Every song is hidden underneath a tile PUPPETHerWindowCindy Lou's WishWhen Gloves Come OffCORSOKEEP DA O'SA BOY IS A GUN*JambaGoblinLoneSTUNTMANRustyLEMONHEADI DON'T LOVE YOU ANYMOREAU79Droppin' SeedsBurgerMOMMA TALKSMUCKERSIGOR'S THEMEMASSAPILOTBig BagTron CatI THINKEVERYTHING MUST GOSWEET / I THOUGHT YOU WANTED TO DANCEPotholeWOLFSheFISHTAILBlowSarahOKAGA, CAAssmilkGONE GONE/THANK YOUTrashwangSIR BAUDELAIREDomo23BLOW MY LOADWHAT'S GOODBOYFRIEND, GIRLFRIENDSlow It DownLights OnLUMBERJACKI Ain't Got TimeSAFARICowboyTinaBUFFALOBLESSEDNightmareHOT WIND BLOWSWILSHIREBoredom2SEATERHot ChocolateJack and the BeanstalkBOYFRIENDWHARF TALKOdd ToddlersYou WinAnalogWUSYANAMEVCR WheelsGlitterB.S.DTransylvaniaAnswerParking LotWho Dat BoyFrenchFishRadicalsSandwitchesYonkersPigs FlyPartyIsntOveCampfire/BimmerRISESessionFUCKING YOUNG/PERFECT911/Mr. LonelyAwkwardRUNCHERRY BOMBJUGGERNAUTColossusRUNITUPDEATHCAMPPigsARE WE STILL FRIENDS?SPECIALGirl45Sometimes...ParadeInglorious48WHAT A DAYWhere This Flower BloomsSevenGarden ShedUntitled 63IFHYYELLOWHEAVEN TO MEBastardDOGTOOTHRUNNING OUT OF TIMEGoldenSteak SauceNovemberWhovilleEnjoy Right Now, TodayFIND YOUR WINGSMANIFESTOTamaleSORRY NOT SORRYTHE BROWN STAINS OF DARKEESE LATIFAH PART 6-12 (REMIX)ForewordSlaterTreehome95NEW MAGIC WANDEARFQUAKESee You Again

Discover the art of candle mold customization using latex for unique and beautiful results.

Understanding Latex Candle Molds

Latex candle molds are a popular choice among candle makers due to their flexibility and versatility. These molds are made from latex, a natural material that is derived from the sap of rubber trees. Latex molds can be used to create a wide variety of candle shapes and designs, allowing for endless possibilities in candle making.
One of the key advantages of using latex candle molds is their ability to capture intricate details. The flexible nature of latex allows it to easily reproduce the fine details of a design, resulting in candles that are highly realistic and visually appealing. Whether you want to create candles in the shape of flowers, animals, or geometric patterns, latex molds can help you achieve stunning results.
In addition to their flexibility, latex candle molds are also durable and long-lasting. With proper care and maintenance, these molds can be used repeatedly, making them a cost-effective choice for candle makers. They are also resistant to heat and can withstand high temperatures, ensuring that your candles will come out perfectly every time.
Understanding the properties and benefits of latex candle molds is essential for candle makers who are looking to take their craft to the next level. By harnessing the power of latex, you can create customized candles that are truly works of art.

Benefits of Using Latex for Candle Mold Customization

There are several advantages to using latex for candle mold customization. Here are some of the key benefits:

1. Flexibility: Latex molds are highly flexible, allowing them to easily capture intricate details and reproduce complex designs. This makes them ideal for creating unique and customized candles.
   
2. Durability: Latex molds are durable and long-lasting, making them a cost-effective choice for candle makers. With proper care, these molds can be used repeatedly without losing their shape or quality.
   
3. Heat Resistance: Latex is resistant to heat and can withstand high temperatures, ensuring that your candles will come out perfectly every time. This makes it easier to achieve consistent results and create candles that burn evenly.
   
4. Versatility: Latex molds can be used to create a wide variety of candle shapes and designs. Whether you want to make candles in the shape of flowers, animals, or geometric patterns, latex molds can help you bring your vision to life.
   

By choosing latex for candle mold customization, you can unlock a world of possibilities and create candles that are truly unique and stunning.

Tips for Customizing Your Candle Molds with Latex

Customizing your candle molds with latex requires some skill and knowledge. Here are a few tips to help you get started:

1. Prepare your mold: Before applying latex to your candle mold, make sure it is clean and free from any dust or debris. This will ensure that the latex adheres properly and produces a smooth finish.
   
2. Apply a release agent: To prevent the latex from sticking to your mold, apply a release agent such as petroleum jelly or silicone spray. This will make it easier to remove the latex once it has dried.
   
3. Use multiple layers: For a stronger and more durable mold, apply multiple layers of latex. Each layer should be allowed to dry completely before applying the next one. This will help prevent the mold from tearing or breaking during the candle making process.
   
4. Experiment with colors and additives: Latex can be tinted with pigments or mixed with additives to create different effects. Try adding colorants or glitter to your latex to create candles that are visually stunning and unique.
   

By following these tips, you can customize your candle molds with latex and create candles that are truly one-of-a-kind.

Exploring Different Design Techniques with Latex Candle Molds

Latex candle molds offer endless possibilities when it comes to design. Here are a few techniques you can try:

1. Embedding: With latex molds, you can easily embed objects such as dried flowers, seashells, or gemstones into your candles. This adds a unique touch and creates a visually interesting effect.
   
2. Layering: By applying different layers of colored latex, you can create candles with a layered or marbled effect. This technique allows you to create candles with stunning visual appeal.
   
3. Texture: Latex molds can be used to create candles with textured surfaces. You can achieve this by applying a thin layer of latex to your mold and then pressing textured materials such as lace or fabric onto it. Once the latex dries, you can remove the textured material and reveal a beautiful textured surface on your candle.
   
4. Cutouts: With latex molds, you can create candles with intricate cutout designs. Simply cut out the desired shape from a piece of latex and attach it to the inside of your mold. When you pour the wax, the cutout shape will be filled with wax, creating a unique and visually appealing candle.
   

By exploring different design techniques with latex candle molds, you can create candles that are truly works of art.

Innovative Ways to Enhance Your Candle Making with Customized Latex Molds

Customized latex molds offer a world of possibilities when it comes to enhancing your candle making. Here are some innovative ways to use customized latex molds:

1. Personalized candles: Use customized latex molds to create candles that are personalized for special occasions or events. You can create candles with names, initials, or special messages, making them perfect for gifts or party favors.
   
2. Themed candles: Customize your latex molds to create candles that match a specific theme or style. Whether you're creating candles for a wedding, a holiday, or a special event, customized latex molds can help you bring your vision to life.
   
3. Sculptural candles: With customized latex molds, you can create candles that are not only functional but also serve as sculptural pieces of art. Use unique mold designs to create candles that are visually striking and make a statement in any space.
   
4. Limited edition candles: Create a sense of exclusivity by using customized latex molds to create limited edition candles. These unique candles can be released in small quantities and are perfect for collectors or candle enthusiasts.
   

By using customized latex molds, you can take your candle making to new heights and create candles that are truly extraordinary.

Hi! Happy Friday. Thanks so much for taking the time to review this. I really appreciate your feedback.
Dear [Agent],
Being a death-magnet is not a good look for a first-year medical student. After her sudden disappearance before her college valedictorian speech two years earlier, Prin returns to her alma mater to start medical school. OF BLOOD AND CHOCOLATE, complete at 80,000 words, is a contemporary novel with romantic and suspense themes. The story combines the angst and coming of age themes from Gabrielle Zevin's Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, with the mystery and adventure found in Jennifer Lynn Barnes' The Inheritance Games.
After visiting an Indonesian monastery and becoming convinced that she is responsible for her mother's death, Prin comes back to take the Hippocratic oath with her med school class–an ironic gesture for someone who has frequently found herself entangled in lies. She has to confront the former friends she ghosted — including her college crush, Parker. Becoming the campus leper makes her a textbook case that is contagious and disfiguring for her on social media.
Parker, now her anatomy TA, hates her the most. His evaluations threaten her number one rank on the class bleederboard, a requirement to keep her scholarship. After she receives blood-stained threats in her anatomy locker, Prin realizes her issues are far more serious than class rankings.
Prin knows the monks' puzzling tenet—that life and death, love and hate are circular — holds the key to finding her stalker. However, time is not circular, and she must find the person behind the threats before she not only loses her scholarship, but possibly her life.
[bio paragraph]
Seven hours before my disappearance
Lies get a bad rap. Not all of them harm someone. Many are used to protect either those you love, or even yourself. Studies tell us that the average person lies about five to ten times a day. I’d argue this number grossly underestimates the number of falsehoods we tell. Especially those we tell ourselves.
People build lies using the same scaffolding that doctors employ to help patients. Aspiring to become a doctor, I’d shadowed clinic physicians as a candy striper, bearing witness to the gears that spun underneath their white coats. Each patient’s story held clues, resembling glittering rocks in the depths of the Earth's mantle. The doctor formed a differential, a list of common causes, to decipher a patient’s fever or cough. A viral infection. Pneumonia. Asthma. The hidden jewel lay dormant in the patient’s words, and it took years of training to hone the physician’s ability to mine them.
Fabrications operate the same way. A differential--or list of reasons--can explain why the lie was told. To protect others? A necessary lie. To simplify a situation? A white lie. To protect yourself from plunging into something dark? An aspirational lie. The latter were the most dangerous. Telling the same falsehood too many times tricks your mind into believing it as truth.
Tap. Tap. A faint knock reverberated off the hardwood slab of my bedroom door before it creaked open. Zara, my best friend, filled the entryway, her figure backlit by incandescent lighting as hair spilled out from her makeshift ponytail onto a white silk robe. Like the Gonocephalus chameleon found in Jakarta, it was a look she donned only at night and shed during daylight for designer couture.
I glanced up at her, feeling stranded at sea, my weight shifting on the pink life raft that doubled as my bed. Help me! I’m drowning.

━━━━━▼ TWIN 1 ▼━━━━━

BASIC INFO

Name: Thomas Matthew Hartley

• AKA Tommy. Nobody really calls him by his full name, and he's never gone by 'Tom' or anything either.

Age: 16
Gender: Male
D.O.B: 13th April 2023
Birthplace: London, England
Nationality: British
Godrent: Aphrodite
Significant family:
• Adoptive mother: Veronica Hartley, 42
• Adoptive father: Alan Hartley, 44
• Twin brother: Harvey Hartley, 16

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

Faceclaim: Art/Picrews
Features: Tommy may not look like a typical macho Hollywood hunk, but his delicately angular and distinctive features endow him instead with a uniquely pretty look. Of particular note are his eyes: big, slightly wide-set, a little downturned, and baby blue. All this, along with the rest of his unconventional style, makes for a rather striking appearance. Tommy is also blessed with a perennial smile that ebbs between relaxed and radiant.
Height: 5'8" — about an inch shorter than his brother, although this gap is often bridged thanks to his taste in shoes.
Build: Slender and lean.
Hair: Tommy's hair is probably one of his favourite things. He dedicates a great amount of care and attention to it. Though naturally brown, he's been dyeing it blond for a few years now, and will on occasion add various other pops of colour. It's currently in a stylishly tousled, layered style that just reaches his shoulders when loose.
Clothes/style: Tommy is nothing if not a fashionista. He will flit artfully between a wide variety of fashion movements, never quite committing to a single one, though he has a particular love for 2000s and 1970s aesthetics (from Y2K to glam rock and disco). He also often takes inspiration from hippie, punk, emo, grunge, and otherwise alt or vintage fashion, but he's adventurous in his style (and only getting more so with time) and he doesn't like to limit himself. Most of his clothes have been thrifted or bought secondhand, with some customised or even constructed by himself.
Accessories: Numbering many and of a great variety. A common one is makeup: frequently eyeliner, sometimes nail polish, and occasionally things like lip gloss or eyeshadow.
Necklaces, chains, scarves, hats, belts, bracelets, rings, and tinted glasses make frequent appearances in his looks. Tommy has his ears pierced and usually wears small hoops or studs, but he also owns a few pairs of more intricate earrings.
Gender expression: Androgynous. While he doesn't seek to present himself as anything but male, he doesn't shy away from incorporating more feminine elements into his appearance.

PERSONALITY

Like many of his godly siblings, Tommy is a vain creature: he's never happier than when he's prettying himself up or achieving a perfect look. This can come hand in hand with a tendency for being self-absorbed, although his selfishness comes more from a habit of forgetting he’s not the only person in the world than having any malicious intent — he's a kind person when he’s not distracted by something shiny or his own self (which is pretty shiny). Getting distracted by something shiny is a common occurrence with Tommy, whose flighty nature means he can struggle with commitment (whether to tasks, plans, interests, or people).
Tommy is admittedly a little ditzy. He's not a fan of academia, nor of thinking too hard about anything in general, tying into his carefree approach to life. He is a remarkably laidback and cheerful person whose tendency to not sweat the little things can lead to irresponsibility. He's got a habit of ignoring problems and responsibilities and shirking hard work in favour of things more enjoyable; he’d rather have a good time now than worry about whatever consequences might come later. He can also sometimes be quite naïve. Overall, he is a friendly social butterfly with a fun-loving streak.

OTHER

Theme(s): TBD
Sexuality: Heterosexual, although he's currently not 100% sure. He's only ever been interested in girls, but the way some people assume he isn't straight (and his general openness to new things) has made him consider experimenting a little.
Voice/accent: A London accent. His voice is typically quite mellow and relaxed.
Mannerisms & habits: Tommy can often be seen playing with his hair, or just idly fidgeting in general. His body language is usually playful and casual. You'll frequently find him chewing gum. Tommy is right-handed.
Interests/hobbies:
Fashion: The way to Tommy's heart is through clothes. He lives for getting new clothes, going thrifting, styling outfits, wearing them, and generally being as fashionable as possible (although his style may skew alternative/unconventional).

• Tommy is also interested in fashion design and creating his own items of clothing. He's pretty talented at sewing and can alter or modify clothes or even construct new ones out of materials.

Music: Tommy has dreams of being a pop and/or rock star. A teen idol. Admittedly, these dreams are more motivated by a desire to be famous than passion for music, but he does genuinely love music and performing it. He mostly sings, which he is quite good at (though not groundbreakingly so).

• Like his taste in clothes, his taste in music also spans genres. Ones he's particularly a fan of include indie pop, glam rock, synth pop, pop punk, new wave, disco music, and hip hop, as well as whatever chart-toppers of the moment.
  
• Music he listens to ranges from David Bowie, ABBA, and Queen to Prince, KISS, and Avril Lavigne, but he’s got a wide variety of artists he listens to and would struggle to pick exact favourites.
  

Misc.:

• Tommy has been gathering a respectably sized following on social media, mostly posting himself and fashion-related posts. Upkeep of these accounts is likely difficult with limited access to the internet, though.
• The more athletic twin, Tommy enjoys activities and sports like skating and football (AKA soccer).

Powers:

• Enhanced Beauty 

Tommy always looks perfect. It could be down to the care he puts into his looks, but it's probably also the passive power that staves off cosmetic flaws and steers his physical state in the best possible direction, no matter whatever other factors in his life: for example, his skin is always clear and glowing; his hair is always beautiful and healthy-looking; his face never looks tired, or blotchy, or puffy — he always looks as flawless and radiant and as best he possibly can.

• Alluring Aura 

When Tommy's alluring aura power is activated, all those within the area of effect will find him remarkably attractive and charming. Any existing feelings of the sort — which are not uncommon anyway, really — are greatly amplified. People within 15 feet will find him more strikingly beautiful than they might otherwise, and may also feel subtly drawn to him, or more generally inclined to like him. Different people may be affected in different ways, and some more than others; the general intensity of the effect can also vary.
This aura effect activates unconsciously, triggered by all manner of situations: feeling certain emotions, meeting someone new, seeing someone attractive, the desire to charm or win someone over, the desire for attention and validation... Tommy is not aware of the power. He thinks he's just naturally like that.

• Flower Manipulation 

Tommy can control and manipulate flowers, including flowering vines, which he can grow from seeds or existing plants and use to wrap around targets to bind, restrain, or grab.

• Glitter Generation 

Tommy has the ability to manifest glitter, including edible glitter and glitter glue but not sequins.

• Persuasion, Cosmetic and Fashion Proficiency 

Tommy is naturally adept with the skills involved in persuasion and beautification, such as cosmetics and fashion.

• Animal Affinity 

All creatures tend to be naturally friendly to Tommy.
Weapons: None yet.
━━━━━▲ TWIN 2 ▲━━━━━

BASIC INFO

Name: Harvey Bruno Hartley

• Most attempts at nicknames will be met with disapproval (as well as jokes about the rhyming nature of his name).

Age: 16
Gender: Male
D.O.B: 13th April 2023
Birthplace: London, England
Nationality: British
Godrent: Aphrodite
Significant family:
• Adoptive mother: Veronica Hartley, 42
• Adoptive father: Alan Hartley, 44
• Twin brother: Thomas Hartley, 16

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

Faceclaim: Art/Picrews
Features: Although he and his identical twin should have identical faces, Harvey and Tommy do not look exactly alike. Perhaps this is down to Tommy's beauty-related powers which Harvey lacks, or perhaps it's a result of the accident Harvey had in childhood that broke his nose and jaw. This resulted in a lopsidedness to his chin and a crookedness to his nose that disrupts the symmetry of his face and the natural delicateness of his features. He is also afflicted by acne in a way that has spared his brother, and is insistently growing a terrible moustache, which at this point only amounts to a few wispy wayward hairs.
Height: 5'9" — an inch taller than his twin, which he likes to lord over him.
Build: Less fit than his more athletic brother, although they share the same slight frame.
Hair: Harvey sports his natural hair colour, which is brown. Unlike his brother, he does not devote much energy to his hair; he's stuck with the same style for years (which Tommy has long reviled as unflattering), and it always seems to end up limp, greasy, or scruffy.
Clothes/style: Harvey is not concerned with the trivialities of fashion. His clothes are generally plain and practical, so expect basic t-shirts (usually long-sleeved), hoodies, jeans, and joggers. The most adventurous fashion choice he makes is wearing turtlenecks, because they make him feel like a writer.
Accessories: Numbering few. Harvey doesn't typically accessorise, but he usually wears a watch.
Gender expression: Masculine.

PERSONALITY

Harvey does not fit in with his cabin mates.
While many of his siblings are preoccupied with matters of appearance and fashion, Harvey rejects such frivolities, espousing a strong distaste for shallow, meaningless things and favouring matters of intellectual substance and poetic beauty rather than superficial. This, unfortunately, can make him come across as pretentious. He's secretly (well... he thinks it's secretly) desperate to be seen as an intelligent, profound, and sophisticated individual — both an intellectual and an artist — and his attempts to embody this are not always the smoothest. In fact, he can be quite awkward: socialising does not come to him as effortlessly as it does to his brother.
Harvey is a dedicated person who can be very hard-working and conscientious. He is typically quite responsible and a lot more sensible than his twin, though maturity may sometimes give way to pettiness, especially if he starts to hold a grudge. He can be rather bitter and jealous, with his insecurity and neurotic disposition at times creating a self-sabotaging vicious circle. Harvey can also be moody, with a tendency to wallow in his own feelings, as well as take things too seriously. Despite all this, he is often a thoughtful and considerate person, and remains loyal to those he is close to.

OTHER

Theme(s): Creep by Radiohead TBD
Sexuality: Heterosexual.
Voice/accent: His accent seems to be slightly more 'posh' than his brother's, although this may just be something he's trained himself into.
Mannerisms & habits: Harvey and Tommy share certain mannerisms. They both tend to fidget and fiddle with things, with Harvey typically focusing on his watch or his sleeves. Harvey is also a mouth breather (in the literal sense), and rather stuck in a cycle of chewing, licking, and picking at chapped and scabby lips, which only serves to make the matter worse. Harvey often seems a little tense and this is seen in his posture. He is left-handed.
Interests/hobbies:
Literature: This includes reading and writing. Harvey is an appreciator of classic works of literature, such as those by Shakespeare or the poetry greats over the centuries, as well as classic novels.

• He writes his own poetry and also tries his hand at prose (although his childhood aspiration of being a writer has never been achieved beyond a couple of pages — he can never come up with plots).

Music: Harvey is passionate about music and rather proud of his music taste. He enjoys the genres of experimental music, post-rock, ambient, shoegaze, progressive rock, and noise music, as well as having an appreciation for jazz, especially more avant-garde forms. He's also partial to a spot of classical music, although partly just because it makes him seem cultured.

• His favourite artist is Radiohead, though he had a former obsession with The Beatles. Further musicians include Aphex Twin, Pink Floyd, King Crimson, My Bloody Valentine, Swans, and a variety of artists who nobody has ever heard of. He's a bit of a music snob and tends to look down on mainstream pop music.
  
• Harvey plays the guitar, writes his own songs, and produces his own experimental/ambient music which he posts online.
  

Bird-watching: A self-professed 'birder', Harvey finds great satisfaction in observing birds, recording bird sightings, and learning about the ornithological.
Misc.:

• Harvey considers himself a very cultured individual, one who appreciates things such as fine art and philosophy and possesses a vast library of knowledge. To his credit... well, he definitely tries to be this way.
  
• Harvey and Tommy have always played games together, ranging from childhood inventions to board games to the more 'intellectually stimulating' ones (like chess) Harvey tries to push but for which Tommy has little interest.
  

Powers:

• Dove Transformation 

Harvey can transform into a dove (specifically, a European turtle dove). He can maintain this form for a maximum of two cumulative hours a day. Shifting too rapidly will lead to a feeling of disorientation and eventually exhaustion.

• Heartbreak Inducement 

Harvey has the ability to induce an emotional state within targets similar to the pain of heartbreak. When used, this power will leave a target feeling deeply sorrowful and distressed, as if their heart has just been broken. This can last between two and ten minutes, with shorter times being able to pack more intensity. This could stave off an attacker (including monsters) as the emotional turmoil would be distracting.

• Pathokinesis Immunity 

Harvey is immune to emotional powers and magical attempts of emotional manipulation.

• Animal Affinity 

All creatures tend to be naturally friendly to Harvey.
Weapons: None yet.

HISTORY

Tommy and Harvey were born out of a brief liaison between the goddess Aphrodite and a young man living in London. Said young man was not keen on raising a baby, let alone two, and despite his (vaguely) valiant efforts for a short first part of their lives, he ended up giving the boys up into care. They were eventually adopted by a couple when they were just under 2 years old: Alan and Veronica Hartley.
Despite periods of fluctuating financial insecurity, the boys had a fairly standard and stable childhood. They were never that much alike, as far as identicalness goes, both growing to value and develop their own individuality.
At age 15, a development in employment led to the family moving to America. Strange things started occurring with increasing intensity, and only recently have they been made aware of their true heritage and introduced to their new home: Camp Half-Blood.

NOW

"What d'you wanna do now?" Tommy asks his brother as they leave the dining pavilion, having concluded their first breakfast at Camp Half-Blood since their arrival yesterday.
"I don't know," Harvey says, after an uncertain pause. He has, admittedly, been finding it somewhat harder than his twin to adjust to their new life. It feels like he's been forced into a set of clothes that don't fit, that itch and prickle with the surreal and incomprehensibly immense truth of his and his brother's origins — and, so it has been suggested — their uncomfortably likely monster-y ends. Tommy doesn't seem as bothered by these metaphorical new outfits they've been thrust into wearing, but then again, he's always liked getting new clothes.
"Come explore with me," Tommy suggests. He, for one, finds this strange new world exciting more than anything else. This place is like something out of a movie: a training camp for kids with magical powers? Goat people? Real-life swords? Cute girls living in rivers? He wants to find out more, wants to snoop around and see what else this place has to offer, and he also wants to meet people. Conveniently enough for that last part, the excitement of it all means that, unbeknownst to either twin, Tommy's aura power has been steadily activated; so he happens to be particularly eye-catching and magnetic right now.
Harvey's not so keen on immersing himself even further into the deep end they've been thrown into, at least not until he's had a little more time to adjust. "I don't feel like exploring right now," he says.
"You're so boring. Are you gonna go back to the cabin, then?" his brother asks, gesturing in a direction that is definitely not where the cabins are. Harvey instinctively pulls a face: it would be fair to say that one of the twins has taken to Cabin 10 more than the other.
"Well, what are you gonna do, then?" asks Tommy. "Just sit out here and mope?"
"I'm not going to mope. I don't mope."
"Yeah, you do," Tommy retorts. "You mope all the time. You're so mopey. You're a moped."
"Shut up," Harvey says. "Fine, I'll come explore with you for a bit," he concedes, if only to disprove the moping allegations. He's not sure what he'll do after — maybe break out the binoculars and scope out the local birdlife, something to re-centre himself a little.
"Alright, cool," Tommy says with a grin. "Where d'you wanna go first?"
OOC: You can interact with both of the twins while they explore camp together, Tommy (by himself) exploring camp on his own when Harvey leaves him, or Harvey (by himself) scoping out the local birdlife. You can assume that Tommy's aura power will be active upon meeting your character in whichever case. Thanks for reading :)

Tried to post on other places but pretty sure it's gonna get deleted because it's meme related
I have been following the Kitty tweets mostly for entertainment, they are fun, but I think I see a theme. So here is my tinfoil hat theory.
1.It's not about GME anymore. The game powerup logo, batman tweet says - now we have a symbol, that is a warning, fear etc.
Braveheart meme, dying gamestoooop rallying cry - Wallace dies at the end of movie, but inspires with his death.
Finally, the diversion tweet, magic, the prestige, kasas city shuffle. Everyone is looking at GME stock again, but that's the diversion, kansas shuffle

1. So what is it if not GME ?? He is, saying he is very careful what he says so listen. He is posting SIGNS. What signs do many of the tweets have in common?

Candman says "Be 🐝 my victim" with the bee emoji after the word be =BB
It's Britney Bitch BB
Goosebumps- Bear Beware BB
Busta rhymes -Busta Bust BB
Breaking Bad, and Jason Borne in Boston might be a stretch, but
BLACKBERRY. There is some dd out there about solid fundamentals for BB..
Not a bagholder, I only played amc in 2021.
My positions : shares and june/July calls
Just lottos, not full porting on some meme tweets, but this a casino, so I'm gonna gamble.
Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk

CLOSED
(Applications are now closed. Thank you so much to everyone. I will be going through all apps and decisions should be completed by Monday 5/20!)
Nepenthe, often dubbed "The Entertainment Capital of the World," is a vibrant oasis nestled at of the edge of desert. Its skyline is adorned with iconic landmarks like the towering Obelisk, the mesmerizing Moonstone , and the labyrinthine replica of the Palace of Mirrors.
Neon lights cascade down bustling streets, drawing crowds to the endless array of casinos, hotels, and entertainment venues that line the boulevard. The air is alive with the sounds of slot machines, the laughter of revelers, and the melodies of street performers.
But alas all that glitters is not gold.
In the shadows of the glitz and glamour, organized syndicates run the streets of Old Town, enigmatic corporations pull invisible strings from their lofty towers of influence in the Financial District, the “unregistered” dodge the vice like grip of the FBME at City Center, and something immemorial calls hauntingly from desolate canyons and caverns of the Eternal Desert.
Nepenthe is a city of dreams, where fortunes are won and lost in the blink of an eye, and where the line between fantasy and reality blurs beneath the relentless glow of the desert sun.
Nepenthe is a modern setting D&D 5e ASYNC PBP campaign played over Discord. This campaign will contain adult content and themes. +18 required.
DM is 30+; PT (UTC -7); Experienced but easy going.
If interested DM with completed application:

1. What would you like to be called?
2. What is your discord handle?
3. What are your chosen pronouns?
4. How old are you?
5. What is your time zone?
6. What is your availability? Average posts per day in active campaign?
7. Would you be open to a weekly set group session in addition to normal asynchronous daily play?
8. Do you have experience with PBP and/or D&D? (No wrong answers all levels of ability are welcome)
9. What sort of characters interest you?
10. While Nepenthe is not an ERP, strong violence and gore may be present in story telling. Do you have any lines or veils? (A line would be something you prefer never to come up in game. A veil is while an event may happen within game, the action occurs “off screen” or “faded to black.”
11. Please provide me with a writing sample. (Could be from previous campaign)
12. Do you have questions for me? Anything about the campaign?

Limiting campaign to 5-6 players. I will keep applications open at least through the weekend.

We have a socialization ball soon, and the theme is Red Carpet: A night in Paris France. The majority picked a glittering outfit/ dress. I chose a black, elegant jumpsuit with no glitters. It has white, cold shoulder ruffles. Idk if it fits the theme, but I'm trying, so what accessories should I add so that Iit fits the theme???

When I was three years old I was in a really bad car accident. I didn't know it at the time, but that singular event would come to define everything about my life moving forward. What I remember about the accident is mostly a collage of backdated comments I was able to reel out of my father in the following years. He was driving me and my mom in his old '91 Chevy Tahoe through the twisting backroads of Southern Illinois, weaving his way through the gnarled branches of oak trees which interlocked into a braided ceiling overhead. A fog had rolled in, giving the impression that we were driving through a cloudy tube. Everything was simultaneously bright and opaque. I didn't mind though, as I was in the back seat working on a coloring book. My mom was in the front, talking with my dad or turning around to entertain my completed pictures.
Although I was of the age where my memory was just beginning to mature, I still recall two things very clearly from the accident. First was the sensation of breaking. I remember feeling the way a plate must feel to be dropped: weightless at first, then suddenly meeting a much larger, more solid object—the air popped like a firecracker, and the entirety of my body shattered into hundreds of fractals. And then I remember a hand. It was my dad's hand pulling me from the wreck.
I ended up hospitalized for weeks after the crash. My mom was less lucky. The impact had killed her instantly.
As I've alluded to, I was young, and at the time I didn't fully understand the implications of what had happened. I knew something was missing, but it was like a word on the tip of my tongue, or the forgotten vanilla in a cherished cake recipe—coloring my experience, but not the whole of it. Not like my dad. For him, it was the whole fucking cake. He had somehow made it out with only a few scratches. I'm sure he had a really bad case of survivor's guilt, and frankly, looking back, I wouldn't have blamed him if he slumped into despair and spent his days drinking away his sorrow. But he wasn't that type of man. He got help. It took him years before he was able to recall anything that happened that morning, and most of it is still repressed, but he shared with me what he could. Or at least that's what I had thought.
My dad was a Middle School teacher since before I was born, and he kept his job until very recently. As a result, we didn't have much by way of resources. I grew up on Disney Channel and TV dinners for the most part, but I didn't mind. When I became of school age, his job actually made caring for me pretty convenient. Since our Elementary and Middle schools were connected, he was able to drive me there and back each day.
It was around third or fourth grade that I realized I was different. I didn't understand the other children or even the adults most of the time. They would say things then immediately change their mind, or they would talk about something and in the next breath forget its existence entirely. I remember one day at lunch, I had just gotten my tray of hot food and sat down with some friends. One of the kids, Alex, was talking about a stuffed bird he had won for getting first place in Mr. Curtis's pop-up math competition. We were all admiring its blue wings and white belly and sharp black beak and beady eyes. I left mid-conversation to get a chocolate milk. When I came back, I asked to see the bird again, and Alex said "what bird?" I was perplexed. "The bird—the bluejay you were just showing us." I remember all of the other kids looking at me like I was crazy. I figured they were all playing a trick on me, so I got up and went over to Alex's seat and crouched down, looking under the table, then I sprung up and tried to open his lunchbox. "What are you doing!?" he yelled. I felt so confused and embarrassed that I ran to the bathroom to cry.
And then there was another time a group of kids were laughing about a joke one of the girls, Taylor, had made about our homeroom teacher's face looking like a seal. I knew it was mean, but at the time I just wanted to fit in so I played along, but when I made a comment about her resemblance to the semi-aquatic animal, they all looked at me confused. "What are you talking about? We never said that…"
These misattributions kept happening, and it led to me being ostracized from most of the little childish cliques that popped up. I developed a quasi-standoffish temperament which I used as a shield against a chaotic world that I didn't understand. My dad eventually had me tested for ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder), but I passed the test. He asked if I wanted to move to a different town with different schoolmates, thinking that perhaps I was getting bullied, but I told him it was fine. Somewhere deep down I felt like no matter where I went, this problem would follow me.
You may think that I was simply coping with the absence of my mom, and while I'm sure that her absence has left certain holes in my life, kindly, no, that wasn't what was happening. You see, at first I didn't notice the instances of what I'll call "blinking". I simply thought that I was misremembering things: objects, words, events. They were all little things anyway. A bird, a joke, my pencil box. It wasn't until sixth grade that I realized the magnitude of the phenomenon.
I was in my dad's 6th grade Social Studies class and we had just been assigned our "Ancient Civilizations" project which involved creating a diorama of our chosen civilization and presenting its features to the class. My friend at the time, Claire, had taken my first choice of Ancient Rome (which we had a heated argument about at lunch), so I was left with Ancient Egypt. At the time, all I pictured for Egypt was a plate of sand. However, my dad and I went through some illustrated history books and pictures on the internet and he really built up the project for me.
Over the course of a couple months, he helped me shape three pyramids out of small wooden planks and a bunch of tan clay. We placed them in the center of a giant square shoebox lid which served as the container for the diorama. Then he bought some small wooden mannequin puppets and we dressed them up in cloth clothes (mostly kilts and tunics) and colored their eyes, mouths, and hair. We added a few obelisks and some small box-huts which were collected into a little village around the Nile. Finally, we added a light glaze of glue where we felt would be necessary and then covered the whole project with golden glitter.
As we worked on each part of the diorama, my dad helped me understand what we were adding and why it was important to Ancient Egypt. I loved the way he talked about history. He spun everything into a miraculous story. To this day, I don't think I've ever had a teacher who came close to his level of charisma and creativity. As a result, I became really proud of my diorama. I memorized all the little details and rehearsed my speech in front of the mirror for hours leading up to the last couple weeks of class. And then, two days before I was supposed to give my presentation, everything fell apart.
First, I need to apologize for deceiving you about an aspect of my story. I thought it might help you to understand what I was going through at the time. What I'm about to tell you is going to sound insane. I get that. But please hear me out. The truth is that I was never assigned to present on Ancient Egypt; everything else about Clair taking my first pick and dad helping me with the whole project and my excitement leading up to the presentation was all true, but it wasn't a project on Ancient Egypt, it was a project on Ancient Sidovan, which was a civilization located on the eighth continent called "Catalan" (the same name as the spoken language, but unrelated) which was due West of Australia in the Indian Ocean.
I know this sounds incredible, and if you want to believe it's all in my head, I get that, but I remember clearly all sorts of facts about it: the Malagasy, the same people who populated Madagascar, were the first peoples to discover Catalan and settle it. However, about five hundred years later, Indian ships would arrive and create the civilization known as Sidovan. A pidgin language formed between the indigenous population and new arriving Indians called "Hiesa" (pronounced: Hai-E-suh or Hai-ʔ-suh). Catalan had a warm climate with plenty of natural resources, but Sidovan had a dense enough population to require agricultural production. They grew rice, grain, sugarcane, vegetables, and even tobacco.
I remembered all of these facts and more. My diorama reflected the main features of the Sidovan civilization. And then two days before my presentation, I woke up and my diorama was entirely different. The hilly grasslands were traded out for sandy dunes. The Hindu statues and stone palaces became clay pyramids and large spear-like pillars. And everything was covered with the ickiest yellow glitter I had ever seen. Tears stung my eyes as I trampled over to my dad's room and banged on his door. "Dad! What did you do!?" I yelled.
"Honey?" He responded, rushing over to the base of the stairs. "What's wrong?"
"The diorama. It's ruined!"
"It's what?" he asked and ran up the stairs, leading me to my room. He looked over it for a few seconds, checking to see if everything was intact, then said, "I don't see it, honey. Where is it ruined?"
I was completely dumb-struck. What did he mean he didn't see it? "All of it!" I shouted. "The whole thing is wrong. Where's the grass and the stone buildings and the lady with the four arms and the elephants? Where is my project!?"
My dad looked at me in silence. "Lauren, baby, what civilization do you think you were working on?"
"Ancient Sidovan, of course! We've been working on this for months now! Dad, please tell me you remember."
He knelt down and put his hands on my shoulders. "Honey, your project was on Ancient Egypt. There is no Ancient Sidovan."
"Y-you're lying." I protested. "Books, you have books. On your bookshelf."
He took me into his study and showed me all of his books. None of them were on Ancient Sidovan. He even turned on his computer and typed in the name of the civilization, but all that came up was a near match "Sidon". I remember feeling the sudden urge to puke. My entire body felt like it was pumping battery acid instead of blood. "I—I don't," I started but suddenly my head felt very light, and I fainted.
When I woke up, I was in the hospital. I had lost consciousness for over half an hour, enough time for my dad to call 9-1-1 and have the ambulance transport me to the nearest ER. They ran all sorts of tests on me, but they all came back fine. After a couple hours of IV fluids and monitoring, they released me with my dad.
I ended up skipping the rest of school that week. My dad didn't make me present my diorama. In fact, he never brought the subject up again. Part of me was glad. I just wanted to forget the whole thing ever happened. But another part of me couldn't move past what was clearly the most absurd thing to ever happen to me. About a week after the incident, I tried to broach the subject, but when I asked my dad about it, he didn't seem to remember our conversation at all. He said I had fallen ill and that's why I needed to go to the ER and miss class. I felt like I was going crazy. If I was older, I probably would have voluntarily checked myself into a psychiatric ward. But I was young and helpless and alone, and I decided that if I just ignored the changes well enough, I could still get along. This proved difficult though, as the blinking would only exacerbate in the coming months.
Up until the time of the project, I hadn't been able to directly observe the phenomenon. It was always in retrospect that things disappeared. It was during the summer after sixth grade that this changed. I still remember the first time it happened. I had just gotten out of the shower and was drying my hair in front of the mirror. After it was dried, I threw on my clothes then went to tie my hair up in a ponytail, but as I went to set the elastic tie, I felt its weight dissipate in my hand. I gasped and held my hand out. The circular black band was gone.
Fast forward to seventh grade and the blinking had spiraled out of control. Reflecting back on it, most people would probably have assumed I was drinking psilocybin-infused water, as the delusions were somewhat consistent with psychedelic phenomena: except these distortions were real (at least they felt that way to me).
I'd wake up and grab the box of Special K but end up eating Cheerios. The McDonalds logo would look yellow and red one day, but purple and black the next. I'd be watching a show, and then a different show, and then a different one. It was as if the entire universe was a Christmas tree with millions of lights, and the lights kept shifting hues randomly, faster and faster, and I was the only one who could see their changing colors. I remember one night my dad made spaghetti for dinner and we went out onto the porch to eat it. While we were sitting, I saw our neighbor's house, a two story townhome, blink and become a single story bungalow. I gasped, and my dad asked what was wrong, but when I tried to explain he just gave me a strange look. For him, no matter what changed, the world was "always that way". While for me, it didn't have "a way".
The situation peaked when Clair, that friend I mentioned before, disappeared. I texted her (my dad had bought me a BlackBerry at the beginning of summer break) but didn't get a response. When I asked her other friends if they knew where she was, I got the usual "what are you talking about?" look. I knew right away what had happened, even though I didn't want to believe it. I went to the teacher and asked if there was a Clair in our class. She said "no". I broke down in front of everyone. I couldn't take it anymore. I ran out of school. The lady at the front desk tried to stop me, but I just barrelled past her. I kept running until I got to a big park across the street and bawled my eyes out until the police arrived and escorted me home. When they tried asking me what was wrong, I didn't say anything. There was literally nothing I could say that they would understand.
That night I prayed to God for the first time. My dad wasn't a religious man. He went to Catholic church with my mom when she was alive, but after she died he never went back. Still, I knew how to pray, even if I never did it. I copied some of the people I saw praying in movies and interlocked my fingers and knelt down on my bed, stuffing my head into a pillow. "Dear God," I said, "Please, please, please help me." I told Him about my struggles and asked Him to make them stop. I spent an hour saying the same things over and over again. And when I was finished, my little body was so tired, I fell right to sleep.
I knew something was different the second I opened my eyelids. I didn't only feel relieved, but I felt… embraced. I felt like someone was watching over me. I felt like I wasn't alone. I moved through my day with cautious apprehension. I didn't want to get my hopes up only to be let down. But to my surprise, the blinking had stopped. At least I couldn't remember any of the inconsistencies, and to me, that was a win. I began to pray regularly, and the more I did, the more I could feel the sense that someone was looking out for me. It was like I was getting a big hug from some cosmic force that loved me and wanted me to be happy.
I made it a habit to pray regularly. I asked my dad if he could take me to a church, and he agreed to take me to St. Mark's, the same church that he and my mom used to attend. Over time, I realized that the actual church services weren't as important to me as the praying. For whatever reason, there was something about praying that was like a glue for my brain, holding the entire universe together. As I got older, I considered that maybe it wasn't that the changes were no longer happening, but that I simply didn't see them anymore. In other words, maybe I was just becoming like everyone else. Either way, I didn't mind.
In my teenage years, I got into mindfulness meditation. I thought that I'd want to go into religious studies and become a theologian, so I started to learn about Eastern traditions in addition to Christianity. I joined a bunch of different school clubs to meet kids of different faiths: Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam. I tried to find a common thread which linked them all and would explain what happened to me as a child. The metaphors of Heaven and Hell, Good and Evil, the Taoist Yin and Yang—duality. Every religion seemed to speak about a way of being that would lead to a better place. In some cases that better place was a physical future existence, and in others it was merely being in contact with the perfection of nature or the present. Metaphorically, the teachings could explain what I had gone through in a kind of loose way, but there were no explicit statements about my condition.
***
I want to fast forward to why I've decided to write about this now. To give you an idea of where I'm at, I'm now 25 and working on finishing my MA in Computational Linguistics. I know that's a bit of a switch from what I was thinking when I was a teenager, but I really only interested in religion because of the value praying afforded me as a child. I didn't actually have much interest in the subject, itself. After my first year of college, I changed to an English major, which ultimately led to me taking a linguistics class and enjoying it so much that I switched tracks in my Junior year. Considering the state of the world, I thought minoring in Computer Science might help me financially in the future, so I ended up charting a path which I figured might lead to something like developing translation software.
Anyway, everything was going fine until a few weeks ago. I was out at an all-night diner with a few of my friends from the program. There was Jeremy, Martin, Bella, Jordan, and Macy. We had been working on a group project together involving modeling construction grammars by generating primitive 3D structures using C# and running the code through a game engine (it's a bit weird, but essentially we were trying to create a multidimensional model for language using a similar but more advanced concept than other LLMs), and just had a breakthrough. It was 2AM though and not a brain cell existed between the six of us, so instead we focused on a different problem: Macy's ongoing breakup with her semi-long distance trucker boyfriend. We tried to explain why Mike wasn't going to work out as we ordered a round of milkshakes and waited for the lone overnight kitchen worker to scoop out three balls of ice cream from the Deans carton for each of us, blend it, then have the server deliver the vintage diner glasses on a plastic tray.
I dug into my thick strawberry shake with a spoon. It was delicious. I kept eating but focused back on the conversation. I remember feeling something odd about one of the scoops, but I was so entrenched in Macy's story that I didn't notice the metal shard in my ice cream until I felt it against my lip. "P-tuh" I spat out the shard and ice cream all in one motion, then covered my mouth which I was sure was bleeding. The silver blade was probably as large as my thumb, and it had two jagged edges, as if it was fastened for the purpose of causing damage. "What the fuck!" I yelled.
Everyone at the table turned to see what was the matter. "Hey, Lauren, you okay?"
I spoke through a covered mouth, using my free hand to point at the table. "That was in my—"
But it was gone.
"In your… shake? Was something in your shake?" asked Jeremy.
I froze. In that moment, the stories of my childhood that I had only remembered as faint nightmares came back in a wave of crushing terror. How could I have been so stupid to think they would simply vanish forever? No, this isn't the same thing, I thought. But deep down, I knew it was. I drew my hand away from my lips and saw that it was dry—no blood. When I looked back up, all of the blood in my veins went cold. My friends were… smiling at me. Their lips were elastic like taffy, stretching to reveal their teeth. I could feel them radiating malevolence, as if the only thing holding them back from picking up their utensils and stabbing me to death was some thinly veiled force field. The moment lasted for what felt like half a minute, then Jordan said two words which made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"Found you"
The words ricocheted in my now adrenaline powered skull. But just as he spoke them, the world blinked and my friends were back. Bella reached out and grabbed my hand. I pulled away, but when I saw her concerned expression, I relented.
"Sorry, guys, I think I'm going to have to call it." I said.
"You sure, L?" asked Jordan. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
"Yeah, thanks, but I just…" I stumbled for a lie, but when one wouldn't come, Martin stood up and said he'd walk me out to my car.
"Thanks," I said as I got into my little 2015 Jetta. "It's just been a long day."
"No problem, Lauren. You know, if there's ever anything—"
"I know," I said but didn't mean. Some things just couldn't be shared.
I drove for about five minutes before stopping at a gas station. I pulled in and parked near the back. Then I interlocked my fingers and prayed for half an hour. I apologized for not taking my praying seriously and asked to once again be granted peace. Unlike my younger years, I also drifted into other avenues of thought. I imagined my mom. I pictured the whole arc of my life, all of the little decisions that led me to where I was. I cried for a long time. I felt like that little girl again reaching out for help. I still felt so lost, so out of control; there were so many things missing, and I was so confused.
I decided then to take a trip back home and visit my dad who was now working as a private tutor. He made enough prepping affluent students for the ACT and SAT that he could spend his free time pursuing his real passions: reading and writing. When I arrived at his doorstep that weekend, he greeted me with open arms. "How are you, kiddo? It's been, what? A year or so?"
It was actually more like two years, but I didn't tell him. I just smiled and nodded.
"Well, come in."
The house was almost exactly how I remembered it. Linoleum floors, beige walls, a few scattered pictures, the scent of camomile. Everything minimalist. There was a quaintness, a prettiness to the way everything seemed to be well kept and in a perfect place. From the cherry wood chairs we'd sit in to eat, to the cream-colored loveseat. I felt at home.
I spent the drive thinking of what I would talk to my dad about, but ultimately I wasn't sure what I'd say. I loved my dad, but I think growing up it was easy to see him as naive. After all, arguably the most important episodes of my childhood were completely unknown to him. In that way, I kind of loved him from a distance. Maybe losing my mom also played into that. Maybe I just had trust issues. And after what happened at the diner… Luckily there hadn't been any blinks since.
I stayed for a couple days and he showed me around some of the different coffee shops where he'd tutor kids or write some of his stories. I met some of his friends, mostly other retired or part-time teachers who were in a similar place in life. I was happy for him. Then, on Sunday, he made me my favorite meal growing up: homemade carbonara pasta with chicken and broccoli. The sauce had a few different cheeses, butter, olive oil, and a raw egg yolk. It was the perfect blend of creamy, savory, and sweet. After we ate, he cracked open a scrapbook of some old photos and other clippings he had put together.
We reminisced about the past and laughed whenever I'd cover up one of my awkward pictures. He brought up some stories from school that I had forgotten, naming some teachers that I hadn't thought about in years. Apparently I had started at the end, because as I moved to the other end of the book, I kept getting younger and younger. I flipped to the last pages and noticed a couple pictures of my mom that made my heart sink.
"She was beautiful, wasn't she?" said my dad.
"Mmm," I agreed.
I flipped to the last page and saw a collage of newspaper clippings. One of them was related to the accident. It was headlined: "Two Survive Head-On Collision". After a cursory glance at the text, I noticed something odd. It said, "Both the husband and child, a three year old girl, sustained life-threatening wounds. The husband was found unconscious on the scene. The girl was found twenty meters away from the vehicle, crying." I swallowed, trying to remember back to what happened that day. The feeling of crashing, of the world slowing down, then breaking, returned. And then there was a hand. My dad's hand. Or was it? If he was unconscious, who pulled me out of that wreck?
I looked up at my dad. He was smiling.
I shot up and started backing up slowly toward the door. "No, not you, too. What is this? What's happening? Who are you?"
My dad, or whatever was controlling him, laughed."Oh, Lauren, Lauren, Lauren. You know who we are." he purred as he stood up. He lifted his hands and the lights began to flicker then bend in a way which shouldn't have been possible. Dark figures began to propagate from the shadows along the walls. The pictures nailed there began to blink out of existence. I turned to run toward the door but the handle was gone. Glass shards materialized all around me and swarmed like locusts. Certain I was going to die, I dropped down on my knees and once again turned to prayer, this time asking God to directly intervene and save me.
Everything went quiet.
"Honey? Are you okay?"
I didn't trust his voice. I knew if I opened my eyes, I'd see that awful smile. He was just toying with me. "It's not you," I said in between muttered prayers. "I know it's not you."
"Honey," my dad said, closer. I felt his arms wrap around me. This was it, I was going to be suffocated. I waited for the inevitable crushing weight of my chest collapsing. I waited to break all over again.
"I would never hurt you, Lauren. I love you more than anything in the whole world."
I burst out in tears. "No, it's not you, I know it's not you. You don't exist!"
My dad's weight dissipated. I opened my eyes and saw that he was no longer there. "Dad?" I called aloud. "Dad? Where did you go?"
I checked all over the house, but there was no trace of him. There were still pictures of him all over the house, so I knew he hadn't blinked out of existence like everything else, but somehow he was missing.
***
I left the house and got a room at a hotel, where I am now. I'm sure at this point that whatever is happening to me is no longer random. Something out there is actively trying to hunt me. Maybe it has been my whole life, but only now it can see me—however weird that sounds. If that's right, then God has been on my side trying to protect me from this demon or monster or devil or whatever it is. Regardless, the methods I was using when I was younger are not going to cut it anymore. I already posted my story in several other small circles and have gotten one reply. A man who goes by the name "Trent" (apparently it's an alias). He said that he has some insight into my "condition" and can offer help if I want it. I'm planning on meeting with him tomorrow. I'm not sure if it's a good idea, but at this point I need answers. I can keep you updated with my progress if that interests you, and to anyone who knows anything about what's happening to me, please… I could really use your help.
***
I was just about to post this when Trent sent another message. This is what it says:
Trent: We can do the \*** at **** O'clock. Also, if what you're telling me is true, your mother may still be alive.*

When I was three years old I was in a really bad car accident. I didn't know it at the time, but that singular event would come to define everything about my life moving forward. What I remember about the accident is mostly a collage of backdated comments I was able to reel out of my father in the following years. He was driving me and my mom in his old '91 Chevy Tahoe through the twisting backroads of Southern Illinois, weaving his way through the gnarled branches of oak trees which interlocked into a braided ceiling overhead. A fog had rolled in, giving the impression that we were driving through a cloudy tube. Everything was simultaneously bright and opaque. I didn't mind though, as I was in the back seat working on a coloring book. My mom was in the front, talking with my dad or turning around to entertain my completed pictures.
Although I was of the age where my memory was just beginning to mature, I still recall two things very clearly from the accident. First was the sensation of breaking. I remember feeling the way a plate must feel to be dropped: weightless at first, then suddenly meeting a much larger, more solid object—the air popped like a firecracker, and the entirety of my body shattered into hundreds of fractals. And then I remember a hand. It was my dad's hand pulling me from the wreck.
I ended up hospitalized for weeks after the crash. My mom was less lucky. The impact had killed her instantly.
As I've alluded to, I was young, and at the time I didn't fully understand the implications of what had happened. I knew something was missing, but it was like a word on the tip of my tongue, or the forgotten vanilla in a cherished cake recipe—coloring my experience, but not the whole of it. Not like my dad. For him, it was the whole fucking cake. He had somehow made it out with only a few scratches. I'm sure he had a really bad case of survivor's guilt, and frankly, looking back, I wouldn't have blamed him if he slumped into despair and spent his days drinking away his sorrow. But he wasn't that type of man. He got help. It took him years before he was able to recall anything that happened that morning, and most of it is still repressed, but he shared with me what he could. Or at least that's what I had thought.
My dad was a Middle School teacher since before I was born, and he kept his job until very recently. As a result, we didn't have much by way of resources. I grew up on Disney Channel and TV dinners for the most part, but I didn't mind. When I became of school age, his job actually made caring for me pretty convenient. Since our Elementary and Middle schools were connected, he was able to drive me there and back each day.
It was around third or fourth grade that I realized I was different. I didn't understand the other children or even the adults most of the time. They would say things then immediately change their mind, or they would talk about something and in the next breath forget its existence entirely. I remember one day at lunch, I had just gotten my tray of hot food and sat down with some friends. One of the kids, Alex, was talking about a stuffed bird he had won for getting first place in Mr. Curtis's pop-up math competition. We were all admiring its blue wings and white belly and sharp black beak and beady eyes. I left mid-conversation to get a chocolate milk. When I came back, I asked to see the bird again, and Alex said "what bird?" I was perplexed. "The bird—the bluejay you were just showing us." I remember all of the other kids looking at me like I was crazy. I figured they were all playing a trick on me, so I got up and went over to Alex's seat and crouched down, looking under the table, then I sprung up and tried to open his lunchbox. "What are you doing!?" he yelled. I felt so confused and embarrassed that I ran to the bathroom to cry.
And then there was another time a group of kids were laughing about a joke one of the girls, Taylor, had made about our homeroom teacher's face looking like a seal. I knew it was mean, but at the time I just wanted to fit in so I played along, but when I made a comment about her resemblance to the semi-aquatic animal, they all looked at me confused. "What are you talking about? We never said that…"
These misattributions kept happening, and it led to me being ostracized from most of the little childish cliques that popped up. I developed a quasi-standoffish temperament which I used as a shield against a chaotic world that I didn't understand. My dad eventually had me tested for ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder), but I passed the test. He asked if I wanted to move to a different town with different schoolmates, thinking that perhaps I was getting bullied, but I told him it was fine. Somewhere deep down I felt like no matter where I went, this problem would follow me.
You may think that I was simply coping with the absence of my mom, and while I'm sure that her absence has left certain holes in my life, kindly, no, that wasn't what was happening. You see, at first I didn't notice the instances of what I'll call "blinking". I simply thought that I was misremembering things: objects, words, events. They were all little things anyway. A bird, a joke, my pencil box. It wasn't until sixth grade that I realized the magnitude of the phenomenon.
I was in my dad's 6th grade Social Studies class and we had just been assigned our "Ancient Civilizations" project which involved creating a diorama of our chosen civilization and presenting its features to the class. My friend at the time, Claire, had taken my first choice of Ancient Rome (which we had a heated argument about at lunch), so I was left with Ancient Egypt. At the time, all I pictured for Egypt was a plate of sand. However, my dad and I went through some illustrated history books and pictures on the internet and he really built up the project for me.
Over the course of a couple months, he helped me shape three pyramids out of small wooden planks and a bunch of tan clay. We placed them in the center of a giant square shoebox lid which served as the container for the diorama. Then he bought some small wooden mannequin puppets and we dressed them up in cloth clothes (mostly kilts and tunics) and colored their eyes, mouths, and hair. We added a few obelisks and some small box-huts which were collected into a little village around the Nile. Finally, we added a light glaze of glue where we felt would be necessary and then covered the whole project with golden glitter.
As we worked on each part of the diorama, my dad helped me understand what we were adding and why it was important to Ancient Egypt. I loved the way he talked about history. He spun everything into a miraculous story. To this day, I don't think I've ever had a teacher who came close to his level of charisma and creativity. As a result, I became really proud of my diorama. I memorized all the little details and rehearsed my speech in front of the mirror for hours leading up to the last couple weeks of class. And then, two days before I was supposed to give my presentation, everything fell apart.
First, I need to apologize for deceiving you about an aspect of my story. I thought it might help you to understand what I was going through at the time. What I'm about to tell you is going to sound insane. I get that. But please hear me out. The truth is that I was never assigned to present on Ancient Egypt; everything else about Clair taking my first pick and dad helping me with the whole project and my excitement leading up to the presentation was all true, but it wasn't a project on Ancient Egypt, it was a project on Ancient Sidovan, which was a civilization located on the eighth continent called "Catalan" (the same name as the spoken language, but unrelated) which was due West of Australia in the Indian Ocean.
I know this sounds incredible, and if you want to believe it's all in my head, I get that, but I remember clearly all sorts of facts about it: the Malagasy, the same people who populated Madagascar, were the first peoples to discover Catalan and settle it. However, about five hundred years later, Indian ships would arrive and create the civilization known as Sidovan. A pidgin language formed between the indigenous population and new arriving Indians called "Hiesa" (pronounced: Hai-E-suh or Hai-ʔ-suh). Catalan had a warm climate with plenty of natural resources, but Sidovan had a dense enough population to require agricultural production. They grew rice, grain, sugarcane, vegetables, and even tobacco.
I remembered all of these facts and more. My diorama reflected the main features of the Sidovan civilization. And then two days before my presentation, I woke up and my diorama was entirely different. The hilly grasslands were traded out for sandy dunes. The Hindu statues and stone palaces became clay pyramids and large spear-like pillars. And everything was covered with the ickiest yellow glitter I had ever seen. Tears stung my eyes as I trampled over to my dad's room and banged on his door. "Dad! What did you do!?" I yelled.
"Honey?" He responded, rushing over to the base of the stairs. "What's wrong?"
"The diorama. It's ruined!"
"It's what?" he asked and ran up the stairs, leading me to my room. He looked over it for a few seconds, checking to see if everything was intact, then said, "I don't see it, honey. Where is it ruined?"
I was completely dumb-struck. What did he mean he didn't see it? "All of it!" I shouted. "The whole thing is wrong. Where's the grass and the stone buildings and the lady with the four arms and the elephants? Where is my project!?"
My dad looked at me in silence. "Lauren, baby, what civilization do you think you were working on?"
"Ancient Sidovan, of course! We've been working on this for months now! Dad, please tell me you remember."
He knelt down and put his hands on my shoulders. "Honey, your project was on Ancient Egypt. There is no Ancient Sidovan."
"Y-you're lying." I protested. "Books, you have books. On your bookshelf."
He took me into his study and showed me all of his books. None of them were on Ancient Sidovan. He even turned on his computer and typed in the name of the civilization, but all that came up was a near match "Sidon". I remember feeling the sudden urge to puke. My entire body felt like it was pumping battery acid instead of blood. "I—I don't," I started but suddenly my head felt very light, and I fainted.
When I woke up, I was in the hospital. I had lost consciousness for over half an hour, enough time for my dad to call 9-1-1 and have the ambulance transport me to the nearest ER. They ran all sorts of tests on me, but they all came back fine. After a couple hours of IV fluids and monitoring, they released me with my dad.
I ended up skipping the rest of school that week. My dad didn't make me present my diorama. In fact, he never brought the subject up again. Part of me was glad. I just wanted to forget the whole thing ever happened. But another part of me couldn't move past what was clearly the most absurd thing to ever happen to me. About a week after the incident, I tried to broach the subject, but when I asked my dad about it, he didn't seem to remember our conversation at all. He said I had fallen ill and that's why I needed to go to the ER and miss class. I felt like I was going crazy. If I was older, I probably would have voluntarily checked myself into a psychiatric ward. But I was young and helpless and alone, and I decided that if I just ignored the changes well enough, I could still get along. This proved difficult though, as the blinking would only exacerbate in the coming months.
Up until the time of the project, I hadn't been able to directly observe the phenomenon. It was always in retrospect that things disappeared. It was during the summer after sixth grade that this changed. I still remember the first time it happened. I had just gotten out of the shower and was drying my hair in front of the mirror. After it was dried, I threw on my clothes then went to tie my hair up in a ponytail, but as I went to set the elastic tie, I felt its weight dissipate in my hand. I gasped and held my hand out. The circular black band was gone.
Fast forward to seventh grade and the blinking had spiraled out of control. Reflecting back on it, most people would probably have assumed I was drinking psilocybin-infused water, as the delusions were somewhat consistent with psychedelic phenomena: except these distortions were real (at least they felt that way to me).
I'd wake up and grab the box of Special K but end up eating Cheerios. The McDonalds logo would look yellow and red one day, but purple and black the next. I'd be watching a show, and then a different show, and then a different one. It was as if the entire universe was a Christmas tree with millions of lights, and the lights kept shifting hues randomly, faster and faster, and I was the only one who could see their changing colors. I remember one night my dad made spaghetti for dinner and we went out onto the porch to eat it. While we were sitting, I saw our neighbor's house, a two story townhome, blink and become a single story bungalow. I gasped, and my dad asked what was wrong, but when I tried to explain he just gave me a strange look. For him, no matter what changed, the world was "always that way". While for me, it didn't have "a way".
The situation peaked when Clair, that friend I mentioned before, disappeared. I texted her (my dad had bought me a BlackBerry at the beginning of summer break) but didn't get a response. When I asked her other friends if they knew where she was, I got the usual "what are you talking about?" look. I knew right away what had happened, even though I didn't want to believe it. I went to the teacher and asked if there was a Clair in our class. She said "no". I broke down in front of everyone. I couldn't take it anymore. I ran out of school. The lady at the front desk tried to stop me, but I just barrelled past her. I kept running until I got to a big park across the street and bawled my eyes out until the police arrived and escorted me home. When they tried asking me what was wrong, I didn't say anything. There was literally nothing I could say that they would understand.
That night I prayed to God for the first time. My dad wasn't a religious man. He went to Catholic church with my mom when she was alive, but after she died he never went back. Still, I knew how to pray, even if I never did it. I copied some of the people I saw praying in movies and interlocked my fingers and knelt down on my bed, stuffing my head into a pillow. "Dear God," I said, "Please, please, please help me." I told Him about my struggles and asked Him to make them stop. I spent an hour saying the same things over and over again. And when I was finished, my little body was so tired, I fell right to sleep.
I knew something was different the second I opened my eyelids. I didn't only feel relieved, but I felt… embraced. I felt like someone was watching over me. I felt like I wasn't alone. I moved through my day with cautious apprehension. I didn't want to get my hopes up only to be let down. But to my surprise, the blinking had stopped. At least I couldn't remember any of the inconsistencies, and to me, that was a win. I began to pray regularly, and the more I did, the more I could feel the sense that someone was looking out for me. It was like I was getting a big hug from some cosmic force that loved me and wanted me to be happy.
I made it a habit to pray regularly. I asked my dad if he could take me to a church, and he agreed to take me to St. Mark's, the same church that he and my mom used to attend. Over time, I realized that the actual church services weren't as important to me as the praying. For whatever reason, there was something about praying that was like a glue for my brain, holding the entire universe together. As I got older, I considered that maybe it wasn't that the changes were no longer happening, but that I simply didn't see them anymore. In other words, maybe I was just becoming like everyone else. Either way, I didn't mind.
In my teenage years, I got into mindfulness meditation. I thought that I'd want to go into religious studies and become a theologian, so I started to learn about Eastern traditions in addition to Christianity. I joined a bunch of different school clubs to meet kids of different faiths: Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam. I tried to find a common thread which linked them all and would explain what happened to me as a child. The metaphors of Heaven and Hell, Good and Evil, the Taoist Yin and Yang—duality. Every religion seemed to speak about a way of being that would lead to a better place. In some cases that better place was a physical future existence, and in others it was merely being in contact with the perfection of nature or the present. Metaphorically, the teachings could explain what I had gone through in a kind of loose way, but there were no explicit statements about my condition.
***
I want to fast forward to why I've decided to write about this now. To give you an idea of where I'm at, I'm now 25 and working on finishing my MA in Computational Linguistics. I know that's a bit of a switch from what I was thinking when I was a teenager, but I really only interested in religion because of the value praying afforded me as a child. I didn't actually have much interest in the subject, itself. After my first year of college, I changed to an English major, which ultimately led to me taking a linguistics class and enjoying it so much that I switched tracks in my Junior year. Considering the state of the world, I thought minoring in Computer Science might help me financially in the future, so I ended up charting a path which I figured might lead to something like developing translation software.
Anyway, everything was going fine until a few weeks ago. I was out at an all-night diner with a few of my friends from the program. There was Jeremy, Martin, Bella, Jordan, and Macy. We had been working on a group project together involving modeling construction grammars by generating primitive 3D structures using C# and running the code through a game engine (it's a bit weird, but essentially we were trying to create a multidimensional model for language using a similar but more advanced concept than other LLMs), and just had a breakthrough. It was 2AM though and not a brain cell existed between the six of us, so instead we focused on a different problem: Macy's ongoing breakup with her semi-long distance trucker boyfriend. We tried to explain why Mike wasn't going to work out as we ordered a round of milkshakes and waited for the lone overnight kitchen worker to scoop out three balls of ice cream from the Deans carton for each of us, blend it, then have the server deliver the vintage diner glasses on a plastic tray.
I dug into my thick strawberry shake with a spoon. It was delicious. I kept eating but focused back on the conversation. I remember feeling something odd about one of the scoops, but I was so entrenched in Macy's story that I didn't notice the metal shard in my ice cream until I felt it against my lip. "P-tuh" I spat out the shard and ice cream all in one motion, then covered my mouth which I was sure was bleeding. The silver blade was probably as large as my thumb, and it had two jagged edges, as if it was fastened for the purpose of causing damage. "What the fuck!" I yelled.
Everyone at the table turned to see what was the matter. "Hey, Lauren, you okay?"
I spoke through a covered mouth, using my free hand to point at the table. "That was in my—"
But it was gone.
"In your… shake? Was something in your shake?" asked Jeremy.
I froze. In that moment, the stories of my childhood that I had only remembered as faint nightmares came back in a wave of crushing terror. How could I have been so stupid to think they would simply vanish forever? No, this isn't the same thing, I thought. But deep down, I knew it was. I drew my hand away from my lips and saw that it was dry—no blood. When I looked back up, all of the blood in my veins went cold. My friends were… smiling at me. Their lips were elastic like taffy, stretching to reveal their teeth. I could feel them radiating malevolence, as if the only thing holding them back from picking up their utensils and stabbing me to death was some thinly veiled force field. The moment lasted for what felt like half a minute, then Jordan said two words which made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"Found you"
The words ricocheted in my now adrenaline powered skull. But just as he spoke them, the world blinked and my friends were back. Bella reached out and grabbed my hand. I pulled away, but when I saw her concerned expression, I relented.
"Sorry, guys, I think I'm going to have to call it." I said.
"You sure, L?" asked Jordan. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
"Yeah, thanks, but I just…" I stumbled for a lie, but when one wouldn't come, Martin stood up and said he'd walk me out to my car.
"Thanks," I said as I got into my little 2015 Jetta. "It's just been a long day."
"No problem, Lauren. You know, if there's ever anything—"
"I know," I said but didn't mean. Some things just couldn't be shared.
I drove for about five minutes before stopping at a gas station. I pulled in and parked near the back. Then I interlocked my fingers and prayed for half an hour. I apologized for not taking my praying seriously and asked to once again be granted peace. Unlike my younger years, I also drifted into other avenues of thought. I imagined my mom. I pictured the whole arc of my life, all of the little decisions that led me to where I was. I cried for a long time. I felt like that little girl again reaching out for help. I still felt so lost, so out of control; there were so many things missing, and I was so confused.
I decided then to take a trip back home and visit my dad who was now working as a private tutor. He made enough prepping affluent students for the ACT and SAT that he could spend his free time pursuing his real passions: reading and writing. When I arrived at his doorstep that weekend, he greeted me with open arms. "How are you, kiddo? It's been, what? A year or so?"
It was actually more like two years, but I didn't tell him. I just smiled and nodded.
"Well, come in."
The house was almost exactly how I remembered it. Linoleum floors, beige walls, a few scattered pictures, the scent of camomile. Everything minimalist. There was a quaintness, a prettiness to the way everything seemed to be well kept and in a perfect place. From the cherry wood chairs we'd sit in to eat, to the cream-colored loveseat. I felt at home.
I spent the drive thinking of what I would talk to my dad about, but ultimately I wasn't sure what I'd say. I loved my dad, but I think growing up it was easy to see him as naive. After all, arguably the most important episodes of my childhood were completely unknown to him. In that way, I kind of loved him from a distance. Maybe losing my mom also played into that. Maybe I just had trust issues. And after what happened at the diner… Luckily there hadn't been any blinks since.
I stayed for a couple days and he showed me around some of the different coffee shops where he'd tutor kids or write some of his stories. I met some of his friends, mostly other retired or part-time teachers who were in a similar place in life. I was happy for him. Then, on Sunday, he made me my favorite meal growing up: homemade carbonara pasta with chicken and broccoli. The sauce had a few different cheeses, butter, olive oil, and a raw egg yolk. It was the perfect blend of creamy, savory, and sweet. After we ate, he cracked open a scrapbook of some old photos and other clippings he had put together.
We reminisced about the past and laughed whenever I'd cover up one of my awkward pictures. He brought up some stories from school that I had forgotten, naming some teachers that I hadn't thought about in years. Apparently I had started at the end, because as I moved to the other end of the book, I kept getting younger and younger. I flipped to the last pages and noticed a couple pictures of my mom that made my heart sink.
"She was beautiful, wasn't she?" said my dad.
"Mmm," I agreed.
I flipped to the last page and saw a collage of newspaper clippings. One of them was related to the accident. It was headlined: "Two Survive Head-On Collision". After a cursory glance at the text, I noticed something odd. It said, "Both the husband and child, a three year old girl, sustained life-threatening wounds. The husband was found unconscious on the scene. The girl was found twenty meters away from the vehicle, crying." I swallowed, trying to remember back to what happened that day. The feeling of crashing, of the world slowing down, then breaking, returned. And then there was a hand. My dad's hand. Or was it? If he was unconscious, who pulled me out of that wreck?
I looked up at my dad. He was smiling.
I shot up and started backing up slowly toward the door. "No, not you, too. What is this? What's happening? Who are you?"
My dad, or whatever was controlling him, laughed."Oh, Lauren, Lauren, Lauren. You know who we are." he purred as he stood up. He lifted his hands and the lights began to flicker then bend in a way which shouldn't have been possible. Dark figures began to propagate from the shadows along the walls. The pictures nailed there began to blink out of existence. I turned to run toward the door but the handle was gone. Glass shards materialized all around me and swarmed like locusts. Certain I was going to die, I dropped down on my knees and once again turned to prayer, this time asking God to directly intervene and save me.
Everything went quiet.
"Honey? Are you okay?"
I didn't trust his voice. I knew if I opened my eyes, I'd see that awful smile. He was just toying with me. "It's not you," I said in between muttered prayers. "I know it's not you."
"Honey," my dad said, closer. I felt his arms wrap around me. This was it, I was going to be suffocated. I waited for the inevitable crushing weight of my chest collapsing. I waited to break all over again.
"I would never hurt you, Lauren. I love you more than anything in the whole world."
I burst out in tears. "No, it's not you, I know it's not you. You don't exist!"
My dad's weight dissipated. I opened my eyes and saw that he was no longer there. "Dad?" I called aloud. "Dad? Where did you go?"
I checked all over the house, but there was no trace of him. There were still pictures of him all over the house, so I knew he hadn't blinked out of existence like everything else, but somehow he was missing.
***
I left the house and got a room at a hotel, where I am now. I'm sure at this point that whatever is happening to me is no longer random. Something out there is actively trying to hunt me. Maybe it has been my whole life, but only now it can see me—however weird that sounds. If that's right, then God has been on my side trying to protect me from this demon or monster or devil or whatever it is. Regardless, the methods I was using when I was younger are not going to cut it anymore. I already posted my story in several other small circles and have gotten one reply. A man who goes by the name "Trent" (apparently it's an alias). He said that he has some insight into my "condition" and can offer help if I want it. I'm planning on meeting with him tomorrow. I'm not sure if it's a good idea, but at this point I need answers. I can keep you updated with my progress if that interests you, and to anyone who knows anything about what's happening to me, please… I could really use your help.
***
I was just about to post this when Trent sent another message. This is what it says:
Trent: We can do the \*** at **** O'clock. Also, if what you're telling me is true, your mother may still be alive.*