, DUDE! If you’re gonna be like that I’ll just order HASH brows. Get it? Hash??? (I giggled.) You can’t make that sound nasty.
Kirk: Forgive my jokes. I think my blood sugar’s a bit low.
As Kirk parked, I began to wonder how I might get away with walking shoeless into the diner. The stilettos had to get off my feet. At least while I was walking. And Kirk was kind enough to give me his socks and wear his loafers “island style” into the establishment. Okay, that was gallant of him. Maybe he was going to behave himself for the rest of the evening.
I wasn’t terribly talkative as we sat down, and he expressed a bit of concern for my emotional well-being. I wasn’t coherent enough to explain what was happening to my emotions and I wasn’t sure I trusted him with my deep, dark secrets at that point. So I shrugged like a sulky teenager, ran my hands over my messy, windblown hair, and mumbled that I was “just hungry.” And right on cue, a very kind, slightly older waitress with a sweet southern accent stopped by to take our order.
Kirk: Ah, yes. We’ll have two cups of black coffee. And we’ll share a slice of that delectable Maple Walnut Pie.
Waitress: Oh, honey. That pie is scrumptious! I take it you’ve been here before?
Kirk: I have. This will be her first time to taste the splendor.
I hated to be a killjoy, but I interrupted and said to the waitress, “Ma’am? I’m sure the Maple Walnut is excellent, but could I please get a slice of Banana Cream? And a big glass of ice water?
Waitress: Sure, hon! Banana Cream’s just as yummy! I’ll be right back with those coffees and that big water.
Kirk was sucking on the tip of his forefinger and shaking his head a bit. “You’re passing up so many sensational... sensual...”
I put my forehead on the table and growled. “You swore you’d stop being nasty!” I held this #headdesk pose for quite some time before I finally lifted my head... only to see that Kirk was still sucking his fingertip and staring at me like a wild animal. “Pleeeeeease be normal,” I whined. “It’s been a really weird night for me.”
Kirk: Indeed. Many surprises. You know... You’re like titanium. Your flame burns so fast and so bright, if a guy doesn’t get in there while the iron is hot, he’ll never get another chance. I was too slow.
What the...? I was pretty sure he was wrong about titanium burning quickly. I’m no chemistry wiz, but my dad and my oldest brother are both big-brains when it comes to physics and chemistry. So I picked up some things just listening to them talk. Accurate or inaccurate, Kirk was being creepy again. He’d never been creepy towards me before, although I’d seen him act like this with other women. Usually with staggering success. Why????? His money. It had to be his money. Kirk was a nice-looking man, but holy shit... No amount of good looks could save this creep show
And then, our sweet waitress sat down our coffees, my water, and the two slices of pie. After I gulped down a whole bunch of water, I grabbed a fork, prepared to quell my munchies... and then I froze. Kirk was quickly flicking his finger back and forth across the top of his pie. And moaning. He noticed my wide-eyed stare, smirked, sucked the tip of his thumb, picked up the plate with both hands, and began flicking his tongue across the tip of the triangular pie slice. And moaning some more. Well, there went my appetite.
Kirk took his middle finger and jabbed it into the crustless vertex of the pie slice, then he began pumping it in and out like a piston, and flicking his thumb across the increasingly demolished top layer of whipped cream. He gasped this time. People were starting to stare. His pointer finger joined his middle finger in the piston action, and he replaced his thumb with his tongue. Between flicks of the tongue, he groaned, “Oh yeah, baby... Let me taste you,” but it was kind of hard to understand him.
And I was either about to run to the back office, tell them that I was in danger and needed a police escort home... OR I was about to burst out laughing at the spectacle. Kirk continued... He removed his fingers and gregariously licked pie filling off of them. "Ohhhhh," he groaned, "I got you soooo sticky. So sweet. So moist." And then he started sucking his fingertips again, switching from middle to pointer, middle to pointer and emitting a delighted little, “Mmmmmm” with every suck.
Finally, he jabbed his fingers back into the utterly destroyed pie, lowered his face into the mess and lapped loudly and passionately, moaning, grunting, and mumbling “Come on, baby. Come on. Mmmmmm. Come on.” I could see the waitress and some dude in a suit heading over to the table, so I sank down in my seat, partially covered my face, but continued to watch the train wreck. At last, Kirk shuddered violently as he splatted his entire hand onto the plate and rubbed furiously. And then he locked eyes with me. He sucked the tip of his thumb one final time and said, “You...” There was a long pause during which Kirk lovingly stroked the mess he’d made. “You... are the pie.”
I don’t hang out with Kadillac Kirk anymore. But he’s still a bachelor, ladies!

Playing a Roland td-07dmk in a basement with quite thick carpet and a very thin ceiling. It's just floorboards between me and the lounge. If the TV is on I have to wear headphones in the basement to drown it out.
On just the carpet it's a bit unstable
Cheap drum rug on top = very wobbly
Put wood under the legs and pedals = much less wobbly but a pain in the ass if I change anything around (I'm still a beginner so experimenting, also just upgraded the hihat to a vh-11 with a proper stand)
Built a platform out of planks = even more wobbly
Put it on a sold piece of 18mm thick MDF with the rug on top = Perfect stability - but about 50% louder to the point my other half can hear it on 1st floor.
What can I try next? Thicker rug? Stuff under the wood? Better rack? Not sure audio panels on the ceiling would do much since I'd need to cover the whole ceiling surely?

Hey got an old drill press on Facebook marketplace. Dude got it broken 40 years ago, repaired to functionality, and used it a ton. Had to disassemble it to move it. Got it two days ago. So far working on identification because cuase I can’t find any record of it online, paint stripping, and figuring out how to measure the speeds because it doesn’t seem to have a speed table. Or it’s buried under rust on inside of the top cover. Old guy advised me the quill bearings are starting to go.
I’m new to this and learning as I go along all I know right now is it’s a 2hp floor standing delta drill press. Hoping for help with identification and possibly either findings a manual or schematics. This will be an ongoing project if you guys want to follow along.

As the rain fell from the cold dark clouds, the sound of the pitter patter on the windows filling the house.. the world seemed quiet and empty.. as if not a single person was home? Not a single light on? No sign of life.. but.. the house looked far from abandoned.. todays post was neatly stacked on the kitchen counter… a bottle of red wine open and half drunk… the question was… where was the owner…
And then.. from the far end of the house.. the faint sound of a cellphone ringing began to softly echo? Where was it coming from you ask? Seemingly from under the floorboards in the wine cellar? Well… it wasn’t exactly a wine cellar.. under the floor of this seemingly empty house was a dungeon… a dungeon of dominance, a dungeon of play, a dungeon of discipline, a dungeon of pain, a dungeon of pleasure.. a dungeon of submission..
Under the cellar door was 8 concrete stairs that lead to a room full of fun. The walls were lined with padding and leather to keep the noise out, the floor made of hard sanded wood to avoid and splinters, on the back wall hung chains, whips and paddles whereas the closet held the fun toys like strap ons, plugs and vibes, as well as the extensive range of kinky outfits.. in the far left corner was a crucifix and in the right was cage large enough to hold a human, with a human size birdcage hanging from the ceiling. A large red leather throne sat next to the stairs where someone with clear importance would sit..
In the middle of this leather clad barbie hell.. was a quivering woman knelt on all fours… her body shaking with her skin rippling.. her hands chained to the floor and her legs tied together with soft ropes… her body illuminated by soft candle light, her mouth was oozing saliva as the fat red ballgag keeps her lips parted and moans muffled. Her hair tied back and out of her face to show her gorgeous features.. eyes covered with a soft velvet blindfold so she couldn’t see a thing.. the thick black collar around her neck had a shimmering silver tag that simply read.. “kitten”. With the bright red lipstick writing down her back reading “Property of Mistress” it was clear who owned this darling deviant.
She could hear the tight squeak of latex around her.. as two heeled boots stomped around the room… the dominant figure leaning down and picking up the phone that was ringing… a smirk crossing her face as she said “tsk tsk tsk… it’s your husband..”
Hi! Firstly thank you so much for taking the time to read my roleplay post! I am looking to play the submissive in this scenario, a woman who’s been having an affair with a very kinky dominatrix! If this sounds interesting to you then please read on for some basic requirements! But the main one is to just have fun!

1. ⁠Please roleplay in third person. I take on the role of a character and am not playing myself so I really find it awkward writing in third person because it just feel like it’s too personal for me.
2. ⁠Please be detailed. I am not trying to make this a chore and no you don’t have to write essays, but I mean I do spend a good 30 minutes writing these posts so when I end up with a “hey wanna rp?” It is sooo disheartening and s little disrespectful
3. ⁠Please don’t get too personal We can be friendly in OOC chat and we can discuss the plot of the role play for sure but I am making it clear now that I am in a fully committed relationship irl and I have no intension if changing that so please! Do not try and be sexual outside of the RP!
4. ⁠Chill with time! This one normally is actually okay but I have had too many players in the past get pissed off if I don’t respond within 3 minutes… look we all have a life away from the screen, mine includes a full time job, weekend activities, relationships and hobbies! So while yes I am including role play as a hobby I may not be able to respond within the ridiculous 5 minute mark every time!
5. ⁠Discord I only use discord for writing, I make a server for the two participants, go over the scenario, the characters the scene and it’s just so much easier to follow soooo yeah please use discord

Okay that’s everything I need to mention here so please feel free to message me if you’re interested! Thanks for reading!
Last requirement: NO GUYS!

Received a quote a couple weeks ago to run power to my above ground pool. Roughly 50 feet of wire would need to be buried between panel box and pool. They want $2,336.00 with $1,400 of that being labor. Is this fair? To me that seems excessive for maybe a 2 hour job. I know it’s not the time I’m paying for but the expertise and experience. Idk it still seems excessive to me. They told me on the phone that it would be an all day job which is why they’re charging that high for labor. I plan on getting more quotes but should I expect this to be run of the mill pricing for something like this?

My apologies if this is the wrong sub to post this! I haven’t officially started witchcraft yet but I’ve been researching a lot, one of my problems is that I have two huge floor length mirrors in my bedroom that i cannot move or cover with a cloth. I heard they can act as portals and let harmful things in. Is there a way I could lock them without covering them? Or perhaps it would be best for me not to start witchcraft in the first place. I do feel this crippling feeling of being watched whenever I look into the mirror so it may already be causing problems lol. This is probably a very silly question but i felt a little nervous and thought it would be better if I asked. I hope whoever reads this has a lovely day<3