#it's entirely possible that they printed it out and noticed the error before going 'fuck it' - which is valid

[not-quitenormal]

I work at a library.

#i adore our custodial staff #it's entirely possible that they printed it out and noticed the error before going 'fuck it' - which is valid #we can read and pick up context clues like trained adults #this is just hilarious to me #max is a god in their own right

[citrineghost]

The Day I Took 6 Hours to Go To the DMV for 10 Minutes, Get 3 Bags of Groceries, and Almost Get Hit by a Car - While Disabled

Setting the Scene

I am poor and disabled. I don't have a car. My friend is at work all day. I have an appointment at the DMV to get an ID at 3pm.

Chapter 1: The DMV

I leave the house at 1:20pm. Navigator says it will take me an hour to get to the DMV, so I'm leaving about 20 minutes earlier than I need to catch my first bus, but, if I'm lucky, I can get the one before it

I do manage to catch the one before the one I'd planned on. However, at the transit center, the next bus that goes to the DMV does not have an earlier version

I wait 15 minutes.

Someone at the bus stop is wandering around and telling everyone he sees to buy t-shirts from some website where you can get anything you want printed on it for a low price. He is also going to the DMV to get his ID

I take the bus to the DMV with t-shirt guy

I go to the bathroom and find that the entire way thus far, I have had my pants completely undone. Thank god I'm fat and my stomach may have hidden this. I pretend I'm not on the brink of death as I return to the waiting room.

I get my ID in about 5 minutes, no fuss

Well, I got a bus day pass for this and it's only been an hour and 20 minutes. Why not go to the grocery store on the way home? My friend and I didn't go shopping this week and he works all weekend until late at night. I may as well grab the things I'm missing while I'm out and have all access bus rides

Chapter 2: Winco

I go back to the bus stop and take the bus that goes to Winco. I have a hard time hearing because I have my headphones in to avoid sensory overload. I'm also unfamiliar with this route.

I notice just after he begins to pull away from the bus stop that it's the one outside Winco and I pull the Request Stop line. I know I've pulled it too late and I expect him to take me all the way to the next stop before letting me out, but he's nice and stops up at the next intersection, gently chastising me for not puling it earlier. I am sorry Mr. Driver, I know I missed the stop, thank you for letting me out anyway.

There is a big 4-way intersection directly attached to the Winco parking lot. I wait for the walk light to change to Walk. It changes. I begin to walk.

Someone runs a left turn red light and ALMOST FUCKING HITS ME WITH THEIR CAR. He slams on his breaks and stops a meter away from me. We make eye contact as my life flashes before my eyes and his life outside of vehicular manslaughter and eternal guilt prison flashes before his.

After a moment of regrouping, I keep walking, wondering what the other people stopped at the light were thinking about him

I get into the store and put my backpack in the cart, realizing it was hanging open, at least since I got off the bus, but possibly since I got on the one at the DMV

I wonder what the other people stopped at the light were thinking about me

I get my food quickly and leave Winco. It is 5pm.

Chapter 3: Getting Back Home

As I leave Winco, I follow where maps tells me the bus stop I need is located. It's across the street and to the right. I overestimate how far to the right and have to walk back a ways

As I'm walking, my phone restarts for seemingly no reason. "FUCKING GREAT," I think, wondering if it will error itself while I'm trying to navigate. Sometimes is malfunctions like this.

The phone does not give me a black error screen. Instead, it will no longer connect to the data network. "FUCKING GREAT," I think

I stand at the bus stop trying to reload maps repeatedly, unsure which bus i was meant to take and which connection after that. Before it restarted, it said the bus would be here some 5 minutes from then. It is not there in five minutes.

I cannot get my internet to connect. I wait 20 minutes for the bus.

When I finally sit down on the bus, deciding it doesn't fucking matter which bus it is, I see Whatsapp saying it has a syncing issue because the time is wrong on my phone. I look at my clock. It says 5:51, which seems right without much consideration. I go to my time settings and see it's set to 5:51 am. This is incorrect. I set it to network provided time and it corrects itself. It is 5:25pm.

This is also why my internet wouldn't work. My SIM connects again and I open maps

This bus will connect to two others if I get off at stop A or stop B. I want to get off at stop B. I accidentally get off at stop A

I reopen maps. There will be another bus, but It requires another transfer, which I wouldn't have needed if I'd gotten off at stop B

I wait for the next bus. The electronic sign above the bus stop says it's the RED line. Didn't I just get off the RED line? Oh well, maps said there's another bus. Maybe they share a stop.

I get on the RED line. They do not share a stop. Perhaps I was supposed to walk to another bus stop. I did not. I am now on the RED line going the wrong direction. I have 3 bags of groceries and more in my backpack. My hands hurt.

I get off the bus at the next stop when I realize it's going south and I've passed where I need to go west.

I open maps

I have to cross the street but, fortunately, another bus will come... in 20 more minutes. It is 6:00pm.

There is no bench at this bus stop.

I put my groceries on the ground.

I take a picture of a nice tree.

I make a tumblr post about benches at bus stops.

The bus arrives. I am sure of my connections now. I think.

This bus will take me to an intersection where I will cross the street and go to another bus stop

I get off the bus and begin walking the wrong way. I turn around to go the right way, crossing the street to the next bus stop

I wait at the bus stop

I take the bus to the next stop and cross the street. It's dark now. I have to pee.

Maps says my next bus comes here in 20 minutes, but a bus a 10 minute walk up the road is leaving going the same place in 15 minutes.

"Fuck it, I'm walking up the road," I say.

I should not have fucked it and I should not have walked up the road.

My knee begins to get sharp pains in it as I walk up an incline toward the last bus stop

I wait at the bus stop for 8 minutes.

I take the bus to the final stop, a 12 minute walk from the apartment. I walk up more incline to the apartment. My friend's car is here. I guess he beat me home.

I realize I haven't eaten or had anything to drink but two brownies and some water at 11am. It's 7:00pm.

And that's how I, a disabled person, got to spend 6 hours going to the DMV for 5 minutes and and get 3 bags of groceries at a store 10 minute's drive from where I live.

Can you even guess how excited I am to take the bus to the library and the notary on Monday???? :)

#walkable cities #buses #disabled #disability #actually disabled #eds #ehlers danlos syndrome #hypermobile ehlers danlos #hypermobility #pots #postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome #fibro #fibromyalgia #cfs #me/cfs #cfs/me

[amyscascadingtabs]

don’t want to keep secrets just to keep you [chapter 2]

CHAPTER TWO: see me in hindsight, tangled up with you all night

excerpt below, read whole thing on ao3

Amy doesn't return to the office until after she's spent a good hour at home. First, she showers, washing off yesterday's old makeup and grime and letting the warm water run over her shoulders as she lets the sweet scent of raspberry shower gel replace the vague smell of old beer and sweat. Her back is sore; probably thanks to Jake's lumpy mattress, she thinks, and wonders for a second if she should add buy new mattress to the contract before deciding it’s far too much. That's relationship stuff, and that's point one of the contract; that's not what this is.

She blow-dries her hair and replaces her makeup, taking extra care to try and cover a pink mark that sits just a little too high on her chest before giving up and picking a different shirt instead. Then she fills the biggest coffee cup she has, eats a buttered slice of toast standing up, and feeds her pet fish before rushing back out the door.

She probably looks fresher than most days once she's done, but she's still worried Gina can sense something from her secretary desk as Amy walks in. She raises a brow in greeting like she's actually interested, which is rare in itself, and Amy can feel her eyes on her as she walks into her own office and closes the door behind her.

Amy starts regretting her decision as soon as she's opened a new document. What is she even supposed to name it? Friends with benefits contract is too obvious. FWB-C sounds like code for something. Sex agreement makes her sound like someone who’s read Fifty Shades Of Grey too many times (which really is just once). Jake and Amy is a wedding invitation, Rules too general. She puts her head in her hands, staring at the blinking line, and groans. Then she writes in Jake, looks at that for a moment, and adds stuff after. Not her proudest, but it'll have to do.

Amy’s relieved she doesn't have much work to do today, because she spends every free minute she can come across tweaking details on the document, adding and removing sections to suggest. When she's finally happy with the result, she saves it in a personal folder she can be sure no one’s ever going to open, and praises the office-gods for the fact that she has her own printer.

~

There’s a faint smell of artificial lemon in the air of Jake’s apartment as he welcomes her in, and the thought that he might have cleaned for her makes Amy blush. It seems unlike him, but the living room area does appear less cluttered to her than it did this morning, so maybe he isn’t totally incapable of it. She still doesn’t want to check his cabinets.

“You cleaned,” she says instead, nodding to the couch that looks almost neat now. “You expecting to get lucky tonight, or something?” Jake’s cheeks turn an adorable shade of pink, but then he shakes his head and points to her outfit. “You’re one to speak.”

All Amy’s done is put on a maroon floral blouse with lower cleavage than she’d ever do for work and put on a touch of pink lipstick, but he’s not completely wrong. She still chooses to ignore him. “I’ve got the contract. Should we do this, then?”

He offers her an orange soda, which she declines, but accepts a mug of Earl Grey tea from a package that seems to have remained unopened since before the brand last changed its design. A hot drink might calm her nerves, she hopes, but it ends up being quite the distracting experience to watch him make it for her. She tries to read through the contract one last time while searching for spelling errors she knows aren't there, her eyes keep being drawn to his hands as he holds the label of the teabag between his thumb and index finger, bobbing the bag a few times with focus once he's finished pouring the water into a New York Knicks mug. It's hard not to think about how those fingers felt dancing across her skin yesterday, massaging the sides of her breasts and holding on to her inner thighs, and it's harder not to imagine what they'd feel like another time –

“Tea,” he interrupts her thoughts by placing the mug in front of her. “Thought maybe you wanted a cup that didn’t say NYPD on it.”

“Well, you're right in that.” She brings it to her lips, almost burning her tongue and hoping he didn't see. “You want to read it on your own, or should I read it to you?”

Jake sits back in the massage chair closest to her, spreading his legs and putting his palms on them before shooting her that disarming smile again. “You read it.”

Amy swallows hard. “Okay. Section one: relationship status. This arrangement only works if we're both single. We’re not bringing more people into this.”

“What about an open relationship?”

“No. Still complicated. This is complicated enough with just us. If either of us gets in an actual relationship, it's over.”

Jake nods. “Cool. Next rule?”

“Section two: appropriate behavior. We're not dating,” she says, pointing first at herself and then at him with the ballpoint pen she brought from work. “So we can't behave like we're dating. Outside of our apartments, we're strictly friends. Or acquaintances. Honestly, it's weird we're even friends.”

“But you admitted we're friends.”

“Sure.” She takes another sip of the tea. “But that means no public flirting, no inappropriate comments, no like, commenting heart or fire emojis on Instagram pictures –”

“Are these rules for you or for me?” Jake winks. “I know my selfies are stunning, but I’m sure you can control yourself.”

“For both of us. Section three: we part in the morning. No exceptions. Staying overnight is okay, but once we wake up, we’re done.”

“What counts as morning in this scenario? I’m not going to have to get up at six a.m., am I?”

“Not unless you stay at my place when I have work.”

“I’ll remember not to do that, then.”

“Great. Section four – protection.”

“You have an entire section on that?” Jake looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“It’s important!” She exclaims, feeling herself getting defensive. “I have an implant, so we’re safe from pregnancy, but it’s either condoms or you need to get checked.”

Jake nearly spits out some of his orange soda, coughing slightly. “You must be fun at parties.”

“I’m actually a nationally accredited and registered chaperone.”

“What is that?”

“Doesn’t matter. Are you going to do it or not?”

“Fine. You, then?”

“I will if you want me to.” Amy shrugs. “But I haven’t slept with anyone since my ex, so we should be good.”

Jake’s eyebrows fly up. “Really?”

“That so surprising to you?”

“A little? In the least jerk-ish way possible, you must get, well… offers.”

“People don’t flirt a whole lot with their lawyers,” she says, shifting in her chair and crossing her legs. “And it hasn’t been my focus. Are we good with the contract?”

“Actually, I want to add one more rule.”

“Yeah?”

Jake leans back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head and flexing his biceps through the green shirt with a smug grin. “You’re not allowed to fall in love with me.”

Amy looks at him for a moment, trying to determine whether or not he’s joking, but he doesn’t waver, so she leans forward and draws a fifth section sign on the blank space left on the document. No developing feelings or this ends, she prints out in capital letters, signing her name on the allotted line.

“Won’t be a problem.”

Jake signs the contract, and Amy tries not to grimace at how messy his signature is as she places the document in a thin plastic folder, promising him a copy tomorrow.

“Cool,” Jake nods. He’s messing up his curls with his right hand again, the way she’s noticed he does when he’s trying to flirt. She wonders if it’s strategy or nerves. “So, are you doing anything else tonight, or...”

“What, contract signing’s got you all hot and bothered?”

“I mean, seeing you in full lawyer mode. It’s not, not hot.”

“Double negation?” Amy scrunches her nose. “Oh, you’re going to have to make that one up to me.”

“Maybe I will,” he says, and she needs only to notice the way his eyes darken to know that it’s on.

Amy can feel her legs still shaking a little as she hails a cab outside Jake's apartment just after, and she closes her eyes in the backseat and wonders how it's possible to feel this amazing, this satisfied from a cocktail of what she knows is mostly dopamine and oxytocin. It still makes her feel all giggly, like she can't stop smiling to herself.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket, and she picks it up to read a text from Jake.

Fucking hell that was SO GOOD.

Maybe this friends with benefits thing won't be so bad after all.

~

#my writing #b99 #peraltiago #jake x amy #b99 fic #b99 fanfiction #peraltiago fanfiction #there haha hope you enjoy :)

[kitchenangst]

Before Anything Good pt. 3

Mako x reader (she/her pronouns)

Summary: Barely one month of living on the streets, and Mako has grown skeptical of anything good that’s offered freely to him. When the girl from the other side of town calls him stinky and demands he take a shower, he might just be right about his newfound cynicism.

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings: language, implied abusive relationship, incoherent thoughts, really badly described analogies

a/n: why is it so hard to get to the mAIN STORY LINE LMAO I am neglecting my hw so hard right now anyway lmk if there are errors 

pt. i | pt. ii | pt. iv

Bathroom, bathroom, bathroom, Mako, Bolin, bathroom- her feet bring her to her destination, hand on the knob, ready to burst in- wait, no, knock first. 

The door opens slightly, revealing a part of Mako’s face before his hand sticks out expectantly. Yn stares at his open palm before slapping it with her own. 

“Sorry! Forgot the towels!” she calls tersely as she hurries to the towel cabinet, just as she heard the bathroom door shut. Running back to the bathroom at the same pace with the towels in her arms, she freezes halfway as she realized she had forgotten their clothes. Fuck, where were the clothes, that’s the whole reason why she went to ask her mom in the first place. They had to be in the basket in her father’s room or something, she concludes, whatever that something is. She breezes by the bathroom on her way there, leaving the towels on the doorknob with an urgent knock, not noticing that they had fallen to the ground before she returned to the room. 

Clothes, clothes, what were their sizes. Frantically digging through the basket, all she finds are her father’s garments. Turning to the dresser, she urgently starts pulling the drawers out one by one, lifting and throwing the folded clothes until she can find the pair of clothes, the uniform, she realizes, that was always provided in faux hospitality.

As she continues to shuffle through the clothes, she can’t help but think that she should’ve just left the two in the alleyway (sympathy be damned, this was much more harmful than helpful) if she had known her father was going to mug them of the only money they had left. 

Is that why they had so many clothes uniforms for various sizes? To rob the other orphans she had insisted on bringing home for dinner as well? Wasn’t it counterproductive to spend money on them when these orphans barely had money to spare? 

She finally finds 2 sets of clothes uniforms: one roughly her size and another just slightly smaller. Without wasting a moment, she gathers them in her arms and races to the bathroom, rushing to stop her father before he leaves. However, she barely makes it out the door without him in the way. 

“Spirits, sweetie, what animal did you release in my room this time?” 

Finally sparing a glance around the room, Yn finds the state of the room just as messy as her mind. The clothes strewn everywhere and unorganized, thrown at rapid fire just like her thoughts. It dawns on her that he’s about to leave when he grabs his coat and hat… leave to mug her new friends (if she was even allowed to call them that at this point), just like he had every time before today. 

“Father, where are you going?” she tries to ask normally, as unsuspectingly as possible, but the shaky pitch as she calls for his attention might as well have given away that she discovered his scheming. 

“Just picking up some money,” he responds coolly, sending a shiver down her spine and goosebumps in their wake. 

“From where?” Her fingers twitch in anticipation of his answer, hiding underneath the uniform. 

He way he forces a chuckle out to alleviate where the conversation is going, sickens her as he crouches down to her height. “My boss, of course.” The tight lipped smile he gives is all she needs to know he’s lying. 

“You-you’re not stealing from them, are you?” The very thought of it felt absurd, but saying it out loud left a bitter note on her tongue. She clutches onto the clothes, the fabric the only thing stopping her nails from digging into her palms. “They don’t have any money!” She whispers harshly, unsure if she wanted Mako and Bolin to hear from the other side of the hall. She couldn’t tell what was worse: knowing that stopping her father will impact the household or that this would affect the brothers for worse. Was picking one over the other any better? Did she even have a choice?

“Sweetie, we need the money, too, so just keep them occupied while I look for it.” An order, and one she had no choice but to follow.

His hand snaking around the back of her neck is enough to stop her from protesting. The firm squeeze making the words lose themselves in her throat and forced to be swallowed down if she didn’t want to choke on air. His smile was cold in comparison to the unspoken threat in his eyes, his nostrils flaring just slightly to serve as a reminder that someone will bear the punishment in her stead, and the slight raise in his eyebrows almost daring her to challenge him. 

Somehow, it scares her more than meeting the back of his hand. 

He finally releases his hold when she doesn’t say anything. “Well? Better get those clothes to those boys,” he reminds her while standing back to his full height. “It’ll be the only nice thing they’ll have in awhile!”

Her face pales as her feet drag her back to the bathroom, hardly registering that she left the room in the first place. Knocking on the door once again, she merely shoves the clothes in Mako’s face before he can stick his hand out the open door. “Dinner will be ready in a bit,” she mechanically says, looking away. She turns back at Mako’s thanks, immediately regretting it because her eyes speak of conflicts louder than she can say, regret written on her face clearer than a sunny day, and she fears that he catches on. She opens and closes her mouth, unsure if she should tell them. Before she decides on an answer, she promptly shuts the door on him and returns to the kitchen to help her mother. 

Hearing her mom’s upbeat humming with a large pink print donning her face as she sets the table nearly breaks Yn’s heart. How could she pick between her mother and these two boys she just barely met? How would there be any way to satisfy both parties? She sighs at the conflict, her shoulders sagging at the thought of being unable to do anything for both of them. 

She begins filling the bowls with rice, her movements sluggish from dreading what will happen to Mako and Bolin. How will their opinion of her change? Will they forgive her? Will her mom forgive her if she makes the other two leave before her father could find their money, if they even had any? Was it like this every other time before? 

She hated it. The feeling of being tugged between two equally wrong decisions; the feeling of seeing the surface of the water while chained to the bottom, only barely being able to have the tip of her nose reach the surface for air; both of which her body would readily succumb to the dark. 

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” She looks up from her spot to find her mother’s concerned face. “You’re piling the rice,” she says with a playful grin. She gently takes the bowl and rice scooper out of Yn’s hands, pushing the rice piled past the bowl’s rim back into the cooker. She can’t help but think her mom could have pushed it into the last remaining bowl instead. 

She merely stares at her mom filling the last bowl, proceeding to frown at her mom. “Will you be eating tonight?” Yn’s voice comes out much smaller than she hoped, the lump in her throat making it hard for her to speak any louder. 

Her mom stares blankly at her, pondering for a few brief seconds before concluding, “I would hope so. I made plenty for all of us.” Hope so. The fact that she had to think if she would eat, if she even got to, made Yn’s stomach lurch, stones piling in her abdomen, making it hard to filter out the guilt. “Those boys are nice. They should be able to take back any leftovers they want.” Her mom’s smile falters to a grimace, as if she was compensating them for their loss, for the misfortune she brought to them. At least she was doing something to balance the bad. What about Yn? What could she do? Her feet stay frozen to the ground, unmoving just like her problem. 

“Mmm!! Smells so good!!” Bolin’s call from the hallway snaps her out of her reverie. His head pokes out from the corner shortly afterward, eyes darting until they finally land on the table. “Mako! There’s food!”  

Bolin races to the seats at the round dining table with Mako shortly behind him, both unable to resist the enticing aromas of the meal and reach for their chopsticks, manners forgotten. Their mouths water at the sight of grilled fish and sauteed vegetables, and start piling it onto their bowls before scarfing it down with a wholehearted zeal that could light an entire town. 

“Doesn’t it feel nice to eat without being stinky,” Yn teases with good nature as she approaches the table with her bowl in hand. Climbing onto her seat, she begins piling the food into her own bowl as well, making sure to sneak the vegetables she liked less into her mom’s bowl. Dinner is quiet, save for a few chuckles from her mom at how Bolin practically squeals in delight at every bite, the crisp ring from chopsticks hitting the ceramic bowls or plates, and the dull thud of the cups tapping the wooden table whenever someone drank from it. 

This is nice, Yn thinks. She grins at the small smirk Mako gives Bolin when he puts more vegetables in his bowl, at the wide eyes that take up half of Mako’s face when her mom wipes the sauce off his mouth with a napkin, at Bolin’s little dancing when he thinks she didn’t notice he stole her favorite part of the fish from her bowl. It’s one of the more heartwarming dinners she hasn’t had in awhile, one where her mom’s eyes gleam from pure joy instead of unshed tears. The whole scene makes her almost forget about her dad, until she hears the doorknob shake. 

And like a crack in glass, the screeching of Yn’s chair scraping against the floor as she abruptly stands, ruins the whole atmosphere. Everyone stops mid-bite as they stare at her escaping the table. Mako and Bolin carry on after sharing a look while her mom struggles to swallow her food. 

Her feet slam against the floor, almost getting hit by the doorknob as it swings open. She cranes her neck to look at him in the eye, simply holding her hands out to gather his coat and hat for the second time that day. 

His hollow chuckle does nothing to warm her as he says, “What? No bow this time, sweetie? Did you forget how to greet people at the door?” The smile playing on his lips a menace and an indicator of his good mood as he recalls how successful his catch this time is. 

“No…” Almost shamefully, she bows slightly, her arms stiff as she brings them back to her side only to raise them again for his coat and hat. “Welcome back, father.” 

She dashes off to his bedroom the moment she retrieves them, patting the jacket and emptying the pockets for any signs of coins or bills, only to come out with a few yuans. Making sure to take it, she wedges it between the wall and the back of her dresser in her own room for later. 

She returns to the dinner table on time to see him seated between her chair and mother. The grilled fish she ate flops aggressively in her stomach when he mentions picking up money from his boss. A small bonus, he calls it. She catches Mako looking towards Bolin for a few brief seconds, eyes wary, at the amount.

About 1,300 yuans. It’s a whole lot more than the amount she found in her father’s coat. 

Is that how much they had? How were they able to have so much money despite being orphans? Where were they able to hide that amount? How was he able to find it? Where is he hiding their money if it wasn’t in his coat?

Dinner is silent once again, yet the tension is enough to ruin her appetite. It doesn’t feel as heartwarming anymore, the table flooding with anxiety and defeat at the mere presence of her father. His attempt at small talk is choppy and near condescending. Mako’s posture had stiffened since her father sat down, but if the stoic expression resting on his face showed any discomfort at his tone, he didn’t say anything about it. His choice to make dry responses doesn’t deter her father, doesn’t stop the fact that they’re in his household, doesn’t hinder his good mood from robbing.  

The plates are eaten clean with leftovers packed neatly into containers for Mako and Bolin to eat for tomorrow. Before they leave, Yn makes sure to carefully tuck the yuans she stole from her father’s coat earlier into the pockets of their washed clothes, leaving a messily scribbled note saying she was sorry. She returns the folded clothes to them just as they enter the carriage.

“Will I see you again?” It’s a stupid question, she thinks, yet she can’t help but be a little hopeful. Of course she can see them, but they might not want to see her again, especially once they find out their money was stolen. 

“I don’t know. We don’t really have anywhere else to go, so maybe?” And it’s a naive response that’s bound to change soon enough. 

Bolin’s face becomes the more dopey with every passing second he tries to stay awake, likely tired from digesting all the food he devoured. Once they secure their seats, Mako says their thanks as the carriage rides off. Yn watches it as it grows smaller and smaller in the distance, yet it does nothing to quell the growing guilt in her gut.

-

a/n: yall know I had to sneak in one last stinky before reaching the end of this chapter LOL i had to split this part AGAIN because it was too many words, and the next part will likely be the end of what i originally intended to have as part one,,, also updates may be slower from now since school is picking up the pace :(( anyway pls stay hydrated it’s like 100F where i am and it sucks 

edit: i tweaked the last few paragraphs a bit bc it was a tad confusing since i wasn’t very clear with my wording, so i’m very sorry about that ;( also i hope any questions you guys have will be answered in next few updates!! 

pt. i | pt. ii | pt. iv

taglist! (if you’d like to be tagged, pls DM or send in an ask!)

@welovediaaxx​​

#lok x reader #mako imagine #mako x reader #lok imagine #legend of korra x reader #lok #legend of korra #mako #BAG #j writes #source: lok art of the animated series

[letsbenditlikebennett]

Drawing Daisies, Pushing Daisies || Ariana & Luce

TIMING: January 8th PARTIES: @divineluce & @letsbenditlikebennett SUMMARY: Luce gives Ariana yet another memorial tattoo and some secrets come to light.  CONTENT: Some mentions of grief and the situation with Lydia (domestic abuse/promise binds), use of needles in relation to tattoos. 

When she had first gotten the tattoo of wildflowers on her arm in honor of Celeste, Ariana hadn’t planned on her arm becoming a memorial. As it stood, she kept losing people she loved and wanted to carry them with her. Wanted to make sure she never forgot them and the lessons they taught her. One of these days, she was just going to get a completely silly tattoo. Today was not that day, but it was nice to dream. She walked into the familiar tattoo shop and waved as she spotted Luce at her station. It looked like she was mostly set up and ready to go even if Ari was running a few minutes early. She always enjoyed glancing at the art on the wall as she was in the shop. There was some new floral work up at Luce’s station that she looked at for a moment before taking her place by Luce. “Hey,” she said, “As always, thanks for drawing up something so great. I promise my next tattoo is going to be silly and not a memorial piece.” Her hand flew over her mouth as she realized her error, “I really need to not use that fucking word.” 

 Ariana wasn’t someone that Luce would claim to know well, but she knew that the girl had been through some shit. Fuck, the wildflowers on her arm were proof enough of that. So, when Luce had gotten the email about drawing up a new design, she’d been happy to do it. Art had the power to help people and so did tattoos, even if boomers liked bitching about how they were destroying common decency. If a back tattoo of Post Malone sparked joy, fuck, she’d do it. Which, thankfully, that wasn’t the case. No, she’d requested something with flowers and an old vinyl record, which had been a simple enough design that Luce could fit to match the girl’s pre-existing tattoos. “Yeah, for sure--” Luce started to say before her eyes widened. Glancing to the open door of her room, Luce walked over and shut the door, giving the two of them some privacy. “Memorial piece, huh?” She said cautiously as she went back to her desk, pulling the stencils she’d printed out for Ariana to look at. “I’m sorry to hear that… you lost someone.” Another someone. 

 With the door closed, it dawned on Ariana that she could talk more freely. Not that she really had any true scope of what human hearing could truly pick up over the music playing in the shop. It wasn’t like she had a point of reference. Maybe she’d ask Luis one of these days when he was a little more in tune with who and what he was now. For now, she focused on Luce and the stencils she was pulling out. “Yeah,” she said as nonchalantly as she could, “As the okay DJ Khalid would say, another one.” Nope, that felt wrong. Was she really getting to a point where she joked about the darker things in life? “That was a bad joke.” She shook her head and instead explained, “Remember the article about that one bitch in the paper? Whole horror house thing. Well, this one and the bat one are courtesy of that bitch.” She wasn’t even sure her name deserved to be spoken. That bitch seemed to sufficiently cover things anyway. She glanced over the stencils and pointed to the one she liked best. Though her sense of color was off, the yellow in the daisy seemed to be the brightest. Just like Todd had been. “Thanks,” she said softly, “It is what is. But I like that one.” She pointed to her favorite. 

 As the girl let out a wry, bitter joke, Luce did her best not to react. Everyone dealt with grief in their own ways. She knew that better than most. Her encounter with the tree dude in the forest was a reminder of that. He’d seen what she’d done in her rage and grief. Pulling out one of her trays, she busied herself pouring out some ink. At the mention of that bitch in the paper, with the horror house-- Luce’s hand slipped, black ink bottle spilling onto the silver tray. “Shit!” She swore, swiftly capping the bottle and grabbing some paper towels to wipe up the ink. Lydia. Lydia. She was talking about Lydia. “How do you know about Lydia?” Luce asked cautiously, still tentative about saying the woman’s name. She’d felt the Fae promise burn in the back of her throat before and, even though she knew it was long gone, there was still a part of her that shied away at the idea of saying the woman’s name aloud. “I, uh… Yeah. It’s a good one. I think it’s my favorite out of the bunch. They symbolize purity, innocence.” She said before biting her cheek. “Was your friend… were they in that house?”

 The sound of ink falling to the tray made Ariana flinch slightly. It only slightly startled her. More than anything, she was perplexed. Her head tilted and she looked at Luce curiously waiting for an explanation only to be met with a question. “Wait, how do you know about Lydia?” It was safe to say she was a pretty big part of Lydia’s crimes coming to light and ultimately Lydia’s death though she didn’t wield the knife herself. “Lydia and I… well, there’s a lot there. Mostly her murdering my friends and binding me into something that would have inevitably killed me and a bunch of other people had Kaden not saved my ass. Then I was the “unidentified teen” in that article.” Her fingers did air quotes as she said the unidentified teen. She was unsure if she should mention the whole getting Lydia killed thing. While she knew Nell would understand, but she had no idea where Luce stood on being a murder accomplice… even if said murdered person was actual trash. “My friend was definitely that.” Both Todd and Sammy had a very genuine way about them that made her wish she could have shielded them from Lydia. “Three of them were, yeah. Managed to save one of them… and another person, too.” 

 Luce didn’t want to say it. She should have kept her mouth shut, because of course this would be how the train of thought would go. How did she know Lydia? She couldn’t just tell Ariana that Lydia had… helped them sacrifice a man in the name of vengeance and retribution. Prepping her machine with steadied hands, Luce swallowed. “She had me locked in a promise too. I didn’t know about what she was doing at her house, but I knew that she was capable of some fucking awful things. So.” She paused, glancing down at the stencil as she pressed it against the girl’s skin, leaving an impression on Ariana’s arm. “When someone told me there was trouble, I went to help.” Help. That was a watered down version of the truth. She hadn’t helped anyone. Clearing her throat, Luce nodded, “Shit. I’m sorry… that you lost them.” She said, glancing back to the tattoos that decorated the girl’s arm. This poor fucking kid. Because that’s what she was, a kid. She didn’t deserve this. 

 Ariana hadn’t thought it was possible to hate Lydia more than she already did, but her having Luce locked into a promise as well seemed to do the trick. Somehow, even in death, she just kept getting worse. Her hands clenched into fists, but as it stood, Lydia couldn’t do this to anyone again. “Bitch,” she mumbled to herself before adding, “Her, not you obviously.” It was the next part that made her have to refrain from tilting her head as Luce placed the stencil on her arm. Help, what did she mean by that? Was she the person Athena had gone to for help while Ariana went with Kaden and Agatha to rescue Chloe, Todd, and Kelly? That had to be what she meant, right? She’d been so caught up in trying to deduce just what she meant by that she barely noticed the cool feel of the stencil on her arm. “Help,” she said slowly, “Did that help happen to be teaming up with a blonde warden?” She didn’t want to totally give Athena’s identity away if that wasn’t the case. She also didn’t want to just assume Luce had been down to help kill Lydia. Not that she judged it. Unless Lydia died, all she was ever going to bring to the world was pain. Then there was yet another apology for all she lost. “Thanks,” she responded instinctively at this point, “It is what it is, but I’m getting by.” And she was. Some days better than others, but it was getting by all the same. 

Ripping open a new pack of needles, Luce fitted them into her machine and pulled on a pair of gloves as she settled next to Ariana. The machine buzzed in her hand, the hum familiar and comfortable as she readied herself to begin the tattoo. But, before she pressed the needles to Ariana’s skin, she blinked in surprise at the girl’s words. If she wasn’t holding her machine, she might have flinched at the mention of a blonde warden. But she was a professional. And she wasn’t going to fuck up a tattoo, not even now. Swallowing, Luce glanced at Ariana. “She convinced me to go with her. Well,” She paused and pressed the tip of the machine to the girl’s skin, ink dancing at her fingertips, “I let her talk me into it.” Luce said, not wanting to say anymore. If Ariana knew who Athena was, then she probably knew what Luce’s brand of help had brought about. “Getting by,” Luce echoed with a small laugh. “As someone who’s been getting by for a while, I’m real fucking sorry that you’re in the same boat.”

 The buzz of the tattoo machine was slowly becoming familiar to Ariana. It was even becoming comforting in a way. It was gentle on her ears and she grew accustomed to the dull pain that came with it. She could tell her question through Luce for a loop though. Given, it meant she helped kill Lydia and Morgan had mentioned it wasn’t so kind, but she wouldn’t shed any tears over a murdered serial killer. One who’d hurt her and too many people she cared for. So kept her arm still and quietly said, “Thank you. I really didn’t want her going on her own and I had to get my friends out of her house.” Even if it wasn’t entirely successful. It didn’t make her feel any comfort to know Luce had been just getting by too. She knew about Bea and she knew how much losing a sister sucked. Even getting her back, she’d never be able to erase that experience. The feeling of the needle on her arm kept her steady and resolved, if only so she didn’t ruin her own tattoo. “I’m sorry, too. It’s a pretty shitty boat. I’d much prefer one of those all inclusive cruises if I have to be on any boat.” Focus still on keeping still, she softened her features, “I know I’m young, but if you wanted to talk about any of it, I’m a pretty good listener. If you’d rather not, that’s chill, too.” 

 Thank you. Those weren’t the words Luce wanted to hear, but how was Ariana to know that? She’d killed again and while Lydia was hardly an innocent… that didn’t change the fact that she was someone who posed no real threat to Luce or her family. She would have plagued some other town, some other people. Perhaps Luce had done the right thing getting rid of her. But even if it was, she hadn’t done it for the right reasons. “Are you and her friends? Athena?” Luce asked, the words careful as she focused on her work, making the lines nice and neat. “Yeah, I could do with a fucking cruise right about now.” She said with a nod. Pulling back, she dipped the tip of her machine in the ink and glanced at Ariana’s arm with a gentle but meaningful look. “You’ve got enough of your own stuff to deal with. I’m not going to add to that. But, thanks for the offer.” She said with a nod. “This town… demands a lot from the people who live here. I’m real fucking sorry that you moved here.”

 It dawned on Ariana that maybe thank you hadn’t been the right thing to say. Especially when she was able to piece together just what Luce had done to help. She wasn’t sure being thanked for murder was something most were comfortable with. She’d always been a bit impulsive with her words so she decided to gloss over it and acknowledge Luce’s question. “Oh, she’s my girlfriend actually,” Ariana answered, still not quite used to using the word. Talking with Luce and the dull pain that came with the tattoo made it easier for her to sit still, something she normally struggled to do. Even the daydream of a cruise would typically make her want to immediately jump into the ocean for a swim which was decidedly not so safe in White Crest. “I’d say I’d keep an eye out for raffles, but I’m pretty sure all the prizes in this town are also cursed. Fuck, it’d probably be a damn mime cruise.” Her face visibly cringed at the idea. It was okay that Luce didn’t want to talk and she would have shrugged if she hadn’t needed to sit still. “Everyone’s got shit to deal with. Offer still stands if you ever need it… or even just need someone to spar with. Not sure if you’re into that. I know Nell is. I think it helps.” While she knew Luce was right about this town being hard on people, she wasn’t sure she’d take back moving here. Even with all she’d lost, her and Celeste had both gained a lot, too. “I’m not,” she said surely. There wasn’t much she was sure of, but this she was. “As much as I miss Celeste, it was always just the two of us. She never had anyone to really talk to about things and she’d spent so much of her life trying to understand others. Make them feel seen and heard without ever really having that for herself and well, I think she may have found that in one of her friends here. I think maybe she finally got to be understood in ways I never really could.” She thought of Kaden fondly and knew he could relate to Celeste in ways she was never able to. In ways Celeste had deserved. She also knew Celeste wouldn’t want her to feel regretful. Though as much was easier said than done, she was trying. She added, “And I have so many people I love here, too. The loss, the pain-- it all sucks and some days it’s really  fucking hard, but there’s still so much good and so many people here I that I love.” 

 “Your girlfriend.” Luce echoed, doing her best to contain her shock. But it was impossible to keep the note of surprise from her voice. What the fuck was Ariana doing, dating someone like that? Not that… she could talk. Remmy had-- well. They’d never dated. Never really been anything. But, Remmy had been with her and they had been like Ariana. Someone good. Someone trying their best. So, what did that make her, then? “Sorry. I didn’t realize.” She said, hoping that the girl would leave it there. “I’m good.” She wasn’t, not by a long shot. But how could she explain to Ariana that she hated what she’d done? If Ariana was dating Athena, that meant something. And the fact she had wanted Lydia dead just as much as the Hunter meant more.”Thanks for the offer though.” She continued to run the machine along Ariana’s arm, the tip steady and constant as she made thin, precise lines. “It’s good. That you have people. It makes a difference in a place like White Crest.” Luce said because it felt like the right thing to say. She didn’t know. Not really. There were people here she loved, but at every turn, she’d run from them. “But yeah. It’s sure fucking hard here.”

 Ariana didn’t think too much of the surprise evident in Luce’s tone. After all, Athena was only just coming out to people and it probably came as a shock to most. She quickly added, “She’s only just starting to like really come out, but yeah, she’s my girlfriend.” Her voice was somewhat proud though the moment of pain that she had to force herself to sit still through got to her for a moment. Man, that soft side of the arm was not fun. Still, the buzzing of the tattoo machine was comforting in its own way. Then Luce said she was good and Ariana frowned slightly. Something in her doubted that, but she didn’t really know Luce well enough to push. “If you’re sure, the offer always stands. You and your sisters have always been good to me so you’re on the list of people I’d eat a mime for,” she cracked a small smile hoping to ease the mood a bit. It was clear Luce didn’t want to talk about things and she respected that, especially as the woman was currently drawing on her with a needle and all. She nodded in agreement, “It does. Makes all the other shit worth it. Not even sure where else I’d go, honestly. Plus, someone has to make sure Blanche eats food that’s not cheese balls.” Luce was right though. It was fucking hard. The last couple of months had given her some room to breathe and process all the grief, but there was still always that underlying fear when someone didn’t text her back right away that they were dead somewhere. “You got that part fucking right. But we’re tough, that’s why we make it here, right?” 

 Well. If they were dating, that had to mean that Ariana knew what Athena was, right? But, Luce swallowed as she wiped the excess ink away, Remmy had never known all of what Luce had done until it was too late. “I see. Well. Good for her.” Luce said, not really knowing how to reconcile this information. Ariana was a good kid, but Athena? Luce had been there, she’d seen how the girl had acted when they’d… taken care of Lydia. No, not taken care of. Who was she killed? Athena had killed Lydia and had convinced her to take part in it too. That unquestionable fact weighted heavily down upon her-- she’d helped get rid of Lydia. She’d burned her body from the face of the earth, wiped her existence clean. And she hadn’t had the right to do that. She could have lived with the promise she’d made to the Fae woman. But another town, other people, they would have been subjugated to the same horrors Lydia had brought here… 

 Clearing her throat, Luce focused back in on the conversation. “Trust me, you don’t need to go eating any mimes for me. Wouldn’t want you to go all stripey on me.” She said with an attempt at a grin. “It’s good to hear that Blanche’s got someone like you in her corner. That girl,” Luce said as she began to add in shading, running the machine over Ariana’s skin with a firm hand. “Gets into more than her fair share of trouble. But, I guess the same could be said for all of us.” Mulling over Ariana’s words, Luce shrugged. Months ago, she might have agreed. Being tough was all you needed, putting up a wall, handling things on your own was how you lived in this town. But now? “Sure is.” She said noncommittally. Changing the topic, Luce looked down at the tattoo. “I think we’re just about done with this. Just a bit more shading and we’ll be wrapped up.”

Ariana laughed a bit and refrained from shrugging, “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone all stripey. I know how to fix it now at least.” Humor was one way to look past the alarming parts of turning silent and stripey like a freaking mime. How they managed to do that was beyond Ariana, but she sure as fuck didn’t like it. There was another small laugh in regards to Blanche. Her knack for trouble could be amusing, but more than anything she was worried for her friend as of late. Even when she was striped, she barely even got a laugh out of Blanche. “Oh yeah, she’s a trouble magnet for sure, but like, same here. Maybe the town is just a trouble magnet.” She watched as Luce continued shading in and said they were just about done. A few more jokes were exchanged before Luce did the finishing touches. She looked down at it for a moment. The yellow almost as lively as Todd had once been, the perfect little tribute to the friend she should have been able to save. Something to carry with her every day to remind her to be better for all the Todds of the world. “It’s perfect,” she said softly before following her up to the counter to finalize payment. And it was, even if it left her with a sort of bittersweet feeling.

#wickedswriting #drawing daisies pushing daisies #luce #grief mentions #needles tw #domestic abuse mentions

[ahagia-sophia]

Story Time

Vlog? Episode 1: A Man of Constant Sorrow

 Hey guys, I’m Jacob. I’ve always wanted to do a sort of blog type thing. But, I could never figure out what I wanted to make it about, you know? I like history, mostly. But then again so does literally every white guy on the planet. [rambling] Not to say that my love of history is basic, or that anyone’s passions and interests are basic its just- Never mind, that’s not what we’re here for.

I had considered doing a history sort of thing, but I decided against it for various reasons. Sadly, I didn’t have any other passions that might be interesting to other people. At least, that’s what I thought. Until the other day when my friend was going on about how I was a central point in a lot of the stories he was telling his new girlfriend. Specifically, I was what he described as, ‘the unluckiest man on earth.’

And you know what? People love real stories. Stories of people having terrible no-good very bad times adventures. And buddy, I’ve gone on a few adventures. So, I figured I’d tell a story or two. Mostly because I really love telling stories, but also because I crave attention love entertaining people.

I have a few eye-catching stories, like; Getting Cornered In a Carpet Shop, Getting Robbed by a Rapist(?), Civil War Reenacting, The Rape Accusation, Accidentally Becoming A Harem Anime Protagonist, Being a Terrible Person, and others. But I thought I’d start with something relatively tame.

Jacob Utterly Fails and Gets Congratulated Publicly For It.

Okay so this one takes place in a small-town high school in 2015. Which should already set off some alarm bells for people who were in small-town high schools in 2015. It was senior year and I was the Battalion S-5 for our school’s Army JROTC branch. The S-5 was basically the media officer, and the place where you threw useless seniors who had stuck with the program for four years and hadn’t done anything that could get them thrown out. Which was me. I was seniors.

I was the pale skinny white kid in high school who had charisma, but was too angsty to use it, you know? I didn’t have any real self-confidence; I would flinch if someone threw a ball toward me while playing Sport. I listened to metal and Irish folk music. I spent all my time playing video games with my friends and actively pretending that the future didn’t exist.

                                   Here I am, in all my glory

Not much has changed.

Anyway, these qualities did not lend themselves to what was essentially a military recruitment program. What I did have going for me was an intense need to please authority figures and a slightly above average mind.

To fully demonstrate my inadequacy, allow me to take you back in time to the distant year of 2011 and lay out how I could not master walking.

This is not a joke.

One of the key components of JROTC is walking in straight lines in various directions and formations. This practice was called Drill. Drill cover such intense concepts as, ‘turn while standing still’ and, ‘turn while moving.’ These advanced maneuvers were, however, based on one simple principle. Walking. Specifically, the advanced form of walking referred to by professionals as, ‘walking without stepping on other people’s feet.’ Or, more concisely, ‘walking in step.’

I was utterly unable to do this. Just completely, totally, categorically unable to do this. Even with such helpful aids as a person walking next to me actively telling me which foot should be hitting the ground. I just could not do it. I would walk in step for a few paces and then immediately fall out of step and have to perform what is called a ‘change step’ which I interpreted at the time as kicking yourself in the back of the heel in order to skip and land back on the correct step. In hindsight I was probably supposed to just drag the heel of my foot. There’s an allegory in there somewhere.

So, I couldn’t master walking. This has been established. This has been abundantly established. And it had been established at the time too. Everyone knew that my drill scores were terrible. Everyone knew that I was very unable to walk. However, I aced the academic side of things, and managed to get my shit together enough to pass the Walking Final with a solid B+, which in retrospect was absolutely a pity grade from the students who were grading the final. My legacy of mediocrity was secured, and I advanced on to the next year.

I was given the coveted position of Assistant Squad Leader and the enviable rank of Cadet Sergeant. What this meant was that everyone acknowledged my lack of ability on the drill pad and also the fact that this wasn’t the real military and they couldn’t drum me out for gross incompetence. Very quickly, however, everyone came to realize that despite having absolutely no actual responsibilities, I was failing terribly in my task of ‘Be the guy at the front of the line while we walk.’ For all of the above-mentioned reasons.

This began my career as what soldierly-types would call ‘regimental bitch.’ I worked exclusively inside. I wrote memos for the Officers (read: upperclassmen), I did numbers for fundraisers, I made lists of names and T-shirt sizes, and generally fucked about in my new walking free paradise. For an entire school year, I was behind the scenes, only going outside for Inspection on Thursday’s.

This, of course, meant the everyone had forgotten that I no ability with the ordered walking. And what little ability I might have possessed had absolutely gone to rust as I spent the year (or two, my memory is hazy) hiding from the sun. (This was in Louisiana, so hiding from the sun was not as shameful as it could have been.) Logically, therefore, the higher up types decided that on one of the last drill days of the year good old Jacob should take the reins and march the assembled company (Class, about 30 people) in a straight line, a turn, and then another straight line.

Sub Story: How I Caused a 30-Person Pile Up, Literally

Pretty much what the title says, really. I was given command of the company. I said ‘Forward, March!’ and everyone started to walk forward. A result which I was completely unprepared for. They started walking, you know, at the pace the people walking in, like, a bit of a hurry would walk. Which was entirely too fast for me.

They walked far too fast. So fast that by the time they had reached the point where I was supposed to tell them to turn, I had completely lost the plot. And the front rank, in one of those moments of blind obedience that you can never recreate when you need blind obedience, walked directly into a brick wall. And then the rank behind them, and the rank behind them, and the rank behind them.

It was a slow-motion pile of human idiocy with me as its conductor. In that moment I could almost hear the the universe stand proudly from her director’s chair and loudly call, ‘Scene!’

I was never given command again.

Sub Story: A Principal’s Principles

Alright, its 2015 or so at this point. I’ve skulked my way up to Cadet Captain and a position of theoretical importance. It’s Veterans Day. I have to do exactly two things. Read a script and put people’s names on chairs. I’ve got this. There’s no possible way I could fuck this up, right?

Did you know that there are two different spellings for the word Principal? I sure didn’t. I was given a very sudden and unforgettable lesson when First Sergeant (one of the two JROTC instructors) burst into the office with my sins printed on paper and asked me if I had passed 3rd Grade spelling. (Which I had, but only because I cheated.) Picture a 6-foot-tall, well-muscled, angry veteran yelling at a pale white kid who flinched when stuff fell off the table. It is not a lesson that will ever leave my mind.

Thankfully, my spelling error was corrected before anyone important could see it. Crisis averted. Now I just had to deliver a speech about a table set for a soldier or something. I was literate, it didn’t have to be fantastic. There’s no way I could fuck this up, right? Well, two things. I had rehearsed this speech, but I had only rehearsed this speech alone with the script. Not with anyone who knew how the speech was supposed to sound. So, they dim the lights, the spotlight falls on the table in the center of the gym, and I read my speech. I gave a damn good speech. It was rousing, it was passionate, and I’m pretty sure I got genuine applause at the end of it.

However.

I stepped down from the podium, awash in the afterglow of a Genuine Success, when First Sergeant pulled me aside and in a very forced whisper informed me that this was supposed to be a somber speech given in mourning for those who would never come home.

Fuck.

It is a common theme in my life that if I do something really well, I have invariably done it wrong. This is a phenomenon that I first noticed in second grade when I proudly presented my beautiful handwriting (I normally have terrible handwriting) to the teacher only to be informed that I had spelled the word wrong.

Now whenever my handwriting looks particularly good, I double check all my spelling.

               It was around this time that it was unilaterally decided (without my consent) that Jacob would never be put in charge of anything ever again. Which was something that was honestly a long time coming. But still hurt when I was informed.

               It hurt my pride so much that I fought it. I fought it hard. I demanded, in no uncertain terms, that I should be in charge of the Very Big and Important Slideshow at the banquet that we hold at the end of the year.

Jacob Utterly Fails and Gets Congratulated Publicly For It.

This was no normal end of the year banquet. These were not your average cold beans and dry chicken. Oh no. I cannot fail during such a mundane affair. This was the year that Colonel, a much beloved man who had held the program together through sheer competence and wisdom, was retiring. This was his last banquet. This was his send off, the blow out, the thank you for all of his years of service and sage advice.

This meant that graduates of the program were coming in from across the country to send off their beloved father figure. And, on top of that, this banquet hadn’t really deviated from its standard form in the past few years. So absolutely everyone knew how this was going to go.

Food, Slideshow, Speeches, Send-off.

This is how the banquet had gone since like 2004. Perhaps earlier, I don’t really know.

I was, as a result of my own arguing and everyone else’s poor judgement, solely in charge of The Slideshow. You know, 1/4 of the entire evening was entirely at my mercy.

Two weeks before the big event I put together my slideshow. I spend hours on the stupid thing. I comb the picture archives from each of the ‘Companies’ and make sure that absolutely everyone appears in the slideshow at least once. Then I go through all the old photo albums and scan in a bunch of pictures of Young Colonel and stuff. To really just nail it, you know?

If you can see where this is going, kudos, because I somehow missed all the signs.

One week before the event I submit my flash drive to First Sergeant to make sure that everything checks out. He gives me some corrections and sends it back. I make the corrections and save it all on the flash drive.

I save it all on the flash drive and only on the flash drive.

Yeah.

The flash drive, as is the way of things, dies. Can’t access the files. Can’t open the power-point, can’t do anything. I spend a solid day trying to unfuck this situation before I admit defeat and tell everyone what’s happened. At this point we’re two or so days out from the banquet and there simply isn’t enough time to make a new one. The slideshow is cut from the evening, and literally every single senior wants to hang me by my guts. Which was fair.

We come to the night of the event, it goes pretty smoothly. I think that maybe I can just slide by and no one will ask questions about the mysteriously absent slideshow.

Boy was I wrong.

In front of all the graduating seniors a few of the returning cadets (probably in their mid/late 20s) publicly praise me for having the clout and balls to cut the slideshow out of the formula. As they had never liked it and thought it was a massive drag on the evening.

I’m pretty sure I’m still living under some of the curses that the other seniors hurled at me over that.

That’s it. That’s the story.

No one chewed me out, no one came to afterward to tell me what a useless idiot I was. No one said anything.

Which was probably the worst part. My general incompetence had become such a common feature in the JROTC program that everyone who actually knew what happened was just. Totally unsurprised.

#JROTC #High School #Blog #Vlog script #maybe

[lidoshka]

The conspiracy coarkboard

Me: *chilling out with a frozen coffee: @sheithbigmeme: starts Me: fuck that was today??

++++

And to think he started this day looking forward to seeing Keith.

Last movement they got a message from Keith, he needed to cross-reference some information with the castle archives and so he would be making a visit.

Ever since Keith left for the blades, there have been an empty space around the castle where Keith used to be, conversations where Lance of Pidge stopped for a second waiting for a witty or sarcastic remark that never came, people not using the training room at certain hours because those hours used to be Keith’s.

In Shiro’s case, the absence felt worse, there was a piece inside himself that was missing and he suspected he’d not feel whole again until he had Keith in front of him again. Shiro felt this lack of Keith every minute. He felt the loss when he was turning to his right and not finding his confidante, in the sleepless nights spent in the observatory without someone to talk to, and in the missing warm hand on his shoulder.

So when Keith’s ship landed and he immediately locked himself in one of the private rooms on the library with strict instructions not to be disturbed, Shiro was more than disappointed. He had so many things to say to Keith, so much of his feelings to confess...

In hindsight, he should have suspected Keith and his knack for throwing curveballs at him and his plans.

Keith showed in his room in the middle of the night cycle, for a few seconds Shiro thought he was dreaming, but his dreams had never been able to make justice to the beauty that was Keith.

“Keith!" he said as he jumped from the bed. “You’re here.”

“I’m here” god, his voice was deeper now.  He was still dressed in his blade uniform, allowing Shiro to see Keith’s lean musculature, “I have so much to tell you” Keith whispered.

God, having Keith's purple eyes on him made his heart beat faster.

“Me too” he said, happy that for once his dreams and his desires where in alignment.

“Not here”, said Keith as he took a step backwards and away from Shiro's arm, “someone can hear us”

“Then where? “

"Come” said Keith as he grabbed Shiro’s hand and pulled him into the hallway, away from the sleeping quarters and then all the way up to the Black Lion’s hangar.

“Here? Are you sure?” While he had thought about having an intimate moment together locked away in the lion’s cockpit once or twice he hand never actually dared imagine a scenario, it felt a little disrespectful since the lions have self-awareness.

“It’s the perfect place, no one can find us here.” Keith said as Black lowered her jaw.

“God Keith, are we making out or hiding a body" he joked, but the look Keith gave him was so dark that he aborted his laugh.

Keith dragged Shiro up the lion’s mouth and into the storage room and Shiro really wished he had stayed asleep.

Back on earth, Keith had a board with all the information he gathered about the energy readings and the blue lion. It had photos and newspaper clips and post it notes and even treads of yarn all over. Lance and Pidge called it a conspiracy board, and Shiro agreed with them, even though back then he was quite impressed with it. A visual aid to help him understand everything Keith had done and seen while Shiro was imprisoned. How Keith had cut newspaper articles that doubted the Garrisson’s stance about “pilot error” and how he mapped entire areas of the Arizona dessert. It was a fond memory for Shiro.

Now? Not so much.

“Keith, what’s all this?” he asked as he stared at Keith’s work. There were photos of Shiro –actual photos printed in paper- oh Shiro’s undercut and some closeups of Shiro’s eyes.

Meanwhile Keith was looking at him with an odd expression as he gripped his hands, “listen to me," he started, "this is something important that might change the way you see things," why was Keith talking like he was a nurse talking to a terminal patient?  "but I want you to know I’m going to help you and it’s going to be alright”

It was a conspiracy board.

About him.

And somehow Keith even got red yarn to string around the many colored papers; he couldn’t read the papers fully, but a few of them had a bigger font and said things like “Prosopagnosia,” “common signs of Capgras delusion,” “Systemic pH Changes and possible changes in Human Brain patterns” and “behavior altering parasites”  “you didn’t answer my question” he heard himself whisper.

“You’re not him” Keith said as he stared right at him, “you’re not Shiro. My Shiro”

“Excuse me?”

“I think Shiro’s body disintegrated in the battle against Zarkon, and you’re what’s left of his subconscious.”

“I’m- what? Keith, what are you talking about?” Shiro shook his head. There was a black hole in his stomach at it was becoming denser. What in the world? was this a prank? had Keith finally reached the limit of hours without sleep? this was not how he imagined a lover's getaway.

Apparently asking was all Keith needed and he took off. What followed was a 40-minute presentation about how the current Black paladin couldn’t be the same person who left for Kerberos. It ranged between how Shiro’s eyelashes were a different shape, how Shiro’s hair when he was captured had been way too long in contrast to the time he had been missing, how his scars had been removed –even though they had all assumed the glara has placed Shiro in some form of healing pod— and how his current demeanor was different that how Shiro used to behave.

“You must have noticed something odd” Keith said.

Right. Because that’s the logical hypothesis to make when you’re missing time.

“And you think this all points to me being a spy—“

“A sleeper agent: a spy knows what’s going on and is actively deceiving people around him and you don’t have the lying skills necessary to be spy. You’re a decoy to stops us from looking for the real Shiro at best, or a sleeper agent at worst.” Keith said and he leaned forwards, squinting at Shiro’s eyes, “do you hear other voices inside your head beside your own?"

“What? No I—"

“Do you have blackout periods during the day?”

“N—I—sometimes…”

“Aha.” There was a tilt on inflection on Keith’s voice, like Shiro’s lapses were suddenly the last evidence he need to confirm this… whatever it was.

Then Keith continued with the next section of his board, in which he addressed how the black lion had been hesitant to take him back, how the lights of the cockpit weren’t as bright as before and how silent Black had been recently.

And now Shiro was beginning to have his doubts, because while he could excuse Keith’s rambling as stress and maybe a lack of sleep, he had felt that hesitance in the black lion. Every time he moved the controls he felt a resistance that was impossible to ignore, like Black was reluctant to work with him but had to.

It made him feel inadequate. Like he had come back with something missing.

Shiro took a deep breath and let it go slowly, then he took another one.

“Ok,” said Shiro as he lifted his hands and pulled at his hair. “Ok, say you are right about” he waved his left hand at the board, “all this. But I’m still standing here, so if I’m not Shiro, then who am I? and where’s the ‘real’ Shiro?”

And the lion’s lights turned brighter. Now he could feel it too. It was Shiro, or something that felt like Shiro, permeating the whole room.

And Shiro –can he even call himself that?—began to cry.

Keith paused mid-explanation about how he suspected his arm—Shiro’s arm had been used to clone a body (god only know why the galra wanted that) to look at him.

“Hey… hey,” Keith said as he kneeled in from of him and cupped his faced between his hands, “just because you’re not the original Shiro doesn’t mean you’re not him, or at least a part of him.”

And then Keith kissed him.

“I love you, I love ever part of you two.” Keith smiled at him, the same soft smile he remembered, even though he had just spent the last hour twisting everything he knew and his sense of self. “Don’t worry, we will figure it out. I’ll help you find any of your missing parts.”

Really what else was there to do but dumbly nod?

 ---

Notes: I have no idea how people write humor without somehow ending up with something halfway serious, but suddenly I have more respect for every author out there.

:P

#voltron legendary defender #fanfiction #Shiro #space twin #Keith Kogane #sheithbigmeme #mis trazos

[hooverbooks]

Henry hoover and the fantastic threesome- chapter 2

 (Henry pov)

With no artificial light available in the long-abandoned Clarence’s, it was added to the tradition that the ‘Eighteenth Hoover Dinner’ was to be held when the light shone just right through the window – casting an ethereal glow about The Break Room (which had been decorated more extravagantly than usual for the special occasion). I noticed, with a certain degree of nervousness and somewhat embarrassment, that a few other Hoovers were already seated – of course, George and Edward were there; sneering as they always did, a Hoover who was the most recent arrival to the clan, a foreigner, that I knew as Nuvac and another that I did not recognise…but my attention was stolen immediately by his perfect shine and air of ‘newness’ I was staring, I could tell but I couldn’t keep my eyes off of this mysterious stranger. It was Hetty who drew me out of my contemplation with her lilting, sweet tone, “I apologise for our lateness, sirs”

It suddenly occurred to me that I was in the presence of The Elders and that I probably shouldn’t be looking this mystery boy up and down, considering their old-fashioned views about such things. Flushing, I gave a sort of curt nod to signify my most humblest apologies and slid into my seat beside Hetty – who was batting her eyelashes and smiling at The Elders. I hadn’t really looked at them, not since I was a young boy, so I took the time to smile graciously and take in their features. Seven of them sat at the head of the gathering – three of them had earned their status with missing features; one who was missing an eye, another was a mute with his entire mouth missing and the other had no facial features to speak of (rumours had floated around of ‘printing errors’ but no Hoover was stupid enough to say so in their presence) The other four Elders showed damage beyond repair. One, at the very head of the table was missing his nozzle – a terrible tragedy that he refused to speak of but was greatly respected for. A Hoover without a nozzle was no Hoover at all

Averting my gaze, uncertainty creeping up on me once again my mind turned to the problems I might face tonight…but the gathering turned to polite conversation that I wasn’t really paying attention to and I’d vouch neither were many others. The questions that tonight posed kept turning over and over and over in my head, tumbling into one huge interrogation that I didn’t think I could bear to face…explaining to The Elders was horrific enough but having to do it in front of George and Edward was a new form of torture. I was zoning out, if one of them asked me a question I would have looked up dumbly, desperately grasping for an answer…so maybe it was lucky for me that someone else drew my attention with just a subtle flicker of movement

The stranger across the table had winked at me…just the once before he turned his attention back to The Elders, feigning interest in whatever subject they were broaching (probably more talk about agreements with the Dysons, they had been crossing over into our territory more frequently as of late) But that wink was undeniable

Hetty was glazing over at the dull political talk, So I nudged her – surely, she would find this to her taste. She turned those huge eyes on me, confused but didn’t come nearer – forcing me to lean in and whisper purposefully, “You see that guy across from me…” Her eyes scanned the room before falling upon the target of my attention, “Yea…yea that one…do you know his name?” You would have thought I’d asked her if the sky was grey because she simply looked at me with a furrowed brow and whispered back, savagely, “It’s on his head Henry can you now fucking read?” It seemed a pretty obvious answer, but I spoke anyway, smiling at her a little, “No Hetty…I’m a Hoover…none of us can read?” I didn’t think to question how she could at the time, but she answered with a sight nevertheless, “It’s Harry…his name is Harry”

I nodded, pleased to have received this valuable information…so Harry was his name – it had a nice ring to it, simple but still charming in its own way. I had been busy staring at Harry, entranced and enthralled before I realised he was staring back with hooded, playful eyes. It happened on instinct, it’s very rare you find another gay Hoover after all, but without a second thought I winked back and flexed my nozzle, trying to impress him with the freshly shined power I exuded…all six-hundred and twenty watts of it. My scheming had worked because I saw his pallor flush pink at the sight, a wry smile aimed in my direction

Our exchange was just beginning to get interesting when one of The Elders, the one who was missing an eye, addressed me directly, “So Henry…when do you plan on marrying dear Hetty here? We’re all waiting for the big day!” Hetty couldn’t supress her laughter entirely, letting out a snigger that she disguised as a dainty cough but the more important, pressing issue about that question was Harry looking away with a look that could only be described as disappointment smothering the pink in his cheeks. Collecting myself and drawing a deep breath, I answered as well as I could manage, “Well…the thing is I-uh I…I don’t plan on marrying Hetty…and she doesn’t plan on marrying me…” A ripple of shock reverberated throughout the room with a small comment amidst the disturbance that sounded vaguely like George and possible consisted of the words, ‘gay lord’. It was another of The Elders who rebuked my statement, a look of horror twisting his features, “But surely Henry you will not find a more beautiful and suitable woman than Hetty? What possess’ you?” I swallowed nervously and attempted to explain, “I don’t deny her beauty sir…it’s just…if I am to marry anyone then it won’t be Hetty…or any other…female…for that matter…”

Edwards hoot filled my ears, causing my cheeks to burn viciously as he mumbled, “How does it feel being lord of the gays?” It seemed none of The Elders had heard his words because confusion still seemed to pool behind their eyes, “But…Hetty is the epitome of female beauty…how could you resist it Henry! Have you been driven mad boy!” My gaze dropped, embarrassed of how drawn out this conversation had been, “Not man sir…just…gay” It was as if they were deaf because yet again, they didn’t seem to hear what I had been saying and instead settled for an ‘encouraging’ response, “Well…I’m sure you’ll come to see her as an appropriate suitor sooner or later, young man” And with that, the conversation was done, and the dinner continued without another mention of marriage

It was only after dinner had come to its conclusion that things started looking up. I was engaging in a rather interesting conversation with Nuvac who kept repeating with various degrees of stressing, “Vy gey? Vse v poryadke Genri!” but to no avail…Russian was a language completely indistinguishable to me. It was only when I was leaning in close to hang on his every word and at least try to understand what he was telling me that I happened to glimpse Hetty at the far side of the room talking to none other than Harry. My transformer dropped in fear at the prospect of Hetty conversing with someone who was quickly becoming a crush and with a quick, apologetic smile and a breathless, “Would you excuse me for a moment Nuvac?” The foreign Hoover nodded and shouted after me in heavily accented Russian, “Idi za svoim chelovekom!”

Rushing away at breakneck pace, I caught Hetty saying goodbye to Harry and almost crashed into her on the way to intervene, “What in Clarence’s name do you think you’re doing? Are you insane? Has your transformer packed up?!” Hetty simply laughed and approached the subject nonchalantly, “What! I only asked him out for you!”

I could have melted on the spot

My voice came out as a whisper-scream, frantic and high-pitched, “You did what?! Hetty have you lost your dust?! How you could you even do that you met the guy literally twenty minutes ago and you’re already proposing dates for me! What did he say?! I want to know what he said!” She gave me a smile which only served to fuel my rising panic put placed her nozzle reassuringly on mine, “Calm down Henry…he was very eager to go out with you, there was just one condition” I didn’t bother asking what it was, I knew she would tell me anyway just from the frazzled expression on my face and, she did indeed, oblige, “He’ll go out with you…if you ask him yourself”

I chanced one last look back at Hoover that had been the focus of all my attention that night and saw him give me that same wink he had at the dinner, a taunting display of the chase that he so clearly loved…and I would have to pursue if I wanted to get to know this stranger.

#henry hoover #hooverbooks book 1 #hoovers #gay #gay love

[artificialqueens]

Maybe We’re Helping Each Other Escape (Bengela)- Ortega

A/N: it’s crazy how fast i can work on something if the idea niggles away at me for long enough, i do much of my writing on google docs on train journeys, and i have three days off work because of the bastarding snow. welcome to whatever this is- technically it’s set within the Just The Game We’re In universe but i have tried my best to make sure it can be read standalone. i’m no good at summaries, so this was based off the idea i had the other day when i got asked about Game headcanons:

“i don’t think i’ve given Dela a role in Game so far so OF COURSE she’s the new flirty intern at the Daily Mail who gets put under Shangela’s wing and who makes Shangela very nervous because she works for the Daily Mail and she should not be having these feelings towards female colleagues”

((if you’re American and struggling with the whole idea of the Daily Mail as a newspaper, compare it to ummmmmm idk some media outlet that Trump really loves))

Shangela never thought her journalistic career would peak with her writing a 1,000 word article about the Prime Minister’s wife’s cankles, but she supposed the only way was up. Finishing the final sentence and emailing it to her senior editor to get it haphazardly checked for spelling, grammar and rogue left-wing views, Shangela took a sip of her coffee only to find it cold. Damn. She was annoyed that there were no young, terrified work experience girls to get her another. Rising from her desk chair, she grabbed her cup and made her way to the small office kitchen. Many of her friends had asked her why she took the job at the Daily Mail and she’d often reply lightheartedly, laughing something about being broke and having no morals. But as she passed by desk after desk in the small, stifled office she worked in, she found her heart sinking as it did every other day. The part about her being broke, there was truth in that- there wasn’t a whole lot that a third in Communication, Media and Culture from Oxford Brookes could get you in the world of journalism. She’d had her sights set on the BBC, but that had been for the Raja Geminis of this world, and Shangela still bristled when she saw her on the ten o'clock news remembering how the girl had befriended her for her study notes when they were in first year together. She now understood how brutal the industry could be and how easy it was to be backstabbed, but at the time eighteen-year-old Shangela just thought she’d made a friend. That was until the head of her faculty called her into a meeting to discuss plagarism allegations, and revealed that her final essay had been very similar, almost identical in fact, to Raja’s, the very same essay that Shangela had sent to her to look over to help her out. Raja’s had just been “more finessed” as they had put it. In the end, Shangela’s essay was void- 0% for an essay worth 80% of her grade for that module, dragging her down from being on course for a first class degree to having to settle for a third.   BBC out the window, Shangela had set her sights on ITV, Channel 4, fuck, even Channel 5 received an application. Hearing nothing back she’d started to lower her expectations and set her sights on print journalism- The Times, The Telegraph, The Guardian. Then once she got the rejection emails from them, she begrudgingly scraped the very bottom of the barrel- The Sun, The Star, and The Daily Mail. She got a job offer from the lesser of three evils- as an editor for the section of the website dedicated to women, “Femail”- and before she knew it, she’d been trapped in the same pink offices for two years. But it was better than sitting in a freezing cold Soho flat struggling to pay the rent. Morals, though, that was still a problem. No amount of money could buy those away, and it still stung whenever she had to write an article about whose dress looked the most like a dehydrated camel’s turd at whatever awards ceremony. She’d love to be writing on the situation in Gaza and she’d love even more to be researching the emerging refugee crisis in Syria, but that was Raja’s domain. Shangela’s domain was different entirely. At least she was writing, she reminded herself, as she got to the small kitchen, washed out her mug and spooned in more coffee granules. Flicking the switch on the kettle, she was surprised when her senior editor entered the kitchen, looking as smug as he always did as if he was constantly being reminded of the gender pay gap. In his hand he held what Shangela recognised as her article- same paragraph structure and indents, but with a green highlighter across one sentence. Stiffening, she struggled to hold in her annoyance- that had to be a record for most skim-read proofreading of all time, and it hadn’t even been as much as five minutes since she had emailed the article to him. “So um, Shangie…babe. The article’s brilliant. Just a little problem with your grammar on paragraph two.” Trying to suppress her rolled eyes at the nickname she hated, Shangela examined the highlighted text on the printed sheet in front of her. Narrowing her eyes, she looked up at her editor. “Um. What’s the issue here?” Her boss took the paper from her and read from it in faux-patience. “From beneath the ankle strap, the fat gained from the baby weight four years ago tried to escape from its fleshy prison.” Cringing, Shangela screwed up her face. “And?” “You missed the apostrophe in ‘it’s’.” “No I didn’t,” Shangela explained calmly. “An apostrophe in this case means that two words have been combined to make one. ’It is’ becomes 'it’s’. Its with no apostrophe is possessive. So, “from it is fleshy prison” makes no sense.” The editor gave a sort of choked laugh. “They really taught you a lot at Oxford Brookes, huh?” Shangela found herself casting her eyes to the floor. Her skin prickled as if she’d been stung. Working up her dignity again, she met her boss’ eye. “I do pride myself on knowing basic grammar, Sir.” The senior editor slid the piece of paper slowly out of her hands. “Well I’m your superior and I’m saying that your basic grammar is wrong. So just fix that up and the article should be good to go. Okay?” Shangela simply gave a curt nod, swallowed, and returned to her desk. The Prime Minister’s wife was a lovely woman, too. It was unfair that she had to be eviscerated by the media like this, for something as shallow as her appearance. But it was in Shangela’s job description, and so it would be done.

Settling down at her desk and resentfully changing correct grammar to an error, she felt her eyes flicker above the monitor screen to see some sort of activity in the office. Gia from Fashion was showing around a girl- looking to be around Shangela’s age, or perhaps younger. Her hair was in a neat beehive which fell over her shoulders, long and straight and dark with a sort of gloss to it that Shangela thought only existed in Pantene adverts. Her makeup was simple- a sort of 60’s cat eye with some light blusher and simple pink lipgloss on her lips which were currently set in a smile as she greeted Delta who sat one row in front of her. She wore a pink dress patterned with yellow flowers, and Shangela wondered why she was bothering to notice so much about her. Narrowing her eyes, she swirled her chair around to her left to face Vivienne, the colleague at the desk beside her and possibly the only person Shangela got on with at work.

“Vivienne,” she hissed in a sort of hushed whisper, causing the other girl to turn from whatever she had been working on and flip her hair over her shoulder to listen. “Who is that that Gia’s showing around?”

The other girl rolled her eyes. “Some new intern they got. Journalism graduate apparently. I’m not convinced as to her authenticity. Look at how she’s going round the office. I’ve never seen anyone smile that much.”

“Well it’s the right attitude to have if you want to be a journalist. Be equally fake to everyone,” Shangela considered, shrugging slightly as she watched the girl. Vivienne was right- she hadn’t once broken her smile since Shangela had set eyes on her, which she found intriguing. Watching Gia turn and face her way, Shangela got a shock as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. Trying to focus on her article, she blocked out her peripheral vision until the two women were right beside her desk.

“Shangela,” Gia’s voice forced Shangela to acknowledge them. “I’d like you to meet Dela, she’s our new intern and she’ll be staying with us for a couple of months.”

Shangela cast her gaze up to meet the perfectly lined pair of blue eyes smiling back at her. Up close, the girl was relatively pretty, but she couldn’t shake the annoyance of having someone just waltz into an internship right after they graduated meanwhile she had to practically beg the Daily Mail to give her a job. Swallowing her slight jealousy, Shangela forced a smile.

“Nice to meet you,” she offered a hand for the other girl to shake, only to be taken aback by her enthusiastically strong grip.

“It’s so good to meet you too! I’ve heard lots about you and read so much of your work. It’s a real honour getting to work beside you!” the girl gushed, the blush on her cheeks going a little pinker as she let go of Shangela’s hand. Shangela felt like blushing herself, taken aback that the girl seemed to have done her research so thoroughly. “Well I’m not exactly sure how much of an honour it is getting to work alongside the author of that show stopping article Floral Shirts to Work- A Yes or a No?, but I’m sure you’ll take something from it.”

Something inside Shangela lit up when Dela responded with a snort and a small giggle concealed under her hand. Gia, however, was not as easy-going and just stared Shangela down with an unimpressed glare. Great. That was a disciplinary on the cards, clearly.

“Well, by the by, since Jackie isn’t coming back from maternity leave anytime soon I said it would be fine if Dela had her desk, meaning she’ll be working beside you and Vivienne. That all okay?”

The resentment tipped over inside Shangela’s stomach again out of nowhere, Dela suddenly feeling like new competition for her. She couldn’t give anything away though, so she simply smiled and nodded.

“Good. I’ll leave you to it- I’ve given Dela a login and email address as well as some articles to proofread, but if she has any questions I trust you’ll handle them?”

Shangela bit her tongue and restrained herself from saying something about having an intern palmed off onto her, but again just nodded. Gia said a polite goodbye to Dela and then flounced off, Shangela’s face immediately setting into a scowl as she left.

“Have fun guarding the gates of Hades,” she muttered, unwittingly loud enough for Dela to hear and laugh.

“You’re a funny one, Angela. I think we’ll get along just fine,” she smiled, Shangela instantly annoyed at the misconception of her name.

“Shangela. We’ll get along even better if you get my name right,” she deadpanned, the other girl just blushing slightly and laughing apologetically.

“My bad. Sorry. Lots to take in, you know?”

Shangela raised an eyebrow and smiled briefly, although she couldn’t help but feel her defences were being worn down by Dela’s constant cheerful demeanor. Looking at her full coffee cup and then at the annoyingly smiley girl, a sly thought took place in her mind- power play. There was no way that Shangela was having this intern see herself on the same plane as herself.

“Hey, Dela? I’ve got a job for you,” she smiled, injecting cheer into her voice and feeling momentarily guilty at the way the other girl whizzed round in her wheely chair, eagerness painted over her face.

“Sure!”

“Would you mind possibly getting me a coffee?”

Dela’s smile faltered slightly as she gestured to the preexisting cup on Shangela’s desk. “Absolutely! But, um…you do already have one?”

Shangela kept her smile level as she gave a throwaway glance at the cup. “Yep, got that. Registered that. I’d just love another- long day, and I need a lot of caffeine to get me through it, you know?”

Still slightly confused, Dela nodded and dutifully made her way towards the kitchen. Turning back to her screen, Shangela smiled. She had one up on her now, and she would now know who was in charge.

Something that felt like guilt seemed to poke at her stomach, but later she’d conclude that it was probably just down to the fact she’d skipped breakfast that morning.

***

As the weeks went by, Shangela couldn’t work out if Dela was slowly growing on her or trying to annoy her to death. It started with the mornings- Shangela would walk into the office to find that yes, Dela was still there and no, unfortunately she hadn’t been taken out by a passing truck on the way into work. The intern would flash her a beaming smile, give her a cheerful good morning, and then, Shangela had noticed, would proceed to give her a different compliment every day. Sometimes it would be her makeup, sometimes her perfume, sometimes her hair or clothes. She couldn’t work out if the girl was a fake bitch or just aggressively nice, but the main thing that stumped her was why she was always so chirpy in the mornings. By about halfway through week two, Shangela snapped and decided to ask her.

“Is there a reason why you’re always so damn bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 8am?” she borderline hissed, glaring at her. Dela sort of shrugged apologetically and then pointed to a bright pink keep cup.

“…coffee?” she guessed, then lifted up the keep cup and gave it a little shake. “In fact I’m almost out. Can I get you any?”

As Shangela shrugged off her coat and made to sit down at her computer, she found herself giving Dela a look. She’d just admittedly been pretty rude to her, and here she was offering her a coffee. Surely the girl had to be a droid or some shit? Holding her gaze and noticing again how blue her eyes were, Shangela simply nodded and held out her cup. Dela smiled back.

“Black, two sugars, right?” she asked, pausing for a second. It had been weird that she’d remembered that as well, but then Shangela supposed she did make her a coffee every day. Then it had occurred to her that the only time she’d ever had to ask Dela for one was that first day, and ever since then the girl had offered. Not really completely sure how to address the information that had just registered with her, she only nodded again. Dela gave a little nod back and made to walk away, before looking at her again and casually saying, “Your eye makeup’s lovely today, by the way. Really brings out your eyes.”

As the intern walked away, Shangela blinked a little self-consciously and began her work.

It continued the next again week. Shangela had been warming to Dela and, though she tried not to speak to her much during the day, sometimes she’d be subjected to a small anecdote about what her turtles had been up to (she, for some unknown reason, had pet turtles), sometimes she’d have to fix some sort of email or Microsoft Word-related problem for her, and sometimes she’d ask Shangela about her life. When she thought about it, Shangela supposed there wasn’t a whole lot to tell- work basically was her life, that and her Mum.

“So, um. No other half then?” Dela had asked without much expression, Shangela bristling in response.

“I hate that term. ‘Other half’. Like I’m me, I’m not incomplete in some way, you know? It’s stupid,” she rolled her eyes, thoroughly unimpressed. For the first time ever, Dela seemed anything other than bright and upbeat.

“I’ll take that as a no,” she raised her eyebrows and continued typing away. Shangela somehow regretted barking at Dela. By way of extending an olive branch, she turned and faced her.

“What about you, there a man in your life?”

Dela gave an inexplicable snort and shook her head tersely. “Nope. And there won’t be one for a very long time. Possibly ever.”

Shit. Shangela regretted asking even more- Dela had clearly been the victim of a messy breakup and her heart was obviously still broken from some dickhead ex. Clearing her throat, Shangela wanted somehow to make things better. Giving the girl a genuine smile, she gave an apologetic shrug.

“What do you say to keeping the subject off-limits for both of us and pretending this conversation never happened?”

Dela’s smile was suddenly back, and Shangela didn’t know why that made her heart light up, but it did. “I’d like that very much.”

Sure enough, the both of them kept to their word and didn’t bring the topic up again. But Shangela did find herself starting to engage in actual conversation with Dela a lot more often. She’d even venture to say she enjoyed hearing her stories and liked being asked her opinion on things, and it actually turned out they had a few things in common. It was the sort of thing that she was maybe missing out on, having never been able to commit to a boyfriend before. Really, she’d always just been too focused on work, and it was nice to just talk to someone else. She started to look forward to seeing Dela at work, just for the conversation.

Shangela turned up to work one day on a chilly day in September, about a month into Dela’s internship. By this point, she no longer really remembered what had ever annoyed her about Dela and genuinely enjoyed her company. Arriving at her desk, she was disappointed to find an empty chair where Dela usually sat. To her intrigue, however, there was a printed sheet of paper on top of her own keyboard- paragraphs of typed black with pink highlighted words and sections and scribbled notes all over it. Stuck on top of it was a pink sticky note, identical to the post-it notes that sat on Dela’s desk. Shangela picked up the paper and read the note.

About three minutes later she finally found Dela in the kitchen after frantic and furious searching. She’d seemed happy to see Shangela initially, but her face fell when she saw her expression- hot anger flushed against Shangela’s cheeks and her face was set in a scowl as she crushed the paper in her hand.

“What is this?!”

Dela blinked a couple of times, looking first at Shangela and then to the paper in her hand. “Well it’s like I said…I just proofread it and tweaked it a little. I just thought I’d be helping…I’m sorry that you don’t like it-”

Frustrated, Shangela crumpled her own article up into a ball and launched it into the bin. She turned to Dela with dark eyes, all warmth she’d ever felt towards the girl completely gone.

“Don’t ever fuck with my work again, or I’ll make it my business to get your internship cut as short as it possibly can. Got it?” she snapped, earning a sheepish nod from Dela. Fuming, she walked out of the kitchen and out of the office, being unable to bear being in the same building as Dela. She was so annoyed, so angry that a girl on an internship thought she could just waltz in and start editing the articles of someone that had worked there for almost three years. It took her all the way back to university, to her plagarism hearing. Just because Raja had changed a few words her essay was “more finessed”, just as Dela thought she was finessing her article. Shangela didn’t get to where she was today without any talent.

Fuck her, she thought, as she reached Starbucks and ordered herself the most poisonous, inky-black-looking coffee available.

As she sat and sipped at it and looked out the window, though, she felt her own words starting to chip away at her. Had she been too harsh? No- Dela had no business interfering where she didn’t have any right. She said she’d been trying to help. Maybe she genuinely wanted to. With the smallest stab to her heart, Shangela thought back to how kind and happy the girl always seemed. Fake? No- there was no way someone could keep up that charade for that length of time. As time ticked on and her cup became drained, Shangela began to feel more and more as if she’d kicked a puppy. Sighing and rising from her seat, she made her way back to the office. Dela still wasn’t at her seat and Shangela wondered if she’d ever returned. Making her way to the kitchen, she looked in the bin and plucked out the ball of paper. Opening it up, she began to read over her article, looking at the things Dela had written in.

Shit. She’d fucked up.

She hurried along the office in her heels, hoping that Dela was back so she could talk to her. She wasn’t. Mind in overdrive, Shangela went to the second most probable place and found herself at the ladies’ toilets a few moments later. To her horror, she could hear a quiet sniffing coming from the only locked cubicle.

She paused before speaking. “Dela?”

The sniffing stopped abruptly, but there was no sign of the door opening. Sighing, Shangela’s heart sank as she looked at the ceiling. “Look, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. I was a total asshole.”

She paused. Still nothing. “I read the changes you made. They were really good. It was pretty poorly-written if I’m being honest so, thanks for making it better. And despite what I said, I do appreciate it.”

Another pause with no movement from inside the cubicle. Shangela could almost feel herself getting frustrated again, but she took a deep breath. “Look, can you please just come out of the cubicle so that we can talk, because I’m starting to get nervous that the person in here isn’t actually Dela.”

There was a beat of silence before the lock turned and Dela emerged from the cubicle, her cheeks red and puffy from crying and small specks of mascara dotted around her eyes. Shangela felt like a Grade A shit.

“I’m sorry- I don’t know why I’m crying, I’m such an idiot,” Dela started, her face flushing redder from embarrassment. Shangela shook her head.

“No, don’t be sorry. I’m sorry. For being such a dick.”

Dela smiled sadly. “I guess I just thought I’d made a friend.”

A sudden thud caught in Shangela’s heart. “I mean, I’m not that great at the whole friendship thing on the whole.”

Dela gave a small laugh. “Clearly.”

“But I mean…I guess I could try?” Shangela said hesitantly, earning another smile from Dela. Christ, she was so glad her smile was back.

“We could start with a hug?”

“It’d be a start.”

Returning her smile, Shangela walked forward into Dela’s open arms and wrapped her own arms around her, giving her a little squeeze. She was so glad she’d been forgiven, and felt relieved as she relaxed a little and rested her head on the other girl’s shoulder. She felt inexplicably safe.

The hug was eventually broken. Shangela smiled at Dela and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Come on, bitch. Tell me more about how shit my writing is.”

As Dela howled with laughed, it occured to Shangela that Dela had been the one to break the hug, and she didn’t know why that bothered her.

***

The next fortnight was filled with what Shangela was overjoyed to find was a real friendship. They messaged outside of work hours, laughed and chatted at work and went for lunch together. Dela just made Shangela happy in ways she couldn’t remember anyone ever doing before. There was a certain element of excitement to it- the butterflies she’d get whenever Dela had sent her a new message, or the anticipation she’d feel walking into work and knowing they’d see each other. It was nice.

Today, though, was a little more nervewracking. Tomorrow she was interviewing a Cabinet Minister, Sharon Needles from the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship, and she wanted to make sure she was completely prepared. It had been a long time since she’d interviewed anybody. As Shangela arrived in the morning, she vented all of her feelings to Dela.

“You’ll be absolutely fine. You’ve got all your questions, right?” she asked her, Shangela rolling her eyes and gesturing to the editor’s office.

“I’ve got all MY questions. I need to get them vetted from HIM. He’ll probably make me ask all sorts of embarrassing, sexist bullshit.”

Dela laughed then blinked, a little shocked. “Wait, really?”

“Dela, come on, girl. We work for the Daily Mail. Offensive shit is their currency.”

The other girl shrugged in acceptance. “Still, I never thought they’d actually ask people blatant stuff like that.”

“It’s bullshit.”

There was a small pause in which Shangela considered the venom behind her words. Dela seemed to be considering the same thing. “So how come you work here?”

Because I’m broke and I have no morals? Shangela sighed. “Because I couldn’t get a job at any other media outlet and I have no integrity.”

Dela gave a half-hearted laugh as Shangela realised how much more serious she sounded than she’d meant to. Giving a suspicious gaze around the office, Dela then moved her chair closer to Shangela.

“I sort of feel the same. Given the choice, I wouldn’t be working in a newspaper like this. It’s all that accepted me, though, so I have to just go along with the narrative of whatever they want me to write and stick it out until my internship is over.”

Shangela ran her tongue over her teeth. “You and me both, girl.”

Feeling as if the conversation had taken a sort of dark left turn, Shangela inched her chair away slightly and tried to think of a different topic. Seemingly getting the same vibe, Dela smiled and spontaneously took Shangela’s hand.

“Whatever they make you ask her at the interview, I know you’ll nail it. It’s impossible not to like you,” she beamed, giving Shangela’s hand a squeeze then returning to her work without waiting on a response.

Shangela didn’t know why, but she felt disappointed.

That was until about 10 at night when she was getting ready to go to sleep and her phone pinged from her bedside table. Turning rapidly over in bed, Shangela read the message.

D: Good luck for tomorrow! You will be amazing. Anything I can do, phone me xx

And Shangela’s heart was soaring again, and she couldn’t really explain why.

***

The day of the interview arrived, and Shangela woke up full of nervous energy. She was so excited at the thought of getting to interview an actual politician, when the pinnacle of the Daily Mail was usually the latest twat off I’m A Celebrity. The speed of her heart thrumming in her chest only increased when, just as she was about to leave her flat, her phone buzzed with a text from Dela.

D: I’m getting us pastries before work because I know you won’t eat. You can thank me with cocktails after work xx

Shangela couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face as her fingers flew across the screen texting back.

S: Alllllllllright!!! xx

As she hopped onto the tube and made her way to Notting Hill, her anticipation grew and grew wondering what her day would bring.

It turned out the first thing it brought was being practically met at the door by her senior editor, who was holding a small poly pocket with paper inside.

“Good morning, Shangie. You’re looking very lovely this morning,” he smiled nauseatingly. Shangela grimaced at him. She didn’t know why, but she felt as if she’d feel a whole lot better if Dela was with her at this moment. Really, she was the only person Shangela cared to receive compliments from nowadays.

“Thanks,” she replied briefly. “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah, these questions for Sharon Needles today…not quite cutting it. We want to reach out to women, not completely alienate them by boring them with politics.”

Shangela narrowed her eyes. “But…she’s a politician. So what else should I ask her about?”

“Things that women want to read about. Her love life! Her fashion! Makeup tips! You know?” the editor laughed, handing the unimpressed girl the poly pocket. “Look, I’ve got some new questions for you. They’re much more suitable for the vibe we’re going for here. No need to thank me!”

Shangela’s heart sank with disappointment as she read the first few questions. “Forgive me if I’m sounding a little naive, but you know that women can actually engage with and understand politics, right?”

The editor gave a smirk. “You write for Femail, Shangie. Not the New Statesman. Know your place.”

With that, he walked away, leaving Shangela standing at the office door and looking blankly at the questions in her hand. She was angry, but most of all she was upset. Her editor was right- although she was an editor too, it was only for the crappy, sexist supplement of a total bigoted mess of a publication. What the fuck was she doing here? Looking through the glass, she could see Dela at her desk working away, and two pastries and a coffee sitting on her own desk. In her emotional state, Shangela felt a lump rising in her throat. She swallowed, cleared her throat then blinked a couple of times before pushing open the door.

“Hey!” Dela smiled up at her, before Shangela watched her face fall as Dela saw the anger painted on her face. “Oh shit, are you alright?”

Shangela wordlessly shook her head and sat down, Dela fixing her with a look of sympathy.

“If it helps, you look really good today?” she offered. For some reason, it did help. Sighing, Shangela tossed the poly pocket onto Dela’s desk.

“Have a read of them,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “That’s the questions my senior editor wants me to ask Sharon Needles later on today.”

As she read, Dela’s eyes grew a little wide. Finishing the first page, she snorted with laughter. “I’m sorry. That’s laughably bad.”

“Right?! I can’t believe I actually have to go in there and ask them,” Shangela sighed, throwing her head back against her chair. She was jolted back to reality when she felt a warm hand rest on her arm, and her eyes flew open to find Dela looking at her.

“Hey. This doesn’t mean that you can’t put yourself across as at total sweetheart, because you are a total sweetheart. Now eat your damn croissant and drink your coffee.”

Once again, Dela seemed to know just what to say to put the smile back on Shangela’s face. “You’re the sweetheart for all of this. Thanks.”

Dela simply looked at the ground bashfully. She could have been blushing- Shangela couldn’t really see from the way her dark hair hung over her face- but if she was being honest, Shangela was blushing a little too. Smiling to herself and reaching forward, she took a sip of the coffee that Dela had bought her.

“Fuck, that’s bitter.”

“Ugh, I told them to put more sugar in it. You sit there, I’ll get you more.”

As Shangela smiled after Dela while she walked to the kitchen, she became aware of somebody’s eyes on her. Turning around in her chair, she saw Vivienne.

“Can I help you?”

Vivienne smiled apologetically, then leaned on her desk. “Shangela. Be careful.”

Shangela blinked. “What?”

“Look, I get that you and Dela have this cute gal pal thing going on, but just…if you don’t want people to talk, then tone it down.”

“Talk? What could they-” Shangela began, but trailed off. Was Vivienne trying to imply that people were thinking that she and Dela were together? Self-conscious, Shangela cast an eye over the office. “Oh, no, that’s really not- there’s nothing going on. I don’t feel…like that. Towards other women.”

Giving her a sympathetic look, Vivienne continued. “What you choose to do in your private life is none of my business, girl, but just…be careful. You work for the Daily Mail. That’s all I’m saying.”  

As Vivienne turned back to her work, Shangela stared at her blank computer screen, a small feeling of sickness taking root in her stomach. She didn’t feel that way about girls. And sure, she got excited to see Dela and always looked forward to the time they spent together and felt happy and warm whenever she texted her, but that was just what friendship was, right?

It wasn’t exactly as if Shangela had anything to compare it to.

Pushing down the slight nausea she was feeling, Shangela powered up her monitor and tried her best to eat some of the pastries that were in front of her. She had nothing to hide, and therefore she had nothing to worry about.

That was until her interview with Sharon Needles was over, and everything basically went to shit. It was like the Murphy’s Law of interviews- everything that could have gone wrong did go wrong: Sharon hated the questions and therefore hated her, dropped the f-bomb and walked out before the interview was even finished. Shangela felt as if she’d blown the whole thing, although her journalistic brain was a little excited at the thought of getting to write an article on something so scandalous. She’d told Dela all about it, the intern’s eyes lighting up with the drama of it all.

“I mean. It wasn’t quite what you wanted, but it’ll make good reading, right?” she reasoned, Shangela giving a smug smile. As she thought back to the interview, she turned to Dela again. She thought a little bit before opening her mouth, thinking about what Vivienne had said before.

“Hey, um. Did you know that Sharon Needles was gay?”

Dela looked down at her desk then brushed a bit of dust off her skirt. “No. Did she mention it in her interview?”

“Yeah. It sort of came up when I asked her that question about if she was seeing anyone.”

Dela gave a contemplative hum, then continued typing. Shangela still felt a little weird.

“And that doesn’t…bother you, no?”

Instantly, Dela looked at her with a screwed-up face. “No? It’s her life, it doesn’t affect me. Come on, Shangela, you know me well enough to know I wouldn’t judge somebody like that.”

Shangela silently nodded. So Dela was accepting and fine, and wouldn’t judge anybody for that sort of thing. Why was she thinking so much about this?

“Do you think it’s something I should put in the article?”

Dela furrowed her brow. “I wouldn’t.”

“But she mentioned it in front of me. Surely that means it’s fine to put out there?”

“People are different with that sort of thing,” Dela said quietly. “Besides, it would depend what context you use it in.”

Shangela looked at the article that was already half-finished on her screen. “I’ll maybe just mention it in passing.”

One hour went by. Shangela submitted the article to her senior editor and before long she was called into his office. He looked disgustingly gleeful, rubbing his hands together and giving the occasional little clap.

“Shangie, this is gold, baby. Amazing work. I’ve contacted the news outlets about the audio and they’re all willing to buy it too. The article is almost perfect but I just think we could add in a little bit more about the whole lesbian thing.”

The pride she’d felt at being complimented suddenly faded rapidly away. “What do you want me to add in?”

“Oh, just some sensationalist language, maybe call her leadership skills into question. You know what lesbians are like, they’re always pushing their own agenda.”

Shangela bristled. She didn’t know why she felt so defensive. “I’m not putting that in the article.”

The editor smiled smugly. “I think you’ll find that if you want to keep your job, you will.”

Heat pricked at Shangela’s cheeks as she felt herself go red. Turning to make her way out of her office, he stopped her suddenly.

“Oh! And I have a great title. I want you to use it. It’s Plug that Dyke.”

Shangela began to feel sick. “Isn’t that word pretty offensive to lesbians?”

Another smirk. “And how would you know that?”  

Looking to the ground, Shangela just opened the office door and made her way back to her desk, her hands shaking a little. She quietly sat down at her desk, opened up her word doc, and carried on editing the article. By the time she was finished it was late, and people were packing up to go home, including Dela.

“Are you still up for cocktails? You know you owe me one,” she gave Shangela a cheeky smile which normally would have made her stomach flip over. Today it flipped over for all the wrong reasons- looking up at Dela she had this horrible feeling in her stomach as if she’d betrayed her in a way. She forced a smile on her face and shook her head sadly.  

“I’m actually not feeling too good at the moment. Can we reschedule?” she asked. It wasn’t really a lie, and she only felt worse when Dela pouted and leant down to give Shangela a hug. Murmuring a goodbye against her hair, Dela grabbed her bag and left the office, leaving Shangela to rot in her own misery.

She was still feeling miserable hours later, at home curled up on her sofa and watching everything unfold on the news. She felt like a terrible person. She’d put her name to all sorts of things that she didn’t believe, but she’d done it before. Why did she feel so terrible this time? Everything from the day gnawed away at her, especially Vivienne’s words. She felt so lost and confused and not in control of anything, and thinking about Dela, which usually made her feel better, suddenly made her feel worse.

What she didn’t expect was for her buzzer to go off and a furious Dela to be standing on her doorstep. Without waiting for an invite from Shangela, she stormed in, standing in the middle of her living room where they’d both been one or twice before for movie nights or dinners.

“What the fuck did you write?” Dela almost whispered, her eyes cold as they pierced into Shangela’s. She, for her part, couldn’t say anything. She looked meekly at the floor and fiddled with a thread on the sweatpants she’d thrown on when she came in from work. Dela snapped her out of it. “Shangela! Why?”

Shangela raised her head slowly to meet Dela’s again. “My editor was telling me to or I’d have been out of a job. I’m sorry, Dela, I had to-”

“Bullshit, you didn’t have to do anything. You didn’t even have to even mention it! Why did you think it was relevant, why the hell did anyone think it was relevant?” Dela hissed, muttering the last part softly in a confused tone as she rubbed the back of her neck. Shangela felt awful.

“I completely fucked up, I know. But I didn’t mean to offend you- I know you said be careful the context you use it in, but…” she trailed off. She couldn’t think of anything else to say. Dela frowned at her.

“You were right when you said you had no integrity, you know that?”

Shangela felt like crying. She couldn’t work out why it felt as if she’d betrayed somebody, but moreover she couldn’t really work out why Dela was so upset.

“Why did you come round if you’re so angry at me?” she asked softly, part of her perhaps seeking the validation and comfort that they were still friends. Dela shook her head and gave a twisted smile.

“I wanted to know why. That was all. I wanted to know why someone I thought I knew, someone I thought was my friend, would write such disgusting things!”

Shangela couldn’t hold it in. Frowning at Dela, she narrowed her eyes. “I get that you’re upset, but I don’t get why you’re this upset? I mean, it’s not as if Sharon Needles is one of your closest friends?”

“Oh my God, Shangela, I’m a lesbian!” Dela raised her voice, tearing her hands through her hair immediately afterwards. She couldn’t look at Shangela. There was only one thing going through Shangela’s mind.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit

She’d just ruined their friendship, completely ruined anything she had with Dela because of her own stupid lack of backbone. Instinctively Shangela stepped forward, making to open her arms for a hug, but Dela just drew back, throwing her hands up defensively. Her face was one of heartbreak, and if Shangela had a mirror she could have seen that her face was the exact same. The churning in her stomach was only getting worse, her breathing quickening.

“Anyway. Now that I found out why you’re apparently a raging homophobe, I’ll be going,” Dela said in a sort of choked voice, making for the door. Shangela felt helpless. She couldn’t leave, not now, not while there were so many things she was feeling and thinking, not while her mind was such a mess. She suddenly reached her hand out, grabbing Dela by the wrist and only softening her grip a little once she was sure she was staying.

“Dela, please,” she said softly, her insides churning as she looked at Dela’s eyes, still cold. “Please stay. I’m really sorry, okay? There’s been a lot going on in my head today and…I don’t know how to explain it. I’m really confused and I don’t feel…I don’t feel normal.”

She didn’t know if she imagined it, but Dela’s eyes seemed to soften just a little. Her voice stayed cold. “Go on then. Say whatever it is you’ve got to say.”

“I just-” Shangela cut herself off as she looked at the ceiling. How could she articulate to Dela what she was feeling if she didn’t even know herself? “I don’t know what’s going on with me. Vivienne said something to me earlier and since then…it’s all I’ve been able to think about. Like…we’re friends, right?”

Dela looked away from where she’d previously been looking at Shangela. “Fuck, Shangela, I don’t even know any more-”

“Okay, okay, you’ve got every right to feel that way. But before, we were friends, right?”

Dela gave a non-committal shrug.

“But that’s the thing. Sometimes it didn’t feel like friendship. Sometimes it felt like something…” Shangela felt the heat hit her cheeks as she looked away from Dela, things starting to piece themselves together in her mind. “…more than that. And I’m messed up, and I don’t know what’s going on because I have no idea how the fuck I should feel, and I’m just…all the while I was editing that article to put in all the shitty bits, I felt like I was betraying somebody. Maybe it wasn’t you, maybe it was myself. I might not…be straight.”

Deciding that was probably all she needed to say, she looked back at Dela again. Her expression hadn’t changed, and Shangela felt more embarrassed than ever. She couldn’t quite believe that she’d actually said it out loud, the thing she’d been suspecting but had never wanted to entertain. Holding Shangela’s gaze, Dela finally spoke.      

“Well you know there’s a definite way to find out, right?” she said, her tone level as she took a single step towards Shangela, slid both her arms around her waist and pulled her closer.

And suddenly Dela was kissing her, and her mind fell silent for the first time that day. Something seemed to click into place, something that immediately made her feel calm, as if nothing else mattered. As Dela tangled her fingers in Shangela’s hair, Shangela brought her arms up around the other girl’s neck, one hand cupping her jaw as she deepened the kiss, completely in awe of how soft Dela’s lips were and how absolutely fucking perfect her mouth felt, how all of this felt.

It was all just…right.

Shangela was the one to break the kiss, only because she was desperate to see Dela smile at her again. Sure enough, she had a sort of intoxicated grin on her face, her eyes glazed over as if she was high.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted to do that for about a month and a half,” she smiled languidly, not yet removing her arms from around Shangela’s waist.

Shangela bit her lip shyly. “So…this means I’m gay, right?”

Dela shrugged. “Well, you could be. Could be bi. Could be pan. But I’m happy to stay with you to help you find out. Especially if it means we can do that again.”

Then she scrunched up her face in disgust. “Sorry. That was really cringey, I’ll never say that again.”

Shangela always prided herself on being the total opposite of shy and yet here she was, redder than a fire extinguisher and completely smitten. Dela said she’d stay with her. It was way too early to say if they were together or not- girlfriends, she supposed- but the thought of getting to try and figure out who she was with Dela helping her sounded pretty fucking amazing.

“So…does this mean I’m forgiven?” she asked softly, looking at the other girl from under her lashes. Dela snorted.

“Only if you promise to grow a damn backbone,” she gave Shangela a little squeeze. Laughing, Shangela pulled her in closer and kissed her again, purely because she could.

This time it was Dela who broke the kiss, taking Shangela by the hand and leading her over to the sofa. “We’ve had a shitty day so we’re getting takeaway and you’re showing me this Game of Thrones you keep going on about.”

Happy, Shangela threw herself on the couch and wrapped herself around the other girl, head resting against her shoulder. She was almost content until she drew her head back and gave Dela a questioning glare. “Who pays for the food if it’s two girls?”

Dela simply burst out laughing and shook her head. “Oh, Shangie. You are such a princess it’s adorable.”

She wasn’t really satisfied with her answer, or her nickname, but cuddling closer to Dela she supposed she was satisfied with everything else that was happening right now.

***

Shangela awoke on the sofa at 6am. Her alarm hadn’t been set until 7.15, but the light from a streetlamp was streaming through the curtains, nearly blinding against the dark October sky. Although her neck hurt from her night on the sofa, she didn’t really mind- Dela was there behind her, her face nuzzled against Shangela’s neck and her body warm despite the thin blanket they’d pulled over themselves doing nothing to protect from the cold. Ordinarily, Shangela would have gone back to sleep, but there was something running through her mind that was preventing her. Dela had been so kind and so forgiving, and Shangela had hurt her badly. She needed to fix things somehow.

Gently sitting up, she reached under the sofa and retrieved her Macbook. Opening it up and screwing up her eyes at the blinding white light from its screen, she mashed the brightness leveller until she could comfortably see. Opening up a blank document, she began to type. It didn’t take her long to finish the article. She fixed the formatting, skipped emailling it to her senior editor, and instead posted it straight to the website. Her stomach felt fluttery, as if she’d just taken a leap into the great unknown- and Shangela supposed she had- but she had Dela and for now, that was the most important thing.

As Shangela closed the laptop, she felt Dela stir on the couch beside her. Her eyes slowly blinked open as she took in her surroundings, at first confused but then remembering where she was.

“Shangie? What are you doing?” she asked, in a voice thick with sleep.

Shangela just gave a smirk and stroked the other girl’s cheek gently before laying down next to her again. “Oh, you know. Just growing a backbone.”

She didn’t see the confused expression over Dela’s face as other girl pulled her closer to her and wrapped her arms around her. Shangela didn’t mind as long as they were both happy.

***

Later that morning, Cabinet Minister Sharon Needles woke up, made herself a coffee, and began to scroll through the day’s headlines. In one bizarre turn of events, it seemed the insufferable journalist who had interviewed her just yesterday had made waves by quitting her job quite spectacularly. The article had been taken down, but every news outlet was reporting on how Shangela Wadely had written a featurette for Femail entitled 25 Things the LGBT Community Should Just Avoid Doing, with every bullet point being quite simply “Don’t read the Daily Mail”. There had been a short, but to the point sentence at the end of it all basically telling her senior editor in so many words where he could stick his job.

Sharon was confused by it all, but not as confused as when she answered the doorbell to a man from Interflora who was holding a huge bunch of flowers with a note sticking out the top of them. Shutting the door and taking the flowers back to the kitchen, she narrowed her eyes as she began to read the note.

Dear Ms. Needles,

Thank you for being such a great ambassador for the LGBT community. I’m sorry it took that disasterous interview and my shitshow of an article for me to realise that.

Regards,

Shangela

She was just getting her head around things when she heard her girlfriend emerging from another room. Sure enough, Alaska made her way into the kitchen wearing a huge t shirt and yesterday’s makeup.

“Noodles, it’s 10am on a Saturday. What are you doing awake?” she drawled, walking over to the minister and hugging her from behind. Sharon looked once again at the note and smiled.

“I think Shangela Wadely might be gay.”

“Okay, you’re still drunk from last night. Come on. Back to bed.”

#ortega #oneshot #maybe we're helping each other escape #intern/journalist au #bendelacreme #rpdr fanfiction #shangela laquifa wadley #dela x shangela #lesbian au #as3

[looky-here-imma-reading]

Masterpiece: America’s 50-Year-Old Love Affair with British Television Drama by Nancy West 

2 out of 5 stars ✨✨ 

Synopsis: 

What accounts for Masterpiece's longevity and influence? Masterpiece offers two reasons: the power of its drama and its aspirational appeal. West delivers great stories, stories that transport, enthrall, enrich, and comfort us, while also speaking to a uniquely American belief in the possibility of self-improvement, even self-transformation, through the acquisition of "culture." 

My Notes: 

"Enjoying this so far, but clearly the editor fell asleep at the wheel. I’ve noticed a bunch of stupid little mistakes. Like they ask a question that has an A, B, or C answer then say the answer is D. What? Number the questions with 2.2 or 7.2, all clear mistakes. Plus no spacing between certain words. I’m glad I only paid 99 cents for the Kindle version." 

"I don’t think the author watched the Downton Abbey movie right, or totally misinterpreted it." 

"I knew this wasn’t right but I double checked and rewatched the video of Fred Rogers giving his speech to Congress in 1969, he was not wearing his trademark cardigan sweater as the author states in this book. He’s wearing a suit. There’s a bunch of photographs of it as well. Sigh." 

"Sometimes I feel while reading this that I’m getting yelled at for being a fan of Masterpiece." 

"I’m fairly certain 2005’s Bleak House had fifteen episodes, not sixteen. Unless she’s splitting the first episode in two because that one was sixty minutes while the other episodes were only thirty minutes. Gonna look that up, be right back. I’m back, and I was right, it’s only fifteen episodes. I do remember when this aired on Masterpiece in hour long installments, it was eight episodes." 

"Mas terpiece. Did nobody edit or check this book before print? Either they don’t space between two words or put a space in the middle of a longer word." 

"Bette Davis never played Queen Victoria in film or television. She did however portray Queen Elizabeth l twice. Takes two minutes to fact check folks." 

"It says here in 2015 Wolf Hall was the first Tudor program to air on Masterpiece in 25yrs is incorrect. In 2003 they aired Henry VIII and I only remember that cause Sean Bean was in it. That’s only like 12yrs. Plus the Virgin Queen in 2006." 

"Now they calling my fav 80s fun crime shows indisputably crappy with low grade actors. Damn lady. WTF. 😆" 

"Jolyon was not Soames’ brother but his cousin. Come on, it takes just a minute to fact check this stuff." 

"In the 2008 rebranded opening for Masterpiece while Colin Firth is in the montage it is not from Pride & Prejudice because that program was not broadcast on PBS in America originally. The image is from 1999’s The Turn of the Screw." 

"I fully believe no one edited or saw a finale copy before publishing. Did no one notice the countless words running together without a space between them? You can forgive an error like this sure, but this book is riddled with them." 

"How dare they forget to add Kelley Hawes to the cast of 1998s Our Mutual Friend." 

And again they forget to put Kelley Hawes’ name in the cast list for Wives & Daughters. Two strikes. I know they limiting the cast list to three, but come on now." 

"I see they are putting the big names for this cast list, but they leave out Miranda Richardson for The Lost Prince and Gillian Anderson for Bleak House." 

"I’m that person I know, but I just gotta point out for the 2007-2008 season they just say The Complete Jane Austen. Like no, they were all separate movies. You had Persuasion, Mansfield Park, Northanger Abbey, and the miniseries Sense & Sensibility. They premiered for the first time (originally aired on A&E) Emma starring Kate Beckinsale, and 1995’s Pride & Prejudice." 

"Weird that while they are listing all the programs, at least till publication of this book, they don’t mention all the Sharpe films, or even all the Prime Suspect." 

"Can we really consider The Collection or the excellent recent adaptation of Howard’s End true blue Masterpiece programs? I mean Howard’s End first aired on Starz then a year later on Masterpiece. The Collection was exclusive to Amazon Prime for like two years I think. Hmm." 

"Ah, Prime Suspect is in the Mystery section. Makes sense. 

"The few photos are left to be viewed at the end of the book. Wouldn’t it have been more practical, and more visually appealing, to have the photos on the pages were the programs/actors were discussed. Like we’re talking Downton Abbey here’s the text and a photo. I don’t know about this layout they got going here." 

"The best photo for Sherlock they found was the region 2 dvd cover? Are you fucking series?" 

"Why include a photo of 1995’s Pride & Prejudice when it’s not an original production of Masterpiece? I mean they rebroadcast the series like twelve or thirteen years after it premiered on A&E stateside. I call bull shit." 

My Review: 

Not great, but the best we’ll probably ever get which is sad. I’ve watched Masterpiece for decades now so I was super excited to get this book. I’m not sure what I was expecting, not what we got, but it’s not an entirely bad read. I wish it was more of an in-depth look into the productions, there’s fifty years worth. This book does go into some details about certain series, a few classics but much more about certain recent programs. I love Downton Abbey, but Masterpiece is much more than that show. I can forgive a few grammatical errors here and there, or the non spaces between words, but this book is littered with them. Did they not proof read or edit this book before publication? The biggest crime this book commits is the abundance of factual errors. Like the plot lines of certain programs, character relationships, episode counts, years, and so forth. It literally takes two minutes to fact check this stuff. Diehard fans are gonna take notice of those errors. I also hated how they crammed the few photos they had to the back of the book. It’s visually unappealing. I wished the photo was on the page when the program was talked about. With countless photos of the program Sherlock out there this book decided to go with a DVD cover. Completely lazy. Happy I didn’t pay $30 for this, only $0.99 for the Kindle version when it was on sale. Honestly not worth more than that. To be fair this book has interesting elements, just not enough to save it from being a disappointing read.

#masterpiece #america's 50yr old love affair with british television #nancy west #nonfiction #television #history #tv companion piece #kindle #my reviews

[matthewjosephtaylor]

Thoughts on Rustlang

My raw first impressions as I read the Rust Programming Language Book https://doc.rust-lang.org/book/

I reserve...no I demand the right to change my mind later about everything below (In fact, I'll be disappointed if I don't).

These are my unfiltered musings meant for historical and entertainment purposes only (Nothing more amusing in life, than seeing how 'wrong' one's past self was) :)

Cargo

Seems to be the law of the universe that every language has its own build and dependency management system

So far seems fairly clean/simple and straight-forward

Unfortunate that creating new project also includes SCM (let one thing be responsible for one thing not 'all the things')

since I like git it is handy, but feels a bit too opinionated and bloaty

semver

will be glad when semver dies as an idea of how to link dependencies

would have preferred identifier based on content (like a hash of the source) with option to use monotonic identifier like date for convenience

lock file should absolutely be based on content-hash not a label like semver (disappointed)

Rustlang Basics

variable shadowing (dangerous?)

dangerously useful feature

could see this being labeled as 'considered harmful'

immediate impression is that the danger > usefulness but time will tell, maybe the usefulness outweighs

clear integer types (awesome)

u32 is perfect name compared to something like 'int' or 'long', etc in other languages where the important size of the integer is obscure

usize is a bit of an odd/ugly name for architecture specific size. Something like iarch would prolly have been better IMHO

WTF different behavior on debug/release mode for overflow?

Broken design

Is this being fixed/worked on?!?!?!?

why the space in specifying type like 'foo: bool'?

seems that 'bool:foo' would have been a cleaner more easily cut/pastable and easier to follow syntax design (Rust syntax seems backwards and overly expansive)

built-in tuple type (cool)

possibly 'dangerously useful'...but for the moment all I see is the sexy and want to dance with this potential danger ;)

destructuring

return multiple auto destructuring?

arrays don't auto-expand/shrink

fair trade it seems to me (for the most part data-structures should be immutable anyway).

let a: [i32; 5] is really ugly syntax

would prefer let i32:a[5] as ideal or let a: i32[5] to remain consistent with variable type specification poor syntax design choice

feels like the poor syntax of variable typing lead to the train-wreck of array-typing

let a = [3; 5]; OMFG this is now getting ridiculous

Bad design leads to worse design leads to truly evil design

first 'thing' before the semicolon is either a type or a value...wonder how many arrays have been created with the value 32 when the the type i32 was intended?

zero is the only interesting value one would want to 'autofill' an array with, and would be the expected default. This entire syntax 'feature' should go away.

At this moment going to call the variable typing syntax 'broken'. Too late to change. This will be one of the 'broken' parts of Rust that everyone has to deal with via best-practices and lint-checking. Unfortunate but here we are.

Important lesson to learn: Syntax matters for a language design. If the syntax is bad there is really no way to recover until the next language.

Nice that runtime array out-of-bounds checking is done (honestly how could it be otherwise in the modern era?)

Would be better if compiler/checker was a bit smarter and able to compile-time check OOB errors when it has the info to do so

possibly there is already a linter/checker that does this? Is there more than one?

clear distinction made between expressions and statements

difference as defined is that expressions return values and statements don't.

{} is an expression that appears to evaluate to the implicit returned value of the last expression inside of it

does that understanding hold up?

is there a return keyword? or is this how returning works?

WTF expressions are defined syntactically by missing semicolons?

Expressions do not include ending semicolons. If you add a semicolon to the end of an expression, you turn it into a statement, which will then not return a value

Immediate impression is that this is the most dodgy error-prone way of 'returning' I've every come across. Maybe it makes sense in context, and there are other safeguards that make this not as crazy as it appears on first blush...but I'm going to demand some explanation...

return is a keyword that docs say work as expected but also the return value of the function is synonymous with the value of the final expression in the block of the body of a function.

using -> to specify return type seems a bit cute for the sake of cuteness and 'being different' (extra syntax for no real purpose)

Not getting the purpose of turning an expression into a statement by adding a semicolon. At least not yet.

I'm presently thinking that the 'missing semicolon' is the way the language designers chose to be able to differentiate an expression that is meant to be evaluated and assigned to a variable within a function body, from an expression that is meant to be returned. In other words the 'missing semicolon' is effectively just a 'cute trick' to make the language look a bit different by not having a return before the last expression.

First impression is that this 'odd' syntax decision perhaps won't lead errors since the function itself should have a return type defined in the method signature. So if one accidentally puts in the semicolon like one would do for every other fucking usage of this expression (preloading my anger here in anticipation of being tricked by this constantly)) it won't cause a runtime error because the compiler should catch what I suspect is a very likely and common mistake.

They should just have mandated a return statement at the end of a function that returns a value to make things clear. Fear that the missing syntax character as replacement for a keyword is just 'being different' for no good reason that will lead to errors, where clarity of syntax would have been a touch more verbose but consistent.

I do appreciate that they wanted to have a language where the last expression evaluated to the return, and wanted to avoid the pitfall of language-users accidentally returning a thing they didn't mean to. Feel that is a common mistake in languages with 'implicit return' and the language-designers were wise to differentiate 'expressions meant for return' with 'expressions meant for assignment' but that 'missing semicolon' is an un-intuitive/un-obvious way of doing that. If they wanted to be cute I would have suggested they use -> as their return keyword and 'skipped the syntax garbage' in the method signature (like all other c-like languages have managed to avoid doing by having the return type be the thing to the left of the function-name)

First time I've run across 'arms' and 'arm' to mean something like 'execution path'. Short and simple, I think I kind of like it. A thing that needed a name. Was this innovative of Rust or already existing name I was unaware of?

No parens around conditions for if statements...hmmm....

quick check says they are allowed but give compile warning as unnecessary.

might be OK with leaving off (maybe)

Absolutely NOT OK with the compiler warning (parens in conditionals usually lead to clearifying intent of code)

eh, only seems to warn if the parens are at the top level so will back off a bit but still disagree with compiler warnings for extra-verbose syntax on general principle

quick code check on returning from conditional leads to the conclusion that one can't return from inside a condition

initial impression is that I like this behavior quite a bit.

the error message of 'unexpected token' is crap (going to be a common thing people are going to attempt to do, would be better to have compiler print more helpful message).

book gives hint to a 'match' keyword while explaining else if (excited/hopeful...please Knuth let match be what I want it to be)

Like that if is an expression. Goodbye elvis.

Randomly in playing around I've noticed that string concatenation with + isn't a thing in Rust. Hopefully there is a replacement syntax that allows string concatenation.

feel that sprintf style strings are error-prone

Like for in but don't see an equiv to for(i=0;i<10;i++). That is a really handy for-loop construct.

Range might fill 80% need for 'real' for-loop but isn't a 100% replacement

Possible that the need for this style goes away with other constructs/usage paradigms in Rust

I note that as I've gotten more into functional programming this 'old' style of for-loop is generally nicely replaced with a Range.

If all else fails hopefully creating some form of 'iterable' is easy, and perhaps that is the 'right and true' answer in all cases anyway :)

perhaps 'old school' for-loop construct is just 'dangerous by design', that seems likely given the mutated counter.

Rustlang Ownership

The string example where s1 = s2 and then s1 is referenced later which creates a compile error

WTF

Not how I expected that to behave at all, which I suppose is the point of this chapter.

I suppose intuitively I was assuming some sort of fancy 'reference counting' or that s1 and s2 would share a reference to the same underlying 'object'.

Assignment instead seems to imply 'transfer of ownership'.

First blush the fact that s1 is still 'in scope' seems to imply some sort of language syntax design problem since s1 clearly should no longer be in scope, by how the runtime expects things to behave, but is in scope as a practical matter, and how the language-user expects things to behave.

'We changed the rules of scope pray we do not change them any further' seems like an evil trick to play on the language-user.

the compile error of 'no Copy trait' is better than blowing up at runtime, and I appreciate the safety, but the real problem is that I as a language-user would not expect s1 to somehow 'internally' go out of scope

Better it seems to me that variable 'renaming' (variable to variable assignment (no expression)) be made illegal.

This also seems to imply that variables are sort of 'one time use' sort of things. Quite a different way of looking at the world. Possible that c-like syntax is just not a good fit since language-user's expect scope to behave in a way that it clearly doesn't.

Thinking that the runtime designers just made a bad choice in how to interpret the semantics of the language (hinted by the fact that docs imply that x = y will copy data from y to x instead of just let x and y share pointer to same location in memory). Seems like they want variables to mean something like 'location in memory' where really the language-user doesn't care unless the location is mutable which should be the rare case. Thinking the runtime designers hadn't quite grokked the power of immutable data structures.

Copy but no Share?

Seems that Copy 'trait' is the escape hatch to distinguish stack-level from heap-level allocation.

First impression is that all this 'Copying' is wasteful and unneeded (hoping that the Copying is a lie and that 'under the hood' immutables really do share)

All-in-all feels like at the very least the distinction between a Copy-able variable and a Drop-able variable should be visible via language syntax.

clet x = 5 and dlet y = String::from("foo")

How do I know as a language-user what is Copy and what is Drop without reading all lines of code that go into the creation of the types???

References

Well duh...why isn't this the default behavior? Pass by reference isn't a new/unexpected thing in the universe. Feels like the default being pass-by-copy is a bit old-school.

Getting feeling this is the tension between systems and application programming languages. Systems expects mutable and so wants to copy stuff all over the place to prevent the hell mutability brings, Application should in the modern era expect immutable and so expects pass-by-reference to be safe.

Thinking there is a lot of pain here that could be solved by just assuming immutable, and then treating mutable as the rare-its-ok-to-have-wierd-rules-wear-special-gloves situation

Feels like syntax around references are sort of unnecessary if one assumes pass-by-reference. Languages-users never should need the actual pointer to the memory location which was why c-like & exists. From the language-user's perspective I can't think of a legit reason why there would need to be a reason to distinguish between 'the value' and 'the reference to the value'. Just assume that the variable one has access to is a reference and move on with life, let the runtime deal with dereferencing. If it is faster for there to be a copy (simple integer value where the pointer takes just as much room as the value) let the runtime deal with that decision transparently (I don't give a !@#% what the assembly code looks like as a high-level language user, just make it do the right thing so that my assumptions of behavior are respected).

all-in-all this feels like too much ceremony for no valid reason. Just remove & as a thing. No reason for that thing to exist in a language without pointer arithmetic (oh please let there be no pointer arithmetic in Rust...).

Slices

Neat idea and useful concept

First impression is that this should just be the default mechanism for dealing with list-like data-structures. (why have a separate thing when one thing can mean both and is more powerful?)

Feels like best-practice would just to be use slices and forget the other non-slice variants exist.

Rustlang Data Structures

Structs

Goodbye sexy tuples. I'll probably still flirt with you, but you will likely be a quick-n-dirty when I'm too lazy, not for 'production' use.

interesting constructor syntax. All-in-all I think I like it on first impression.

like the 'field init shorthand syntax' alternate

love the 'other instance shorthand syntax' alternate

Tuple Structs

Dangerously useful.

Language would probably be better served without this construct, to 'gently direct' users into explicit-naming vs ordering-as-naming.

Sexy but no substance

Hopefully destructuring of Structs works as one would expect with the definition order being the value-order

Oddity just noticed playing around: String literal can't be used in place of String type? String::from("foo") != "foo". What is the type of a string literal if not String?

First introduction of annotations

@ would have been more natural than # since it is more commonly used (different just to be different again?)

Methods

'self' instead of 'this' (I can live with 'self', but hopefully there is a reasoned argument why the non-c-family name was used)

Seems like the first argument should be assumed to be &self and drop it from method signature (remove the tedium)

Feels like it wasn't done this way just to give the option of pass-by-copy, which is just sort of a bad-idea anyway (shouldn't be default, OK if hard/weird/impossible syntax for that option) in most cases.

I've been willfully ignoring the ugly that is &mut as a syntax 'keyword/symbol'. Feels like that wants to be something more like &! (lesson: symbols and keywords don't really want to be mixed together)

Enums

Do what they say on the tin (work as expected).

Like that each enum can have specific values

Like the 'helper' methods

Love the allowing of comma on last value (consistent syntax ftw)

Match

Meh on the 'optional' curly brackets.

agree it is 'noisy' syntax

that 'noise' also adds clarity

since all cases must be accounted for I think I'm more willing to trust that the additional clarity likely isn't needed

Like the 'value binding'

Up in the air on the syntax. Feels like argument-order is a bad thing to rely on.

Good that Monads like Option are 'pattern matchable'. Will be interesting to see how deep this goes(is Option just a simple enum, or something more powerful happening?).

like _ as the 'placeholder' variable name.

like () as the 'unit value' name.

not sure how to get the value of the 'wildcard' match?

like 'if let' I think

docs are kind of crap on how to use this....testing.....

Syntax seems backwards with the assignment being on the right (wtf?)

Absolutely hate the = now that I see that it means something closer to 'associate with' for if let

let foo = if let Coin::Penny = coin {... reads let foo contain the value of the result of matching Penny on the coin variable containing a Coin enum

Like the idea hate the syntax

better would be: let foo = coin if Coin::Penny {...

Starting to feel that for some reason the Rust developers are intentionally attempting to create confusing syntax on purpose (just not sure why yet)

Packages, Crates, Modules

initial impression after reading the summary: Lots of new keywords. Hopefully they are used for good purposes...but I'm reserving judgement based on some of the poor naming/syntax choices I've seen so far.

src/bin is an ugly way to to distinguish multiple 'binaries' (think they mean executables).

would prefer something like src/mains and src/lib

feel 'binary' is a bad name for a 'command line executable' and 'executable' would have been better

Modules

Like the nesting

'crate' feels a bit odd for naming choice of 'root' module. Feel name like 'root' would likely serve better

Uneasy about the 'placeholder' functions inside of module definitions.

Burdensome typing

Serves a useful purpose if modules are 'closed'

Serves a useful purpose if modules are more 'interface' in nature

first impression pathing: Like the idea and love the attention to this important detail

liking 'crate' to mean 'root module' less and less as I see the name used in the pathing....

relative pathing seems like a 'dangerously useful' idea.

Feeling that relative pathing is less useful if IDE takes on burden of refactoring...liking relative pathing less...

Like the fact there is a simple private/public (finer grained is generally less useful IMHO)

Like private as default

Like child sees parent, and children are hidden from parent

Feeling more and more as I see documentation-reasons why relative paths are used that it is always in the context of moving code around

Don't like the idea of reducing the 'strength' of module paths if it is only useful for refactoring purposes

Feels a bit like the language-designers added an unneeded/dangerous syntax element strictly to aid less-powerful code-editors

Like as as a renaming syntax

Like module file names being defined by module names

Like module hierarchies being defined by directory structure

Rustlang Collections

Happy that have, Disappointed in how the Book presents

Looking based off of the Documentation looks like better would have been to start from concepts like sequence

RE: vec![1,2,3] not sure I like a macro for Vector construction

Perhaps just a getting used to thing but construction feels like a thing I would expect Type-constructor to be able to do.

The bang I want to mean that the macro is creating a mutable thing (hopefully that is the case)

Playing around it appears that vec[1,2,3] isn't legal

would hope to construct an immutable vector

perhaps a non-sensical thing to want?

Hopefully there is an immutable sequence that takes care of what I want that to be

further evidence of poor choice on references.

Elements are typed as &i32 instead of i32

Get that that needs to be a reference, disagree that there should be a 'language-syntax' level distinction (should be a detail compiler takes care of)

unfortunate that 'panic' is an expected situation user should expect to get into

Feel using &v[100] is 'considered dangerous' and suspect shouldn't be part of language

Prefer v[100] to be an alternate syntax for v.get(100) (and then maybe just drop the more verbose form)

Once again poor language-design choices have lead to normal usage patterns being taxed with the 'uglier' form of syntax

Like the 'trick' of using enum-values for creating a 'closed-universe of types'

That is a really good trick the more I think about it.

As I think on this some more: that 'trick' I feel was worth the price of admission to learning the language and is an 'aha'.

Going to take that with me. That is a deeply good idea.

Strings

The fact that "initial contents".to_string(); is a reasonable thing to type I think speaks for itself regarding poor choices in the language.

First google on Rust String concatenation leads to an involved discussion on various ways of doing what should be a simple thing like "hello" + "world"

Going to add 'String concatenation' to my language-evaluation litmus tests

If a language can't handle the basics with grace then that is a red-flag because it is going to kill adoption-rates which is death for any language

A String is a wrapper over a Vec<u8> WTF?

How in the @#%@#% is that a reasonable way to look at Strings in the modern era?

String wants to be something like Vec<CodePoint>

Understand that in 1970 'C' can expect a String to comprised of 8-byte 'characters' but that is totally unacceptable today

Perhaps the entire built-in 'String' is just DOA?

Do people actually use this garbage in practice?

Feel there must certainly be one or (unfortunately) more libraries that people must use to handle strings in Rust if this is the built-in

&hello[0] is illegal to 'avoid confusion' but in the same breath &hello[0..1] is legal

I don't know what to say....that is just horrible

Like the attempt at guarding users from evil and just plain wrong abstraction, but the guarding is incomplete (and just proves the point that String is just broken in its current state)

I could almost accept this if this language 'evolved' from an era when ASCII was a thing. But this language started in 2010. There is just no excuse.

Thinking that current String type should be named something like C_String_WRAPPER and only be used in cases where one is interfacing with an external c-like library (and intentionally named ugly to signal the pain and torture and danger found within)

HashMaps

Hash maps also have less support from the standard library; there’s no built-in macro to construct them, for example

appears that Rust wants to treat Type construction as an 'outside' 'macro' responsibility

Don't think I agree with this philosophy

Feels like creators of Types should also be expected to be responsible for providing type-constructors

Cool with having type-construction 'open' (allowing more) but feel that there should be a basic set of constructors that cover most cases as part of the 'contract' of creating a Type.

HashMap<_, _>

Not such a fan of using _ to mean 'any' here. (feel it is fine for variables NOT for types)

It's OK and there is a consistency argument (a weak one IMHO (any != ignore))

like the more 'in your face' 'you are probably doing it wrong, are you sure?' ?

No 'literal' constructors for either Map or Sequence that I've run across. Hopefully they exist...but starting to worry...

Rustlang Errors

Distinction made between 'Recoverable' and 'Unrecoverable' errors

Wants to use Result (enum? Monad hopefully (please let enums be Monadic...getting worried they aren't)) for 'Recoverable'

Wants to use so-called panic! macro for unrecoverable.

From what I've seen so far panic is way too common and 'expected' (I've noted that array accesses can result in a 'panic')

language-users IMHO should NEVER encounter a panic in a situation that they have control over (like array accessing)

such accesses that might not have results or have errorful results should be handled in a Monadic way (return an Option or Result)

'panic' IMHO wants be reserved for truly world-ending and unexpected situations like 'out of memory' or language-runtime-bug encountered.

We are already starting off badly since I'm not a fan of the implementation of the philosophy in some of the core library stuff I've already encountered.

Possible I can still live with this as long as it is possible to intelligently and easily avoid usage of the bad/evil language 'features'

Not a fan of backtrace not being the default

Don't like that backtraces don't appear to have column-numbers (is that an option?)

Doesn't appear to be but also appears an area of active development so willing to 'wait and see' on improvement

Feel that the 'backtrace' is a bit unreadable

Disappointing that not all lines have at least line numbers

Feel that the LHS row-numbers are not useful/helpful and just add noise

Examples in the book of where/why to use panic

Get the feeling either the book-writer or language-designers never programmed anything large/complex

Possible this is just bad-writing and 'simple' examples are being used, but feel this is going to lead to bad-practices and should be noted that this is NOT the way to run a ship (just doing here for purpose of explaining this feature).

Since there is no 'warning, this is bad style' I expect that the book-writer or possibly worse the language-designers, intend users to use panic! rather freely.

Feel strongly that since the core-library uses panic freely it this reflects poor choice of the language-designers.

Feeling like panic! is possibly going to be an Achilles heel of the language depending on how poorly the language-community reacts to this bad 'usage suggestion'.

Going to have to be very careful that any libraries are conservative with panic

perhaps might even be worth an linter-check to verify that there are no panics used in library or dependencies.

Might even be so bad that panic would have to be 'caught' (if that is possible)

Don't feel that 'catching' is a good idea generally (in cases where the 'panic' is legit like OOM they shouldn't be caught)

Might be forced into that bad situation due to poor guidance by language-designers on how to use panic

Nervous that Enums and/or Results are NOT Monads

Have not seen even a hint of a map() function or that there is 'another way' / style to handling

Possibly just being uber-conservative and not wanting to be off-putting to the non-functional crowd, but I'm starting to loose faith/patience

Feeling that expect(...) is quite the poor choice of naming since it is the opposite.

else_panic! would have been a better name

OMFG they created a special syntax structure of ? to avoid 'map' ?!?!?!??

Why?

Are they intentionally being dense or is there something I'm missing?

Does ? mean map or is it just for this one special case with Result?

The ? Operator Can Only Be Used in Functions That Return Result well I guess that answers that.

At the very least they've created a special 'hard mode' way of dealing with Results...and I fear there isn't an 'easy mode'.

Chapter 13 promises 'Functional Language Features'

Feeling it is ominous that this is the 13th chapter (what horrors does it contain?)

Error Chapter contains first hints of something called a 'Trait Object' that looks like Box<dyn Error> that is supposed to 'allow for values of different types'.

In my present state of mind I don't know how much more crazy I can take before I give up.

I'm sort of 'thrilled with dread' at how bad things are going to get, and feel this new horror is looming around the corner now.

Still hopeful there is light at the end of the tunnel, and that there will be 'salvageable' parts of the language that somehow manage to save it.

At the very least it promises not to be boring which is good enough to continue....how bad can it get? :)

Books idea of 'when to call panic'

Suggests that 'unwrap' is OK to use if the 'user knows better than the compiler'

Feel this is a bad practice.

User is almost never smarter thant the compiler

Code evolves over time so what might once have been sound reasoning might no longer be sound.

Rustlang Generics/Traits

Generics appear to work as expected

Due more I feel to simple lack of imagination, or perhaps this was designed later when saner heads were in the mix.

'Monomorphization' my what a fancy word for compile-time rewriting of code to be more concrete.

Funny how some 'magic' isn't so magical under the hood.

Interesting idea to have 'paritally defined' Generics, I think I like it.

Traits == Interface

Book notes there are 'some differences' to an Interface...what are they?

Liking the 'Partial based on Type' interface implementation

Novel? First I've seen. Wonder how it feels in practice?

'Closed traits' (can't implement a 'trait' outside of your 'crate')

Appears to be targeting the 'Ruby' problem.

Agree with no 'overwriting' of external type trait impls (what killed Ruby)

Want to disagree with 'adding' traits/impls to other types.

Need to think about that some more, feel the pendulum swung a bit too far.

Feels like adding could lead to some nice behavior naming-wise and scoping-wise

pub fn notify(item: impl Summary) {

ouch that 'impl' is an ugly way to specify an interface

Why is it needed, why isn't item: Summary sufficient?

Even if it is needed that 'impl' wants do mean implimentation not interface/trait

pub fn notify<T: Summary>(item: T) {

Good to know there is an even uglier form (so I suppose one should be thankful for the slightly prettier ugly form?)

Better: pub fn notify(item : Summary) {

See no purpose currently for all the extra-special-syntax care to distinguish interfaces and types

Feels like the phrase 'coding to the interface' would be a foreign idea to the language-designer (ignorance/spite or is there a solid reason?)

The + syntax for 'combining' interfaces feels a bit lazy at first glance but 'works'

Better would be to give a proper name to a combination of interfaces

Now I see the reason for the ugly: the where clause

Feeling this fits into 'create problem so I can show how clever I am at solving the problem I just created' idiom Rust seems to be enamoured with

Better to not have the problem in the first place

pub fn notify(t : DisplayClone, u: CloneDebug) is way easier to read, type, understand

pub fn notify(t: Display + Clone, u: Clone + Debug) also works for the lazy

Just like the problem with the unneeded Reference/Value distinction, the manufactured problem of Type/Interface distinction does not benefit language-users, and in fact is a detriment.

First 'crate' and now 'impl', I'm feeling that the language-designers where big fans of the smurfs and/or brainfuck

Perhaps should feel grateful that 'crate' and 'impl' are separate (would make about as much sense to combined them)

Rustlang Lifetimes

WTF?

Why is this needed?

Surely the compiler has enough information to determine lifetimes of all references or safe defaults?

Why not just use the function scope as the lifetime (as it seems to be able to do in most cases?)?

when a function has references to or from code outside that function, it becomes almost impossible for Rust to figure out the lifetimes of the parameters or return values on its own. The lifetimes might be different each time the function is called. This is why we need to annotate the lifetimes manually. is the explanation we are given.

Why not just default to `a for lifetime of all arguments?

aka if fn longest<'a>(x: &'a str, y: &'a str) -> &'a str { is a 'reasonable' solution why not just have the compiler write it?

Feeling like the answer is because we might be able to release some resource just a tad sooner if we give user assembly-level access to the internals of reference counter/borrower.

The real answer I fear is that the language-runtime developers sort of 'gave up' when the counter/borrower logic got too much, and left burden of their failings on the language-user, so that code could be written for some benchmark to 'prove' that Rust was just as fast/efficient as C.

IF this is a 'good' feature and not a 'BS' feature as I suspect here is a better way:

the function signature syntax itself is crap (as I've come to expect now)

Better would be fn longest(x: &[a]str, y: &[b]str) -> &[a]str {

no reason to 'define' the names ahead of usage

IMHO using square brackets makes it feel a bit more like the lifetime name is a particular 'part' of the reference (which it is, a 'time' part instead of a 'value' part)

weird apostrophe syntax is just confusing and weird, that compounds the confusion and weirdness

if one is going to do something weird at least hit the language-user with one weird thing at a time not two at once

the type syntax is crap

're-using' <> to mean either 'lifetime name' OR 'type name' has that now-familiar 'smurfy' smell to it.

better would be struct ImportantExcerpt[a] { which would allow struct ImportantExcerpt[a]<a> {

name collision between generic-type-name and lifetime-name avoided since lifetimes would only be referenced inside []

to be clear feeling rather strongly now that this is a BS language 'non-feature' but if you're going to do it, at least make the syntax not as horrible

Feel Lifetimes are now the 3rd manufactured pain-point (No reason to have except to solve its own pain)

Lol! After writing a lot of Rust code, the Rust team found that Rust programmers were entering the same lifetime annotations over and over in particular situations. These situations were predictable and followed a few deterministic patterns. The developers programmed these patterns into the compiler’s code so the borrow checker could infer the lifetimes in these situations and wouldn’t need explicit annotations.

The explanation of 'lifetime elision' admits that it isn't needed, and is due to failings of compiler to determine lifetimes (can at least commend them on honesty)

Better would be to use safe default lifetimes (I feel there is always going to be a safe option that is reasonable (function scope if nothing else))

If someone needs extra performant code then let them break out the ugly syntax in those (no doubt super rare) instances where that is needed.

Automated Tests

Well done to include automated testing as a 'built-in' for the language

Doesn't seem to be a clear distinction between 'test' source and 'production' source

Feel a simple /tests directory would have solved

Basic functionality, no real depth at all

no built-in ability co 'compose' assertion conditions

no concept of 'test resources'

Rust seems to want unit tests to live next to code

Think I can be OK with this as long as it is possible to break test code out into separate files with easily distinguishable names

Ah...there is a tests directory but is for integration testing (no access to non-public code)

Intermission chapter building a grep command

Tedious to wade through but feel it is important to get a feel for style

Better if they weren't trying to teach programming AND Rust at the same time

little chance that the audience is new to programming

Note that they use clone as a work-around for the the poor reference handling

If it is too broken to use in THE example of how to write code, then what was the point?

Shockingly, at least the book author thinks a lambda is a closure

IMHO closure is something that 'closes over' a scope (doesn't necessarily have to be a lambda but usually is)

One forms a closure and it is possible that lambdas will create a closure if they reference a scoped variable

However, if the lambda doesn't reference any scoped variables then it isn't a 'closure'

I'm frightened that the language wants to refer to lambdas a closures....please...no....

calling a lambda a closure in this way, is like calling all refrigerators 'Kenmore's

Admit to skimming here. Life is short.

Feeling that Rust is at this point language with many built-in flaws and might not be worth the effort

Will continue as the meaty subjects like concurrency and functional programming are ahead and there is still a slim chance the language isn't a total loss

It took the book author 40 paragraphs and 695 words to say: eprintln! prints to stderr. FML, my patience is wearing thin....

Rustlang Functional Features

Closures

Annoying as mentioned earlier to refer to all lambdas as closures

Feeling that this ignorant way of speaking (not using 'ignorant' in a mean way, feeling language-designer just didn't know the distinction), speaks to the ignorance of the language-designers at this point and I think hints to all the troubles this language has.

Feel the |var| {} syntax is OK but that the | is a bit of a clunky character.

Prefer var -> {} style

Telling that they mention Ruby as a inspiration choice for this syntax

Iterators

OMFG 'Iterator' has a:

map

collect

filter

Book section does a crap job of explaining or env just listing the Functional features

flatmap? : Yes https://doc.rust-lang.org/std/iter/struct.FlatMap.html

Full Iterator docs: https://doc.rust-lang.org/std/iter/index.html

Option does have a map: https://doc.rust-lang.org/std/option/enum.Option.html#method.map

Result does have a map: https://doc.rust-lang.org/rust-by-example/error/result/result_map.html

Feeling will have to look elsewhere for reasonable explanation, but happy that Rust does indeed appear to have first-class functional language features.

Faith somewhat restored

Feeling at this moment that perhaps this language is possibly salvageable if one can ignore the bad parts.

Feeling relieved (Up until I saw map on Iterator the book/language had beaten me down almost to the point of quitting)

Rustlang Documentation

Love that documentation comments can be run as tests

Feel there is a strong synergy between tests and documentation in any language

Glad Rust recognizes the synergy

Feel there is room for more here, but will give credit for a useful innovation

Meh on the ///

Would prefer an open/close style syntax at least as an option

Crate.io

Unfortunate and odd that github account is only auth mechanism (would expect to see multiple oauths)

Like the balance that 'yank' provides for publishing and 'hiding' bad-publications from view.

Feel that Semantic versioning is a mistake but an understandable one

Simple monotonic like date or 1-up integer would be better

Like the use of a publisher-secret but needs to be a signing key (maybe it is?)

Workspaces

Meh on the name, that probably wants to be something like 'Project'

No a fan of the relative paths, those want to be unique names for sub-modules

cargo install

Not a fan of 'global' 'hidden' binary installation

Better would be to have some form of built-in packager/package manager instead of going the 'hacky' way

cargo-something named binaries as 'cargo commands'

Like the naming convention and the extensibility this offers

Not a fan of 'anything ing $PATH'

Needs to be a ~/.cargo/extensions and/or project-name/.cargo/extensions

Rustlang Smart Pointers

Just reading the name I already feel like I'm going ot be sick...but let's power through....

Box puts thing on the heap

Why not just have the runtime figure out what to box/unbox?

Oh joy (not) there is a * dereferencing syntax.

At least it isn't something weird, and behaves in a c-like fashion

Going to call this the 2nd great universal mistake after 'null'

Possibly even worse, prolly Trillion-dollar instead of Billion-dollar mistake.

Deref trait

Why aren't all values 'dereferencable' ?

Hints that this isn't a real memory-pointer kind of reference/dereference like in C

Rather purposefully built-in as a control mechanism for what is on/off heap but want to make it look a bit like C

All the pain and none of the real purpose?

Why not just have a 'HeapOnly' annotation if one wants to fetishize controlling where values are stored?

Why is there a different Deref(Mut)trait for immutable / mutable?

Drop trait

Dangerously Interesting that the language gives access to when things go out of scope

Neat for logging but feels unsafe

Whole point of Rust IMHO is that it deals with resource de-allocation for the language-user

Having a destructor kind of puts a lie to the safety if language-users can fiddle with the de-allocation process too much.

Sometimes non-language resources need to be cleaned up as well, so happy to have a mechanism for indicating when this happens

Feel strongly that this should NEVER be used for language-resources (memory)

Rc trait (Reference Counter)

First impression: Dangerous to the point of probably not being recommended for use

Expect the language compiler/runtime to deal with ALL reference counting

Feels like the sort of thing that exists purely for language-users to get into trouble with it

Good debug for Rust-language compiler writers but not seeing point for language-users

Feels like this wants to be an internal-language construct that is NOT visible to normal language-users

Except possibly for debug-purposes where read-only parts like counts are exposed

RefCell

Hard to imagine a legit scenario where the compiler wasn't able to correctly reference-count

Possible this is due to lack of imagination on my part....but at the moment I don't see it.

Reference Cycles

Interesting to note that Rust does not perform any detection of reference cycles

Disappointing but that is a hard problem...something to think about

Feel that having first-level language abstractions for references only makes the cycle problem worse

Easier for language-user to have 'hidden' cycles

Rustlang Concurrency

Threads

no green threads as built-in (hints to a separate library)

move keyword to move variables

why not just move on reference?

Message Passing

Channels behave as expected

Suspect would be better threads should just create by default (result of the spawn)

Nice that Rust protects against accessing mutable variables after sending

Better if only immutable were allowed to prevent the problem

what madman would send a mutable thing and expect it to work between threads?

again feels like a 'manufactured problem' that serves no purpose

Shared Memory

Dangerous but potentially useful

Mutexes work as expected

Atomic References via Arc work as expected

Sync and Send 'marker traits'

'Build Your Own Concurrency' seems like a bad idea

I trust language-designers barely to get concurrency right, not sure if trusting a library here is a good thing

Rustlang OO

If a language must have inheritance to be an object-oriented language, then Rust is not one

Happy to see this 'non feature'

Book recommends traits (interfaces) as means for one value to have multiple 'types'

Good practice, happy it recommends

Dynamic dispatch for traits?

Why?

The compiler doesn’t know all the types that might be used with the code that is using trait objects, so it doesn’t know which method implemented on which type to call

This doesn't seem correct

'Object Safety' of 'Trait Objects'

There are no generic type parameters

WTF, why?

once you’ve used a trait object, Rust no longer knows the concrete type that’s implementing that trait

Yes it should be able to

Feels like a huge miss on the compiler, is this going to be fixed?

Interesting to note that the book spends 4351 words and 263 paragraphs explaining how one might want to implement the OO 'state pattern'

compared to 2422/173 on how to use map/collect and doesn't even mention flatmap)

Feeling the book is not using my time/attention well

Rustlang Pattern Matching

Good that matching is exhaustive

let is defined as let PATTERN = EXPRESSION;

Can't quite put my finger on it but I'm seeing let used in ways that feel inconsistent weird

if let Some(x) = some_option_value {

Why isn't this if let x: Option::Some = some_option_value; ?

Function arguments are pattern-matching in nature

fn print_coordinates(&(x, y): &(i32, i32)) {

The above wants to be:

fn print_coordinates(i32:x, i32:y) {

Another good example of how poor choices (references and bad type specification syntax) make overly syntax-garbage-filled/unreadable code.

'irrefutable' and 'refutable' to distinguish between full and partial pattern matching

Seems like reasonable language, is this a Rustism or is this widely used terminology?

Good that destructuring is a thing in Rust

Match Guards

Some(x) if x < 5 => println!("less than five: {}", x),

Really neat idea. Similar to concept in TypeScript

Would love to see this as a 'first class' definition of a type (similar to TypeScript)

| as part of match-gaurd syntax to mean 'OR'

no corresponding AND ?

Can see it getting messy, possibly less is more here

@ binding operator

Like the idea

Seems a bit too verbose

Message::Hello { id: id_variable @ 3...7 } => {

better Message::Hello::id { 3...7 } => {

and then reference the 'bound' variable to id

Rustlang Advanced Features

Trait 'placeholder' types

Why?

From reading the explanation it appears to be a hack to get round some sort of 'Generic within a Generic' combinitorial implementation issue

How often is that a thing in practice?

Is that even bad to specify the implementation multiple times?

Supertrait

Lol inheritance is bad, lets have composition via interfaces...but lets let the interfaces inherit?!?!?!

Really dumb stupid idea. You know it is wrong and do it anyway. Bad Rust, no cookie.

Newtype Pattern

Delegation to create a new wrapper type

Type aliasing

type keyword

Possibly some interesting things to be done here...will have to play around to see.

! empty type

never return

Macros

Why the need to define before use?

Get that it would make the compiler harder to write but doesn't seem like it would be that much harder

OMFG entirely different syntax

macro_rules!

Syntax appears to be very specific and limited.

Feels like more of an afterthought of 'how can we handle vargs'...oh I have an idea...kinda thing

Procedureal Macros

Ah this was what I was expecting...

Rust doesn’t have reflection capabilities

Disappointing but good to know

TLDR appears one has full control over the AST...nice!

quote! macro...that could be interesting...can use outside in 'normal' code?

WOOHOO! it works. Can use quote in 'normal' code...{maniacal laughter}

#name nice, built-in templating

Why does the limited/wierd macro_rules! form exist? (just a stop-gap/hangover?)

stringify! works as expected. Nice!

Random Thoughts (Notes I made as reading/discovering that didn't fit in chapter context)

The fact that String literals like "foo" are references is annoying

consequence of poor reference/value defaults

just forget String exists and use &str

Better if language just removed idea of reference (like 'null' the idea of a value-reference is just dangerous and bad idea that needs to die)

In those rare instances where one needs to go down to 'assembly code level' have a special syntax for that don't burden 99.99% of language-user's

Hate &str as the type name of 'String reference'. Should be &String (or they should have named the type str)

Don't like from as value Type constructor/builder. Prefer shorter of

Don't like the documentation style where mut is used in examples. Feel it encourages bad practices.

Starting to despise the word 'crate' to mean 'module' and 'library' and 'executable' where one has to construct the meaning of 'crate' via context

Feeling 'crate' is a 'smurfism'

Stunningly short-sighted to have dependencies all route through a special name like https://crates.io

What happens to all the Rust code of the world when crates.io turns evil?

Better would be to have packages identified by secure public identifier (pub-key signed) and let user's choose where to get the binary representations

How does one control artifact dependencies in Rust 'for real'? (because the default appears to be broken by design)

Love the fact that line numbers AND column numbers are specified on compile errors

Starting to feel like the reasons for the bad-choices regarding reference 'exposure' is mostly in place so designers can 'show off' the fact that the compiler will detect when the language-user does the wrong thing. Sort of like putting down stumbling-blocks intentionally just so they can 'be the hero' and show off saving the user.

Better not have the intentional stumbling-blocks IMHO

WTF? Book suggests 'asking' the compiler for the return-type of a function by 'guessing' and then looking at the compile-error

Good that the compiler does this

Bad that the book suggests this as a reasonable practice to follow

Is there no language-server for Rust?

Surely any reasonable IDE would be able to suggest type

Why isn't this in the book?

Summary and Thoughts

There a lot of things I don't like about Rust

Unexpected how many things I didn't like

So many things wrong that I suspect Rust will be a stepping-stone language

Big things Rust got wrong:

References / Pointers

I get that Rust wants to be a systems programming language but there are better and worser ways of handling the 'dirty' details.

Feel that in the rare cases where References/Pointers are needed they should be abstracted from the language-user as types not syntax

Feel that the compiler should make decisions on how the stack/heap is controlled with the user hinting (via ugly syntax) for those rare instances where language-users want more control

Lifetimes / Ownership

Happy that Rust internally does the accounting for memory/resource accounting (The big draw for the language)

Sad that they are so proud of this feature that they burden the language-user with it

Feel strongly this should be a language-runtime concept that is hidden from language-user

In general, Rust syntax is too verbose and too unnecessarily ugly for the sake of being different

Types want to be defined in a c-like 'on the left side' ('C' won, deal with it)

In general following the lead of C/C++/C#/Java/Javascript aka mainstream is preferred unless there an obvious improvement to be made

Lots of NIH renaming that doesn't serve any purpose other than to be different

Trait = Interface

Crate = Module

Workspace = Project

The Good Parts

No nulls (Awesome!)

Pattern Matching well implemented

exhaustive

destructuring

Automatic Memory/Resource accounting (sort of)

Hard to call this a 'full win' due to the ugly syntax/semantics

The next language that uses Rust as inspiration will have this without all this ugliness

'Rust without the Lifetime garbage' will be the slogan

The 'half-baked' nature of the language-user-interface is what will compel the next language into existence

Obviously people want this or Rust wouldn't exist, shame that it was implemented so imperfectly

Entirely possible that I'm being too harsh and that while the book makes a big deal of Lifetimes, in practice they are never used.

Still bad/ugly they exist as a thing, but the degree to how often language-users are confronted with this mess, is the degree to which Rust will prove to be useful

Overall

I still want to like Rust and am not discouraged enough to give up on it entirely

But I am discouraged enough to look for alternatives before I spend any significant time with it

I note that Swift is also LLVM based which should give it similarly wide reach but is geared more for Apple platforms which makes it less attractive (narrows the language-community)

Feel that most of the heavy-lifting of the language is handled by LLMV, and it might be worth-while to spend time creating the better language vs trying to ignore the bad/ugly parts of Rust

[rockerchick1330]

~ Flower ~ A Chris Cornell fanfiction (Chapter 8)

Hi hunnies! So I hope you guys are enjoying this fanfic so far, and if you are, lemme know with some feedback and if you have any suggestions, just inform me ;-) Love you all! XOX!!! (PS we're back to Star's POV for now) Please excuse any errors, I had no time to read over xD I slouched on the cushion, sunken and dented due to various weights. My once chilled alcoholic beverage went warm, the red, plastic cup no longer dotted with beads of cold water. Though I was ringed with an array of familiar people, there still dwelled a forlornly ache internally. Wavering my drink, I twirled my wrist and observed as the pigmented fluid crept in circles around the lower, impressed ring of the cup. Constant chattering and occasional gossips suffocated me in a sea of laughter and conversations. I was basically levitating in a foggy epiphany of what the consequences or possible result of Chris and I could've been. His sudden heroine induce certainly perturbed me, it was impossible to achieve a mere hour of sweet slumber at night when contemplating. I knew he wouldn't have deliberated on abstaining from the drug if I had counselled or advised him. His ego deemed his choice right, whether the situation was critical or mild. He wouldn't have amended what was already casted, it was typical, definite Chris. Meditating in a ridiculously small, backstage region that was compacted and gushing with a sea of somewhat vague faces was difficult. What harried me all the more was my band's postponed performance, replacing our stage time with another, definitely not agile group. We weren't required to present until half of an entire hour past, permitting Tristan and Brandon to persuade an unnecessary gathering. A half or perhaps more of the booze was already consumed and drained by several, some of which we hadn't any acquaintance with but whom claimed to have a close relation. I gritted my teeth as the then current performers amplified their volume, assaulting my ears with their horrendous style of 'sleaze metal'. Their lead singer squawking lyrics in a haste, tripping over his pierced tongue in accordance to preserve timing with the over exaggerated guitar riffs. Without visual proof, I knew the bass player was the least interested, sweeping poorly over his probable out of tune strings and plucking them perfectly in the nonexistent time signal. I winced at the sloppy drummer, discreetly sharing a few of obvious, cliché rhythms amongst only a couple of the skins. With a lowered chin, I frowned to myself and fluctuated quite uncomfortably on the couch. Being choked in the extreme end of the three seat piece of furniture, I grimanced as another concupiscent couple intensely made out beside me. A frail, barely developed schoolgirl, embellished in ribbons and glitter to attract the ones she desired, stradled firmly on the lap of an intimidating, tattooed brute. His large, calloused hands already lurching up her revealing crop top and groping at her passionately. Her dainty, pale lady fingers laced with his lengthy ebony curls as muffled, muted moans emitted from her soft, pink lips. I avoided staring or even glimpsing too often at them, simply standing off the sofa with my considerably empty cup and trudging away. Shimming and shuffling through the overwhelming crowd, I managed to pry my way to an already overflowing garbage bin. Disposing of my cup, I was about to snap around when he sudden pair of hands contracted around my hips. Immediately spinning on my heels, my eyes met with his appeasing blue opponents. His dark, shimmering pupils nearly merging with his icy, webbed irises. His long, blonde locks of hair cascading down his broad shoulders and a lazy, certainly drunk, grin plastered across his slim lips. My chest heaved and I sighed in relief. "Oh, it's just you Jerry." Jerry Cantrell was better known by the public eye and the single guitarist in another, critically acclaimed Seattle band, Alice in Chains. To me personally, Jerry was a humorous, laid back individual, meek and mature enough to be seriously taken and comical and humorous enough to laugh along with. His uneven, side bang curtained over his pale complexion, making him rather prominent in the rapid current of people that waved. His golden locks were layered haphazardly, protruding and flaring the size of his actual hair. He was shirtless, religiously most moments, with his usual, black, glistening leather jacket shrugged on. I despised being so attracted to his alluring glow, but I was positive that many other teenage girls with raging hormones shared similar opinions as myself. He briefly licked his rosy lips, wiggling his sharp brows at me flirtatiously. "So, you excited to kick ass tonight babe?" I couldn't prevent from giggling, entertained by his contagious joy, absorbing all my occurring stresses then. "Ofcourse man, I can hardly wait," I winked, blithely poking his barely toned, but still visually pleasing, chest. "I know you guys are gonna rock!" He complimented, promoting the volume of his voice slightly louder since the crowd bickered and chatted more boisterous then. "Thanks dude-" I blushed foolishly with my cheeks already aching from my sincere smile. "Where's Layne and the other guys?" "Well, Layne and Sean are probably eating a fuck ton of chips and downing beers," the tall, handsome blonde snorted. "And Mike-" his head swiveled around briefly and his shoulders lurched, admitting. "I don't even fuckin' know where Mike is." I laughed in amusement, deciding to just tie the fray ends of our short conversation. "I'll see you after the show then dude," I casually sealed the communication. "Yeah, sure buttercup!" My eyes fluttered wide and my jaw went agape when the skyscraping guitarist reeled me into a child like hug. Snaking both his strong arms around my hips and ascending my firm stand on the floor, he spared a minute to waver me around whilst fondly cuddling his head perilously intimate to my chest region. "Oh shit-" I wheezed and laughed as he sharply contracted his strength. "O-Okay Jerry, that's enough." He released my figure abruptly, nearly allowing me to tumble to the ground, but steadying me enough to prevent the mishap. "I'll see ya babe!" he chimed merrily, not cringing at the mere awkwardness of his sudden palm pet on my head. Sifting back into the large group, I chuckled to myself, instantly being struck by reality's excruciating hammer. I suddenly ached to join Jerry once more due to his epidemic happiness that certainly smoothed the rough ridges of my scarred life. But I isolated myself from the toxic atmosphere, even though consuming people like a social parasite was one of my only few choices. With the ensuing performers still wrecking their set negatively, I inspected the ring of faces that crowned me. Ensuring all of my band mates were off, probably frolicking and gulping chemical courage down before the show, I stealthily slipped out of the room. Before me was nailed two separate alleys, one that lead to the stage and the other, to the back of the pub. My ideal decision was to go outside and practice regular breathing, smoke a cigar or two perhaps. With passersby still prancing around the corridors, my passageway was clotted with people, lined as ivoy dust on a druggie's table top. Scooting past a rather secluded cliche, I glimpsed at the entry door, cringing on properly surveying the Hair Metal disasters. Majority essentially wearing a patch or article of clothing either embellished with gems or cheetah print. Their hairdos exaggerated and massive from consistent, unhealthy teasing and hairspray, I gagged at the sight of their criminally horrible set list and overall sound. Glimpsing away from the conspicuous mess that lurked and jammed upon the stage, an uncomfortable churn wrenched in my stomach when I saw them. Probably the two most decent men seated in the club, proper, professional attire along with a glass of straight, smooth whiskey lodged in their hands. Opposing from the currently performing band then, both record executives heavily gelled and harshly slicked their trimmed hair down, permitting their prominent side burns to grow. I had already assumed the sheets of paper stapled together that they both scrolled and skimmed through was a business document. Rated R's business document. So engrossed by my epiphany of that faithful leap my band and I were soon to prepare for, I was immensely startled by the iron shackles that clamped on my waist from behind. Contemplating briefly if it was a genuine return from Jerry, I gulped hard, choking on the clump of fear that lingered in my throat. I knew Jerry, I knew how gentle and playful he was. That desperate, hungry grasp was beyond that, vague and unfamiliar to my knowledge. His bulky, muscular arms noose around me, decorated with faded tattoos on every single inch of his pale skin. His bruised, calloused hands, webbed with veins and other minor injuries. His marked wrists were cuffed with leather bracelets, some of which were beaded and studded with silver bullets. I was petrified then, his body so close to mine, I shifted on his lower situation. Adjusting his arms, I finally noticed an extremely thin thread of crimson blood streaming down near his inner elbow. I furrowed my brows and creased my lips into a firm line when I realized the colony of track marks that dotted his skin. Several scarred and sealed with oxygenated blood but majority large and ugly, probably executed in a fit of anger. His internal veins were violet, indigo with substance abuse. Similar to Chris'. "Hey baby," his hot breath fanned against my ear as he purred it like a venomous drug. Shivers alternated up and down my spine as shudders thrilled my trembling shoulder blades. "Like the show?" The moment he loosened his prison like shackles, I took advantage of his hospitality, switching around for a vivid angle of his face. The heavily applied eyeliner that infested his waterline, his blow dried, auburn locks and that coy smile twitching on his chapped, cracking lips. All the familiarities rung several carillon of bells. His frame was monstrous, every muscle bulging and throbbing from consistent drug injection. My mouth pried open on comprehending who the aged junkie was. I felt my heart palpitating, pounding against the caged bones of my ribs and creeping into my contracting throat. I grounded my teeth and fisted my trembling hands, attempting to discreetly seclude my absolutly horrified ghast. It was the python that preyed on me earlier that day, lounging on Stacy's porch whilst scanning the neighborhood. "You," I bitterly choked, shuffling back slightly to permit an appropriate breath of space between us. He chortled maniacally, the rush of evil naturally poisoning his disease ridden blood. "Star, right?" He inquired, scraping his stained tongue against the scaly flesh of his lips as his eyes lingered on my figurine. The liquid beneath my skin crawled as it resulted in the increase of terror lumped in my gullet. I refused to offer him the liberty to converse, simply glaring at his appearance with absolute abhorrence. He peeled every last article of clothing I was cloaked in with his hungry eyes, smirking slyly on the outcome of my alleged nudity. "Stacy told me you were in a band," he continued, excusing my lack of vocals. "I dig sexy bitches, like yourself, especially when their musicians." He shifted closer and my chest heaved. I was terrified, internally screaming at the extreme apex of my lungs. He utilized his ridiculous strength, slamming my rather delicate body in comparison to his against the nearest plane. A breath hitched in my throat and I squeaked in discomfort as his gnarly hands migrated to my puckering backside. "I dig singers sweetheart," he chuckled seductively as the swam of passersby occasionally snuck glimpses at us. I flinched when he brought he gravitated towards me, caressing my bouncy hair as his lips merely brushed against my earlobe. I furrowed my brows and prevented from shrilling, too afraid that he may have physically retaliated. "They're the loudest screamers in bed." I writhed at his sinister hiss, emitting what alternated between a sob and whimper from my mid chest. "I could just imagi-" "Hey! Decker!" The intruder snarled hotly, making me whine in reaction to his sudden, increasingly painful grip. Whipping around, I sharply gasped when my nostrils were freed of his assaulting, purtrid cologne concoction. Recognizing the savior, truging down the corridor with his chin held high in pride, I sighed in sweet relief. "Mike!" I exclaimed, not intending for my consoled cry to be so bold. The bass player slumped his shoulders, flickering his chin at me subtly to signal my presence beside him. With the auburn snake still trading firece glares amongst the entire posse, I slipped and hastily sprinted to Mike, aligning on his right. "What are you doing Decker?" The defensive bassist growled, removing both his knuckle armed fists from his torn pockets. "You're messin' with a chick who has the whole fuckin' crew on her side." Decker, as Mike addressed the steaming, wretched fiend as, clenched his squared jaw firmly, grinding his lower dentures against his upper. He seemingly huffed a plume of invisible, heated vapor through his flared nostrils, scoffing arrogantly. "Really? She's a little bitchy girl, how do you guys tolerate her ass?" His insult boiled my blood, hot enough to singe my inner organs and burn flesh. "Fuck off dude, one more incident like that and you'll be answering to all the dudes," Mike barked in retort. Glimpsing once more at my still briskly shaking figure, he threaded his tongue against his the stained enamel of his teeth. He snapped around and faltered back into the crowd, abandoning Mike and I. Turning to courageous, sincere brunette, I crookedly smiled at his usual attire. His hair defiant and wild, cascading down his slugged shoulders and curtaining his face. His oversized, patched up denim jacket thrown atop his black Ramones tee and a pair of muddy combat boots strapped onto his either of his feet. "Thank you s-" "Don't mention it babe," he interrupted, gently patting the higher region of my back with his palm. "That's what friends are for, to kick anyone's ass." With a wide grin plastered across my lips, I shuffled slightly due to the still spurting corridor of people. Occasionally bumping or nudging me, majority by accident, minority for ignorant amusement. "I was actually gonna take a smoke out back-" I explained to him, suggesting him to accompany me. "Wanna come?" Shrugging and returning the beaming smile, he nodded. "Sure, let's go." Mike was undeniably attractive, slightly more stockier than Jerry, but equally as handsome. The apathetic shimmer that permanently embellished his chestnut irises, the way his smirk was angled. The list varied on and even additional traits lengthened it. His frizzy hair was obviously blow dried, it was certainly a large puff of curls bouncing on his head. Narrowing the space between us as we skimmed through the hallway, he amiably swung the door open, flashing the large, bold 'EXIT' notification nailed onto it. I skipped outside, finally free of the constricted crowd, loud and irritating, to escape into a perfect scenery of the setting, afternoon sun. "So, how's life kiddo?" He disturbed the pleasing silence with no horrid intentions. Attempting to my very full extent to ignore my nagging subconscious mind, I lurched my shoulders and sighed. "Good I guess, what 'bout you?" The brunette bassist frowned slightly, scrunching his pudgy nose up sickeningly adorable, almost making me coo in admiration. "It's, there," he scoffed, awkwardly fiddling with the rusted silver chain that was attached to the loops of his denim jeans. "What do you mean?" I questioned with concern, knitting my eyebrows tightly and filtering my smile into a similar frown. I attentively analyzed his situation whilst dipping my hand into the fitted back pocket of my bottoms. "I don't know, it's just real shit sometimes," he mumbled, his full lips pursing and his eyes adverting to the thin crack that differentiated the cermented ground. Fishing my carton of cigarettes out, I scowled at the spewing dumpster whose contents rustled with each sweep of the cool breeze. "I know what you mean man," I admitted, inspecting the cherry red packaging of the cigars to distract myself. "Got a light?" In a matter of seconds, a creamy white Bic lighter was sitting on my fingers, threatening to slip out amongst the gaps. But with my amateur reflexes, I managed to catch the tossed object. Lodging the blunt in my parted lips and gently clenching it with my teeth, I noticed Mike's sudden converted stare. His once casual flickering eyes snapped into a rather alluring glare, peppered with sensual desires. "Am I meat?" I lowly giggled, igniting the tip of the cigarette as he raked my figure. "Aren't you used to guys staring by now?" He asked, his inquiry fueled with angst. "You're really hot if you didn't realize." I grimanced at the ironic smile that twitched on his lips, exhaling a thin plume of smoke. "It makes me uncomfortable," I confessed quietly, offering him the cancer stick. Graciously taking upon the grant, he grasped it between his thumb and index digits, levitating it to his lips. "It does?" He genuinely seemed disoriented before hollowing out his chubby cheeks whilst sucking an inch of nicotinic content it. "I thought chicks like you loved that." "Like me?" I snorted, tilting my hips and crossing my arms on my teasing cleavage. "What's that supposed to mean?" He immediately sprouted his hands in surrender, quickly defending his justification. "No, I don't mean that in a bad way-" he spat, taming my whipping flames. "I just meant chicks who are in bands." "You really think that?" I snorted, cocking a brow as he gestured the blunt back to me. "Well, all the ones I know, especially the musicians, are like that," he muttered, apparently remorseful on nudging way to the topic. "They crave the attention since the 'Seattle Scene' bullshit is only guys." I comprehended his point with enough knowledge to know that the music industry then was mainly dominated by men. "You know how special I am then," I winked tauntingly at him whilst dragging at the lingering cigar. He laughed in reply, his eyes crinkling like they normally did, emitting a string of laughter from myself. "Yeah totally babe-" he snickered, flinging his arms around. "What's your secret?" My virginity. "Control," I lied, tasting it sour on my taste buds. "Well fuck, share some of that 'control' shit with me," he grunted, earning another fit of bubbling giggles from me. "I can't control one shit," he snorted, entertaining me all the more. "Once Mike Jr here-" I stifled another obnoxious laugh within my fluttering stomach when he directed his attention to his sufficient crotch area. "Gets excited, all hell breaks loose." Firing another cigarette up and dragging nearly a quart of it out in his alpha pull, he flickered the greyed, crumbling ashes off. "You probably get all the girls screaming when you play on stage," I teased, briefly poking my tongue out in order to enhance the taunt. He wriggled his brows as I endured in a final, unfamiliar moment of leisure with him. Never had I thought joy would've been surging through my veins and capillaries ever again unless I was prancing around on stage. "Tell me about it baby," he retorted with spunk, brushing the nonexistent, but comical, pride off his shoulder. Mike and I grew fond of our constant bonding, reluctant to return inside to the flustering tidal waves of strangers and few allies. But when Cyd scrambled through the door with a pale, flushed face and an anxious whirl in her body, I knew it was time to Rock 'N' Roll...

#chris cornell #soundgarden #pearl jam #alice in chains #90s #grunge #fanfiction