I raise you a cute soft thought

Nai's sweet, patient wittle baby always sleeping cozy in his arms so much Nai straight up just ends up carrying them around most of the time, bundled up in a little ball like a pill bug, small arms out, palms resting, legs dangling crossed. This tiny, tiny cocoon of feeble mortal skin and bones.

I can see Nai feeling perhaps perplexed about it, if not hesitant, but softens up. He comes to learn how much he loves packing along his little baby like this. So close, close enough to hold, to love, to protect. He is a fierce, stotic man; holding the world's weakest creature.

And he will diligently cut the arms off anyone who dares try to pry his beloved child from his arm.

I wanted sooo bad to draw an image for this, but I even tried an alternative one and just eventually gave up and decided that I cannot draw babies or people holding babies at this point in time in the point of view I want, even with pose references. So, instead, I offer you a mental image of what I had in mind for the alternative image I attempted to draw and just gave up on: Imagine, you happen across the ship wreckage, carelessly entering, be it to plunder or take shelter, and the first thing you happen to see is the back of a large man, wearing the rather form fitting custom suit worn on the ships and there, resting their head on his shoulder, is a small baby staring at you, chewing on their hand. Perhaps the last thing you'll see is the piercing ice blue eyes of the man as he turns to look at you over his opposite shoulder and the intimidating set in his brow and jaw.

Also, as a person who plays Sims and is super guilty of making all my favs in CAS,… Seeing Knives hold a toddler had me going feral. I was like, beating my fist against this stack of books I have on my desk and grinning like a goof. XD It made me so indescribably happy. It was just so cute!! Gahh!! Big strong mean men holding a wittle baby?!?! Being soft?!!? My heart!! For real, Vegeta was a gateway into these types of men for me I just- It's my kryptonite now! And just imagine: reader there, tired, recovering from giving birth, and he's holding the baby in the crook of one arm, and holding her hand with the other, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles, maybe showing a brief moment of tenderness and leaning down to kiss the back of her hand. Beautiful. Augh. And he's just kinda looking between the two of them as reader sleeps? Wondering how this even happened? Unable to quite grasp that this is now his reality? He's just looking at the baby like, 'We made this. How.'

And can I just ramble a bit on how bizarre it is that like, we start out this tiny little thing in the womb, get around the size of a watermelon and are birthed, and then we just… Grow? Our bodies, our very bones elongate and our features change entirely throughout. It's… Wild to me. We're small, fleshy, squishy, weak things because that's what we need to be to even come out of the womb like we do, to be birthed with the least risk possible to both mother and us, and even that's rough. But the fact our bones just… Grow together as we age and then keep growing, getting longer and stronger. It's insane to me how we go from such tiny weak things to these taller, more defined bodies. Like, puberty hits and all sorts of crazy shit happens. I've never really taken the time before now to just be like, 'Isn't it crazy how this just happens? How our bodies just do this?' They just expand and elongate over the years as we grow. I don't know, it's just wild to see just how tall and broad shouldered some people get when we all started as these teeny tiny beings. And the way our bodies produce fat is just crazy to me; the way our bodies create teeth for us, hair, and fingernails, and the way our bodies even function. And how even is it that a single egg cell and a sperm can turn into an entire human with every organ needed to function? Life is crazy to me, so crazy and so fragile, even as adults, but so, so complex. And the moms out here are the real MVPs, carrying us to term, going through all this pain and suffering just so that we can see the light of day. The fact that a woman can just carry this tiny being inside of her. So crazy to me, so fascinating. And even Knives would have to sit there and handle thoughts like these, feeling reader's tummy as the baby grew and developed more over time. Starting so small and then getting big enough that their movement can be felt through her stomach.

hey hey! introduce me to your ocs!

Awww Yiisss

I'll just go through a couple bc i have way too many!! And bare with me, they're all technically dnd characters as that was the easiest way for me to create new characters

First my oldest, Aspen Creed! He's a 30 yr old human with draconic heritage. His backstory is really lengthy but to sum it up, he ran away from a cultist group around 18 bc his girlfriend of 3 years broke up with him (its a whole thing, another friend's oc. She broke up to protect him but he won't find that out until years later). Which then he met a group of pirates lead by an undead captain (which he wasn't aware of being undead at the time). The captain raises him as a son for about 7 or 8 years before there's an attack and he's seperate from them. He runs back into his ex girl friend and they try to make it work, but she leaves him again (again to protect him). It's not until he's 29 that he sees her again. But this time with a son. She'd been slowly being possessed on each new moon and was afraid of hurting him, but now she has a son and she can't exactly hide him from Aspen. So now he's hunting down the creature trying to overtake her body so he and her can live a happy life with their kid. He's dramatic and selfish and a little greedy but he really wants to do right by his family since he never really got to have one. He has a ridiculous amount of abandonment issues and an ego the size of a god damn country. He typically stays back in a fight using very strong damaging spells. Also he's vain af. I love him endlessly, he's just a terrible person lol

Next is my little man Kai Ziddis!! He's a 24 year old triton (fish person) and he's a bard! He's the middle child from a very very large family. 13 siblings actually do its hard to get a lot of attention. Especially when you occasionally freeze over and ask to be released in your sleep. He's soft spoken and sweet and tries to meditate as much as he can. He left home at 23 to both figure out his ice thing but also avoid the pressure of getting married and moving out his family is pushing onto him. He loves his friends more than he'll ever have words for and has a deep fear of one day waking up as a different person and not being able to either control his actions or remember anything if the life he's striving to build for himself. He just really wants to find a place in the world where he and his friends are safe. His main deal in battle is to supportand heal at mid range, he's terrible at 1v1 combat. Also he really really likes juice.

Next is a simple character. Just a gay elf wizard named Jassin Phelorna. He goes by Jase. He's 127 (so roughly in his early 20s) and he really likes figuring out the results to things. His past times is convincing people to try potions he's made usually consisting of spells he's tried to force into drink form. This only rarely works out. His parents put a lot of pressure to be at the top of his education, so to compromise he makes sure to learn something from every experience. He lives his life by very careful loopholes. He really likes plants. He usually tries to avoid fights, not wanting to be bothered with that stuff. Also dumb buff men who are slight pricks are his kryptonite. He'll never admit it though.

And finally I'll talk about Nexus Virel! Edgy trans teenager galore. He's a 15 yr old air Genasi and has an assassin name he made when he was 12 that he absolutely detests- The Cerulean Blade. Unfortunately it caught on before he realized you become embarrassed of yourself as you grow older. He was 7 when he lost his family, he himself being killed when a voice beyond raises him to preform a task when he's older. He now is missing his heart and is constantly flickering between the line of life and death. He travels with a bird woman he met when he was 8 named Paprika, whom he thinks of as an older sister despite her being well near middle age (another players character) she unfortunately perishes to a curse placed upon her where Nexus is then unofficially adopted by a woman named Ridian and her son Don (also another two players characters). He's sassy and pissy and honestly just a shitty kid but he has strong morals and as much as he talks a big game, he'd never hurt someone that doesn't deserve it. He fights at a distance, wanting to stealth as much as possible. Also he likes to sleep in very small places. Like a closet or a vent.

Could you write a scenario for Kakashi and his s/o? Time being the attack of Pain. Like were they together when it happened, how did his gf react when she saw him defeated. What does Kakashi think when he wakes up? Smth. Like that if that would be okay 😅

I did something similar to this, but it was the reader having a nightmare about finding him in that state. I’ll tag it here for you if you want to read it. I’ve been thinking about doing one about it actually happening so that works out perfectly. 😊❤

Pain || Kakashi x Reader

AO3 Link

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: major character death

A messenger from Tsunade approached as Kakashi and you stood outside your house. The wreckage and chaos going around outside were enough to know why she was. “Kakashi Hatake and Y/n L/n. I have a message from Tsunade. She said to do whatever necessary to save the village, but she said that Kakashi is going to be one of the only Jonin in the village with a chance of taking the Akatsuki member down.”

Kakashi nodded. “We’re going.”

As the messenger disappeared Kakashi looked to me. I took a deep breath. “Are you ready for this?” 

Kakashi placed his hand on my cheek and placed a soft kiss on my lips. “Whatever happens, I love you.”

“Don’t do that Kakashi. Everything is going to be fine. I’m right by your side.” He watched me with intense eyes, already moving his headband from his Sharingan eye. “I love you too.”

“Let’s go.” He jumped away, landing on buildings and using them to catapult across the village. The destruction was worse the farther we got. Explosion after explosion sounded, making it hard to hear anything around us. As we soared over where the village center used to be we noticed Iruka sitting with a Jonin. That’s when he made his move. The Akatsuki robe flowing in the wind as he landed in front of Iruka. He was known as Pain.

Kakashi landed next to Iruka and grabbed the metal bar that Pain was about to use to piece him in his hands. You landed on the other side of Iruka and put my hand on his shoulder. The hatred in Kakashi’s eyes as he watched the man before him caused you to shiver. “Iruka, come with me. Let’s get you guys out of here.”

Iruka looked up at Kakashi and then to me. Kakashi growled as he spoke. “Y/n, take the wounded one and Iruka and get them away. Leave this to me. Meet me back here.”

You grabbed one of the man’s arms and threw it around your shoulder while Iruka did the same. You didn’t want to leave Kakashi, but you knew that he could handle it until you got back. Iruka gave Kakashi a nod. “Good luck Kakashi.”

The closer the two of you got to the triage center the more your nerves heightened. You needed to get back to Kakashi. Iruka and you landed as gently as you could, trying to keep from hurting the man in your grip further. As your feet touched the ground you heard a loud rumbling. When you looked back you could see more rubble crumbling from where you had just come. 

You looked at Iruka with worry. “I have to go. That’s Kakashi.”

Iruka nodded as you jumped away from him. Your movements were desperate as you headed the same way you had just come. As you reached the location you saw some familiar faces headed the same way. Choji and his father, Choza. They followed you, knowing you had to be headed for the fight. Just the sight of you let them know who was fighting the enemy. 

From above you couldn’t see Kakashi, you had hoped that that was a good sign. Choji and Choza both grew there fists large and slammed them into the ground from above, squashing one of the two shinobi below like a bug. Pain had jumped out of the way just in time. 

You landed behind them and looked around. “Kakashi?”

Boards started to move in the rubble and the silver-haired Jonin appeared before you. “I was all set you to know. I had it covered. But this will have me preserve some chakra. Thank you.”

You noticed a hole in his vest. “Kakashi, your shoulder.”

“I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

“How’s your chakra?”

“I’ve already used up half of my chakra.” He sighed. “If this ends up being a drawn-out battle it’s going to be difficult for me.”

Pain ran for us and ninja started throwing anything they could at him. Kunai, Shuriken, ninja stars, and even different types of elemental jutsu went his way. He spoke a deep voice that surprised you. “Almighty push...” Everything that had been thrown at him was now gone.

Kakashi grabbed a kunai from his pack and tied a smoke bomb to it, tossing it to him and allowed the group to escape to formulate a plan. When the smoke cleared you had hidden. You looked at Kakashi. “What are we gonna do?” 

“His chakra allows him to push things away or pull things to him. It doesn’t look like he can use it consecutively tho. He has to wait a certain amount of time before he can activate the next one. I have a plan, but I need the three of you to help me.”

* * * * * * 

As Pain walked through the village further he had not expected the ground to break open underneath him. A Kunai came through the ground and Kakashi added his lightning to it as he came through the ground with it. With one look Pain was able to send both Kakashi and his Kunai falling to the ground a good way away from him. 

As Pain approached Kakashi he spoke. “Now!” 

From the sides, Choji and Choza came flying at Pain. “Human boulder!”

Choji and Choza were thrown backward as Pain lifted his arm, but as they went backward they pulled a hidden chain with them. The chain closed around him and Kakashi readied himself. A light blade formed in his hand and he closed in on Pain. As Kakashi’s hand should have connected with Pain the person that had been squashed before appeared before him. Kakashi’s hand made contact with him instead. 

The more the person in front of Pain was hit the more chakra is seemed to take in and before any of us could react there was another explosion. Everyone was sent flying backward. As you tried to reach for Kakashi you were thrown away from him. When your body hit the ground your vision went black. 

As you started to wake up you were groggy. Your vision was still blurred as you looked around. The pain in your head and your side was worse than you had ever felt before. As your vision slowly came back you saw Kakashi’s figure. Pain was nowhere to be found. You slowly started to sit up. “Kakashi, where did he go? He wouldn’t just leave.”

Kakashi didn’t answer you. Once you had yourself kneeling you looked back up at him. The blur in your vision was now gone. Your eyes were playing tricks on you. You were seeing things. Kakashi was buried up to his chest in rubble and his head hanging forward. You scrambled to stand, almost losing your balance. 

Choji came up beside you as you started running. “Kakashi!” You dropped to your knees in front of him. He couldn’t be gone. There was no way. Nobody could take out the copy ninja. So many had tried and so many had failed. You could feel the tears flowing down your face before you could stop them. “KAKASHI!” He was the love of your life, this was impossible. 

The pain in your heart was threatening to stop your breath. Your breath was fast, you were hardly able to catch them. “Choji! Help me get him out of here.” The two of you worked on the rubble around him, moving it away from his body. Your strength was near existent so Choji did most of the work. 

When Choji was able to move him they laid Kakashi down where there was little debris. You lifted his head into your lap and ran your hand through his hair. A tear dripped from your cheek and left a small wet spot on Kakashi’s forehead. You tried so hard to keep your sobs silent, but how could you? Your body shook as you tried to hold it back. “This isn’t happening.” Choji looked over at you and noticed his father had sat up at well. The two men giving you sympathetic eyes. “They can’t have him.” A lump was forming in your throat, your ability to talk disappearing as the tears flowed more. You leaned forward and placed your head on his chest, sobbing into his vest. 

For what felt like an eternity you weren’t able to control yourself. It didn’t matter what either man there with you did, they couldn’t bring Kakashi back. Your heart felt like someone had ripped it from your chest. Losing Kakashi had always been your worst fear. He was your kryptonite. As you sobbed into his chest you felt a hand touch your back. You hadn’t thought anyone was behind you, but someone must have snuck up there. Choji’s voice broke the silence. “Pa, Y/n.” His voice sounded cheerful. “Look!” 

As you lifted your head from Kakashi’s chest you realized where the hand had come from. Kakashi’s eyes were open. Kakashi sat up with a start and took a hard breath. “What’s going on?” The confusion in his eyes was overtaken when he saw the look on your face. “Y/n?” 

Your eyes grew wide. You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. The tears started flowing again, but this time they were tears of joy. You threw yourself into Kakashi’s arm, the two of you falling back against the ground. You placed your lips to his lips and the intensity of your kiss caused him to wonder what had happened even more. His memory was blank. “I’m so glad you’re okay.” You smiled into the kiss as Kakashi wrapped his arms around you. 

“I don’t know what the hell happened after I used my Mangekyo to get rid of that nail that Pain sent for me, my mind is black, but I guess whatever it was I can thank it for this.” He placed another kiss to your lips and rolled you onto your back, just happy that he had you in his arms once again. 

Naruto Content Taglist 💕 @chidori-mint @praisingkuroosbedhead @korianrdr @excitedlysuffering @ari-hatake15

Flufftober #24: Photographs

Summary: Aziraphale waves through history. Crowley mostly worries.

__

Crowley walked into the shop one morning and slapped a book down on the desk. Aziraphale only got a glimpse of the cover but it seemed to be a coffee table book of key historical photos from the last century.

The demon flipped it open to a page he’d already bookmarked and looked at the angel expectantly.

“What are you on about?” said Aziraphale, honestly confused.

“Take a look.”

Aziraphale leaned in and examined the page. On it was a large black and white photograph. “Oh yes,” he said, academically. “I recognize that! It’s a picture of the train they used when they signed the Armistice of 1918, near the end of the Great War.” He looked up at Crowley expectantly.

“Not that,” Crowley said, leaning in and grabbing the magnifying glass that the angel always kept on the desk. “This!”

Crowley pointed at one of the small windows of the train behind the group of important-looking men standing beside it. Through the magnifying glass, you could see the faintest hint of a man with what appeared to be shockingly white hair, sitting in a seat on the train, his hands primly folded in his lap.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, embarrassed. “Well, you see, I happened to be there that day and of course I didn’t want to be part of the group on the stairs, so I thought I had hidden myself away inside the train. I had no idea you could see me so clearly!”

“Uh huh,” the demon said dubiously, and turned back another dozen or so pages. “And this one?”

Aziraphale glanced at the page. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Crowley stabbed a finger at the picture of Teddy Roosevelt, waving from a car during his inaugural parade in 1905. A few family members are in the backseat and in the background, blending in for once somewhat inconspicuously with the background of onlookers on the street, is the angel.

“So, I was there! Hundreds of people were there!” Aziraphale said archly. “Why is that a problem?”

Crowley frowned at him and continued flipping through the book. He pointed out the angel in the background as the Wright brothers took off at Kittyhawk, at the first meeting of the League of Nations, watching the inauguration of King George VI, celebrating at the end of the Spanish Civil War… He wasn’t obvious in any of the photographs, but once you knew what to look for, that shockingly bright hair really stood out against the sea of dark hair and hats.

“There’s literally NO way this is all by accident,” Crowley said, fixing Aziraphale with a look.

“Oh all right,” Aziraphale sighed. “The truth is – well, for a while I made a hobby of, well, trying to end up in as many important historic photographs as I could. It was just for a lark.”

Crowley gave him a blank, disbelieving stare. “Angel, these could be dangerous to you! What if someone other than me figures out that you’ve been in all these important moments, essentially unchanged, through history?”

“Oh, I think that’s rather unlikely.”

“It’s very likely, since a large number of them seem to be gathered up in this particular book!” Crowley said.

“My dear, no one actually looks at coffee table books,” Aziraphale said soothingly. “It’s probably the safest place these pictures could have ended up.”

Crowley ignored that ridiculous statement. “This,” he said direly, “is how conspiracy theories start. No, this is how witch hunts start. And you have lived through enough actual witch hunts to know better!”

Aziraphale blushed a little. Crowley didn’t really seem to be angry, it was more that he was worried, and worried always turned into these type of chiding lectures. Aziraphale didn’t enjoy being lectured, even (or especially) when he knew the demon was probably right. It hadn’t occurred to him at the time that all of these pictures could end up being collected somewhere together, or that they would even survive their time period. Who knew that photography wasn’t just a flash in the pan?

“Well, I do think you’re overreacting,” he finally said carefully, “but I suppose you have a point. Anyway, I gave it up in the 1950s. So, for all intents and purposes, no one will find me in the background of major events after the first half of the century.”

Crowley looked suspicious. “You just… gave it up?”

“Hrm?” the angel tried to look innocent.

“Why did you stop? What happened?”

Aziraphale blew a lock of hair out of his eyes and squirmed for a minute, then remembered that he was supposed to just tell the truth these days. That was unfortunate and rather annoying.  “I ended up getting photographed with Elvis in a picture that made the front page of several magazines, and Above caught wind of it and told me to keep a lower profile.”

Crowley laughed in spite of himself. “Well that’s just about the first time I can say I agree with Upstairs on something in the last several centuries. Elvis???”

“It was an accident,” the angel said primly.

“Accident my ass,” the demon returned. He sighed and closed the book. “You have to be more careful. People do notice these things. How do you know there isn’t already a Web page out there about this mysterious white-haired man who always dresses like a Victorian?”

Aziraphale looked a bit delighted by that idea. “Oh, goodness, do you think there is?” he breathed. “Can we look? I wonder if they have a code name for me.”

Crowley rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Angel, if there is a web page out there about you, that is NOT a good thing. We want to be inconspicuous, remember? Not attract any of the wrong kind of attention?”

Aziraphale turned in the desk chair blinked big sad eyes up at Crowley in a way they both knew was generally like kryptonite to the demon. “Oh, dear, don’t be cross! It was just a game I played for a while to amuse myself. No harm was really done.”

Crowley pursed his lips as he looked down at his soft, adorable angel, trying to remain firm. “A foolish game.”

“Perhaps,” the angel said, a sly glint entering his eye. “But in my defense, I was largely left unsupervised. I didn’t see you at all between our fight about holy water and the day you showed up at the church in the 1940s.”  

“This is my fault?”  

“Well,” Aziraphale said, with an extra few blinks of his long lashes, “I was bored! And there was no one around to stop me.”  

Crowley sighed fondly. “You’re so spoiled, angel.”  

Aziraphale smiled at him. “You made me this way.”  

Crowley ran a hand through his hair until it was thoroughly sticking up in all directions, and then gave up the pretense of irritation all together.    

“I am sorry my dear,” Aziraphale said, standing up and walking over to slip an arm around Crowley’s waist. “We’re on the same page now about the low profile thing, I promise. That was just a different time, a different set of circumstances.” He snugged in and leaned his head on the demon’s shoulder.  

The demon softened and raised an arm to hug back. “All right, all right,” he said. “Bygones, I suppose.”  

Aziraphale gave him an appreciative kiss on the cheek.  

“Can we check, though?” Aziraphale said brightly. “To see if there’s a web page?”  

Crowley laughed. “Sure. I’ll help you look.”  

Aziraphale smiled delightedly and headed for the back room to fire up his ancient computer. Crowley stopped for a minute before he joined him to pick up the book and run upstairs to tuck it away in a special trunk where he kept important things away from prying eyes.  

There was no way he wasn’t going to hang onto something that was essentially a photo album of the decades they’d once spent apart.

With the book safely secreted away, he squared his shoulders and headed back down to come up with the most ridiculously teasing search terms he could think of for Aziraphale’s search. He had promised to help, after all.

Next Door – [BTS] Yoongi!Au

Prompt: My mom told me I should welcome the neighbour and that you’re nice and all but I’m here and you’re not?

[A/N] Bare-faced Yoongi is my ultimate kryptonite. I get so obnoxiously weak whenever this happens, I can’t even justify myself anymore.

Maybe you shouldn’t have told your mom that your friend took your ladder and because of it, you can’t change the lightbulb she told you to change, two weeks ago. “It’s just a bulb, mom, let’s stop making a huge deal out of it,” you poke your head into the semi-occupied fridge of yours in your little apartment, taking out a can of orange juice while your mom is on the phone, already nagging.

“You see, this is why I told you to get a boyfriend. That’s what they’re supposed to do for you. Change the bulbs, take the car to the mechanics, and pump the gas and tyres. But you, you wanted to be all independent, and know you’re doing all of these on your own. You chose this.” Mom clicked her tongue at you and you let out a sharp sigh through your nose while snapping the can open to take a sip. 

“Are you drinking beer in mid-day?” She accused you. “Of course, I love being tipsy at noon.” You replied, just to get her worked-up. She is your best friend and also your greatest challenge in life. Whatever you do with your life, she will always have something t say about it. Probably because she had a tough one, going up in poverty, but that doesn’t meant she is allowed to mingle around your life choices. 

But it’s true what she said. This life you pretended to live is actually very lonesome. To the extent that you deemed unbearable sometimes. Overthinking about it usually made you settle with just this. Years of watching Korean dramas had made your ideal type shoot up to the stars to the point where you are convinced that such a man does not exist. 

“Why don’t you get help from that new neighbour who moved in when I came?” Mom pitched an idea that didn’t seem bad. “Mom, he is a guy.” You shot back. Not to say that you have some phobia into talking to guys, the opposite sex but, that’s exactly what you’re saying. You find talking to guys are as annoying as opening a new jar of strawberry jam or vacuuming the house; you hate doing it, but you got to. “Welcome to the next part of your adulthood: Socializing!” Mom raised her voice in a pretended cheerfulness to her dense daughter. “When I was your age, I dated at least 5 men.” There she goes again. “Congratulations, mom.” You darted while running your fingers down the headlines of today’s newspaper. 

“I asked him to take out a trash when you weren’t home last time, and he seemed nice. He even guessed the lunch I was cooking correctly. He also mentioned he likes Kimchi fried rice. Why don’t you cook him a bowl, and say your mother is grateful for what he did. You cook great fried rice.” Mom suggested. And there’s a horrible amount of wrong in that suggestion; a) you don’t like cooking for someone other than your close friends, and he is a stranger; b) you have never given a guy a gift let alone cook a dish for them, ever; c) you don’t like or want to talk to the guys. All of which, your mother completely disregards. She just doesn’t understand. “Just try it. For me.” There is it, the one sentence that makes you weak. 

Cooking the fried rice was easy, and when you think less about what to say when you see this neighbour, you get less nervous. Having them wrapped in a bowl, and a small container of kimchi your mom brought, you timidly knocked on your neighbour door. Once. Twice. 

Is he even home? 

Well this is embarrassing. 

You looked down at the tray you prepared and puckered your lips at it. “All these effort to get a bulb changed.” You sighed, already turning away when the door snapped open and raspy voice greeted you, “Can I help you?” He rubs his eyes, in his white basics, and a bed hair. The grittiness in his voice and the way it gave you an unexplainable sensation throughout your body was totally uncalled for. 

How that seamless voice can made such an effect on you? A strong independent young women?

I was independent, but I never said I didn’t need a man.

“I’m from next door, and I just want to welcome you to the neighbourhood.” You beamed up, the way you would talk to most of your clients. Fake smile, pretending to be comfortable when you’re all flight-mode on the inside. Is he really bare-faced? Can a skin be that healthy? An Asian glow, a little flushed and an adorable set of eyes. The way he rubs his palm all over his face, pinching his nose suggests that he had nothing on. “I…moved in for almost three weeks now.” He shot. 

What was that supposed to mean? What do you say now? Sorry I was late with my welcoming gift? 

Wow, his face is all soft and teddy bear-like, but nope, he is rude as fuck and doesn’t deserve this beautifully made fried rice and your mother’s best batch of kimchi. If I walk away now, will he say a word about it? Mom is so wrong about this punk. He is not nice. He is horribly rude and I already hate talking to him. 

“Let’s just get to the point of why I’m here.” You sighed under your breath.

“Since us both are millennial and the honorary Y generation, I’m going to be straight forward just like everything else in our youth: I have a stupid light bulb that flickers and I accidentally turned them on this morning so it’s busted. I can change them on my own but my stupid friend borrowed my ladder since last month and hasn’t returned it, she won’t answer my calls because she asked me to come to a concert with her but I can’t afford the ticket so that’s why she won’t return my ladders to me. Even if I use the chair I have in my house, I won’t be able to reach the ceiling because my arm is so fucking short and I hate being so helpless but I have a mother who wouldn’t let me live with a busted bulb and made me do this. So think this as helping out another human.” You inhaled and exhaled.

Yoongi blinked. Did she just rapped? Isn’t it too early for this shit? What time is it? But wow that fried rice smells so good. My mouth is watering. 

“Which bulb?” He asked, eyeing the fried rice you brought. You smiled.

His fingers twisted the bulb in discussion and you passed him the new one as he gave you the old one. “Where’s your boyfriend? He should be doing all this for you.” He sounded like a grandfather when said this. “I don’t have any.” You shrugged with little thoughts. And Yoongi looked like he’s heard that for the first time. A young women, single. He got down from the chair carefully with a little grunt and cleared his throat. “Why is that?” He asked. “Why can’t I be single?” You shot back. And Yoongi twitched a smile, as if he liked that response because he rarely got one like it. He took the box that the new bulb came with and gestured you to put the old one inside. “Relationship is tiring.” You added. “I didn’t ask for explanation but okay.” He scoffed and threw them in the trash. 

“I don’t know, I’m just scared that he won’t be able to handle me.  I can be really hard to read. Terrible mood swings and just, it’s safe to be alone.” You shrugged your shoulders and Yoongi eyed the wok you left on the stove with plenty of fried rice. You thought it was manners to invite him to lunch, since he did all the bulb thing, so he stayed awhile. Talking about relationships, your struggles, what he does for a living, what you do for a living, things like that. “I have mood swings too.” He suddenly say. “Seriously? I’ve never known a guy long enough to see that.” You spooned your fried rice and shoved them up your mouth. “…It’s really difficult to understand. I don’t even understand me, how can others?” Yoongi added.

“Being a lawyer and all, you could really afford a better housing, why you chose to be living here, in this tiny apartment?” 

Yoongi pouted before answering, “…Holly doesn’t really like large spaces. Large spaces require maids, and she doesn’t like strangers around.” 

“Oh, is she working today?” Holly is probably his girlfriend. It was only natural for a guy this good-looking to have a girl. Like, how could he not.

“Oh Holly is my dog. She’s a dog.” Yoongi hurried to say. 

The lunch was fun, and it was nice, to have lunch with somebody. It was comfortable and not at all awkward. And maybe you concluded everything too fast, but Yoongi is actually a very nice person. He thanked you for the food and said if you needed anything, don’t be a stranger and knocked on the door. He walked away with a staggering step, hands in his pocket. Two people, living right next to each other, both single. Could this be a start of something new?

Yoongi waddled away in a slow stride as you watched.

“I’m worry about you. Who is going to take care of you when I’m gone?” Mom’s voice echoed in your head as you watch Yoongi’s back getting smaller and smaller as he walked away, so you hurried to call him, “Yoongi!”

He glanced over his shoulder at you with a blank expression and as if he had been contemplating to say something, he squared his shoulder to face you to ask, “Would you like to have coffee, sometime?”

His Fantasy

Falling for someone whose sexual appetite duplicates and can exceed my own was a beautiful fate. Our desire for each other is unparalleled, scorching and scintillating at its peak. Of course Doug has more experience than myself, I was sweet and innocent until he corrupted me. At least I like to remember it that way. But in all honesty our appetites are pretty normal, for us anyway. There is no hitting, spitting, urinating or bruising-well not on purpose. The constant ache I have for him is overwhelming sometimes. To the point where I would do anything to please him. He has a fantasy, and I'll admit I'm a little unsure about it, but whatever his wishes I want to fulfill them. So I have made all the arrangements and have it planned for our first anniversary. It took three months to set up and find the perfect one. I've met with countless men and became a little disappointed at not finding a spark. This one is perfect. Brody's a Marine stationed at a nearby base. He's part of a SOCOM unit and he's stateside while they're training. He and I have talked at length about what I expect out of tonight, and if we are compatible, possibly future dates. With Doug being a Marine, they will have that in common and I hope they will actually be able to enjoy this beyond the event itself. Yes "The Event" is what I've named this in my mind. It's a turning point in our relationship and one I'm very uncertain of. The intimacy between us is unique and special and I'm afraid this will change "Us". As the doorbell rings butterflies erupt and my insides feel like they are convulsing. I'm nervous and excited all at the same time. I open the door and there Brody stands. All 6'4" of hardened muscle and tanned skin. He's a few years younger than I am but he's assured me that age has no place in this experience. "Hi Brody, come on in" as I walk back into the room he takes my shaking hand in his "Angel are you alright?" He asks. "I'm fine" I respond and attempt to pull my hand back. "You're not fine, and we need to be honest with each other. This needs to be open so there are no misunderstandings" his voice is soothing and my tremors start to abate. "I'm just nervous and I want this to be good for everyone involved. I want Doug to be happy and I want to please him" I sputter. "Is this something you want?" Brody asks pleadingly. I pause and think over why I'm doing this. Taking a deep breath, and with a sauciness I didn't know I'd feel, I reply "I'm willing to try anything once." I smile as I start to regain some of my confidence. "Well good then hun, because I think I owe you a proper hello." As he leans in I can't take my eyes from his. He's got a sensual quality that could make panties drop from across the room. His lips brush mine, once and then twice. His hand comes around the small of my back and pulls me close to him. Our bodies pressed together and I can feel his cock through his jeans. His very large, very hard cock. He plunders my mouth as though he's searching for divinity, I hear him moan. And god help me my panties are wet. I can feel my pussy contract from just a kiss. Damn this man is hot. I'm amazed as he sucks at my bottom lip and gives me a couple of sweet soft pecks. And then smiles as I stare in awe at his prowess. " No hun, it's not always like that" he coughs to break my spell. "How did you know that was what I was thinking?" I ask as I furrow my brow in question. "Because I was thinking the same thing." Doug should be coming home around six and and it's already 5:30. The plan is for us to be engaged on the kitchen counter as I was in the middle of fixing dinner. The scene will be set and we will enjoy each other for the duration of tonight. As I light the candles on the table and set out the wine Brody approaches me from behind. He slides his arms around me and kisses the juncture between my shoulder and neck. Goosebumps erupt across my skin and my nipples pebble. I feel work roughened hands slide up my skirt and I'm not nearly as nervous as I was before. It's titillating to imagine how turned on and excited Doug will be. I want him to be provoked into taking me, so aroused that he will lose control. As Brody's fingers make there way into my panties, and find out how incensed I actually am, I realize Doug may not be the only one fired up by this. He's not in uniform but by his command and control, he's used to being in charge. That's another thing he and Doug have in common and it's my kryptonite. I love dominant men. I want to be bent to their will and rewarded with my punishment. Within seconds I hear a tear and my panties brush my thighs as they fall to the floor. A quick inhalation and moan is all there's time for as Brody spins me around and pins me to the granite counter top. "Angel, whose going to fuck this sweet wet pussy?" He growls into my ear. "You- you are" I stutter in return. "That's right, and I want you to moan loud and clear as your man watches us." He sounds so assured and I hope I know what I'm getting myself into. I'm wearing a lose black dress cinched at the waist. Open enough to hint at my generous unbound breasts and loose enough to play before removing it. Underneath are black thigh high stockings and a garter belt, it was paired with a red lace thong that Brody has left in the floor by the table. With his hands up my dress he grabs my round ass, one cheek in each hand and deftly lifts me onto the counter. My seductive heels clicking together as my legs wrap around his waist. He devours me with a kiss, so deep and drugging, I'm drunk on him. His thumbs caressing my inner thighs spread my legs wide as he places soft wet kisses to my neck and chest. My hands come up and open the top of my dress, exposing my large breasts for him. Looking up he says "I've waited three months to have you, and I'm going to savor every taste". His head descends and he captures my nipple between his teeth. The sting of the bite is soothed by his tongue laving, taking a deep mouthful and sucking until my back arches. I can't believe the mewling sounds coming from myself. Sounds I only make for one other man. With my dress pulled up to my waist and my breasts exposed Brody leans me back and lifts my heels in his hands. I can feel the cool air hit my heated flesh and the wetness on my thighs is glistening in the light. I am wanton for release. "Please Brody, I need to cum". " Oh baby you're gonna cum, and you'll be begging me to stop soon enough. You may not be able to walk after I'm done with you." Shivering with need "Then prove it" I bite out between clenched teeth. Laughing at my false bravado "Baby just remember you asked for it. Now lay back and let me eat this sweet little pussy." And just like that I obeyed. Brody pulls his t-shirt over his head and reaches back for a bar stool. Looks to be settling in for an eight course meal. He looks me directly in the eye as he swipes his tongue from my opening, between my swollen wet lips and up to my clit. I see his eyes flutter closed a moment before reconnecting with mine "You taste like heaven Angel". And with a little giggle I'm propped up on my elbows watching a gorgeous man eat my needy pussy. Brody sucks and works my lips and clit until I'm grabbing his hair and bucking my hips. It's when I'm thrashing my head back and forth I catch a glimpse of movement above my head in the doorway. You are staring in fascination as Brody eats me on our kitchen counter. As if this type of thing happens everyday I smile wickedly and say "Happy anniversary my gorgeous man". This brings your eyes back to mine as a lascivious twinkle shines bright and a smirk lifts the corner of your mouth. "And this is my gift?" You asks just as Brody sucks my clit deeply and thrust his thick finger into my hot wet channel. "Fffuuuccckkk" I grind out as the orgasm makes my inner walls clamp down onto Brody's fingers. I closed my eyes as he continues to wring the sensations from me and when they finally start to slow I open my eyes and you are there. You've unbutton, unzipped and taken your hard cock in hand. My mouth begins to water. You know that seeing you stroke your cock gets me jazzed. I can see the pre-cum glistening at your tip. I feel Brody shift as his fingers trace my mouth and I open sucking my own juices from his digits. Brody leans over me and whispers "I could eat you all day hun, don't you taste sweet?" As he takes my breast into his mouth and sucks. A moment later warm skin shifts against my thighs, there is an audible pop as he comes off my breast as he slides the head of his cock through my juices. "Oh so wet baby, do you like him watching us? Do you want him too? " and I do. I want you both. I wanted to be safe and waited to be sure all of Brody's tests were clean and he was healthy. As his 9" cock glides effortlessly through my lower lips I'm thankful we are bare. The warmth of skin on skin is unmatched. Brody must enjoy it too because he's started moaning and slipping against my clit with more force. I look back over to you and see your straining cock in your thick hand and your eyes on me. No matter where we are or what we're doing, you always make me feel beautiful. I offer you a shy smile as I peel my hand from the grip I have on the counter and beckon you to me. Just as Brody slides the head of his cock to my opening and I bring the head of your cock to my mouth. His shallow thrusts testing the resistance as I clean the pre-cum that's now created rivulets down your shaft. "Thats it baby swallow my cock while he fucks MY pussy" your voice is gravel, like shards of glass, and it could be my undoing. It's time for the teasing to end and pleasure to begin and in one simultaneous thrust I'm impaled. Brody's cock is balls deep and your cock is deep in my throat. I have to make myself concentrate as I think that I look like dinner, spit-roasted on the counter and served as a buffet. You know just how much I can take, the slick saliva coating your veiny shaft lubricates and allows for deep throating that could star in porn. My gurgling moans as I feel another orgasm approach spur you in to thrust deeper. My hands holding your thighs as my nails score your skin. Brody's thrusts are fast and deep. My pussy making the same wet noises my mouth is. "Are you gonna cum for us hun? Cum all over my cock? I want your honey coating me so you can suck it all off" Brody asks. You pull back and lean down taking my mouth in a savage kiss as you reach over and tweak my bouncing nipple just as Brody strokes his thumb through my juices and across my wet clit. My walls convulse around him and he groans trying to keep up his slapping rhythm as my pussy milks his cock and I feel the throbbing as he cums deep inside me. His continuing thrusts slow as you release my mouth and I inhale a ragged breath. "Fuck baby you are perfect, and you are mine. Did you like the way he made you cum? Does MY pussy like being filled with his seed?" You look me in the eye asking questions and I can't lie. "Yes, yes I liked it. I liked his tongue making me moan and his cock filling me full." As Brody pulls out of me I can feel his cum leaking down my crack and thickly coating my ass. You're staring at me as though you want to ravage me making your way to my pussy. And as if in an unspoken agreement Brody is at my head still half hard and obviously ready for more. Your staring at my cum covered cunt stroking your cock coated in my saliva. "Does MY pussy want more? Does MY pussy need my cum filling it and dripping to the floor?" With a shaky breath I whimper "Yes Doug, fill YOUR pussy with cum. I want MY cock deep inside me, please baby fuck me." You slap my clit with the fleshy head of your engorged member until I'm begging for you to fill me. In one solid thrust, your balls are tickling my ass and I'm impaled by you. You set a punishing pace as if trying to remove any traces of his thrusts. And I love it. This is what I hoped for. I wanted your loss of control, you showing me who I belong to. Brody has a Southern California tan that extends evenly across his body which compliments his sandy blonde hair. With his arms outstretched holding the counter hovering above my mouth I have a perfect view of his chiseled chest—those pecs, and those perfect 8 squares of muscle rippling down to the sharp V of his groin. And just as he promised his now fully hard cock is coated in my cream. "Are you gonna clean me up hun? You have a perfect tight little pussy. It's made to be fucked. What about this pretty little mouth?" He purrs "Your mouth is just as hot as this pussy baby, suck him dry." I'm not sure which shocks me more, that you heard him or that you've ordered me to show him how well I suck cock. Either way I'm getting close to cumming again and open my mouth to lick him clean. I taste myself on your cock often but my essence mixed with another mans is different, exotic to my tongue. His cum is musky and I can't help but savor the differences. Taking him deeper and deeper. "That's it baby, you look so good taking my cock and devouring his." Your compliment spurs ripples in my core and Brody's groans of appreciation cause contractions. "Angel your mouth is so hot, fuck your gonna make me cum again." His thrusts get deeper in amazement that I can take him. Your pace is steady as my orgasm hits and my pussy tightens around your pulsating shaft. Hard deep thrusts cause me to fall over the edge and take you with me siphoning and draining your cum into me. My moans vibrating his shaft trigger Brody and he pulls out stroking and shooting cum all over my breasts. I can't tell whose panting labored breaths belong to whom. I'm holding my breasts as the cum is pooling and starting to drip. Your cock is still hard and your shallows thrust are squelching as my continued aftershocks squeeze the mixture of cum from me. Brody is holding himself up by the counter when you suggest "Lets get you in the shower and clean you up baby." As you gently lift me cradling me in your arms carrying me to the bedroom. You yell back "Are you coming?" To which Brody replies "I'm right behind you". As you strip off my dress, garter and stockings- only momentarily distracted by the come fuck me heels- you lean over and whisper "Happy Anniversary, I love you my Angel" " I love you more Doug" I respond with a gleam in my eye. Thinking this may be something we repeat every anniversary. ~AAB

The Cult of Republican Victimhood

“You will not replace us! White Lives Matter!” That was all I needed to mute the video of angry, torch-bearing white nationalists marching in Charlottesville last night. The master race took time off from their busy schedule of collecting welfare benefits and flying rebel flags to protest the college town’s decision to remove a statue of Confederate General Robert E. Lee. Of course, they lit their torches and took off their masks—your neighbor, your barber, your teacher, your minister—for more than a statue.

They were there because they feel as though the glory of their whiteness wanes. They were there because they fervently believe—and Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III, our Attorney General, agrees with them—that the generosity of the white man was taken advantage of, and, as a result, the white man now suffers undue and unchecked discrimination because of the color of his skin.

Gobs and gobs of campaign post-mortems point to identity politics as the fatal flaw in Hillary Clinton’s failed presidential bid. Critics fault her for running too much against Trump and his immorality—appealing to the scores and scores of those offended by his comments, marginalized by his proposals, and threatened by his policies—rather than running on her own qualifications and merits. The irony of all this is that identity politics were precisely the foundation of Trump’s campaign and already an essential aspect of the GOP’s election strategies.

Trump honed in on and gave a voice to the Cult of Republican Victimhood.

The depths of shamelessness within this Cult are unfathomable. Days after the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary, the NRA held a press conference. (Because they value the 2nd Amendment far more than the 1st, the NRA forbade all questions.) A member of the audience—heartbroken, frustrated, angry—interrupted Wayne LaPierre in the middle of his proposal to post armed guards in schools across the country. LaPierre, thus attacked, looked down as though he might cry. A gunman with an assault rifle had just murdered children at an elementary school, and a protestor was tasteless enough to scream angrily during his proposal to put more guns in school.

The transmutation of responsibility into victimization is their central communion. This communion enables the Cult of Victimhood to transmogrify the thrice-divorced Kim Davis (no relation to Kim Jong Un) from outlaw into Christian martyr.

So agile are these fantastical acrobatics that the Cult even consider Ayn Rand’s works to be literature. (If you thirst for poorly-written, thinly-veiled fascism, Charles Hill has written better screeds on Yale’s one-ply toilet paper.) And, dear reader, who is John Galt anyway? Is he:

a)     an ego-driven capitalist who treats the people in his life as Lilliputian ladder rungs before throwing them away like soiled prophylactics?

b)    a rugged individual who—despite being victimized by “the haters and the losers” (and antitrust regulations)—manages to make a success out of himself?

Perhaps it’s a matter of frames of reference. More accurately, I think the answer to that tired question in that tired book has to do with identity politics.

Trump presented himself as the Moses who would lead the beleaguered and besieged out of the desert, those huddled masses who change their profile pictures to a Nativity scene with the disclaimer: “Facebook says this is politically incorrect. Share and type ‘Amen’ if you’re not embarrassed by Jesus!” These are the Fox commentators who claim that a policeman was killed “because of the color of his uniform.” These are the men and women who suffer from Holocaust Envy, whose eyes gaze wistfully at pictures of Birkenau, looking for a grandmother or a distant relative—anything to let them to lay claim to the horror, to the undeniable suffering and inescapable discrimination, to having survived the fiery crucible of genocide.

Trump targeted those who are convinced that they once had greatness—a heaping portion of the American dream, a home, status, riches—and yet find themselves now wandering aimlessly in the desert. Wracked by the housing market, globalization, the opioid crisis, automation, a broken education system, and fading prospects, they look to foist the blame for their misfortune on some vague and vicious enemy. In her first novel, The Bluest Eye, Toni Morrison writes precisely about the need to focus hatred—and direct it onto that which is within your grasp, not something fathoms beyond your reach. Describing Cholly Breedlove, Morrison discusses his need to hurt and hate Pauline, his wife, and Darlene, his first lover:

“No less did Cholly need [Pauline]. She was one of the few things abhorrent to him that he could touch and therefore hurt. He poured out on her the sum of all his inarticulate fury and aborted desires. Hating her, he could leave himself intact.”

If Cholly cannot find an outlet for raging against his own life, the way his dreams bore no fruit, if he cannot funnel hatred towards something he could “touch and therefore hurt,” it will destroy him from within. And it is only because he can reach Pauline that he receives any sort of catharsis; Cholly cannot find that same expurgation of a frustrated lifetime in hating those with more power. It will do him no good, for instance, to hate the white men who forced him to “perform” for them—“I said, get on wid it. An’ make it good, nigger, make it good.”—when they catch him making love to Darlene. “Hating them,” Morrison writes, “would have consumed him, burned him up like a piece of soft coal, leaving only flakes of ash and a question mark of smoke.” The fire that rages with no target will burn itself out.

These conservative and victimized men and women are filled with anger at the world and filled with dread that their world will disappear. They are told by Sean Hannity and Donald Trump and the vacuous nabobs of Fox & Friends that they—“good country people,” as Mrs. Hopewell might misidentify them—have been supplanted, cast out, and thrown down by immigrants swarming like cucarachas across the border or by some millennial upstarts bankrolled by Soros. Republicans in rural Iowa take a perverse comfort in hearing from “Dr.” Sebastian Gorka that, once the ISIS armada lands and takes unawares our unarmed and unprotected coasts, the town of Decorah, Iowa will be Christianity’s Stalingrad. Reassured by Twitter that the raking claws of the MSM neither understand nor like them, they wear the name “Deplorable” as a badge of honor: their disregard for “political correctness” is kryptonite to liberal snowflakes. Trump tapped into that frustration, gave it a voice, and weaponized it—and then he targeted it towards a hateful place.

The very act of tapping into that frustration—grease-smeared, black-lunged, calloused—is a textbook example of identity politics at work, and therein lies the irony: “Donald, Donald on the wall, who’s the snowflakiest of them all?” He told them they were losers—and that they lost because they were victims of an un-American America. The core of the country was strong, he told them, but the coasts had rotten away in disgraceful excess. Trump’s supporters, then, were Tennyson’s Light Brigade: stuck and huddled in the valley of death, bombarded on either side by “safe spaces” and Affirmative Action and two guys kissing and Title IX and pronoun preferences and and and and—

They had done nothing wrong; it was Obama who stuffed totalitarian doctrines of social liberalism down their throats with his executive orders. Schrodinger’s Liberal—simultaneously a “libtard snowflake” and a highly-capable insurrectionist who will replace the Constitution with the Koran—had stripped the glory from their whiteness, had taken the Christ out of their Christmas, had passed a healthcare bill that would prevent them from exercising their Constitutional right to die in penury.

Self-righteousness is never stronger, however, than in the moment of martyrdom. Commercials on Fox talk about a global decline in Christian marriage, and pastors in church discuss the irreligious opulence of gay pride parades. The embattled and resilient minority—those who earnestly believe that Bill O’Reilly was the real victim of the sexual harassment accusations—gleefully gather nails and a cross to cling to their victimhood.

I can think of no better example to prove the existence of the Cult of Victimhood than the phenomenon of “reverse racism,” the fantastical belief that whites have been given the short straw. Look no further than the glee surrounding Sessions’ investigation or the white nationalists’ posters and cries exclaiming that whites are being replaced, that white lives matter.

The two are similar in that they both believe that whiteness should entitle a person to a certain amount of privilege rather than take away from. Abigail Fisher, a stunningly mediocre high school student described by VerySmartBrothas as “room temperature Aquafina,” represented a large swathe of angry white people with shitty GPAs whose parents and communities have convinced them that they didn’t get into the bridge program at Southern Coastal Technical College because “Jamal took your spot.” These myths about Affirmative Action are perpetuated from the top-down; Ben Shapiro, a would-be Buckley with neither the vocabulary nor the wit who runs a “news” website with invasive pop-up ads, claims that it is racist towards white people. The language of Shapiro and Fisher and her supporters was that of displacement—the same as the language last night and today in Virginia: “This once was ours, and now you’ve taken it away.”

The unabashed, racist white knights marching around Charlottesville have already accused their counter-protestors of stifling their freedom of speech; after all, any attempt to shush vacuous idiocy will be met with renewed victimhood: “You’re taking away my freedom of speech!” These are the very type of people who voted in favor of double standards in waiting rooms and schools—but now decry the double standard of public discourse: “If you can say it, why can’t I?” or, “If I said that about black people, I’d be called a racist.” Any asshole can say whatever atrocious, racist bilge he wishes to say; your freedom of expression does not free you from the likelihood of being called out for bigotry.

Of greater significance, however, is their fundamental misunderstanding of what racism is. They operate under the delusion that racism today is isolated to language, that it’s no more than a blanket, unsubstantiated claim about a particular race of people. Language is, of course, a part of it. But racism is mostly about power.

In the moment when these conservative whites feel their power waning, they are spurred with a renewed sense of urgency reclaim that power—or at least to stanch the hemorrhaging. They cite thousands of examples in which they were the victim: while white conservatives worked hard in the fields, blacks sat on couches and collected benefits; while white conservatives paid their taxes, welfare queens drove around the ghetto in stretch Cadillacs; while white conservatives were told they couldn’t put up the Nativity Scene on the town green, Obama honor raped fifteen Southern Baptists who went to visit the White House. The easiest way to reclaim a lost sense of dignity is to rip dignity from someone else. Just as Bob Ewell desperately needs racism—he lives next to the town dump and his daughter is the mother of his children, but at least he’s white—so, too, does the downtrodden conservative who has borne the injuries levied against his religion and the color of his skin for as long as he could.

The conservative whites in this country are sick and they are tired of being stepped on. As David Duke said today in Charlottesville: “We are going to take our country back. That’s why we voted for Donald Trump.”

Morning Pages #34 (14.02.2017)

Tuesday 14th February - 4:48 p.m.

Not the morning, I know. I didn’t even try. I only just started typing when I felt like it, and I know that that’s kind of cheating and it defeats part of the purpose of the morning pages (to accustom yourself to writing even when you don’t feel like it), but I think I have a bit of a right to make up the rules for myself for the next couple of days or so. That and I still kind of don’t feel like it. Everything is still very fresh for me and I think it’ll all be easier after the funeral, whenever it will be. Hopefully I won’t have to go on my own though.

I took a massive break and it’s 5:10 p.m. now. I’m listening to music and typing really casually. Right now I’m listening to Spit Syndicate, but my music is on shuffle so anything can start. I started on Keane though. ‘Somewhere Only We Know’. I might just go and watch the Lily Allen video for that song right now because it’s so beautiful. I’m playing that now, but I don’t know if I’ll watch the video. I feel like I’ve taken too much of a break already and I just want to see if I can get my three pages out right now. I know that tomorrow morning when I get started on the next day’s pages, it’ll feel far too close to this afternoon. Or it might, I mean I don’t really know what I’m going to feel like tomorrow. Goodness, this woman has such a beautiful, delicate voice. And the lyrics of this song of course, they’re so gentle and loving. It sounds like something a parent thinks when they’re checking up on their child in the afternoon, to check if they’re still in bed. I don’t know, that’s just what I’m thinking right now.

The video also kind of pays homage to the art of animation as well, considering that it doesn’t just celebrate the gorgeous end product, but also documents the amount of care and effort that went into creating that world in the first place. I drank a lot of water right before I came upstairs and my stomach feels weird. This morning, I tried brushing my teeth in the shower again for the first time in a long time, and the brush stabbed the back of my throat and I half-coughed and half-swallowed a large gulp of air. My chest felt really weird for ten or fifteen minutes afterwards. I ate muesli in the morning with the last of my fancy weetbix, and then for lunch I had the leftover ravioli with today’s new stir fry on top. I just wanted to save some food on both of my meals, ate whatever was left over. I also ate two more yoghurt ice cream things. I’ve eaten well today. I’ve been trying to eat well. I also went on a run in the morning, just a soft 1k. I’m trying not to overdo it. I think I might go for another soft run this evening though, because I felt really weak when I woke up this morning so hopefully after a good day of eating, the evening run will feel a lot easier. I just want to see if it feels easier. But right now, I’m going to walk out of my room for a bit because my stomach hurts and I think I might need to pee because I drank so much fucking water. I’m sorry. I’m taking a book with me because I haven’t been reading much either and sitting on the toilet might soothe me for a little. I also want to take off this dumb turtleneck. It was comfy in the morning but now it’s just making me feel too warm.

Okay I’m back. I read like five or so pages of ‘The Progress of Julius’, and realised that I’m not even through the first chapter yet. I’ve been slacking with my reading so severely, it’s shameful. I didn’t even read Moby Dick during these holidays! And uni starts in a little under a fortnight now! Like I’ll have time then. The Weeknd is playing now, this song called ‘Next’, and the main line in the chorus (and by that, of course I mean the ONLY line in the chorus) is ‘you just want me ‘cos I’m next’. He’s really getting to me now, getting on my nerves I mean. His lyrical disregard for the women he sings about fucking is actually abhorrent, the only issue being that his VOICE is very much the opposite. His voice and his sound is like kryptonite to me, it’s so gorgeous. I feel like a lot of people feel the same way: they completely disagree with his social values and his casual misogyny, but they can’t help but fall in love with his music anyway just because it’s so hypnotisingly good. Chance just played ‘Sunday Candy’, and now it’s Kanye’s ‘Streetlights’, which is also very wonderful. This is a fantastic shuffle, in the sense that it’s playing music I enjoy listening to rather than providing me with some variety.

I went on a walk yesterday, I forgot to mention. This walk was of significance because Malith texted me asking if I wanted to go for a walk with him, and he hadn’t spoken to me since Friday night so I was eager to see him, and also to hear about how his workshop went with Melbourne Playback Theatre. It apparently didn’t go too well not because he had been burning the candle at both ends, but because he wasn’t prepared to do any acting for which he felt he’d be judged or assessed on that day. He thought he was going there to watch the company, see what they do rather than join them in what they do. Also speak of the devil, he just messaged me. Two words: Hannah Gadsby? I was talking to him last night about wanting to see more stand-up with him because I told him that he enriches the audience experience for me, by interacting with the talent. When we went to see Adam Hills together, for example, we were sitting in the front row on the left hand side, so Adam could see us very clearly and thus decided to ask us questions. In little to no time after initiating that typically one-sided stage conversation with us, Malith managed to turn the tables on him to such a degree that Adam Hills became an implied racist and the entire audience was sent up in accusatory ‘oohs!’; it was a sight to behold! From what I remember, Adam asked Malith what his name was and Malith said ‘Marv’ and then Adam said ‘well THAT’S a name’, and a very precarious chain of dialogue later (which will be presented in the last part of this paragraph), Malith told Adam his actual name. Adam Hills then saw me and asked if I was his sister or something and Malith said ‘no, she’s my friend’, to which Adam replied ‘oh I just assumed you were related’ BECAUSE OF THE COLOUR OF OUR SKIN, ADAM? HUH ADAM? WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF? It basically went down like that, it was fantastic.

Anyway, I also managed to present my slam poem to Malith last night, and received some pretty positive feedback on it. He basically said that he thought it was very well-written, very poignant, and also agreed with me that the metaphor of the mud needs to be stronger, and that I need to get my contention in order so that I can naturally strengthen the metaphor. He also said I should use more statistics, not just use one. Like Marcus’ feedback on my script, everything Malith said about my poem was something I’d already been thinking about. Just hearing someone else say those things has given me enough perspective to know what I need to change in order to make it perfect. I hope to get it done by tonight, I mean that would be ideal if I were aiming to memorise it. I’ll need to be performing it a lot though before Slamalamadingdong, but the thing is that it can get quite loud and quite emotional so I’ll only get to do it when nobody’s home, and nobody can hear me effectively shit all over my own culture. To be fair though, I’ve spoken to my mum about my script and I feel like I’ve won a couple of brownie points from her for that, because I talk about how I use some of her life experiences to juxtapose the life of a migrant mother and her first-generation daughter. The slam poem is less about my parents and more just about the negative side of South Asian culture, that is the ingrained misogyny and long history of traditionally practised gender inequality. I’m sick of South Asian men in Melbourne too, I have to say. The guys who were harassing me/staring at me last weekend when I was at Laundry were all South Asian: Indian, Pakistani or something along those lines. Not Lankan, I’ve learnt to tell the Lankans apart now so, and actually Lankans tend not to be as pervy because Lankan migrants, I’ve noticed, are a lot older and a lot more work-oriented (they were all granted work visas and they’re all professionals rather than students) than other South Asian migrants. That’s because of the immigration sanctions that were placed on them by the Australian government up until very recently because of the Sri Lankan Civil War. The thing is though, is that a lot of Sri Lankans claiming asylum during the war weren’t Sinhalese Sri Lankans, but Tamil Sri Lankans, and I wholeheartedly believe that they desperately needed to seek asylum because the country was definitely not treating any of them well. It was discrimination by the end, because even after the Tamil Tigers were defeated and the war was arguably won, the Sri Lankan government was still at war against the Tamil people, and it was somewhat unfounded. Anyway, I don’t want to talk South Asian politics here because I have something to say before I run out of my three pages. I mean, I might just change the size of my font now because three pages is feeling a lot shorter with every passing day. Let me just check what this looks like in Times New Roman size 12 at least. Ooh, that’s not too bad. I have about half a page left, that’s certainly easy enough, and not too drastic of an extension. I was getting sick of Arial anyway, I never liked that font and I despise how it’s the standard font on Google Docs.

Evan just texted me to wish me a Happy Valentine’s Day. He called me ‘sweetness’. I can’t stand it, I mean I love it. I was really tempted to see him today, but I thought it would feel forced and decided against it. I do miss him a lot though, and I’m not going to lie, I would not mind his company at all right now. But I know that it’s far too early in our relationship (romantic OR platonic) for him to be a source of comfort for me right now. I at least had the courage to tell him yesterday what happened with Manasha. I also had the courage to make a post and post a photo on Facebook, which I didn’t know if I wanted to do to be honest with you, because I have been on and off of Facebook all day today out of fear that someone might call me insensitive for posting at all right now despite the fact that for the past two or so years, I’ve made very little effort to stay in her life. I don’t know, I’m just nervous and I’m also really sad! I’m so sad. I feel myself being sad somewhere inside, and some other part of me just refuses to deal with it so instead, I’ve been feeling a very shallow and very transparent numbness. I think I will feel a lot better after the funeral, I really do. But you can understand now why I didn’t want to see Evan today. My life is too heavy right now.

(A LITTLE P.S.: Also a little something interesting about Evan and what happened on the weekend. Apparently Malith didn’t know that I was dancing with a guy that I’ve been dating, and assumed that Evan was a total stranger I had picked up in the span of ten minutes, immediately began to dance very explicitly with and then very passionately make out with, and then LEAVE with. Apparently his sister thought the same thing. I hadn’t had the opportunity to speak about Evan with Malith much, but we did get to do a little talking last night. As I told Isaac, the only way I could basically describe Evan aside from physically is that he’s incredibly polite, and I feel that he’s very much like me. Anyway, it’s funny to mention here that the main reason why Malith was angry at me over the weekend was because he thought I was being a massive slut, not just out dancing with my baby.)