#I Am Just Living My Life why does that incite so much suspicion.

[argiopi]

got the cops called on me for the most hilariously sensible reason last night

So i have a new industrial piercing (my first piercing..! i love it •w•), and it got infected because of course it did, it's a cartilage piercing and i live outside. Context i've been living in my car for the past few weeks, which has been pretty good but one of the tradeoffs is i do not have a bathroom. The piercer told me if the piercing got infected I could soak it in saltwater, so i needed a source of 1. salt, 2. water that is warm or at least not the below-freezing ambient temperature i currently exist in.

Gas stations have both these things. (I have yet to purchase salt for my occasional propane stove cooking). Only problem is it was past midnight in a rural area, so I didn't find a 24 hour convenience store until around 100 miles into my route for the evening.

At 3 AM local time the store was inhabited by just One stern-looking employee who was mopping the floor. My grungy ass walks in carrying a small collapsible bowl and immediately begins casing the place like the world's shittiest thief, looking for those little free salt packets. I looked around the (empty, no hot food at 3 AM) hot dog stand and saw only wet condiments so i circled back around to the grocery section in case they were selling salt shakers I could buy. No luck so i desperately returned to the hot dog counter in case I missed the salt, and noticed a cabinet labeled CONDIMENTS below the dog cooker, which did conceal salt packets. I stuffed a handful of them in my pocket and hoped the mopping woman wouldn't ask, then pivoted to the bathroom where I locked myself for the next fifteen minutes.

I filled my bowl with hot water which was actually cool water but at least it wasn't frigid, and mixed salt into it and held it to my ear. After a few minutes the staff, who had been understandably watching me from around corners the entire time I was searching for salt, knocked on the door. I replied "hello?" and she didn't respond, so I assumed she was just checking if anyone was in there before she tried entering to continue mopping. I finished cleaning my sad little ear and bought a bag of yogurt pretzels as a gesture of good will because I felt bad for taking her salt and taking too much time in the bathroom when she needed to clean.

Enter The Pig. I had returned to my car and grabbed my first aid kit to apply antiobiotic ointment, when an officer entered the store. Trepidation when he arrived since I knew I was being a freak, but then i thought he was just doing his own shopping, then he came back out and approached my vehicle.

Rolled down my window and he asks what was going on in the bathroom. (What if i had been just taking a long shit??). So I showed him my ear and my bowl and explained, as Alertly, Calmly, and Soberly as i could after driving for multiple hours after midnight, to the face of someone who can ruin my life with a penstroke, that I was on the road and had to soak this infected piercing. Luckily it was a confused young cop who was too bewildered to inquire much further, not an old hardass who might start asking more challenging questions such as "where are you going" or "where are you staying tonight and why are you washing your ear at the gas station and not there." He clearly barely even looked at my car - asked if i was a local when my license plate is from two timezones away - and let me go without even collecting my information.

That was the sixth time that police have confronted me for acting outside social norms. The first time was because I was plucking an invasive plant species from the side of the road and he thought I was falling when I walked up & down the slope. The second time I was walking home alone at night, and maybe someone called because I had a backpack on and they thought I was trying to rob a house. I was just walking home from the train. The third time I had been biking home in the dark without a headlight, and i fell on my face and didn't know I was bleeding until a bastard pulled up and told me someone called because they thought I got hit by a car. The fourth time was when I fell in the river last winter and i was knocking on random doors asking for directions home to minimize my risk of hypothermia, and I suppose the woman who drove me home called to send someone to make sure i was okay? The fifth time was the first time I slept in my car, which ironically was before I started serially sleeping in my car. I was falling asleep on the highway after an all-nighter so I took the next exit and took a nap in my driver's seat at the end of a random residential street before I ended up on the news, and that's how I learned suburbanites are paranoid as all hell about anything out of the ordinary because a cop knocked on my window and asked me if I was drunk (who would say yes to that question?). Now I select my sleeping sites very carefully, which is probably the most annoying thing about hashtag vanlife, but I haven't gotten The Knock again yet and sometimes when I pull into random public lands after dark I wake up to mountains I've never seen before and that fuels my soul.

Lesson learned is that if you need to snort sodium chloride in a gas station bathroom at 3 AM, just have an ear piercing and dampen the hair around it and carry a bowl around, and you've got a story that's Too Weird To Be Making Shit Up.

#seriously how do y'all stay out of trouble #I Am Just Living My Life why does that incite so much suspicion. #this time was fair though i 1000% looked like a criminal who was about to drive home under an influence #blogging #FOLKS WHO FOLLOWED FOR ART I HOPE YOU ENJOY STORYTIME TOO LOL. #I saw THIRTEEN!!!! shooting stars while driving last night #i think that is a new personal record. was there a meteor shower? surely there was. #Two of them were bright enough to leave a dust trail.. ⭐︎つ⭐︎ #mountain roads are so scary lol what do you Mean there is no guard rail on this narrow winding road that drops off into Death Zone #not to mention when there is snow on the road..? #my tires spun out the other night because i was clinging too close to the uphill side of the mountain and went off the road #in my defense i could not see the lines on the road on account of they were covered by snow #anyway i sunk deep but luckily i have 4WD so i could wiggle out without help #but the snow gripped my tires and pulled them in the opposite direction i was trying to go.. #what if i was driving on the side facing downhill and slipped off the road and the snow gripped me. #best case scenario: car is Funked. worst case scenario Death #anyway i think my ear is slightly less painful & inflamed this morning..? i am going to go wash it at a much less sussy hour #the sky is so clear and bright here... #madly in love with the milky way. #i wonder how often ppl assume ppl are sneaking hard drugs when they actually have a completely legal reason to be acting strange. #not that i'm not living on the fringes of the law rn with the whole car thing and that's the only reason i had to be weird at a gas station #but like... lives be strange and complex and human behavior is rarely as simple as it seems there is always a story!

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 52

Happy Tuesday, everyone!  We have a pretty fun chapter today, so I hope you all enjoy it.

Also, we have another cameo from a character who was submitted to the character contest. @dierotenixe, I hope you like it!

Speaking of, I am currently at 408 followers, which is mindblowing. I love you all and I appreciate every note I get on these chapters, especially the comments and reblogs. You each keep me going every single day with this story.

Alistair showed up, not bright-eyed but at least early the next morning to discuss the results of the festival. I was barely out of bed, stifling a yawn as I greeted him at the door and shooed him inside.  Not having been allowed entry on the one occasion he had previously ventured to my quarters, he glanced around as though cataloguing the contents. A snore erupting from the bedroom sent his attention whipping that direction with wide eyes.

“Coffee?” I offered calmly, refusing to be embarrassed or laugh at his incredulity.

“You allowed me inside your quarters while a gentleman caller is still here?” he hissed in reply. I took that as a yes and staggered toward the kitchen. “That is incredibly uncouth, Sophia. I expected better of you, at least.”

“Not a caller,” I yawned again, handing him a steaming mug. “They live here, and they don’t have to be on duty for another two hours.  Figured I’d let them sleep in.  It’s been a very eventful few days, they deserve it.”

He scowled at me in disdain. “You could have simply asked me to come back at another time.”

I waved his objections off, gesturing toward the armchair. “It’s fine, I swear. I would have still been in my pajamas, and GK and Lyric would have been here, most likely.  They usually swing by for a few hours if I’m going to be home alone all day.”

A particularly loud snore prompted a sleep-husked objection and a grunt before the snores got much quieter.  I ignored the eyebrows that threatened to leave Alistair’s face in favor of the ceiling and flicked open my data pad instead. “How did the numbers from yesterday look?”

“What? Seriously? You really expect me to just ignore – “

“Alistair,” I interrupted sternly.  “I told you I would be in my quarters, working, for the next several days. I don’t know what you expected, but you probably won’t find it.  I’m staying home so I can recover from handling the festival, which means I’m not getting primped for work, my partners will likely be here, and yes, one snores.”

“Partners? Plural?” he nearly shouted, redder than embarrassment could account for.

“Oh, bloody hell, you posh wanker,” Conor’s voice bellowed from the bedroom. “Some of us are sleeping!  Either pipe down, or feck off! Jesus…”

Instead of the reaction I expected, my assistant was immediately mollified. “Ah, well then.  Messers. MacMaoilir and Okima, I’m guessing?”

I quirked an eyebrow curiously. “Does it really matter?”

“I believe it quite matters.” He actually sounded offended. “Those two are clearly smitten with you, and good men, besides. I was worried you had some other dunderheads here.”

“You do realize it could have been a woman?”

“If a woman snored like that, I would have much graver concerns about you and your taste in partners, I assure you.  Such as a female what? A warthog, perhaps?  While we may no longer be on Earth, I do believe that is still illegal.  Or at the very least should be.”

“Well, then. Now that I have Uncle Alistair’s approval…”

“Bite your tongue.”

“Can we please work, now?” I begged wearily.

Getting down to business, Alistair provided a summary of the data he had spent the previous day reviewing.  Mostly, it confirmed the early reports: Overall, the festival had been a rousing success with minimal complaints reported.  The low-stimulation session was viewed highly favorably, with a note to include it in future events, accompanied by requests from those who had been able to attend a ship-wide social event for the first time.

Tyche’s suspicion about natto was partially confirmed, as well.  “Can you please explain to me why the food festival as resulted in a sudden increase in rotten soybeans from the food consoles?” Alistair asked, drily.

I shook my head and held up my hands. “For starters, they’re fermented, not rotten. Second, please tell me it is not programmed in the consoles under that term?”  I shut my eyes and mentally crossed my fingers in vain hope.

“Of course not,” he scoffed, prompting a whoosh of breath from me. “However, I was curious what dish was so popular, so I searched the database from Earth.”

“I think it ended up being the single most-popular dish we could track,” I admitted. “But it’s still decidedly not rotten.”  I always tried to be impartial to foods I didn’t like, and I was trying the hardest I could remember with what was decidedly my least favorite food.

“Fine. Controlled rot.”

I sighed and pinched my nose. “Lots of foods are fermented, Mr. Worthington, including several I am sure you quite enjoy.”

“Alcohol is not a food, Miss Reid.”

“Bread. Cheese. Sour cream. Yogurt,” I ticked off on my fingers. “Miso. Fish sauces. Kimchi. Just about any hot sauces or anything with vinegar…” I glanced at him pointedly.

“Bread is not fermented,” he grumbled.

Behind us, a sleepy voice interjected. “Leavened bread is, especially sourdough.”  I turned to see Maverick scratching his bare chest and stretching, his hair sticking out at angles from sleep.  “Was the natto really popular enough to make it into a report?”  Without asking, he gathered our coffee mugs and shuffled off to the kitchen to refill them.  When he returned, he had one for himself. “Besides, you left out pickles.”  He dropped a kiss on top of my head before collapsing on the couch next to me.

“It was either that popular, or that disgusting,” Alistair confirmed before taking a grateful sip of hot caffeinated heaven. “Either way, people are requesting enough that poor Noah has asked if we need their services to augment the atmospheric scrubbers.”

“People could be using it for pranks,” Maverick warned as he slung an arm around my shoulders. “Granted, some people probably actually like it, but still.”

I wrinkled my nose and thought for a minute. “If that’s the case, I’ll suggest to Xiomara that we check the sensors to identify who did it and make them eat the stuff.  Not a fresh server of it, the actual server they used for the prank.”

“She would never agree to it,” Alistair warned.

“Au contraire,” I smirked. “She likes the taste but hates the smell. And the medbay can fix food poisoning. To her, it would be a very solid case of the punishment fitting the crime.”

Hands flung in the air with exasperation, my assistant surrendered. “If you get that policy passed by the Council, I will…” He thought for a moment. “I will learn to swim.”

“From the mermaid,” I insisted, inciting a yelp from Maverick.  How Conor was still asleep, I had no idea.

“Fine. From the mermaid,” Alistair agreed, sticking his hand to shake.

Laughing, I shook my head and took it. Maverick shook me slightly. “What mermaid? I thought mermaids were made-up. Please tell me they’re real. I wanna see one.”

“Kinda real?” I hedged, glancing at him. “Nixe is the beginners’ diving and swimming instructor.  I don’t know what happened to her before coming on the ship, but her file shows she suffered an incredibly significant brain trauma. Like, she should be dead kind of serious.  Our best guess is that she was a professional mermaid performer at some point, because she has an amazingly detailed memory of a life that didn’t exist and a swimming tail that ended up being some of the most expensive nanotech anyone on the ship has ever touched, let alone seen.  Even Noah was somewhat impressed by it.”

“That’s sad but kinda cool,” Maverick admitted, only slightly disappointed.

Alistair scoffed before ending up on the receiving end of my best death-glare. “And she’s nice and patient,” I asserted, somewhat angrily.

“She’s barmy,” he argued.

“And I don’t care,” I ground out. “She is on this ship, so she needed a task.  Teaching swimming makes her feel useful, and she is incredibly. Good. At. It. Grey and Noah cleared her psych eval – she’s no crazier than anyone else on this ship.  And anyone who can swim in over forty pounds of gold gets an automatic lifeguard certification from anyone on this ship who can swim.  Believe me, I ask frequently.”

Alistair opened his mouth to respond, but discovered one of the virtues of having a conversation that included Maverick. “Wait – how much weight? And gold?” my partner asked, astonished.

“Forty pounds,” I confirmed. “They’re actually diving weights, but tests show they really are solid gold. And they could be made of paper for all that they slow her down.”

“She could at least have her memories restored,” Alistair begged, trying to get me to see his version of reason.  Before I could snap a response, Alistair’s gaze snapped up over my shoulder on the opposite side from Maverick.  Apparently Conor hadn’t been able to sleep through our argument.

“They can’t be restored,” he stated, quietly but factually. “Asked Grey about it once, Charly did. The brain tissue was regrown, but without an exact scan of her brain – down to the molecules – those memories are gone.”

“But Miss Reid has her full memories from before she was attacked,” the argument came.

“Cause our brains are scanned every sixty seconds we are on board,” was the response. “Only exception is when we’re asleep or bathing.”  Maverick squeezed my shoulder at hearing this, before grabbing Conor’s hand to reassure him.  It was still, and probably would always be, a sensitive topic.  “On top of that, we are constantly being healed of minor ailments and even aging.”

That was news, even to me.  I chanced a crick in my neck to look up at him. “Why aging?”

He stared down at me, pointedly.  When I still did not understand, Alistair gasped softly. “Children,” he nearly whispered. “So there are people who can carry and raise children.”

I swore under my breath at my stupidity. “Of course,” I groaned. “With the exception of Derek, everyone on board is old enough that we would be largely middle-age by the time we reached the colony.  Hell, a lot of us already are.”  I tapped my knuckles on my lips, brain firing on all six processors to calculate the impacts.  Absentmindedly, I handed Conor my coffee and ignored Alistair’s curious glance as I heard it gulped down before footsteps headed to refill it. “Do we know how much of the aging is being ‘healed’?  Are we staying at the age we were when we came on board, or are we getting younger?”

“I’m not sure,” Conor admitted as he walked back in and returned my mug, shoving me and Maverick over so he could sit in his usual spot. “Noah?” he called out. He didn’t ask the question on our minds, as we were all aware that Noah was listening to everything in my quarters.

“Good Morning, Conor,” was the reply. “To answer your implied question, any environmental factors that cause humans to grow old are consistently being repaired, along with damage due to cellular senescence.”

“How?” I asked. I was absolutely floored.  Human…. Terran scientists had been trying to figure that out since recorded history.

“Food and drink additives to limit telomere shortening, along with therapeutic chemicals in the bathing system,” was the slightly chagrined reply. “Everyone brought on the ship was treated for progerial genetics and non-superficial environmental damage that would lead to premature aging.”

“Are we getting younger?” Maverick whispered.  Given his childhood and mine, I couldn’t blame him for the fear in his voice, and squeezed him back just as hard as he grasped me.

“Only marginally,” Miys clarified. “By the time we reach the colony planet, only five Terran revolutions of aging should be reversed from when we left your planet.”

To my surprise, Maverick looked horrified. “Noah.  Does that apply to every person on the Ark?”

“Only those who are outside of their maturing period.”

“So, not any humans who were under the age of twenty…five?” Alistair ventured suspiciously, seeming to pick up on what Maverick was suggesting.

“No, Administrator Worthington.  Only humans whose aging exceeded the equivalent of thirty Terran revolutions of standard aging are provided telometric and progerial treatments.”

“Thank you, Noah,” Maverick sighed, running his free hand through his hair and nodding at my assistant.  “And thank you.”  To myself and and Conor, he clarified. “Derek is only seventeen. Sam is not even thirty, and Zach is twenty-six.  It wouldn’t be fair for them to barely get out of puberty – or in Derek’s case, stare down the end of it – and have to go back.  Can you imagine?”

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#the miys #original fiction #humans are weird #humans are space orcs #science fiction #aliens #found family #mental health

[yangarah]

RWBY Soundtrack Analysis: Divide

I’ve waited a long time to analyze this one! First thing to know about it is that it’s from Salem’s perspective, and she’s talking to Ozpin, just like at the end of Volume 3. A lot of this “analysis” is really going to be me saying “hey look this is what she said here in this episode and they made it rhyme in this part of the song HOW AWESOME IS THAT”

“Does it feel good knowing you tried? Knowing that all that remains is the slow, cold, cruel death of the fools that will all die in vain. How does it feel knowing your efforts will fail? All that you’ve built will be torn down, the hope of your people assailed!” I’ve always wondered if “all that you’ve built” is a hint to us that Ozpin is the King of Vale. It doesn’t exactly explain why Salem hates him so much, but it does tell us about his efforts to light up the world. And since Salem loves the darkness, it’s an instant clash.

“Send your guardians, they will fail. Legends and heroes will crumble and fall you will not prevail! When allied together a threat they display! Divide them with doubt it will all wash away! One spark can incite their hope and ignite the hearts of their weary souls! I will extinguish their flame!” These lyrics echo Salem’s speech when narrating at the end of V3C12: “The Beginning of the End”. “It’s true that a simple spark can ignite hope, and breathe fire into the hearts of the weary. The ability to derive strength from hope is undoubtedly mankind’s greatest attribute. Which is why I will focus all of my power to snuff it out. How does it feel? Knowing that all of your time and effort has been for nothing? That your guardians have failed you. That everything you’ve built will be torn down before your very eyes. Your faith in mankind was not misplaced. When banded together, unified by a common enemy, they are a noticeable threat. But divide them.. Place doubt into their minds.. and any semblance of power they once had will wash away.” I just wanna say how impressed I am with the songwriting here?? It’s incredible how they were able to take this speech and say the same thing but have it rhyme.

“Form your armies, dream your dreams. Make your plans and plot your schemes. Send your fighters one and all. Then in battle watch.. them.. fall!” This is reminiscent of the first chapter of volume 1: “Ruby Rose” where Salem is narrating. “But even the most brilliant lights eventually flicker and die. And when they are gone, darkness will return. So you may prepare your guardians. Build your monuments to a so-called free world. But take heed. There will be no victory in strength.”

“It was you who ended their lives, bade them to dig their own graves. With your dark, sick, cruel design, convinced them their world could be saved! Have you no shame? Signing them up for your war? Train them to fight what they can’t beat? Your sins are what they’ll pay for.” This parallels more of Salem’s speech from the V3 finale. “So you send your guardians, your huntsmen and huntresses. And when they fail and you turn to your ‘smaller soul’, know that you send her to the same pitiful demise.”

“Sacrifice them for your needs, slaughter is coming, the end drawing near, you’ll regret your deeds! Legends and fairy tales scattered in time! Maidens and kingdoms wrapped up in a lie. These children you mislead, you’ll watch them all bleed! Strength will not bring victory!” Anyone else reminded of the line in the other song, Sacrifice: “You can’t have my life! I’m not your sacrifice! You can try but I’m free, and you won’t conquer me! I won’t crawl, most of all, I won’t fall for you! ...What if all the plans you made were not worth the price they paid? Even with the lives you stole, still no closer to your goal.” I’m not sure who’s saying it, maybe Raven or even Summer Rose, there’s so many theories about that song. But it sure sounds like someone felt as if Ozpin was using them.. and they maybe turned on him? Maybe it was even one of the maidens! Who knows??!!?!?! CERTAINLY NOT ME BUT I’D SURE LIKE TO CHANGE THAT!!!

“Divide them! Tear them apart! Sever their trust it will strangle their heart! Inside them, plant seeds of doubt! Hope will be smothered. They’ll turn on each other! Hatred will sprout suspicion and doubt. Friendships deny while allegiances die. The taste will be sweet when you get what you’ve earned as I watch you burn!” This section actually reminds me of the bridge in When It Falls. “You placed your faith in fools and now you’ll smother in lament! They play the part of allies claiming peace their only goal. But once the fight for power starts they’ll eat each other whole. Their iron gloves point fingers, they’ll wage a war of blame! And mankind will wilt in pain.” And of course, the ending of the song, the last line, mirrors the last line spoken in volume 3′s finale. “This is the beginning of the end, Ozpin. And I can’t wait to watch you burn.”

I know that’s such a sad, hopeless note to end on. But that’s how it goes. Please buy the soundtrack on iTunes! It’s literally SO AMAZING. This song is so epic and the way that it changes style throughout just really impresses me. Maybe don’t sing it in a supermarket like I do, but seriously? In the privacy of your own home, singing along to the RWBY soundtrack is gonna make you feel like a rockstar. <3 Thank you Casey Lee & Jeff Williams yall are friggin fantastic.

#rwby soundtrack analysis #Divide RWBY

[1928419420934-eurydicerr]

No Right - Part 1

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Words: 1,495

Warnings: Swearing, Marriage problems, Mentions of cheating, It doesn’t end fluffy guys...

A/n: So this is a slight AU? The Avengers exist and everyone has reconciled after the Civil War event but Bucky opted to get a ‘normal’ job and live a ‘normal’ life with his wife. Does that make sense??? P.s. Idk if I wanna write a second part... Lol woops already started

Summary: After 3 years of being married to Bucky, you feel him slipping away.

|| Part 1 || Part 2 ||

You were sure he was avoiding you. Bucky used to be home by six at the latest but nowadays, he barely makes it before midnight. You don’t know what changed. You still love him as you did and probably even more so. But he’d just been so distant lately. Always dodging you and your questions and expertly avoiding you. You had so much work that you just couldn’t hunt him down, make him sit, and then make him talk. He’d taken advantage of how busy you’d gotten but you have no clue why. You guys hadn’t even fought at all recently and now you were starting to suspect something was up. 

What else can it be? He’s out way later than usual. Always tries to sneak in when you’re asleep. And consistently avoids answering your questions with a straightforward answer.

“Wanda... I think- I think Bucky’s cheating on me.” Wanda’s hand, that was stirring the broth on the stove, froze. She looked at you with wide eyes and disbelief.

“(Y/N)... Are you sure?” She asked slowly. You folded your arms, feeling conscious of her gaze. Not that it was judgmental. You shook your head no and she let out a breath of relief. You weren’t sure so there was still a chance you might be wrong. “Why don’t you ask him (Y/N)?”

You scoffed as you turned away from her gaze and your eyes fixated on the plant sat on your counter top. “How am I supposed to do that? Walk up to him and just go ‘Hey, it’s been a while since we last talked properly and I was wondering if you’re cheating on me...’”

Wanda sighed as she left the broth and walked over. She took hold of both your shoulders and made you look at her. “But you can’t be assuming things like this (Y/N)... What if you’re wrong? What if you cause a rift between the both of you because of your suspicion?”

You jerked away from her. “We’re already drifting apart Wanda! I can’t even remember the last fucking time I fell asleep with him! I’ve thought about this for two months and no matter what, that’s the only theory that makes sense!” Wanda stayed quiet at your sudden outburst, so you took the initiative to continue. “You tell me... What the hell does a guy like Bucky, someone who works in a fucking pet shelter, have any business that goes on until late hours in the night?”

“(Y/N), please. You need to calm down. I wanna help you, I really do. But we both need a clear mind for that. So just, let me finish making this while you crash on the couch. Try to sleep it off. We’ll talk about it. I promise.”

“I don’t wanna go to sleep. I want to talk about it right now. Sleeping won’t make this go away.”

“I know, but you need to be thinking with a clear brain. And if you’re distressed, so am I.” 

Defeated, you nod and drudge your way towards your leather couch. You hadn’t even realized you were crying and exhausted but you had. You fell on the couch and soon enough, you let sleep claim you.

After the little nap you took, you did have a long talk with Wanda and both of you came to the conclusion that confronting him would be the best way to go about it. Maybe you were being paranoid. Maybe it was just work that was keeping him away most of the time. Oh God you hoped it was work.

Soon, you let Wanda go back home and decided to preoccupy yourself from thinking about talking to Bucky. If it was any other time, you wouldn’t be this nervous around him. You wouldn’t be nervous at all. It’s just these looming thoughts that refuse to let your mind rest. They haven’t let you rest in so long.

After a while of doing random chores around the house and finally settling yourself onto the living room couch, you glance at the clock. You let out a sigh of disappointment as you realize it’s almost two in the morning and Bucky hasn’t come back yet. “Fuck it. I’m pulling an all nighter even if it’s the last thing I do.” You settled onto the couch comfortably and switched the TV on, comfortable and waiting for him to come home. You wouldn’t be delaying this talk any longer.

It was literally four thirty when you heard the door creak open. You’d asked Bucky to fix it so many times because it always slipped your mind but you were glad for the squeakiness tonight. You looked up at him from your place on the couch and he froze. “(Y/N)! I didn’t see you there! Why are you up?” He asked as he tried to compose himself. He shut the door and walked in, nonchalantly sitting beside you and pretending to want to be here with you.

“I was waiting for you.” You stated. You kept your voice void of emotion, trying to see if Bucky could catch that something wasn’t right.

“You shouldn’t have doll. We should get some sleep.” You cringed inwardly at his awkwardness of using your pet name. He always called you doll. But this time, it was so forced.

“No, let’s talk.” You turned to him. He was sitting away from you. Another thing to add to the list of uncharacteristic behavior he’s displayed lately. 

“About...” His eyes still hadn’t lifted off the TV screen in front of him but you knew he was nervous. His hand that was resting on the back of the couch tapped incessantly.

“About this. You coming home late. Avoiding me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have work (Y/N). I’m not purposefully avoiding you.” He rolled his eyes, but they still didn’t glance at you. 

Tears blurred your vision as your suspicions became more and more believable with this conversation. “You know exactly what I’m taking about Bucky.” You clenched your teeth in order to calm yourself down. You were not going to cry now. If whatever you thought would turn out to be true, you would not give him the satisfaction of bringing tears to your eyes. Not like this.

He turned to you with his jaw clenching much like yours. “You’re being ridiculous (Y/N).”

“Oh really? Tell me Bucky... Have you been cheating on me?” You blurted. Blunt. You weren’t beating around the bush anymore.

“Are you kidding me?” He got off the couch, offended and flaring at the nostrils as if there was no way I could be right. “Why would I cheat on you! You’ve really lost it (Y/N).”

“I’ve lost it? Are you fucking with me right now? You, who fucking works at a pet shelter but manages to work till four in the fucking morning! Do you think I’m that daft? If you’re not cheating then what the fuck is this? Why are you avoiding me constantly! We’re fucking married Buck! There’s nothing that can incite that kind of behavior in you!” You screamed, getting off the couch as well. You weren’t taking this shit anymore.

“Yes we are married! I married you for a fucking reason! Why would I throw that away? I’m just at work okay?” He yelled, in a lower volume then yours as he tried not to challenge you.

You looked at him, your tears finally winning the fight and slipping past your cheeks. You sat back onto the couch with your head in your hand and your elbows rested on your knees. “Please Buck... Please tell me the truth. I think I’m going to lose my mind.” You manage to get out between the onslaught of sobs that wracked your body. “I can’t take this anymore...”

All was quiet -save for your quiet sobs- for a long time. You weren’t sure how much time had passed by but you knew that it was far too long. You knew what was about to fall from Bucky’s lips after this silence would be over and suddenly, you didn’t want your suspicions to be true. Why would you? You love him. He’s your husband. He’s the father of your child.

“I can’t (Y/N)... I can’t lie anymore.” He was still standing as you looked up at him, this time with resignation.

“Then don’t.” You breathed out. You just wanted it to end. You couldn’t bear it any longer.

“I- It’s true.” That’s all he said before you lifted yourself off the couch and walked out the door, grabbing the keys on your way out. You didn’t want to hear his pathetic reasons. He didn’t deserve you time. Not anymore.

“Expect to hear from my fucking lawyer.” You sneered as you got into your car and he stood in your driveway. Just standing, and doing nothing ti stop you.

How can he? He had no right.

#Bucky x Reader #Bucky Barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes Imagine #Bucky Barnes Imagines #Bucky Imagine #Bucky Imagines #Bucky Barnes

[tinymixtapes]

Music Review: Kendrick Lamar - DAMN.

Kendrick Lamar DAMN. [Top Dawg; 2017] Rating: 5/5 For Jill, who would have hated this shit. So I was taking a walk the other day… Sometimes, when I’m taking walks by myself, I make lists in my head of what’s going to get me killed: CANCER. CARDIAC ARREST. PULMONARY EMBOLISM. The worst part about being a hypochondriac is that this shit isn’t just in my head (as if that would make it any less valid); it’s all corporeal, it’s all in my DNA. I’ve had a BLOOD clot, my grandfather died of a HEART ATTACK while shoveling snow when my dad was six years old, CANCER killed my sister. Some say that LOVE can get you killed, but it’s FEAR that’s going to be the death of me. It’s in my DNA. I’ll prolly die from anxiety. What is Kendrick Lamar afraid of? On his latest release, Kendrick reveals that his greatest fear is loss, whether it be of money, creativity, LOVE, LOYALTY from PRIDE, GOD’s light, HUMBLEness. There’s a FEAR present here that no degree of straight fire will ever reverse GOD’s curse against all things black. Doubt and duplicity permeate Kendrick’s lines while he maps his way forward, but he delivers his thoughts with unmatched clarity. Kendrick knows even more now (or at least when he spits knowledge, it’s more succinct): murder, conviction, burners, boosters, burglars, ballers, dead, redemption, scholars, fathers dead with kids. When Kendrick takes a walk, he’s also making lists of how he’ll die, vivid in his imagery in a way that only somebody who’s almost died can be: “anonymous… with promises… walkin’ back home from the candy house… because these colors are standin’ out.” To Pimp a Butterfly saw Kendrick going home after making it out. This time, we hear him wrestling with whether making it out was enough. DAMN. Damn is a derivative of damnare, a rather mundane Latin word meaning loss or harm. John Ayto, author of The Dictionary of Word Origins, reveals that it didn’t become exclusively a theological term or an expletive until its original meaning was lost around 16c; its Biblical use is therefore contested, as its original connotation of mild condemnation does not fit what has eventually become synonymous with exemption from divine mercy. Its use on DAMN. encapsulates all of these historical permutations, as loss, harm, and exclusion (from both divine and mundane spaces) are all prominent themes. There’s a recurring motif, delivered at one point through a voicemail from Kendrick’s cousin Carl, of people of color being cursed by GOD for being inequitable and following other gods. Damn, as a verb here, is something that GOD does. It’s a top-down kind of smiting, but this kind of exchange is also present here between mortals. On opener “BLOOD.,” there’s a sample of FOX News reporters misquoting and deriding his song “Alright” after his 2015 BET Awards performance. “Oh please, ugh, I don’t like it,” one anchor says of its supposed anti-police message. It’s another, fleshier example of punching down, of condemning (or reinforcing condemnation of) a disenfranchised people. On “ELEMENT.,” a song that mostly eschews religious imagery for pointed digs at fake rappers, Kendrick uses “damn” as a participle, adjective, verb, and an expletive in one line, highlighting how those most affected by violence are pushed out of those very positions of power that could protect them: “Damned if I do, if I don’t (yuhhh)/ Goddamn us all if you won’t (yuhhh)/ Damn, damn, damn, it’s a goddamn shame/ You ain’t frontline, get out the goddamn way.” It’s a biting twist on Eleanor Roosevelt’s famous line, delivered as a sparse bridge in between sexy James Blake-produced keyboard stabs and grimy snares. Kendrick is asserting through this track that nobody can take him out of his ELEMENT, which in this case is wherever he’s at. While “damn” itself is used in a plethora of different ways throughout DAMN., it is “DNA.” that sets these permutations into motion through its sheer power, eliciting that initial reaction from its audience: “DAMN.(!)” Kendrick is cracking open his genes all over this thing with vigor, unravelling strands of his pedigree like a Pandora’s ladder, choking those who are offended by his inner duplicitousness: “I got millions, I got riches buildin’ in my DNA / I got dark, I got evil, that rot inside my DNA / I got off, I got troublesome, heart inside my DNA.” There are multitudes here, mutations, mutilations, meditations, millions. Packed so tight that it never stops popping. Unpacking it all is an impossible task. Luckily for us, trying is a Helluva time. I got so many theories and suspicions… As both a religious person and a scholar of religion, I’ve always been fascinated by religious rhetoric and imagery, especially in non-worship music. Biblical imagery is abundant on DAMN., but its intentional juxtaposition with profanity is what makes it stand out. Deuteronomy 28:28 is referenced multiple times and presents us with DAMN.’s central dilemma: “The Lord will afflict you with madness, blindness, and confusion of mind.” This is essentially a curse, one that Kendrick’s cousin Carl uses as an etiology for black suffering. This divine curse leaves Kendrick wrestling with two options throughout DAMN: keep defying it by succeeding against all odds, or guarantee everlasting life by repenting and coming clean. “YAH.” exemplifies Kendrick’s quandary: “I’m not a politician, I’m not ‘bout a religion I’m a Israelite, don’t call me Black no mo’ That word is only a color, it ain’t facts no mo’ My cousin called, my cousin Carl Duckworth Said know my worth And Deuteronomy say that we all been cursed I know he walks the Earth But it’s money to get, bitches to hit, yah Zeroes to flip, temptation is, yah First on my list, I can’t resist, yah Everyone together now, know that we forever” In one verse, there is both a rejection of religion and a reclamation of an ancient religious lineage. Kendrick respects his cousin Carl’s faith amidst adversity, yet offers that temptation is often stronger. Ultimately, Kendrick professes a message of togetherness, locating eternity in fraternal bonds. Attaining redemption, however, rides on making it out in America, a land plagued by its own inequities divorced from those that drove Kendrick’s people out of the Promised Land, America itself a land that promised radical equality for those who have been oppressed and suppressed. As Bono sings in “XXX.,” “It’s not a place/ This country is to be a sound of drum and bass.” U2’s chorus reminds us that America is still at war with itself and is so by its own cruel design. Three months in, DAMN. feels like our first Trump-era classic. It’s as bold and as hard and as hopeful as it is bursting with vitriol. It’s as distracting as it is inciting. It’s as cohesive as it is dense. It’s a volatile, unpredictable chapter in a legacy that’s followed Kendrick from Compton to Congress and now to the Cosmos, as we all struggle for meaning together in a Universe that’s on fire and covered in BLOOD. DAMN. is an expletive shouted into infinity, a judgment of our own judgments, a wrestling with GOD, a letting go of loss and harm, something that we could all give a little more of. It’s a DAMN masterpiece in a world that too often feels like a DAMN shame. FEEL (alternate version) I FEEL like my only accomplishments are reflections I FEEL like my privilege only silences my message I FEEL like I’m losing my GOD DAMN edge if I had one I FEEL like I never had much to say in the first place FEEL like, I FEEL like we’re on two different planets FEEL like I am part of a problem that I can’t fix I FEEL like too many people out prayin’ for themselves I FEEL like violence is a function of FEAR and that’s BULLSHIT GOD. DAMN. you GOD. DAMN. me GOD. DAMN. us GOD. DAMN. we GOD. DAMN. US. ALL. GOD bless every DAMN one of US ALL. Are we gonna live? Or die? “It is my eager expectation and hope that I will not be put to shame in any way, but that by my speaking with all boldness, Christ will be exalted now as always in my body, whether by life or by death. For to me, living is Christ and dying is gain. If I am to live in the flesh, that means fruitful labor for me; and I do not know which I prefer.” — Philippians 1:20-22 “Pay attention, that one decision changed both of they lives One curse at a time Reverse the manifest and good karma, and I’ll tell you why You take two strangers, and put ‘em in random predicaments; give ‘em a soul So they can make their own choices and live with it” — “DUCKWORTH.” Two Christmases ago, my sister died of cancer. Around that time, I started experiencing stomach pains and frequent dizziness for no discernible physiological reason; part of me convinced myself that I had somehow contracted cancer from her ghost and that ghost cancer just wasn’t detectable. We weren’t that close, but as those holes have closed up tightly in her absence and my other sister and brother and stepmother and I have grown closer, I’ve realized more and more just how intimately people can be connected. Loss can be physically devastating. On hard days, I’m reminded more than ever before how violent disconnection can be. For a lot of people, life isn’t a choice; it’s a sentence. It’s hard finding lessons in what so often feels like a cavalcade of creative and destructive accidents. But here’s where hope enters: we have some control of that speeding, blistering motorcade. We can listen while others mourn, we can hold each other up when foundations bottom out, we can rebuild this house together, and we can forgive when listening and holding and rebuilding and forgiving seem impossible. Life is DAMN. hard, but it’s shit like DAMN. that make it a bit easier. It’s fresh air over a gravestone. Sunshine on an epitaph. GOD BLESS these molecules, bent on decay. So I was taking a walk the other day… http://j.mp/2oRE5gA

[hellosaltysaladcollectionstuff]

LARB presents an excerpt from Geert Lovink’s latest book, Sad by Design: On Platform Nihilism, which was released this month by Pluto Press.

¤

“Solitary tears are not wasted.” — René Char

“I dreamt about autocorrect last night.” — Darcie Wilder

“The personal is impersonal.”  — Mark Fisher

Try and dream, if you can, of a mourning app. The mobile has come dangerously close to our psychic bone, to the point where the two can no longer be separated. If only my phone could gently weep. McLuhan’s “extensions of man” has imploded right into the exhausted self. Social media and the psyche have fused, turning daily life into a “social reality” that — much like artificial and virtual reality — is overtaking our perception of the world and its inhabitants. Social reality is a corporate hybrid between handheld media and the psychic structure of the user. It’s a distributed form of social ranking that can no longer be reduced to the interests of state and corporate platforms. As online subjects, we too are implicit, far too deeply involved. Likes and followers define your social status. But what happens when nothing can motivate you anymore, when all the self-optimization techniques fail and you begin to carefully avoid these forms of emotional analytics? Compared to others your ranking is low — and this makes you sad.

Omnipresent social media places a claim on our elapsed time, our fractured lives. We’re all sad in our very own way. As there are no lulls or quiet moments anymore, the result is fatigue, depletion, and loss of energy. We’re becoming obsessed with waiting. How long have you been forgotten by your love ones? Time, meticulously measured on every app, tells us right to our face. Chronos hurts. Should I post something to attract attention and show I’m still here? Nobody likes me anymore. As the random messages keep relentlessly piling in, there’s no way to halt them, to take a moment and think it all through.

Delacroix once declared that every day which is not noted is like a day that does not exist. Diary writing used to fulfil that task. Elements of early blog culture tried to update the diary form for the online realm, but that moment has now passed. Unlike the blog entries of the Web 2.0 era, social media have surpassed the summary stage of the diary in a desperate attempt to keep up with real-time regime. Instagram Stories, for example, bring back the nostalgia of an unfolding chain of events — and then disappear at the end of the day, like a revenge act, a satire of ancient sentiments gone by. Storage will make the pain permanent. Better forget about it and move on.

In the online context, sadness appears as a short moment of indecisiveness, a flash that opens up the possibility of a reflection. The frequently used “sad” label is a vehicle, a strange attractor to enter the liquid mess called social media. Sadness is a container. Each and every situation can potentially be qualified as sad. Through this mild form of suffering we enter the blues of being in the world. When something’s sad, things around it become gray. You trust the machine because you feel you’re in control of it. You want to go from zero to hero. But then your propped-up ego implodes and the failure of self-esteem becomes apparent again.

The price of self-control in an age of instant gratification is high. We long to revolt against the restless zombie inside us, but we don’t know how. Our psychic armor is thin and eroded from within, open to behavioral modifications. Sadness arises at the point when we’re exhausted by the online world. After yet another app session in which we failed to make a date, purchased a ticket, and did a quick round of videos, the post-dopamine mood hits us hard. The sheer busyness and self-importance of the world makes you feel joyless. After a dive into the network, we’re drained and feel socially awkward. The swiping finger is tired, and we have to stop.

Sadness has neighboring feelings we can check out. There is the sense of worthlessness, blankness, joylessness, the fear of accelerating boredom, the feeling of nothingness, plain self-hatred while trying to get off drug dependency, those lapses of self-esteem, the laying low in the mornings, those moments of being overtaken by a sense of dread and alienation, up to your neck in crippling anxiety, there is the self-violence, panic attacks, and deep despondency before we cycle all the way back to reoccurring despair. We can go into the deep emotional territory of the Russian toska. Or we can think of online sadness as part of that moment of cosmic loneliness Camus imagined after God created the earth. I wish that every chat were never ending. But what do you do when your inability to respond takes over? You’re heartbroken and delete the session. After yet another stretch of compulsory engagement with those cruel Likes, silly comments, empty text messages, detached emails, and vacuous selfies, you feel empty and indifferent. You hover for a moment, vaguely unsatisfied. You want to stay calm, yet start to lose your edge, disgusted by your own Facebook Memories. But what’s this message that just came in? Strange. Did he respond?

Evidence that sadness today is designed is overwhelming. Take the social reality of WhatsApp. The gray and blue tick marks alongside each message in the app may seem a trivial detail, but let’s not ignore the mass anxiety it’s causing. Forget being ignored. Forget pretending you didn’t read a friend’s text. Some thought that this feature already existed, but in fact two gray tick marks signify only that a message was sent and received — not read. Even if you know what the double tick syndrome is about, it still incites jealousy, anxiety, and suspicion. It may be possible that ignorance is bliss, that by intentionally not knowing whether the person has seen or received the message, your relationship will improve. The bare-all nature of social media causes rifts between lovers who would rather not have this information. But in the information age, this does not bode well with the social pressure to be “on social,” as the Italians call it.

We should be careful to distinguish sadness from anomalies such as suicide, depression, and burnout. Everything and everyone can be called sad, but not everyone is depressed. Much like boredom, sadness is not a medical condition (though never say never because everything can be turned into one). No matter how brief and mild, sadness is the default mental state of the online billions. Its original intensity gets dissipated. It seeps out, becoming a general atmosphere, a chronic background condition. Occasionally — for a brief moment — we feel the loss. A seething rage emerges. After checking for the 10th time what someone said on Instagram, the pain of the social makes us feel miserable, and we put the phone away. Am I suffering from the phantom vibration syndrome? Wouldn’t it be nice if we were offline? Why’s life so tragic? He blocked me. At night, you read through the thread again. Do we need to quit again, to go cold turkey again? Others are supposed to move us, to arouse us, and yet we don’t feel anything anymore. The heart is frozen.

Social media anxiety has found its literary expressions, even if these take decidedly different forms than the despair on display in Franz Kafka’s letters to Felice Bauer. The willingness to publicly perform your own mental health is now a viable strategy in our attention economy. Take L.A. writer Melissa Broder, whose So Sad Today “twitterature” benefited from her previous literary activities as a poet. Broder is the contemporary expert in matters of apathy, sorrow, and uselessness. During one afternoon she can feel compulsive about cheesecakes, show her true self as an online exhibitionist, be lonely out in public, babble and then cry, go on about her short attention span, hate everything, and desire “to fuck up life.” In between taking care of her sick husband and the obligatory meeting with Santa Monica socialites, there are always more “insatiable spiritual holes” to be filled. The more we intensify events, the sadder we are once they’re over. The moment we leave, the urge for the next experiential high arises. As phone and life can no longer be separated, neither can we distinguish between real and virtual, fact or fiction, data or poetry. Broder’s polyamorous lifestyle is an integral part of the precarious condition. Instead of empathy, the cold despair invites us to see the larger picture of a society in permanent anxiety. If anything, Broder embodies Slavoj Žižek’s courage of hopelessness: “Forget the light at the end of the tunnel — it’s actually the headlight of a train about to hit us.”

Once the excitement has worn off, we seek distance, searching for mental detachment. The wish for “anti-experience” arises, as Mark Greif has described it. The reduction of feeling is an essential part of what he calls “the anaesthetic ideology.” If experience is the “habit of creating isolated moments within raw occurrence in order to save and recount them,” the desire to anaesthetize experience is a kind of immune response against “the stimulations of another modern novelty, the total aesthetic environment.”

Most of the time your eyes are glued to a screen, as if it’s now or never. As Gloria Estefan summarized the FOMO condition: “The sad truth is that opportunity doesn’t knock twice.” Then, you stand up and walk away from the intrusions. The fear of missing out backfires, the social battery is empty and you put the phone aside. This is the moment sadness arises. It’s all been too much, the intake has been pulverized and you shut down for a moment, poisoning him with your unanswered messages. According to Greif, “the hallmark of the conversion to anti-experience is a lowered threshold for eventfulness.” A Facebook event is the one you’re interested in, but do not attend. We observe others around us, yet are no longer part of the conversation: “They are nature’s creatures, in the full grace of modernity. The sad truth is that you still want to live in their world. It just somehow seems this world has changed to exile you.” You leave the online arena; you need to rest. This is an inverse movement from the constant quest for experience. That is, until we turn our heads away, grab the phone, swipe, and text back. God only knows what I’d be without the app.

Anxieties that go untreated build up to a breaking point. Yet unlike burnout, sadness is a continuous state of mind. Sadness pops up the second events start to fade away — and now you’re down in the rabbit hole once more. The perpetual now can no longer be captured and leaves us isolated, a scattered set of online subjects. What happens when the soul is caught in the permanent present? Is this what Franco Berardi calls the “slow cancellation of the future”? By scrolling, swiping, and flipping, we hungry ghosts try to fill the existential emptiness, frantically searching for a determining sign — and failing. When the phone hurts and you cry together, that’s technological sadness. “I miss your voice. Call, don’t text.”

We overcome sadness not through happiness, but rather, as Andrew Culp insisted, through a hatred of this world. Sadness occurs in situations where the stagnant “becoming” has turned into a blatant lie. We suffer, and there’s no form of absurdism that can offer an escape. Public access to a 21st-century version of Dadaism has been blocked. The absence of surrealism hurts. What could our social fantasies look like? Are legal constructs such as creative commons and cooperatives all we can come up with? It seems we’re trapped in smoothness, skimming a surface littered with impressions and notifications. The collective imaginary is on hold. What’s worse, this banality itself is seamless, offering no indicators of its dangers and distortions. As a result, we’ve become subdued. Has the possibility of myth become technologically impossible? Instead of creatively externalizing our inner shipwrecks, we project our need for strangeness on humanized robots. The digital is neither new nor old, but — to use Culp’s phrase — it will become cataclysmic when smooth services fall apart into tragic ruins. Faced with the limited possibilities of the individual domain, we cannot positively identify with the tragic manifestation of the collective being called social media. We can neither return to mysticism nor to positivism. The naïve act of communication is lost — and this is why we cry.

¤

Geert Lovink is a media theorist and internet critic and the author of Zero Comments, Networks Without a Cause, Social Media Abyss, and Sad by Design: On Platform Nihilism. He founded the Institute of Network Cultures at the Amsterdam University of Applied Sciences and teaches at the European Graduate School. He stopped using Facebook in 2010.

The post This Is Why We Cry: From “Sad by Design: On Platform Nihilism” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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