#nobody is doing it like robert smith
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what’s the best love song ever made and why is it lovesong by the cure
#he wrote it as a wedding gift to his wife#who he met when they were both 14#they are like 30 or 35 years married now#mary is her name and they have on the same lipstick in their wedding photos#anyway he made it as a wedding gift to her and never intended to release it#but she said she wanted him to#and it is like genuinely the purest expression of love i’ve ever heard in my life#nobody is doing it like robert smith#i’ll post the wedding photo later
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Love, Rest Your Head
Rating: Teen and Up
CW: Canon Typical Injuries
Tags: Pre-Season 4, Aftermath of Starcourt Mall, Aftermath of Torture, Season 4, Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Steve Harrington, Major Character Injury, Established Relationship, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Head Trauma, Mentions of Vomiting, Self Sacrificing Steve Harrington, Mentions of Major Character Death (In Reference to Hopper), Foreshadowing, Ambiguous Ending
💕—————💕
The news was pure devastation. Overhead shots of the Starcourt Mall burning. Flames engulfing the building on all sides, swallowing it up until it sat a collapsed, ashen mess. There was no structure. No semblance to any kind of store that was inside. Just dust. Blackened walls. Melted floor tiles.
Eddie sat on the edge of the couch cushion, left hand tucked harshly under his thigh, chomping down on his right hand’s fingernails. There was a metallic tang on his tongue, but he couldn’t get himself to stop. Not even when the raw, exposed parts of his skin bared themself as a tender ache in his mouth’s warmth. Nothing could stop him. In between bites, there were moments where he was holding his breath. Gasping for it when push eventually came to shove. At least it was air he was choking on, not bile.
His uncle was stoic in his recliner in the corner. Until, with the quietest and gruffest voice Eddie’s ever heard, Wayne said, “Your boy. He’s in the parking lot. Has to be.”
“What if he isn’t?” Eddie barely mustered. “What if—What if he’s not there in the parking lot with all those ambulances? What if Steve’s stuck in the debris and he can’t get out and nobody can hear him and then he doesn’t come home and I never—“ He was back to choking on his breath. Sipping at the smallest pockets of air he could manage.
Wayne didn’t answer. The promises that could be made in this moment, every single one of them could be a fallacy.
Then, the news reporter read out those who suffered in the fire. That crisped with the building. Ones that couldn’t be recovered. Ones that were found, yet only identifiable by the licenses in their pockets.
Jenna Kinling
Parker Smith
Tony Roberts
Billy Hargrove…
Eddie bit his fingers harder at that last name. Maybe they didn’t run in the same circles or maybe they weren’t friends. But Billy was still a young dude. He had a life ahead of him. They had classes together. What if…What if…What if, rings loudly in Eddie’s head.
Except, Steve isn’t listed. Neither is his new friend, Robin. They aren’t…They weren’t found in the rubble. They weren’t believed to be in it either. And, as if on cue, the trailer’s phone begins to ring. Eddie is up and out of his seat before he has a chance to miss a single ring.
“Munson residence, Eddie speaking,” he answers hastily.
On the other end is the wet, nasally, raspy breathing of another person. The deeper the breaths, the more he can make out it’s somebody masculine. Their intakes are interrupted by small sniffles. Short bursting whimpers that come from sure pain, not pleasure.
“Hello?” Eddie speaks quietly.
The person gasps. Sobbing around the words, “Eddie…Eddie, I need help.” Steve.
“I’ll help, sweetheart,” he promises immediately. “What do you need? I—Uncle Wayne is here, too. We can help. We can—“
“‘M at the mall. And it’s all charred and…and gone. And I think I—I left your birthday present in Scoops and I’m sorry that I—My head hurts, Eds. It hurts and I’m bleeding and the paramed—they think…Billy’s dead and I watched him die and it scared me and—I don’t like him, I don’t like him at all but he looked sad and he looked…He’s dead, Eddie. I watched somebody die, Eddie,” Steve rambles. His words are heavily slurred. Barely breaking by his breath. Almost swirled by puke.
Before Eddie has the chance to interrupt, Steve is continuing. “I protected Robin from getting hurt,” he says seriously, gravely. But his next words are tiny, as if Eddie was listening to a child, not his eighteen year old boyfriend. “You’re going to be mad at me.”
“Why?” He asks. Shakes his head though, and asks instead, “Where should I pick you up? Does Robin have a ride home?”
“I got beat up again,” Steve barrels on. “’T’s really bad, Eds. Everything is ringing. Makin’ me nauseous.” His breaths grow heavier as if he’s ready to retch on his sneakers.
Eddie prepares himself to hear it all, because he knows it’ll happen. Knows it like the back of his hand, unfortunately. From how many other times Steve’s been concussed. Yet, he doesn’t care, saying, “I’ll take care of you here at home, but I need you to tell me where I need to pick you up. Does Robin need a ride?”
Steve mumbles, “She already left. Hugged her and everythin’. Rob—Robin’s safe. I protected her from getting hurt. They were going to hurt her, Eds. It would’ve been my fault for getting her involved.”
The words crawl under Eddie’s skin like spiders. He wants to scratch at himself, get them out of his head. Get away from how small each word is that comes from Steve’s mouth. He wants to find out who ‘They’ are and kill them. Wants to rip this world apart for making Steve sound so…horrified. But he just calmly asks, “Where are you, Steve? Where at the mall are you?”
“Front,” Steve mutters, “at the payphone. The one with all the gum on the back. It’s gross, Eds. I feel gross. Smell like—I’m sorry.”
Eddie just swallows harshly. Doesn’t know why Steve’s apologizing. But he’s scared shitless, that’s for sure. He grabs for his car keys on the dining table. “I’m going to hang up, Stevie. I’ll be there soon, okay?”
The last thing he hears is Steve coughing and retching up his lungs. Spiders work their way into his veins.
———
Sure enough, Steve’s by the payphone. Sitting with his knees up to his chest. Leaning against the thin pole of the phone. Inches away from whatever lunch he had last. Doesn’t look like much. Eddie just thought Steve was busy with work and relaxing at home. Though…Eddie’s starting to piece together that maybe Steve never left work. Like he’s been here way too long.
Steve shivers where he grasps to himself and Eddie approaches with great caution.
He crouches down to Steve’s level, keeps his hands to himself, and speaks softly. “Steve, it’s Eddie. I brought you a jacket. And some water. I’ve got crackers. You ready to go home?”
With his one good eye, Steve looks to him. Blood caked around his nose and mouth and chin. Eyebrow split, though covered with a butterfly bandage. His left eye is swollen shut and a deep, concerning purple. A part of Eddie almost wants to ask who left Steve here like this. To sit by himself and hold to his elbows. But, a stronger part of him cares too much about making sure Steve gets home.
Slowly, Steve reaches out his right hand and grasps at Eddie’s left wrist. Thumb harsh over his pulse point. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. Without any fanfare or warning, Steve’s eyes fill with tears. Streaming down his face in sluggish lines. “I was stupid and got in trouble again and now I’m all…I’m all broken and ugly and I smell really bad and you’re gonna have to stay awake with me because I’m not allowed to sleep and I—“
“Baby,” Eddie whispers lowly, “Steve, I’m just glad that you’re alive. I’d rather look after you all beaten up and bloody than…Well, y’know.”
“Why aren’t you mad at me?” Steve meekly asks.
“Do you want me to be mad at you?”
With great force, Steve shakes his head. Hissing and hiccuping at the pain that surges through him. “It hurts so bad,” he whimpers. “I just—They were going to hurt Robin and—and the kids. I couldn’t let them do that and now I—“
Eddie gently shushes him. “You don’t need to explain yourself right now, okay, sweetheart? We’ll talk about it when you’re better.”
“What if I never talk about it?”
He shrugs. Wraps his free hand over Steve’s where it still grips him. “Then you don’t talk about it,” he whispers. “Let me take you home, though? Give you the food and water I brought. Warm you up and change your clothes. Can clean your face,” Eddie lists. He cups the injured side of Steve’s face with a tentative hand, barely touching his swollen skin. “Clean this all up and brush your hair. Let you sleep.”
“I can’t sleep for long,” Steve reminds him.
“Wake you up every few hours, that’s fine. I don’t have school tomorrow, we’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“‘M’kay,” Steve agrees quietly. He’s drooping in Eddie’s hold. Exhaustion quickly swamping him. “Sorry if I throw up in the car.”
Eddie gently hefts them up off the ground, leads them towards the van, and gets Steve situated in his passenger seat. He murmurs, as he buckles Steve in, “I can clean up. But I’ll leave the window rolled down. I’ll drive slow. Do you want the jacket?”
Steve shakes his head softly. His eyes are closed and the rest of him is very still to his seat. As if moving anything physically pains him. It probably does, based on what Eddie’s able to see. “I don’t want to be reminded of the heat,” he state quietly.
“Okay,” Eddie whispers. He leans up into Steve’s space, presses a short kiss to his temple, and cranks the passenger window down. “Just lean towards the window a little. Rest. I’ve got you, baby.”
The car ride is incredibly slow, it makes Eddie antsy. But out of the corner of his eye, he notices Steve tensing at every gradual rumble and deep pothole. It makes Eddie want to just get out and push the van. He slides a hand off of the steering wheel and goes to grab Steve’s left wrist, but he jolts away. Head colliding solidly with the window frame.
“Don’t,” Steve bites. “Don’t touch me there,” he whispers.
Eddie swallows down the sudden rise of bile in his throat. “Okay, Steve,” he murmurs right back. “Do you…you need me to pull off for a second? Give you a break from the bumpy road?” Steve gives a slow and tentative nod.
He pulls to the shoulder, parks in silence, and just sits in the driver’s seat. Face forward, eyeing beyond the windshield. He’d turn on the radio, try to fill the gap between their bodies, but knows that the noise would be too much. Instead, he listens in on Steve’s audible deep breaths. Like he’s trying to ground himself to the carseat or maybe veer away from puking out the window. Eddie wants to touch and soothe, like he normally would during Steve’s concussions. But…he can’t. There are tears percolating in the corners of his eyes.
“You need water?” Eddie quietly asks.
“Please,” Steve mutters lowly. His voice is crackling and snotty wet.
Eddie moves slowly between the front seats, grabs an unopened bottle of water, and uncaps it. He leans across the center console to find a straw in the glove box. Plops it in the bottle and offers it up for Steve to take. “Slow sips,” Eddie states, “don’t need to make yourself sicker.” Steve angles his body away from the window, leans forward slightly, and takes the straw between his lips. Each swallow of water looks like he’s trying to consume rocks. His tongue working slowly, hesitantly against the straw. Testing it. “You’re doing a good job,” Eddie can only praise.
When Steve pops off the straw, it’s with a gasping breath. Catching and falling and catching again. He lolls his head on the seat, looking over to Eddie. Chest moving up and down with shallow, croaking shakes of air. “We can go,” he rasps, “I wanna sleep.”
The water bottle goes to the cup holders. And Eddie does what he’s told. Crawling slowly back home. Taking small pauses to check in with Steve, help him drink water, nibble on some crackers, rub his back when he hurls out the car window.
But when they make it back home, they move in complete and utter silence. Through the front door and to the couch. Wayne ogles the two of them, fear present in his eyes. His mouth hangs open, suckled dry of all words he could ever think to say. Eddie makes him grab a bowl of warm water and a rag.
And they just exist in silence.
In fear, Eddie now realizes, of whatever happened to Steve.
Because they’re not stupid. This wasn’t a fire. There was something else. Something more…disastrous. Dastardly. But Eddie places the bowl on the coffee table, sits on Steve’s right on the cushions, and turns them towards each other.
“Alright, I’ve gotta clean the blood off of your face, Stevie,” he encroaches their silence. “I’m going to be really careful. I’ll go slow. But I need you to tell me when you need a break, okay?” Steve blinks groggily at him. His eyes are dilated beyond belief. Eddie’s nauseous just looking at them. These aren’t the eyes he fell in love with.
These eyes are like terror in existential form.
Steve nods, though. He places a shaking hand on Eddie’s left knee. Doesn’t tighten it, doesn’t pet the fabric under his hand, just rests it there. As if he’s searching for an anchor.
Eddie wets the wash rag with the warm water. Raises it to Steve’s chin. “If this hurts, you need to tell me. Here we go.” The rag stains pink and crimson as soon as it touches Steve’s skin. He hates how hard he has to press just to work the blood off, but it’s dried to him. It’s coming off in flakes, Eddie sees the particles fall to Steve’s dirtied uniform. As he works the rag over Steve’s face, he can’t help but notice how stained and red the uniform is, too.
It used to be something Eddie could tease Steve about. Be flirtatious and saucy about it. Talk about stupid things with. Make dumb fantasies and see if Steve will play into them. But looking at it now only makes Eddie’s chest hurt. Makes his stomach turn uneasily. Shrivels something inside of him that will never live again. But he’ll get Steve into his clothes. Get him comfortable. Maybe he’ll burn the uniform when Steve isn’t looking. Rid of it like a demon needing to be expelled.
The last bit of the blood finally comes away, flaking from Steve’s nostrils to the washcloth. Eddie places it back in the pink tinted water. And then he looks back. At Steve’s child like eyes. And his split lip. The plum like bruise around his left eye.
Eddie’s never had homicidal thoughts, but today might just be the eye opener for him.
But he continues to be gentle. Offering, “Let’s get you some of my clothes. I’ll wash your hair in the bathroom sink. Then, you can rest.” Steve just nods, allows Eddie to pull him along to the bedroom, and change him out of his clothes. Ignores the slight bruising on his ribs, where he most likely struggled or fell. Tries to not think about the red, twisting lines across Steve’s chest, arms, and wrists from where he’d been tied. Just covers Steve back up in reds and blacks and soft things. And, while Steve is looking away, throws the Scoops uniform away in a nearby waste basket.
Washing his hair is no struggle. Steve goes listless and quiet when Eddie scrubs at his scalp, carefully detangles knots that were glued together by sticky blood. He barely blinks as he watches Eddie move and go through his hair washing routine. Doesn’t protest any of what Eddie chooses to do—even when he puts too much conditioner in the ends of his hair or doesn’t do two wash throughs with the shampoo, even if he uses a hair dryer instead of a towel. Allows him, which Eddie finds a little odd. He has an inkling, though, that it may just be the gentle touch that Steve doesn’t want to mitigate.
When they’re back in bed, Eddie lays flat on the mattress. Putting space between their two bodies. His alarm is set for three hours from now, where he’ll wake Steve up and make sure his concussion symptoms either are stagnant or lessening. But for now, he just stays put. Eyes up at his ceiling, stomach turning and knotting at whatever happened today.
Whatever happened almost doesn’t matter, knowing Steve made it out alive.
But there’s a haunting to him that Eddie can’t ignore.
Right when he thinks Steve is asleep and goes to close his own eyes, does he hear the smallest of statements.
“Hopper died, too,” Steve murmurs.
“No…”
Steve nods sagely against his pillow. “Heard about it through some of the kids I babysit. Guess he…Guess I wasn’t the only one to make a sacrifice.” Eddie hears him shift, coming closer. His body warmth radiating and tight against his rigid body. There’s a hesitant palm that slithers and sits on Eddie’s chest. Where his heart beats rabidly. “Could…Could’a been me.”
Eddie places his own hand over the back of Steve’s. Presses them together firmly. His chest caving with the push. “Don’t say that,” he harshly whispers. “Don’t…Steve, I thought it was going to be you. Please don’t say that.”
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I just…That’s the only thing I could think of before you got me. How I—I almost didn’t get to see you again.”
“At least you’re with me now, right? I’m just glad that you’re alive.”
“Yeah,” Steve croaks. “I just wish I could bring myself to tell you what happened.”
“Don’t need to do that, Steve. Just rest up and get better for me, alright?”
Steve shuffles closer. His head resting on Eddie’s shoulder. He nods. “Thank you. I love you,” he sleepily murmurs.
Eddie wraps an arm around his back and squeezes him tightly. “I love you, too, love bug. Get some sleep and I’ll check on you in a bit.”
The snores are a comfort after tonight.
———
And when he looks Steve in the eyes, mere seconds before he leaves for Vecna, Eddie understands the harrowing sacrificial fear. He’ll be the one to protect Steve now. “Make him pay,” he says. But he knows, reflected in Steve’s eyes, that there is finality in his stare. His stomach turns and his hands shake, but damnit, he’ll make sure that Steve won’t be the one drowning in blood this time.
He hopes to hear snores against his shoulder tomorrow night.
If night comes.
💕—————💕
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Red Dead Redemption 2 Characters as ABBA songs
- a 7am thought come to fruition by me, a deluded little guy
Arthur Morgan - The Winner Takes It All
The gods may throw the dice, their minds as cold ice, and someone way down here, loses someone dear.
John Marston - Name of the Game
If I trust in you, would you let me down? Would you laugh at me, if I said I care for you? Could you feel the same way too?
Lenny Summers - Take A Chance on Me
Gonna do my very best and it ain’t no lie. If you put me to the test, if you let me try.
Susan Grimshaw - Fernando
If I had to do the same again, I would, my friend, Fernando.
Tilly Jackson - So Long
Tracy, Daisy, they might be crazy but I’ll never be your girl.
Mary-Beth Gaskill - Honey Honey
the way that you kiss goodnight, the way that you hold me tight.
Karen Jones - Chiquitita
you’ll be dancing once again, and the pain will end
Sean Maguire - Does Your Mother Know
Now you’re so cute, I like your style, and I know what you mean when you give me a flash of that smile.
Molly O’Shea - SOS
so when you’re near me darling, can’t you hear me? SOS
Dutch Van Der Linde - Angeleyes
and one day you’ll find he wears a disguise. don’t look too deep into those angel eyes.
Hosea Matthews - I Still Have Faith In You
do I have it in me? I believe it is in there.
Marion ‘Bill’ Williamson - Me and I
yes, I am to myself what jekyll must be to hyde
Micah Bell - On and On and On
keep on rockin’ baby till the night is gone
Javier Escuella - The Visitors
Voices growing louder, irritation building, and I’m close to faintin’- crackin’ up!
Charles Smith - When All Is Said And Done
It’s so strange, when you’re down and lying and on the floor. How you rise, shake your head, get up and ask for more.
Mary Linton - Knowing Me Knowing You
here is where the story ends, this is goodbye
Charlotte Balfour - Andante Andante
play me time and time again, make me strong
Jack Marston - I’ve Been Waiting For You
I love you, I adore you, I lay my life before you.
Abigail Roberts - Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!
Won’t somebody help me chase the shadows away?
Sadie Adler - Voulez-Vous
masters of the scene, we’ve done it all before and now we’re back to get some more
Josiah Trelawny - Eagle
And I dream I’m an eagle, I dream I can spread my wings and fly
Kieran Duffy - Suzy Hang-Around
Nobody wants you around here and that’s for sure. So get off our playground and stay away.
Rains Fall - Slipping Through My Fingers
Then when she’s gone, there’s that odd melancholy feeling and a sense of guilt I can’t deny.
Eagle Flies - Lay All Your Love On Me
Now everything is new, and all I’ve learned has overturned, I beg of you.
Reverend Swanson - I Have A Dream
I believe in angels, something good in everything I see
Bonus:
Arthur/Mary - My Love, My Life
you are still my love and my life, still my one and and only
Sadie/Abigail - One of Us
one of us is crying, one of us is lying in her lonely bed.
Arthur/Charles - Our Last Summer
living for the day, worries far away.
John/Abigail - Super Trouper
The sight of you will prove to me I’m still alive.
#red dead redemption two#red dead redemption#I will die on this hill that Arthur Morgan is the ultimate tragedy#hence winner takes it all#that is HIS song#arthur morgan#john marston#dutch van der linde#hosea matthews#sadie adler#abigail roberts#bill williamson#micah bell#lenny summers#susan grimshaw#tilly jackson#mary beth gaskill#karen jones#eagle flies#rains fall#charles smith#josiah trelawny#kieran duffy#sean maguire#javier escuella#molly o'shea#mary linton#charlotte balfour#jack marston#reverend swanson
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Nobody celebrates their 50th birthday like David Bowie
youtube
Here's a video of the whole concert in case you're interested (I haven't finished watching it myself yet, but the bits I've watched were epic, especially The Last Thing You Should Do and Quicksand with Robert Smith and The Man Who Sold The World)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oXHzek1CJ3E
#this is the Bowie concert I would love to go back in time for#david bowie#the interview from before the concert is also really funny#misha talks#Youtube
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Swift may be 34 years old, but intellectually, philosophically, and emotionally, she is forever stuck at 13. Her discography will never improve, only regress.
Doesn't 'tortured poetry' say it all? It's an adolescent's idea of deep thoughts, the cover art equally cringe: Taylor in her underwear, writhing, one arm around her breasts and a hand above her crotch, as if this connotes — finally! — romantic and sexual maturity.
Same with dropping 'f***' repeatedly on 'TTPD'. Courtney Love has it right. 'Taylor Swift is not important,' Love told the UK's Evening Standard last week. 'She might be a safe space for girls, and she's probably the Madonna of now, but she's not interesting as an artist.'
Hallelujah! The backlash is brewing. While American press remains far too timid, NME gave 'TTPD' three out of five stars, calling it 'devoid of any noticeable stylistic shift or evolution', with laughable lyrics about Charlie Puth and 'a tattooed Golden Retriever'.
This, from 'I Can Do It With a Broken Heart':
'I'm so miserable / And nobody even knows.'
That sentiment should solely be the purview of teenage girls.
What really stopped me dead was the eponymous second track. Judge for yourself.
'You're not Dylan Thomas / I'm not Patti Smith,' Swift sings. No kidding.
'This ain't the Chelsea Hotel / We're modern idiots'. Such lyrics evince a glancing knowledge of a bygone counterculture, referencing artists and locales far more original, thought-provoking, confrontational and expansive than Swift could ever hope to be.
It's cheap name-checking. It makes Swift look like everything she purports to hate: A try-hard, a phony, a girl who would do anything to be cool.
Does anyone really think Taylor Swift has read 'Just Kids'? If so, she'd know Patti Smith was muse to Robert Mapplethorpe, and that Dylan Thomas, some 30 years Smith's senior, never lived at the Chelsea.
This is what we call a fraud. Swift has zero edge. She has no interests outside her hermetic world of studio sessions with producer Jack Antonoff, dinners with Blake Lively and Gigi Hadid at Via Carota, and the next love interest she'll flog in the public square.
She is cliché after cliché after cliché, the epitome of basic, and the worst thing someone this famous can be: a bore.
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I try not to be weird about people with bad taste in nerd shit, or cringiness, or bad takes. Especially not in person and not at work; I work a comic book store, it's full of reading comprehension challenged weirdos. I could not survive without the ability to ignore these things. But I had a moment today, not where the mask fell, but where I had to just kind of step away from the conversation because there just was no energy nor capacity for me to bullshit my way through the rest of the conversation.
This guy was gushing about H.P. Lovecraft, admittedly a bit of a red flag in and of itself, but not for convoluted extrapolations of ethics and morals, just because Lovecraft was a bad writer even among his contemporaries, and Lovecraft fans always seem to have zero sense of writing quality. Anyway he's flipping through our big collected and annotated Lovecraft collection; it's a big book because it's mostly forward, introduction, minibiography, editors notes, 40% of every individual page is annotations, and then another like 100 pages of appendixes, and shit at the end. You know, because Lovecraft didn't actually do all that much writing in his lifetime.
And he says something to the effect of "boy this just feels right, it's like the only way to read Lovecraft is in a big tome, like the necronomicon!" And that's where I had to excuse myself. If you don't have anything nice to say don't say anything at all, and all that.
But like... My guy...
Lovecraft's entire career was in serialized pulp schlock, nothing could be further from being a big respectable looking pseudo-antiquarian tome. He wrote one actual novel in his entire life and couldn't even get it published. No one's work has ever been less deserving or suited to being at home between a pair of actual book covers. And if you knew anything about this author you profess to love, you'd have known that.
There's a reason Lovecraft died a penniless nobody while his two closest contemporaries in Weird Tales (Robert E. Howard, and Clark Ashton Smith) enjoyed the comforts of actual success as writers and artists/creatives in general where Lovecraft didn't/couldn't.
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⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚ about eri !
hello ! so first and foremost, my full name is erilyn. i go back 'eri' as a nickname. i started this blog because i love to write & recently got into the marauders fandom as a joke, but now i'm emotionally attached. there's no turning back now, i suppose
this is going to sound super pick-me, but i swear it's true. normally, when i have a conversation with people, i try to keep the topic more directed toward them because i have a hard time talking about myself. so i very sincerely apologize if this post is structured weird, worded strange, or anything like that. i'm genuinely struggling suuuper badly right now #help
okay, anyway ! some of my favorite to do are read, write, listen to music, and snuggle my cats. it's a pretty short / bland list of grandma hobbies, but i love them more than life itself.
one of my favorite books is obviously atyd, it's what i read to first get involved in this little community, so it will forever hold a dear place in my heart. regardless of how basic of an answer it comes off to be. but as for physical (non-fanfic) books, my favorite is definitely powerless by lauren roberts.
i've been writing for as long as i can remember. there are pictures of me as a baby writing shit down as though it actually meant something. but when i was thirteen, i decided to actually write for a purpose ⎯ which would make my work mean something in an attempt to make baby eri proud. i've written a TON of short stories, and a few original completed books. none of which are published, of course. my imposter syndrome is far too severe for that kind of commitment..
since i mentioned music, i'd love to list some of my favorite artists (i say that as if anyone actually gives a shit). my all time, forever number one favorite is hozier. he's everything to me. his music means so much, and the poetic nature behind his lyrics is everything i strive for my own writing to come off as. a few other artists i enjoy : lana del ray , david bowie , noah khan , the weeknd , queen , mac miller , the lumineers , coldplay , benson boone , arctic monkeys , the smiths , rhcp (red hot chili peppers). as well as so so so so many more. my music taste is honestly all over the place, and i apologize, but i wouldn't trade it for the world because it's literally entangled into my soul & makes me who i am.
oh my god now i get to yap about my cats! AHH!
i have two kittens (they're over a year old now, but i will forever & always see them as my little baby kittens, fuck off). their names are indie & teeves. indie is super cuddly and loves her momma to death. she hides from everyone who isn't me, and will scratch you if you look at me the wrong way. teeves, on the other hand, is waaaay less sociable. she hides from everyone ⎯ like indie. but unlike her sister, teeves hides from me as well. nobody can ever find her unless she eating or using the bathroom. i'm a tad bit offended by her ignorance, but as long as she's happy i'm happy.
alright i'm done yapping now ! i'm honestly surprised if you made it all the way through my rambling, seeing as none of it was interesting for anyone except me. i hope you guys enjoy my page & my writing provided. if you have any questions, don't be afraid to ask, my DMs are always open if you need someone to talk to. i love you guys !!!
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@hirunoka 🤗✨🌜
I used to really like this, but time passed, im not sure but the waves and rhymes are still interesting . The guy who made this(he a dj) sent it to me bc i shared a book ‘How to Do Nothing with Nobody All Alone by Yourself’ - Robert paul smith with him ( and with many others who sent requests qt the time), i think this is also his best work i know of
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i wonder how ppl who meet bbh irl feel. like why do they never say anything abt it im starting to think when they walk up to him for a picture he starts speaking back only in riddles and they have to solve his riddles to get a picture with him. and then once they do he tells them they cant speak of the experience at all to anyone ever. hes such a riddle lover guy idk i feel like he'd do that. That or he just doensnt go outside so maybe thats why nobodys said anythinf abt seeing the guy
he only ever goes outside in groucho marx glasses and if someone says “hey are you badboyhalo?” he puts on a deep voice and goes “uh no my name is robert smith who is badboyhalo” and then runs away as fast as he can
#ask#ant is the only CC I know of who’s met up with him and all I’ve ever heard him say abt it#was that bad is shorter than him#I’m pretty sure bad also told a story about how someone recognized him in public#so he just went ‘no’ and walked away? or something? IDK.
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Elita: My father came back down the hall like a rocket and pinned Tynas to the wall by his throat.
Bob: “Men like us”… Let me tell you something Operative, nobody owns me. I think I have bled enough and my family has sacrificed enough. All these years I’ve been forced to lie to my wife, and my kids, telling snippets of truth but not everything. I won’t do it any more. This Agency demanded a price and I have paid it, whatever debt you think I have… My debts are paid in full!
Tynas: Nobody made you have a family.
Bob: No. But if it wasn’t for Lyra, you’d have had a big problem 20 plus years ago. Apex did nothing I wouldn’t have been capable of. All these years, Lyra kept me sane and gave me all the happiness I could ever wish for. I repaid it by lying to her and hiding things… So I’m going to go into that room and beg her forgiveness, and you better hope I get it, because if I don’t… the first person I intend to murder, is you.
***
Tynas: You’re behaving rather hastily Robert, I’m not your enemy. In fact, I was going to say that what happened on the space station should stay between me and you.
Bob: What are you talking about?
Tynas: It wasn’t you that defeated Apex…
Bob felt his muscles tremble. He knew where this was going.
Tynas: Don’t bother denying it, Guy was magnificent and I understand why you’re doing this. And for what it's worth Robert, I agree with you. The last thing we want are more super soldiers running about.
Bob: What do you want?
Tynas: Hmm... A favour. I will keep my mouth shut about your son, nobody has to know, in return for your word as a man and a soldier if one day, and that day might not ever come, I call upon you for one last mission you’ll do it. If you don’t agree then I have to be completely transparent with the Minister.
***
Bob: A spot of blackmail hey?
Bob released Operative Tynas and walked away down the corridor.
Bob: For Guy’s sake, you have my word. But remember this Operative, if anything happens to my son… I’ll skin you alive.
Operative Smith steadies his breathing again. The threat was made without any tone, the threat was made as casually as one might say “good morning” to another. Bob never raised his voice at all.
Tynas: And you have my word that footage or my knowledge of Guy will never see the light of day, in return for your word.
Bob: Good. Then we are agreed, I’ll speak to Lyra and then I will return for debrief.
Elita: If there was one thing the Agency of old liked to have it was control. My dad was an asset too valuable to simply let walk away. Turns out, Willow, made a similar deal… an agreement for one last mission… She was still waiting for the call.
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I know that everybody is hyped up with songs featured in the show/comic or modern ones that I know nothing about because I'm old (30s) and stuck in time which affects my musical taste
But can I offer you some new old songs that make me thing of The Sandman/Morpheus in this trying times?
The Police - King of Pain
Like... really? Nobody thought of this... it's in the freaking title!
Main reason: something, something about living in every little thing that exists and feeling all they feel.
Sting - A thousand years
I actually link this song to one of my own characters of a book I might never end but I cannot deny that the lyrics also apply here.
Main reason: something, something about living for years on end carrying love with you (even if is not reciprocated)
Adonais - The Cure
It's Robert Smith. Enough said.
Main reason: the whole lyric. Period.
Want - The Cure
Even more melancholic and self destructive than Morpheus would ever be... but it's a damned good song. (If you don't like long intros, you might skip this one)
Main reason: something, something about trying to feel and experiment all at once and not feeling anything at the same time.
Walking in my shoes - Depeche Mode
Yes... I grew up with a closeted dark/goth mom and aunt (meaning, they never went in for the aesthetic, neither do I but this songs, people!! They just speak to your soul)
Main reason: something something about a person sacrificing themselves for a greater good knowing that no-one will ever fully understand what they are going through.
From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea - The Cure
Yes, The Cure again... I love them... sue me.
And yes, another long intro because Robert is everything that is good in this world and can do with his music whatever the Hell he wants.
Main reason: something, something about ups and downs in a relationship that always leads to a broken heart and the attempt to move on.
En la Ciudad de la Furia - Soda Stereo.
I'm argentinean and Soda was our own The Police (fun fact, singer, guitarrist and songwriter Gustavo Cerati was asked to replace Sting when Andy Summers and Stewart Coppeland wanted to do a comeback as The Police).
You can find the translation to English in my long-abandoned main blog.
Main reason: something, something about an entity that lives (and doesn't) among humans.
Cuando pase el temblor - Soda Stereo
With the rythm of a carnavalito (folckloric music from Argentina's north-west) the song is about the upcoming end of everything. Translation here.
Main reason: something, something about feeling the end of the world coming soon and hoping to never have to speak about it anymore.
There are many others that at this moment I do not remember... but I will soon, so maybe I'll do a 2nd part... maybe... ????
Still I want to leave one more song in Russian that I haven't translated myself just yet but I know thanks to Google translator that it is about a certain Matvey (Mathew in Russian) that dies in his sleep and encounters Morpheus or, how the song calls him "The King of Eternal Sleep". Even though Mikhail Gorshenov said that he wrote it remembering the times when his family lived in a town were the weather was so cold that dying of hipothermia was a possibility (were you are just so cold that fall sleep and never wake up again), I have no doubts that he might've also read The Sandman by then... I mean... Mathew? Morpheus? A palace? Morpheus dressed in a coat and boots? Coincidence? I DON'T THINK SO! Sadly Mikhail Gorshenov died on 2013 so we will never have a chance to ask about it. (Note: the title's pronunciation is Karrol vyechnava sna)
#the sandman#the sandman netflix#music#sting#the police#the cure#depeche mode#soda stereo#король и шут
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Bet They Wish They Hadn’t Said That...
“Computers in the future may weigh no more than 1.5 tons.”
- Popular Mechanics, forecasting the relentless march of science, 1949.
“I have traveled the length and breadth of this country and talked with the best people, and I can assure you that data processing is a fad that won’t last out the year.”
- The editor in charge of business books for Prentice Hall, 1957.
“But what...is it good for?”
- Engineer at the Advanced Computing Systems Division of IBM, 1968, commenting on the microchip.
“This ‘telephone’ has too many shortcomings to be seriously considered as a means of communication. The device in inherently of no value to us.”
- Western Union internal memo, 1876.
“The wireless music box has no imaginable commercial value. Who would pay for a message sent to nobody in particular?”
- David Sarnoff’s associates in response to his urgings for investment in the radio in the 1920s.
“The concept is interesting and well-formed, but in order to earn better than a ‘C,’ the idea must be feasible.”
- A Yale University management professor in response to Fred Smith’s paper proposing reliable overnight delivery service (which became FedEx).
“I don’t know what use anyone could find for a machine that would make copies of documents. It certainly couldn’t be a feasible business by itself.”
- The head of IBM, refusing to back the idea, forcing the inventor to found Xerox.
“Heavier-than-air flying machines are impossible.”
-Lord Kelvin, president, Royal Society, 1895
“If I had thought about it, I wouldn’t have done the experiment. The literature was full of examples that said you can’t do this.”
- Spencer Silver on the work that led to the unique adhesives for 3M Post-It notepads.
“So, we went to Atari and said, ‘Hey, we’ve got this amazing thing, even built with some of your parts, and what do you think about funding us? Or we’ll give it to you. We just want to do it. Pay our salary, we’ll come work for you.’ And they said, “No.’ So then we went to Hewlett-Packard, and they said, ‘Hey, we don’t need you. You haven’t got through college yet.’“
- Apple Computer Inc. founder Steve Jobs on attempts to get Atari and HP interested in his and Steve Wozniak’s personal computer.
“Professor Goddard does not know the relation between action and reaction and the need to have something better than a vacuum against which to react. He seems to lack the basic knowledge ladled out daily in high schools.”
- 1921 New York Times editorial about Robert Goddard’s revolutionary rocket work.
“Stocks have reached what looks like a permanently high plateau.”
- Irving Fisher, Professor of Economics, Yale University, 1929.
“Airplanes are interesting toys but of no military value.”
- Marechal Ferdinand Foch, Professor of Strategy, Ecole Superieure de Guerre.
“Everything that can be invented has been invented.”
- Charles H. Duell, Commissioner, U.S. Office of Patents, 1899.
“Louis Pasteur’s theory of germs is ridiculous fiction.”
- Pierre Pachet, Professor of Physiology at Toulouse, 1872.
“The abdomen, the chest, and the brain will forever be shut from the intrusion of the wise and humane surgeon.”
- Sir John Eric Ericksen, British surgeon, appointed Surgeon-Extraordinaire to Queen Victoria 1873.
“640K ought to be enough for anybody.”
- Bill Gates, 1981.
“Man will never reach the moon regardless of all future scientific advances.”
- Dr. Lee DeForest, father of radio and grandfather of television.
“The bomb will never go off. I speak as an expert in explosives.”
- Admiral William Leahy, US Atomic Bomb Project.
“There is no likelihood man can ever tap the power of the atom.”
- Robert Millikan, Nobel Prize in Physics, 1923.
“A cookie store is a bad idea. Besides, the market research reports say America likes crispy cookies, not soft and chewy cookies like you make.”
- Response to Debbi Fields’ idea of starting Mrs. Fields’ Cookies.
“The supercomputer is technologically impossible. It would take all of the water that flows over Niagara Falls to cool the heat generated by the number of vacuum tubes required.”
- Professor of Electrical Engineering, New York University.
“Who...would want to read a book about a bunch of crazy Swedes on a raft?”
- Editor, turning down The Kon Tiki Expedition.
“We don’t like their sound, and guitar music is on the way out.”
- Decca Recording Co., rejecting the Beatles, 1962.
“Drill for oil? You mean drill into the ground to try and find oil? You’re crazy.”
- Drillers whom Edwin L. Drake tried to enlist to his project to drill for oil in 1859.
“There is no reason anyone would want a computer in their home.”
- Ken Olson, president, chairman, and founder of Digital Equipment Corp., 1977.
“I think there is a world market for maybe five computers.”
- Thomas Watson, chairman of IBM, 1943
#no idea how to tag this#trivia#interesting#interesting facts#tidbits#quotes#history#irony#science#inventions#computers#telephone#microchip#kon tiki expedition#the beatles#supercomputer#mrs. fields' cookies'#chocolate chip cookies#atomic bomb#louis pasteur#medicine#discoveries#anyone know how to tag this?
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love poem
Try as he might, Charlie is a terrible poet.
He knows a good poem when he hears one, but any time he tries to write one, he comes out sounding worse than a Hallmark card from the mall.
My music doesn’t have lyrics! he says (and hopes nobody corrects him, considering he doesn’t write any of his own songs at all). How am I supposed to write a poem?
So, he stops trying. One day, it’s just too much. He can’t write Carrie a good love poem. She recoils at all his poor attempts at rhyming, and he will never be Shakespeare. He’ll never even be Robert Smith. The best he can do is play “Just Like Heaven” in the car on short weekend trips to Ann Arbor or Saginaw. She swoons every time she hears it, and Charlie hopes she’s still thinking of him.
You know, Carrie says one night as they’re driving back from the Michigan Theater, Robert Smith married his high school sweetheart.
Charlie laughs and fidgets in the passenger seat.
Is that your way of saying you want to marry yours? he asks.
Carrie smiles as she grips the steering wheel with one hand.
It might be, she says.
She motions to the empty cassette box on Charlie’s knee. Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me. She was buzzing before it came out last year. Charlie didn’t buy it for her. He forgot. Sam had to pick up the slack and sign Charlie’s name to it. He still doesn’t know if they really fooled her.
Thanks for the love poem, she adds.
Charlie exhales softly through his nose.
Any time.
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PIXILLATED, pt 02
by me, maybe under the pen name Caesar Train Magenta, idk
CONTENT WARNINGS: fetishization of busty women, a trans woman having to be closeted, organized crime.
Chapter One: Adulting
Bobbi was very gay. She’d never thought of herself that way, though it was an obvious enough thing to believe. A homophobe would compare her assigned gender to her interest in dressing lady-like and have some choice slurs. But she only came to think of herself as more woman than crossdresser within the last few years—well past the bloom of her youth—in response to the increased visibility of transgender women in popular culture. And what is a woman who loves only women? Gay, Bobbi.
And so she realized this one day as she got up for work, trading the feminine undergarments she slept in for closeted manly drag. She wasn’t feeling great about having to look in the mirror to shave, and took a moment to breathe in the presence of womanhood. There she was, still in a grog of dream sauce, wobbling on pink-socked feet beneath a giant poster of Dolly Parton that spanned from the wall above her bathroom door onto the ceiling, looking down like God from the Sistine Chapel. She could almost feel Dolly’s peroxide blonde tresses falling around her face as they sweetly kissed, big breasts pressed between them, and thought that she’d gladly marry that lady, even in her very advanced age. It was a love inspired by the physical, but transcending it. Bobbi was certain of that.
But it was one of many gay little fantasies, several of which were depicted in posters around her room—Elvira, Tawny Kitaen, Julie Strain, Shannon Tweed, Anna Nicole Smith, and a coterie of less famous womanly women. The dream girls were left behind as she trudged into the bathroom to get Roberted enough for banking.
The mirror was not Bobbi’s friend in the morning. Early fifties, thick and thin in the ways typical of old men, chin a bit too strong, forehead a bit too tall, some deep lines coming in. But the true wrinkles and loose skin of old age hadn’t set in, and the hair she had was thick and curly. That was one blessing from nature—the wild mess of her hair in the morning resembled the teased-out mops of her favorite ’80s and ’90s ladies. But it had to be tamed into a sleazy-looking ponytail for work, with copious product. Soon she would look like a ginger Steven Seagal.
Bobbi’s condo was a tiny thing in downtown Villa Coneja, California. The town was dull, flat, and semi-rural, but for a strip of six to twelve story modern buildings in the middle, like something out of Ohio. Her condo was in the third tallest building in town, a one bedroom which she treated like a studio with a very large walk-in closet. She stepped out in Robert mode, only one block from the bank where she worked in the second tallest building in town. The nearest structures gleamed blue, black, white, and mirrored in the early morning shadows, and planter flowers hanging from street lamps buzzed with fat insects.
“Morning, Robert.”
“Howdy, Bob.”
Familiar people dogged her all the way to her little office on the seventh floor. Accept your identity, be whoever makes us the most comfortable. She closed the office door and rubbed her face. Just eight and a half hours to go.
A rap at the door and it opened, not waiting for a response. It was Steve. “Bagels and donuts at the meeting, big guy. You ready for this?”
“Don’t be a morning person, Steve. Nobody likes that.”
The younger man laughed as he walked away, firing finger guns through the tinted window beside Bobbi’s door. There was a ceiling to floor Venetian blind there and she deployed it, with a burst of dust.
But he had her. She’d forgotten about the meeting, and it was time. It’s not like she had to do a presentation or be a center of attention at this meeting. It was just jaw-grindingly dull. She felt like ripping up paper or kicking holes in the table with her knee, but had to resist.
Time is the enemy. Life is poured from one cup into another and back again, losing a drop here and a drop there until nothing is left. Bobbi got older as the day progressed. What are we doing to make up for these quarterly shortfalls? What have you done for Harvest Bounty Bank lately? How is your agenda today going to contribute to corporate profitability and your job security tomorrow?
She had paperwork to do until well after noon, just processing the business she’d already initiated, not doing anything new to push those profits, and she felt like the boss was looking over her shoulder about it. But she recognized it was just a feeling. Running a bank of any size was a license to print money, and the boss was surely just racking up a bar tab on company credit cards and eating hundred dollar steaks.
In the late afternoon daylight slammed her office, penetrating the blinds no matter how tightly they were screwed shut. The AC pushed the atmosphere around in sludgy invisible chunks of alternating bitter liquid nitrogen cold and stifling muggy heat. The clock moved backward.
A light rap at the door. Must be Helen. “Come in.”
It was not Helen. It was your four o’clock, Bobbi. The woman came into the room tentatively, then more boldly, and took a seat without waiting to be invited. She crossed her legs and leaned back in the chair, but didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands, as if she still had the body memory of striking up a cigarette in those situations from decades in the past.
The woman was tall, near six feet and solidly built, but showing the first signs of decrepitude at sixtyish years old, her back hunched forward at the neck and her skin going thin and dry. She was tall-featured, beautiful, and Asian, with a dark blazer and skirt over a less formal mustard yellow shirt that revealed weather-beaten but substantial cleavage.
As she moved her mouth to form words, creases flicked in and out of existence at the corners of it, but her lips and teeth were fascinating, pulling Bobbi into her words immediately. Her silver and dark grey hair was in a large but tame curly bob.
“I’m Julia, Mr. Schultz. Robert?”
“Yes. You were here for ... Lefebvre Entertainment?,” she read off her monitor as subtly as she could.
“That’s us,” she winced and her eyes did a little dance before she regained focus. Not happy at work. “We’re always profitable, but there have been some shifts in the market we need to catch up with. I’m sure we can sew this up pretty quickly. You saw my application? The numbers?”
Bobbi shook a fugue out of her head. “Yeah, that’s right. Strong numbers, but..,” she tried to remember what had bothered her about the application, “I’m led to wonder what kind of entertainment Lefebvre produces. The numbers were too strong for a small commercial studio, but too weak for...”
“Adult entertainment, yes. This bank is spitting distance from the San Fernando Valley. Let’s not mince words.” She crossed her arms and gazed into her eyes with cold fire.
“So you are in adult entertainment. I don’t think this bank is a good fit for—”
“Nobody in this office has ever signed off on a loan for this industry? What would be the harm? I get that nobody wants to be the first, but all your bank would ever see of what we do is our name on the records. It’s nothing, and we wouldn’t advertise who it is we’re banking with.”
Bobbi leaned back and sighed, looking away. “You understand, I’m very unlikely to say yes here. But I am curious. Why the low numbers?”
“No video. The CEO was never interested in moving pictures, and I guess he imagined more of the public was on his page than not. He guessed wrong, but his willingness to pivot now should tell you he’s competent enough to make money in an industry where it’s just about impossible to lose it.” She shrugged and let her arms fall at her sides. “Robert, look at me.”
Bobbi looked into her eyes again, and was held fast. Something in Julia was holding her by the shoulders with strong, cold hands. “I don’t know what I should be saying,” said Bobbi. “You’re lovely and earnest and tough, I can tell you’re great at business, and I respect you too much to want to waste your time.” She felt like a nerdy boy again, falling to pieces in front of a girl he liked, knowing all hope was about to be lost.
Julia smiled. “You’re not a Robert, are you? You’re more of a Bobby.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Be a Bobby, dear, and humor me for a moment. If you were considering a business loan and had doubts about that business, what would you do to settle those doubts?”
She gulped and fumbled with her fingers, the sweat in her hair suddenly going cold.
Julia continued, “We work in the evening. Come and see the studio, look over the boss’s numbers, whatever. What do you say? My car or yours?”
“I don’t—”
“My Lexus is really nice. Just a few thousand miles, AC works on a dime.”
“—own a car.”
“I had a notion.” She stood tall—not quite as tall as Bobbi but making her feel like a pitiful gnome in that moment—and stretched. As much as Julia had been all business on the way in, Bobbi could tell then that she had breast implants. She almost fell out of her seat.
“I shouldn’t,” she croaked.
“But you will. It’s no big deal.” Julia’s voice was crisp, heady, and subtly smoky.
Bobbi was in her disgusting afternoon orange office space, too hot and too cold, oppressed by everything, but she had been flicked halfway out of the picture frame. The world had taken on a new dimension for which she was totally unprepared.
She let herself be seduced by this senior citizen, knowing full well there was no hot sexy reward at the end of this trip. The lady was a CFO in a scuzzy industry, using sex appeal just far enough to take care of business. Unless Bobbi signed off on the loan, they were both wasting their time, and who knew what the mobbish creeps of that business would do if she went into the dragon’s lair and said no?
A world of possibilities, all bad, but Bobbi dragged herself upright and followed the sinister woman like a dog.
Julia whipped the Lexus like a true Californian - speed limits were as well-observed as antique laws about where you can wash your donkey. Maybe if the highways weren’t scorching hells ashimmer with rivers of blood and broken glass, Bobbi would have learned to drive. She always had to unfocus and pretend she was on a carnival ride when somebody drove her somewhere.
“Relax, Bobby. I could tell you were having no fun in the office. This is just a little change of scenery for you. Stepping out for a breather. But you have to remember to breathe.” Again she seemed for a moment like she wanted to light a cigarette or hand one to her passenger. She shrugged it off and zipped around somebody who dared to only do sixty-five in a forty-five zone.
“I’m breathing, I’m breathing. Are we going all the way to San Fernando?”
“Yeah, we’re going all the way.” She snorted at the double-entendre. Too self-aware to be a Bond femme fatale. “Tell me about yourself, buddy. We might get hung up on the highway for an hour.”
“Let’s wait until we’re actually in the gridlock. I’d hate to distract you at these speeds.”
“What?” She looked away from the road long enough to accidentally murder several car lengths of school children. “Where are you from Bobby?”
“Idaho.”
“I’d drive so fast if I lived there.”
“That’s nice.”
Julia was right. Congestion was predictable. Californians drove so fast because they knew it could stop dead for hours and hours depending on where and when they had to go. They reached a point where they were sitting still for ten minutes at a time between moments of inching speed. Her music was just the mild-mannered office lady part of the dial, a blend of soft pop ballads from the eighties through the tens, and she turned it down to a murmur so they could talk.
“It’s time, Bobby. Talk to me like we’re going to do business together, whatever happens next.”
Bobbi cracked her neck and tried to relax into the seat. She looked at Julia with friendly resignation. “Sure. I could ask you about your kids maybe?”
Julia pursed her lips and looked very old for a moment. “How about yours, Bobby?”
“Never had ’em, but people usually like to talk about theirs. Not you? You don’t have to tell me why.”
“I can’t imagine you’ve never had kids. You have it all sorted out, Bobby. Financial responsibility. Hygiene. Basic social skills. It’s a low bar for men. Unless..?”
“Not gay but the relationships never go that far. I admit, I gave up. But that’s not your story, is it?”
“You got me. I had a daughter at a bad moment in life. She ended up in the system. I don’t even know where she is anymore, but I don’t know if we ever loved each other, so what does it matter?”
“I’m sorry. This isn’t going well. And here we are, stuck in the car, unable to just leave the awkward situation, right? What would you like to talk about, Julia?”
“Thanks, Bobby. Well, now I’m all curious why your relationships don’t last. Irresponsible? Unromantic? Unfaithful? Strange fetish?”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Strange fetish it is. It’s OK Bobby. You don’t have to tell me. This trip shouldn’t be too sexy for you to handle. The photography we do is very vanilla.”
“I like vanilla.”
“Sure you do, kiddo. I don’t imagine you have opinions about baseball.”
“Do you?”
“Or cars. What do we even have in common?” Julia regarded her sadly.
“We’re stuck in traffic. And I feel like we’re both trying to like each other?”
“We are. And I do, Bobby. You’re alright, whatever weird toys you have in the closet.”
“Hehe. Thanks, Julia.” She blushed.
“We could talk about your toys.”
“Oh my god, I don’t know about that.” She shifted in her seat.
“I could go first.”
Bobbi tugged at the collar of her shirt. “I definitely wouldn’t talk with a client about that.”
“Heehee. It’s OK, babe. Let’s just listen to these vocoder kids moan about love.”
“Good idea. And I do like you, so remember that.”
“Right back atcha, Bobby.”
They tore through a neighborhood of weedy yards where some black kids had to break up a kickball game to avoid turning into red smears beneath her wheels, coming to a corporate park with no signage except for an unrelated printing press. Lefebvre Entertainment didn’t want to be seen. She had a reserved parking spot but couldn’t quite tokyo drift into position.
Bobbi recovered her land legs and followed Julia to the back side of the building. Julia called somebody on her phone. “I’m bringing a lender to meet Aubrey. Now. We can wait a bit, but I’ll want to get in... Mmhm. Thank you.” She dropped the phone in her purse. “Think you can keep it in your pants, in a place of sexy business?”
“Of course.”
“I knew you were a good kid, Bobby.”
Julia led her to a big loading dock with the metal gate rolled down, and unlocked a small steel door beside it with an RFID dongle. She held the door open for her. Bobbi went in, feeling cold inside despite the hot weather.
The loading dock floor had been converted to a series of photography sets. Industrial HVAC kept the place cold in spite of the massive banks of bright lights. Two shoots were going on at the same time, with young ladies in various states of undress, going through all the poses a director could think of, while camera operators took hundreds of shots per minute. Julia led Bobbi up a ramp beside the proceedings, onto the loading dock proper, where most of the space was taken up by equipment. Between the thick metal stands they could see glimpses of the girls doing what they do. It was all so remote, the idea it should make someone horny seemed laughable.
Then they went into a wood-paneled hallway, around a corner into a broader continuation of the same—this part hung with fake plants and posters of porn and californiana. They passed another old gal with short white hair and a more formal suit jacket and skirt. Julia exchanged meaningful glances with her and Bobbi nodded.
But something was itching at her. Julia had stirred a sense of déjà vu in Bobbi, which had gradually faded as she spent more time in her company. But it pinged her again at the pornographic images in the hall. Something about the style, so abstract and vague she had no hope of placing it, told her she had seen this before. And the white-haired woman clinched it. Who was she? And again, after that moment, who was Julia?
The floor was hard concrete beneath thin green office carpet. Together with the cheapness of the wood paneling in the halls it evoked the idea this was just another industrial space like the docks, but with an extremely superficial veneer of anything else. They came to a door with a textured and frosted window reading “Aubrey Gordon, CEO” in precisely painted sans-serif letters.
But that room wasn’t the office itself. It was a waiting room, where they took the only seats that weren’t pew-like benches against the wall. Still far from comfortable, the chairs were hard plastic, hanging around a glass-topped oval coffee table strewn with bland photography books and pornographic magazines. The magazines were dogeared and wrinkled.
Bobbi asked, “You used to model here?”
“That’s right. Been in business here a long time. Smart ladies change companies, keep looking for a better deal. It’s alright though; I don’t have to see any of my old pictures on the wall.”
“I can’t really imagine what that feels like, having done that work, knowing you’re out there like that. But I hope you don’t feel bad about how you looked. You’re lovely.”
She cracked up, a cackling laugh. “You’re a sweetheart, Bobby. Don’t ever change.” She picked up one of the magazines and offered it to her. “Wanna see what we do?”
“I don’t want to do anything I wouldn’t do in any other business I might lend to.”
“You’d look at what they do.”
“Yes, but...”
“You wouldn’t look at dirty pics. Afraid that your body will betray you? That you’ll get a visible erection in mixed company?”
Bobbi blushed and laughed. “No, but that might happen if you keep talking dirty like that. Take it down a notch, ma’am.”
Julia said, “Suit yourself,” and perused the magazine herself.
Bobbi checked her phone suddenly, panic rising at the possibility she’d walked into a den of organized crime. No bars. The walls behind those panels were all concrete and corrugated metal. What messages had come in before she lost connection? Nothing. Nobody in the bank thought anything of her leaving with Julia.
And why should they? It was an old business lady leading a dorky Robert out into an old business situation, surely. Bobbi didn’t know why she was, on some level, wishing people in the office knew where she was, had some concern for her safety as well. It wasn’t something that ever would have happened in the first place, and would put her job at risk if it was.
She wanted to just run her eyes over the whole scene, look for clues, for something to think about, but her eyes gravitated to Julia and stayed there. As much as Bobbi kept the pictures of lady idols in their youth, her sense of beauty had aged with her. Ladies in pictures could be icons of immortal beauty, but of the women she met in real life, she was only really attracted to those closer to her own age. Women in their twenties and thirties looked almost like children to her.
Julia’s forearms were exposed by the flex in her elbows, drawing cuffs back from wrists, and showing how her skin there had every kind of discoloration of age. Dark little moles, tiny red dots, freckles, more mysterious splotches, in all shades between pallor and the tan of the rest of her skin. But it didn’t matter. Bobbi’s own arms, while younger, were still textured with the progress of life. The lady before her was glamorous in a way she hadn’t seen in a long time - at least, that she’d taken notice of, because it was in someone closer to her own age. She could imagine touching her, running fingers up the trimmed fuzz on her neck into the thick dark grey curls on her head, nuzzling the silver curls at the front, working her lips from cheekbone down to meet Julia’s expressive little mouth.
Bobbi didn’t want to be making herself any more vulnerable in a situation where she’d already foolishly thrown herself to wolves, but her imagination was getting away from her. She unfocused her eyes, so it would, hopefully, look like she was looking at nothing in particular, but in her head she was touching Julia’s sides, moving her hands up toward those impressive breasts.
Then it clicked. Julia Folly. July 1982. Bobbi was in the presence of a true idol, somebody who had ruled despotic over her erotic imagination for nearly as long as it had existed. Her skin burned pink from head to toe and her breath escaped, thinned to desperate little gasps.
A guy came into the room—a creepy old imp like Robert Blake in Lost Highway—and said, “We’re done, Ms. Folly.”
“Thank you, Robin...” Her eyes fell on Bobbi. “You OK, Bobby?”
“Yes,” she mouthed, unable to make a sound.
Robin moved on and Julia sorted Bobbi out with a bottle of water and some attention. The attention made things worse at every moment she touched her, but she somehow managed to tamp down the chaotic energy enough to face the man.
Aubrey Gordon’s office was less cold than the rest of the building, perfectly regulated and sealed in thicker panels of more expensive wood. His ceiling was strange fuzzy drop tiles, but at least it was clean. His floor was Roman tile, and his furniture luxurious and bulky. Ivory bas-reliefs of pornographically proportioned women were inset on the walls to each side of his desk, and his chair’s dark brown leather back rose high above his shoulders like a royal throne.
The man himself had a physical energy not unlike Larry King. He was short but seemed powerful, like if he sucker punched you, you would go the hell down. Dark framed glasses did nothing to hide that he was a savage little animal in human skin.
“What do you have for me, Julia?”
“Bobby Schultz, Harvest Bounty Bank. About the video loan.”
“Have a seat, Bobby.” He gestured with a powerful liver-spotted hand, a few thick gold rings there knocking the surface of his desk. It wasn’t an invitation, but a demand.
Bobbi sat down. “Hello, Mr. Gordon. I’m just taking a look at the operation here as part of my considerations. Ms. Folly’s idea, as was this meeting.” She held out a hand to shake his, while not wanting to touch him in any way.
Gordon took the hand in a manly way, practically splitting her larger hand in two with his grip, then dropped her on the wood like a dead fish. “Please to meet you,” he said, sounding not at all pleased. “I hope you realize it’s an easy fucking call to make. Money’s money. Don’t yank our dicks, alright?”
“Yes sir,” she squeaked. It was a bad situation. There wasn’t a way she could say no, without finding out how mobbish Gordon was. He didn’t even have to hint at a threat. And what was that Robin character to him? “Robin let us in, tonight.”
“Yeah? That’s my executive assistant. He’d usually be the guy you were talking with, but what can I say? I want to get this shit done. You going to help us get this shit done? Make your bank some easy dough?” He leaned forward, a fist on his chin, surprisingly green eyes penetrating Bobbi’s soul.
“I, uh, I, ah...”
Julia leaned over and touched Bobbi’s cheek, gently pulling her gaze up to her own. Her face nearly brushed against breasts along the way. Julia said, “It really is an easy decision. You sign off, you never even have to look at us again. Just reap the rewards and call it a day, yes?” She stood and left Bobbi physically alone in that terrible psychic space.
“We’ll see what we can do, Mr. Gordon.”
He pursed his lips angrily, turning them buttermilk white. “Sounds a little like a dick yank, son, but alright. See what you can fucking do.” He flicked a wrist and Julia quickly scooped up Bobbi, leading her out of the room.
“Sorry,” she said in the lobby, “Seems he’s in a worse mood than usual.”
“I have to get the hell out of here,” Bobbi said quietly, weakly.
“Bobby, it’s OK. I can show you out.” She was already leading her back into the hall, supporting her with a strong arm. The big breast against Bobbi’s side did nothing to quell her overpowering sense of alarm.
“Yes. Let’s go.”
They were out in the hall again, walking briskly. Bobbi was in a terrified stagger, Julia taking slower and even steps, trying to slow Bobbi down as well. “You need to relax, like I said before, Bobby. I can show you some nice people, get you a drink? Not like you have to drive yourself home.”
“I can’t.”
Instead of leading her out the way they came, Julia pulled her into a room near the bend in the hall. It was a changing room with big brightly lit mirrors, a few young naked ladies down the way barely glancing up at them.
“Don’t,” Bobbi squeaked, but Julia kept dragging her into a separate area from the makeup room, more like the green room in a high school drama department, save for the glass tanks of snakes and rabbits. Julia shoved her down into a very soft couch, then pulled up a stool to face her directly.
“Bobby, calm down. Please. I get it. You didn’t want to deal with our world in the first place. I can get you off Aubrey’s radar, OK? I just don’t want you to walk away thinking less of me. I didn’t know it would go like that. I could have guessed, but maybe I wasn’t thinking straight. Just get with me. Look at me, kid.”
Bobbi looked up at Julia with teary eyes. “I’m sorry. I feel like a baby.”
She smiled. “Are you better, Bobby? We can go now. I’ll take you home.”
“Thank you, Julia.”
She took her out through the big cold studio, into the stifling sun of dusk, and back to the wild ride.
-
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The Golden Rule Of Present Giving At Xmas
Yes, it is that time of the year again, Season’s Greetings! Do you know the golden rule of present giving at Xmas? It is an undeniable truth that showering your love and generosity upon others can make you feel mighty good. The power of giving is often sold short in our economically obsessed world view. Economists don’t like ‘giving’ as a concept, it must be said, they find it simply uneconomical. It does not fit in with their strict interpretation of how markets and the world works. Neoliberalism would choke into its empty trickle down effect vessel if too much giving went on in the economy.
Adam Smith statue, High Street by kim traynor is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0
Economics & The Shunning Of Giving
This is why we only allow gift giving at strictly controlled times like Christmas. Nobody in charge of the economy would like to see things like generosity and altruism get out of hand. No, self-interest and blatant greed are emphasised in the understanding of how our economy and market forces operate. They tell us that the father of economics was Adam Smith. A Scottish philosopher and with Adam as a first name – who else could it have been! Scots are infamous for their penny pinching ways – I mean they also claim to have invented golf.
“Smith’s notion of an invisible hand that guides someone seeking to maximize his or her own well-being to provide the best overall result for society as a whole is one of the most compelling notions in the social sciences. Smith and other early economic thinkers such as David Hume gave birth to the field at the onset of the Industrial Revolution.”
- (https://www.imf.org/en/Publications/fandd/issues/Series/Back-to-Basics/Micro-and-Macro#:~:text=Thefieldbeganwiththe,WealthofNationsin1776.)
Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com
Indeed, the golden rule of present giving at Xmas fits in with our economically infatuated world view today. One of the main reasons why giving at Xmas is so powerful is that we hardly ever do it for the other 364 days of the year. Familiarity breeds contempt, after all. Thinking about others is not what modern human beings do too often. Of course, parents, in the most part, remain devoted to their children. Parenting is one long sacrificial act, when you really think about it. They say even hostages learn to love their captors eventually. Devotion to a cause or another human being of your blood can become a labour of love. Economics, on the other hand, is all about self-interest and where that leads us in a business sense. The market place is where we humans get down and dirty in the doing of business with each other.
Circle, Xmas (1907) Joseph Christian by Library of Congress is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0
What Is this Golden Rule?
Quite simply, it is, for every present graciously and generously given to another, you must choose one for yourself. This keeps the economy ticking over in the direction it is established to favour. This self-interest drives our economic wellbeing for the good of the nation and the world. Therefore, according to the golden rule of gift giving at Xmas you must lovingly choose something extra special for yourself. Adam Smith will thank you. Keynes will acknowledge your input. Perhaps, even, Hayek will grant a nod. What will you select for yourself this Christmas that will make you really happy to receive? Choose well, my friend!
Robert Sudha Hamilton is the author of Money Matters: Navigating Credit, Debt, and Financial Freedom.
©MidasWord
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Dickheads of the Month: August 2023
As it seems that there are people who say or do things that are remarkably dickheaded yet somehow people try to make excuses for them or pretend it never happened, here is a collection of some of the dickheaded actions we saw in the month of August 2023 to make sure that they are never forgotten.
Raging neanderthal Lee Anderson didn't so much say the quiet part out loud and bellow it above the echoing sound of his knuckles scraping against the ground when he literally said asylum seekers should “Fuck off back to France” if they think housing migrants on a floating deathtrap might happen to make the Tories look like a bunch of fascist, dogwhistling cunts
...and yet the hard centre extremists did not seem concerned about Anderson’s rhetoric and tone, yet the second that Diane Abbott drew attention to dozens of migrants drowning in the Mediterranean by using Anderson's knuckledragging against him they were up in arms about her tone and rhetoric
...all the while Suella Braverman and Robert Jenrick were both wondering if they could very quietly fuck off to France when it emerged that, within 24 hours, not only had people with typhoid been allowed onto the Bibby Stockholm without any thought given to quarantine, but then there was a Legionnaires outbreak that saw those on board whisked away for treatment on dry land
...though Suella Braverman wasn't quite done with abysmal takes regarding the Bibby Stockholm when it then emerged the Fire Brigade Union had declared it to be a potential deathtrap, to which Braverman countered by saying the FBU were in cahoots with Labour
Just when you think Kemi Badenoch can’t be an even more ridiculous face of going full fash, she announces that she wants to appoint a Lavatory Tsar to eradicate gender neutral toilets in all buildings because this is the level of culture war bullshit we’re getting from the Tories at this point...unless you're disabled, as disabled toilets will continue to be gender neutral because Kemi Badenoch doesn't recognise disabled people as being real human beings so they’re exempt from this TERFy lunacy which continues to pretend that nobody has ever been on a plane or a train
Good on Fabian Marta for exposing the Sound of Freedom pyramid scheme in a way nobody would have expected, with him getting arrested for child felony kidnapping which makes the sugar daddy parties he runs looks even ickier. Just a reminder, Marta is credited at the end of the film for funding getting the word out. But remember, anyone who criticises the film is a paedophile...
Somebody forgot to tell Iain Duncan Smith that the Tories are the so-called party of law and order, as IDS came down with a particularly bad case of ULEZ Derangement Syndrome when he started praising residents of his constituency who destroy ULEZ cameras
...but thoughts and prayers for Charlie Mullins and his terminal case of ULEZ Derangement Syndrome, which got him suspended form Twitter for calling on people to murder Sadiq Khan with plenty of race baiting involved in it, yet somehow never mentioning proven liar Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson or Grant Schapps who are the actual architects of ULEZ. Funny that...
I think a Welfare Check is needed at the Daily Mail considering their latest cry for help is having Connor Stringer take to Twitter asking for people to DM him examples that can be used in a column called Woke Watch
...which, of course, isn't the Daily Mail looking for any form of distraction because they finally suspended Dan Wootton from his MailOnline column when they finally realised the laundry list of charges was not only not going away, but also growing by the week
Brilliant optics from Manchester United by placing the onus on their women's team as to whether or not domestic abusing rapist Mason Greenwood should be allowed back into the first team, and going the extra mile by allowing the fact their women's team had his future in the balance to be reported in the press, meaning that Manchester United fans were incelsplaining to members of their women's team why they should shut up and let him back into the team
...and then Manchester United released a statement which talked about the feelings of the real victims in all of this: Manchester United stakeholders, who have been affected so very badly at one of the club’s assets being asked to take responsibility for their actions
...and soon after Rachel Riley piped up to say how, if anybody is the true victim of all of this, it is Rachel Riley due to her not looking like a typical Manchester United fan
Billionaire manchild Elon Musk apparently didn't like mummy stepping in to stop his fight with Mark Zuckerberg, judging by how much shit-talking he is doing about Zuckerberg on Twitter up to and including borderline doxxing him (which, last time I checked, was grounds for termination if you were posting coordinates for somebody's private jet...), which just got more desperate after Zuckerberg publicly bitched him out for promising to do something and pulling out - which is all that Musk ever does
...and then billionaire manchild Elon Musk decided to have another one of his brilliant ideas, this time removing the block function from Twitter which definitely doesn't make it look like he's annoyed that either any advertisers shoved into people’s twitter feeds are blocked on sight or he saw the backend that revealed just how many people block him. Oh, and there was a slight problem: he literally can’t remove the block function, as having one is a condition of being hosted on the App Store and Google Play Store
Notable not-particularly-good swimmer Riley Gaines showed off her credentials for being a stochastic terrorist when she tweeted out the name, location and phone number of a librarian who had been identified for the usual harassment campaign - and within hours the library received a bomb threat
Of course beanie-wearing testicle Tim Pool is the sort of reactionary grifter who tries to rile up his fanbase to stage a civil war if Trump goes to jail - just as he's unlikely to be within five miles of the frontlines if one starts
...and then beanie-wearing testicle Tim Pool decided that it was time to go full incel on his podcast and Twitter, prattling about women’s “body count” like he's thirsty for Lucy Letby or something and then tweeting how any women who has ever slept with more than one man is a slut...which begs the question if that's one more person than Timmy slept with or wo
Apparently it's okay for Seth Dillon to make jokes about a 13-year old girl who was raped and had to give birth due to Mississippi laws forbidding her from getting an abortion because of FREEZE PEACH, but if you dare make fun of Seth Dillon for their shitty opinions he will run to the Twitter moderators so fast because you're not allowed to make fun of him. No wonder Babylon Bee is about as funny as, well, being a 13 year old forced to carry your child of rape to term because Mississippi lawmakers hate women that much
A mere 78 days after Nadine Dorries announced she would be resigning as an MP with immediate effect, she actually resigned in a tsunami of sour grapes that definitely doesn't make her look like she's sulking for not getting into the Lords nor address the minor fact she hasn't attended Parliament once in over a year - and by complete coincidence, she just so happened to resign the day after it was announced that MP’s compensation for resigning or losing their seat would be doubled
Good on Stephen Kinnock for letting the electorate know just how different things will be if Keir Starmer’s Labour Party get into power with his bold proclamation that, as the Bibby Stockholm is already docked, Labour will be just as keen to shove migrants into the floating death trap as the Tories
Good look from the Real Federación Española de Fútbol when their response to their president Luis Rubiales planting a smacker on Jenni Hermoso’s lips with no consent whatsoever after Spain won the Women’s World Cup final was to circle the wagons around Rubiales even when the Spanish Prime Minister said his horniness was wholly inappropriate
Brainwashed buffoon Marjorie Taylor Greene really boosted the Republicans’ “party of law and order” schtick with her proclaiming she'd still vote for registered sex offender Donald Trump even if he was in jail
Failed nepo baby Lawrence Fox is now so desperate for attention that he is literally posting photos of himself wearing blackface on Twitter, while also blacking up his children and having them pose for photos, which pretty much guarantees he won't be getting his monthly visits while making his threats of legal action against anyone who dares call him racist disappear pretty damn quickly
Alleged educator Katharine Birbalsingh is probably going to have to buy her academy's history department some beta blockers after saying teachers have a “communist mentality” and doubling down on that by saying Stalin treated everybody the same...that’s the same Stalin whose name prefixes the term “...ist purges”, which anybody with a basic understanding of a subject before mouthing off on it would be aware of
Not only is Kari Lake still in deep denial about losing the Arizona gubernatorial election in November of last year, but now frowning thumb Joe Rogan has suddenly decided to weigh in with his “hot” take about an election that took place almost a year ago
While there's dozens of versions of what CM Punk and Jack Perry did backstage at All In which are flying around the internet, the agreed upon facts are that Perry acted up on camera due to a disagreement with Punk backstage several weeks prior to the show and as soon as Perry returned backstage to find Punk there waiting to go out for his match a scuffle broke out. Anything after that involves a dartboard due to the ever-increasing number of variations
This month it was Antoinette Sandbach demonstrating how Tories really can't get their heads around the Streisand Effect with her publicly demanding that people stop bringing up that her ancestors were slave traders - which people weren't doing until she publicly demanded that all people stop bringing it up in response to one person mentioning it on Twitter which would have likely disappeared into the ether if se said nothing
Great look by both Rishi Sunak and Prince William for both flat refusing to fly out to Australia for the Women’s World Cup Final and the complete lack of anything approaching a valid reason for their not going, which looked especially good with Queen Letizia flying out to cheer on Spain in the final
Desperate attempts to feel oppressed by Comedy Unleashed by announcing a show at the Edinburgh with a super secret cancelled special guest at an LGBTQ-friendly venue - and a few days before the show they revealed the increasingly deranged Graham Linehan as their super secret cancelled special guest, which unsurprisingly got the show pulled there and then...but, of course, that means Comedy Unleashed are acting like they're being silenced, and demonstrating this by screeching to anyone and everyone in the press who is happy to give them a platform to screech about their being silenced
So the true victim of Sarah Moulds punching her horse in the face and kicking it for good measure, unaware that she was being filmed as she did so, was...Sarah Moulds, who issued a bizarre statement about not trusting what you read on social media as if the video of her punching a horse in the face and kicking it for good measure doesn't exist when it clearly does
So the best defence that xQc could come up with for stealing other people's content and getting rich off their labours is “I’m rich”, at least when he isn't having one hell of a meltdown when getting called out for it, because apparently the only way he can feel shame is when his maid walks in on him while he’s streaming stealing other people's content
Would now be a bad time to mention that Tumblr once again has a bot problem? My list of followers on ere is almost as botted as billionaire manchild Elon Musk’s list of followers on Twitter - albeit with the difference that I go out of my way to remove the bots following me due to not having a micropenis
And finally, of course, is registered sex offender Donald Trump and the complete bitchfit he threw because, oh boy, he really doesn't like it when the “...and find out” part comes knocking on his door and tells him to drag his Cheeto-toned ass into court
...and that's before registered sex offender Donald Trump tried to coin the new buzzphrase “Never Surrender” for his brainless cultists when his mugshot was released, missing the point that for his mugshot to exist he needed to surrender to authorities
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