#and she straight up offered me cocaine?? weird interaction

[toyourliking]

"so wait are you like. a Boy or Girl" "um Boy" "oh! i never would have guessed"

girl.......................

#''would never have guessed'' fuck you #local woman meets trans man for the first time #the way she had me boxed in at the bar meant i couldn't reach my vodka coke it was very stressful #she took my hand- kissed it- and then pretended to lick it???? #and she straight up offered me cocaine?? weird interaction #i needed to send up a distress flare

[ohwereusingourmadeupnames]

One of His Little Toys

Pairing: Peter Parker/Tony Stark Rating: Mature (M) Notes: I wrote this for my @starkerfestivals prison au bingo square! I’m stoked for you guys to see it & hope you enjoy <3 Word Count: ~4.6k Warnings: drug use, physical violence, daddy!kink, general things that happen in prison

Growing up in the heart of Chicago, Peter didn’t have much a choice of what happened in his life. Sure, he was smart – but that wasn’t how you survived in his neighborhood. People didn’t give a shit about an ability to do differential equations – clout was won with fists, guns, and the occasional drive by shooting. No one really understood the darkness of the gang life outside of his little sector of the world. The Cartel had a direct link to the Underworld in Chicago – and Peter got caught in the web at a pretty young age.

May tried to stop him, she really did. When he first brought Quentin back to the apartment so he could grab some things to get the hell out of dodge for a couple of days, May cornered him in his room, a heated look on her face. “What are you doing with him, Pete? I told you I’d talk to Del Mar – we can get you a job.” May said the same words she’d been repeating to him over and over again since he turned 18. He’d been lucky so far, not getting caught in the illicit affairs he let himself get lost in.

“May, stop. I’m going to be gone for a couple of days. I can’t work for Del Mar right now.” He slammed the last couple of things he needed into the bag in his hand and brushed past her – the usual kiss on the cheek replaced by discontent and the slightest bit of disdain. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.” Peter wondered how many people said that before bad shit happened to them.

Later that same night, Peter was standing on his usual corner with his new partner, Quentin Beck – the bosses second or third in command around the city. He’d been steadily working his way through the ranks throughout high school and now that he could be available whenever and wherever – they gave him the ultimate promotion. It felt weird at first, to have so much cash and product on him; but then again, Peter never really stopped feeling off about the whole thing since he got beat up into it more than four years ago.

Slipping a line of blow across the snuff box of his hand, Peter took a long inhale and let the powder enter his nasal cavity, the movement of the drug across his blood-brain barrier quick – the effects hit him straight in the chest only a moment or two later. It was his only bump for the night, he needed to keep alert for the busy time of the evening in a couple of hours. When the clubs closed, all of the little playthings would come crawling his way – the late-night hours still upon them.

The night went on like it usually did – he made a few transactions and talked shit with the guys while they stood around, waiting for the next batch of patrons to find their hidden corner of the world. Peter, despite his promise to himself, took another couple of bumps from the stash in his pocket, most of the night spent floating in that weird haze that made time speed up and slow down all at the same time.

Through the haze, Peter recognized the swirling red and blue lights of the cop car about a second too late. He tried to turn and run, his feet a little heavy from the drugs coursing through his system – but he tried, anyway. The four or five steps he took were not enough – all of the sudden, he was down on the ground with a knee in his back, his hands being pulled behind him. There wasn’t any use fighting it, so he turned his head into the concrete below him and let the officer do his thing.

Between the huge stack of money in his jacket pocket and the many, many, many baggies of cocaine, pills, and black balloons in his pants pocket, there was way more than enough to put him away. There wouldn’t be a crying May bailing him out for the fifth time – not after this one. Sucking in a deep breath, Peter waited impatiently in his holding cell; they liked to drag out this process, his previous experiences adding up to so many days sitting in this exact precinct waiting for something – anything to happen.

His stint in court was pretty quick – Peter knew not to name any names or talk about what he knew – so he took his sentencing and waved a handcuffed goodbye in May’s direction when they walked him out. He might as well get used to only seeing her from that distance – 10 years would be a long time to only see her through the partition in the meeting rooms.

The whole processing system of actually getting into the prison took longer than his court appearances. He was used to the bend, squat, and cough – so he blissfully got to put his orange jumpsuit on without further hassle. He thought about all the dumb fucks that came through here and caused a fuss – those people just begging for trouble. Peter knew enough to know the last thing he wanted to do was go sniffing around for anything that looked remotely like a problem. It was imperative to get in there, keep his head down, and find people that weren’t going to shank him when he wasn’t looking.

All in a single day’s work, he thought – a sadistic smile on his face.

His first night was spent in a temporary cell – the big guys that were waiting to be sorted just like him didn’t scare him, but he gave up the top bunk to a grunting man who eyed him up when he demanded; Peter wasn’t going to be sleeping much, anyway. He kept his eyes open and his brain active for the entire night – if he was going to get pulled him his bed, at least he’d be ready for it.

Luckily, the first night went pretty well and he got pulled into a double room later the next afternoon. When he was walked into the cell by a guard, the other side was empty – the protocol of separating the prisoners a little moot once Peter settled into his side of the room. Who was he to argue with the bull shit of this place? The guard gave him a once over before unlocking his cuffs and stepping out.

Sitting down on the flat mat that would serve as his mattress for the rest of the time here, Peter watched the guard bring in his roommate. The man was older, his temples were struck through with white hair. There was a vertical scar across his right cheek that led up to smooth bourbon colored eyes and long eyelashes. His tongue peaked out and trailed across his lip, the older man watching Peter watch him.

At first glance, the man did not scream criminal. He wiggled his eyebrows and smiled at Peter while the guard undid his cuffs, then turned around and flipped him off when the door was closed and locked. “Thanks a bunch, Clint!” he shouted, his hands gripping the bars for a moment. Taking a deep breath, Peter braced himself – this initial interaction would more than likely set the tone for the rest of their relationship sharing this confined space.

When the man did turn around, Peter was struck by just how good all of those features looked together. He wasn’t tall, but there was a presence to him – his arms seemed well defined in the white jumpsuit this block wore. He crossed his fingers that this guy wasn’t some fucking psychopath, because he could easily see himself getting tangled up in whatever his roommate had to offer. A scary thought for not even knowing his name.

Without any preamble, the guy held a hand out between them, a smirk on his face. “Tony Stark,” he remarked confidently, his eyes glued to Peter. Knowing a challenge when he saw it, Peter slipped his hand into Tony’s. Though they were a little smaller than his own, Tony’s hands were rough, callouses riddling his palm and fingers.

“I’m Peter. Parker. Peter Parker,” he mumbled out, his cheeks heating up. What the hell was happening to him? All of the sudden it felt like his tongue was twenty pounds heavier than just a minute ago, his heart hammering against his chest. Gripping Tony’s hand tightly for another second, Peter pulled back – a guarded look on his face.

“You’re awfully young to be in a place like this, Peter Parker. What did a pretty thing like you do?” Tony asked, the customary ‘what’s your charge’ question was one he still wasn’t used to answering. It never occurred to him just how fucked up his life got until he uttered his drug charges – possession with the intention to distribute. The rabbit hole he let himself fall down was a big one.

Peter took a seat on his excuse for a bed again, his legs swinging crisscross applesauce in front of him like the literal child that he was. “Possession and distribution. All the hard stuff.” He shrugged his shoulders, irritable fingers picking at the snag at the end of his jumpsuit. “I’m not that young. Old enough to be here, anyway,” Peter muttered, his tone coming off a little petulant. At 18, he was old enough to spend the next decade of his life locked away – he felt old enough to not be called young anymore, too.

Tony threw his hands up in mock surrender, the smirk on his face growing a little. “I should have known. You have drugged up twink written all over you. Me, I liked to steal really expensive shit. Kind of a brainy criminal, if you will,” Tony stated. He smiled wide, like the Cheshire Cat, his eyes glowing a little. “Got any brains in that head of yours?” Tony took a step toward him then, his hand tapping on the middle of Peter’s forehead.

Simply rolling with it, Peter nodded his head – his eyes dropping a little bit. Something in him said to get on this guy’s good side. Part of it was his natural urge to submit to beautiful older men like Tony. He let Quentin walk him into a trap because he liked the lines around his eyes and the delectable way he could give Peter just enough to keep him coming back for more. His true druggy nature getting in the way of clear thought. Not this time, though – this was conscious and premeditated. To survive in here, he needed people on his side.

“Yes sir,” he finally responded, his chest tightening when he heard Tony take in a deep gulp of air. So, he’d chosen correctly. His lips slipped into the slightest of smiles, his instinct finally leading him in the right direction for once.

A palm cupped his cheek and tilted his head up, the man’s eyes catching his own. Peter saw heat there – brown pools quickly being swarmed by the black of his eye. Tony caressed his cheek softly, the touch a total contrast to the look on his face. Then, he pulled his hand back and slapped him – the echo of it making his teeth grind. “We’ll see, Peter Parker. We’ll see.”

Peter kept close to Tony throughout the rest of the day. Their cell doors opened a couple of hours later, guards stepping in to put them in cuffs and walk them out to the yard where they’d get a bit of fresh air. Out of all the experiences he’d ever had in jail, this one – the yard and all the vulnerability that came with being out in the open for most of the block population to see (and attack) – always made him nervous.

He quickly found he had nothing to fear, however. It wasn’t hard to see that the man he was with carried a sort of clout that only long-time crooks and murders could obtain. People looked away unless he was speaking to them and when he did, they gave him their full attention. Keeping his own eyes down, Peter was surprised to find them stopped in front of a cluster of guys sitting on some of the picnic benches just outside the cages around the gym.

“Guys – this is Pete.” He pushed at Peter’s arm, the movement thrusting him a little closer to the group. “Pete here says he’s smart. So he’s good with us until he stops being smart. Got it?” Tony looked at each of them, their heads nodding without a singular argument. Not for the first time since experiencing Tony’s raucous and completely intoxicating energy, Peter wondered what the actual fuck this guy was all about.

Either way, he didn’t question it. The group was large enough to have a perimeter around him at all times and they all seemed to do whatever Tony told them. As long as he was smart – which he wasn’t quite sure what that meant yet – he could count on the protection of the group of misfits that were gathered around his roommate like he was the actual messiah.

Peter quickly came to learn that Tony was the brains behind many operations within the prison. Since the older man’s duty was in the kitchen, he had access to delivery vehicles – which smuggled in products of interest for the other prisoners.

There was a pretty elaborately interwoven mechanism of distribution and payment that made Peter’s head spin thinking about it. He bit into his lip when Tony took him through it all, the massive amount of information that Tony kept in his head overwhelming.

He didn’t need to wonder about what being smart meant for long. It shouldn’t have surprised him that Tony picked up on his submission, the way he called him sir – hell, the way he followed him around like a puppy. It wasn’t hard to see it in his eyes, the want that fueled him where Tony was concerned. When the older man eventually came to collect, Peter didn’t hesitate or struggle. Their lips met in a hot kiss, a hot moan slipping from Peter’s lips. Tony tore away and pressed the side of his face against Peter’s.

“Fuck, you moan so pretty. But you have to keep it down for daddy, do you understand? The guards are only going to tolerate so much shit. And I plan to make you howl when I slam my cock inside of you,” Tony muttered, the words close enough to his ear that every one of them sent a tingle down his spine – the warm breath a swift contrast to the cool temperature in the cell.

He felt Tony reach down and grab him through his jumpsuit, his cock already rock hard. Biting into his lip, Peter stopped himself from yelping, the heat in his core already starting to overflow. Another hard squeeze had him standing right at the precipice – his body a total traitor. Tony huffed out a laugh, then covered Peter’s lips with his own. “Be a good boy and cum for daddy,” he whispered pulling away from the kiss a couple minutes later.

As if he would try to fight against that request – biting down harder on his lip, Peter felt himself cum in the only pair of boxers he’d been allowed. Tasting blood on his tongue made the haze he fell into even better, and he slumped against the wall bonelessly. Tony gave him all of a minute to recover before he was grabbing at him, hands tight on his shoulders.

“Get on your knees,” the older man demanded, his voice low and gravely – the tone one that didn’t leave room for any sort of questioning or argument. He slipped down to the hard floor and waited for Tony’s next instruction.

The rustling of clothes had him looking up, his eyes catching the bare flesh of his stomach before it was gone. Tony pulled himself out of his pants just enough to press his bare cock against Peter’s mouth.

“Open up, baby boy,” Tony murmured, his jaw already slack from the cold air across his sensitive flesh.

Opening his mouth, Peter took Tony in, the older man feeding him his dick – inch by inch. Tony kept a tight grasp at the base and let his hips tip forward to slip the length down Peter’s throat. He wasn’t the most experienced person in the world, but he learned how to breathe through his nose pretty quickly – Tony’s length impressive, despite his shorter stature. As the tip of Tony’s cock pressed against his throat, Peter felt himself drool down his chin, thick tears starting to collect in his eyes.

Tony’s hand moved from his dick to the back of Peter’s head and kept him there – his nostrils flaring as he tried to catch his breath. The hand stayed there for what felt like another year before fingers were tangling in his long curls and pulling his head away – a string of spit alive and well between his mouth and the tip of Tony’s cock. Gasping in a deep breath, Peter barely had time to wipe his chin before his throat was being assaulted again.

The older man took what he wanted until his hips started to stutter. Tony pulled back then, his eyes completely glazed – the look in them a little scary. His hand tightened in Peter’s hair and yanked until he was rising to his feet to ease some of the tension on the strands. The tip of his tongue played with the bite marks on his lip – the stimulus enough to stave off the sudden heat slamming into his chest.

“Turn around and drop your pants,” Tony grumbled, his cheeks flushed and lips moist from the man running his tongue over them.

Peter did what he was told – his head dropping against the concrete of the wall, Tony’s body immediately pressing him flush against it. Fingers were pressed into his mouth a rough “suck” being mumbled against the back of his neck. Tony nibbled and bit on the skin there, his teeth digging into the flesh when he managed to pull enough of it into his mouth.

Wrapping his lips around the digits, Peter sucked them into his mouth as far as they would go – the angle of his head turned not the easiest to manage. Knowing this was probably the only lubrication he was going to get, he laved at them with his tongue liberally. He felt like a fish off the hook when Tony pulled his fingers away.

There wasn’t much warning before one finger was against his rim, the tip rubbing the tight muscle for just a second before breaching – the slide a little dry, but the burn just right. He’d always gotten off on a little pain with his pleasure, so he marveled in it.

The drag of two fingers was even better and before he knew it, Tony was spitting into his hand, fingers gone and replaced with a blunt cock head. Rough hands on his shoulders pulled him back as Tony thrust forward, the stretch pulling a moan out of his throat that he couldn’t hold in – no matter how hard he tried.

“That’s right, baby. Moan for me. Tell daddy how much you like it,” Tony babbled, his words enhanced by the sharp thrusts in and out of his stretched hole. It felt a little raw, the drag back and forth – yet, Tony’s cock hitting his prostate was more than enough to make up for it. Tony reached around and gripped his cock with a tight hand, his strokes timing nicely with the roll of his hips.

Slipping over the edge was sudden, Peter tossing his head back a bit to let out a rough groan – his muscles clenched tight and every pulse of cum drawn from him felt like pure liquid fire. A rough bite on his neck signaled Tony’s release a moment later, the man’s hips slamming into him hard and staying there, the pulse of the man’s cock pulling another long moan from Peter’s lips.

Lips on his neck pulled him out of his orgasm induced haze – the press of Tony’s facial hair against the skin there making him shutter. “That’s a good boy,” Tony mumbled, his hands gripping Peter tight around the middle. With one more tiny thrust, the older man pulled out – a gruff gasp leaving his lips. “Fuck,” Peter heard, a small smile slipping across his lips.

If that’s what Tony wanted in return for protecting him – Peter was more than happy to oblige.

Things stayed pretty regular for a couple of months. Peter joined Tony in the kitchen, his brain a perfect addition to the already masterfully run plan. Without the drugs in his system, Peter could think much clearer. He contributed a lot to Tony’s already impressive plans – the man praising him on near constant basis, sometimes more than one time a day if they were lucky enough to catch a few private moments. It wasn’t like being on the outside, but it wasn’t too bad, either.

Of course, things always get bad when complacency sets in. He’d been absentmindedly sitting at their usual table in the mess when the rival group’s leader sat down across from him. Peter kept his head down and continued to eat. His break was only a few minutes and he wasn’t about to pass up the corn – it was one of the only good things in the whole damn place. Steve cleared his throat a couple of times before Peter looked up at him, a blank look on his face.

“What can I do for your, Rogers?” Peter asked, his voice dry, dull – the pitch of it like he was bored, or something. Tony told him not to engage with the man, they’d been friends or partners at one point, but things went south. The older man didn’t give details and Peter didn’t ask. He simply looked up and tilted his head, the utensil they were allowed gripped tightly in his hand.

“I just wanted to have a little conversation. It’s not often someone comes in and charms the pants off of Tony Stark. Thought I’d get to know a little more about you.” His leer made Peter want to jump out of his seat – the look one that Quill used to throw at him when he’d meet up with him for fill-ups. He didn’t like it then and he sure as hell didn’t like it now. The hair on his neck stood up, his mouth suddenly tongue tied.

A strong hand wrapped around his neck before he could get any words out, the touch immediately recognizable – “He’s not interested, Rogers. As a matter of fact, you sitting in front of him is offending the fuck out of him, isn’t it, Pete?” Tony gripped his neck tightly, his fingers squeezing enough to have Peter tilting his head back a little, eyes wide as he looked at him.

“Yes sir,” he answered swiftly, brown eyes never leaving Tony.

He heard a scoff across the table and felt the whole thing move a little when Steve got up from it. Peter tilted his head down and watched him square up towards Tony, a bunch of emotions tumbling across his eyes in a flash. “You can’t protect him forever, Stark. I’ll find a way to bring you down.” Steve held Tony’s gaze for a moment longer, then turned around and stalked back to his own table, his cronies immediately circling around him.

Tony took a seat next to him and gripped his cheeks. It wouldn’t be long before a guard yelled at him to drop his hands and break apart, so he spoke quickly. “Don’t engage him again. Do you hear me? Rogers is trouble and you’re a target because of me.” His thumbs brushed over Peter’s cheeks quickly, the show of affection rare, especially out in the open like this. Peter blinked a couple of times and nodded, his head in a billion different directions. The small bubble of safety he’d been so immersed in suddenly felt close to popping, his heart slamming against his chest in fear for just a moment.

“I hear you, Tony. I won’t. Promise.” Peter knew the words were true, too. His only desire was to make it out of this alive. At this point in time, Tony offered him the most protection and he wasn’t stupid enough to step outside of it. Clint banged his baton against the edge of their table, effectively pulling them apart. “Hands to yourselves, gentleman,” the guard said, a quirk in his lip as he spoke.

He had that same look on his face when he stepped away from the entrance to the showers a little while later. Peter didn’t hear Bucky until his face was thrumming from the first punch. His foot slipped on the shower floor below him and he hit the tiles hard, his right side protesting his weight. He felt feet slam into his chest and stomach, the lower part of his back and his legs. Curling up into a ball, Peter tried to keep himself as small as possible, the less surface area for them to hit, the less impact he’d have to deal with.

They stopped when he physically couldn’t struggle any longer – all of his limbs like jelly now that the ache and throb of all of his injuries made him feel numb. It took way too long for him to sit up and when Clint eventually came back to his post by the door, he radioed in the incident with a disastrous look on his face. Peter would’ve scowled at him if his eyes weren’t swollen shut.

His stay in the hospital was brief, the stitches on the side of his cheek the worst of the damage. All of the bruises would have to heal on their own, the purple and yellow of them going to be there for a while, if the physician they let him see was to be believed. He got released between mess and yard time, so he stumbled behind his guard until he could see his cell, the place feeling like coming home after 36 hours in nothing but white, his arms and legs strapped to a bed.

The second the new guard on the block, Bruce, left him in the cell, Tony flew off the bed and pulled Peter into his arms. He held back the wince from Tony’s too tight grip, the feeling of the older man’s hands was worth the throb of the bruises that littered his body. Peter let his arms drape loosely around Tony’s hips, his entire being tired – his limbs were beaten, his brain was all over the place; all he wanted to do was lay on the hard mat of his bed and slip into oblivion for a while.

Tony must have noticed because he dragged Peter to his side of the room and followed him onto the bed. Peter rolled towards the wall and shut his eyes, the ability to be in any position other than on his back a true godsend. He felt Tony’s scruff brush against the back of his neck, then heavy arms pulled him until he was pressed against the older man’s chest.

“I took care of it, Pete. No one is ever going to touch you again. No one.” Tony’s voice was gruff, despite not raising above a whispered.

“You’re mine and no one touches what’s mine.”

#starkerfestivalsevents #starker #ironspider #peter parker/tony stark #tony stark/peter parker #peter parker x tony stark #tony stark x peter parker #au prompts #prison au #bobbie writes #fics #fan fics

[johnnypsycho]

“Hey, watch this...”

That’s how it started. No back story. No confrontation. No bumped shoulders, or spilled drinks. I’d had exactly zero interaction with this guy, when he turned to the blonde stripper next to him at the bar, and said...

“Hey, watch this...”

I never saw it coming, so I made no moves to protect myself; I didn’t duck. I didn’t flinch. I took the full force of a beer bottle, being swung by a guy standing well over 6’ tall and weighing at least 250 lbs, right upside my fuckin’ head...

I didn’t even feel it, amazingly enough...I stumbled forward and put my hand on a table to catch myself. There were dark clouds forming around the edge of my eyes. I couldn’t hear anything, except for an odd, warm, buzzing noise; which was weird; I was in the middle of a very full, very loud, nightclub...surrounded by people who appeared to be screaming...

Why are people screaming? What’s that on my face? Fuck...that’s blood. Is it my blood? Why am I bleeding...?

What is that girl pointing at?

I turn to look, and see a large, young black dude, with the stem of a broken beer bottle in his right hand...He’s smiling...

...What the fuck...?

I start to piece it together; as the darkness begins to fade, blood is pouring into my eyes; I’m quickly becoming very angry...I do what any rational human being would do in the same situation; throw what might be the hardest punch I have ever thrown in my life, right square into his smiling mouth.

He doesn’t go down...no; he charges right at me. I hit him again. And again. He shoves me backwards, and tackles me to the ground...I’m starting to think he must be on some kind of drugs; any one of the three punches I’d landed should have knocked him out...instead, they just made him mad.

By now, all my senses have returned; it’s loud, it’s chaotic, and I’m in pain. There is blood; a lot of blood. I’m fighting an angry giant, for no reason, in the middle of a bar...business as usual, I guess.

I manage to get my feet back under me; as we’re trading blows, l grab him by the waist and throw us both at the front door. We crash through, out into the parking lot in front of the bar. A crowd has followed us out. I manage to get behind him and grab him in a full nelson; we swing around, facing the crowd...

“Somebody hit this motherfucker!”, I yell to a couple of guys I know. They both step up and get a couple of good licks in as I hold him...I spin him around; duck down; and spring up with all my weight; fist flush up underneath his jaw. His eyes roll back in his head as he collapses and falls to the ground; then, I start kicking. And kicking. And kicking...

Someone has called the cops. They pull up; exiting the car, guns drawn, they yell at me to stop...

“LOOK AT MY FUCKIN’ EAR!!!”, I say, as I continue kicking...

One of the cops looks, and says, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ...just don’t kill him. Let us known when you’re done.”, and walks back to the car.

I put another couple of kicks to his head for good measure. I wave the cops over, try to catch my breath, and walk back into the bar, as they are calling an ambulance for the now-very-unconscious, very fucked up, stranger lying in the middle of the parking lot in front of the bar...

There is a mirror on the wall in the hallway, in front of the cash register at the front door...Of course, I have to look...

My ear is hanging off the side of my head; connected only by a string of flesh between my jaw line and where there used to be a small hoop earring...my face is sliced open across my cheek, and straight up the side of my head...and, somehow, even more disturbing than all of that; as the bottle shattered, and cut my ear almost completely off my fuckin’ head, it somehow hooked the temporal artery; pulling it out of my skull, leaving it fully exposed - yet still intact - in a little loop; starting just above where the ear was ripped off, at the base of my jaw, and extending a good inch or two up the side of my head...I decided I should probably go to the hospital. I grabbed the cash register, picked it up, and smashed it into pieces on the ground.

“Well, that was stupid,” I thought, “I’m gonna have to pay for that...”

I told my boss I was leaving, got in my car, and drove to the hospital, about 15 minutes away.

When I arrived at the emergency room, I saw that it was already full; it was flu season...even at 2:00 am, the waiting room was packed with sick kids and tired parents. I walked up to the admissions desk, hand holding my ear to the side of my head, and asked if I could please see someone, right away. The tired, frustrated nurse didn’t even look up from her paperwork; she just slid a clipboard in front of me, told me to fill out both sides of the paper, and wait for someone to call on me...

I let go of my ear and slammed my hand down on the clipboard, leaving a perfect handprint in thick, red blood; splashing it all over the desk, and the nurse...”I need to see a fuckin’ doctor...please...”, I said.

She looked up at me, and, seeing the bloody mess standing in front of her, began yelling for a doctor. A collective gasp escaped the moms in the room, as they covered their sick children’s eyes. The nurse ran around the counter, grabbed me by the arm, and led me to a room in the back. A doctor quickly joined her. They sat me on a table and turned on a light, shining it on the side of my head. “What in the hell happened to you?”, the doctor asked. “Beer bottle.”, I explained...

She seemed fascinated with my temporal artery; the steady beat of my heart clearly visible, as it pulsed in the fluorescent glow of the hospital lamp. She was poking at it with some strange, small tool...”You know”, she said, with a bemused chuckle, “if that bottle had cut this, instead of pulling it out like it did, you’d have been dead before you hit the floor. Guess we should put it back, huh? I’ll go get the anesthesiologist...”

I tell her not to bother, that my ear has been hanging there for at least a half an hour, now; the adrenaline dump is still going strong, and I’m in shock, already, anyway... just sew that sucker up. Oh, and bring me a mirror; I want to watch this...

15 minutes, and 56 stitches later; the artery had been tucked neatly back inside my head, and my ear sewn back on; I had a new scar, and a fun story to tell...

When I got back to the bar, everyone was surprised to see me; they didn’t think I’d be back so soon. My boss informed me that the cash register was going to cost me $125. Someone offered me a fat line of good cocaine, and someone else handed me a joint, saying, “Man...that was so fucked up...”

#autobiography #lifestory #sexdrugsandviolence #Animals

[saintsnsinnersbdb]

Chosen Problems: Trouble with a Capital T Part 1

I had been lectured, threatened, and still chose to sneak out. Nothing gave me the thrill as when I took the pills that had been offered by the Trainee I had met with several times. I even gave him a location to pick me up to take me to the club.. It was intense. I returned to that club several times and met the trainee, Rhett, each time if he wasn’t picking me up. The drugs started simply. Red smoke was fine. The high was more relaxed. From there I had tried ecstasy. Rhett enjoyed that, I allowed him to touch my skin while we did. The sensitive skin heightened by the chemical interaction. I loved how it felt. I wanted more and more. The intoxication took away the insecurity I felt, the sense I didn’t belong… it took away the pain but only for a little while. Cocaine was one of the next I tried. It stung but the high was different. Weeks had passed and each night I took more. We indulged multiple times in cocaine- and other concoctions he had mixed. Despite all the warnings and stories I had heard of Phury’s experience with some narcotics I still tried them, a black hole of emotion caused me to not care about some repercussions. Heroin was an addictive high. I was too scared of the needle to try it more than once, plus needle holes in my arms would be hard to hide, it was so effective at taking away my pain. I did want more though, I just couldn’t have it. This night He placed the drugs on my tongue and the night consumed me. 

Tonight’s high would be different though. When I had met him in our usual corner he said he had something new for us to try. I trusted that he had this before and opened my mouth. He placed two of the pills on my tongue and I swallowed with a shot of whiskey, I was getting used to mixing the pharmaceuticals he would provide with alcohol.Rhett said it would enhance the feeling. It burned as it trickled down. We went to the Sum and straight  dance floor after while we waited for the pills to kick in. 

I had no clue the cameras had caught us multiple times. Trez had seen us many times over, luckily he had not informed the brothers. Perhaps it was because I had a trainee with me- maybe he assumed that my attendance had been approved by the Primale. The security had be tightened and I had no clue or care as to why. Trez saw trouble before I knew it.

After the euphoric high hit I was hooked and I wanted more. I danced and danced despite the rising temperature in my body. I didn’t care, I wanted more. I danced with Rhett, my ass in his lap. Much different than the dancing that had been done other times I had come. I took a drink from a mortal who was dancing nearby and I downed it. When the male protested Rhett growled behind me causing the human to shrink away and my laughter. Rhett’s hands went to my hips as we continued the dance humans did. 

I danced without a care in the world. The pills began to work in overdrive with the whiskey. It was different than the other pills but it was worth it. The high was lasting but I didn’t want it to end. I reached into Rhett’s pocket and took the bag of pills. I put two more sets on my tongue and kissed Rhett to give him a second and keep one for myself. I danced with Rhett, but when someone knocked into me, an instant rage hit me. I saw red and nothing else.

“Fuck you!” 

I growled and launched at the male. I quickly punch him in the throat and bring his face to my knee. Blood sprung free from his nose and I was satisfied. The crunch was well worth it. I was in a haze of the drug. Someone, his friend, grabbed me and it began again. I jumped up onto a table and kicked the glasses off of it toward the other. The males both reached for me but I continued to assault them. The Molly having an unusual effect. I stumbled but stayed upright. It was weird, like I wasn’t in control. After I hopped down I stumbled in the heels and fell into a line of tables and chairs breaking them and spilling drinks over the patrons. 

Someone grabbed me and hauled me to their body. Without looking who it was I turned and punched them in the throat, and went to kick them in the sex. A panic response was happening while intoxicated. The arms wrapped around me were the security male. He locked my wrists behind me. 

I was hauled into one of the back rooms and  on a couch. Calls were being made to prevent the human police from coming. 

Whoever it was, (Ahlex) turned anger toward me. “What the hell was that and why are fighting with humans and where is that male that was with you just now?” 

He sat me down and grabbed my chin to force me to look into his eyes. My own were clouded over and distant, the side effect of Molly aside from the euphoric feeling included potential death. Too much water or too little could kill a human- in vampires there were additional ones. Before any conversation could happen my eyes rolled back into my head and my body began to convulse. I had not ingested any water since I took the pills. The chemicals had dried most of my supply and my brain began to short circuit. 

Rhett was brought into the room at that time. He cursed and picked me up. And said he would take responsibility for me and take me for medical attention. My body was my own pyre. It was too hot to escape. My entire body fell limp and my heart began to beat erratically. The second pill set had hit. Quickly he put me into his car and drove like a bat out of hell. 

“Come on T. You can’t die on me. Phury will kill me.” He smacked my face several times on the drive. 

Rhett carried me into Havers clinic.He growled as he walked “stop your shit female I’m doing you a favor and I won’t tell anyone you’re here”

He throws me down on the nearby medical bed and my soft yelp echoes in the hallway. Nurses come to investigate the source.

Gruffly he speaks. “Pretrans high and OD-ing. Just tore up Zero Sum. She’s violent.” He waits for the nurse to grab me before turning and walking away, I began to get cold. I fought against the drug but that seemed to make it worse. Another seizure, my entire body bowed off the bed. The nurse checked for my heartbeat and couldn’t find it, she hit a button on the wall and a team of medical professionals came out quickly. 

“She’s coding. Drug” the nurse explained quickly,  I was wheeled into a room and they began emergency procedures to try and save my life. 

However a pretrans ingesting enough Molly to bring down a transitioned male wasn’t exactly charted territory. The second nurse attached the monitors quickly. The heart rate monitor did not pick up a beat, the long tone sounded. 

The solid tone of the heart rate monitor continued. 

“We’re going to have to shock her. Clear!”

#ChosenProblems #TroubleWithACapitalT #PartOne #SaintsNSinners #BDB #SASBDB

[kidsviral-blog]

Facebook For Felons

New Post has been published on https://kidsviral.info/facebook-for-felons/

Facebook For Felons

Kamaal Bennett built a social platform for incarcerated gang leaders. It’s already changing how they see themselves, and the outside world.

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Chris Ritter/BuzzFeed News

Early in 2014, Jacqueline Nugent came across an online profile written by Roderick Sutton, her ex-boyfriend and the father of her teenage daughter. Hosted on a website called Live From Lockdown, the profile featured much of the personal information we now regard as the web standard thanks to Facebook: a head shot, a hometown, a nickname, an institution, some groups, an inspirational quote. It also included a long “about me” section that ended with an old social media refrain: a bitter recrimination of an ex — Jacqueline.

I am the father of two queens (daughters). I lost total correspondence with one due to the fact her mother was responsible for my incarceration. She snithched [sic] to the F.B.I because she was scorned about my relationship and fathering a child with another female.

Nugent was shocked: It was the first time she’d heard anything from Sutton in eight years, since her testimony at a 2006 trial helped put him in federal prison for armed robbery. Sutton’s Live From Lockdown profile gave all the details of that incarceration: His sentence (17 years), his time served (eight), his inmate number, and his institution (Allenwood, a medium security prison in Pennsylvania). Angered, Nugent responded to Sutton’s post in the comments:

Take responsibility for you own actions Roderick and stop blaming me for your incarceration! You have learned nothing from your incarceration! Grow up! Honestly you don’t deserve freedom! Your daughter wants nothing to do with you! When you were in the free world you didn’t care about her so don’t write this bullshit on here acting like your some saint that should be granted clemency!

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If the shape of this confrontation — a digital reconnection, old grievances opened, an angry back-and-forth — feels familiar, its specifics are anything but: Live From Lockdown is the closest thing on the internet to a social network for federal inmates. Unlike the immediacy of the online networks that have come to dominate American life, Live From Lockdown might best be thought of as slow social, each post a several-stage process that is both ingenious and a reflection of the vast communication barrier between our silent incarcerated nation and our hyperconnected free one.

“Network” is something of a misnomer — federal prisoners have no direct internet access and so the “users” can’t interact directly with each other — and the site’s founder, Kamaal Bennett, calls it a “platform for social engagement.” But in its structure, its aesthetics, and its dissemination, Live From Lockdown looks and feels like any fledgling social network.

Except it’s very small. Right now, Live From Lockdown is comprised of 28 profiles of male inmates in maximum-security federal prisons around America (some, like Sutton, have been moved from maximum- to medium-security facilities). They run the gamut of ages, ethnicities, offenses, affiliations, attitudes. Each prisoner has a simple profile — a picture and identifying information — on top of a feed of blog entries. These entries, which range from dozens of words to many hundreds, tackle subjects inside and outside the prison walls: corrections officers, special housing units, and gangs, but also faith, family, current events, and psychology. Save the focus on prison and gang culture, there isn’t a huge difference between these posts and the kind of long bloggy posts, perhaps written by an eccentric relative or a friend from middle school, which show up in your Facebook feed. Many of the Live From Lockdown posts are uncommonly reflective, self-lacerating, clear-eyed, and eloquent. Some are moving.

Other websites that feature the unedited writing of prisoners exist, notably the Voices From Solitary project, by the anti-solitary-confinement advocacy group Solitary Watch, and Between the Bars, a blogging platform for people in prison that started at the MIT Center for Civic Media. But Live From Lockdown feels different: first, in its lack of an obviously stated advocacy or social justice position; second, in its attention-grabbing aesthetic and tone, from the giant, steel-colored header to the austere prison yard photos, to the rusty bevels that surround them; and third, in the composition of its “users,” who are mostly gang leaders in federal prison.

That’s deliberate. Live’s mission is “to utilize gang leadership as credible messengers to provide an unvarnished view of prison and the harsh reality facing gang members who are behind bars. A message delivered by those best equipped to deliver it to our youth in a way that will ensure the message is received, believed and heeded.” But the self-presentation of the inmates — as complex and weird and vain as anything you’d find on Facebook — makes it much more than Scared Straight.

The site is run entirely by Bennett, a 35-year-old New Jersey nonprofit executive. It’s a part-time job but a painstaking process: Bennett receives profile information and blog entries via traditional mail and CorrLinks, the Federal Bureau of Prison’s proprietary email system, then inputs them manually to the site. Bennett says he tries to add at least one new post a day; he also prints outs and mails the profiles and as many of the posts and comments as he can to the inmates, who have no other way of seeing them. In that sense, it’s an online social network that seems to exist (for the ones who rely on it most) primarily offline.

Some of the posts — which are all embedded with social media sharing widgets — receive hundreds of Facebook likes and dozens of tweets. Others receive dozens of comments. The comments are frequently encouragement from people around the world, but sometimes they come from people who know the inmates quite well.

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Chris Ritter/BuzzFeed News

Jaqueline Nugent and Roderick Sutton met as teenagers in Easton, Pennsylvania, in the mid ’90s and fell in love; they had their daughter, Destiny, when Nugent was 18. Sutton sold crack cocaine and ran with a local gang, the Yootie Yoo Crew, and when Sutton went to jail for a few months for threatening a police officer, Nugent sold for him to support Destiny. In 2003 Sutton had a daughter with another woman, and lived a secret double family life, to Nugent’s growing suspicions.

On Jan. 30, 2004, Easton police arrested Sutton outside the condo he shared with Nugent, who, furious at Sutton’s disloyalty, had offered to incriminate him. At trial, Nugent was the federal prosecution’s “star witness,” according to Sutton. Such were the accumulated bad feelings surrounding their first communcation on Live From Lockdown.

Still, Nugent, who had since married, sent Sutton a letter. While Nugent castigated him for refusing to take responsibility for his crimes, she also included a picture of Destiny, and went into detail about their new life. She felt responsible to tell Sutton “what was going on with our daughter.”

Sutton addressed the letter in a series of Live From Lockdown posts called “Understanding,” condensed here:

Just recently I received a kite (letter) that made my understanding much more clear. It also showed me how much this one person had such a profound affect on my life; and I’ve come to– Understand that justification is a way of life in our culture. Something will happen, and we’ll spend endless days, months, even years justifying why it was right or wrong!

Understand YOU are currently acting more as a problem-maker rather than a problem solver. Understand, how can amends be made among ourselves if one is trying to one up the other by throwing shade and things in their face to stir-up emotions and humiliate?

Nugent responded in the comments to one of the posts:

Understand that time is passing and we have all changed. Understand that some wounds have not healed and probably never will. Understand that you have hurt me far beyond your understanding. Understand that I can try and forgive but can never forget.

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Kamaal Bennett grew up in East Orange, New Jersey, a gritty Newark suburb known as the birthplace of Blood gang activity on the East Coast. He was the only one of his childhood friends to go to college; one of those friends, a neighbor named Tewhan Butler, eventually became the leader of the notorious Double II Bloods. Butler, who was featured on the History Channel reality series Gangland, is currently serving 30 years in federal prison after pleading guilty in 2007 to racketeering charges that included murder and conspiracy to distribute heroin.

After college and a stint working for the state of Utah during the 2002 Winter Olympics, Bennett moved back to New Jersey, where he started a nonprofit to set up sponsorships for interscholastic athletics in New Jersey cities. That organization grew from four schools in 2006 to a statewide program today.

In 2010, Bennett was spending the day at a program center in Newark, across from a housing project infamous for its gangs, when he noticed adults outside were shrinking away from something. He went outside and discovered what they were avoiding: a group of 11-year-old kids — nascent gang members. Bennett tried to start a conversation with the ringleader, but the boy wouldn’t give his name.

“It was obvious to me what his affiliation was,” Bennett told BuzzFeed News. “I said, ‘Who’s your big homie?’ and he looked at me like, ‘What the hell do you know about that?'”

Despite Bennett’s upbringing, he realized he had no way of reaching the boy, who idolized a local gang leader who had been in prison for years.

“The guy who he was talking about, you would have thought they were best friends — here it was 2011, this kid is 11 years old, how old could he have been the last time this guy was on the street? It’s an urban legend, but that’s who these kids aspire to be. They’re like celebrities.”

For Bennett, that realization was “a lightbulb moment”: The absence of information from maximum-security prisons didn’t erase the cultural influence of incarcerated gang leaders. Instead, it turned them into nearly mythical figures with an incredibly powerful allure for impressionable kids. He reached out to his old friend Butler, by that point serving his sentence at USP Lewisburg, a maximum-security prison in Pennsylvania, and told him that he wanted to reach kids like the ones outside the Newark program center by exposing them to the “authentic and uncensored” voices of the people they idolized, people silenced by, in Bennett’s words, “a dark spot that many people weren’t hearing from.”

Butler agreed, and started writing. His first posts are a series of unsparing essays about his experiences, hopes, and fears as a prisoner. They are harrowing, but not sensational: authentic and uncensored. The third post, “Awakened by Death,” describes Butler witnessing the aftermath of a cellblock murder:

“Stop cuff up now!” yell prison guards.

Though I can’t see, what is taking place is plainly obvious. Understanding that within the confines of this concrete jungle the best line of business is nobody’s business, I stay away from my door and try to begin my daily routine of hygiene etc. Maybe it was the heat, a long-simmering beef, an early morning argument or like the many who now embrace their nightmares because their dreams long ago faded… someone that’s just sick and tired of being sick and tired. Before completing my thoughts, as does the calm before the storm, all stopped- Silence!

Covered in blood from head to toe, out walked a prisoner as reserved as anything I’ve ever seen. What was seen in his eyes said it all and the screams that vibrated throughout the tight-fitted tier confirmed it. Minutes later, a stretcher was pushed down the tier in no hurry for the inmate on top was already blanketed by the sheet that walks you from this life to another.

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Chris Ritter/BuzzFeed News

In the months following their reconnection, Roderick Sutton and Jacqueline Nugent kept up their exchange over Live From Lockdown. It followed a pattern: Sutton would write something mixing conciliation and rancor, and Nugent would follow up in the comments in a similar tone. Often, the topic was Destiny, who Sutton refers to by her middle name, Sadesia. In a post titled “Is this woman scorned justified?” Sutton wrote:

I’ve finally accepted my actions and reactions years ago! My hate, bitterness and contempt also subsided years ago! For what it’s worth, I AM SORRY for the hurt I’ve caused others, including Sadesia! MAYBE SOMEONE NEEDS TO DO THE SAME! WHY IS THIS SOMEONE STILL TRYING TO TEAR ME DOWN?! YOU’RE CONTRIBUTING TO THE DESTRUCTION! LIVE YOUR LIFE POSITIVE! That’s what Live From Lockdown is about. This isn’t Facebook, Google+, Twitter, Instagram, Vine, or Youtube. Save all that negativity for those sites!

In the comments, Nugent responded:

Congratulations,but action speak much, much louder than words…. I am happy you received my letter and commenting now on your lockdown live. Nothing in my letter was negative at all make this clear and I wrote you a letter on my thoughts. I am older and wiser now as I hope you are….Oh and btw(by the way) I love your title a bit negative isn’t it? I was scorned by you honestly didn’t I have a right to be? You had almost ruined a very good women! But a great man came along and helped that women be great! Thank my husband for that amongst other things like raising your daughter. She is not a trip in the park but he does a great job as her step father. I truly hope you are a grown man now with all these qualities you say you have and hopefully learned alot about this experience…

Sutton’s next post, “Mission Impossible?” was even more openly contrite:

About seven or eight years into my bid I realized who and what the fuck I had become!! I realized I had put a lifestyle above what should’ve been royalty to me, my family, particularly my daughters!

In the comments of “Mission Impossible?”, Nugent posted a picture of Sutton’s two daughters, standing arm in arm and smiling. Several years after Sutton went to prison, Nugent became friends with the mother of his other daughter, and the two girls became friends. Nugent added a caption to the photo:

Regardless how I have felt about anything you have done to me I made sure they know each other and have a relationship.

Shortly after she posted the photo, Nugent received a letter in the mail addressed to Destiny, from Roderick. It was 25 pages long.

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Tewhan Butler’s writing on Live From Lockdown proved popular, and early analytics showed the majority of the site’s traffic came from mobile devices. That was an encouraging sign: Black and Latino kids in the poor neighborhoods Bennett wanted to reach, whose families frequently can’t afford computers, may get their only internet access through smartphones. (It may have also been a sign that inmates themselves, who frequently, and illegally, gain access to contraband phones, were reading the site from prisons.)

Still, Bennett knew it wasn’t enough. To effectively reach vulnerable kids around the country, he needed representatives on the site from different regions and different gangs. He talked to Butler.

“I said, ‘Listen, if we’re really gonna have the impact we’re looking to have, we have to get other people from other affiliations here. ‘Cause the kid who’s a Latin King might not tune in to what you have to say.'”

Due to his status as a high-profile gang leader, Butler was being held in the Special Management Unit at USP Lewisburg, which houses, as Bennett told BuzzFeed News, “1,000 or so of the most influential or disruptive inmates in the federal system.” That gave him easy access to important inmates with different stripes. Ironically, this kind of cooperation was probably only possible in prison, where gang rivalries are often put on hold and hostilities frequently take racial dimensions.

That’s how Bennett built out Live From Lockdown: on a referral basis, thanks to the initial efforts of a particularly charismatic prisoner. And it’s still how it works today. Interested inmates send Bennett a request via CorrLink, and Bennett sends approved new “users” a welcome letter and asks them to write a brief biography. Compared to the instant, or near-instant verification processes social media users are accustomed to, this half-digital, half-physical system, built on actual relationships, trust, and discretion seems almost shockingly arduous. Given the degree to which the voices of incarcerated Americans are segregated from the national conversation, however, it feels nearly miraculous.

The initial goal of Live From Lockdown was to bring those voices to at-risk kids — and the site still has that element. But it also proved valuable for another at-risk group: the inmates themselves. Prison reform advocates — and prisoners — frequently point to the act of writing as an invaluable form of therapy for the incarcerated, especially for inmates in max prisons and segregation units, in which programs are strictly limited because of security concerns.

“It is is a source of sanity for people who are desperately clinging to it in an environment that is designed to deprive you of your personality and your humanity and ultimately your sanity,” said Jean Casella, the co-founder of Solitary Watch.

The site’s profiles serve both as connections to the outside world — stories like Roderick Sutton’s are not unique — and, maybe even more significantly, affirmations of their subjects’ existences, rare sources of pride. Some of the inmates involved with Live From Lockdown hang printouts of their profiles on their cell walls.

That self-expression can have consequences. In February 2013, an inmate at USP Canaan, in Pennsylvania, fatally stabbed a corrections officer. Soon after, Tewhan Butler wrote a post for Live From Lockdown titled “Inmate Reaction To Killing Of Corrections Officer At USP Canaan”:

A lot of things transpire between inmate and C.O. as a result blatant disrespect. Just two days ago, I was locked up and going through a normal search, which I had no problem with, when the C.O. demanded that I take my boots off outside. Looking at the bigger picture and not wanting to allow them to trap me off, I complied and began taking off my boots, one boot at a time, and handing them to the C.O.

When done searching my last boot, he removes the insole of my shoe, then throws my boot in a different direction and commands me to pick them up. This was in no way a possibility for me, as I am nobody’s “lil boy”. My refusal landed me in the hole. As you can see I’m out, but I ask- Do you honestly believe the blatant disrespect was warranted? Absolutely not! But we prisoners have nobody to turn to. We can only suck it up and move on, or allow the mental games to be played and find ourselves in more of a situation. This is in no way to say that what transpired at USP Canaan in Pennsylvania and resulted in the death of a corrections officer and Bureau of Prisons employee on Monday was justified. I’m just saying some of these corrections officers lack serious professional skills.

According to Bennett, the post landed Butler back in solitary.

Still, given the sensitive nature of the posts on Live From Lockdown, Bennett has had surprisingly little contact with prison officials. He knows that the Federal Bureau of Prisons monitors the site because his analytics show traffic coming from the Department of Justice. Though the FBOP doesn’t have any kind of official stance on Live From Lockdown, Bennett has heard privately from prison officials. “They said, ‘What you’re doing is a good thing,'” he said.

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Chris Ritter/BuzzFeed News

On Nov. 1, Kamaal Bennett published a post by Roderick Sutton to Live From Lockdown titled “A Princess to a Queen.” It was all about Destiny:

On November 3, she will turn sixteen and my little princess who I once knew is becoming a little queen who I barely know anymore. Out of these sixteen years, I’ve only been there for three of them! Her birth year, and her third and fourth years!

We incarcerated “fathers” are mere ghosts. I’m no exception! We are the source of our own destruction, and we are to DUMB, DEAF, and BLIND to that fact because we are immersed in the “street life” and crave “street cred”! Not many will dare to admit if they truly miss or care about their kid(s) because that’s not “KEEPING IT REAL” in prison!

Sadesia, I LOVE YOU, and I MISS YOU MORE THAN YOU MAY EVER KNOW or REALIZE. I JUST WISH THAT I COULD TELL YOU SO! EMBRACE WHO YOU ARE, A QUEEN! WEAR YOUR CROWN WITH PRIDE AND NEVER FORGET YOUR VALUE AND REFUSE TO ACCEPT ANYTHING LESS THAN YOUR WORTH!

Jaqueline Nugent responded soon after, in the comments:

Just to let you know she received your letter and she is still reading it. She told me it has given her a better understanding of a lot of things. She also says thank you for her birthday cards. I guess this is a start for you two.

correction

Tewhan Butler was found guilty of racketeering charges including the Oct. 19, 2000 murder of Robin Dwayne Thompson at a gasoline station in East Orange.An earlier version of this article incorrectly stated that Butler was found guilty of racketeering charges including the July 25, 2002 murder of LaQuan Brooks in front of his 8-year-old son. BF_STATIC.timequeue.push(function () document.getElementById(“update_article_correction_time_4535684”).innerHTML = UI.dateFormat.get_formatted_date(‘2014-12-21 14:58:20 -0500’, ‘update’); );

Read more: http://www.buzzfeed.com/josephbernstein/facebookforfelons

[scorpioslut-blog1]

A Wild Day From Start To Finish

Man, what a DAY I am having. I woke up naked with Nutella on my face, and it was all uphill from there. Apparently last night was lit, a little too lit, and a little gay. I went out with a weird disarray of people, one of them being my good friend Ship, who I kiss regularly when we go out. And we get pretty gay. And this other girl who I met during rush wanted to meet up so I saw her at the second frat we went to and I have no memory of what happened but I was definitely getting gay vibes. I’ve gotten gay vibes a few times whilst out but not often on Greek Row. When we went clubbing that one Thursday with Eve, I was talking to this one girl from Finland or Poland or something for a while about Buddhism and tattoos and I think she was on cocaine but I was definitely getting sexual vibes tbh. 

So I woke up naked with Nutella on my face. More accurately, I woke up with very little memory of the night before; whatever memories I did retain were good and quite lit, however. I definitely feel like someone offered me cocaine but of course I would never. Anyway, The Nutella. I woke up actually proud of myself, thinking I came home after a long and late night out on the town and went straight to bed, actually not finessing any late night fat people food. I lay in bed for about half an hour, just on my phone, enjoying the late morning/midday air. Until I opened Snapchat to take a selfie of myself; then, I saw it. A smear on my left cheek. I had hoped it were lipstick, puke, even, then realized with a dawning horror--it was indeed Nutella. My eyes rushed to the windowsill, where I keep my Nutella, only to confirm my suspicions. IT WASN’T THERE. I let out a desperate “NO!!!!!” and ran to my desk, where I found the evidence of my crime. An open Nutella jar with a knife lying next to it and several clearly extravagant swoops out of the Nutella. I had failed. The sad thing is, I have absolutely no memory of eating Nutella. NONE.

Anyway, once I got over this horror, I continued on with my day, going to Moffitt to work on my presentation that I had later that day with Gina, a great person. As we left to go to discussion, I remember debating getting coffee at Free Speech, as I needed a pick-me-up, but the line was just too damn long so I figured I would wing it. BUT, low and behold, on my way to VLSB, what do I run into but a BABY. It quite literally stumbled upon me, sitting in his grandma’s arms. Taken aback, I scream, “HI!” The baby really REALLY loved me as much as I did, and was quite excited by my presence. He was smiling brightly and giggling, clearly enticed with my person. We continued to interact and play until his grandmother literally HANDED him to me, and who was I to fight such an opportunity? I slyly put my lighter away and took the babe into my arms. Dear Gina thankfully documented the moment and thank GOD they’re Live Videos. God he was the cutest, smiliest, most wholesome baby ever. Our connection was so noticeable that his PARENTS got a pic of the two of us WITH the grandma. Truly an amazing experience. I will never forget him. And as I left, he tried to reach for me and kept touching my face and smiling, GOD he was so adorable. So anyway, I basically got the pick-me-up I was looking for, and continued my day high off baby.

After an AMAZING presentation by me and Gina, I decided on a whim to get Chinese food with Leah to reward myself, despite the fact that I am quite rapidly growing obese. But whatever. After, I was on my way to Moffitt when I decided to stop by the smoker’s pit for a #stoke. And after some minor harassment from the local homeless man that wears a witch’s hat and doodles a lot on paper, I ended up hanging out with this dude from India. Exactly what happened was, as usual, the man asked everyone to bum a cig, and I usually ignore, but this dude next to me actually engaged and asked for 50 cents or a story. So he kept talking, and never stopped, and that guy left, leaving me and this dude with the homeless man. He started harassing me and I shouldn’t have even replied in the first place, but he just kept getting angrier and angrier and yelling and heckling and basically calling everyone racist (he’s black), and I got freaked out so I asked the guy next to me to wait with me while I finish my cig since he had finished, ‘cause I didn’t wanna be alone with the guy. So we started talking and turns out he’s a freshman too and from India/Dubai, knows a bunch of people I know from Unit 2 Davidson, and I mentioned this on Snap to Christoper (same building), who informed me that he is wealthy. Like, PRINCE level royalty level wealthy. Which obviously isn’t a big deal, I know lots of rich people, but knowing me I made it a big deal and have already made it into a meme where we all call him Indian Prince. Anyway, really nice guy, clearly likes me, sorta hot, asked me about my tattoos and life which is a nice change from all these fucking narcissists that just want to talk about themselves and leave me on read after fucking my brains out. ANYWAY. Before you know it, I’m going to DOE Library with him just for the hell of it. It closed at 9, so we switched back to Moffitt and stopped by Free Speech for coffee and he insisted on paying for me which DEFINITELY means he likes me. Anyway now we’re at Moffitt but not sitting together ‘cause it’s packed but I basically ended up on a library date with an Indian prince. So it’s been quite a day. While he isn’t really my type, I’m open to trying new things. But I’m not gonna gold dig him or anything.