Who's to blame: Overbearing family, or college student?
I’m a 19-year-old black guy, and I’ve been grappling with some serious family issues concerning my mother and grandparents. It's a lot to unpack, so buckle up:
Growing up, it was just my mother and I, as my dad was in and out of the picture due to my parents' divorce. My grandparents played a significant role too, doting on me since I was an only child, and my mother was also the sole child in her family. Given our circumstances, my mother tended to be excessively protective, perhaps stemming from my early years spent in and out of hospitals due to medical concerns. Being the center of attention came with the territory, I suppose.
At 17, I began experimenting with substances like nicotine, weed, and alcohol with my best friend, a common scenario among kids my age. I’d sneak around, hiding these escapades from my mother. Freshman year in college rolled around, and so did more experimentation. Unfortunately, someone from my friend circle spilled the beans about my college shenanigans to my mother and their parents, leading to increased suffocation when I returned home. I got banned from my best friend's house for a period of time because of it. Additionally, my mother caught me high once, further worsening the situation. To me, it all felt blown out of proportion, considering it was typical teen/young adult behavior from the peers I was around.
Continuing my transition into college life, my mother never really provided a safe space for open communication. It felt like she was always breathing down my neck, fostering an environment of secrecy. As they say, strict parents breed sneaky kids. Moreover, my family’s insistence on regular church attendance felt stifling.
As I matured, my mother's grip seemed to tighten, suffocating any semblance of space I needed. More often than not, we clashed, and she persistently pushed for a closer bond. With that made coming home for breaks a struggle, and enjoyment going back to school after the breaks were over.
By sophomore year, I found myself delving into my studies as needed, hookup culture, a little bit of partying, piercings, more drugs, and then dating. The girl I was seeing didn’t attend my college but lived nearby. We clicked on a dating site and in real life, and I’d occasionally visit her place once we got comfortable with the idea. Her parents didn't know at first but didn't really care once they found out. In fact, once they met me, they came to like me because of my character and career plans. Though my mother and grandmother reacted with disdain at her and my actions, criticizing her career choice in cosmetology, her White ethnicity, and her action to bring me to her parent's house while they weren't there. With those factors, they accused her of being promiscuous, which is nowhere near the case.
Academically, I’m pursuing an engineering degree, managing to maintain my scholarships despite knowing I could do better. Fast forward to yesterday: I was discussing my grades with my grandmother, with my mother present. Which felt like a horrible mistake as my mother brought up my choices and who I was sleeping with, which snowballed into my mother prying the truth out of me in front of my grandmother. It was so bad my mother wanted to answer my grandmother's questions for me, with an irritated smile on her face, but luckily my grandmother shut her down and waited for my honest responses, which I for the most part gave.
During the conversation about the girl, my grandmother and mother made a joke about me being on a leash like my dog, which, in hindsight, felt more like mockery than humor. Moreover, my grandmother's ominous warning about potential legal consequences if I continued to visit her house against my family's wishes was unsettling. She claimed to have connections to the local police department near my school, which added an extra layer of fear and coercion. With that said my grandmother felt that I'd be better off locked up than be at the girl's house because of unreasonable safety reasons.
Additionally, my mother and grandma resorted to comparing me unfavorably to my cousin, who dropped out of college and got a girl pregnant. This comparison only served to exacerbate tensions and feelings of inadequacy.
Reflecting on everything, I made the tough call to end my relationship to appease my family. They judged her based on superficial criteria, and I couldn’t bear to subject her to their scrutiny any longer, so we broke up.
My relationship with my dad isn’t without its tensions, but he’s the one who speaks candidly, even if his words aren’t sugar-coated. After recent events, tensions with my mother have escalated. I yearn for her to loosen her grip, to allow our relationship to evolve naturally rather than being forced. I could say the same thing about my grandfather as well, but he only stays involved in my academic life.
My friends and my now ex agree – my family’s stance on my relationship and actions was wild. So, I'd like to know, am I 100% at fault or does my family have a part to play? Please help me figure this out. There's still a little bit of tension between me and my mother.

Chapter 11 - Home
The ship arrives in port to songs from the Deed of Morred. A funny exchange occurs where Apple's friend Shinny (Shandy) sees Tenar on board the ship and says, "'Maybe it's his mother,'" only for Apple to say actually it is a mother (well, her's). Tenar and Therru disembark from the ship in rather royal fashion before it leaves again. Apple greets them warmly and is apparently on very familiar terms with Therru (Apple picks her up), however that night Apple is a bit apprehensive toward her mother, apparently she had never given much thought to the songs about her mom. She calls her a "'...king-kisser....'" A couple days later they all leave Apple's home and go to the farm, along the river Kaheda in the late summer. Apple comments on Therru's health and Tenar lets slip she was stronger before the incident, and then tells Apple about it (Apple is familiar with Therru's past). We find out that the one that was likely Therru's father is called Hake. In recalling Handy's motions she oddly can't remember Aspen's name except for the Kargish word for a type of tree. Apple says they haven't seen anyone from that group, and Tenar takes some joy that her daughter is mothering her mother. They consider a dog (again), though humorously Tenar is mostly thinking of a puppy for Therru (she already plays with an animal anyway, right? Well, a weird bone doll, close enough). They arrive at Lark's and it's a warm homecoming, it had apparently been two months since their departure to Ogion's. Tenar is reluctant to tell the story about their adventure but absolutely gushes about the king, says he appeared like a sword (which is actually one of his names, Arren). They talk about the king and the wizard, Shinny arrives and they have quite the supper, even Therru warms except for her keeping an eye on the window as it grew darker out.
Later, while Apple sings Therru to sleep, Tenar finally asks Shandy, who is helping wash up, about Ged (who somehow was never mentioned to Lark and Apple, all of Tenar's remembrances about Re Albi seemed to be muddled, "darkened"). Shandy says there wasn't work for him here, but that he got some on recommendation and so was off in a high pasture, maybe even herding goats, and would be back down the mountain in autumn. Maybe that was for the best, maybe this was home now and all that of Re Albi was behind them. Tenar slept that night, dreamless. Tenar keeps busy homesteading and the like, and eventually finished the red dress she had started for Therru. Therru is expressionless and turns away from it, and Tenar says, "'...People see the scars. But they see you, too, and you aren't the scars. You aren't ugly. You aren't evil. You are Therru, and beautiful....'" Therru calls the dress beautiful (touching Tenar's fingers, not the dress), and Tenar understands something, "She had done right to make the dress, and she had spoken the truth to the child. But it was not enough, the right and the truth. There was a gap, a void, a gulf, on beyond the right and the truth. Love, her love for Therru and Therru’s for her, made a bridge across that gap, a bridge of spider web, but love did not fill or close it. Nothing did that. And the child knew it better than she."
The equinox arrives, and Tenar thinks of the king being coronated, the king who knew fear and pain, and thought that Ged should be there too instead of tending some rich man's herds (and likely doing that into winter). Tenar had started to visit Ivy when she went to the village, as a sort of minor replacement to Aunty Moss, but either Ivy's ingrown detest for her was very real or, maybe just as likely, her own rebukes had left too big a void between them.
The sorcerer Beech arrives one day to treat a rich farmer's gout, and visits Tenar. Beech was a pupil of a pupil of Ogion's, and wanted to hear about his last days, as well as the visit by the archmage, Ged. Beech talks about the king's new rule and about, in particular, the loss of power of a certain lord pirate. He very much praises Tenar's work with Therru but she responds with sadness, she's worried what the fear will draw her to, that a damaged person may do damaging things. Roke seems more open-minded than most but he sees Ogion's "Teach her, not Roke" as just meaning women can't be sorcerers and he instead suggests that she take up healing witchery with Ivy as there may be a reciprocal aspect (and after all, he argues, "...healing befits a women..."). Therru's naming day is referenced, and overall Tenar views him as naive, but she does think about what Beech said.
More changes from the king, the local villages set up a taxed constabulary to combat the thieves and gangs (some rumors the pirate lords are pushing back). Tenar doesn't pay too much mind to this, but through time Therru becomes less withdrawn and is not kept so close to Tenar, she even travels independently (it is much easier with Tenar's family, friends, and acquaintances around to think Therru is safer, plus they shouldn't both just live in constant fear). Tenar is a good learner and prosperous but behind in most things, Tenar thinks of what Ogion meant by "teach her" but nothing special is done, Tenar even starts to think maybe she would be better apprenticed as a witch than a weaver (most people believe if something bad happens to you you deserved it somehow, this wouldn't matter as much to a witch as a weaver). Would all this satisfy Ogion's wishes?
Keeping this in mind, one day Tenar visits Ivy and asks the cost about apprenticing Therru. Ivy says she wouldn't for anything, that she fears her. Tenar is enraged, she even insinuates it's because of what happened to Therru beyond the burning. Ivy instead says it's because she is powerful and likely rageful, like a leashed natural disaster, something capable of darkness, and in fact Ivy draws from Tenar's own time with the Dark Ones as a child to posit that's why Tenar doesn't (or can't see to) fear her. Tenar believes everyone has failed her (Ogion, Moss, Ivy, Beech) even Ged whose "precious shame" had become his own child, Ged who was obsessed with power that that was all he noticed about Therru. Goha has a brief talk with Tenar (not the first time something like this has happened), saying that isn't fair.
Winter arrives, early, suddenly, and portentously, or at least a freeze does. Beside a fire of an apple tree Therru asks Tenar for a story which Tenar calls a "summer story", instead Therru should be learning the songs about the great deeds and the rites of spring (the Long Dance is mentioned). Therru says she can't sing but Tenar chides her: "'The mind sings. The prettiest voice in the world's no good if the mind doesn't know the songs.' She untied the last bit of yarn, which had been the first spun. 'You have strength, Therru, and strength that is ignorant is dangerous.'" Therru asks if it's like the wild ones that refused to learn and so stayed in the west, and it comes about she is referencing the dragons in the song of the Woman of Kemay (in chapter 2). Tenar asks which song Therru wants to learn and instead of the Deeds of Morred (which reminds her of the young king) Therru instead chooses about Segoy and the Making (Ogion's lore books are mentioned).
It goes well and Therru retires for the night. The song and Tenar's mood (because of Ivy) had energized Tenar to stay up by the fire. Suddenly, a noise from outside. Soon after, the sound of an opening being jimmied, but the house itself, thanks to Flint, was well-bolted. Eventually a window is broken and Tenar hears the voices of men. Her door, newly locked, rattles; it is Handy. A thin blade of light at the jamb. They will try the front door and so Tenar locks that one too. Tenar shutters Therru's window and the sound undoubtedly alerts them. She then tries to shutter her own but it is jammed, and they see Tenar through the window. Voices, that they won't hurt her if they let them in, that one of them just wants to see his little girl. Maybe Therru is awake, Tenar will protect her, though she has lost the fire poker in the scramble. One of them finds the kitchen window and Tenar flees to Therru's room, which doesn't have a lock thoughtfully so those in the nursery couldn't accidentally lock themselves in. She thinks about screaming, she think about fleeing, she grabs a butcher's knife. She throws open the door and threatens them.
"A howl and a sucking gasp", confusing communication from the men, some light. A wailing form shambles toward her, and a form with long blades behind it.
"Tenar! Tenar, it's me--Hawk, Sparrowhawk!" Ged, holding a pitchfork, thinks he has killed the man on the ground, the rest have fled. They drag the man inside, bandage him ('"I think I killed him," [Ged] said again.'), and Tenar finally gets Ged to sit by the fire. Ged looks rough. He had ran upon them on the path, avoided them due to the mob feeling off, but Ged had heard mention of the "Oak Farm" and so here he is. During the journey tracking the men Ged heard terrible things, about how Therru was stolen and how she would be punished along with what they'd do to Tenar. The bloody man isn't Handy, but it is the one who recently mentioned Therru was his. Tenar is worried they will come back, but they have the pitchfork at least, and it was only two others. They were traveling on the road (away from... something) and they were listening to the man who was lying there now, as if he'd mentioned this, about Therru and the widow, many times before (Handy apparently goaded him into trying this whole thing tonight). The group had waited in Tenar's barn until night, with Ged waiting outside it in the freezing cold. Shortly after they had spotted the kitchen window, Ged had ambushed them.
They make a sort of bed for the man, but not on the good rug. A realization about Therru. Quickly checking on her, apparently Therru had slept through the whole thing. Would've, should've... eventually Ged turns the tables and tells her to drink the tea, to rest. Ged recounts a tale, from the beginning of the first book, about the Kargish raiders (ed: the last book mentioned since the Ring was mended they don't raid anymore) and Ged/Duny thwarting their raid on Ten Alders, his village, by casting a sea of fog. One of the few not rebounded was run through with a pitchfork, Tenar saying Ged hitting the man's rib (and stopping something like that from happening) was the only thing Ged did wrong. Ged even briefly entertains the idea that the man could be disposed of, but he knows it's wrong (Tenar is less convinced). Instead, he'll use the wheelborrow and cart him to the healer, Ivy.
Tenar is beyond exhausted and watches the fire. A dream slips in, dragon-fire again. The star, Tehanu. Ged move her into the dark cold to get to her room. A dream slips in, each leading, following, both in the Tombs. "'This is the way,' she said."

1. Thesis: The Power of Epistrophe in Shakespearean Tragedy

• Example: Explore how William Shakespeare utilizes epistrophe for emotional impact in Hamlet's soliloquies, emphasizing the protagonist's internal conflicts and contributing to the overall tragic tone.

1. Thesis: Anadiplosis as a Tool for Moral Reflection in Victorian Literature

• Example: Analyze Charles Dickens' use of anadiplosis in "Great Expectations" to underscore moral lessons and societal critique, examining its role in shaping the narrative's ethical framework.

1. Thesis: Aposiopesis in Gothic Fiction: Unveiling the Unspeakable

• Example: Investigate the presence of aposiopesis in Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein," exploring how the device enhances the suspense and horror elements by leaving critical details unsaid.

1. Thesis: The Rhetorical Force of Epizeuxis in Lincoln's Gettysburg Address

• Example: Examine Abraham Lincoln's use of epizeuxis in the Gettysburg Address, dissecting how repetitive emphasis contributes to the speech's enduring impact on the American psyche.

1. Thesis: Chiasmus in F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby": Symmetry and Disillusionment

• Example: Investigate the thematic significance of chiasmus in key passages of "The Great Gatsby," unraveling how Fitzgerald employs symmetrical language structures to convey the novel's themes of illusion and disillusionment.

1. Thesis: Enjambment and Modernist Experimentation in T.S. Eliot's Poetry

• Example: Analyze T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land" to understand the role of enjambment in his modernist exploration of fragmented consciousness, societal collapse, and spiritual desolation.

1. Thesis: Paraprosdokian in Oscar Wilde's Satirical Wit

• Example: Explore how Oscar Wilde uses paraprosdokian in "The Importance of Being Earnest" to satirize societal norms and conventions, adding a layer of unexpected humor to his comedic masterpiece.

1. Thesis: Anaphora in Langston Hughes' Poetry: Giving Voice to the Harlem Renaissance

• Example: Examine the use of anaphora in Langston Hughes' poems, such as "The Negro Speaks of Rivers," to analyze how repetition becomes a powerful tool for expressing the collective voice and identity of the Harlem Renaissance.

1. Thesis: Hendiadys in Jane Austen's Social Commentary

• Example: Investigate Jane Austen's use of hendiadys in "Pride and Prejudice," exploring how this device adds nuanced layers to character relationships and societal critique in her Regency-era novels.

1. Thesis: Litotes in George Orwell's "1984": The Art of Understatement in Dystopian Discourse

• Example: Analyze George Orwell's use of litotes in "1984," considering how the device contributes to the bleak atmosphere of the novel and emphasizes the oppressive nature of the dystopian regime.

Note: These examples are for illustrative purposes and provide a starting point for further exploration in literary analysis. It's essential to consult the actual texts and relevant scholarly articles for in-depth research.

I had a strange relationship with deconstruction as my dad was trained at a university level to do apologetics. He was an LDS chaplain in the Army, and every night for scripture study, we got discourses on the nuances of our faith and justifications for every question we ever had. I didn’t swear until I was 18 years old, or drink caffinated anything until about that time as well, because it was never a matter of justification. It was what my family, my tribe, my people did, to go to church on Sunday, and to be worthy. I was senior patrol leader and assistant to the bishop if that clarifies who I was. I didn’t have “God will reveal it in due time” parents. I had “Here’s the answer, here’s contemporary discussion about it. Here’s some reading material if you want to learn more” parents, except for they were wicked smart, and had biased conclusions.
I was called to serve in the Mexico City East mission. Shortly before opening my mission call, I broke up with my girlfriend at the time. i left BYU-I and went home to prepare. I received my endowments after lying to my stake president about my worthiness to enter the house of the lord. I came clean, and he threatened to not let me go out for a year because I was unclean. The prick made me talk to a therapist to be cleared for the mission field. The therapist had a brain and let me go out. When I was giving my mission farewell speech, I wrote it to include the teachings of many religions in it. I had drawn inspiration from the 13th article of faith “We believe all things, hope all things-“ and wrote a poem about how Adam and Eve related to the Resurection and Atonement of christ. My dad tells me the stake president was shifting in his seat like he wanted to pull me down from the pulpit. Prick.
The CCM was a pleasure to attend because of my district. The guys in my district there held a secret thanksgiving feast after hours when we were supposed to be in bed with food we had smuggled out of the cafeteria. We had look outs so we wouldn’t be caught by the patrolling teachers. My district was placed under surveillance because of politics against our spanish teacher who we could tell actually cared about us, and we were transferred into a classroom with one sided mirrors, and microphones hanging from the ceiling. An apostle came to speak to the entire CCM, and I thought we would get a chance to meet with him directly, or that he would be even remotely accessible in some way. He was kept away from us, separate and removed even though we had the same mission. I played a lot of volley ball, and got into shape enough that I touched the rim of a basketball hoop for the first time while I was there.
My first companion was a native speaker, and liked to spend the mornings in the cyber (Internet Cafe). He would make sure I was on LDS.org while he looked at softcore porn on instagram. We would spend hours there, and I was disappointed that this was the mission.
We went to a previous investigators house, and while there, we saw preparations for an animal sacrifice. These guys were putting alcohol, cocaine, and blowing smoke onto a white chicken, and placed in into a cardboard box with a bunch of black chickens. They showed us a room full of weapons, with blood and feathers strewn all over the floor. We noped the fuck out, and went home.
I requested an emergency transfer after spending most days in the cyber, watching my companion deface JW’s property, and being an all around dick to me by telling me how to shower and how to sleep.
For his replacement, the person that would help me with his bastion of knowledge, they gave me a white guy who spoke as much Spanish as I did because he was only a transfer further into his mission than me. They made this poor kid senior companion to me before his first transfer was over. Why? Because the kid was a workaholic.
The first thing this elder and I did when we got to our apartment was to pick up and leave to go to the house of a member who had just died. We sang at the wake. I sang in a language I didn’t know, for people I didn’t know, with a companion I didn’t know. We sounded pretty damn good. The elder began setting appointments with the non-believing family members during the service. I just sat and watched the mindless kids chase the family dog.
This elder skipped lunch every day, and made me do the same. We knocked every door in our area twice that transfer. One time, he got very sick, and was delirious out in the sun with me while we were walking. I made us go home for lunch that day, and he made me promise to wake him up after thirty minutes so we could get back to the Lord’s work. Three hours later he woke up, chewed me out for letting him sleep that long, and then begrudgingly thanked me for making him rest.
One time, while walking, this Elder expressed to me that he also had some questions, but he was afraid to share the details because he knew my own testimony was fragile. I pressed him for details of his plight, and he revealed to me the darkest part of church history that he had learned while we were in the CCM, that Joseph Smith had drank alcohol while in Carthage Jail before he died. Thoughts of Fanny Alger, of Mountain Meadows Massacre, and of my own mother’s rather recently implemented looser interpretation of the word of wisdom all flashed through my head. This guy was supposed to be my teacher? All I could do was express how sorry I was for his confusion, and told him to have faith. Heaven knew I couldn’t help him.
One night with this companion, it was storming hard, and the streets were flooded. This guy refused to let us go home. We climbed along fences to avoid getting our already wet shoes soaked, and waded through a foot of water to get to the doors that were slammed in our faces. There was a loose wire on a door bell, and when I rang it, I was shocked by the completed circuit the water made. Rejection after rejection piled up. Finally, my “senior” companion said that this was the last row of houses. On the last house of the last row, there was a family that was all deaf. The father opened the door, and was suprised to see us and didn’t know who we were. I remembered the sign for Jesus from my grandparents who started and ran the ASL endowment ceremony in the Saint George temple. The family was thrilled we knew the sign. When I asked if we could come in, the family politely waved goodbye and closed the door on our faces.
Another time when it rained, something fell into my eye. It was one of those freak nature accidents, and small enough that I couldn’t figure out how to get it out without a mirror. The thing stayed wedged in the corner of my eye for hours before we got home and I could finally get the foreign object out. Looking at it on my finger, I could see it was a small green spider. Days later, still in pain, I pulled what I can only assume was accumulated webbing from the spider that I’d crushed against my eyeball off of my lower eye lid. The pain stopped after that.
I bought a $500 camera. It was stolen within a month.
This Elder and I had the good luck before transfers to baptize two children. They would have been baptized anyways, so I didn’t do any actual converting, but I taught a few lessons, got in the water and did the dunk. Bucket list item, check.
I didn’t have enough time for laundry on P-Day, so I’d wash my outfit and dry in on the radiator through the night. Transfers happen, and my new companion lied to our land lords about the electricity bill, paying it in full but not giving a reason as to why it was so high. I didn’t care anymore, I just needed something clean to wear, but these land lord had treated me and my previous companion well, better than the previous landlord who had stolen our cleaning supplies. I felt these people deserved honesty. My senior companion capitulated eventually, and he and I butted heads regularly after that on the morality of things. I think in hindsight he was a smarter and better man than I was.
The new land lords, the “Lagunez Family”, were wonderful. They included us in their activities, and I felt like I had some people in my corner. When I eventually came home from my mission, a daughter of the family had written me a goodbye letter. She is currently serving a mission. They made some great music, and I have “Infiltradors” on CD, the official name of the band the father of the family was a part of (he was the drummer).
I knew the whole area by heart by that point, so I navigated us to our appointments. Half of the landmarks I watched for to know our location were interesting buildings with unique colors. The other half of my landmarks were dead dogs whose decaying corpses had become second nature to see. I began marking how much time had passed by how deeply a certain dog on a certain dirt path’s chest was caved in.
There was an apartment complex in my area that I had been told not to proselytize in because “It’s dangerous.” Turns out, those people didn’t have any money, so the church didn’t want them. That complex was past the dog and to the east about ten blocks.
My companion and I knocked on a door, and visited a man who was missing his legs. His daughter was there, putting dirty water on the aching wounds. He had a single room for a house, and wheezed when he spoke. He couldn’t afford medication. He still went out and worked all day for his daughter, and gave her whatever money he made, trusting her to keep him alive somehow. The church expected this man to pay tithing. The church expected me to tell this man to pay tithing.
I got the chance to hike up a mountain. At the top, I played chess with a chess set I’d procured from one of the best rapid chess players I’ve ever met. He had been the ward mission leader. He was a good man, a good father, and I wish him the best.
I found another man who was deaf and spoke sign language. I sat with him, and convinced him to come to church all by myself while my companion talked with some tienda tender. I was so excited because this was my own personal project and it was going well. The man came to church, and I sat with him through sacrament meeting. In Sunday school (I can’t believe I did this), I accidentally drooled on the guy. I was just talking so he could read my lips, and I guess I forgot to swallow at some point because a dolup of spit landed on his arm. I apologized profusely, and he played it off, but I never saw that investigator again.
My companion and I knocked a door one day, and a man answered. He wore tattered clothes, and maggots were burrowing into and out of his feet. He muttered something about the stars, missing his wife, and he began to tear up. My eyes stung from the stench. The door closed. Somehow, I knew the man would be dead in a matter of weeks.
I had lost hope that I was doing anything worth while. I looked down on the Doc Martins that had stayed with me five months at this point. I was angry with myself for being so useless in the field, angry with the church for giving me leaders that didn’t listen to my needs or perspective, angry with my mom for drinking while I had to teach people that it was a sin, angry with my dad for giving me the skills and knowledge to justify anything, even pedophilia in the early days of the church, to the point where I could look someone in the eye, and knowing the kind of man Smith was, tell them he was a good man and a true prophet of God. Suddenly a man approached us. He said he recognized us as missionaries, and asked about our message. This never happened. People didn’t just come up to us unless they were crazy or dangerous. But this was a public place, and this guy was genuine. My companion talked to him, and gathered his story, but I was plotting something else. I was done with not caring about these people in a way that mattered. I was tired of walking in another man’s shoes, a man who wasn’t me, who believed different things than me. The chopped leg, the rotting dogs, the infested feet, it all swirled into a single thought in that moment.
What would Jesus do?
I walked over to the man, and in broken Spanish asked him to stand next to me. He did so, and I compared my shoe size to his foot. It was a perfect match. He protested, but I didn’t let him get a word in edge wise. I took off my shoes, put them on his dirty feet, and laced them up nice and tight. Those shoes had cost a ton, and had been meant to last the whole mission. All I had left at this point were my fancy dress shoes that gave my blisters back at the apartment. I didn’t care. I walked home in my socks that day, happy as a lark.
Covid-19 hit a month later. I was one of the few they brought home instead of quarantining. After having served only 6 months. I told God if he wanted me to stay home, he’d have to make them release me.
They released me. I think I was one of maybe a hundred missionaries that were released due to Covid. The church realized their mistake pretty soon after I was released. Once Covid infrastructure began to develop, they didn’t release any more. I guess I didn’t serve a full two years, but I did serve a full mission.
My brother served, and he nearly killed himself due to intense depression brought on by Covid quarantine and poor leadership (I’ve got a few mission president stories, but those are for another time).
I learned lying to someone’s face from my mission, and spent the rest of my time at BYU-I as “nuanced” until the last two years, over which the most epic hoe phase imaginable became my new mission. I spent those years terrified of getting a call from the honor code office.
I’m married now, with my degree irrevocably in my possession. I have friends and loved ones that are in the church and are working on their mission papers. I’m beginning to feel powerless again. I’m seeing the decay again, not on legs, feet, or dogs anymore, but in the souls of the people who the church raises to do their dirty volunteer work. I see them like the animal sacrifices I saw being prepared. I’m not sure what shoes I have left to give to those people that I know are going to be in pain.
My parents are out completely now. It was a long time coming, but they are out and so much happier. I’m working on building a new relationship with my family, one based off of the fact that we won’t be together forever, so we have to make the most of our time together now.
Happy Sunday guys, best of luck to you all. And most importantly, chupa la piña.

🪞
Welcome back to the Asylum write-up, where we explore the decade-long slow-motion car crash that is the Emilie Autumn fandom.
Sorry this installment took so long to upload! Just a heads-up, I may take some time to deliver the last one too – these posts take forever to format on Reddit's finicky-ass editor, and my dumb real life is currently keeping me from precious Internet time. Thank you for your patience! You have my word that everyone who pre-ordered the final installment will receive a PERSONAL, HANDWRITTEN letter autographed and illustrated by me, a list of the snacks I consumed while composing this write-up, some exclusive behind-the-scenes secrets, and a pony.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4.1 – Part 4.2 Part 5

Places, everyone This is a test Throw your stones Do your damage Your worst, and your best (...) And if I had a dollar For every time I repented the sin And commit the same crime I'd be sitting on top of the world today (“God Help Me”, 2006🎵)

Quick recap of where we left off. First, there were five to ten halcyon years of pleasant and meaningful interactions between EA and her blossoming fanbase, prominently by way of her official forum. Then, circa 2009-2010, EA's online presence shifted towards sudden anger outbursts, ban-hammering, and an increasingly top-down communication style.
This created a sort of primordial rift within the fanbase, between those who supported EA's right to speak her mind and regulate her own fan spaces however she pleased – and those who thought that her reactions were rude and inappropriate (at best), and that even fan spaces should allow for reasonable, non-abusive criticism of the artist.
Between a poorly-handled book release (see Part 3), the controversial (Part 2) or dubiously true (Part 4) contents of said book, and serious shade from various former collaborators (Part 5), more and more fans had pressing thoughts about EA's work ethic and choices. EA attempted damage control through drastic forum rules that made it virtually impossible to voice any “serious” critical opinion. It didn't work, of course: instead of squashing the mutiny, she created a schism.
Critical fans and active haters started congregating on unofficial platforms.

“WITH MUFFINS LIKE THIS, WHO NEEDS ENEMIES?”: TROLL LIKE A GIRL

So here we were, the early 2010s. The official forum (which had about 700 members in 2006, if you recall) was now thousands-strong, reaching just over 12,000 registered users in 2012 – not all of them active, but still. In terms of sheer numbers and content creation, the party was POPPIN'... but increasingly in parts of the Asylum that escaped EA's jurisdiction, such as Tumblr, where they could speak their mind freely.

You play the victim very well You've built your self-indulgent hell You wanted someone to understand you Well, be careful what you wish for, because I do (“I Know Where You Sleep”, 2006🎵)

In one wing of Asylum Tumblr, a smattering of call-out blogs emerged, which laid out EA's various lies, faux pas, shitty takes, and general deep-seated terribleness in detailed timelines and screenshots (or, short of that, long-winded bullet points). While many such blogs framed it as “serious” whistleblowing and did their best to remain as fact-based and neutral as they could, there was some genuine disgust, animosity and creepiness towards EA on that side of Tumblr; for some ex-fans, “exposing the truth” was mostly justify obsessive hatred, prying and verbal abuse. Some, for instance, felt the bizarre need to side with EA's mother in their estrangement. (One user, with the URL “emilyautumnfischkopf”, argued in a serious and down-to-earth tone - but with zero sources - that EA's upbringing had been nothing but peaceful and supportive until she ungratefully kicked her loving family to the curb for no reason at all. They were later revealed 🔍 to have an alternate handle as “eaisalyingcunt”.)
Either way, through these blogs, a number of potential drama bombs that had mostly flown under the radar were dredged up from over the years – some of which were hard to ignore, even for supportive fans. Where to begin?
There was that nonsense in-joke song, captured twice on camera during the 2009 tour (to very little outrage, at the time), crassly called “Manatee Retard”📺. Or EA's scathing response, in print, to a wheelchair user who found it insensitive that she used a bedazzled wheelchair as a prop to do sexy acrobatics on stage. (“Your offence taken at my hard-won self-acceptance proves that I indeed have something to fight against”, she wrote). Spoken word tracks where she made trivializing knock-knock jokes about serious mental illnesses she didn't have, like schizophrenia and OCD. Multiple instances of calling Britney Spears a “bimbo” and a “Hollywood fucked-up”, resentfully claiming that she only shaved her head because she was “hopped up on drugs” and certainly not because she was “bipolar”, a word the press liked to wield as an insult anyway. (“That's almost like calling someone a retard!” Yeah, heaven forbid.) The meanest, most distasteful paragraphs in the book. Basically everything problematic EA had ever said or written.📝 In retrospect, it had been a long time coming, but it was a lot to take in – and certainly more off-putting, even to less emotionally invested fans, than silly lies about her age and last name.
In another wing of Asylum Tumblr, some fans had had it up to here and just wanted to have fun. 🎵 If Plague Rats had learned one valuable lesson from EA, it was how to crack a joke in the face of absurd tragedy – and the general state of the EA fandom certainly warranted a few.
In 2012, Fight Like a Girl was released. After six long years, three of which had been peaceful, the Opheliac era was officially over. The new album and ensuing tour confirmed that the Asylum had entered a process of glamorous Broadway-style militarization. 🎵📺
The mood board was “Roman general meets Vegas showgirl meets Victorian street urchin”.🪞 The color palette was, to naysayers, “musty pink and rotten, stale piss yellow”. 🐀 The keyword was “REVENGE” (through the power of... self-expression! sorority! brutal assault with rusty medical implements!). The chorus of the title song had an intriguing run-on line about getting “revenge on the world, or at least 49% of the people in it” 🎵 – which seemed like an awful lot, and was widely interpreted (to cheers, boos, or uncomfortable sighs) as a misandrist jab at literally all men on Earth.
The show was essentially a demo version of the musical, in that the setlist vaguely reflected the order of events in the story – but prior reading was essential in order to get what the hell was going on on stage. This one Broadway reviewer had not perused the literature before seeing the show 🔍, and hated: the set, the choreography, the skits, the plot, the lyrics, the music, the concept. (Seriously, you should read the review. It's not even my show and I feel like quitting show business.)
Pre-show VIP encounters, now violin-free, were lorded over by EA's new manager🐀, whose official title was “Asylum Headmistress”. (Interesting choice – she sounds fun!) The swag bags were less substantial than before, and the “greet” part of the meet-and-greet was rarely more than a quick hug and photo op.
On Twitter, EA continued to embrace her “I am very badass” fronting attitude...

Often wonder if cyberbullies r aware they’re fucking w/ a girl who’s BFs w/ maker of the SAW films & is marrying a knife-throwing scorpion. (🐀📝)

...and her taste for needlessly inflammatory statements. About an aisle sign in a supermarket:

If this does not infuriate you, then you're a fucking potato.

(Again with the confounding crypto-ableism, EA! 🔍) She also went through a phase of raging against Lady Gaga 📝, who had stolen her idea of using a wheelchair on stage as an able-bodied woman. 🔍 That failed to convince anyone that she wasn't the histrionic diva that haters made her out to be.
Spurred on by EA's rallying cries and “us vs them” mentality, loyalists turned the white-knighting up to 11. On Twitter, some Plague Rats got into cat fights with Lady Gaga's Little Monsters (what a time to be alive). Others tried to balance out the Tumblr negativity with initiatives like “Spreading a Plague of Love” – a “positive-only” confession blog, whose extreme fangirling, comically drastic rules and hyper-defensive tone📝 did not debunk the increasingly popular notion that “true Plague Rats” were a bunch of authoritarian and hopelessly brainwashed fanatics.
EA truthers and other anti-fans started lashing out at anyone who dared express any positive opinion of EA, solidifying claims that the backlash against EA was just a conspiracy of bitter, hysterical bullies.
All this to say: every passing day brought new reasons for fans to get mad at EA and each other, and everyone in the Asylum was in need of a laugh. It's not easy having a good time.🦠
Leading up to Fight Like a Girl and in the years that followed, user-submission-based meme blogs took off, most notably “Spreading a Plague of Lulz / Troll Like a Girl”. A lot of the early submissions were absurdist humor and toothless, cheezburger-Impact memes (a style that was, oddly, already dated at the time). Those often originated in good fun, and from loyal fans, on the official forum. But there was also true snark, satirizing EA's questionable ethics, outrageous claims, and easily spoofed artistic gimmicks. A new slang of Asylumspeak emerged: Glittertits (slight NSFW), GAGA!!, EA Gusta and all its memeface variants, Get outta mah house!, Are You Suffering?, Fight Like A Goat, [Random celebrity] copied EA (a subgenre in its own right), ...
Most of the “trolling” was directed at unrepentant bootlickers and, to a lesser extent, red-in-the-face haters and creeps. Meme blogs would post joke comments under “serious” or gushing submissions on Wayward Victorian Confessions, and taunt loyalist accounts by tagging them in their posts. When a few people complained on WVC that almost all of the Bloody Crumpets to date had been thin white able-bodied women, and a few fans responded by sharing their dream-casts for a more diverse line-up, the blog was flooded for days with confessions that “X should be a Crumpet” (candidates included RuPaul, Mitt Romney, Nicki Minaj, EA's therapist, and the WVC admins). Farcical shenanigans like that.
Ah, but some people will always cross the line, won't they. EA threads popped up on merciless, bully-friendly snark platforms like Lolcow, Pretty Ugly Little Liar, and Encyclopedia Dramatica. Snarkers with a mean streak and obsessive haters mingled in some of the more aggressive, 4-chan-spirited retaliation against EA – which would be called “brigading” in modern parlance. This included flooding EA's Goodreads page with one-star reviews (see part 4), repeatedly editing her Wikipedia page to include her legal name and birth year, and ensuring that Googling said name would bring up current pictures of her.
All of this compounded agitation fragmented the once-united fandom beyond recognition.🦠 Through substantial disagreements among fans, personal bickerings, layers upon layers of inscrutable in-jokes, and cross-platform telephone games, the Asylum morphed into a booby-trapped Escher room.
Satire blogs were taken in earnest. Earnest fan blogs scanned as satire. Memes would get called out as abuse. Appreciation without attached criticism would get mocked as bootlicking. Obvious jokes made by EA would be taken at face value. One divisive confession could trigger days and days of debate, to the point that WVC eventually banned confessions in response to other confessions. New waves of infighting created a confusing web of rival sub-factions🐀, each accusing the others of being toxic, cliquish, and delusional.
The shared fantasy was broken, the collective vision had crumbled, no onez was speaking the same language anymore. Fans would jump down the throat of other fans who held almost identical views about EA, except for that one thing she said or did that one time. Everyone had differing thoughts on what should or shouldn't acceptable to discuss, question, excuse, make fun of.
War is hell.

SCORCHED EARTH SHENANIGANS: HONEY, I SHRUNK THE ASYLUM

Would you tear my castle down Stone by stone And let the wind run through my windows Till there was nothing left But a battered rose? (“Castle Down”, 2003🎵)

Haters vs sycophants is not really the kind of conflict where one side can come out on top (if you're participating, you've already lost). But in the long tug-of-war between “grassroots” and “EA-sponsored” fan spaces, the ultimate winner is obvious – in that the former is gasping in agony, a shriveled husk of its former glory, while the latter... is non-existent. This is due in no small part to EA's tendency, like the Czars of old, to settle conflicts by setting Moscow on fire.🔍)
That's not entirely fair: unlike EA, the czar only did it that once.
By early 2013, as EA was gearing up for her third Fight Like a Girl tour at the end of the year, the official forum was... not as lively as it once had been. Not just because of the stifling rules and disgruntlement towards EA, or because EA herself hadn't really posted anything on there in years; the Internet was also changing, and forums in general were fast becoming passé.
This made it difficult for EA to create a safe space where she could talk to fans, and fans could talk to and about her, in a way she deemed suitable (ie, a space she could gate-keep and regulate enough to keep it completely free from negative criticism). Social media was a minefield; she still posted regularly, but didn't interact very much. So EA and the Headmistress came up with a way to filter out the unbelievers: an official fan club📝, aptly called the “Asylum Army”, with a $100 entry price.
Joining the AA came with a dog tag, a sew-on patch, and a lifetime membership certificate signed by EA and – for some reason – the Headmistress. (Unlike EA's best friend and sound engineer back in the forum's heyday, I don't think fans ever really embraced the FLAG-era manager as part of the Asylum in-group. She came across more as a coordinator / businessperson / adult chaperone, at best.🐀) So, slightly better goodies than you'd get by joining the other AA 🔍 ... but not by much. The main appeal was that members would have access to exclusive content, special merch, giveaways, early bird tickets for future shows, and regular video chats with EA.
The concept itself drew a fair amount of criticism, as you can imagine. Between the name🐀, the price, and the inherent gatekeeping of a pay-to-join fanclub, many balked at the monetizing of a concept that had once (like, three years back) been significantly more DIY, grassroots, and inclusive. 📝🐀
Then again, many also longed for a positive, drama-free space where fans could just be fans. And while the creation of the AA was generally recognized as a quick cashgrab, a lot of people were surprisingly cool with it. EA was trying to finance her dream musical, after all – although a number of fans wished she had gone about raising funds in a less sketchy way.
So around 400 fans shelled out (which, according to the Headmistress📝, “basically cover[ed] the cost of running the fanclub itself – keeping the database up, website, etc.”). Enough for a close-knit, but sizable community. But already, there was a conflict of interest: a high fanclub entry fee essentially demands that you pledge loyalty to the artist over loyalty to your fellow fans, who wish to join but can't afford to. Sharing, caring, and ensuring no one felt left out were some of the more positive values cultivated in the fandom... but leaking exclusive content would surely piss off other paying members🐀, and make EA feel betrayed all over again. (And she had barely just started to mellow out on social media!)
...But then again, this is the internet. After the first month of secret AA drops (lyric sheets, some photoshoot outtakes – nothing too juicy, really), there were, yes, some leaks. EA was predictably miffed, and retaliated by... ghosting the fanclub for weeks at a time in its first few months of existence (great look!). She eventually found the “solution” to her problem, by providing something you couldn't right-click-save (and which had been part of the promised perks to begin with): live interaction.
Over webcam, she was her usual in-person bubbly, charming, funny self. Everyone seemingly had a good time during the fanclub video chat, and this gave people faith and hope.
There were a few more events, giveaways, etc. As promised, ahead of the fall 2013 tour (the last one to date, it would turn out), AA members got priority access to show tickets and VIP bundles. The latter were much pricier than before, and only included soundcheck, a photo-op, and three goodies: a tin of loose-leaf tea, a signed printer-paper setlist, and a small flag that said “F.L.A.G.”.🔍 Some stuff continued to leak – but, as some of the outlaws pointed out (scroll down to the Disqus comments), they were mostly relaying information that was relevant to the entire fanbase, such as updates about ongoing projects (the dragged-out recording of the audiobook, for one).
In early 2014, lifetime memberships were closed, and replaced with monthly, quarterly and yearly subscription tiers. Bizarrely, you ended up paying $3 more per month if you bought a $99 yearly subscription📝 – but it did include the patch, dog tag, and piece of paper!

Sometimes I kind of want to be part of the cool kids and register to the Asylum Army. Then I remember how it came about, what you could get for the same price a couple years ago, how the whole thing was and is handled, and that I won’t support any of this bullshit. (And then I roll around naked in all the money I’m saving.) (🐀)

Still, a number of fans rejoiced at the affordable monthly option, and joined – if not for the exclusive content and merch (which were... okay, but not much to write home about), then for the friendly, drama-free exchanges with an artist they actually did love, in spite of all the frustration.
For the still-too-poor or still-undecided, there was always the forum! It wasn't as active as it used to be, but a few die-hards still managed to keep the lights on... until, inevitably, Someone Did Something and Ruined Everything. (Once again: EA's wrath is spectacular, but rarely completely unprovoked.) The incident features one notable figure in the Asylum community. Let's call him the Collector.
OK, so maybe you remember the meme I linked to in Part 4, with Christian Grey and the ginormous EA hoard. Well, that's the Collector's collection. The “Violin” promo that I called the "Holy Grail of the fandom" in the same paragraph? Also his. The handwritten lyrics that went for $940? Guess who won that auction. Over the years, the Collector had probably spent five figures on EA merch and shows, and although that fact was a little unsettling, he was a very active, easy-going, and generally well-liked fixture of the fandom.
One day in 2012, shortly after the Headmistress had replaced EA's old Chicago BFF as main forum admin, the Collector's account got banned or restricted over something dumb. When the ban wasn't lifted as quickly as he hoped, he took it... the way one takes things when one is unhealthily invested: he started spamming Headmistress and the mod team with increasingly rambling and abusive emails (lost to time, probably for the best). When that didn't work quickly enough, he tried a different route.
One of the many auctions that the Collector had won, some years prior, was EA's old iPod Touch📝 – which contained all of her favorite tunes and, buried somewhere in the data cache... a phone number. Which the Collector tried calling. And wouldn't you know it: EA picked up. She congratulated him on his sleuthing skills, listened patiently as he made his case, apologized for any distress caused by the unfair account restriction, and then they got married.
Kidding! She freaked the fuck out, hung up, and banned him for life from the forum and all EA shows and events.
After his ban, the Collector allegedly still tried to attend at least one VIP pre-show (one source in the comments says he was allowed to buy some merch, refunded for his ticket, and escorted out). He joined the Reform forum to bitch about EA and try to rally people to his cause, possibly made revenge posts about her on darker snark forums, and continued to hound the Asylum mod team. So in June 2014, EA came up with a radical and unexpected fix to the Collector problem.

The official Asylum Fan Forum has been shut down permanently. I have personally paid thousands of dollars each year to keep the forum safe and secure for you ... Unfortunately, the forum has not been kept safe and secure for me, a truth which disappoints me greatly, instead becoming a place where people who have physically threatened myself and my staff prey upon forum members, pressuring them to contact me and my staff on their behalf. If the gullible wish to humor my stalkers (who live in their parent’s basement at age 30 something) and thus put me in danger, they may do it on their own dime. They may also fuck off, because stupidity can kill, and I won’t be your victim. To those who enjoyed the forum, you know who to thank for its closure. (“On the closing of the Asylum Forum”)

Voilà! This is how a decade-long archive of shared history ends: not with a bang, but with a dirty delete and a sod-off communiqué.
The obliteration of the forum took everyone by surprise...

I was actually on the forum when it was taken down. I was navigating between posts and when I went to click on a different board, an error message came up. I honestly cried a little, I'm not ashamed to say. (WVC admin on Reddit, 2024)

...and I do mean everyone:

Chicago BFF / ex-admin, the next morning: Whoa, EA forum shut down? Ex-mod: It turns out that if someone spends enough years actively “waging war” to destroy what they can’t have, eventually they’ll be successful. * eye roll * Not even mods got prior warning. Just all the sudden, poof, gone. BFF: Really? She did not let the moderators know?! This is sounding worse and worse. Uggh. I’m so sorry. Such a loss. (...) Ok, threats are serious, but why not just put it in archive mode so no one can post? (...) Sad. I shall light a candle in the forum's honor. (Facebook posts; scroll down for screenshots)

It was a gut punch, especially for people who had poured countless hours into the community, or could have used some prior warning to save years of their own writing from the role-playing threads. One last chance to take a look around the place that had meant so much to so many.

From the wording of the announcement of closing the forum and a number of other things, it sometimes seems like EA doesn't like her fans much. :/ (🐀)

Three months after the forum was nuked, Battered Rose (a venerable EA fansite, which had been around since the Enchant era and had one of the most complete EA galleries online) announced that it was shutting down too.📝 The admin, who had also been a long-time forum mod, cited a lack of “time, energy, passion, or money” to keep the website going... and being upset at the sudden disappearance of the forum. It was, truly, the end of an era for the Asylum.
...Well, no point in living in the past. For those who could afford it, and still wanted to talk to/about EA after that (not everyone did 🐀), there was always the Asylum Army fanclub!
Over the summer of 2014, EA held regular live chats and Q&A's, and... many attendees really enjoyed them, and thought the AA was well worth the money after all. She also quietly parted ways with the much poo-pooed Headmistress around that time.

Just spent over 4 hours giggling, drinking tea and playing guessing games in chat with EA and other Asylum Army members ... No griping, no downers, just lots of fun. I think I like the way the ‘new fandom’ is going and now I’m really glad I finally decided to join the Army. (September 4, 2014🐀; Battered Rose had closed the day before)

The forum was lost forever, but perhaps that was a chance for a fresh start. Could this fanclub thing really be the Asylum Renaissance that fans had been longing for?

...I have come today to a very difficult but necessary decision, and that is to discontinue the Emilie Autumn Official Fanclub. The site itself, and the community chatroom, will remain open to you indefinitely, but I will no longer be making updates to the site. (Newsletter, September 8, 2014📝)

...Never mind, then.
Turns out the fanclub had been the Headmistress' idea all along. EA had been reluctant from the start, and although she really enjoyed the live chats with a safe community of people “who are there for the right reasons”, she couldn't overcome her fundamental discomfort with the concept. Lifetime and regular members would receive a bunch of digital downloads and a -35% coupon on the Asylum Emporium for their troubles. EA said she would definitely pop back once in a while for live chats, for free, just for fun, but to my knowledge, she never did.
And so the most devoted fans were left standing in the rain...

She is happy, she made it. She is fulfilling her dreams, found love and happiness after all the pain. I understand that she now doesn’t need “us” anymore ... That doesn’t change the fact she broke my heart with taking the Asylum Army and the forum from me. Yet, I am happy for her. (🐀)

...while naysayers pointed and laughed, Nelson-style.🦠

I don’t feel sorry at all for the people that paid for the Asylum Army fan club. Most of them knew that EA is an atrocious business woman and has broken many promises before. In fact, I laugh at them. They seriously thought that EA would actually stay consistent with this? (🐀)

EVERYTHING MUST GO: THE ASYLUM WHOLESALE

EA fans were left without an “official” home for about three years. This gave them plenty of time to be annoyed at EA for: not releasing the audiobook on time, not materializing any new project for a while... and the new sin of peddling random, ridiculously marked-up AliBaba jewelry as “merch” on her official store. Think faux-antique cameo pendants and $30 Big Ben rings (...because the Asylum story is set in London, get it?).

The whole accessories section looks like a tacky overpriced English souvenir shop. (🐀)

The fanbase lost a lost of steam in those in-between years, because there wasn't much to stick around for. As evidenced by the positive reception of the AA live chats, even in the midst of unresolved drama, out-loud interactions in a friendly environment have always been EA's saving grace. Considering the amount of online hate, there are shockingly few accounts of bad IRL encounters with EA: most people say that in live conversation, she comes across as a fun, warm, and genuinely sweet person. Some report that their negative opinion shifted after meeting her.
But there were no chats or live shows anymore. There was only social media, where she ignored questions and vague-posted about overdue projects – and the newsletter📝, which was all saccharine love-bombing to promote bland dropshipped trinkets. For fans who remembered the handcrafted merch (and two-way communication) of the early years, it was a bitter pill to swallow.

CONTINUED IN COMMENTS

​

I absolutely adore the first 3 films in the franchise 

The first two are whimsical and the purest of comforts, and the 3rd is maybe one of the greatest studio-made films of all time. After this, I feel the quality drops. I especially despise the homogenized studio feel of the Yates era. This is my dream director’s list, inspired by actual candidates for the role back in the day.
4. Goblet - Brad Silberling (Lemony Snicket/Casper) - a master of the macabre for children and aesthetic perfection, to take the series down its “darker road” in a funny and deranged way sort of humorous way.
5. Phoenix - Terry Gilliam (Dr Parnassus/Time Bandits) - This absurdist comedian would have made hating Umbridge so much more fun and god would I love to see a weirdo like Gilliam raw-dog the franchise into something never seen from a studio film.
6. Half-Blood - Guillermo Del Toro (Pan’s Labyrinth/Shape of Water) - I mean, come on. The film was already DP’d by Bruno Debonel, who’s work in Amelie undoubtedly inspired Shape of Water, and he’d master the merge of monsters and human drama. The cave at the end, he'd make that ancient.
7. Deathly Hallows - Alfonso Cuoron (Azkaban, Roma) - Get Alfonso back baby. He mastered it once, let the man end the franchise. With luck he’d even convince the studio to do it in one movie.
While we’re at it. I wanna see Fantastic Beasts by Jean Pierre Junet and I wish Richard Harris survived til Half Blood Prince. The death would have been devastating. In some universe. This series exists. What are yours? I'm really interested in hearing alternate realities of the franchise

to be upfront, i am poly. i have a male partner of 2.5 years, but he would not be involved in the slightest with any relationship.
hii! i’m abby, a college junior studying biology (and i WILL talk nerdy to you given the chance). i currently have a male partner who lives in germany (of all places!!!) so i’m extremely touch deprived. this isn’t ideal because well, my love language IS touch. i neeeeed my cuddles xD
i used to be a competitive rock climber and dancer before health issues got in the way, but i love to talk about it! if you’re into those things that’s great, we could do them together. i LOVE classical music, i’m a classically trained pianist. although i have a weird vendetta against bach for some reason…. i’m a huge animal person. i currently have 4 cats and 2 dogs, and we used to foster kittens. i’m currently a full time student with a part time job as well. i’ll be upfront - i have trauma issues. i live with complex ptsd. i have a history of abuse. what i really crave is just being taken care of. being held. someone to check on me. and you get that in return. i absolutely love showing appreciation to my partners through words of affirmation and small handmade gifts. cuddling them. taking care of them. i would love if you’re between 24-40, and love to cuddle and take on a slightly motherly gf role. i’ve also been i’m really good at making people laugh (if you like shitpost humor thats a HUGE bonus. )laughing together is one of my favorite pastimes.
i will say, i am into kink, but the connection is important first. so that can be discussed in more details via DM.
please dm me if this sounds like you!

Hello there! I'm Marty, I'm 36 from the upper Midwest region of the US. Hoping to meet someone here that's looking for a committed relationship and someday start a family with. Having kids someday is something that is important to me.
I'm 5'7", 130 lbs, with red hair and blue eyes. I'm a total ginger lol.
I have your typical nerd hobbies: anime, tinkering with computers, video games, reading both fiction and some historical non fiction, dabbled with D&D, and target shooting. I like going on long walks with my husky and exploring forest trails with him. I love all animals, but dogs are my favorite.
I work in IT for a living and love having a job doing what I love. I am very laid back and have a sarcastic sense of humor. I have some SFW pics pinned in my profile if you'd like to check. If you're a woman from the US and would like to chat, hit me up with a corny joke, latest book you read, or just tell me a little about how your day went!

(My profile is tagged N-S-F-W because I also post these in dirtyr4r since some have actually had luck finding something serious there. Figured it's worth a shot, haha.)
I'm searching for the kind of wonderful woman who shares most of my interests below in addition to her hobbies and interests, who's also goofy, likes to playfully insult each other, and also believes in open and honest communication. I believe with that, we can work out any problems when they arise. 💛
• I'm a gamer, car guy, and maybe one day, a musician too. I enjoy anime, nature, going on little adventures, swimming, traveling... I wanna see the world with you before all the beautiful sights are gone. - Current games I've focused on lately is Helldivers 2 and Deep Rock Galactic. If you wanna play those together, that would be awesome! I would also eventually like to play other things together like Stardew Valley, Minecraft, Terraria, etc. - My taste is music is nearly everything except country and today's rap. To name a few bands/musicians I really love: Led Zeppelin, Arctic Monkeys, Tame Impala, The White Stripes, The Raconteurs, Queens of the Stone Age, Mac Demarco, Them Crooked Vultures, and Metronomy.
• I want to dance with you. In the living room, bedroom, back yard, in the park, almost anywhere. I enjoy doing romantic things and expressing my love. I love deep conversations that distract us from the passing of time.
• I'm a dog person because my allergies chose to target cats for whatever reason, so there's that. 😅
• I'm monogamous and don't have children currently, but they're in my future plans, probably within the next 6 years. I want to spend plenty of time with, well it might be you, and enjoy the best of life as a couple, and then as spouses, traveling and whatnot, before we start a family. 🤗
• I'm really hoping to find someone who's also into dirty humor (amongst other forms of humor) and has mutual...interests 😏 so we have even better compatibility in the bedroom (and sometimes away from home too). I usually have a high labido, but I only want to get intimate when we're both comfortable and ready. 👉👈
• Specs for those who would like them: - 6 feet tall (about 183 cm). - 219 lbs and dropping (about 99 kg). ~ My figure is very dad-bod at the moment, but apparently it comes with a nice ass (so I'm told). ~ This is close to the most I've ever weighed, and I'm not happy with it. I'm targeting somewhere around 170 lbs (about 77 kg). - Brunette/dirty blonde, kept relatively short. - Blue eyes. - Caucasian.
• I have learned the hard way that I do have a type. I used to date outside that type, and it only led to hurt feelings, so I don't want to repeat that. That being said, my type is Caucasian or East Asian ranging from petite to average body type. I don't love going to the gym, but if you have or want a membership I would be open to going together. 😁 I apologize if my preferences differ from who you are. You're all beautiful people, regardless! Please love yourself and enjoy the time you're given in life! 💛
Chat with ya soon! 😁

(My profile is tagged N-S-F-W because I also post these in dirtyr4r since some have actually had luck finding something serious there. Figured it's worth a shot, haha.)
I'm searching for the kind of wonderful woman who shares most of my interests below in addition to her hobbies and interests, who's also goofy, likes to playfully insult each other, and also believes in open and honest communication. I believe with that, we can work out any problems when they arise. 💛
• I'm a gamer, car guy, and maybe one day, a musician too. I enjoy anime, nature, going on little adventures, swimming, traveling... I wanna see the world with you before all the beautiful sights are gone. - Current games I've focused on lately is Helldivers 2 and Deep Rock Galactic. If you wanna play those together, that would be awesome! I would also eventually like to play other things together like Stardew Valley, Minecraft, Terraria, etc. - My taste is music is nearly everything except country and today's rap. To name a few bands/musicians I really love: Led Zeppelin, Arctic Monkeys, Tame Impala, The White Stripes, The Raconteurs, Queens of the Stone Age, Mac Demarco, Them Crooked Vultures, and Metronomy.
• I want to dance with you. In the living room, bedroom, back yard, in the park, almost anywhere. I enjoy doing romantic things and expressing my love. I love deep conversations that distract us from the passing of time.
• I'm a dog person because my allergies chose to target cats for whatever reason, so there's that. 😅
• I'm monogamous and don't have children currently, but they're in my future plans, probably within the next 6 years. I want to spend plenty of time with, well it might be you, and enjoy the best of life as a couple, and then as spouses, traveling and whatnot, before we start a family. 🤗
• I'm really hoping to find someone who's also into dirty humor (amongst other forms of humor) and has mutual...interests 😏 so we have even better compatibility in the bedroom (and sometimes away from home too). I usually have a high labido, but I only want to get intimate when we're both comfortable and ready. 👉👈
• Specs for those who would like them: - 6 feet tall (about 183 cm). - 219 lbs and dropping (about 99 kg). ~ My figure is very dad-bod at the moment, but apparently it comes with a nice ass (so I'm told). ~ This is close to the most I've ever weighed, and I'm not happy with it. I'm targeting somewhere around 170 lbs (about 77 kg). - Brunette/dirty blonde, kept relatively short. - Blue eyes. - Caucasian.
• I have learned the hard way that I do have a type. I used to date outside that type, and it only led to hurt feelings, so I don't want to repeat that. That being said, my type is Caucasian or East Asian ranging from petite to average body type. I don't love going to the gym, but if you have or want a membership I would be open to going together. 😁 I apologize if my preferences differ from who you are. You're all beautiful people, regardless! Please love yourself and enjoy the time you're given in life! 💛
Chat with ya soon! 😁

Conversational Uglies in Cafe
Hi guys. I’m aware this poem requires a bit of (medical) context so you can scroll to the end for it or you can just experience it blind. ( 1 2 )
\\
My body is whimpering these begs to stay alive.
But I withhold the medicine in a a literal gut wrenching tease (side effects include: severe abdominal pain).
There’s no cure for this disease and several names for this cruelty.
I’ll shuffle through them like a deck of cards. Make your bets now. How many hospital visits this year? Just one if I do this right…
When the lights go off and nobody’s home,
the report will say the house was last observed hollow,
because my body was eating itself to stay alive and all these ugly musings died with me.
What can I say? My liver’s a champion.
I’m lucky. That’s what the doctor said.
Ha.
On my deathbed, the boisterous cadences of my hunger will have followed me.
Echoing from the flimsy walls of this wicked anatomy.
(A moment of silence to let the teenage-edginess pass, please. The flesh must mock itself to save itself).
What was it for? I.E this self-inflicted torture.
A body in pain is easier to inhabit, that’s how it’s always been for me.
Even the anxieties are worth the way my collarbones jut in this sexy way.
“Too much, too much, Body. Rein it in. Tone it down.”
There’s a strategy to this, you see. The best killers are only briefly suspect.
My skin is yellow. My skin is dry. I’ll go blind one day. Not today. Two warring concepts. Who I Am and Who I Thought I Was.
(“You’re lucky.”)
Oh, how the dress clings…
Insert cartoonish sound effects of medicine being injected.
The swelling is instant. Of my body, and of the orchestra as my life is finally fed. (THE DRESS CLINGS! IT MUSTN’T! IT MUSTN’T!).
My bloodstream’s biased. Can’t listen to it. My brain chemistry is feeling conflicted about the whole ordeal but it’ll come around.
Self-love is important and I’m afraid the insulin metabolizes it, too.
I won’t let myself swallow my reality.
But this tiramisu serves my goals perfectly, friend (It comes in biscuit-cream-coffee-chocolate-devastation layers).
I’m supermodel-level agonized, baby. That’s the suffering we all strive for.
I make an idol of the grief.
The months keep track of themselves loudly. (Doctor in ICU: you’re just waiting for an accident to happen. (Girl has no response)).
Anyhow, a corpse can’t feel regret so I’m not too worried.
Just pretend you understand my humor (like how I pretend I don’t understand this sacrifice).
This one’s on me if you promise never to ask how I am.
///
Context: Diabulimia is a complicated eating disorder where a diabetic will purposely withhold insulin to lose weight (as insulin is a hormone that helps sugar enter cells for energy and therefore cause weight gain). As insulin is withheld, the liver begins to breakdown fat and basically melt it into the bloodstream for energy. Weight is lost but the blood’s acidity rises as a consequence leading to DKA, fatal if not treated. If you or someone you know is exhibiting side effects of DKA or diabulimia, allow me to be cliche and advise you to seek help.

Please be 30-45 if you're going to message me.
Me: https://imgur.com/a/W9O0uUj
A bit about me: I love old school turn based jrpg's (SaGa Frontier, Chrono Trigger, Wild Arms, I can go on) and am currently replaying Dragon Quest XI as well as a fresh game of Eiyuden Chronicle: Hundred Heroes, tabletop rpg's (D&D, 7th Sea, Desolation etc.), and music (such as stoner metal/rock, hair metal, some hip-hop, although I like many things).
For the boring stuff: No kids, never married. I work from home and spend my days working on reports. More interesting stuff: I am a dog mom (her name is Honey Havok) and snake lover (all animals, really), liberal, love to cook, a bit of a wrestling mark (AEW, GCW, NJPW, etc.), and love to learn new things.
The real stuff: I am demi/asexual, and have depression and anxiety. This means I am not always the easiest woman to deal with and my moods can fluctuate. I try not to take my feelings out on others though, I'm just a bit of a crybaby. I am currently living in MA although not exactly married to the area. I'm thinking of moving back to NH eventually.
In general, I am pretty laid back, have an odd sense of humor (give me all your questionable memes, dad jokes and dark humor). I'm also a little spooky in that I love taxidermy and wet specimens. I don't have a huge collection (yet) but it's growing slowly.
As for the kind of men I enjoy...I tend to like them nerdy, strong, and even possibly intimidating. Tattoos are a plus as is a well-kept, very short beard. Mohawks are one of my weaknesses. I also greatly value good communication skills and a sense of humor. I would like for us to be able to express ourselves without fear of judgement and be able to laugh at the absurdity of life together. I love the written word and appreciate men that are intelligent, witty, and able to participate in a little banter. Make me fall for your words and mind.
I am ideally looking for a non-smoking 30+ nerdy and/or alt guy with a good personality, similar interests, is in or near the US (possibly open to someone who would relocate to the northeast), and who is open to something serious after we get to know each other and build up a close friendship. However, I am open to friendship as well, just let me know.
If anything in my post sparks your interest; feel free to message me with a little about yourself, a picture so I can put a face to the name, and why you chose to message me. Bonus Points for dog or reptile pictures. Low effort messages will be ignored.

Please be 30-45 if you're going to message me.
Me: https://imgur.com/a/W9O0uUj
A bit about me: I love old school turn based jrpg's (SaGa Frontier, Chrono Trigger, Wild Arms, I can go on) and am currently replaying Dragon Quest XI as well as a fresh game of Eiyuden Chronicle: Hundred Heroes, tabletop rpg's (D&D, 7th Sea, Desolation etc.), and music (such as stoner metal/rock, hair metal, some hip-hop, although I like many things).
For the boring stuff: No kids, never married. I work from home and spend my days working on reports. More interesting stuff: I am a dog mom (her name is Honey Havok) and snake lover (all animals, really), liberal, love to cook, a bit of a wrestling mark (AEW, GCW, NJPW, etc.), and love to learn new things.
The real stuff: I am demi/asexual, and have depression and anxiety. This means I am not always the easiest woman to deal with and my moods can fluctuate. I try not to take my feelings out on others though, I'm just a bit of a crybaby. I am currently living in MA although not exactly married to the area. I'm thinking of moving back to NH eventually.
In general, I am pretty laid back, have an odd sense of humor (give me all your questionable memes, dad jokes and dark humor). I'm also a little spooky in that I love taxidermy and wet specimens. I don't have a huge collection (yet) but it's growing slowly.
As for the kind of men I enjoy...I tend to like them nerdy, strong, and even possibly intimidating. Tattoos are a plus as is a well-kept, very short beard. Mohawks are one of my weaknesses. I also greatly value good communication skills and a sense of humor. I would like for us to be able to express ourselves without fear of judgement and be able to laugh at the absurdity of life together. I love the written word and appreciate men that are intelligent, witty, and able to participate in a little banter. Make me fall for your words and mind.
I am ideally looking for a non-smoking 30+ nerdy and/or alt guy with a good personality, similar interests, is in or near the US (possibly open to someone who would relocate to the northeast), and who is open to something serious after we get to know each other and build up a close friendship. However, I am open to friendship as well, just let me know.
If anything in my post sparks your interest; feel free to message me with a little about yourself, a picture so I can put a face to the name, and why you chose to message me. Bonus Points for dog or reptile pictures. Low effort messages will be ignored.

(Holy cow, chats do NOT work right, so Discord is best for talking.)
Tl;dr: basically be a hobbyist, musician, writer, artist, gamer, or geek (any or all, but definitely at least play halo or 40k with me). Must have a demented sense of humor. I cannot be scared away. Looks aren't super important to me if we get along, and I don't care at all if you're a femcel or something as long as you're not abrasive and hateful toward me because you can't work your own stuff out. I don't ghost people either; I will tell you outright if I don't like something about you, and I'd expect the same.
I enjoy writing and worldbuilding as a hobby, I love music, I love sunrises, I love my dog, and I watch too many movies and play too many video games. I can and will talk about music for hours on end. Infodumping about the things I like or the way I feel is my first language, and trivia is my second, so please double text and send me paragraphs. Small talk gives me hemorrhoids. I want to learn everything about you.
I like to laugh at nonsense, and when I'm not having a bad day, I act like a 10 year old. I have seriously bad fibromyalgia, so I mostly have bad days and am stuck home(wherever that currently is) probably playing video games or writing or painting or some hobbyist kind of stuff. I'm not into those bizarre competitive toxic sweat lodges like Valorant or League of Legends though. More like Halo or Destiny or Elden Ring. I play games for fun and for a good story.
My favorite movie is Twins, my favorite show is *probably* sons of anarchy(?), my favorite band is *probably* Van Halen or Pantera. My favorite poet is Robert Frost, favorite author is either Michael Crichton or David Drake. I'm a sucker for vast RPGs with massive lore and vague stories. D&D is a favored pastime when the planets align. It's a great outlet for my writing because I don't have the patience (or talent probably) to attempt a novel.
Anyway, don't get confused on that first bit; demented sense of humor does not mean edge lord or bully. If you are either, don't bother. Same goes for you "brutally honest" types. You're not interesting, you're a jerk. Being one-dimensional is not a personality. I want to partner up with someone, take interest in each other's hobbies, create together, game together, send absurd and stupid memes to each other, you get the idea. I'm here because I'm lonely, not because I'm bored. Don't bug me if you're just bored. I'm not looking to be entertainment for a day or two, I don't want to have to carry the conversation, but I don't want some nutcase that will have meltdowns and block me if I don't text them twice a day. I've been used and ghosted enough. It would also make my day if you could not be a predatory freak. Bottom text.

(Holy cow, chats do NOT work right. Send a message to talk to me.)
Tl;dr: basically be a hobbyist, musician, writer, artist, gamer, or geek (any or all, but definitely at least play halo or 40k with me). Must have a demented sense of humor. I cannot be scared away. Looks aren't super important to me if we get along, and I don't care at all if you're a femcel or something as long as you're not abrasive and hateful toward me because you can't work your own stuff out. I don't ghost people either; I will tell you outright if I don't like something about you, and I'd expect the same.
I enjoy writing and worldbuilding as a hobby, I love music, I love sunrises, I love my dog, and I watch too many movies and play too many video games. I can and will talk about music for hours on end. Infodumping about the things I like or the way I feel is my first language, and trivia is my second, so please double text and send me paragraphs. Small talk gives me hemorrhoids. I want to learn everything about you.
I like to laugh at nonsense, and when I'm not having a bad day, I act like a 10 year old. I have seriously bad fibromyalgia, so I mostly have bad days and am stuck home(wherever that currently is) probably playing video games or writing or painting or some hobbyist kind of stuff. I'm not into those bizarre competitive toxic sweat lodges like Valorant or League of Legends though. More like Halo or Destiny or Elden Ring. I play games for fun and for a good story.
My favorite movie is Twins, my favorite show is *probably* sons of anarchy(?), my favorite band is *probably* Van Halen or Pantera. My favorite poet is Robert Frost, favorite author is either Michael Crichton or David Drake. I'm a sucker for vast RPGs with massive lore and vague stories. D&D is a favored pastime when the planets align. It's a great outlet for my writing because I don't have the patience (or talent probably) to attempt a novel.
Anyway, don't get confused on that first bit; demented sense of humor does not mean edge lord or bully. If you are either, don't bother. Same goes for you "brutally honest" types. You're not interesting, you're a jerk. Being one-dimensional is not a personality. I want to partner up with someone, take interest in each other's hobbies, create together, game together, send absurd and stupid memes to each other, you get the idea. I'm here because I'm lonely, not because I'm bored. Don't bug me if you're just bored. I'm not looking to be entertainment for a day or two, I don't want to have to carry the conversation, but I don't want some nutcase that will have meltdowns and block me if I don't text them twice a day. I've been used and ghosted enough. It would also make my day if you could not be a predatory freak. Bottom text.

Platform(s): Windows 98 (probably)
Genre: Point-and-Click/Puzzle
Estimated Year of Release: 1996-2001
Graphics/Art Style: Hand-drawn, with a style somewhat similar to Wallace & Gromit.
Notable Characters: The main character is a dog. There is also a postman whom the dog can bark at.
Notable Gameplay Mechanics: The game is mostly wordless. All actions are performed by clicking the mouse on objects on the screen. There are humorous animations showing the dog's thoughts, which are visualized through Rube Goldberg-like sequences.
Additional Information: I believe this game was on a CD.

Walking my dog on a nice warm day.
Intermittently texting my friend about something. I pass by a man in a fluorescent yellow-green construction style jacket. He’s got a clipboard.
And a camo print ski mask.
It takes me a few more steps to realize that it’s highly unusual he’s wearing a ski mask. And in fact every inch of him is covered up vs me in flip flops and a T shirt.
I pretend to be busy on my phone and I spy him grabbing a box and some plastic-bagged item (yes, a la Amazon) from the row of townhomes, put them in his trunk (just a regular sedan).
I take a peek at his clipboard- it’s a blank sheet…
At this point I’m stopped at a mini park with benches 20-30 steps away so that it’s not obvious that I’ve stopped to observe him. I’m continuously pretending to be preoccupied with my phone by typing gibberish into the notes app. I wanted to catch a video of him just in case, but I was way too scared to lift/tilt my phone just-so to get identifiable info (eg. his license plate).
After he drives away I go to the apartment building that the townhouses are managed by to tell the guard. The guard is not present at the time so a female resident with an infant and an older looking fellow lets me in through the front door. They ask me why I need to talk to the guard. I tell them I saw something suspicious by the townhouses and described what I saw. I said maybe the guard would like to know this, in case they have cameras around there or at the least to inform the residents of those houses why their packages may be missing.
Turns out the old timer works in the building in some capacity and is real enthusiastic in informing me and the other lady that “they’re called porch pirates”. The other lady’s mind is blown by this, she looks at him like he’s a prophet and asks follow up questions. He doesn’t even ask specifically where I saw this happen before he exclaims that “they’ll never catch them, it’s pointless to tell anybody about it.”
I tell him I and my neighbors had multiple packages going missing when I lived in the very very big city just south of our county and even been broken into and we would all have appreciated people letting us know if it were likely a theft to at least avoid wasting time looking for them (or to encourage LL to up security eg. Cameras). Inform him I’m fine with waiting for the guard.
He goes, “look if you really want to, go ahead, but it’s a waste of time” and adds “That’s what they do for a living”. Me genuinely trying to understand, I ask “so are you saying that we should just leave them be?”.
I kinda cringed at this because it came off really passive aggressive, but that wasn’t my intention. I just wanted to parse out his motive for being seemingly adamant about discouraging me from talking to the guard- perhaps he did have the general belief that those less fortunate who resort to stealing to get by should be shown grace since their impact on the wealthy(er) is minimal? Like I was willing to have discourse, see his perspective, and be convinced. But both he and the lady were gasp aghast.
At this point I’m tired of this. From my perspective, I went out of my way to be potentially helpful to this community and this guy really made it seem like he had graciously condescended to speak with me.
I, smiling and very politely, tell him that I trust his wisdom on this so I’ll take his advice and get on with my day.
I dunno why but suddenly he shifts 180 and says I should wait for the guard. That, depending on where this is there may be cameras.
I’m like “ehhh, if it’s just to humor me and it won’t be helpful to anyone as you say. I’m alright.”
Walk back out with my dog. My parting greeting was “Good luck!”
Again, in retrospect that could be interpreted as sassy. In my defense, English isn’t my first language and even though I am fluent and can write well for academic and work purposes, sometimes I don’t have the best social phrases cued up…
Idk why that guy’s just bumming about in the lobby meddling with things. At least, as annoying as he was, since he works there I can tell myself that I informed an employee.

“Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks, even on the house he's never visited.
You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona—but not nearly so arid.
Don't wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes. Your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them.
You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic.
Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries.
Don't lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid.
You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.”
from “Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell” by poet Marty McConnell
I came across this powerful poem and it deeply resonated with me. I wanted to share it here because I believe it encapsulates the journey many of us are on, navigating the complex dynamics of relationships with ex-partners who have BPD.
"Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks, even on the house he's never visited."
These lines are a clear reminder that stepping away from a damaging relationship is only the first step. The real challenge lies in staying away and protecting your heart from being pulled back into a cycle that might be harmful. It talks about creating a safe space, even if it means metaphorically changing the locks in your life.
"You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona—but not nearly so arid."
This passage celebrates the new life you've crafted for yourself. It's a testament to the strength and resilience you possess. Despite the vastness of the love you can give, it's crucial to ensure that this love is directed towards mending and enriching yourself.
"Don't wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes. Your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them."
This calls for acceptance of your past and imperfections. When people regret their choices, I like to say that no one wakes up and makes a list of ways they're going to fuck up their life. What became problems today were like impulsive purchases we made back then.
"You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic."
It acknowledges the irresistible pull we felt towards our pwBPD but advocates for setting and enforcing boundaries. It highlights how essential it is to be with someone who truly values you.
The poem concludes with a reminder to cherish your existence and not let grief or revenge overshadow your worth. It encourages us to transform our scars into symbols of resilience.
I hope these words bring some comfort and inspiration to everyone here ❤️

First/Previous
The travel took on a less gloomy quality in the day that passed since Gemma’s self-reflection and although there remained a queer distance in her eyes, she seemed in better spirits in losing the weight of the words.
It was a night just beyond Wabash Crevasse that we pushed on till sunset was almost upon us and we were each tired and the food stocks ran low and so we found harbor in a half collapsed cellar where a home once stood; it was only after examining the slatted, rotted boards of the old place, fallen over, tired with decay, that we spied the cellar doors intact; sheets of door metal plied us with safety from the outside world and the interior of the place stank of mold and the deeper recesses were collapsed, but there was a cradle to crossbar the stair hatch and I put my prybar there for the night. We finished the water and canned tomatoes, and I smoked a cigarette, staving off the inevitable doom which would come with the dwindling of our supplies.
I’d peeked through the space where the doors met at the cellar’s entry and watched the full darkness there while the youngins spoke of life and the trivial pursuits of it and I hardly said a word besides.
Sitting on the lowest step with Trouble dumbly maintaining her station by me, by the low glow of the space in the threshold, I saw they’d pushed their bedrolls together and Andrew had fallen asleep with his arm over Gemma’s shoulder and her eyes glowed with shine from the crack, blinked a few times while seeing me; she too eventually drifted to sleep, and I spent time by the secured door.
Gunshots rang across the stillness, and they stirred from their quiet slumber and Gemma asked, “Harlan, is it alright?”
I moved to the space there at the doorway again and listened and watched what I could through that crack and nothing beyond came. “It’s safe. I’ll be up a bit longer. I’ll watch.”
Andrew asked, “Can’t sleep?”
“I’ll sleep in a bit. Don’t worry about me. Rest. Sleep good and we can put more behind us.
They sat up, legs crossed triangle-wise, and Gemma spoke again, “Why do you have such a hard time sleeping? It seems I’m asleep after you and only awake after you too.”
“Yeah,” said Andrew.
“It’s cool at night. I can listen to the wind.” I shrugged.
“You should be the one that tries to get some sleep,” said Andrew.
I said nothing.
They reached out their arms and I shook my head.
“Here,” Gemma said, “Move your bedroll closer.” She reached across the dirt floor of the cellar and dragged my splayed roll so that it sat beside hers.
“I’ll sleep later.” I turned my attention back to the door and ignored them till their sounds of sleep could be heard. The Alukah was nowhere and did not tap on the door that night and when I moved to sleep, I shimmied onto the roll beside them, facing away on my shoulder; the dog followed, laid on the bare dirt beside me and I held the mutt.
Though I refused a noise as they stirred in the absolute darkness, I felt Gemma’s arm fall over my own shoulder and felt Andrew’s hand touch my back, and water traced the bridge of my nose and I slept deeply thereafter.
There was no breakfast without food, and the water was gone; I felt the eyes of the dog on us as we packed up our belongings that next morning and I tried not to imagine the poor animal skinned over fire. I smiled at Trouble, patted its head, scratched its chin; she sniffed my hand like she was looking for something that wouldn’t be found.
We went west again, ignoring roads and pushed through straight wasteland where nothing was and no one was, and with every dry footfall on the dry hard ground, I wished for rain, and I wished that when it had rained, as infrequent as it was, that I had been wise enough to save what we could from the sky; that sky was red and swollen and refused to burst. We pushed on through strange dead thickets where grayed and twisty yellow branches lurched from the ground into the sky like even they too wished for an end to all the suffering. It was days more till we would see Alexandria and though I could stave off hunger (thirst too, if necessary), I was not so certain that the children would be able to push on without it; they did not complain and watched the ground in our march and maintained higher spirits than I could’ve imagined from them.
Early in the day, they spoke often, and I listened and as they wore on, their words came less and even the dog seemed in a lower mood for the unsaid predicament; me too.
Gemma broke the silence on the matter by saying, “What are we going to do about food? Water?”
“We’ll push on.”
“We could turn back?” asked Andrew.
“The more time we spend out in the open, outside of a city, the more likely it is that the Alukah will catch us unawares. Tighten your belts.” Our feet took us around a dilapidated truck, an old thing with a rusty hook which dangled off a rear arm. “Save your urine.”
They made faces but did not protest.
“Does that work? You ever drink pee?” asked Andrew.
I laughed, “I thought we’d be there by now. I took us too long by trying to drop the scent of the Alukah. That thing’s hunted us for days—last night was the first time it ain’t bothered us. It’s got me wondering why.”
Gemma piped up, licking her dry lips before speaking, “Do you think that monster ran into those scavengers we saw?” Then I caught her shooting a look at Andrew, “At least we warned them.” Her smile was faint and almost indiscernible as one.
I shrugged. “Can’t say. Don’t think it’s smart to turn back. Won’t be long and we’ll touch the 40 and then it’ll be a straight on to Babylon—couple of days—can’t turn back though. Maybe without food; that’s doable. Water’s the worst, but if it comes to it,” I paused and looked on the weathered faces of the children, on the lowered head of Trouble which followed her nose across the ground (it searched just short of frantic), “Like I said, ‘save your urine’.”
The first pains of hunger held within me brought up some reminiscence and I wished for nothing more than to hold Suzanne; I could nearly smell them and in the swaying walk which took us on past toppled townships, I held long blinks where I could nearly make out their face and if I really pushed the limits of my imagination, I could feel them. In those moments, as we passed dead places, rotted pits of despair, I could think of little more than their presence. Though I knew it was a dangerous game, hoping for more than I was worth, I hoped for Suzanne then and I wished that I’d taken them up on their offer to travel to Alexandria with them; it could’ve been home—it never was in all the times I’d gone there, but who knows? The thoughts of Babylon brought forth their gardens; the wild gardens and the water which flowed freely through their pipes. I wished I was a different person entirely and that too would’ve been better for Suzanne; how it was that they’d seen anything in me, I don’t know. How it was that they could stoop to the level of being with someone like me—I warded off that thought, because to place the blame there would certainly be unfair. I thought of my love plainly and wanted a different life more suited to them.
Imaginations played more furiously, and I remembered the evening when Dave stopped me from leaping from that roof—it’s doubtful that he even realized that he’d slowed my demise; perhaps he did know—I wished then that I could ask him. Too kind for the world. People too kind for the world were scarce and hardly worth the trouble. Yet, there I was, chaperoning those two across the wastes.
Gemma was a broken person when I’d found her, tortured in Baphomet’s well; Andrew was a dullard boy who’d lost his hand. What a silly predicament.
I stopped in my movements and swiveled on my heel to catch Andrew by the shoulder. “You still got your hand, don’t you?”
In good humor, the boy grinned, lifted the nub on the end of his left forearm to show me, “Nope.”
“Dammit, no! The hand in the jar!”
Andrew raised his eyebrows. “In my pack.”
“Stop,” I commanded Trouble; the dog hardly recognized my words and continued a way then circled back, sad eyes looking up from where she took to sit by my side. Gemma, both arms dangling loosely from her own pack’s shoulder straps, took into the circle we’d formed.
The girl asked, “What about the jar? It’s nasty, but I guess it’s his.”
“I think that’s it,” I said. I took Andrew by his shoulders, looked him in his eyes, “We could use it!”
“What?” The boy almost laughed in the display of our concern. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I think I’ve got it! It’s good for a trap.” I shook him; maybe too hard. I almost smiled. “It’s worth a shot!”
“It’s mine.” He bit his top lip, withdrew from me.
“You’ll feel differently about that,” I said.
Gemma placed a hand on Andrew’s pack and tried ripping it open. “Give it to him!” shouted the girl.
The boy whipped from her grasp, and he spun on his feet, and panic stood on his face. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”
I took a step forward, “No, not anymore.” I put out my palm, “Give it.”
Andrew nearly flinched at the thought of it and shook his head a little. “Why?”
“I told you why,” I said.
“You don’t even know if it’ll work, do you?” his words were long in protest.
The girl started again, “Andrew, please.”
He locked eyes with Gemma and once again, his bottom teeth came up to meet over his top lip and he moved his jaw methodically with contemplation.
“What does it even matter?” she asked.
“It’s mine. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“C’mon,” he said, but his pack straps fell from his shoulders, and he hunkered down on the ground and opened his bag; his right hand plunged into the recesses therein and withdrew the jar with his severed left hand. He held the object up, refusing to come up from his open pack, keeping his eyes on the ground. “Take it then.” He shook the jar; its contents sloshed with liquid decay.
I grabbed the thing, held it to skylight; the remains within had congealed and rotted and lumps nearly floated in the brownish liquid which had formed in the base of the container. I shook it and stared for a moment at the miniscule debris which floated alongside the hand; each of its digits had swollen and erupted to expose bone; some had come away in pieces. “Tomorrow,” I said and nodded.
We gathered ourselves and Andrew pulled his pack on again and we moved, Trouble still looked sorry and the boy remained quiet while the girl chattered on with questions while we took through the dying ground in a formation with the dog on point then me then the children.
“What will you do with it?” she asked me.
“Not sure yet.”
Andrew made a noise like he wanted to say something but didn’t.
“You think it will work?” asked Gemma.
“Nothing’s a guarantee. They’re smart—Alukah.”
“Smart enough to figure out a trap?”
I shrugged. “We’ll find out.”
“We could put stakes in a pit.”
“Keep on the lookout for a building. Something with multiple floors.”
With that, we moved on, found a worn, mostly destroyed road and we fell into a travelling quiet and the thought of hunger or thirst arose again, and I pushed it down—though I knew the uneasiness could only last so long before savagery would overtake the human condition; the kids seemed strong enough, but I kept an eye on the dog too. Savagery belonged not only to humans, after all.
The ground of the wastes was harder when it was quiet, and it was flatter further west. The sky—red and full of thin and transparent drifting clouds—seemed an awful sight when stared at for too long; it was the thing which stretched as if to signal there wasn’t an end in any direction, as if to declare we had much more to go till safety. Wanderlust is a thing that I believe I’ve felt before, but under that sky, with those two and the dog, I didn’t feel it at all. It was doom that I felt. Ignorance and doom. And it was all because I was certain I’d made all the wrong mistakes, and it was coming back to me. I was experienced. We should’ve had food and water. Perhaps there was some deep and nasty part inside of me that had intended to sacrifice them along the way. The words of the Alukah might have rung true: You say you make no deals, but I smell it. I think you’d deal.
Surely, I felt differently. Surely.
“Getting darker,” called Andrew as we came to where signposts—worn and bent and barely legible—told us of a place once called Annapolis and the buildings were nearly gone entirely; places, maybe places that were once homes, were leveled—I was briefly caught in imagining what it might’ve been like all those ages ago. As are most places, it was haunted like that and when we came to a long rectangular structure of metal walls—thin walls—we took it as a place for rest for the night.
It once served as an agricultural station, for when we breached its entry, there were a line of dead machines—three in all—cultivators or tillers which stood higher than any of our heads and Gemma asked what they were, and I told her I thought they were for farming. The great rusted bodies stood in quiet shadow as we came through a side passage of the building and the great doors which had once been used to release those machines from the building stood frozen in their frame. I approached the doors, lighting my lantern and motioning for the children to shut the door we’d entered through.
Upon closer inspection, it seemed the doors would roll into the ceiling and the chains which held the doors in place were each secured with rusted padlocks—I removed my prybar from my pack and moved along the wall of doors, giving each old lock a smack with the weapon; each one held in place, seemingly fused there through years of corrosion, and I rounded the cultivators once more, back to the children, near the side door where they’d discovered a rickety stair frame which crawled up the side of the wall to a catwalk; along the catwalk, a levitated box stood at the height of the structure, stilted by metal legs, and we took the stairs slowly with the dog following close behind; the poor mutt was mute save the sound of its own shuffling paws.
The metal stairs creaked under our weight and Gemma held her own lantern high over her head so that the strange shadows of the place grew longer, stranger, and suddenly I felt very sure that something was in the dark with us, but there was no noise except what we made. My eyes scanned the darkness, and I followed the children up the stairs till we met the overhang of the catwalk and I peered into the shadows, the blades of the cultivators—far extended on foldable arms—struck up through the pool of blackness beneath us and I felt so cold there and if it were not for the breath of my fellow travelers, I might have been lost in the dark for longer than intended—lost and frozen and contemplative.
“There’s a room,” said the boy, and he pushed ahead on the hanging passage, and he was the first to the door. “Boxes,” he said plainly.
Upon coming to the place where he stood, Gemma pushed her lantern over the threshold, and I saw what he’d meant as I traced my own lantern to help; the room was crammed with plastic totes and old metal containers of varied sizes. There seemed to be enough empty space to maneuver through the room, but only if one watched their feet while they walked. Carefully.
We moved to the room, and I found a stack of crates to place my lantern then motioned for Gemma to douse hers. In minutes, the place was rearranged so that we could sit comfortably on the floor; crates lined the walls precariously and we breathed heavy from the work done, but we began to unpack and upon watching the children while I rolled a cigarette, I felt a pang of guilt, a terrible summation—all choices in my life had led me here and with them and perhaps it would have been a better world for them without me.
Mentally shrugging this thought away, I lit my cigarette, inhaled deeply, and then withdrew the jar which Andrew had handed over. I held it to the lantern to examine it. The grotesqueness of it hardly phased me and I watched it more curious and hopeful than disgusted.
“I hope it’ll work,” said the boy, “Whatever it is that you plan on doing with it.” He grimaced and maintained a further silence in patting his bedding for fluff. The dog moved to him, and she pushed her forehead against him where he squatted on floor. The boy scratched Trouble’s chin and whispered, “Good girl,” into the top of her head where he’d pushed his own face.
“I’m hungry,” said Gemma; she placed her chin in her arm while watching Andrew with the dog. She sat on her own flat bed there on the floor and stated plainly the thing that I’d hoped to ignore for longer.
“I know.” I took another drag from the cigarette and let the smoke hang over my head. “The dog?”
Andrew recoiled, pulling Trouble closer into his arms.
I smiled. “It was a joke.”
Andrew relaxed, but only a moment before Gemma added, “Maybe.”
The boy narrowed his eyes in the girl’s direction, and she shrugged. “If it’s life or death.”
He didn’t say anything and merely continued stroking Trouble’s coat.
That night, we slept awfully and even in the complete darkness, I felt the cramp of the storage room and the angled shapes of the tools that protruded from the containers on all sides remained permanent well after we’d turned the light off and it felt like those shapes were the teeth of a great creature like we were sitting inside of its mouth, looking out.
Trouble positioned herself partially on my chest, her slow rhythmic breathing brought my thoughts calm and I whispered to her in the dark after I was sure the others were asleep, “I promise it was a joke.” And I brushed the back of her neck with my hand and the animal let go of a long sigh then continued that deep rhythmic breathing.
Still without food or water, the following day was the true indication of the misery to come. Gemma’s stomach growled audibly in waking and Andrew—though he kept his complaints to himself—smacked his lips more often or protruded the tongue in his mouth in a starvation for water. The room, in the daylight which peered through pinpricks of its half-decayed roof, seemed another beast altogether from its nighttime counterpart; it was not so frightening. Again, I admonished myself for the lack of preparation, but there was another thought that brought together a more cohesive feeling; we had a possible plan, a trap for the demon that’d been following us.
We went into the field to the west of the building where there was only dirt beneath our feet in the early sunlight and in the coolness of morning air, I nearly felt like a person. The sun crested the horizon and brought with it a warmth that would quickly become overwhelming—in those few minutes though—it felt good enough. I wished for the shy dew and saw none. The weirdness of holding Andrew’s rotting hand in a jar momentarily caught me and I almost laughed, but refrained and the dog and the children looked on while I held the container up and suddenly, seeing the congealed mass of tissue floating in its own excretions, I was overcome with the urge to run, the urge that nothing would ever be right again in my life, and that I was marked to be that way.
I blinked and tossed the jar to Andrew. “Say goodbye,” I said. He fumbled after it with his right hand and caught it to his chest.
“It’s strange you care so much anyway,” said Gemma, shrugging—her eyes forgave a millisecond of pity and when Andrew looked at her, still holding the jar in his right hand, she smiled and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her pants.
“We’ve enough oil, I think,” my voice was raspy from it being early, “Enough for good fire, but if we use it, it’ll mean a few more dark nights on our way.”
“We’re going to set it on fire?” Andrew pondered, keeping his eyes to the contents of the jar. “It worked good enough last time. It’ll work,” I nodded, “I has to, doesn’t it?”
His dry lips creased into a brief smile, and he tossed the jar back to me and I caught it.
“Let’s dig,” I said.
Without much in the way of proper tools, we began at the ground under us with our hands, then taking turns with my prybar till there was a hole in the ground comfortably large enough to conceal a human head and I uncapped the jar and spilled it contents there and we covered it back and I lightly tamped it with my boot. My eyes scanned the outbuilding we’d taken refuge in the night prior and then to the street to the north then to the houses which stood as merely rotted plots of foundation with frames that struck from the ground more as markers than support. “I’ll take up over there across the street when it gets dark. I want you two in that storage room before anything goes off.”
“We can’t help?” asked Gemma.
“You can help by staying out of the way—the mutt too,” I said; the words were harsh, but my feelings were from worry.
“Wouldn’t it be better if we stuck together?” asked the girl.
I shook my head. “You stay in the room and keep quiet. No matter what you hear, you stay quiet and safe.”
“That’ll put you at a bigger risk,” Gemma furrowed her brow at me and shifted around to look out on the houses across the street, “There’s hardly any cover over there.”
The boy nodded, smacked his lips, and rubbed his forearm across his mouth then audibly agreed with her.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said, “No matter what you hear happening outside, no matter, you don’t open the door and you don’t scream—don’t make a noise at all. Alright? Even if you hear me calling you, you don’t do it.”
“Pfft,” Gemma crossed her arms and kicked her foot against the ground. The way her eyes seemed hollowed with bruising showed that the irritation would only grow without food. “Alright,” she finally sighed.
Andrew looked much the same as she did in that; he swallowed a dry swallow then stuffed his hand into his pocket and looked away when our eyes matched.
We gathered our light oil. Altogether, it seemed enough; rummaging through the room of the outbuilding we’d earlier taken refuge within, we managed three intact glass containers—the only ones found that wouldn’t leak with liquid; two were bottles and the third was the jar that’d once kept Andrew’s hand. With that work done, we sat with three Molotov cocktails within our huddled circle of the storage room.
“Is it enough?” asked Gemma.
“We’ll see,” I began rolling a cigarette to ignore the hunger and the thirst.
Andrew took to the corner and glanced over his shoulder only a moment before a steady liquid stream could be heard and when he rotated from the wall once the noise was finished and he held a canteen up to his nose, sniffed it and quivered and shook his head.
As the sun pushed on, I scanned the perimeter outside, and they followed. Far south I spied a mass of shadow inching across the horizon and Gemma commented, “What’s that?”
I pushed the binoculars to her and let her gaze through them.
“A fiend—that’s what we called it back in the day anyway. A mutant.”
She held the binoculars up and frowned. “A mutant? So, it was once human?”
“A fiend was once many humans.” I pointed out to the horizon though she couldn’t see me doing so and continued, “If you look at the edges of its shape, you’ll see it’s got limbs galore on it. Sticking up like hairs is what it’ll look like at this distance. Those are arms and legs. It’s got faces too. Many faces.” I shuddered.
“I can barely see any details,” she passed the binoculars to Andrew, and he looked through them, “What’s it do?”
“What?” I asked.
“What’s it do if it catches a person?”
“It pulls people into it. Makes you apart of its mass. Nasty fuckers.”
Andrew removed the lenses from his eyes and held them to his chest and asked, “It won’t mess up your trap, will it?”
“We’ll keep an eye on it,” I said, “You don’t want to mess with a fiend unless you have to.”
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