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newstfionline · 1 year

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Friday, April 28, 2023

Food prices fall on world markets but not on kitchen tables (AP) A restaurant on the outskirts of Nairobi skimps on the size of its chapatis—a flaky, chewy Kenyan flatbread—to save on cooking oil. Cash-strapped Pakistanis reluctantly go vegetarian, dropping beef and chicken from their diets because they can no longer afford meat. In Hungary, a café pulls burgers and fries off the menu, trying to dodge the high cost of oil and beef. Around the world, food prices are persistently, painfully high. Puzzlingly, too. On global markets, the prices of grains, vegetable oil, dairy and other agricultural commodities have fallen steadily from record highs. But the relief hasn’t made it to the real world of shopkeepers, street vendors and families trying to make ends meet. “We cannot afford to eat lunch and dinner on most days because we still have rent and school fees to pay,” said Linnah Meuni, a Kenyan mother of four. Somehow exorbitant food prices that people have little choice but to pay are still climbing, contributing disproportionately to painfully high inflation from the United States and Europe to the struggling countries of the developing world.

Mexican president says he blacked out due to COVID-19, now OK (Reuters) Mexican President Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador said in a video message posted on Wednesday that he briefly blacked out in a meeting in Yucatan state this past Sunday due to complications with a COVID-19 infection and was flown to Mexico City for treatment. He said his heart and brain were not affected, contrary to widely circulated rumors about his health, by his third known bout with the illness. Local media and people on social media had said Lopez Obrador may have had a heart attack or a stroke. The 69-year-old leader had a serious heart attack in 2013. Lopez Obrador said he was doing well and keeping busy writing speeches ahead of upcoming events. He did not say when he planned on resuming official activities.

Argentina: A desperate search for a door as currency tumbles (AP) Antonela Massarelli desperately needed a front door for the new house she and her family will move into this weekend in a Buenos Aires suburb. The 29-year-old mother of two said she found one prospect Tuesday morning at about 20,000 pesos, but noted with exasperation that the price went up by afternoon to more than 30,000. And store owners—faced with potentially higher costs to replace doors the next day—mostly wanted to hold onto their merchandise. Her eventual purchase, at 31,900 Argentinian pesos, amounted to US$65 at black-market rates, US$144 at the official rate. Massarelli’s struggle with the door reflected the uncertainty in Argentina as its currency has sharply depreciated over the past week in the informal market. Since early last week, the peso in the informal market—known as the “blue” dollar rate—has depreciated around 20%, reaching a high of 495 pesos to the U.S. dollar Tuesday, increasing the spread with the official rate to around 120%.

King’s coronation part of long evolution for Queen Camilla (AP) When Camilla, Britain’s queen consort, is crowned alongside her husband next week, the moment will mark the culmination of a remarkable—and painstakingly slow—transformation over five decades of a figure once reviled as the other woman and considered a huge liability to the British monarchy. With the coronation of King Charles III days away and his first seven months on the throne under his belt, many in Britain have grown to accept Camilla, though some experts and observers say she will always walk in the shadow of her past. Camilla, 75, was mercilessly torn apart by the tabloids for years. She’s won over much of the British public with her down-to-earth personality and her charitable work, notably against domestic violence, rape and sexual abuse—causes she says she’ll continue to support as queen.

Germany Deems Youth Wing of Far-Right Party an Extremist Group (NYT) Germany’s domestic intelligence agency on Wednesday classified the youth wing of a prominent far right nationalist party as an extremist group that threatens the constitution, dealing another blow to an organization that has come under increasing scrutiny over concerns of radicalization. The spy agency reclassified the “Young Alternative” unit of the party after monitoring it for four years. The decision comes just a year after intelligence officials decided to put the entire party, called Alternative for Germany, under surveillance—the first time the agency had taken such a step against a main political opposition party in Germany’s postwar history. The government also labeled two other far-right institutions as right wing extremists on Wednesday—the Institute for State Policy and the One Percent group. Both organizations are part of what is called the New Right in Germany, a conservative ideological movement that the agency said promotes violent, anti-democratic, and racist ideas. Once a group is classified as extremist, its members could lose employment opportunities in the public sector and the ability to obtain or maintain weapons licenses. Domestic intelligence services, who already had the groups under surveillance, will also more quickly receive authority to tap or surveil group members.

Russia needs more troops but is wary of public anger, leaked documents say (Washington Post) Russian officials are scrambling to enlist hundreds of thousands more troops for the war in Ukraine without angering the general public, but recruitment plans being pushed by military leaders are raising alarm among other government officials worried about an increasingly critical labor shortage in the civilian workforce, according to classified U.S. intelligence documents obtained by The Washington Post. In mid-February, President Vladimir Putin “reportedly backed” his military’s proposal to “quietly recruit” 400,000 additional troops throughout 2023 for the war in Ukraine, according to one intelligence document, part of a trove of classified information allegedly leaked on the Discord gaming platform by Jack Teixeira, a 21-year-old member of the National Guard. According to Western intelligence estimates, Russia started its invasion in February 2022 with a force of around 150,000. A “partial mobilization” last fall conscripted more than 300,000, and another 50,000 were believed to be fighting in Ukraine as part of the Wagner mercenary group, including convicts recruited from prison. There is also an unknown number of men forcibly conscripted in the so-called Donetsk and Luhansk People’s Republics to fight alongside pro-Russian separatists, and smaller volunteer units. According to the leaked documents, the United States estimates that Russia has suffered 189,500 to 223,000 casualties, with up to 43,000 killed.

The Ukraine-China relationship (Washington Post) Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky spoke with Chinese President Xi Jinping via phone on Wednesday. It was the first time that the two leaders had acknowledged speaking to each other since Russia invaded Ukraine 14 months ago, and both sides announced it with a note of diplomatic triumph: A Chinese readout mentioned the “current rise of reasonable thinking and voices from all sides,” while Zelensky wrote on Twitter that it was a “long and meaningful conversation.” Behind the niceties, however, is an unmistakable tension. The call was a geopolitical tightrope walk, as the Ukraine-China relationship becomes a balancing act for both parties. China, which announced in its readout that it would send a special representative to Ukraine and other countries to hold talks with all parties on resolving the “crisis,” hopes to buoy its growing reputation as a peacemaker and diplomatic heavyweight, offering an alternative to the West in that area. Ukraine has shown itself wary of China’s role. But Zelensky and other top officials have refused to rule out Beijing’s role as a mediator and, perhaps eyeing Ukraine’s need for trade partners in a post-invasion world, emphasized the future of Ukraine-China relations.

Turkey’s Erdogan Faces Biggest Election Challenge Over Economy (WSJ) President Recep Tayyip Erdogan is facing the most serious challenge to his 20-year rule in an election next month amid voter anger over his handling of the economy. The rising cost of food, energy, medicine and other essentials has unraveled the standard of living for the majority of Turkey’s 85 million people in recent years. Many Turks are cutting back on meat, fish, alcohol and even vegetables. Others are taking on second and third jobs or seeking ways to leave the country. Turkey now suffers from one of the highest rates of inflation in the world. The catastrophic earthquakes that shook Turkey and Syria in February deepened economic challenges facing the Turkish state.

Panic spreads in Iran after new suspected poison attacks on girls schools (Washington Post) It was 10:30 a.m. on a Tuesday when the teacher began receiving frantic calls. There had been a gas attack on the girl’s elementary school where she taught, in the Kurdish region of western Iran. She had not been in class that April morning but rushed to the school and found a chaotic scene: Students and a few of her fellow teachers were having difficulty breathing and said their eyes were burning. Some of the teachers had been beaten by furious parents and were crying, she said. Agents from the Ministry of Intelligence had arrived to investigate. In recent months across Iran, about 300 suspected gas attacks have hit more than 100 girls schools, according to Amnesty International. Deputy Health Minister Saeed Karimi said last month that 13,000 students had been treated for symptoms of suspected poisoning, according to the Shargh daily newspaper. No deaths were reported. “The parents are really scared, and a lot of them won’t send their kids to school anymore,” the teacher said in a telephone interview. “Some parents have said they are willing to have their child held back a year at school just to keep them out of danger.” “These have been very organized and coordinated attacks. It can’t be random people doing that,” said Mahmood Amiry-Moghaddam, the director of the Norway-based organization Iran Human Rights. “It’s either groups with the blessing of the authorities or forces within the authorities.”

Biden, Yoon warn N. Korea on nukes (AP) President Joe Biden and South Korea’s Yoon Suk Yeol unveiled a new plan Wednesday to counter North Korea’s nuclear threat, with the U.S. leader issuing a blunt warning that such an attack would “result in the end of whatever regime” took such action. The new nuclear deterrence effort calls for periodically docking U.S. nuclear-armed submarines in South Korea for the first time in decades, bolstering training between the two countries, and more. The declaration was unveiled as Biden hosted Yoon for a state visit at a moment of heightened anxiety over an increased pace of ballistic missile tests by North Korea.

Netanyahu’s corruption trial (AP) Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s corruption trial has resumed after a month-long break, refocusing the spotlight on the long-serving leader’s legal woes after a wave of protests over his government’s plan to overhaul the country’s judiciary. Netanyahu is charged with fraud, breach of trust and accepting bribes in three separate scandals involving powerful media moguls and wealthy associates. He denies wrongdoing. Critics say that Netanyahu is driven to weaken the courts and change the judicial system as a way to open an escape route from his trial, claims he dismisses as untrue. The corruption charges also have been at the center of a protracted political crisis that sent Israelis to the polls five times in less than four years—each vote essentially a referendum on Netanyahu’s fitness to rule.

Americans and other foreigners struggle to flee Sudan amid fierce fighting (Washington Post) Exhausted and terrified, Americans and other foreign nationals have been struggling to escape the fighting in Sudan, cramming into crowded port terminals, squeezing onto filthy buses and begging strangers for a ride to an airport in a desperate bid to reach safety. The United States, like other governments, has already evacuated its diplomats and their families, but tens of thousands of other foreign citizens remain behind amid fierce battles between the Sudanese military and a rival paramilitary group that erupted nearly two weeks ago. So far, there has been no announced plan to evacuate the estimated 16,000 American citizens in Sudan, many of them dual nationals. By contrast, Britain, France and Germany have sent airplanes to Sudan to help evacuate their citizens, and other countries, such as India, have organized convoys to Port Sudan on the Red Sea. An American engineer said he had been searching fruitlessly for four days for a ride, after the tires of his car were shot out, in an effort to leave the country with his four U.S. citizen siblings, including two adolescent sisters, and his elderly British mother. Artillery and missile fire have been exploding around them, and the girls were scared, he said. “No one wants to come to my area. … The shooting is heavy and next to us there is looting,” said the engineer. “They could at least give us guidelines or instructions on the safe routes to take and a pickup point.”

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starfirette · 4 years

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Hello! Can u please write Helena Bertinelli with a Fem!reader tomboy that's a muay thai fighter and look like super cool and cold,but in the apartment its a very soft and lovely girlfriend with Helena? (And how the birds will react when them met her) Thank you,I Love you writing and HELENA IS SUCH A BAE!!! THIS GAL NEED MORE LOVE AND SUPPORT!❤

masterlist | word count: who fucking knows | 🏷 @kurreapormaranet @emofairygay | a/n: ;0 There are some things you might want to look up on youtube so you have a general idea of what’s happening. Clinch positions, tactical stand ups, thips

The rink’s seats filled massively, stretching to every wall that bounced the cheering back and forth.

The overall mission seemed simple, but it had Helena dreading this moment since Harleen explained what needed to happen.

The trust fund brat of the devilish Rossini family kidnapped the Rossini’s pride and joy: their little baby girl, Ayala. Ayala Rossini, four years old, is the Brat’s younger half sister and the new written in heir of the Rossini fortune. The Brat, Carmen, had been written out of the will after she kidnapped the new little bird Batman was keeping under his wing. She’d been sloppy and left behind all marks of her family’s (unbeknownst) involvement. She made serval costly mistakes which included Batman’s uncovering of the Rossini family’s plans of Gotham, Star, and Jump city. Half the family became arrested.

Carmen was all but disowned by her father, whom she already resented for marrying another woman so quick after the death of her mother. To get her revenge, she kidnapped Ayala.

So, Mr and Mrs Rossini employed Harley and her rag tag team of anti-hero thugs.

To get Ayala back, the girls would have to go undercover.

Their heroic deed would get them 30k each, so that was good enough. The Rossinis are precise and focuses; they’d been willing to pay as much as they had to in order to ensure the safety of their little crime lord baby.

Now Harley had her connections. She knew a guy who knew a guy who saw a friend with a girl outside of the 31 Flavors ice cream shoppe, and this girl just happened to know that Carmen spends her free time hosting epic fights in the secret tunnels of Smallville.

It’s a long ways away from Gotham, but is a perfect place to host such gatherings. The fights are frightfully violent and brutal. Also very illegal. No one would ever know that beneath the wheat and corn fields of Lil’ Ol’ Smallville county lays an intricate mafia maze.

Carmen Rossini is notorious for entertaining the winners to a “fine dinner with wine”. The rumors go that she runs an entire harem of Thai Fighting women, using them for sexual favors and personal security.

The entire mission is actually depending on that rumor.

The plan was to send in Dinah as a participant in the rink and hope she would win and earn the attention of Carmen.

But then Dinah got bronchitis. It was a nasty case, too, in which she wouldn’t stop coughing and hacking up green stuff into tissues.

The entire thing would have been called off if you hadn’t admitted that you are, in fact, trained in Muay Thai.

You’re positive that Helena would have rather kept this a secret, because she doesn’t like putting you in harms way. It’s a nuisance to have the world’s most protective girlfriend. Heaven forbid you even get a paper cut, else she’d make you wear rubber gloves while you read a book.

The entire group (save Helena) jumped for the chance to replace Dinah with you. You’d do perfect, Harley said, sounding so confident.

You intended to be flawless in the ring.

You’d not competed since high school, when Muay Thai was still just a recreational hobby. You’d had your wins and losses, but that was before you grew up to spend majority of your time fighting mafia crime lords.

Once Dinah officially relinquished her role of the mission, you took to the heavy bags. The repetitions became intense and harsh in the following weeks. You spent every night limping into bed.

Your sweet whispers that begged Helena for a soothing massage fell onto her deaf ears. She is stubborn, and she had been attempting to force you out of this competition since the day you’d agreed to it.

You were not afraid of Carmen, or anyone else she’d make you fight against. For the sake of the little Ayala, you would do this. Besides, you tell yourself, what’s the worst that could happen? With the Birds and their abilities, there isn’t much that could happen.

Nothing would slide through the cracks.

Hopefully.

The day did come faster than you’d imagined, though. The drive to Smallville was tense, especially in the backseat where Helena was frostily ignoring you.

Harleen was road raging, passing every trucker on the two way road that didn’t exceed 65 miles an hour.

“You know the speed limit is 45, right?” Montoya asked after she had taken a long drag of a cigarette. She had her legs propped up on the dash. Between her and Harley sat Cass, who was oblivious to the chaos around her as she sang along to a pop Spanish song. “Yeah, and?” Harley quipped. She cast her bright eyes towards Montoya, a wicked smile playing on her lips.“You gonna arrest me?”

Montoya couldn’t do much but sigh in defeat. If Harley didn’t mind crashing, then she didn’t either.

Between the bickering and the loud singing of the three front passengers, you and Helena were sitting silently in the very back seats. Your head was leaned up against the window which rattled as the tires of Harley’s ‘64 Starfire rolled across the gravely road.

Helena had been refusing to speak to you since the fight you got into last night. It was a real fight. She’s made it clear that she’s against you fighting in Carmen’s ring, and is especially against you joining her harem.

You’d first thought she was afraid of disloyalty; you had promised her that you wouldn’t ever cheat on her, even if it was for a mission. But it became revealed that’s not what Helena was worried about.

She feared for your life. She fears for your life every single day. No matter how small of a task, she can’t help but worry. She lost her mother, father, brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles; everyone. She’d been so helpless. She could only watch as she became the sole Bertinelli.

Helena couldn’t live on if something happened to you.

The fight ended on a confusing note. It didn’t end, per say, and you two did sleep in the same bed. However, neither of you has said a word to each other. You tried this morning, but she’d given you the snippy, cold shoulder.

As much as you hate putting her through so much anxiety, you know that you can’t back down. A girl’s life is at stake; it’s not the money you care about. Not to mention Carmen Rossini is about to make the top 50 worst criminals in Gotham County.

Harley rolled the car to a stop around a patch of gravel and dust. Everyone climbs out, rocks crunching under their shoes as they stretch and look around.

“Where is it?” Cass asks, shoving her hands in the pockets of her loose denim jacket. Her chapped lips are stained blue from the tootsy pop that she’d crunched on in the car. The soggy stick now hung from her lips, as if she had been imitating Montoya’s cigarette.

Harley locked, double checked, then re locked, then triple checked her car. She turned around, using her hands to shield her vision as she scanned the open wheat fields. “Dunno,” she admitted. “I guess I supposed someone woulda been here to meet us.”

You shifted on your feet. You wanted to try and make Helena happy before you’d at least go inside and get in the ring. The only issue is, she’ll only be happy if your forfeit now.

You would not.

Across the way, by a few yards at most, a rustling came through the wheat that came at least up to your hips.

A young man emerged; he approached the Birds with a guarded look that furrowed his thick, blond eyebrows. “You are Carmen’s guests, yes?”

He spoke with a thick accent. His honey blond hair contrasted his coffee brown features. He had a handsome face with a strong jaw, but something about him seemed off. He seemed intimidated despite being taller and broader than most.

“We are,” you answered for the Birds. “I am Y/n. I am the contestant.”

The man beckons you all forward. Helena glared at him, her hand steadily tapping the outside of her thigh. She was prepared to draw her gun and shoot anyone that could get in her way. In your way.

You tasted a bitter foam in your mouth as you attempted to stop Helena without raising too much attention.

“We––I––am here for the Carmen’s...event.”

The honey blond man tallied the Birds on his fingers, visibly distressed. “I do not thinka’ Miss Rossini expected so many of you...”

After a brief, strangled silence, the man shook his head and waved his arm along to escort you. “The bunker is just this way,” he explained. Harley and Cass walked after him.

Helena meets your eyes. Her gaze is firm, and maybe even angry. No way could you defuse that situation while still heading into the rink.

The wheat and grass crunched under your boots as you marched across the pace-by-pace clearing. A trap door in the ground lifted up swiftly, silently, as if they grease the hinges every damn day.

You remembered how this turned out for Suzie Salmon; casting one more look over your shoulder, you assured yourself with the presence of Helena.

Down the hatch, under the ground, you, Harley, Cass, Helena, and Mr Cannoli over here shuffled down the hall to a big dressing room. The entire layout felt more like a stadium then an underground crime rink. The dressing room has lush sofas and fur blankets; in the corner a SodaStream is mounted on an Ikea book table.

“Miss Rossini will join you shortly,” Cannoli-guy told you, nodding his head regally. He bowed out of the room, shutting the heavy oak door after him.

Cass jumped on the sofa. She sprawled out over the furs, kicking her muddy Chuck Taylors up. “Luxury.”

Harley snipped to Cass to get her dirty little feet off the merchandise.

You took a seat in the swivel chair in front of the large mirror. It looked like pure Broadway with the heavy lightbulbs that wreathed the glass.

“Can’t say they don’t know how to entertain a guest,” Harley squealed as she migrated to the SodaStream. “They got homemade cream soda!”

Cass jumped off the sofa to run after Harley.

Instead of facing you, Helena took a heavy seat on the couch. Her legs spread out, looking spectacularly muscular in her tight, black pants.

Unfortunately, you’re too annoyed with her to go lounge in her lap.

As much as you’d like to make amends, you know the only way to do that would be to back down. You’re going into that rink.

The door flew open at the second Harley had poured herself and Cassie a drink.

Carmen Rossini strutted in and you stared in awe. You tried not to let your jaw drop. Tall, voluptuous. Her hair is wavy auburn, her eyes deepest green.

She looked at you immediately. Reaching out for you as if you were the messiah, she chuckled. “You’re even cuter in person! Oh, sweetie, you––you do know how to drive a hard bargain. Your agent Harleen contacted me, where is she?”

Harley waved her hand from the corner. “That would be me. Ain’t Y/n a real figure?”

Scowling, Helena crossed her legs. She glared up at Carmen, and you remembered that Carmen is doing what Helena hates the most; complimenting you.

It’s not so much that Helena doesn’t like that you receive compliments; it’s just that she prefers giving them to you.

“I’m so happy to see you all here tonight,” Carmen said, clapping her hands loudly. “There’s nothing more exciting than tonight’s event. Did you know,” she cooed as she ‘boop’ed your nose, “that I’ve got people betting about two million dollars that you’ll win? I am so, so pleased that you’ve chosen to make your debut in my arena.”

You nod, your neck stiff. “I guess I’m excited?” you mumbled.

Carmen snapped her fingers. She signaled to one of her lackies to come forward. A box Is presented at your feet.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I brought you a little something. A uniform of your own, courtesy of moi. Don’t you love it? I had your photos analyzed by a fashion expert, and they designed your shorts to compliment you perfectly.”

The high waisted, Thai shorts are a deep ivory shade, with black flowers sewn into the design. They’re the most beautiful Thai shorts you’d ever seen! Your own were cute, but simple, considering that you didn’t usually think to be a fashionista while working out.

“They’re amazing,” you admitted. Over the top? Definitely. Did you expect anything else? Honestly, you’re not sure. You weren’t sure what to expect.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” Carmen, as she smiled, reached into the deep pocket of her red silk kimono-blouse. In her hands is a thickly wound prajoud, made of fine threads and paracord. The black and red jumped out at you like an old friend.

“I hope I got the rank right?”

“You did,” you say as you took the prajad from Carmen. “I could have brought my own if you’d asked.”

“It’s really not a big deal, my darling,” Carmen purred. She ran her hand through your hair, taking note of the silky feeling of each strand. “I will be watching. There will be people outside the door waiting to escort you to the arena when you’re done dressing.”

Her fingers are heavy with her bejeweled rings. The heavy tear shaped gems get tangled in your hair.

“You have ten minutes,” Carmen adds.

Helena glowered after her as she flitted out of the room. Her heels clacked down the hallway following the click of the door shutting in place.

Montoya took a long drag of her cigarette before she chortled.“You just gonna let her mark her territory like that?”

Helena didn’t say anything.

“Oi, Katniss,” Harley said loudly.

Helena’s cloudy eyes finally look to her friend. “What?”

“Carmen Rossini basically stole Y/n from you, and you let her!”

As you pulled out of your jeans, you sent Harley a little glare. “No one owned me to begin with,” you snapped.

“Hey, I’m all for women’s rights,” Harley exclaimed. “But it just seemed like—,”

“I know what it seemed like,” you snapped. “That’s the entire goddamn point, isn’t it? Get in her good graces?”

Case choked back her soda. “If that’s your idea of getting in Carmen’s creepy ‘good graces’ you gotta do better than that. You didn’t act sexy or flirt back at all!”

Helena stood to her feet. She brushed down the front of her black zip-up sweater. “I’m waiting outside,” she declares before stomping out with a frown wrung on her mouth.

Harley grimaced as the door slammed shut.

“Kid, come on,” Montoya sighed.

“I’m right,” Cass scowled. “You know that I am. We knew from the start that in order to get the little girl back, sexual favors would probably have to be granted.”

You pulled up your shorts. “Can everyone shut up?” You asked.

“What’s that?” Cass proceeded to ask, given she couldn’t talk about Carmen anymore. She pointed at the arm band that lay over the counter.

“Prajoud,” you tell her. Thank you pulled out of tour shirt. The heavy duty sports bra was already in place, but it gave you major uniboob.

“What does it do?” Cass asked again. Unable to contain her curiosity, she grabbed it off the vanity and fiddled with it.

“It’s like a belt,” you explained. “Instead of wearing a black belt, I wear a black prajad.”

“Who come up with that?” Cass asked.

“Uhm, Thai people?” Harley said as though it should be obvious. She snorted and jerked her thumb towards Cass. “Get a load of this guy.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s alright to ask questions, guys, just try not to be annoying. ‘M a little stressed out already.”

Harley took a final gulp of her soda. “Well, I guess we know who’s not getting action tonight. And that’s Y/n!”

“Why is Helena so upset anyways? Because Carmen was flirting?”

“No,” Harley explained. “See, she’s angry because Y/n’s going out and doing this fight, one, without asking her to begin with, two, for some other little kid, and three, with a evil Italian mafia tigress. She’s projecting her childhood fear that she’ll never be able to protect anyone she loves. She’s also rash, irritable, and possessive, so it’s just a cherry on top that the plan includes Y/n using her charms to sway Carmen.”

“Bravo,” you plainly say. “It’s almost like you’re a doctor or something.”

“Yeah,” Harley grinned. “Or something.”

You pulled the prajad over your forearm. You pulled the band tight, holding the laces in your mouth so you could knot it tight with one hand. You looked in the mirror, unsure of what to think of yourself.

You kicked your boots off next.

In socks, you turned to look at Harley and Cass. “Let’s do this,” you sighed.

Helena had been waiting loyally outside, leaned up against the jamb. Her eyes flitted up and down your figure, before rolling up towards the ceiling. “Let’s do this,” you said, sounding as if you’d already lost.

Marching down the hall in tow of the honey blond Italian, you tried to make eye contact with Helena. She was good at ignoring you. You’re not sure if it’s because she’s angry, stressed, or both.

Riddled with anxiety, you wish that she would look at you, or hold your hand at the very least.

At the entrance of the arena, you could see it was filled massively to the brim of its walls. You hadn’t realized how far underground you really are until you looked at the expansive seating. The rink’s seats filled massively, stretching to every wall that bounced the cheering back and forth.

You stepped to the stairs that wound up to the cage. You could smell the sweat and the matts; above the sound of the crowd cheering, you could hear your blood rushing fast in your ears.

“Find Ayala,” you muttered in Harley’s ears. “I don’t want to be here longer than we have to be.”

Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief, but they were momentairly dulled by a silent question. “I thought...?”

“No,” you said firmly. “We shouldn’t be here any longer than we have to be,” you tell her. “I’ll stay here, I’ll do my thing; you take everyone and look for that girl. If you’re not done by the time the match is over, I’ll distract Carmen.”

Harley couldn’t respond by the time you were dragged up the stairs. Outside the cage’s gate, you were given a little table at which you could rest at. It had a pitcher of ice water, some glasses, a washcloth, and a bottle of brandy. You took a large drink of the brandy first. You peeled off your socks.

It felt like a blur as you stepped into the cage.

Your opponent was your size; she looked your weight, too. You suppose that’s fair, at least. It’s not like in the movies. The real competitions are done by weight and height.

You turned your head to give one last glance to your friends.

Helena stood beyond the cage, her hand resting over the gun holster. Her eyes were fixated on you.

You had to look away.

Tying your hair up in a tight bun, you walked out onto the mat. Your opponent did the same; meeting you half way, you two shook hands.

You didn’t exchange names; that would only make it harder.

“The rules,” a voice boomed around the stadium, “are there are no weapons to be permitted in the arena. Please watch as the fighters return to their corners then begin the match on the sound of the bell. The match will consist of two rounds, each lasting seven minutes.”

You hovered in the corner of the cage. You stretched and jogged in place. You have enough training for this. You do. You know that you can do it; hopefully, you will.

The bell rang. You take a massive sprint out into the middle of the ring where your opponent had already paced out.

You wound up a punch. Your feet lifted off the mat as you leap into the air, and you delivered the blow to the side of her face.

Her teeth crunched under the impact. It was such a hit that you saw it spew out of her mouth, and hit the cage.

The crowd exploded into a frenzy.

Hovering at your face your hands remained in constant motion. Her kicks were well calculated and her movements tactical. She gave away all of her tricks, though, by looking twice at the target she would next go for. If she looked at your side once too many times, you would crouch and use your arms to block your ribcage.

The sweat that built up made the more precise attacks difficult. Your punch began sliding off her face, keeping you staggering forward, and in her wide open range.

You were struck once, twice, then thrice on your left cheek. It sent blood and saliva dribbling down your chin.

Your prajad began to slip as you struggled to regain your balance.

The girl’s long leg extended forward. Her foot jabbed a strong thip into the center of your stomach, practically digging against your bladder.

The bell rang, then, marking the end of the first round.

You fell into your corner with a wheezing gasp. You crawled for the little table. You drank directly from the pitcher.

You looked back to the crowd, half expecting to see a flash of unfamiliar faces.

Helena still remained at the ringside. Her hands are clenched through the cage, and her eyes are desperate to meet yours. You were confused. Why hadn’t she left with Harley? Did Harley not need her? Or did she want to stay and watch?

You felt stronger with her just a few yards away.

You staggered to your legs, where your knees wobbled like jello on a plate.

The two minutes of rest time had ended, and the bell rang once more. You slid back rather than go for her first.

She sauntered to you like a bear, her shoulders hunched and her fists close to her face. She swung hooks and uppercuts that you could just barely dodge. You were close to slipping backwards a few times.

“Y/n, watch out!” Helena shouted suddenly.

You couldn’t see the girl racing towards you like a battering ram through your blurry vision. Her fist slammed over your temple. You swore you could feel your brain tumbling around your skull as you fell to the floor.

You clutched your ear with your bare hands. Pain gushed out of you like water. You thought you could see it, visibly, as it poured down bright green and crystalline.

It wasn’t there; it was the spots dancing in front of you. Disorientation is a real bitch.

One tactical standup later, you’re back up on your feet. You pushed yourself forward, forcing the remaining energy you had out of your hands. You grabbed the girl by her long pony tail and dragged her into a tight clinch. She attempted to swim out of it; the friction of her wrists against your neck burned.

You tugged her down, driving a sharp knee into her stomach. She stayed in your clinch for a long time, gasping for air as she couldn’t evade the knees. You finally released her. She staggers back. She falls onto her ass, visibly shaken up and at a loss for breath.

The crowd began to scream at you. Some did a countdown, others urged the other girl to get back up.

It was too late for her.

The bell rang, marking the end of the seven minutes, as well as the second round. She had lost, and you had won.

You limped towards her. Despite your own pain, you lifted the girl onto her feet.

“Good game?” she rasped.

“Hell yeah,” you wheezed.

It felt like the ultimate orgasm to go back and gulp down the water. The cold, damp washcloth made a good compress for your busted lip. You judged by the twitching of your left eyelid that you had a pretty sizable welt there.

Helena ran to meet you as you limped down the stairs out of the cage. She threw her arms around you tightly. “You’re alright,” she gasped.

You tried to hug her back. Your arm hung loosely over her lower back as you tried to laugh. “Did you doubt that I would be?” you asked her. “Where’s Harley and Cass? Montoya?”

“They went to find the girl,” Helena said in your ear. “I couldn’t leave you...I had to stay and watch. I had to make sure.”

She pressed a kiss into the crook of your neck. “Let’s go,” you said firmly, “before Carmen comes for us.”

Helena helped you leave the arena. By the time you vanished, the stadium was already announcing it’s second match, featuring a woman named Selina. The people went into a hectic frenzy of excitement when Selina’s name was announced over the speakers. You knew as you were walking out she would never be able to escape this place.

Honey-blond-haired Italian guy jogged to keep up with you. “Miss Carmen asks that you wait in the dressing room,” he called out. “Yeah, yeah,” Helena called out. “We’ll be there.”

He followed you down the hallway, keeping several paces back to maintain a steady watching distance. He paused as he watched you and Helena head straight into the dressing room.

Sitting on the sofa inside is Harley, Cass, and a little girl sleeping in Harley’s arms. You were shocked. For a four year old girl, Ayala was incredibly small and fragile looking. Her olive skin and auburn hair is just like her elder sister’s. The hollows beneath her eyes are dark and colored by her greenish veins.

“Let’s scadadle,” Harley hissed as she rose to her feet, though struggling to keep Ayala in her arms.

You all rushed out of the hallway, quickly as to make it before Carmen could come back from the arena.

“Where’s the exit?” Cass asked.

“It’s this way,” Helena says. She pointed straight down the hallway. “The car’s waiting for us above the trap door.”

“Yeah, unless someone stole it,” Cass mocked. “What if we get locked in? Like in Hotel California?”

You could hardly begin to understand what Cass was saying. Her words were jumbles of sounds and her figure a blur of her dark hair and red jacket.

“We’re not getting locked in,” Harley exclaimed. “Let’s just get outta here!”

Helena climbed up the ladder first. She punched the door up, then open. “Give me the kid,” she said quietly.

Harley struggled to lift Ayala up.

Helena scooped her easily into her strong arms. Ayala stirred awake and whined as she became more and more aware. “I want to go home,” she mumbled, her voice quiet and empty.

“We’re taking you home, pumpkin,” Helena assured the little girl. “I’ve got you.”

As Cass was going up the ladder, a loud clatter arose down the tunnel. “Uh oh, spaghetti-os,” Harley whistled. She pushed you up the ladder next. “I’ll meet you guys up there,” she promised, sounding entirely confident. “Montoya,” she whistled between her teeth. “Feel like doing some target practice?”

It was the first time all day that Montoya smiled.

As you climbed up, you heard Harley’s shrill laugh between the shots of two, little handguns.

“Into the car,” you wheezed to Cassie. She looped her arms around your waist to help you limp into your seat. “Buckled in?” you heard Helena ask the little girl. She looked so shy despite all that’s going on. The curls of her hair were brushed behind her ear as Helena held her tightly. “You’re going back to your parents.”

Harley came running out seconds later. “Let’s get this show on the road,” she exclaimed.

“You have the keys!” Cassie shouted back.

Harley jumped into the drivers seat. She honked the horn loudly. “Renee, let’s move it!”

Montoya was limping a few feet away, struggling to keep up Harley’s pace. She crawled inside and as soon as she did, Harley pressed the gas, and sped away.

“Smoking is so bad for you, you know that, right?” Harley chastised. “Maybe if you just used the nicotine patches I bought you for Christmas, then you wouldn’t have so much trouble keeping up with us.”

“Take the patches,” Montoya huffed, “and shove them up your ass.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. You leaned back into the headrest of the rear seats. Helena held Ayala beside you, stroking her hair gently as she held her cellphone to Ayala’s ear. Her parents were on the other end, and you could hear the cries of relief.

You met Helena’s gaze, and you managed a smile on your busted mouth.

“I love you,” you mouth to her.

“I love you, too,” she replied.

#helena bertinelli x reader #helena bertinelli imagine #my helena babes #crossbow killer #crossbow killer x reader #huntress x reader #huntress imagine #dceu imagine #dceu x reader #birds of prey x reader #birds of prey imagine #birds of prey #mary elizabeth winstead #starfirette writes

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glassnightfury · 4 years

Note

Sorry 65 and 66 no 55 or 56 lol

“You’re strangely nonchalant for someone who almost died a minute ago.”

“Help me find my shirt” “‘You know, as much as I want to…I don’t want to.”

“It hurts to see you cry.”

This is pretty much in the category I like to call “Whump with a Heart of Gold”

Another Place

Hiccup is bad at one-night stands. The last time he tried it he ended up in a relationship for two years. It isn’t his choice to go to the only nightclub in Berk, but he goes there anyway at Snotlout’s insistence. It’s Snotlout that points out the blonde at the bar, but it’s Hiccup who offers to buy Astrid a drink. An Old Fashioned, and Hiccup feels that name in his chest when she looks at him.

“So,” she says, “one-night stand, right? Forget your ex.” Her electric blue eyes tear him apart from the inside

“Uh,” Hiccup responds.

“It’s written all over your—” she finishes with a flourish of her finger.

“You just gestured to all of me,” he says.

Astrid nods solemnly.

“Your place?” she asks.

“Seriously?”

“I also have an ex.”

////

After the second round, Astrid finds a bag of pistachios.

“Gotta keep your energy up,” she explains around a mouthful, even though he doesn’t ask. “Look at you, big spender. Springing for the unshelled.”

“I was going to make ice cream,” Hiccup says, stealing a handful.

“But instead you keep them on your bedside table.” She shoves more in her mouth, and it’s oddly charming.

“What can I say?” he laments. “I’m weak.” Astrid puts the bag back on his nightstand and claps her hands too loudly.

“Alright, I’m ready,” she says. “Let’s go.” Hiccup laughs.

“Remind me to buy you pancakes tomorrow,” he says. Instead of answering, she climbs on top of him and kisses all thoughts of later out of his head.

////

“Help me find my shirt,” Astrid says, hands on her hips. Her skirt hangs off her body strangely. Hiccup thinks it might be inside out. He’s well past pretending to look at his phone, and he’s just openly watching her now.

“You know as much as I want to… I really don’t want to,” he says. Astrid throws his pants from last night at his face.

“I was promised pancakes,” she huffs. “This is the thanks I get for rocking your world last night? And this morning?” Hiccup snorts.

“Just take one of mine,” he says.

////

He regrets it. She picks his favorite shirt, and she looks too good in it. She fixes her skirt before they leave.

Somehow, she looks even better in the soft sunny glow of Eggstravagance than she did in the strobe lights. The pancakes are bigger than their heads with bananas and strawberries and powdered sugar on top. Hiccup can feel himself fucking up his one-night stand in his hand as she pours the syrup.

He thinks he might want to fuck it up.

////

Ostensibly, they’re on their way back to his apartment to look for her shirt, but they’re both walking at a snail’s pace. The SUV runs a red light and spins out without warning. There’s pain everywhere, but his leg explodes.

////

“I think I’m too hungover for this,” Hiccup says in the ambulance, whatever drugs the paramedics are giving him already turning his brain to pudding.

“You’re strangely nonchalant for someone who almost died a minute ago,” Astrid responds, and she’s holding his hand.

“Still hungover,” he mumbles as his eyes close

////

It’s dark when he wakes up again. A steady breeze of too-fresh air pumps at his face from the mask on his face. The drugs still pull him down toward unconsciousness. Past the machines he can see a giant of a man in a chair, his arms crossed and his mouth wide open in sleep. Next to Hiccup’s father sits a woman with her legs curled up to her chest and her head cradled on her hands. Darkness obscures any distinguishing features.

For half a second, he thinks she’s his ex, but with the way they’d imploded there’s no way she’d ever visit him. Even in the hospital. A light flickers against the white-gold of her hair, and it could only be Astrid.

Hiccup doesn’t remember hitting his head, but he thinks he must have if he’s seeing her here. He lets the drugs pull him back under.

////

There’s someone else in the room. Hiccup cracks an eyelid. His eyes don’t feel as tired as they did before, but there’s still a weight to his bones that there wasn’t before.

“Unfortunately, if he keeps his leg—” the doctor starts.

“He’s awake,” Astrid interrupts, and that is definitely Astrid. He wasn’t hallucinating.

“Hiccup,” his dad booms, and it echoes off the walls.

“I’m not deaf, Dad,” Hiccup croaks. A flashlight shines in his eyes, and he recoils. He hears the scribble of pen on paper.

“If you’re concussed, it’s minor,” the doctor says.

“My leg hurts,” Hiccup responds.

“That would be where you were pinned under the vehicle.” The doctor writes more on his notepad. “Unfortunately, it did quite a bit of damage. I was just explaining it to your wife and father, but I’ll start over.”

////

The doctor’s words weigh Hiccup down into the thin hospital pillow. Hiccup’s dad leaves to ‘get coffee’, and Hiccup knows he’s going to find a place to have emotions in peace. Astrid still guards her post.

“So,” he slurs, “you’re my wife now?” His smile feels forced and empty, but it’s better than nothing. Astrid’s cheeks flush furiously red.

“They weren’t going to let me go with you on the ambulance,” she explains. “It spiraled from there.”

“Right, right,” he responds. His smile feels a bit more genuine now.

“I didn’t want you to be alone. Not after—” Her voice goes thick until it stops completely in her throat, and water starts to collect in the corners of her eyes. Hiccup wiggles himself to sit up as best he can.

“Hey, don’t cry,” he says. “It actually physically hurts to see you cry.”

“No, I’m okay.” She tilts her head back and dabs at her eyes with a finger. “I’m fine. It’s just. You saved me from that stupid guy and his stupid car, and this is what you get for it.” She gestures to the agonizing skin bag filled with bones.

“Oh, no,” he says. “Don’t worry about my leg. It’s useless.”

Astrid lets out a sharp laugh.

“Seriously. The left one was totally unaccomplished. The right? Brilliant. Prodigious. The left? Total garbage.” He can feel himself overdoing it, but even with some of the drugs wearing off a bit, his mouth is faster than his foggy brain. And Astrid is laughing. “Besides, my dad is definitely gonna either sue that guy to death or straight up kill him. I’ll get a dog. It’ll be fine.”

“What’ll you name your dog?” she asks.

“Something stupid, I’m sure.”

“Like what?” She leans forward in her chair. Hiccup thinks.

“Toothless.”

Astrid cackles.

#astrid hofferson #astrid #hiccup #hiccup horrendous haddock iii #httyd #how to train your dragon #fic #my fic #whumpy #but make it cheery #prompt fill #glassnightfury

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daisychains111 · 5 years

Text

Happy Birthday Annie Cresta

Annie Cresta was born on July 28th, 56 A.D.D.

This day is more officially known as The Anniversary of Rebel Defeat but is more commonly known as Reaping Day.

July 28th, 59 A.D.D- Age 3

Adrina goes up on the stage, mommy’s crying. Annie doesn’t understand why everyone is so upset, especially on her birthday. But she never sees her big sister again, except in a strange wooden box about a month later.

July 28th, 62 A.D.D- Age 6

Ridley Zale is Annie’s favorite babysitter, she lets her eat taffy before dinner and lets Annie do her make-up. It makes Annie sad that Ridley has to go up on that stage, she doesn’t understand why people who go up there never come home, and she can’t help but feel scared of her birthday.

July 28th 65 A.D.D- Age 9

Aegir sings her happy birthday as he brushes her hair. Mommy died and can’t do it anymore but when her brother does it he pulls too hard. The Reaping takes place as normal but this time Annie knows why the people up on stage never come back.

July 28th 66 A.D.D- age 10

Annie cries as Aegir gets himself ready.

He tells her thats stupid. If he gets reaped she’ll have no one left to love her. Aegir doesn’t say anything to that, but he hopes harder that it’s not his name called.

# # #

Annie’s world shatters into a million pieces as Aegir’s name echoes around the square, but someone shouts and Aegir never steps foot on that scary stage. Instead a boy named Finnick, with sandy hair and green eyes, climbs the stairs, head held high, and this Finnick does come home, the youngest Victor in Hunger Games history according to the news reports.

July 28th 68 A.D.D- Age 12

Annie wakes up screaming at 5 o’clock in the morning. Images of cruel, slow deaths, threatening to rip her apart, her twelfth birthday bringing her first reaping. She picks up a badly wrapped gift from Aegir thats sits on the table as she slips out the door to her favorite hiding spot. She found this spot when she was 7, and comes here when she’s nervous. It usually helps her clear her mind. She wades into the water and welcomes the tightness in her chest as she goes under. Someone rips her out from the water. Finnick Odair thought she was drowning for how long she had been under.

# # #

Annie hardly notices her reaping after that. She couldn’t help but stare into the eyes of the 16-year-old victor who sits on stage. And by mid-October Finnick and Annie are best friends

July 28th 71 A.D.D- Age 15

Finnick gives her a shell bracelet and a kiss on the cheek for her 15th birthday. Aegir rolled his eyes and tells her that Finnick is too old for her.

She feels really pretty, in her white dress and sandals, with her brown hair flying freely around her shoulders. Her best friend Sayla bought her little sea glass clips that stand out like stars in the decorative braids that wrap around her head. Ms. Luna made her a cupcake. Annie is happy, the reaping is the last thing on her mind. She locks eyes with Finnick from on stage, he smiles wildly at her before the escort begins the Reaping, he’s gonna be a mentor this year.

# # #

Annie barely registers her name being called. A boy named Jonah joins her. She has never been on this stage before, she wishes she could have kept it that way.

# # #

She is dressed like a mermaid for the parade, she gets a 7 in training, her interview dress is pale blue. Her mentor, Mags, is an old woman. Finnick is never around, but when he is, he looks tired. The games start, Annie’s first kill is the girl from 7, her name was Nova, she was 13. Annie cried herself to sleep that night. The tributes from 1 and 2 don’t like her, but they like Jonah, and Annie and Jonoh are a package deal. Ten days in, Annie and Jonah break off from the others in the middle of the night. On day thirteen, Jonah’s head rolls at her feet. Annie screams and screams, part of her is never the same after that. The ground shakes and Annie welcomes the tightness in her chest as she goes under water. She was under so long people thought she was dead, but it was trumpets, not a cannon that follow Annie Cresta, the victor of the 70th Hunger Games.

# # #

Annie screams on stage when her games show up on the screen. This is not what The Capital wanted, Annie never sees Aegir ever again. The grey hair of her mentor and the green eyes of her friend try to comfort her. Annie throws her head back and laughs.

# # #

Annie stands up on the stage, Finnick is holding her hand. Her district claps. But there is no one in the world that loves her. Annie Cresta may have won, but once you go on that stage you never truly come home.

July 28th 73 A.D.D- Age 17

Mags is still in the hospital, Finnick is on his way to the capital. It’s funny how much time he spends there. He told Annie that he loved her, she laughed. He left her though, for that awful place, it’s funny how much he goes there.

July 28th 75 A.D.D- Age 19

Finnick wakes her up with a kiss on her nose. He stayed just for her. They go to the reaping and he holds her hand the whole way home. They pack a lunch and go to the cove. Mags watches as the two play in the water like small children. Annie has never felt so happy in her whole life. She loves Finnick and Finnick loves her, and not even the president can take that from her. This is the best birthday of her entire life.

# # #

The Quell is announced on January 2nd. Finnick locks himself in his room, Mags bakes 4 dozen cookies, Annie covers her ears and laughs like she’s never laughed before.

July 28th 76 A.D.D- Age 20

There are so few of them that they stand the Victors on the stage looking down at the rest of the district. Annie hears her name called, Mags volunteers before Annie has the chance to scream or cry or laugh. Finnick name is called and this time she drops to her knees and covers her ears. In one month, at least half of everyone who loves her will be dead and that isn’t even funny to Annie.

# # #

The poem moves everyone to tears. Finnick loves her. And she loves Finnick, but as he proclaims this the entire nation her tears are anything but warm.

# # #

The cannon echoes around her skull. Her old mentor falling to the ground in repeat in her mind. It had been Mags who held her when the world was the darkest. It had been Mags who taught her to make cookies. It had been Mags who battled Annie’s demons when Aegir seemed to vanish into thin air. It was Mags who combed Annie’s hair when Annie didn’t bother. It was Mags who let Annie move into a spare room in her house. It was Mags that she went to when Finnick was driving her up a wall. It was Mags who had seen her at her highest highs and lowest lows. It was Mags who insisted on doing everything on her own, even after she had her stroke. It was Mags who was the strongest, most powerful, loving person Annie had ever met. It was Mags who was dead. Not the blonde boy from 12, but Mags. Annie couldn’t even scream, she didn’t even laugh. She was just numb.

# # #

Annie pleads with the television. Finnick I’m safe. Finnick I’m fine. But he doesn’t hear her, he just runs through the jungle, looking for something he’ll never find, in a fashion that would make Crazy Annie Cresta look sane.

# # #

The arena explodes and Annie laughs. Take that Snow.

# # #

The peacekeepers knock on her door. She wakes up in the Capital. Annie has never screamed so loud in her whole life.

# # #

A boy with brown hair takes her and leads her to a hovercraft. When they land she hears him before she sees him. Finnick. Her Finnick, alive and well. The kiss is long and sweet. Annie’s head hasn’t felt this clear in 4 years.

# # #

She feels really pretty, in her white dress and sandals, with her brown hair flying freely around her shoulders. Tin clips, standing out like stars in the decorative braids that wrap around her head. Peeta made them a cake. Annie is happy, the war is the last thing on her mind. She locks eyes with Finnick from across their hands, he smiles wildly at her before the pastor begins the ceremony. Crazy Annie Cresta is dead. Annie Odair laughs from real joy, she’s never felt so safe.

# # #

Aegir Odair. That’s what she decides. Finnick is off in the capital, fighting the war, but he will like that, he will be happy to be a father. Annie hasn’t had an episode in two months. Maybe this baby will make things better. Maybe she will be a good mom.

# # #

She drops a vase when Gale tells her. He holds her as she screams, but it’s not the same.

Annie Cresta feels 15 all over again. Screaming her head off. Rocking back and forth. Fighting off the demons left to her by a poor dead boy. He is dead. The youngest Victor in Panam history. Her mentor. Her best friend. Her husband. Finnick Odair is dead. Finnick Odair will never know he’s a father. Finnick Odair will never meet his son. But that’s not why Annie cries. Annie cries because she will never again see his beautiful green eyes. She will never again hear his contagious laugh. She will never again be conformed by his strong hugs. So Annie screams, because there is no one left in the world that loves her.

July 28th 83 A.D.D- Age 27

Aegir has his mother's hair and his father's eyes. She smiles down at him as he sings her happy birthday. Her sweet little 7-year-old, with his missing front teeth. Annie Odair hasn’t had an episode in 5 years. Annie Odair is a good mother. Finnick Odair would have been proud. She may have lost her husband but she has never felt so much love in her whole life. Annie is happy.

#hunger games #annie cresta #finnick x annie #finnick odair #mags (hunger games)

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debbie-tanthorey · 4 years

Text

65 DAYS IN MAY

CHAPTER ONE

Cosmic irony. A dentist saved me. You read that correctly – saved my LIFE, albeit inadvertently. An action as mundane as having one’s teeth cleaned, set fate in motion. Was the week of Thanksgiving 2019, bi-annual check-up. Dentist does his thing after the hygienist finishes. You know the drill (pun intended). Only this time he uncustomarily offers me a hand-mirror, tells me to look in my throat, asks me if I've had my tonsils out.

“No”

“You have a white spot back there, see that?” My eyes shift toward the mirror – I LIE – say I see it (don’t have my glasses on, PRIDE won’t let me admit I can’t see any white patch) He continues, “If you don't mind, am referring you to an oral surgeon for a biopsy.” The nefarious B-word; brain fires a warning shot. B-word leads to the C-word.

Alone now in my car, I fall apart. Hi, I'm a hypochondriac; I don't handle health challenges well despite the jovial persona folks see. A paralyzed-with-fear hypochondriac. Foremost in my thoughts is a long-time friend from high school, currently dealing with a devastating throat cancer diagnosis; I know not to minimize this. (R.I.P. Grady, August 8, 2020 😔) Get to my desk, dial my primary physician immediately, which is a big deal for introverted-me; set up an appointment for a second opinion. The Thanksgiving holiday means I can't be seen until the following week. What is normally a fun, family-gathering time of year, is effectively fogged in with dread, I go through the motions. All-consuming thoughts ruminate incessantly - I'm dying. Yeah, it's what hypochondriacs DO, we ‘dive off into the deep end,’ thrash, drown in ‘what if’s??’

The next week, my doctor smiles after he peers past my tongue into my throat, “Where?” Looks twice, insists I relax, “It's nothing.” He knows me well, adding, “if it would make you feel better, let's follow-up in three months.” His reassurance tempers my panic . . life resumes.

CHAPTER TWO

December 2019, January, February, 2020 the winter that wasn't. Work that was. Mid-February Housing fair at Ohio University's Walter Hall Rotunda. Event coordinator, Donna, introduces herself to Dave and me at our display table. Lively-soul, (I admire extroverts) she explains she recently transferred to this area from Columbus and, among other things, is a Stage 4 breast cancer survivor. Woman is spunky. Piques my interest. I share my sister's email address with her, explaining Cheryl is an 18-month soldier waging the same battle.

March approaches and the little nagging voice in my head reminds, “3-month follow-up, Deb, just do it.” Did. Friday, March 6. Confirmed, no dumb spot. Ha!! Your basic normal appointment. Crisis debunked. As visit concludes, Hillary, his nurse, scrolls through my medical record, turns to mention it's been more than a couple years since my last mammogram, they’ve all been clear, but I'm due, and would I want to set up one.

“Sure”

My youngest, Leah, works in this same medical facility, stop at her desk near the lab to say ‘hello.’ She’s my last to leave home, miss her in my house still. Always good to see and talk to her. She and Ian were married 18 months ago. Her desk-mate, Jordan, coincidentally one of Leah’s friends from her high school days, sets up my mammo appointment for Monday.

MONDAY, MARCH 9. Say ‘hello’ again to the girls at their desk. Check-in. Take a seat, wait my turn. Have had plenty of these 'grams in my lifetime, no big deal, no dread. Bare 'em, squash 'em, and get back to work. This time though, the tech knows my sister, and as I dress when we are done, from behind the screen she casually asks how old Cheryl was when she got her diagnosis and how’s she doing. (60. She is doing remarkably well, maintaining) 10 minutes later, I’m back at my work desk, phone rings, the mammo-tech is on the phone, needing me to return the next day for “a couple more, 'maybe clearer' pics, and an ultrasound.” That’s never happened before. A fleeting shot of panic surges, but since my most recent dread has been unfounded, I attempt to not over-react.

TUESDAY, MARCH 10. Keenly study the radiology-tech’s face for clues when she comes to fetch me from the lobby, I examine her demeanor as if I’m a police detective on a high-profile murder case and she’s my prime suspect. She's calm. So I'm cool. Rescan first, ultrasound second. Not especially pleasant the latter, (idiotic thing to say, was wholly unpleasant ) having your chest unceremoniously smashed in a circular motion against your ribs. The techs are studious, the room silent, I stare at the ceiling. Last time I had an ultrasound was 26 years ago and I was pregnant. Today, no fun at all. Understand now why my sister mentioned she is not a fan of these during her breast cancer struggles.

CHAPTER THREE

SATURDAY, MARCH 14, a knock on the front door, mailman is standing on my front porch and in the time it takes me to scribble my name on a card, I'm staring down at a certified letter in my palm, the return address of the clinic lunging off the paper at me. There's a low, barely-audible, foreign sound in my head. It's 'control', in human form, and is protesting/whining as she’s being forcibly dragged away from me. Remind myself I'm somewhat sane, an adult - just open the envelope. I do. And there it is, in black and white, the word -

ABNORMALITY

The rest of the weekend is a blur, debunking the need for concern with my daughters. Every excuse, every plausible explanation of why a letter like this would be mailed. A mistake, surely so. Just a glitch in the system. “Mom, if it was bad, they wouldn't notify you by letter,” Leah insists.

MONDAY, MARCH 16, my primary physician calls in regard to my somewhat-panicky email fired-off to him on Saturday, the day the letter arrives. He speaks in calm tones, explains he was on vacation the past week, is sorry he could not talk to me before the notice arrived, he's seen the offending spot on the film, offers it's so small, unlikely any cause for concern. “Indistinctive,” he assures. Forwarding to a surgeon for review.

CHAPTER FOUR

TUESDAY, MARCH 17, mama-daughter call . . normal stuff .. she’s working today at the clinic. She mentions the aforementioned surgeon has office hours today, maybe I could be squeezed in. I’m in luck, they can. So in a couple hours, I am shaking the hand of the head of surgery. Personable guy, he tells me he's reviewed my pics, if the radiologist had not circled the area, he would not have noticed it right away. Optimism duly noted. He thoroughly examines that body part, pokes and prods, asks me if I feel a lump. “I have not.” Today he doesn't either. Every woman knows about lumps. I absolutely know about lumps. I would never ignore one. Fact of the matter, there is NO lump!

We go over my less than stellar immediate family history of C. (HATE that word). Lung, breast, leukemia. He recommends biopsy to rule out any true problem. The B-word again. This day I say, ‘ok'.

Right here is where COVID-19 makes it's bizarro presence known, personally impacts ME. Doctor advises local surgery center is now closed due to the virus and procedures are limited to emergencies only but he is willing to go before the Board to plead my case. ???? While thankful he is willing to intercede for me; I am tamping down anxiety fighting to rise up, mentally jumping up and down, stomping on it, both feet.

Couple days later I get the call the Medical Board approves me for a needle biopsy. Control-of-my-life, she is sitting on the floor in a fetal position, rocking, whimpering in a locked padded-room somewhere.

CHAPTER FIVE

TUESDAY, MARCH 24, Jess drives me to Jackson. I don't need driven. Appreciate my oldest’s company though. COVID rules necessitate only a patient be permitted to enter any facility; Jess has to wait in the car. At the door, am screened for symptoms, this is the Twilight Zone. And it's too quiet in here. The place is dark and weird and I don't want to be here. I'm the ONLY person in the entire surgery center, I overhear the staff talking, they weren’t on the schedule today, I’m the only patient. hhmmmm, why am I so important?? Creepy.

Am ushered into the procedure room, nurses are professional, put me at ease. Entering, it’s impossible to miss my film aglow on the lighted-box on the wall; she asks if I want to see it. (NO!! I don’t want to see it!!) In reality, robotically, walk over to look. There it is, plain as day. The previously described small-likely-nothing indistinctive spot. Yikes, it's a glaring, ominous, bright white glob with literal tentacles reaching out, it’s in the middle of my precious flesh. No denying this now. Thing’s staring back at me. The only way I know how to describe the rest of the appointment, is that I am having an out-of-body experience, it’s not happening to me. No . . . is not.

You know the lifts in a garage of an auto repair shop? That's what this is. Clumsily climb aboard, assume a face-down position. There's no delicate way to explain the procedure. There's an enormous hole in the table, chest area, your beloved body part dangles and the table is raised, surgeon accesses it from below. Area is securely taped, prepped and numbed. Needles are fun, aren't they??! (eye roll) Am told the table will vibrate, surgeon cautions me to lay perfectly still or the laser will slice me. (no problem, I float away, not even present in the room) And it begins. Computer guides a gatling gun of needles as it commences to stab the tumor, withdraw specimens of cells. Sounds horrific, but it isn't, numbing tends to that. Divert my eyes from the red, fleshy goop siphoning into the container, my eyes clamped shut much of the time. Lasts just a few minutes, dress, then am on my way. Visit the same surgeon in a week for the results. Will not come back to this location, by then this center will also be closed by the pandemic mandate, next appointment is at a nearby hospital.

CHAPTER SIX

APRIL 1, 2020, APRIL FOOL'S DAY. First time I have ever visited this hospital, enter alone, virus protocol at the door. Surgeon’s office on the second floor, take the elevator. Few folks in the building, those that are, like me, are wearing masks. As I wait, pilfer on my ipad. Name is called, off I go. Today I find out this thing is benign, that I have been spazzing for weeks over nothing, naturally. Don't wait long for the Dr., I remain seated as he enters, greets me. He begins talking as he walks across the room, lays down my chart, then turns, making eye-contact, “you are so lucky to have had this test, mammogram did what it was supposed to do; we've caught it early.”

“...(I go effectively deaf) blah-blah-blah-blah-blah CARCINOMA.” A cataclysmic concoction of consonants and vowels strung together into syllables, words, in sentence form, delivered matter-of-factly. What happens here is nothing short of BIZARRE. Always imagined if I heard the words, “you have cancer,” I would react BADLY.

I would -

be angry

weep

go to pieces

vomit

all of the above

In reality -

I did not cry

I did not faint

I did not scream

Instead, sit calmly, silently. Stoic. Utterly, absolutely, wholly dumbfounded. ( this isn’t real - my head hurts - is this a stroke!?) REALITY Brain cells scramble to focus, I listen intently to every word, nod occasionally. Hearing all, absorbing little, during this a crash course on three types of breast cancer and treatment options available. (drifting off - I like him, he gestures with his hands as he speaks of surgery options.) Reconstruction; their plastic surgeon is top notch. The decision is mine. The doctor adds simply, “you know what will happen if you do nothing.”

I do

Unceremoniously and without a second’s hesitation, I react, “Get it off me,” hand on my chest. (subconscious protesting, “I feel FINE!!!! THIS. IS. STUPID!!”)

He nods in acknowledgement of my words, continuing, discusses recurrence rates on the opposite breast. Fuzzy math. Right here I interrupt him with the wave of a hand, “Get them both off me!” For good measure, I repeat it. Decision made, bilateral mastectomy it is, ASAP. Hands me a print-out with my diagnosis, I roll the paper up like a diploma and slip it in my bag. Stare down at the bag I take to work everyday . . (new-reality thoughts commence) or did … back when life was normal.

“Lousy April Fool’s Day, ya gotta admit.” I mutter out-loud to him as I rise to my feet, reach for the door. (how am I walking??!)

Ah, but COVID-19. Global pandemic, if it were a person, he’d be a cold-hearted, merciless jerk. I have to wait 14 days, be symptom-free in order to be permitted in their surgery unit or risk contaminating the whole place. Condemned to live with my killer for 15 more days, let it sleep with me, go to work with me, hang out with me while I visit my kids, grandkids. Melodramatic? You betcha, but the truth. All the while knowing the beast is growing.

I don’t exit the building until I am pre-registered for surgery, receive copious instructions, am assigned a day, APRIL 16. Next to the radiology waiting room, there I message my sister, she is the first to know. I have breast cancer. There’s lab work, x-ray, EKG. Am a zombie. A polite zombie with cancer making idle chitchat with techs who have no freaking clue my unremarkable and average life has evaporated in the last 45 minutes.

Poked, prodded, scanned and x-rayed - my walk across the parking lot is a 1,000 mile trek. Open the door, slide into the seat, fasten the seat belt, inhale deeply, fill my lungs with air just so I feel alive and less numb. Stare at my hands. Wish I could scream without attracting attention. Vomiting would be a blessing about now. I seem to be the same person that got out of the vehicle two hours before. No, am not the same at all. HOW do I do this????! Any of this??

HOW??????????!!!!!

In the days that follow, I will unroll my biopsy report, familiarize myself: invasive lobular carcinoma, 1.6cm, grade 1, ER+PR+HER2-. (translation = hormone fed) I will become versed about the enemy within, that if left untreated, would put me in the ground. Knowledge is power.

CHAPTER SEVEN

How do you tell the people you love, you have cancer? How do you toss a live emotional-grenade in a room? As terrifying as it is for me, I have to watch the realization sink in, the fear in their faces. Jess and Leah, my girls, having initiated a video chat with me as I wait for labs at the hospital. “Mom...well, how’d it go??” Not necessary to share details out loud, I crack, my eyes said all there was to say. Tough to hide that. Awful is the fact I’m in a public waiting room as they ask, am trying to hold it together, not disintegrate, explode into pieces. Watch them absorb what they now understand. I can’t help them.

Morning of April 1, the plan was to go back to work after the appointment. I don't. I aim the car toward home.

But first, I stop at my mom's house, to reveal the diagnosis to her and George. This is the first time I will say the words. Standing in the middle of her living room, my mouth opens and the emotion-less words fall out, “I have cancer too.” It is weird to hear it voiced and I feel bad for her. (her sister, my dad, my brother, my sister, now me) Explain to her what I plan to do and comfort that it'll be alright. She supports my decision: show no mercy to the beast.

Head home.

Turn onto my county road, Jameson calls, asks how the Dr. visit went. Avoiding answering, instead, ask if they are home, that I will be right there. Am thankful I am not them. He ‘knows’ from my tone, detects from the question. My son and wife, Patty, live 1/4 mile from my house, I arrive at their place in only a couple minutes, walk into their living room where they both were, learn the kids are upstairs, state the fact to the both of them, and I sit down for a bit. Just like that. Keep it light and matter of fact.

Life is insane.

CHAPTER EIGHT

What follows is 15 days trapped in a state of in-between. Desperate for normalcy yet knowing I can’t have it. What to do. What. To. Do. Staying right-minded is the aim. Crave it. C-word rarely leaving my thoughts. Every day ‘hospital Jessica’ calls me to ask a series of Covid-19 related questions and asks my body temperature that I am tasked with taking each morning upon waking.

What I CAN maintain right now, is routine.

COVID locks my office door in mid-March, am the only one staffing there. OU student move-in/move-out day is May 3. I’m the one in charge of this, making sure everything is ready. Can’t cancel it . . it goes on with or without me. Scheduling surgery mid-April, slashes two weeks off my prep time for this once-a-year event. Realize the timing could not be better, if there IS such a thing, I have little free time to ponder what’s coming, am too busy. Every day I plow through my work to-do list. Go home too tired to indulge doom and gloom.

Away from the office too, I quickly find another diversion, researching and shopping for items I might need after the surgery. Soft tops with inner pockets for drains management, ice packs, hot packs, special propping pillow. A miracle they all arrive on time because Amazon Prime has been waylay-ed by the corona virus. A sick and twisted ‘Merry Christmas to me’ as each package arrives. In some small way, gives me a semblance of control.

Sleeping is not an issue during these days. It’s my safe place. Sleep deep and well, courtesy of a little purple pill discovered years ago. (thank you, menopause) Each and every morning, have about 30 seconds of ‘normal’ before I remember what demon is living in me.

An entertaining activity during this time is staring in my lingerie drawer at the start of every day, choosing which style, what color bra for one last travel in the rotation. I waffle. At first, suffer pangs of melancholy while looking at the neat row of vibrant colors and lace. Then chuckle, cups are large enough to be made into hats for small children. No one wants to discuss my boobs, but this is an important part of the process of letting go. Acknowledgement. A girl spends what seems like her whole life waiting for these body parts to materialize; coveted, we dress them up, suspend them with steel reinforcement, make the best of them. They feed our children, we rock our babies/grandbabies against them. They’re part of who we are. Mine are set for execution. It’s them or me.

Time ticks by.

CHAPTER NINE

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 15. Mastectomy Eve, am something I have never been, radioactive. True. This day go into the hospital ALONE, pass through the covid-19 gauntlet; escorted to a quiet room with a massive machine, bet it was a CT scanner, I don’t ask, I lay down on a metal table and a needle is inserted in my chest region, right side (still find it weird to use the word ‘breast’) and a radioactive tracer is placed in my body at the sight of the tumor. I’d researched the procedure a little (LIE . . I researched a LOT) beforehand, and read it would be EXCRUCIATING. So expect the worst. Naturally. Tech is kind and reassuring; small talk. I notice what great hair he has. Stare at the ceiling as I lay there. Then the doctor comes in, says I’ll feel a stick (had read the area is numbed first) expect that. Did. Not horrendous - that’s an exaggeration, barely felt anything. Assume we wait for the numbing to take effect before he drills through to the core. What I DIDN’T expect, is him to say, “you’re done.” Meaning that tiny prick was it. Say what now? Before the morning’s surgery, I’ll come back to this table, and will find out if the cancer has leeched into any lymph nodes. I dress and exit the building.

ESCAPE! The rest of this day IS MINE. I take my dreary thoughts, my diseased chest, the ‘DD girls’ , and we hit the road, took the long way home. Gave ‘them’ the best darned last-day-alive you could ask for. Was the least I could do considering what I was consenting to do to them. Pitied them and wanted them DEAD at the same time. Them or me.

Flowers waiting for me when I got home, the first time I sobbed in earnest. A torrent of tears.

CHAPTER TEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 16, 2020. DtoDD DAY. Death to DD’s Day. (and my Mom’s 81st birthday) Eerily calm. I grab my packed bag, stare at my freshly-made bed as I turn to exit the bedroom. Oh here comes one of those bizarro thoughts I have at times like this. Glancing around, mutter, “when I return, nothing will be the same. Gee, I hope I come back.” Melodramatic to a fault I am. Patty drops me off at the hospital door at a ridiculously early hour. Did I mention this is during a pandemic so no one can come in and that the hospital is spooky-empty and hushed?? Well, it is. Apocolyptically-quiet. Surreal. Check-in is swift and efficient and a surgery-nurse retrieves me promptly, accompany her to the prep area. this is real?

This unit has a circle of several cubicles, all but three are empty though. Settled in, changing into hospital gown, then I have three hours to ponder the fact that the last time I had surgery was 26 years ago and I am not as young as I used to be, and nowhere near ready to die, and lordy, I am no fan of pain. I feel FINE . . how can something deadly be in me yet I feel this HEALTHY??

In the hours I wait, return to scan-room to see if this thing has reached my lymph nodes. Dark room, humming machine. Same tech lets me watch the screen, bright lights like tiny fireworks become visible. No clue what I am watching.

My appointed time arrives, was about 9:30 a.m. Accompanied by a surgical nurse, I walk down the hallway to the O.R., my IV pole in tow. this isn’t real Three surgical staff are busily prepping. Funny how apprehension makes one awkwardly talkative with strangers, more so than normal. I greet them and cannot shut up, blather, “you know how kids took home tonsils in a jar?? (clutching my chest) you have a gallon jug I can take these home with me?” (yes, I really did say it) Laughter from them, that’s good. Am offered a stool to climb onto the table. I do. My God, to the gallows, ‘girls’

Jettisoned into the Twilight Zone right here. In the time it takes me to scoot, get comfortably horizontal on the table, sterile people descend on me, all over me doing things. Arms, legs . . belt around my abdomen. Am picturing masked-ants. Busy, busy. Big light on the ceiling lowering, settles above my upper torso and head. I feel FINE Am here, but not here. Oh God. Gentle voice to my right, as a mask is fitted over my nose and mouth, “take a couple deep breaths.”

Blackness.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I’m struggling in deep water, not diving down - but up, shooting to the surface of the water, I need air. Regaining consciousness, a jostling, repeating, “Debbie, wake up. Can you hear me?” Awake. Literal first conscious thought, drenched in relief -

“... NOT DEAD”

Body is being tugged, moved, but I’m not doing it. Realization hits me, where I am and what's happened. Conscious, I no longer feel fine, unrelenting waves of nausea wash over me. I give myself over to whichever medical professional wants to tend to me. They can have me, I don’t want me. Not this me.

End up in a hospital room, no recollection whatsoever how. Silence interrupted only by BP cuff on an ankle, inflating noisily at intervals reminding me I’m alive. Not moving. Lord, what have I done? Ice packs under both arms. Detest feeling this gross. I hang onto the sheets for hours, ride out the nausea.

As terrible as that was, and it was horrendous, it ends abruptly once I am fully awake later in the afternoon. In fact, feel remarkably good - considering. Any pain is well-managed. I can move, even lift my arms. I can walk to the restroom, tend to myself. Am hungry and eat a good dinner. Pleasantly surprised at this half of the day.

Curious. Here’s where I gingerly lift the blanket to get my first look. DD-girls are gone, replaced by a thick layer of bandage all across my chest, tubing, two drains, and . . . oh my lord . . . HOW long has my belly been that size??????! God bless boobs, they divert one’s attention from a myriad of flaws. Geez-louise.

Thank you, Covid-19, for the hospital stay’s solitude, I don’t mind, I welcome not having to share this day with visitors. Am only interrupted intermittently by nurses and the doctor. No big deal. Not much to tell. Post on facebook that I survived. Was released to go home the very next day with surgeon’s, “no restrictions. See you in a week, will have lab results for you then.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

FRIDAY, APRIL 17. HOME. Here’s where it gets funny. Seriously. Humorous. Reality. My youngest, Leah, volunteers to stay for the first few days. Plan on not needing much in the way of assistance. Stubborn. Not too uncomfortable, prop on pillows, watch tv, pain meds. First-night, decide my bed is where I will sleep, let her have the couch. Undeterred in the middle of the night, manage to get myself to the bathroom alone. Good for ME!! Ah, but then the sun comes up. Right here I discover Super Woman I am not. Attempt the same maneuver and the stabbing pain angrily asserts, “NOT THIS TIME, SISTER!” Ah, bladder is bossy and insistent. But Pain is in charge. “#*&@*#&$}” a little too loudly (translation) “Leah!! Help!!” She comes trotting and I’m laughing, trapped in my own bed. Arms frozen at my sides, literally cannot move under my own power without an instant excruciating reaction. With urgency (full bladder loudly protesting) instruct her to wring a bed sheet, get to the foot of the bed, hold the ends, let me grab the middle . . . PULL!! It works!! Whew, lesson learned, until I could get up and down on my own unaided, I didn’t sleep there again.

Drains. Grateful to only require two. Three times a day they need emptying. Unceremoniously, Leah’s job. When large portions of flesh are removed, one’s body compensates by attempting to fill the space with fluid, drains are typically inserted to draw off this fluid, speeding recovery. These ‘things’ (drain hoses) are just under my skin across the width of my chest, a stitch holding them in place at the hole (yikes) where they exit on either side. The bulbs at the end of the 12 inch lines are clear grenade-shaped receptacles collecting wound-juice. (you winched at the visual, didn’t you? haha) They get full. Necessary to milk the line first, with sterile gloved fingers of one hand, she grasps and steadies the line where it exits my body, with the other, she slides her pinched fingers down the tubing, pushes the ooze and any clots to the end. Pops the top of the bulb, empties 'ick' into a measuring cup, and logs the amount and color. Squeezes the bulb as she closes the lid so siphon will commence. My only job is to 'enjoy' the vigorous suction. eek

I sit dutifully still on a stool while she goes about her ‘work’, chit-chatting about this and that, am intentionally not watching the gore slipping, dripping into the bulb. She's not hurting me but every now and then will feel a subtle tug, a movement of the tubing. (shudder) Sunday evening she taps the bulb’s bottom on the table, remarking, “darned clot won’t fall through.” (rap, rap, smack) “Eww, that’s gross,” she says, “clot (tap) won’t (tap) let go ( jiggling it, the dangling, stringing bloody blob just hanging there, swaying back and forth).” My skin is warming . . . interesting sensation . . getting hot. Really HOT. She is sitting right next to me, is talking but her voice is fading. Am looking her direction, but she is drifting away in a misty vapor . . . waaaaaaaaaaaay over there now, voice, can’t hear her. Vision going and the room is moving ever so slightly.

I see my girl in slo-mo, she realizes what is happening, "Mom, Mom ... MOM!" (my mouth no longer works, cannot respond) hear her excited, “DAD!!!! Come quick!! Help! Mom’s passing out!!!”

Didn't. (did get to the couch . . sat still for an hour, feet up . . w/ice pack alternating on my neck, forehead) Didn’t vomit, so that's a 'WIN" for the day.

I learn to do it myself once she goes home. No big deal.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 23. A week passes, mostly uneventful. Sick leave, lounging, medicating, tracking excretion of Deb-juice, healing. Tough to remember the days in March and early April when I felt GOOD. I feel terrible. Blah - which to me, IS terrible. No fever, no signs of infection, just a general feeling of malaise. (such a descriptive word, ‘malaise’) Post-op visit, a follow-up with the surgeon. Oldest daughter Jess, chauffeur for the day. The entire drive down to Gallipolis, I imagine they’ll take one look at my sorry self, react in horror, re-admit me immediately. I have to be dying, something has to be terribly wrong. No one can feel this bleak and survive.

Mull my life over for that hour drive, did I live it adequately, what is left that I have not done, am I going to throw up IN or OUT of her car . . oh woe is me . . my thoughts are rambling, disjointed, grim. (BEYOND melodramatic) LOL Get to the hospital, I have to admit I cannot even walk in under my own power. I have no power, drained dry. Jess requests a wheelchair and I feel how I imagine being 150 years old and feeble feels, reliant on a stranger for transport up to the waiting area. Pitiful. I hate this. Too puny to care.

And remember COVID . . Jessica can’t come in with me. My mummified remains parked in a desolate waiting room. sigh I need a transfusion. I need a transplant, I need SOMETHING . . want my life back. Where’d Debbie go??!!

Eventually wheeled into the exam room (decrepit thing that I am) to wait. Surgeon enters, his normal perky self, smiles my direction. I lament the state of (absence of) well-being and inability to go to the bathroom for DAYS. (how embarrassing) “Sweetheart (NO, he did not say 'Sweetheart’) it’s your pain meds doing this to you. STOP THEM.”

huh?????!

Examines the 12-inch incisions on either side of my torso. Both doing well. No stitches to remove, interior stitches will dissolve on their own. Exterior sterie strips will fall off in the next week. He studies my drain-log, then simply remarks, “looks great, amounts are decreasing steadily. You want them (drains) out today?” (glimmer of hope) Instantly agree, so without ceremony and with a quick snip of a stitch and a wiggle of the tube and a firm TUG, one Jackson Pratt drain is out. Nasty thing now coiled on the exam table. OUT!!! The other follows swiftly. Oh dear lord . . feels soooooooo good to be rid of those things. Best part . . expected to have them at least another week, that the extrication of same, would be horrendous. Wasn’t. Didn’t hurt actually. Bandaids applied to my newest holes. No stitch, no nothing. “See ya in a month. No restrictions.” Surprised he didn’t pat me on my sorry head.

Trip home is infinitely better, envision the tunnel and light shining in the distance. aaaahhhhh

Not another pain pill crosses these lips . . the man is a genius. (epilogue: my decline was indeed induced by the pain meds . . out of my system - recovering was a breeze. TIP: get off them as soon as you can)

P.S. Almost forgot the most important part!!!!! Lab results!!! Geez . .the tunnel, the light . . THIS IS WHY!!! TODAY I learn I am CANCER-FREE‼️‼️‼️ Well, I would hope so!! Nearly six pounds of flesh sacrificed / removed . . CLEAN MARGINS around the tumor. Lymph nodes are CLEAR!!! Sentinel node removal a bit messy, seven others unable to be separated from it, come out as well. Sobering fact is that I, nor the surgeon, felt a telltale lump - but it was there. In black and white, sobering words, “STAGE TWO”. Appointment with oncologist in May to discuss options. Why??? Here's the thing about breast cancer, sometimes IT COMES BACK.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Want to tell you the euphoria was warmly welcome and long-lasting. Yes and no, in that order. Sharing with friends that surgeon ‘got it all’ was met with copious genuine exclamations of ‘thank God!’ and ‘hallelujah’. For good reason. Pathology report of clean margins and clear nodes is a positive outcome. IT’S GONE!! And like me at this juncture, believe that’s the end of it. Too few days of relief pass swiftly - the reality that it may not be over, steadily seeps back in as I educate myself. But with a stubborn childlike optimism, trust the oncologist will study my diagnosis, pronounce my journey with this evil thing over. “Deborah, congrats, you’re finished with it and it with you. Have a nice life.” Let’s go with that. I want it.

Just a couple more weeks to find out.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In the meantime, at home I’m getting bored. ‘Bored’ is WONDERFUL. It’s normalcy. And a strong signal that it’s time for life to go on.

I am well enough to attend to work emails, becoming more frequent as students prepare to leave Athens officially, the stalwart diehards who came back after Spring Break despite the lockdown that commenced mid-March. Boredom, the impetus, that gets me out of the house.

TUESDAY, APRIL 28, 12 days post-op, several days free from pain-killers and feeling almost back to my old self, I slide behind the wheel of my car, new precious pillow between sensitive chest and the seatbelt and drive to work. Man oh man, how I missed 70′s radio . . sing all the way. I last at my desk for 4 hours this first day, mindful to recognize limitations, cut the day short, but go home triumphant.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 30. Meet-my-oncologist day. (mentally mark off THAT on my ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’) First things first, why am I here??! Surgeon recommends I have a chat with the man . . rule out the need for anything further. Youbetcha. Today is THE. DAY!! Fully expect to be ‘blessed’ and sent on my way . . “Debbie, you were lucky, it’s all gone. Your cancer journey was intense and brief and now it’s over. Go live your life, girl.”

Check in. Hunker down at the back of the vast lobby, comfy chair. I absorb the room. Oh you know I don’t want to, but I do. A few patients are here. One unhealthy looking older lady on a hospital stretcher over there. Another slightly-weathered woman near the wall, wearing a turban. And there’s me. Odd-man out, pain-killers now out of my system: (yes yes, am minus the ‘girls’) full head of thick hair, kinda sorta minimally wrinkly, feeling strong and healthy . . . like me again.

Name called. BP and weight. Perks of the day . . bp is good, especially good for me. Literally-asked-the-nurse-to-repeat-the-numbers good. And am down 10 lbs. I’ll take it!! Gee, this visit is headed in the right direction!

Lead to an exam room, given a questionnaire. Ugh. Bottom of the page. Please list details of immediate family members . . . health issues, explanation. Here we go . . Melvin / dad / died in 2000 @64 / lung cancer (scribble to the side ‘life time smoker’ . . like it somehow negates the dying) Tim / brother / died in 2000 @39 / leukemia (again, the scribbling, master mechanic, hands in chemicals) Stephen / brother / died in 1957 @6 weeks / S.I.D.S. Bottom of this page is an OCD nightmare, ink scribbles in every direction, sad that I ran of space. Add, “Cheryl / sister / is 61 / @60 stage IV breast cancer (’maintaining’ . . didn’t add, but wanted to, “THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!”) Janice / mom / is 81. Terry / brother / is 55.” Finishing up, as MY oncologist enters the room.

Brief introductions . . Cursory physical exam of surgical site.

Oncologist reviews the information I provide, studies my chart. Two verbal inquires of me -

do you or have you ever smoked? “no”

do you drink alcohol and how much? “rarely”

He pauses. He can ascertain I’m not fudging the details. “Never?” he queries again. Shake my head in the negative. Sincerely he adds, “this makes NO sense. Risk factors are not there for breast cancer. No sense at all.”

Dr. Hamid relates there is a genetic test that can be performed using my tumor tissue, (eewwww, they still have it!!) the results determining whether or not chemo therapy would be of any benefit to me. Again - I am confused why a person who is now disease-free, minus seven pounds of her best flesh, needs ANYTHING additionally. I consent. He jots down for me the chemo recipe that I would receive if it’s indicated. Metaphysically burns my fingertips as I take the slip from him. (chemo??! stifling a scream) If not, I would be prescribed a pill to stop my body's remaining production of estrogen. Anastrazole is the drug of choice, there are a few common side effects: bone/joint pain, fatigue, etc. Majority of women experience no side effects of any kind, he assures. (mental note of an over-achiever: I will be one of THOSE) Dr. adds, “Lab work takes about two weeks to get back. Come see me in two weeks please. Oh wait . . you drive quite a distance to get here, right? Just call my office on May 13, we can handle this over the phone.”

uh huh . . . so much for being blessed and sent on my merry way. CHEMO, sub-set item under 1. CANCER on ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’. TRULY . . . there is nothing I enjoy MORE, than waiting on test results. (epic eye-roll right here, stomach twists in knot)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

This is the last chapter of ‘65 DAYS IN MAY’ (today it’s February 25, 2021) I am a procrastinator. Am still me, after all. My instructions were to call oncologist’s office on Wednesday, May 13, 2020, to learn whether or not chemo therapy was the next step in my cancer treatment. By now I have little recollection of the blur of days between April 30 and when Dr. Hamid called me with my genetic testing results, my Oncotype score. Every day seemed endless, recovering well, feeling progressively more like myself. I let work duties bulldoze me through those days, thoroughly occupied. I was thankful to have nearly 300 college students moving-out and moving-in on May 3rd. Grateful to be bone weary at the end of each day, having little time to thrash about the prospect of chemo - that, and staying safe as COVID rampaged.

TUESDAY, MAY 12, at my desk, alone in a pandemic-locked-down office. One last day not having to call, know anything. Ignorant bliss. Phone rings, spy caller I.D., uh-oh, cancer center. I stop breathing. Lift receiver, ‘Hello, this is Debbie.’ Not breathing. HERE WE GO (9+ months later now, still recall the catch of my breath and pounding heart. Am not exaggerating when I tell you time froze.) Dr. Hamid’s voice was soft, he wasted no time relating my Oncotype score plus chance of recurrence is low and chemo is not necessary in my situation. He’ll call in an Anastrazole script for me, it cuts my chance of recurrence to less-than 5%. Only question I had, “what exactly was my number?” 17 “See you again in 6 months,” as he ends the call. Stare at the phone receiver clenched in my hand.

NO CHEMO . . with exorbitant gusto, I EXHALE

Celebration fireworks in my head, both hands in the air, stifle an audible, triumphant HALLELUJAH! For the moment, issued a reprieve. I soak it up. Once composed, swivel chair to my right, run my palms slowly, purposefully over the desk calendar, lift the pages, studying, absorbing. Begin to count . . . .

STINT IN PURGATORY - 65 DAYS IN MAY

EPILOGUE

(stay tuned)

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mdomroe-blog1 · 5 years

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TecKed Out

OUTLOOK

Everyone has their own personal favorite social media influencers, whether that be Youtubers like, Keaton Milburn, Fitness Bloggers like Tammy Hembrow, or top models like Hailey Bieber. These three famous influencers have three main characteristics in common. They are tall, skinny, and blonde. Growing up I had a great childhood, I was carefree and never had a second thought about the way I looked. In later middle school when I became a part of the social media world these things changed. I started to see the differences that I had from other girls my age and noticed I never could compete with some girls.

[Keaton Milburn is a 21-year-old social media influencer, courtesy of AZ Foothills.]

I’m not here to tell you that skinny blonde girls need to be exterminated from society or to tell you to stop using social media. I’m writing this blog to raise awareness of future implications extreme social media and technology usage could bring to the next generation of young adults. Compared with other developed nations, Americans are more likely to have a higher amount of screen-time than almost any other western society. According to Common Sense Media, American youth, ages 8-18 spend an average of nine hours using any source of media. Instead of living an active lifestyle and learning lifelong skills, we are training our youth to live behind the screen while emphasizing the importance of technical literacy in the workplace. Brianna Crowley compared the older generation to be more of “digital immigrants’” rather than “digital natives”. However, we are not preparing the “digital natives” for the real world, we are teaching them to live like lifeless computer-oriented zombies. Employers are more inclined to hire someone with both computer and communication skills, however CLIMB professional Development and Training ranked strong communication as the top answer. As a society we need to be conscientious of the negative impact’s technology can bring, so we can work toward a well-rounded lifestyle.

[This illustration shows this woman’s struggle to detach herself from social media. (Thrillist)]

MENTAL HEALTH

In 2014 Nielson performed a study to show the negative effects technology has on the developing teen brain, this study showed how technology has negative effects on sleep patterns, self-confidence, social skills, emotions, and personality in teens. Nielson highlights the negatives of social media as a whole, rather than demonstrate what a person goes through on a more intimate level, which is so important to acknowledge. As technology has risen, personal hatred towards one’s own body became extremely prominent. Girls and boys saw true differences between their bodies and ones of famous influencers, which then made teens try and work towards a more “likeable” image. Teens will do anything to fit in, going anywhere from posting scandalous photos to starving themselves, because that is what their favorite celebrity does. The Girl Scouts Research Institute found that ½ of every teen women wish they were as skinny as fashion models. I think it is horrible to see how many girls are affected by social media, if they weren’t subjected to mass amounts of edited content then maybe it would be easy to differentiate between what is real and what is fake.

Body image is something that usually has a negative connotation. When you’re a teen you have so many different things to worry about. Teens stress about the craziest things, personally I have stressed about how my new perfume smelled for hours. I think with just simple posts a teen can completely misconstrue the meaning behind the initial post and work-up their emotions in response. Our brain has been rewired since I was a kid. According to Stephanie Hertzenberg; from Beliefnet, there is a direct connection between your brains ability to process a large influx of information, and the ability to retain information. This recent catastrophe is referred to as “popcorn brain”, and if the brain is subjected to a large amount of stimuli for long periods of time, then the brain will no longer retain large portions of information.

Not only does over indulgence of social media lead to poor cognitive function it also is a main trigger of anxiety and depression. It is so easy to see posts on your feed and compare the amount of likes you receive to another young teen, but while some of us just see that like as a number others take that number to heart. In 2017 the Child Mind Institute conducted a study that shows 92% of teens use or own a smartphone. The Child Mind Institute also found that in half a million high-schoolers depressive symptoms have increased 33% in a five-year span. In that same time teen girls experienced a 65% increase in suicide rates. Technology is a great thing and allows for millions of people to connect from all over the world, but when people feel bad about themselves after going online then why should we promote its use. We should not let cyberbullying be something in this world that could trigger someone to take their own life. Jennifer Mills; a renowned Canadian Psychologist speaks on body image and says teens "… felt worse about their own appearance after looking at social media pages of someone that they perceived to be more attractive than them...". Many are quick to see negatives within this quotation; however, I believe we need to not see it as a negative but see it as an opportunity to change young tech users outlook when on social media. Instead of viewing it as a competition, we need to teach developing youth that it is a form of finding information on others.

[This photo symbolizes how she sees herself based upon others words, and how they stick on her (Social Media Effecting Body Image).]

TECHNOLOGICAL INNOVATIONS

We have seen our society move up the ladder with new innovations, with large technology companies constantly working towards releasing the newest update. Apple is the leading tech company in the world and is a great example of a company with a fast turnover rate. Within the last decade, we have moved into the realm of smartphones. With technology at our fingertips our citizens live a very efficient lifestyle. You can completely live a paperless lifestyles if truly necessary, but that may lead to a dependence on any given device. Women and men are constantly on popular modes of social media like YouTube, Instagram, Twitter, or Facebook. If our society is on average spending nine hours on a device, then a large amount of that time is spent on social media. Constant time spent on social media updates teens on the newest tech trends being released, this inclines people to buy more and more products that have very little differences. Zac Hall exemplifies the fast technology turnover rate, by showing how every September Apple releases a completely new model, then just makes small adjustments and rebrands throughout the year. This marketing scheme is what makes Apple and other companies so successful, however they do not show how the consumer is constantly updating to stay hip to cultural trends.

[This is a chart that shows the large increase of price on Apple products (Phillipine Peso.]

PERSONAL REFLECTION

When I was a freshmen in high school, I was completely naïve to all the mean girls in school and what their words could do. I was a pretty shy girl and did not really get into deep conversations with “the cool kids”. One day I had class with this beautiful popular girl named Rachel and she was seated in my table group. I was pretty excited to be in a cool table group, and for her to even know my name. A few weeks went by and I thought Rachel and I had really hit it off on multiple occasions. Little did I know that she was purposefully manipulating me for pure enjoyment. I had found out that she posted a photo on her Snapchat story of me wearing shorts with white paint on the butt. This white stain led to many sexual jokes that I was not expecting nor wanting.

In conclusion, although Rachel and I do not talk anymore her words still linger with me to this day. I feel that without the monumental tear to my self-confidence I would not have grown to be a strong independent leader. I am currently writing this from my hotel room where I am staying in Nashville. I was selected to attend a Leadership Conference here and I truly think back to that time where social media destroyed me, and how I have grown from that experience. Overall, I believe technology has allowed us to transform society and grow into what we are today, but without proper guidance it can go extremely bad.

[These are unfortunately the very old shorts that I got made fun of for when I was so young. Ironically, I brought them to wear to bed.]

[This is me and Jacquelyn Kelly pictured above at the Leadership Conference this past weekend.]

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the-night-writer1 · 7 years

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A Lodge In My Heart

(this is part 1 of a danvid -David x Daniel- camp camp fanfic taking place in a dad David Au)

It was a cloudy afternoon as David started his car to go pick up his son Max. Though the ten year old never liked being picked up in front of others David still did it. It showed parents he was a responsible care taker even for his young age against the other parents older ages. As he started towards the school his mind drifted in thoughts of what to tell max, his son knew he’d been dating someone.

David just didn’t quite know how to explain to max that he was a relationship with another man. He had a hard time explaining to max he was bisexual a few months back. David shook the thought from his head as he pulled up to the school. He watched the school kids leave the building after the school bell rung out, he sat there waiting for max.

Max walked out of the building his hands in his coat pockets and careful looked for David's car with out looking like he was. The 10 year old had reputation to up hold after all, he couldn’t look like normal kids. He waved good bye to his friend as he spotted David waiting for him with the usual goofy smile the adult was known for. Max climbed through the snow over to the car and opened the door quickly getting in and shutting the door.

“how was your day max?” David asked cheerfully as max buckled up.

“same as everyday David boring “max replied bitterly,”only fun thing is the weekend is starting”

“ookie dookie max” David said as he slowly drove out of the school parking lot. The car grew quiet for a while as David drove them home. Parking in the camp parking lot , David turned off the engine as Max got out,”Careful max there’s ice under the snow I would want ya breaking something now would I?”

“I’ll be fine David “ max said as he started towards the cabin while David got out of the car. David sighed closing his door and locking the car, he followed behind max slowly watching where he stepped in the snow. The methods david had tried to make in the snow had failed yet again. He couldn’t use salt because of the wild life in the area and shoveling the snow just left him sore but it was also useless with how much it snowed at night.

David kicked the snow off his boots on the door mat as max was taking his jacket and slipping on his hoodie. David hung his jacket up in the closet before properly hanging up max’s winter jacket, the 10 year old was never quite comfortable without having a extra layer on. David didn’t question why fearing it would make Max uncomfortable. He’d only been max’s care taker for 2 years and Max was very slow to opening up to him.

“I’m going to grab root beer and watch some TV” max said walking into the kitchen as David finished clearing himself of snow.

“alright but when Gwen gets here you have to do your homework”David said with a sigh as he walked to his room to get ready for the date he had in 3 hours.

“aw but homework sucks ass” max complained as he walked out of the kitchen into the living room soda in hand,” and where you going David since when is there a meeting on a Friday?”

“I’m actually going on a date max” david said from inside his room as he dug through his dresser for a nice shirt.

“ You made up with Bonquisha?” max said sounding a bit excited as David gulped. In truth he had apologized to the woman and her new boyfriend a while ago but he didn't allow himself anywhere near her. Mostly because he tried to beat her boyfriend with a bar stool, a out burst which David didn’t want to happen again. He thought about a answer shortly before someone knocked at the door.

“I’ll get it “ David said quickly dashing to the door, somewhat forgetting he’d taken off shirt in his room as he opened the door,”hi”

“Hey David-...why’s your shirt off” Gwen said in confusion as David let her inside, David blushed nervously covering himself up with his arms. He awkwardly walked back to his room and said,”oops sorry Gwen I forgot my shirt was off when I came to answer the door”

“you still haven’t answered my question”Max said as he drunk his soda, Gwen took off her coat and scarf.

“though I did make up with Bonquisha Max” David said calmly but sternly somewhat,” We have not gotten by together because she is still with her current boyfriend and I respect her choice. I’m going on date with a different individual who you have not met”

“oh good for you David” Gwen said sitting on the sofa next to Max and putting her feet on the coffee table as max pouted. David sighed putting on a button up plaid shirt and slipping into a pair of black jeans. He brushed his hair as Gwen and max watched TV. He knew max was a bit upset about him not being with Bonquisha but David hoped max get over it. by the time David has finished getting ready it was 5:45 pm and he was going to late if he didn't hurry. He grabbed his bottles of Celexa and buspar from the nightstand opening the Celexa bottle and taking one pill . He then closed the Celexa bottle and chucked the pill into his mouth and swallowed it before putting buspar bottle in his pocket.

“heres a 20 for pizza and 45 for your pay I don’t know how long I’ll be gone” David said quickly handing Gwen 65 dollars as he slipped his jacket on,” bye see you guys later”

#danvid #cc max #cc gwen #cc david #cc daniel #camp camp

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badnovels · 7 years

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The First Day

by sunsetsrmydreams

To Jessa, who blew up our world with a tiny drabble inspired by a grocery store. Thank you for being so encouraging!

And a shoutout to @louezem for The Wedding!

And I am so fucking sorry because there is some Galeniss in here. Rated…I’m going to go with M? But it may be E. There is a description of dick. You have been warned.

Part one of two.

——-

It’s her first day, she’s nervous as hell. Of course she would have to teach at the same school as Peeta. Damn her terrible luck!

This is a disaster.

What if she runs into him?

What if he tries to talk to her again like they’re old friends? She has to choke down the lump in her throat.

Maybe she should quit.

And move….across country…maybe Canada.

Taking a deep breath, she attempts to calm herself. She’s a grown-up and she going to act like one. If she sees him, she will hold it together this time. Their relationship was over years ago, if she runs into him, she’ll be distant and polite. She will be unmoved by his presence.

She vows to the mirror in her hallway that Peeta Mellark will never know the pain she still carries.

From now on, he will be nothing to her.

Walking into the school with her head held high, she makes her way to the Guidance office. A slim woman with platform heels and a huge blond beehive comes straight towards her.

“Ms. Everdeen!” she trills. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I’m Effie Trinket and I’ll be showing you around today. Follow me, please.”

“Ms. Trinket, Mr. Abernathy already took me around and I was a student here so I’m pretty sure I know where everything is,” Katniss explains as kindly as she can while trying to ditch this woman.

“Tut tut. Ms. Everdeen, it is not only my job to show you around our beautiful school but I will also be introducing you to the staff,” Ms. Trinket replies forcefully.

Katniss’ heart drops. Her first day hasn’t even started and she is already going to be forced into a meet and greet with Peeta. Great.

She follows a teetering Effie around the school as she points out this and that, introducing teachers along the way. So far Katniss’ luck has held out. Peeta is nowhere in sight.

Katniss breaths a sigh of relief, walking a few steps behind Effie as she leads her down the hall and through a large carved mahogany door that is, apparently, original to the school.

“This is the teacher’s lounge. Many of us like to have lunch here and feel free to make yourself at home whenever you have a free period.“ Effie says as she makes her way to the mirror to fix her hair.

Katniss looks around at the comfy leather couches, a table and chairs, vending machines and refrigerator. It’s actually quite….homey.

“Ah. Here is another one of out teachers now!” Effie squeals as she rushes back over.

Katniss squeezes her eyes shut for a moment before plastering a smile on her face. She turns.

But it’s not Peeta who stands before her.

This man is textbook tall dark and ruggedly handsome. In fact, he is the exact opposite of Peeta. Katniss likes him immediately.

Effie continues her introduction “Ms. Everdeen, Science, meet Mr. Hawthorne, History.”

Mr. Hawthorne smiles and holds out a hand. Which she promptly shakes.

“Gale Hawthorne.”

“Katniss Everdeen.”

“It’s great to meet you, Katniss. It about time we got some new blood around here.” He grins at her.

“Yeah, I suppose you have a lot of lifers here considering the teacher I’m replacing is 65 years old,” she says dryly.

He laughs. “We have a hour before class starts, I know you have to set up you classroom, but would you like to sit for a minute and chat?”

“Um, sure.” She can’t turn him down. He’s handsome and friendly, plus she could really use an ally in this place. He introduces her to several more teachers as they wander in. He motions her over and they take a seat at the table.

They’re discussing their class schedules and laughing at last year’s hijinks when she hears someone clear their throat loudly right behind her. She turns on instinct and immediately wishes she hadn’t.

Peeta is practically standing over her shoulder. She has no idea how long he’s been there but due to the strange expression that he is trying desperately to hide she guesses he has been there for a while.

“Katniss,” he states.

“Hello, Mr. Mellark.” She’s proud that her voice doesn't waver.

“I see you’ve met Mr. Hawthorne,” he mutters.

“Yes, I have, but now I think I should be getting to class.” She gathers up her notes, looking at Gale she smiles. “Thanks for the chat and for the suggestions, I’ll try to implement them.”

As she walks out she can feel Peeta right on her heels.

“Katniss, wait,” he pleads.

“I don’t have time for this Peeta, I need to get to class,” she says lowly.

“You had time to sit and “chat” with Mr. Hawthorne and you can’t spare a minute to talk with me?“ he fumes.

She rounds on him, eyes blazing. "Don’t you dare act jealous! I haven’t seen you in years, I owe you nothing.” Turning, she stalks to her classroom and starts to prepare for the day.

Peeta, wisely, does not follow her.

Katniss survived her last class, quickly packing up her things and making her way out of the school. She’s surprised to see Mr. Hawthorne waiting for her at the doors leading to the parking lot.

“Hey. How was your first day?” he asks excitedly.

“I think it went well, it’s my first year teaching at this grade level, I’m just hoping they don’t chew me up and spit me out,” she laughs.

“Your tougher than that, I know it.” He smiles. “I’m not going to beat around the bush….would you like to go to dinner with me on Friday?”

“Like… a date?” she asks cautiously

“Yep, a date.”

“Um…s-sure,” she stutters.

"Great! I’ll see you Friday.“ He turns and strides to his car a few rows over, giving her a little wave as he pulls out of the lot.

What did she just do?

Katniss starts walking toward the row where her car is parked, berating herself for accepting Gale’s dinner invitation to dinner.

When she looks up, she can’t help the "fuck” that leaves her lips.

Because, standing beside her green Honda, in all his glory, is Peeta Fucking Mellark.

Moving home was such a bad idea….

She tries to keep calm as she stalks to her car, but all she really wants to do is punch him. She needs to scream at him again for breaking her heart when he got her former best friend pregnant. She wonders if these feelings will ever go way?

She still remembers that day. She had been miserable for the weeks she was without him, she drove all the way to his dorm to apologize and ask him if they could try again. She knew long distance would be hard but it couldn’t be any harder than this.

She’ll never forget walking into his room after finding the door ajar and seeing he and Madge wrapped together in a strong embrace. Katniss was shocked but still saw the white stick, clutched in Madge’s hand, with those treacherous pink lines.

When Peeta saw her out of the corner of his eye, he went pale and dropped his arms, turning his whole body toward her, a look of agony on his face.

Katniss’ voice was barely a whisper. “Explain this."

He did.

And all hell broke loose.

She cut them out of her life, finding it easier to deal with the pain if it was wrapped up tight in a little box and shoved to the furthest corner of her mind. She changed her number, her email and deleted her social media. After confiding in Prim, her sister tried to comfort her, so afraid that Katniss would turn into their mother.

But she needn’t have worried. Katniss was a survivor. But she still spent most of that vacation home in bed.

One afternoon, she heard Prim screaming. Katniss lunged out of bed and raced in down the hall in skidding into the living room just in time to see Prim chuck the phone against the far wall. Katniss had never seen such a display from her sweet sister, so she just looked on with owl eyes.

Prim turned to her face red with anger. ” Damn telemarketers! They won’t be calling here again.“ She runs over and hugs Katniss tightly before retreating to her room.

Katniss knew it wasn’t a telemarketer. But when she saw Prim trying to protect her, she knew…she had to do better.

She bent down and picked up the pieces, sliding the battery pack back into the phone before snapping on the cover. Miraculously, it still worked.

She moved on, kept that hurt broken part of her secret.

But four years later when she heard Peeta and Madge were getting married, she couldn’t stop herself from driving to the church.

For some reason, she had to see it with her own two eyes.

The tears came without warning as Katniss watched them walk out, each taking time to hug their little girl.

Katniss catches Rye staring at her from the yard, she can read the sadness on his face from across the street.

When her gaze moves back to the bride and groom, she notices Peeta watching Rye, following his gaze straight to her car.

Time to go.

She pulls away quickly, refusing to look back, closing the book on that part of her life.

Remembering that day makes her feel less bad about the scowl etched on her face as she approaches him.

"Peeta, what are you doing here?” She moves past him to open her car door just enough to throw her things inside.

"We need to talk, Katniss. Please,” he begs as he runs a nervous hand through his ruffled curls.

“We don’t. We have history, can’t we just forget it?” she says dismissively as she tries to keep her face indifferent.

“I don’t want to forget,” he says quietly.

She snorts. “Sure. You had no problem forgetting when you were balls deep in my best friend without a condom. So fuck off, Peeta.” She jerks open her car door further, moving him out of the way as she climbs inside trying to ignore the absolutely crushed look on his face.

Pulling out of the parking lot, she looks back and sees him still standing there, hands hanging limply at his sides,shoulders hunched.

“Fuck,” she whispers. How is she going to get through this?

Peeta stays away for the rest of the week but she can feel his eyes on her. When she accidently meets them, they are wounded and sad.

She reminds herself that this is not her fault.

On Friday Gale walks her out and they go over their dinner plans. She can’t wait. She needs this. One night when she’s not thinking about the biggest betrayal of her life.

Rooting through the boxes in her disorganized closet she finally finds it, the only sexy black dress she owns. Pulling it on over her lace boy-shorts, she forgoes a bra, she doesn’t really need one anyway. Shaking her hair from it’s braid after adding the barest hint of makeup, she’s ready to go.

Gale picks her up at seven sharp. Anticipation is a feeling she hasn’t felt in so long. She can’t help but grin, and Gale is even more handsome when he returns it. The drive is quiet but nice.

Twenty minutes later they walk into the restaurant, and after checking their reservation, the hostess leads them to the dining room and sets menus on their designated table.

Katniss stops abruptly, her eyes widen and she stands frozen.

The Universe must really fucking hate her, because sitting not three tables in front of them are Peeta and Madge, a stack of papers sitting between them. Madge flips through busily.

Peeta sees her first.

He always had a weird sixth sense when she walkes into a room. His eyes round, his mouth falls open and she watches him whisper her name.

He glances at the man by her side before moving his burning eyes back to her. Katniss doesn’t miss the way he flushes as his eyes rake over her body, taking in every inch of her.

A second later Madge looks up from the paperwork to see Peeta’s lustful gaze and follows it till she meets Katniss’ eyes.

Katniss panics.

“I’m sorry, but we need to leave right now," she states and takes Gale’s hand.

Perplexed but accommodating, he says, "Okay, lets go.”

Following her as she dashes out of the lobby not stopping till they reach the car. He doesn’t bother to ask her about it on the drive home.

She fucks Gale on her couch that night, third date rule be damned.

His cock is hard as steel and a good size, that’s all she needs. She knows she’s using him but she’d do anything to avoid the tangle of emotions that threaten to choke her.

After sliding the condom into place, she rides him hard and fast and she can tell he’s not going to last at this pace, so she moves her hand down her body, rubbing circles over her clit.

It feels good.

She lets her eyes slide closed for a moment, but in her mind she sees broad shoulders and blond hair, her eyes spring open. She keeps them open, trained on Gale’s face, gabbing a fistful of his dark hair, he grunts. He grabs her hips, rocking her harder against him until he comes, groaning loudly. Katniss follows seconds later with a quiet moan.

She can tell he wants to stay afterward but when she doesn’t invite him to, he leaves her with a soft kiss and a promise to see her at work. She feels like shit.

She really wishes she had thought this through.

When Monday morning comes around she contemplates quitting….again.

She walks quickly into the teachers lounge hoping to grab her morning cup of coffee without running into anyone. Looking around, she lets out a sigh of relief when she sees she’s alone.

She almost makes it.

Gale meets her at the door, leaning down and laying a quick kiss on her lips. Katniss looks up startled, she hears a strange sound to her left and turns to see Peeta, his eyes clenched and face pale before he does an about face and heads in the other direction.

Gale doesn’t notice.

“I had a great time Friday. Are you free tonight?”

She doesn’t know why she says yes.

#thank you!#i can't believe this grocery store drabble affected yall like this #man #also #i know you warned about gale and katniss but I Wasn't Quite Ready #but katniss is right he can't be jealous right now #but yes i can tell yall want peeta to suffer lol #sunsetsrmydreams #submission

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keywestlou · 3 years

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VACCINE SHOTS AT COLLEGE UNFAIRLY PERFORMED

Sometimes you just can’t win for losing.

Getting my first vaccine shot continues to avoid me. I qualify. Unquestionably. I am 85 years old.

A month ago, shots were being given at the Gato Building.

Someone told me to call for an appointment. I was not aware Gato even had the vaccine. I recall no advertising to inform the public.

I called 4 days in a row. Four times a day. A recorded message said leave your name and number and we will get back to you.

The fourth day was a saturday. I even called on the saturday. A new recorded message to the effect we are out of vaccine, do not call this number any longer, call the Health Department. A message will be on the Health Department’s website. A number to call would be provided.

I immediately went to the webs site. Even though a saturday, the vaccine was at the top of the list of everyone to get done.

Took me a bit of time to find the message. My recollection is it was in a small yellow colored rectangular box. The message in effect was don’t call us, we are out of vaccine.

The next set of vaccines I became aware of were to be given at Publix. One in Big Pine, the other Key West. My recollection is that each store had 100 vaccine doses available.

I live in Key West so I considered the Key West Publix store.

Then the thought occurred there would be a mob waiting in line to get one of the 100 shots. Waiting line would be 1-2 hours. No way could I handle standing in line that long. I would have to use both of my canes to hold myself up.

Ergo,I never went to Publix.

Approximately 10 days ago, I learned through the media or some person that the College of the Keys would be providing shots via their nursing program. Instructions were to bring up on the web site, a Florida government address, pick my county, and enter the information requested.

It was simple. I did it all.

I am still waiting. The College gave its first shots yesterday. Four hundred.

The message on the web site was that those either 75 or 65 and older would be taken first as well as first responders who had not yet received their shots.

Contact to me was to be made by e-mail. Sunday has come and gone. No one contacted me.

Today’s media advised 400 shots were given. The system was that someone would telephone and arrange an appointment for you. Those to be scheduled first were people who called in or came to the Health Department looking to get a shot. Those people who had made such a call or stopped in between the end of December and middle of January.

Those who would receive the shots were health care workers who have direct patient contact and persons 65 years or older.

No one called me. I suspect the web site information was not being used. I thought my 85 had some value in these circumstances. Though I did not provide the Health Department with the completed web form till about some time late in January. There was no delay on my part. It happened to be the the State came up with the new distribution idea that involved the web site only very recently.

What pisses me off frankly is those who had walked into the Health Department or made a call would first be taken. I did not know I had to visit the Health Department. I recall no notice regarding the same. Nor anyone calling me. I have been quarantined 339 days.

I know not what to do except complain publicly. Maybe someone will hear my message. Otherwise, I hopefully figure I should be taken the next 2 or 3 times vaccine is available again.

The State of Florida and Monroe County are totally screwed up as to distribution. Distribution has not been fair either. Early on, Ocean Reef near Key Largo got 8,000 doses. An example of the affluent coming first.

I am experimenting. Not sure where to put the Greece blogs. I have tried it up front, in the middle and at the end. I would enjoy some suggestions.

Today a middle one.

DAY 13…..Greece the First Time

Posted on June 9, 2012 by Key West Lou

Breakfast is simple.

Whatever time I roll out of bed, I throw on a tee shirt and pair of shorts. Then up fifty tortuous steps. There is a small bakery a few feet away. All goods baked fresh a few hours earlier in the dead of night.

A little old lady runs the place. Works it. Dressed all in black. A widow, I assume. White hair.

I try to engage her in conversation. She ignores me.

Each morning, I purchase three different baked goods and a cup of coffee. All kinds of baked goods for sale. I generally get some crispy thing covering fruit, one with spinach and finally a small loaf of olive oil bread. I pick at the three for breakfast while sitting on my little terrace outside my cave. Overlooking the volcano, sea and boats. What I do not finish, which is most of it, I leave wrapped in the refrigerator. During the day, I pick at the remnants.

Being on a small island half way around the world can make you feel cut off from the rest of the world. Especially when the computer is down. I use a computer at an internet store. Yesterday morning, every attempt came up labeled disconnected from the internet. I returned at 5 in the afternoon to do the blog yesterday.

I took the free time the disconnected internet gave me to walk. Oia is Greek Orthodox. Tons of Greek Orthodox Churches and shrines. People all over the place praying and bowing.

I visited one of the Greek Orthodox Churches yesterday. It sets in the middle of the marble walkway behind my cave accommodation. About a mile down the way. In front is a huge plaza. Then an imposing white church.

I had never been in a Greek Orthodox Church before.

Dark when you first enter. The sun and eyes. I sat till I could see clearly. Beautiful! The only word to describe what I saw. Riches, also. Chandeliers of gold and silver. Wall plaques and figurines of gold and silver. Be clear. Not brass. Not a thin covering. For real gold and silver. A shining brilliance! The Greeks do not cheat their God as they honor Him.

Most visitors were Greeks coming to pay homage rather than curious visitors. Some locals, some foreigners.

They all burn candles. Or what I assume are candles. They look like bloated incense sticks. Light at the top. When lite, were placed with others in a stand. Then the supplicant would bow, cross his or her self several times and then bow again. I hope I have the sequence correct.

I have found over the years in my infrequent visits to religious places unknown to me, that there is a peace and tranquility in spending some time in them. I felt it yesterday. I recalled a similar feeling thirty some odd years ago at a Muslim museum in New York City. I sat in a small room with several Buddhas. I did not want to leave.

You will recall last year my blood pressure problem. Took a whole year to get it under control. My ankles were constantly swollen with fluid. I was popping water pills daily.

My ankles were big yesterday. First time in a couple of months. I carry water pills and potassium pills with me to use if necessary. My heart doctor said lay flat for three hours after taking the pills to get the best effect. I did. I lay for three hours in the cool of my cave on the bed. I would have done it outside down the steps by the pool on a chaise lounge. However, I needed to be near an appropriate facility when the need to expel fluid arose. Ergo, the bed with the bathroom nearby.

Everything is hills in Santorini. Even walkways and roads. Up and down. Everything is steps also. Too many. For example, fifty steps down from street level to my cave. To the pool, an additional fifty steps. What goes down, must come up. The reverse has generally been true. Ho ho! These steps are not normal. No codes here. They are different widths and different heights. I find the fifty steps from my cave to the road a killer. I have to stop and sit a few minutes at the top before proceeding.

Walking is impossible to avoid. The parking lot for my rented car is 1/2 mile down the road. An example of being compelled to walk every where.

Why am I boring you with this onerous walking situation? Because it is causing my belly to go down. For real. More than half way. I can’t believe it! I have no scale to see if I have actually lost weight. Whatever, my stomach is dramatically down and my face decidedly thinner. My heart, whether stronger or weaker, I do not know.

Come walk with me in Santorini!

Ate at the Katina again last night. The restaurant sitting on a concrete shelf beneath a towering lava created mountain. The daughter of the owner greeted me. I was remembered. So did 4 or 5 waiters.

I sat precisely at the edge of the concrete abutment. Another inch and I would have been swimming with the fishes.

I knew exactly what I wanted. Did not need a menu. I started with hot grape leaves stuffed with rice covered with oil. Everything is covered with oil in Greece. Understandable, there are olive trees all over the place. Red snapper for my entree. The fish was grilled and delivered to me splayed with the spinal bone removed. Boiled potatoes and cooked greens. Both buried in oil. For dessert, baklava. A rich crispy cake covered with honey. A double espresso. With the meal, I enjoyed three gins and one ouzo.

When the bill arrived, I was comped certain items as occurred with my previous visit. The waiter told me the 3 gins, 1 ouzo, the grape leaf appetizer, the espresso, and the baklava…..were on the house! This entire glorious meal cost me all of 24 euros. $34 American money.

Burbing is in vogue and socially acceptable in Greece. At the end of my meal, I inadvertently let out a big one. The waiter looked me, beamed and said…..good! A Greek couple sitting at the table next to me did likewise.

Another beach day in the making. Today it is Kamari Beach. I have inquired and been assured no hills to climb. Park the car and walk directly onto a flat sandy beach.

Kamari is supposed to be a tourist place. Many restaurants and bars. I may stay for dinner.

I have also been assured there will be topless and totally naked woman. We shall see. No, I shall see.

Enjoy your day!

The weekend was a pleasant one. Very little Trump. Some significant sports.

Super Bowl! In Tampa last night. Yes, I did screw up yesterday by placing it in New Orleans. Don’t ask me why. I can only attribute it to old age.

Tampa walloped Kansas City 31-9. Kansas City should never have been on the field with Tampa.

The game not a great one. Good, however.

Tom Brady is eternal. He threw the ball like he was a young man instead of 42. Such precision!

Golf big this weekend,also. The Waste Management Phoenix Open.

Bruce Koepka won. He came out of the pack yesterday on hole 17. He chipped in from well off the green on a par 5 for a 3. He won by 2 strokes.

Jordan Spieth has been a disaster after starting up several year ago as perhaps the next Tiger Woods. He was back in the game the first 3 days of the tournament-67, 67 and 61.

I watched saturday when he shot the 61. Very long putts were dropping. His fairway game was better than it has been.

Saturday evening found him in first place with another player. Both were 2 strokes or more ahead of the rest of the pack.

The putts did not drop for Spieth sunday. Not off by much. An inch or two. However enough not to go in the hole.

Spieth finished 2 strokes behind Koepka. He shot a 71. Ten strokes higher than saturday.

Half time entertainment at Super Bowl was not to my liking. The star The Weekend. Probably because not my kind of music.

I do not follow music as I did when I was younger. I had never heard of The Weekend till yesterday.

I turned the TV on after the first kick-off. Ergo, I was not aware that the poet Amanda Gorman appeared in a prepared video with a new poem immediately before the game.

The poem she read was newly written by her especially for her Super Bowl appearance.

Amanda God willing is going to be America’s joy for the next 50 years. Yesterday, she was the first “bard” to perform at the U.S.’s most watched sporting event.

Tonight my blog talk radio show. Tuesday Talk with Key West Lou. Nine my time.

The ranting and raving should be less. I have little to jump on Trump with. In any event, the show will be interesting. Please join me. www.blogtalkradio.com/key-west-lou.

Enjoy your day!

VACCINE SHOTS AT COLLEGE UNFAIRLY PERFORMED was originally published on Key West Lou

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hashtagblogfan · 6 years

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100 Most Inspiring Albert Einstein Quotes

Albert Einstein is recognized around the world as one of the most iconic and intelligent minds of all time. From his scientific discoveries to the hardships he endured during his life, Einstein shared a lot of wisdom about life, people and the world in general.

100

“Genius is 1% talent and 99% hard work…”

“I must be willing to give up what I am in order to become what I will be.”

“I’d rather be an optimist and a fool than a pessimist and right.”

“The world as we have created it is a process of our thinking. It cannot be changed without changing our thinking.”

“In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.”

“There are two ways to live: you can live as if nothing is a miracle; you can live as if everything is a miracle.”

“I speak to everyone in the same way, whether he is the garbage man or the president of the university.”

“Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile.”

“A table, a chair, a bowl of fruit and a violin; what else does a man need to be happy?”

“Nothing happens until something moves.”

“Only those who attempt the absurd can achieve the impossible.”

“If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales.”

“If A is a success in life, then A equals x plus y plus z. Work is x; y is play; and z is keeping your mouth shut.”

“I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.”

“A clever person solves a problem. A wise person avoids it.”

“Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.”

“The important thing is to not stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing.”

“A true genius admits that he/she knows nothing.”

“If you can’t explain it to a six year old, you don’t understand it yourself.”

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”

“I think and think for months and years. Ninety-nine times, the conclusion is false. The hundredth time I am right.”

“What is right is not always popular and what is popular is not always right.”

“We dance for laughter, we dance for tears, we dance for madness, we dance for fears, we dance for hopes, we dance for screams, we are the dancers, we create the dreams.”

“Any fool can know. The point is to understand.”

“The best way to cheer yourself is to cheer somebody else up.”

“Imagination is more important than knowledge.”

“Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow. The important thing is not to stop questioning.”

“Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I’m not sure about the former.”

“Most people say that it is the intellect which makes a great scientist. They are wrong: it is character.”

“If you want to live a happy life, tie it to a goal, not to people or things.”

“Everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler.”

“Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better.”

“When the solution is simple, God is answering.”

“Weakness of attitude becomes weakness of character.”

“Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

“Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s coming attractions.”

“Education is what remains after one has forgotten what one has learned in school.”

“Human beings must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it.”

“Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds.”

“Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”

“A person who never made a mistake never tried anything new.”

“The difference between stupidity and genius is that genius has its limits.”

“The only source of knowledge is experience.”

“Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere.”

“Force always attracts men of low morality.”

“The woman who follows the crowd will usually go no further than the crowd. The woman who walks alone is likely to find herself in places no one has ever been before.”

“Anger dwells only in the bosom of fools.”

“A ship is always safe at the shore – but that is NOT what it is built for.”

“We still do not know one thousandth of one percent of what nature has revealed to us.”

“The only real valuable thing is intuition.”

“The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.”

“The value of a man should be seen in what he gives and not in what he is able to receive.”

“Try not to become a man of success, but rather try to become a man of value.”

“Once we accept our limits, we go beyond them.”

“Whoever is careless with the truth in small matters cannot be trusted with important matters.”

“I believe in intuitions and inspirations…I sometimes FEEL that I am right. I do not KNOW that I am.”

“The only way to escape the corruptible effect of praise is to go on working.”

“The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge but imagination.”

“Intellectuals solve problems, geniuses prevent them.”

“To raise new questions, new possibilities, to regard old problems from a new angle, requires creative imagination and marks real advance in science.”

“God always takes the simplest way.”

“Small is the number of people who see with their eyes and think with their minds.”

“Anyone who doesn’t take truth seriously in small matters cannot be trusted in large ones either.”

“Joy in looking and comprehending is nature’s most beautiful gift.”

“I have no special talent. I am only passionately curious.

“Peace cannot be kept by force; it can only be achieved by understanding.”

“It is the supreme art of the teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge.”

33 “Before God we are all equally wise – and equally foolish.”

“It’s not that I’m so smart, it’s just that I stay with problems longer.”

“I cannot imagine a God who rewards and punishes the objects of his creation and is but a reflection of human frailty.”

“The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing.”

“A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?”

“The monotony and solitude of a quiet life stimulates the creative mind.”

“Few are those who see with their own eyes and feel with their own hearts.”

“If the facts don’t fit the theory, change the facts.”

“Science without religion is lame, religion without science is blind.”

“Unthinking respect for authority is the greatest enemy of truth.”

“If you can’t explain it simply, you don’t understand it well enough.”

“The faster you go, the shorter you are.”

“The only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.”

“My religion consists of a humble admiration of the illimitable superior spirit who reveals himself in the slight details we are able to perceive with our frail and feeble mind.”

“I live in that solitude which is painful in youth, but delicious in the years of maturity.”

“The gift of fantasy has meant more to me than my talent for absorbing positive knowledge.”

“All religions, arts and sciences are branches of the same tree.”

“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science.”

“The hardest thing to understand in the world is the income tax.”

“Information is not knowledge.”

“Reading, after a certain age, diverts the mind too much from its creative pursuits. Any man who reads too much and uses his own brain too little falls into lazy habits of thinking.”

“Memory is deceptive because it is colored by today’s events.”

“If you are out to describe the truth, leave elegance to the tailor.”

“Everyone should be respected as an individual, but no one idolized.”

“Any man who can drive safely while kissing a pretty girl is simply not giving the kiss the attention it deserves.”

“In order to be an immaculate member of a flock of sheep, one must above all be a sheep oneself.”

“Any intelligent fool can make things bigger and more complex… It takes a touch of genius – and a lot of courage to move in the opposite direction.”

“The distinction between the past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.”

“Once you can accept the universe as matter expanding into nothing that is something, wearing stripes with plaid comes easy.”

“We shall require a substantially new manner of thinking if mankind is to survive.”

“The fear of death is the most unjustified of all fears, for there’s no risk of accident for someone who’s dead.”

“It is only to the individual that a soul is given.”

“We cannot solve our problem

source https://hashtag3r.com/inspiring-albert-einstein-quotes/

#hashtag3r.com

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junker-town · 6 years

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Tom Brady’s social media might not be as masterminded as I once thought

Some internet sleuthing leads to some interesting discoveries.

Happy New Year! Let’s start things off right in 2018: With a far-too-in-depth analysis of the latest edition of Tom Brady’s fake newspaper.

The Patriots beat the Jets yesterday in one of the more stupid games of football I’ve ever watched. The Jets were hopeless, the Patriots were definitely in the playoffs already (though they did clinch the No. 1 seed with yesterday’s win), it was approximately zero degrees in Foxboro, and the ground was as frozen as Bill Belichick’s heart when he trades away a beloved player.

Speaking of Belichick, I must interrupt myself for a moment to talk about how New England’s head coach had thermometers put up in the away team’s tunnel so the Jets would know exactly how cold it was as they waited to run out onto the field. Talk about psyching out your opponent: That is some Jedi Mind Trick stuff (am I using that phrase right? I haven’t seen Star Wars lol)! Belichick also casually strolled out onto the field before the game wearing only shorts and a tee-shirt, because when ice already runs through your veins, you can’t get frostbite.

Perhaps it’s because I’m a Patriots fan, but seeing those photos got me so amped up I wanted to go kick down a door. My ultimate pump-up song, it turns out, is less a song and more an image of a 65-year-old man being extremely foolish.

But back to the matter at hand: Brady’s latest cartoon. Here it is:

A post shared by Tom Brady (@tombrady) on Dec 31, 2017 at 1:15pm PST

On Christmas Eve, the TB Times gave us a straight-forward, Santa-themed image, and the New Year’s Eve cartoon is similarly simple. Each picture is only one panel as opposed to a comic strip, and both pertain to the holiday at hand. Here, you can see Brady near a “Happy New Year” banner in Patriots’ colors as he pins a 2018 calendar to the wall. He says, “Well I guess I’ll...see ya next year!” (which is a good dad joke, and also exactly what I said at 10:30 on New Year’s Eve before I went home and climbed into bed, because I am washed).

However, things get slightly more confusing when you look to Brady’s left (our right) and see a sad-looking man in a green shirt sitting at a table near a bunch of Jets paraphernalia. At first, I thought this guy might be a character from Office Space, because someone tweeted a picture of Bill Lumbergh at me and suggested that Brady is supposed to be Lumbergh:

It’s a good idea, especially since all the movies the TB Times has referenced feature actors named Bill (from the Patriots’ win against Buffalo) or are from the mid 2000s — the formative years of people now in their twenties who maybe work in sports social media.

But the reports that Lumbergh always asked for were of the TPS variety, not performance, as the whiteboard in this image says. And Brady is not wearing suspenders or a tie in the TB Times, nor is he holding a mug. Also, I’m not sure Lumbergh is someone you want to compare Tom Brady to.

However, where the Office Space theory really falls apart is when you look more closely at the Sad Jets Fan. He doesn’t bear resemblance to any of the actors in the movie.

This is because he isn’t one.

Yes, folks, through some serious internet sleuthing, I discovered that this Sad Jets Fan is a 20-something guy named Jeff who seems to know the people making these TB Times images. In an Instagram direct message, Jeff confirmed that it was him. When I asked why he was featured here, he simply said, “I guess because I’m a sad Jets fan who works in an office?” I then said, “That is a very legit reason ... is that the most you’re going to tell me?” And he stopped answering me.

Other sources close to the matter would neither confirm nor deny that including Jeff in this picture is a shout-out to someone they know. But more creeping around the internet leaves me pretty confident that it is.

With the Sad Jets Fan figured out, the second thing I wanted to know was, per usual: Where is Croc? Croc is the recurring reptile of many disguises who appears in every TB Times, even when you think he doesn’t. He was hidden in the snow in the the post after the Denver game, and in the moon (I think) in the Christmas image.

At first, I once again couldn’t find Croc anywhere in this one: I looked at the inspirational “teamwork” poster on the wall. No Croc. I zoomed in on the paperwork near Jeff. No Croc. I checked the calendar, the ceiling tiles, the water bubbler. No Croc.

And then my friend Jenny Vrentas, a writer at Sports Illustrated, told me she zoomed in on Tom Brady’s face and thought Croc might be depicted in his eyebrow hairs. I immediately followed suit.

Lo-and-behold, I think Jenny is right:

Jenny, thank you. I’m so glad the greater sportswriting community is becoming as invested in solving this mystery as I am. Your support means the world.

Last week, I told you that the narrative seems to have stalled out. Unfortunately, it doesn’t appear to have continued yet. We once again don’t have any recurring characters — such as the hot tub salesman from the first Jets cartoon — or many threads to pull at. I don’t know whether this was supposed to throw us off the trail, or give D.K. (the artist) and S.M.G. (Social Media Guy) a break from crafting intricate scenes over the holidays. Once we get back into the groove I’ll go into more depth as to the theory that perhaps the images haven’t been in chronological order. Until we get the next chapter I can’t be sure.

Honestly, though, at this point I can’t be sure of anything. This week’s inclusion of Jeff bummed me out, because it hinted that the creators of these comics are willing to use their social media and artistic power to put people they know in prominent positions in the images. Casually dropping someone you know into a TB Times image makes me wonder how considered this unfolding story really is. Perhaps the TB12 team really is just messing with all of us (read: me, mostly) and sending us (again: me, mostly) down rabbit holes we think lead somewhere when we (yup: me, mostly) are, in fact, just chasing our tails.

There has also, for what it’s worth, been no update to the website tbtimes.org, so I’m a little worried maybe they don’t know what they’re doing there, either.

If I were a betting woman, I’d put money on the theory that the TB Times will only come to a satisfying conclusion if the Pats win the Super Bowl. I’m starting to think the search for the architectural plans of a giant laser in a safe under the sea might end up leading to the Lombardi Trophy. That seems like something outrageously confident enough for Brady — or his social media team — to do.

In other news, you know how Instagram has an algorithm for the order in which it shows you people who look at your stories? The app knows to list followers you’ve been creeping on — or who you suspect have been creeping on you — in the order it thinks you care about them. This is because the robots are storing up valuable information to one day rise up and kill us all. I’m confident that the end will begin with an Instagram comment that simply says, “I am not a robot lol hahahaha yes I am BUCKLE UP YOU WEAK HUMAN NERDS!!!”

I’m telling you this because I check Tom Brady’s Instagram so often that when I hit the search tab, he pops up before I even type anything. He is my No. 1 most-viewed account. I’m pretty sure that if he ever looked at my Instagram story, my phone would implode in on itself out of Instagram excitement normally reserved for the most serious of crushes.

Anyway, here’s hoping the next TB Times post gives us more clues as to what’s going on here and who Croc could possibly be. Fingers crossed that we’re careening towards a story that makes sense. If we aren’t, and all of this turns out to mean absolutely nothing, I will march out onto the field at Gillette in a cut-off sweatshirt and cut-off sweatpants in the middle of winter to scream, “JIMMY GAROPPOLO’S FAKE NEWSPAPER’S CARTOONS WOULD’VE BEEN CONCLUSIVE!”

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