Robertson sweet red wine near me

I went on this massive binge of Kristen Ashley's works this week and finally covered nearly her entire catalogue; after almost 30+ books with her paragraph-length descriptions, her babes/honeys/buddys/reds, and a million "clue ins," her works have become a kind of comfort read to me. They definitely do not read well in some areas (the use of racialized and colonial stereotypes, the actions of the MMCs, the tone of some of her newer works), but there's something about all of KA's girl squads, the older characters, the small-town feel, and the complete devotion her MMCs have to her FMCs that makes them an easy read to get lost in. Which books are your favourite by KA and why? And which ones are your least favourite, or the ones you feel that aren't as up to par as her other titles?

• Favourite MMC: Joker from Ride Steady! He was one of the few KA heroes who I felt had quite low self-esteem and a lot of insecurities that were handled really well in the series (another one I can think of who is also dealing with a lot of PTSD and trauma is Garrett Merrick from Hold On).
• Favourite FMCs: Probably an unpopular one, but definitely Mara from Law Man for her extreme introversion, low self-esteem, and her hard to like and gloomy personality, as well as Sadie for ice princess facade from Rock Chick Regret.
• Favourite Novels: Fairytale Come Alive for being one of my all-time favourite second-chance romances, and Lady Luck for taking a look at the dynamics between police corruption and incarceration instead of focusing on a single murder or a serial killing spree.
• Least Favourite Novels: Unfortunately, it goes to the Unfinished Heroes series; although the promise of villain MMCs was up my alley, I think the plots and emotional connections between the main characters weren't as strong compared to some of her other works.

So my father in law is a fan of big beers that aren't too boozy and have a nice sweet taste. He used to have cases upon cases of Midas Touch from dogfish head but then they stopped making that during the pandemic. I found him flying fish's blueberry braggot and Wyerbacher's blithering idiot but with flying fish's sale and move their braggot is nowhere to be found and distributors are telling me we won't see it for a while and Wyerbacher send to be going under again. He'll drink Belgian triples but he thinks they are a little too sweet/ filling.
Is there any fairly easy to get in the Philly region barley wines/braggots/ strong ales or something else in this category someone could recommend? Thanks!

Hello guys, I am in a bit of a predicament with my roommate right now, and wondering if anyone could give me any advice. My roommate is terrible. He is the classic ICS stereotype -- quite literally has only showered once this quarter, does not own deodorant, does not partake in any basic hygiene, etc. Initially, I tried to be his friend at the start of the year, but he would act like a total asshole to me in front of his little girlfriends and didn't want anything to do with me. Anytime we were alone, suddenly we were best friends and he would. Not. Stop. Talking. Literally, I could be completely nonresponsive and he would continue loudly ranting about the very same girls he was such a dick to me about earlier that day. I could ask him to stop because I was trying to study, but no. Literally nothing would shut him up. Beyond that, he drank. A lot. I don't have a problem with drinking, but when he gets drunk, he acts even more disgusting than usual. One time, he even insinuated that we should sleep together (I am female). Side note, he gets all of his alcohol by stealing it from the local target. He steals that and basically anything else he can fit under his unwashed trenchcoat, then comes and tells me "how easy it is, and that everyone should steal, and corporations are stealing enough from it as is!" I support people taking what they need in times of emergency from large corporations, but this guy is literally loaded. He frequently bragged to me about his "millionaire uncle" sending him money whenever he wanted, so its not like he was doing it out of need. This also would lead to him going on deranged, pathetic rants to himself about being a klepto later on in the year, but we will get there. This is all annoying enough, right? But the smell on top of it all is UNGODLY. He smells perpetually like vomit, exacerbated only by the smell of hangover. And I don't mean drinking every weekend, I mean every single day, starting at 9 AM. In the first quarter, it got to me, and I finally reported him after one of his past girl friends told me he was trying to grope her anytime I left the room. What came of that venture, with two eye witnesses and photographic evidence of wine bottles in the room? Nothing. Literally nothing. I even called the head of housing to ask what they were going to do and they gave me a bunch of bull shit about why they couldn't do anything. At this point, I gave up trying to get him on trouble, as all it did was waste my time and energy. I also fully stopped responding to him for all of the reasons listed above, and then some. Not only is he an unhygienic kleptomaniac, but he is a complete narcissist (for lack of better term). I think that word is overused a ton these days, but it fits him to a T. I would invite him to hang out with me and my friends, and he flat out said he was "more intellectually advanced" than them, so he wouldn't fit in. He would only ever talk about his problems, and would whine about nobody liking him all the time. Not once did he ever consider why that may be. He would also go on manipulative rants about how I was "his only and closest friend," and if I told on him for his drinking, I would be "ripping his heart out because in the only one he could trust." Laughable. Those kinds of rants were far too common for my liking, and they were definitely manipulative. He is also obsessed with TV, and shows everyone his favorite shows. Nice, right? It would be, if he wasn't pausing every 5 seconds to explain in great detail about why the scene was so meaningful, and you couldn't possibly understand it on your own. He literally made me watch the final episode of some show about Nathan fielder TWICE -- still pausing and telling me how "deep it is every half minute -- because he "wanted to see me understand for the first time." It was so insufferable, and any time I tried to leave he would do anything he could to make me stay (foolishly I would, because I initially really wanted him to like me). Beyond that, he also had takes that made me so uncomfortable, like saying pedophile jokes were okay and saying the r word (even after I asked him politely to reconsider saying that). He was also adamant that everyone should smoke cigarettes, smoking doesn't cause lung cancer, and anyone who doesn't smoke is a "pearl clutching prude." He is so confident that everyone will be smoking in 10 years, its actually insane. I don't care if he smokes, but he also does it in my room, which makes my clothes smell and has set off the fire alarm on multiple occasions. I have begged for him to get therapy on multiple occasions, but he refuses to. Even though our campus offers free therapy, he has flat out said he is "too lazy" to go through the process. The fact that he has these resources available to him and refuses to use them is sickening to me. In any case, I stopped talking to him in the 2nd quarter for all of these reasons (plus a few I don't have the energy to mention). This is when the egregious behavior truly began. He began going on insane rants to himself, ranging from talking about how lonely he is, to talking about how weird and unlikeable he is, to talking about how "hot and sexy" sephiroth is, to missing weed; the list goes on and on. These rants would last hours, spoken at a regular speaking volume and usually accompanied by him throwing shit around on his side. We would frequently get noise complaints. He began to genuinely make me feel unsafe, so I put up a partition in between our sides of the room. Prior to this, I had been extremely nonconfrontational towards him and largely ignored his outbursts. However, the constant and incessant chatter of his voice was extremely draining. It is not like he would stop once I was trying to sleep, either. He would rant to himself well into the night; usually I would be kept up until well past 2 in the morning every single night. It is important to note that I have a sleep condition that makes me excessively tired all the time; something he knew I was actively seeking treatment for. He knew how hard it was for me because I treated him like a friend throughout the first quarter -- yet even with this knowledge he continues (to this day) to stay up, making an unreasonable amount of noise late into the night. So, with the stress of sleep deprivation and never having a moment of silence in my room, I finally asked him to stop. Initially, I was quite nice about it (again suggesting therapy, naturally to no success). However, this did nothing to stop him. I tried talking to my RA about it, but she said she couldn't do anything about it. I had no choice to live with quiet resentment until he did the most disgusting thing I have seen someone do in my entire life: one night, before my bio midterm (clearly marked in red on my calendar, which I have made visible to both of us), he came home at around 11 50 pm while I was taking a practice exam. He proceeded to climb in bed, vomit all over himself, and pass out (occasionally making a sickening gurgling noise). The smell was noxious, though being in a practice exam and with my computer on the brink of death, I had no choice but to rush through it as quickly as possible to get out of there. Considering he was lying in his bed in a pile of his own vomit, occasionally gagging and checking, I went to my RA. I did not want him to choke to death in his sleep, so I suggested calling duty. For some reason, my RA was incredibly against it. She forced me to warn him that I would call duty, and he immediately sprung up and begged her not to call. Because he was "in a stable state of mind" -- something that was blatantly untrue, considering when I tried to wake him to tell him I was calling 911 on him he denied throwing up at all and seemingly did not know where he was -- she told me not to call and to go back to bed. I go back to my room, and he is just sitting there. Appalled, I ask why he hasn't cleaned up either himself or his mess, and he gives some excuse along the lines of "not being suspicious." I told him that everyone was sleeping and that he had better clean his side up before I got back, then went outside to wait for him to remove his stinking vomit from our shared space. After 30 minutes, I went back up to continue studying, and he was STILL JUST SITTING THERE. He didn't even have an excuse, so I yelled at him to clean it up and again went outside. He finally moved his garbage to the wash, but noticeably did not shower. By the time he was finally done washing and putting the sheets back on his bed (done muttering and swearing to himself about what a bitch I was the whole time), it was 3 am. It was well past that by the time I was able to fall asleep, and I had a final exam at 10 that morning. My study time was ruined and I had terrible sleep. I was able to get a break from him over spring vacation, thankfully. After that point, I admit that I have began asserting myself more strongly than before -- sadly, it is the only thing that seems to work. I asked him to stop drinking in the room because his horrible odor was giving me headaches, and he refused until I threatened to call duty on him. There were several times I had to ask him not to do basic things, like smoking and burning smoke creating candles in the room (which set off the fire alarm more times than I would like to say). I also had to ask him to be quiet past 1 am. I did not come to this school to be someone's mother, and the fact that I had to ask these basic requests was infuriating. Unbelievably, he did the whole "vomit in the middle of the night and not clean it for hours" thing again at the start of this quarter. I was in shock, and utterly disgusted. It was around 4 am this time, and instead of asking my RA for help I wanted to see how long it would take him to do something about it himself. I left to avoid the stench, staying out from around 6 am to 2 pm. When I came back, to my unsurprised disgust, there was still vomit on the bed and he was sitting there as though nothing was wrong. I confronted him about it, and he acted as though I were crazy and over reacting. I literally had to sit there and beg him to clean up his mess for him to slowly and dramatically move his stuff to the wash. Initially, he tried to just leave it to rot in his laundry basket, but I insisted he bring it to the laundry room. Pushed to the edge, I invited my RA into my room to ask for a roommate mediation. She was so disgusted at the state of our room that she literally refused to enter, standing in the doorway covering her mouth with her hands. I pointed out the ample stache of wine bottles sitting on his side, which finally got her to file another report -- which again led to no consequences for him. During our roommate mediation, all he did was say "okay, uh huh," etc in response to my telling him he needed to have better hygiene and to stop coming in wasted. There was no real response, so there was nothing more my RA could do. Thankfully, he did get out of the room more after this, and his rants slowed down. It was almost peaceful for a few weeks. Unfortunately, he has started getting bad again. Specifically, the ranting to himself and coming in extremely late into the night, inebriated to the point of having difficulty standing. For the past 3 nights in a row, he has come in at 3 am, 5 am, and 2 am respectively. Each time, he has been extremely loud, stomping and slamming things while talking to himself at full volume about god knows what. Each night, my sleep has been disrupted. I am tired enough as it is, but this added stress is making me more drained than ever. Just in time for finals week, when I am trying to study and prepare for my finals. This brings me to the crux of my problem: my roommate has again begun coming home late at night, extremely inebriated and making as much noise as possible, which has been keeping me up and is a distraction to my studying. Not only is he loud, but I feel uncomfortable being around him when he is so drunk -- this, combined with the noise, makes it near impossible to sleep once he has entered the room. It isnt like he just goes to sleep once he gets back; more often than not, he will watch videos on his phone, starts typing on his computer, etc, for hours after he gets back. I have had to ask him to quiet down on multiple occasions now. This has been taking a toll on my physical and mental health, as I have been getting under 5 hours of sleep because of him. I am a STEM major, and really need to focus on my finals. I have reached out to my RA for another roommate mediation, but she basically told me the only thing she can do is put me in emergency housing. Does anyone know if there is anything else I can do about this? I find it hard to believe the only thing I can try is moving myself to emergency housing, but if it is I can suck it up for the final 2 weeks. Thank you all so much for reading my rant, it felt great to get some of this off of my chest. I do not have many people to talk about this in my life (and I don't want him on my mind ALL the time), so typing some of it out was actually pretty cathartic. This is not a comprehensive list of everything awful he has done, I have shortened things to keep some semblance of brevity, hahah. If anyone has any questions, please do not hesitate to ask!

7th, june, 2023
Welp... time to lay my work bare for the world to tear apart.
Here's a snippet of the "sample" chapter for my first NOP fanfic, "The Nature of Great Herds", TLDR, Federation wins the Arxur-Federation War, spends the next 400 years becoming even worse than they are in cannon, before coming across a humanity beefed up enough to stand a chance of fighting them. This is set at the very end of the war so it can be considered a prequel chapter.
Im fairly new to writing still so any criticism is more than welcome. This is only half of what i have down for chapter 0, being about... 3/5ths of what i have planned for the chapter as a whole, the next half i have done is the Arxur dreadnought tearing apart Slanek's fleet before its finally destroyed and i want to see what people think of my writing before i go any further. Feel free to ask questions about "The Nature of Great Herds" as well.
Oh! and thank you u/SpacePaladin15 for creating this wonderful world of yours and by extension the community based around it.
(I would post this in HFY, but ill wait until this is done to post this there)
Memory Transcription subject: Admiral Slanek of the New Venlil Republic
Date [Standardized human time]: 12th of February 2210
“400 years… after 400 goddammed years its finally ending” I thought to myself as I weaselly breathed. I was lucky to have lived long enough to see this day, even with Kolashian age rejuvenation treatments. Even now my fur has long lost its bright grey lustre, its softness, replaced by a rough feeling, unhealthy old grey. But I had still pushed through. I had to. To See this day. The day the Arxur are finally made extinct. To see the day 400 years of pain and blood shed end.
All around me in my flagship’s CIC, I saw other Venlil. All of them younger than me by decades, all of whom were not even born before Venlil Prime was destroyed. All of them here for the same reason as i. Revenge. Revenge for Venlil Prime. Revenge for all of our people the who the Arxur had killed. Revenge for all the members of the Federation, the Great Herd, that the Arxur had killed. We were all here to cast these nightmares into the abyss they had come from.
We had spent months tracking down this fleet, their last remnants and it seems that they finally had a brief moment of partial sanity. If they were fully sane they would have killed themselves like the Humans, but no. They still had that typical predatory derangement. They wanted to fight. To make a last stand. To drag as many of us with them as they could, in a last bout of predatory bloodlust.
Already the battle was in full swing but it seems we would be the last to arrive. The Arxur were not fighting to kill as many of us as possible for some unknowable reason. They were trying to drag the last battle out for as long as possible. Why? I don’t know. I was certainly not complaining however. It would give us all the chance to play our part in the Arxur’s final stand.
“Admiral!”
It was the CIC’s subspace technician. I nodded towards him and he continued on with his report.
“Were about to come out of subspace, right behind the Gojid fleet! In 60 seconds!”
A wave of excitement filled the room. It was our turn now.
Once a minute had passed, in a wave of multicoloured light, we arrived, 250 ships total with 5 artillery ships with one of them being my flagship, exiting subspace right behind a battered Gojid fleet. They were down to half their numbers. I could not help but grimace. The Gojid… the race we were the closest with, who had taken in our sick our wounded… our whole race when Venlil prime and their own homeworld of Cradle was destroyed as well in the Arxur Blitz, seeing them so badly mauled lit up a spark of rage in me.
“Were being hailed by the Kolashian Flagship!”
“Connect it to my communication suite”
Static greeted my ear as a connection was made to the Kolashian flag ship, but soon the Static disappeared, replaced by the familiar voice of Grand Admiral Thran.
“Slanek, I am glad to see you have arrived. We are getting battered by their last dreadnought, that dammed thing is the anchor to their battle line, every attack we send towards it is warded off or completely destroyed. As long as it’s still standing we can’t hope to win this battle decisively or without horrific losses. You’re the only formation left within 100 lights years that has the firepower to bring that thing down, so do whatever it takes, ram yourself down its throat if you have to, you’ll have the support of every ship and federation fleet around you. I wish I could say more but they’re hitting my part of the line with everything they have, good luck”
The connection cut and I grimaced.
The last of the dreadnoughts… that ship. A shiver went up my spine.
The Arxur dreadnoughts were the culmination of the Arxur’s Behemoth class vessels. Massive bricks covered in armor and guns with an engine at the end, that could, with an escort, singlehandedly destroy entire Federation fleets. Vessels that the artillery ships were created to counter.
Then the Arxur deployed their dreadnoughts as we pushed on to Wriss. A desperate last gamble to slow us down. They were larger, faster, with more weapons and armor than even the largest of their behemoths. It took 5 artillery ships to even have a chance of destroying a dreadnought. And the word, ‘Dreadnought’, it means ‘fear nothing’. Even as we pushed onwards towards their homeworld, they did not fear us. Even as we destroyed every world that held their taint they did not fear us… even now they do not fear us.
Thankfully there were only 10 in existence, the rest having been destroyed. 3 by the Kolashians… and 3 by the Venlil.
The destruction of Venlil Prime at the hands of their behemoths had taught us well and we had come to specialize in their destruction.
If anyone was suited to the task of destroying their last dreadnought, it was us.
My confidence restored, I opened a channel to my fleet.
“This is Admiral Slanek, to all of the members of the New Venlil Republic Navy present with us at this moment. Today… 400 years of pain and bloodshed will end. 400 years of pain and bloodshed the Arxur have visited upon us. Together with our fellow members of the Great Herd, we shall burn away the last of the Arxur as they make their final stand. Our part to play is simple, the last Arxur dreadnought batters our forces, and its our job to remove it. We shall destroy that demon ship and its escorts, opening up the way for our allies to destroy the last of the Arxur. This is the most important day and duty of our lives, so fight hard and fight well. FOR VENLIL PRIME, FOR THE GREAT HERD”
The Venlil across the fleet heard me, giving a brief cheer, “FOR VENLIL PRIME, FOR THE GREAT HERD” before they returned to their duties.
All at once, the engines of 250 ships lit up, pushing us forward towards our hated fore with the Gojid fleet parting, allowing for us to slot ourselves into their battle line.
Whilst distant, if I zoomed in on the feed being provided to me by the many sensors present on this ship I could see them silhouetted against the bright red dwarf that made up most of this star systems mass. The Arxur, with their black, angular ships which had burned themselves into the consciousness of every member of the Federation. The Arxur ships present here was all they had left and what a meagre amount. 400 ships total.
But in the center of their meagre formation was IT. That dammed dreadnought which had claimed over a thousand of our own ships over the last year. Bright white letters in the Arxur alphabet were painted on its side, the Liberator Isif.
Named after some Arxur chieftain. 800 meters of black angular metal with a dagger shaped prow and boxy middle section topped off by its engines and short stubby missile spewing wings. It was easily larger than any ship the Federation could produce, even the bulk super freighters that sustained the undamaged core. Well… undamaged until the raid in [2170] that destroyed the Farsul’s archives. In front of it was a field of debris made up of over 300 vessels at least, the graves of ships this beast had felled, amongst them 8 other artillery ships. Its armament had done that. Its hull was dotted with massive amounts of kinetics and plasma railguns, enough to wipe out dozens of vessels in a single volley and its missile spewing wings could finish off any stragglers with a massive barrage of 100 missiles.
By comparison, the artillery ships of the Federation, including my flagship, were tooth picks. 500 meters long and rather thin by comparison to the hunk of metal that was the Liberator Isif. Our only armament was the 2 plasma beam cannons that ran the ships length. Both were needed to burn through a behemoth shields and then their armor, destroying the ship in one shot… most of the time. A perfect match against an Arxur behemoth. Against a dreadnought with its stronger shields, thicker armor and dagger shaped prow which could deflect most of a plasma beams energy at the right angle, it was near impossible to destroy a behemoth from the front with anything less than 5 artillery ships. Thankfully with the few artillery ships the Gojid had left and the 5 that belonged to my fleet I had enough firepower to take that dreadnought head on. And one of them was my flagship. The Tavra.
Whereas the Arxur flagship was named after some random Arxur chieftain they seemed to revere for some reason, the Tavra was named after a true hero who still lived on through her. 5 behemoths, and a dreadnought she has claimed for the Federation, for the Venlil. Now its time to add another kill to that list.
The dreadnought was preoccupied tearing apart another push from a federation fleet when we moved into position.
Almost immediately it broke off its savage attack, letting a wave of Arxur reserves move up to destroy what was left, letting the dreadnought go after the bigger threat, namely the 8 artillery ships that had just pulled up.
Arxur behemoths and dreadnoughts sacrificed range for sheer, raw firepower, as a result it would have to come to us, or we could just sit back and pour fire onto it once we moved a little closer. Whichever abomination was in command of the Liberator Isif knew this since they immediately began a burning towards us, with 60 escorts in tow. All at once, roared across every channel by the Arxur ships was a bestial warcry “FOR WRISS!” then at once, the entirety of the Arxur’s battle line charged ahead. Their bloodlust had finally caught up with them it seems.
“Have all of our plasma beam cannons begin charging now! and move our escorts forward and give us a screen.” An audible hum drowned out the ambience of distant machinery as the Tavra began to charge its main weapons. For the next 2 minutes we would be helpless as all of our reactors power went into the capacitor banks that seemed to fill every nook, crevice and seam inside the Tavra. Thankfully the dreadnought will take 3 to reach us. Once we hit it, if we don’t outright destroy it, then the shields will at least be drained to the point that our escorts can finish it off.
It was a suicide run, but it was their only option unless they wanted to die without being able to fight back. Dammed predator insanity.
For the next minute we tensely waited, as our capacitors charged and our firing solutions were calculated. Ammo was loaded and final checks made.
I gripped the handrail in front of me firmly… waiting for the last few seconds to tick down… waiting to give the order.
If we missed… we were in for a world of hurt.
3…2…1…0
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Yes i did leave you on a cliff hanger... deal with it \_/ (*_*) \_/ *shrugs*

Hey guys I've had a 365 SAS as my EDC for nearly two years. I think this subreddit is getting to me because I am wanting to add a RMR to it. I realize this throws the whole SAS idea out the window by running a red dot, I figure it's less expensive than replacing the slide. I see mixed reviews on the Romeo Zero as well. What do you guys think?

I'm not really good at introducing so please bear with meeee but I hope I would let you know a little bit about me?
Here it goes;
If you're looking for a friend I can be and I am willing to be one of them.
I am from USA, I do love to get to know more about people who's near me. But also open with others so maybe I'll learn something from your country. I'm kind of a sweet, shy at first, talkative (if im comfortable),caring, friendly, open minded and who really likes video games (specifically tekken), horror movies, listening to all kinds of music but my fave one is RnB. I also enjoy watching some cartoons, and even reading books. I am a pet lover who will love and take care of yours too.
I am a girl who seeks pure and genuine connection/friendship.
Maybe we can have more deeper conversations, share our whereabouts; interesting, ideas, thoughts, learn about life. Anything as long as it gives us the idea of having connection. I am a bit shy when it comes to vid call/call so maybe let's get to know each other first till we feel comfortable enough.
Feel free to shoot me a message if you like the vibes, cant wait to hear from you!

I (22M) live in a photogenic, good ol' western American suburb, still rocking my childhood bedroom in my parents' house (thanks rent prices). Growing up, I never needed to worry much about transport (or even thought about it at all, really), my elementary school is literally next to my subdivision, and any other place I visited regularly was either a 10 minute walk or 5 minute ride in my parents' cars; there was no inbetween. But, I'm not a kid anymore. I'm in my twenties. I have my own life (even if it doesn't feel like it), responsibilities and expectations. Problem is, I'm severely stunted by my stubborn, infuriating inability to operate a car. I started feeling it a little bit before I got my permit, but I chalked it up to just me being nervous. When I actually started driving, though, I never shook it, never "got used to it," never felt the godawful stress symptoms or negative opinions on it fade in any way. They only got worse and worse and now they're crippling, despite my effort and hours upon hours of forcing myself to do it.
I got my license out of pure spite and luck, and sometimes I seriously consider giving it up and just having a state issued ID so there's no expectation of me to drive. But I shut those thoughts down because I wouldn't be able to completely escape the horrible feelings anyway. In the years since, my intrusive thoughts and nauseating anxiety has bled into simply riding in a car in general, so having the ability to legally drive in an emergency situation would be nice, I guess.
It's difficult to describe how I feel when driving in a way that makes perfect sense to other people because my anxiety (fear? phobia?) is inherently irrational, and that makes it all the worse because the non caveman part of my brain recognizes that. So I guess I'll just ramble and push enter a couple of times when I'm done and maybe it'll make sense. I need to try and justify myself in a medium where I can think about what I'm saying so I don't sound absolutely insane and completely embarrass myself like I've done before.
Cars feel too big. I could be driving the smallest little Beetle or Mini, and the thing would still feel as big as a fucking continent. Even imagining driving one of those huge fuck off death machines called a pickup truck sends me into a spiral. The wheel being off center makes me feel like there's this, like, mass that's stuck to my side and I'm afraid I'm gonna smash into something whenever I turn right. You know that vertigo effect they do in movies? Where they move the camera backwards and zoom in at the same time when looking down a long hallway? That's similar to what it feels like looking across the hood of a car from the driver's seat to me. Like, the hood is so fucking long and it could be hiding anything behind it even though I know it isn't. I guess it makes me look at the road at least. Not to mention backing up, Jesus Christ backing up is a nightmare. Thank god for back up cameras.
Going at any decent speed makes me feel sick. Thinking about how fast I'm going on the highway, especially since I've been outside of a car on it and have seen and felt just how fucking fast a car going 60-80 mph is is insane to me. It feels so wrong. My gut feeling is that I should not have the ability to move something this stupidly big weighing literal tons this fast. I cannot fathom the idea of purposefully going over 100 mph in a car. That feels unreal to me. I genuinely don't think I could make myself do that. I get intrusive thoughts of unwittingly slamming into a median or someone materializing in front of me all the time. Imagining the aftermath of those scenarios make me want to puke. Obviously I try not to do that, but sometimes your mind wanders towards it anyway.
There's also just the general symptoms of anxiety and panic I feel when shit gets really stressful (i.e. the highway or traffic jams). My heart beats a million miles an hour, I sweat like a pig and hyperventilate, the works. I've gotten very good at grounding myself and focusing when it gets bad but fuck me it is always an awful experience.
I guess my brain chemistry is just not built for driving. At least I have a robust, efficient and affordable public transportation network in my city, right? No. This is America, baby! Of course, there's no other transport options near my home. The nearest bus stop is a convenient two hour walk away and the bus routes are shit! :) There is a train station somewhat nearby, but guess what? The route is shit and goes nowhere near where I need or want to go and in other cities no less! :) Biking around the stroads here is a fucking deathwish! There's also no bike lane or even a fucking sidewalk on 90% of the roads here! :) So essentially, I'm fucking landlocked. We bulldozed our cities for these dangerous, obnoxious, expensive machines and that is existentially infuriating.
My life has been completely fucked by this stupid, stupid thing I have. I can't get a job that's even a decent distance away, so I'm stuck doing gig work online and odd jobs around the neighborhood for money (and seasonal work for events that set up near my home). Shocker, it isn't much. I save what I can, but I am very poor because I insist on paying my own way for the things I use. I cannot afford a car and I don't even want one in the first place, but I kinda need one. Hey, at least I'm known as the neighborhood handy man? My parents both work jobs where they can be potentially called in at any time, so I need to schedule car use with them and I need to complete trips fast. My parents are very sweet and understanding and I love them to death, but I hate myself every time I need to go somewhere with one of their cars. Not only does it feel like I'm potentially jeopardizing their livelihoods if I get held up for any reason, but with my rambling you read above, it also feels like I'm signing up to get shot in the gut.
My dating life has been nonexistent since high school. I'm sure it makes a great first impression on someone when you can't go out to see them or if you ask them for a ride to the coffeeshop! :)
My group of close friends, god bless their souls, are also 100% understanding of my situation and have been so sweet by offering me rides to their apartment they share to hang out on the weekends. They're like siblings to me (we've all known each other since elementary school) but, again, it feels so wrong to have to rely on them to go places.
It is viscerally embarrassing when I ask them to go somewhere or to slow down on a back road because I feel gross, so I rarely do.
Honestly, I don't know what to do. I have no clue how to approach or start getting over this outside of just driving. But I think it's fairly obvious that I shouldn't be doing it just to do it. I feel like an insufferable leech and I wish I could just make myself go places. I'm not spending $50 on an Uber to the fucking grocery store. Any advice is very welcome because I'm getting really tired of feeling like a child in an adult man's body. I genuinely want to get better and start my life way after I should've. I want to stop telling my friends, "I'm okay," when I'm clearly not. But I'm very happy to have finally said this out loud to someone in a way I wanted. Thank you. God bless the suburbs.

I had a 5 gallon kit tank sitting around so about 8 months ago I set it up on a dresser near my window, just tossed random plant clippings into it and filled it with water, I pay zero attention to the tank, never tested the water or added food, I never turn the light on, no filter no heater, and the only care it gets is topping the water off every couple months when I notice it's getting kinda low.
Lo and behold today as I was over in that corner of my room I looked into the tank and found a full grown super deep red cherry shrimp.
It's probably not a surprise to people who keep shrimp when they manage to hitch rides between tanks, but I'm just amazed by the survivability of this little guy, the tank is directly next to a window and my insulation kinda sucks, so the water was definitely super cold during the winter months, and yet this dude not only managed to survive but he/she's huge.
With this revelation, I've just added an internal filter into the tank with old media, and some drift wood for him/her to graze on, I'll probably add some shrimp from my main tank in with them in the near future, but I'm a tad concerned about the temp difference, it's a full 10 degrees colder than my other tanks.
Apologies for the rant, but this is probably the most exciting thing shrimp/fish related that's happened to me in months and I had to share.

Preface:
I am a huge Lord of the Rings fan; I re-read the books typically once a year. I also adore the movies, and find all of Tolkien's legendarium absolutely awesome. Truly one of my favorite hobbies so I'd like to offer some critiques and excitement of flavor gems from Tales of Middle Earth. I won't do every card, but I'll comment on some individual cards and how WOTC did on it. I will comment on the cards abilities but only insofar as it impacts the flavor; i.e. what the card is doing not power level, etc.
To be clear: I understand there are sacrifices you need to make for the greater game, and sometimes those come first. For these articles: I am looking at each card in a vacuum, so if I seem harsh it's because I am using a single lens.
Next up: Eomer, Marshall of Rohan!
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https://preview.redd.it/ovf5zxlvgh4b1.png?width=400&format=png&auto=webp&s=0fda3cb72a84c53285ee748a5f48d1a5c4fd84cc
Flavor Preface
Eomer is the Third Marshall of the Riddermark at the time of the story. He is Theoden's most trusted military commander, and a fearsome warrior in his own right. There is not too much else to say about Eomer, except that he got into a feud with Gimli and nearly came to blows on several occasions.
Color
Eomer is brash and bellicose. Red is appropriate.
Abilities
I once again have no problems with this. Eomer fights in Helms Deep in the books (it is Erkenbrand who comes to the rescue), but he also helps lead the charge in the Battle of Pelennor Fields. The specific flavor of this is when Eomer discovers Theoden and his sister Eowyn seemingly dead on the battlefield. After weeping Eomer simply yells: Death, death, death! Death take us all! Eomer then leads the Rohirrim in a charge against the enemy.
The flavor here is perfect. I have only two minor gripes. First: the flavor text. Wizards, you truly have failed me. Death, death, death! Death take us all! This was the perfect flavor text; it's what Eomer says right after the moment they're trying to capture! Ugh missed opportunities.
On Eomer's Skin Color
I have already made my opinion clear on several occasions that I have no issues with Wizards making some characters White in the story. They already made Eowyn Black (and I am fine with it) and Theoden. That being said: if Theoden and Eowyn are Black, how in the world is Eomer White? That makes little sense.
My one big critique of how Wizards added diversity to The Lord of the Rings is that they did not do what the writers of House of the Dragon did; in that they weaved this into their story to add to the story instead of just randomly adding it. In House of the Dragon, for those who do not know, a major story point is that Rhaenyra has an affair against her husband (who is Black) and everyone knows because her children all come out White. This works better than in the books because the tell in the books was their hair color, which is less obvious.
Skin color is genetically inherited in the modern world. If you're going to add it (and I want to emphasize again: I am fine with this) I think it would have made more sense for them to make it follow 'real world' genetic rules.

I have been counting down this day for so long and am so glad it’s finally here.
20 years ago, on 7th June 2003, my wife and I left the two-day Assembly we were attending after the first day never to step into a Kingdom Hall again.
Mind you it took a few years to get to that point. My wife was born into the religion, and I joined when I was 21.
I had been a witness for 29 yrs. and in that time, I served as an elder and then as the Presiding Overseer in our congregation. Along with that, giving talks at assemblies and giving Public Talks at a dozen or so neighboring congregations.
I want to thank Randy Watters for having the “Free Minds” website in the early days of the internet.
https://www.4jehovah.org/randall-watters-of-free-minds-inc/
I remember the first time I clicked on the link here in Australia. At that time, we only had dial-up internet and speeds were painfully slow. When I first started downloading the Free Minds site an image of an eye behind bars slowly appeared which scared me so much, I canceled opening the site. I thought Satan was going to infect my computer or myself. After realizing nothing had happened to me in that short period of exposure I clicked again and a whole new world opened to me. I remember reading a testimonial from someone and noticed it was written 5 years ago. I found it difficult to believe that he would not return to being a witness after all this time and noticed he had an email address at the bottom, so I naively wrote to him and asked him are you sure you feel that way still. He wrote a friendly message back affirming his stand and he suggested I read Crisis of Conscience.
Thinking back to that time, there were several events in the late 90s with the organization and our local congregation that started me thinking. Also voluntarily stepping down as an elder and getting off the treadmill helped. However, it was a scripture read by a speaker on the Saturday of the 2-day assembly in June 2003 that pushed me to make the break,
Isaiah 5:20 Woe to those who say that good is bad and bad is good, Those who substitute darkness for light and light for darkness, Those who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter!
Watchtower had joined the United Nations and then lied about their involvement. Watchtower lied about Child Sexual Abuse within the organization. Also, what had happened over the past year in our congregation was the final straw. So, I thought that scripture was the signal for my wife and me to leave. Thankfully, our daughter had left a few years earlier so as a family we were all out.
We decided to fade as we both had elderly mothers that needed our support. So, we made sure we kept our mouths shut around any witnesses. And we were able to care for our mothers up until their deaths.
Now 20 years on we have a 5yr old grandson who celebrates Birthdays and Xmas, has playdates with worldly friends, and has never had a smack not even a tap on the wrist. And is happy and obedient without the threat of the “rod of discipline.”
Religion really screws up families and I feel bad that we were so strict and denied our daughter of being a normal kid and also the joy of celebrating Birthdays and Xmas. On the other hand, it has been the most amazing experience for me to see the expressions of joy in our grandson who by the way at 5 is shocked to hear his mother never celebrated Xmas and would get smacks if naughty.
Reflecting, two red flags I should have heeded.
1, when I was studying the truth book my friend who ended up being baptized with me said “Hey I think these people are the ones that don’t have blood transfusions.”
I thought hey they know the Bible well and must know what’s best for us. Big mistake!

1. when I first started going to the meetings a teenage witness girl said to me “What are you doing getting involved in this… its all bullshit you know!” she was looking for a way out and I was on the way in. Unfortunately, I did not listen, and she still reminds me to this day. Would you believe it we married way back then and are still together.

There is more I will talk about in future posts.
For example, some events that happened during my time as an elder.

I live near a very large college campus. I think it’s pretty commonly held that among my age group, heterosexual men tend not to put as much effort into their dating app profiles, as compared to women. However, based on my experience watching my female friends swipe on the apps, the quality of a man’s profile itself isn’t always immediately a deal breaker, provided they actually find the guy attractive and there aren’t any glaring red flags. Most of the time when they’re showing me profiles of men they’ve matched with, the profile itself is mediocre at best. Not even kidding, EVERY single one of these profiles I’ve seen includes at least one or several selfies, which is supposedly very bad. But what makes up the difference is what the guy actually looks like. And these men aren’t all exactly gigachads either—they just happen to fit whatever definition of “attractive” the girl has.
I don’t even claim to have a super great profile, but I don’t think it’s objectively bad. Definitely not the worst out there. The only reason I can think of that I’m not getting likes or matches is that I’m just not good looking/attractive. There were maybe a handful of likes immediately after I made the profiles, but now it’s been weeks with little to no activity across both Tinder and Bumble. I’m just not convinced that micromanaging little details on my profile will change any of that.
This post isn’t meant to be a profile review, since I know there’s a thread for that. I just want to start a conversation on the general topic here. Thoughts?

I care for an elderly woman who has dementia. I've worked with many people with dementia so I have a lot of experience but something I've noticed in some of my patients that I don't understand is their habits with their fecal matter.
My current client will wear briefs if I or the other aid instructs her to. She does not have an issue with putting them on and does not mind wearing them. She's very sweet so she just tells me to turn around while she puts it on. However, nearly every day I show up to her house I find fecal matter smeared all over places. I'll find it in the kitchen, all over the bathroom, on the carpets, I've even found suspicious brown smears in the kitchen sink. She also has a habit of going #2 on a tissue and then carrying it into the kitchen and placing it in the waste bin in there. It seems like she has no problem wearing the briefs when the other aid or I are there but after taking we feel like she takes it off once we leave and then that is when all the fecal matter smearing happens.
She's a very private lady so as long as I have disinfected the kitchen, I will only clean it up once I've made her food. I do that because that is the only way I know she will stay seated for a while Then I can go scrub and clean before she comes looking for me and is embarrassed.
I never say anything to her about it. She's so sweet and such a private woman I just quietly take care of it while she is preoccupied with something else. But, I don't understand it. I've seen it before but not to this extent and I don't know how to help her.
We make sure she has a stack of toilet paper and briefs next to her toilet and she knows how to put them on. We also always make sure she is wearing clean ones when we leave since we leave in the evening.
I'm just wondering if there is anyone here who can help me understand and/or has some advice on how to help her.
We are concerned about her getting sick from it since she also won't wash her hands unless we help her and I know she snacks at night.

Hiii people of the world!!
I'm not really good at introducing so please bear with meeee but I hope I would let you know a little bit about me?
Here it goes;
If you're looking for a friend I can be and I am willing to be one of them.
I am from USA, I do love to get to know more about people who's near me. But also open with others so maybe I'll learn something from your country. I'm kind of a sweet, shy at first, talkative (if im comfortable),caring, friendly, open minded and who really likes video games (specifically tekken), horror movies, listening to all kinds of music but my fave one is RnB. I also enjoy watching some cartoons, and even reading books. I am a pet lover who will love and take care of yours too.
I am a girl who seeks pure and genuine connection/friendship.
Maybe we can have more deeper conversations, share our whereabouts; interesting, ideas, thoughts, learn about life. Anything as long as it gives us the idea of having connection. I am a bit shy when it comes to vid call/call so maybe let's get to know each other first till we feel comfortable enough.
Feel free to shoot me a message if you like the vibes, cant wait to hear from you!

Ok so throwaway account for reasons to be explained. Long one here, please bare with me. Also potential trigger warning for abuse survivors and SA survivors
I f18 need some advice. My bf ( also 18 ) and I have been dating for nearly 4 and 1/2 months. It's been rocky to say the least. Within the first 24 hours of us getting together, I received death threats from his ex. She mocked my disability ( I have seizures ) and criticized my appearance, saying and I quote " I look like a down syndrome [email protected] ". I know, she's lovely. She threatened to burn my house with my dog and disabled mum in. At one point, I told him that I felt there were three people in the relationship and how I was worried over his ex that he continued to talk to. It lead to a massive argument and left me feeling like 2nd best to her. ( does that make me a green eyed monster of jealousy? ) eventually after a while of arguing and my mental health spiraling, he finally blocked her. Or so I thought at the time. She then sent me messages on another account of hers and threatened me again and called me toxic for asking him to block her. I've made it clear, he can talk to anyone but I don't feel comfortable him speaking to her as she emotionally manipulated him and was just a horrid person. A few weeks ago, he was feeling unwell and wanted me to reply to his friend ( who is also friends with the ex😬 ). We have both mine and his fingerprints on each phone, we have always been open like that. I replied to the friend and saw 8 ball pool at the top of the messages. I was confused as he says he doesn't really like the game and only really plays it because of me. I got curious and scrolled up. I saw he said he was speaking to the ex in the chat. I was fuming to say the least. I waited, and pulled him aside and asked if had been in contact with her. HE LIED AND SAID HE HADNT SPOKEN TO HER SINCE HE BLOCKED HER. I revealed what I saw and he tried to spin it on me for snooping. I quickly shut that down and told him we had always been open and he agreed. I told him the only reason he was annoyed is because he had been caught. I made it clear that I felt betrayed as he lied to me which is my biggest no no. He then revealed he was communicating with her on other platforms, where he had previously blocked her. His excuse is he needed someone to talk to. He eventually did admit he knew what he did was wrong but he didn't seem too apologetic about it all. We had had an argument a few days before hand and I was mentally trying to recover, so we didn't speak much not to mention I've been quite busy recently. He then said he hadn't technically lied as I had found out. I won't lie, I was really low and debated self harming, which I haven't done in a long time. This is has understandably really annoyed my mum. Now, he knows all of this and basically shrugged it off and made it clear he wouldn't block her. She remains unblocked. During the first few weeks of the relationship, there was a lot of pinching from him, which left me with a lot of bruises that concerned my mum. After many conversations, he finally stopped ( mostly ) pinching me. But, then started squeezing and bending my hands, especially if I pointed out flaws on my body. ( I had surgery on my right hand 18 months ago due to a lump on my wrist, so this can be really painful )Now, I'm a curvy girl. I'm what could be classed as fat, something which I do say sometimes. I'm proud of my body, and I'm not going to sugar coat my weight. ( pun intended ). Fat is just a word and it DOES NOT define me. Now, I tried to communicate about the pinching, which was as useful as a chocolate tea spoon with him. So instead, I started pinching back and when he would say ow that hurt id respond by saying now do you understand my point. This has seemed to be effective. It's not something I'm proud of but I'm not going to play helpless victim and tolerate being hurt. Another issue I have is I spoke to his mum about some of my worries. He didn't like that. And after one of our arguments he cut himself. Then after about two days was making jokes about it to me, and showed me. Before this, I had no knowledge he had hurt himself.This put me, again, in a bad mental space. I tell my mum everything. She knows everything that is going on and thinks I need to leave while I still can. It isn't all bad though. He can be really sweet. We go on nice long walks and he's got this habit of kissing my hand, which makes me melt. He went on holiday and brought back the cutest bear that had a lovely personal message on. He is respectful of boundaries in the bedroom which is of course really important but more so with me due to my past. And in his own way I really do think he cares about me. I love his big goofy smile and I really do think we could work. When things are just me and him it's great but when we are around others, even if it's family he can be a right muppet. But I trust my mums opinion. So now I'm in a catch 22. I don't really want to lose him but I don't want the relationship to become toxic. I love him and his family. His family are pretty much on my side and keep telling him he has to sort stuff out.
I haven't obviously managed to explain everything, as there is a lot to unpack. But that's the general twist of our relationship. There is some things that should be noted. I was SAd by a friend of the family when I was 8 and it continued until I was about 13. My mum found out after I tried to take my own life when I was 15, before she became sick. It is something that does very much still impact me. I suffer with anxiety, depression and PTSD because of it. I haven't been close to men since it happened until my bf. This is my first relationship with a man. I have previously dated women. I mentioned earlier my mum is disabled. She nearly died when I was 15 and I'm a young carer because of this and haven't spent all my time with him like he sometimes wants. When I go over to his, I set off at about 7, as I normally cook tea at home. I then normally leave his at about 1pm the next day so I'm not home at an unreasonable time, so I can help out with things that need doing. Another thing is my dad died when I was two, so there isn't a lot of support. His dad died in early December 2022, something that is still quite recent and very much impacting him. I do wonder if that's why he behaves like this. But, being said, it's no excuse. And he refuses to get help, which I have said he needs to do.
I am worried he will find this and kick off for exposing private things as he has done previously when I have told my family why I'm so stressed but I don't know what to do. He told me it's private stuff and he doesn't want everyone knowing his personal business. To an extent I understand. But confiding in my family isn't like I am calling him all the names under the sun for the sake of it. It's people I know, love and trust.
If you have made it this far, it means I have decided to post this. Thank you for taking the time to hear me. I guess all that's left is; am I pushing him too much and making something out of probably nothing/am I the a-hole? And is this relationship worth the fight because right now, I really don't know. If you can give me advice, please do x

My husband and I have been married for 37 years and have adult children. We live a comfortable life. He makes much more money than I do. For the past several years, he has traveled for work leaving for periods of time from a few days to a few weeks. He loves his work and enjoys the traveling. But recently, one of the companies he was contracted to offered him a permanent position out of state over 6 hours away by car. The offer ticked a lot of boxes for him in that he would live and work near his favorite city, where he has worked a great deal in the past years, could work as much as he wants with unlimited overtime, and would be provided with a car. It was a no brainer. I thought maybe finally, he would find joy, and the depression that plagues him would be resolved. He accepted the position and is currently working through the logistics of leaving his current company, finding housing and completing the onboarding procedures. The problem is that he seems to be making this plan solo. And can't or won't answer where I'll be in all this. I'm devastated. I thought things like this were done together as a couple. Right now the plan seems to be that I' will stay here holding the house down, working at a job I don't love and keeping company with the dog for God knows how long, while he lives out his dream of paying off all our debt, making as much money as he can and living alone. . I am just so hurt and so full of rage that he would even consider doing this without me as part of the plan, instinctively. So I push for a plan A,B and C, hypothetically, actually or in any way that might tell me what my life looks like going forward and all I get is "I don't know, I don't know anything yet and I can't make a plan if I don't even know how it's going to work out." And I lash out like an injured animal, incredulous at his insensitivity as to how hurtful this is. I dreamed our empty nest years would be spent together finding common interests, going on adventures, and enjoying friends, fulfilling us together as a couple. I am so hurt and so very angry, And I can't stop myself from letting my hurt out with vicious rage. The pain is almost unbearable. I think I may be an asshole because I'm being selfish. And that I should just sweetly soldier on while he lives out his fantasy. Am I the Asshole?

My mother thinks it’s a miracle.
Yesterday my childhood dog showed up at my house after having disappeared thirty years ago, and I’ve been trying to figure out what is happening and what it means.
To say I’m unsettled would be an understatement.
I’m not on the best terms with my mother. We never had the best relationship, but she’s been pushing boundaries really terribly ever since my son was born. She’ll show up out of the blue demanding to spend time with him, demanding “grandmother privileges” without giving us any heads up or letting us prepare ourselves for company, she’ll take things from the house without asking, she tried to bully us into letting her move in, that sort of thing. It doesn’t bug me terribly, maybe because I’m used to it, but my wife has been on the verge of blowing up and banning her from our house for months.
So when I called her up to tell her about this dog that I could swear was Shadow, I should have braced for the worst.
She practically broke down the door rushing over to our house in a matter of minutes.
I couldn’t think of any distinguishing characteristics other than his dichromatic eyes and the fact that I’d never seen a dog that looked quite like him, but my mother remembered that Shadow had a missing toe on his left front paw, and we were always curious as to what had happened.
Sure enough, this returned Shadow was missing the same toe.
On that note, my mother has never been the least bit religious, but I think Shadow turning up after all these years is triggering some sort of conversion.
"It must be a sign. God wants us to have another shot with him," she said.
"You're religious now?" I asked.
"This is proof of something, isn't it? Your childhood dog, your best friend has returned after thirty years to protect your son. That's incredible!"
For once, she and my wife finally agree on something: we’re keeping “Shadow.” I’m leery as all hell about it, and what scares me more than anything i just how comfortable he’s making everyone else around him. Last night my wife and mother were watching television and eating popcorn with Shadow curled up at their feet. I swear, I haven’t seen them more at peace together than in that moment, and even I have to admit it makes me feel bad that I’m trying to deprive them of that, but there is something unnatural about this whole ordeal. Something bad.
It's like nobody is listening to reason.
Those hairs on the back of your neck that stand up from some signal deep in the mammalian brain, that tell you something is very wrong — get out of this situation now — alarm bells are going off, it feels like I'm the only one who has them in this family.
Apparently he showed up at our door while I was at work yesterday and my wife brought him in to get him a snack and some water. She's a dog person, so seeing the majestic animal panting at our doorstep she naturally trusted him and let him in.
"You brought in a wild animal with our infant son in the house?" I asked, honestly flabbergasted.
"He's not some wild wolf or something. He's a dog and very obviously a good one at that. I could just tell."
I remembered back to childhood, that gruff voice that came from Shadow detailing each gory moment of the scene that would happen if he chose to rip out my sister's throat, the flesh torn open, the blood drenching the cartoon pillowcase, the splatter on her curtains as he shook her windpipe like a dead rat. I looked at him, and the way he looked at me was as if he knew.
"Every moment he's in this house I'm going to be afraid of what he'll do." I told her.
"He's a good dog. Your mom says you were inseparable from him when you were a kid. What's changed?"
"Why is nobody listening to me? He was possessive of me but I was always terrified of him. I don't want him in our house." I said.
"You're being so irrational about this," she said.
Irrational? I'm sorry, I'm not convinced a dog can be thirty-seven years old.
My brain's not some cabinet of horrors. I get that I have the reputation in my family as still being some sort of imaginative child even though all that stopped thirty years ago, but it feels to me that these red flags I'm seeing everywhere are pretty obvious.
Honestly the worst thing is that after never being civil to each other for six and a half years my wife and mother are abruptly best friends. My wife even invited my mother to come stay with us for a while.
My wife and I were in the kitchen after dinner when she brought the idea up. I had been drying a plate and it slip out of my hands and broke on the floor.
"An extra pair of hands around the house won't hurt."
"An extra pair of hands and a drooling maw," I said. The dog looked up at me and I felt like it grabbed my voice.
I cleaned up the broken plate, downcast. The moment she brought it up I knew I'd already lost that argument. I've been burning through overtime at work to pay for childcare, but that's left so much extra housework for my wife that it's really not fair to her for me to argue on this. We need the help.
So in addition to worrying about this demon dog or whatever Shadow is, I'm having to move everything out of my office to make my mother a guest room, and the emotional dynamic of my marriage has completely shifted overnight.
Most of the things in my office I don't really use. I carried the files downstairs and had started the laborious project of trying to disassemble my wire shelves when I heard my son babbling in the other room. He was never this talkative.
I came into my son's room as the sun was dipping below the window and bathing the room in golden light. Shadow was there, but this time he was standing on his hind legs, almost as if he was human. His hair puffed up and he looked powerful, regal, wise. He stood there gazing at my son.
“No,” I said, “go back to where you came from. I don’t want you here.”
When he turned to look at me his eyes burned into mine with an intense stare, the reached into me and grabbed hold of something they found inside me. I couldn't move. An unbelievable feeling of calm washed over me and I left the room as though my body was on marionette strings.
As soon as I closed the door my paternal instincts took back over and I was immediately terrified that something was happening to my son. I yanked the door back open dreading the worst — what if the beast had carried him off, had taken him to some dark hole we would never find to eat his tender body — what if he'd come back again from some rotten hell to take everything from me and there was nothing I could do to stop him. But when the door flew open Shadow was sitting there as a regular dog, wagging his tail while my son said nonsense syllables to him.
But that wasn’t real. Something was off. It was like the scene was only in my imagination. My eyes, they weren’t even open, how could what I was seeing be real if my eyes weren’t even open?
I focused with everything I had. My body felt like it was moving through wet concrete — if I didn’t shuck it off right now it would solidify and I wouldn’t be able to regain control again.
I focused, even as something pushed back. I pushed with all my will to open my eyes and see what was actually happening in front of me.
I dredged up every ounce of courage I had against that beast, every ounce of resentment for the things he did to me in childhood. I remembered how he made me, an innocent little boy, push my sister down the stairs — how I’d never recovered my relationship with her.
No, I thought. I am an adult now, not some little boy who is constantly afraid.
I will see. I will, I told myself.
My eyes snapped open. I saw Shadow standing upright, bipedal, his back long, and straight, and strong, and he was holding my son, the back of his onesie caught on that animal’s teether. He looked at me with golden eyes, stared into me, but I refused to budge — I refused to let him back into me even an inch.
I realized he was frozen too. For some reason he couldn’t move while he was trying to exert his will over me. My son wriggled and I knew he was destined to fall any moment.
I pushed through the room, every step heavy and exhausting. I grabbed my son out of “Shadow’s” mouth and wrenched him free, and I backed out of the room.
As soon as I was free of the room I regained full control of my body and dashed down the stairs holding my infant son. I was going to get us out of this, no matter what my wife and mother thought.
I heard my wife’s voice call out to me from the kitchen as I was nearly out the door. “You cannot leave with him. He is not your son anymore. Shadow will be a better father to him than you could ever be. Shadow can keep him safe.”
It was my wife’s voice, but those weren’t her words. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what, but even if she was deranged enough to claim Shadow was my son’s father, she wouldn’t have used those words.
“He’s done something to you. You have to resist. You have to break free.”
My mother came out of the kitchen carrying a pair of scissors as if they were knives, smiling.
“I’m so sorry,” I muttered. “I’m sorry I’m leaving you to him, but I have to make sure our son is safe. I’ll be back for you. I promise.”
I slammed the door and leapt in the car. In my bedroom window I saw Shadow watching me. I didn’t even want to know what his next move would be.
I drove until I was tired of driving and pulled into a parking lot to think and type this up. My son is sleeping in the car seat. For the moment, we’re safe, but where we can go from here, I have no idea.
[Part 1] https://www.reddit.com/nosleep/comments/140pc2my_childhood_dog_just_showed_up_at_my_house_afte?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Disclaimer: Registered trademarks and copyrights are properties of their rightful owners. As this series jumps realities very often it is hard to track that info.
DM, the Digitalman, the Scion of Variable is a creation of my good friend who does not use Reddit and is used with permission.
The Pokémon Lucario is © The Pokemon Company.
“When you're in your darkest place, you give yourself hope and that's inner strength.”
― Uncle Iroh
The Daughter that Follows
Chapter 27
Reunited
Part 5
“So, are we all ready?” Darius asked as he rolled out a second grill in his backyard. He had decided to host the mini-reunion for Alan and his friend.
“We are so friggin’ ready.” Kenji grinned. “I can almost taste the meat...”
“Why is he acting like he hasn’t had meat in forever?” Alan asked Brooklynn while pointing to her husband.
“I wish I knew, he has his own grill.” Brooklyn shook her head. “Cooks good corn.”
“Speaking of, I got these for you.” Alan held up several cobs. “Won’t be a competition because Vegeta thinks vegetables are a sin.”
Brooklyn rolled her eyes, “I know the type.”
“So...” Sammie pointed into Darius’ house. “Is your other guest okay?”
“He’s fine, he just doesn’t like the sun that much.” Alan grinned.
“He’s a vampire.” Yaz said.
“Don’t say that.” Sammie chided her wife.
“Technically he’s a nosferatu.” Alan wavered his hand. “But also be quiet, I want Anna surprised, and Salem surprised.”
“Why is he getting surprised?” Kenji asked.
Yaz smiled, “You didn’t pay attention to his shirt, did you?”
“I think he might be a fan of Alan’s friend.” Sammie said.
Not a moment after that a hole opened above Darius’ driveway. They heard Ben shout in surprise as he fell out with Anna and Vegeta.
“You know, you’re brave...” Vegeta said, “But you need to have more spatial awareness if you’re not gonna fly.”
“We can’t fly here.” Ben said as he was flown over Darius’ roof and sat down.
“Where’s Anna?” Alan asked.
“She saw someone attacking Spider-Men.” Vegeta shrugged.”Dropped us off and ran off.”
“Oh.” Alan blinked.
“Yeah, it looked like some wasp thingy.” Vegeta flew back and returned with a huge slab of meat. “Wagusaurus.”
Alan stopped to think for a moment before another hole in reality opened and Anna walked through covered in orange and green gunk.
“Hose?” She asked grumpily.
Darius pointed to the side of his house.
“So I take it, it squished good?” Salem snickered from the sliding door.
Anna froze and looked up. Then she looked at her father.
“Surprise.” Alan smirked.
Anna ran up and hugged her father. “That’s for surprising me.”
Alan nodded. “I kinda figured.”
Salem was laughing like mad as Anna went to hose herself off. Then he froze as he saw Vegeta cutting up the meat.
“Surprise.” Alan smiled and tapped Vegeta on the shoulder. “You gotta fan here, man.”
“Huh?” Vegeta turned to see the fanged nosferatu staring and pointing. “Hey, you want to help? This stuff is heavy.”
Salem just nodded and helped the saiyan prince separate out the meat.
Anna came walking back around the corner, she had used her aura to squeeze the water from her clothes and skin, though her hair was still wet. She giggled as her father simply eradicated the gunk that was on his clothes.
“Thank you.” Anna smiled up at Alan.
“Yeah, well he’ll be going with you.” Alan smiled. “Plus this needed to happen outside of a battle zone.”
“Oh yeah.” Anna nodded emphatically. “Completely.”
Alan smiled as he clapped his hands. “All right! Everyone get ready for a taste test sensation! Except Brooklynn, I’ll have your corn done not long after.”
“What is she vegetarian?” Vegeta snapped.
“Vegan.” Brooklyn said as she crossed her arms.
“I make meat.” Vegeta crossed his arms as if to challenge her.
“Good for you, my husband is who you want to impress.” She nodded to Kenji.
“Huh, fair.” Vegeta nodded. “Why is he staring at the grills?”
“He grills too, but for fun.” Brooklynn smiled.
“Hey, amateur!” Vegeta stomped forward.
Kenji flinched. “Yes?”
“You’re my second.” Vegeta grinned.
Kenji smiled and saluted, “Yes sir!”
“Ben, you got my stuff?” Alan asked.
“Stuff?” Vegeta asked as Ben walked out with a wheeled tray filled with cooking paraphernalia.
“Oh, now we’re getting serious!” Vegeta grinned. “Anna, you got my stuff?”
Anna nodded and tossed out a pink and blue capsule that turned into another wheeled tray with similar cooking tools on it.
“Just so we’re clear, I’m recusing myself.” Anna smiled.
“Clever girl.” Vegeta stared at her with a vicious smile..
“Man if you knew the history of that phrase here.” Alan shook his head. “All right folks, quarter of a steak each for the taste testing. Be honest, put your fork on the plate you like most.”
“Do we get ketchup?” Anna asked with a devious grin.
Both men stopped and glared.
“I found the heckler.” Alan said through gritted teeth.
“Considering her parentage, I’m not surprised.” Vegeta nodded.
(T)(D)(T)(F)---(T)(F)(T)(W)
Darkseid paced on Apokalips.
He had been shunted back to his planet and reality with ease by the ghostly reaper. He had been embarrassed for the last time by the Scions. He would not tolerate it anymore.
“Kalibak!” He shouted for his son.
Kalibak came forward and kneeled. “Father.”
“Prepare all to attack Earth. If I cannot go to them I will draw them to me. We will slaughter Superman's adopted homeworld.” Darkseid grinned.
The sound of chains echoed through the halls.
“Alice?” Hare lifted his head.
“She’s coming...” March Hare’s vocalizer on the back of the warbeast he was attached to, sang to life.
Soon a woman in white with red on a half mask walked into view.
“And who are you?” Darkseid asked.
“I am called Kyton. I come from Alan Quain’s home reality.” She said as the chains holding Hare released him. “I am the Revenant of Heroes, element of metal.” March Hare’s brain case released itself and fell to the ground.
“FREEDOM!” The brains’ final thoughts shouted from the vocalizer.
“You will keep them no longer!” Kyton’s chains flew from openings and snagged the ragged body of Hare into a swirling portal.
“So it is war!” Darkseid grinned as lanced out a punch, but a wall of crystal rose up from the ground.
“I’m here to asshole.” Stephen Quain walked in as the air around all of Darkseid’s forces turned to solid crystalline bindings. “And we brought an old friend.”
A scream of rage tore through the air as a clown mask landed at Darkseid’s feet.
Darkseid looked down and was caught by a powerful uppercut, but it was nothing to him. He did recognize his opponent, they had taken him form Quain’s home reality and tormented him. They had tried to shatter the mask he wore only to find it resisted them at all attempts. He wore a new mask now, but Darkseid felt the same hidden power inside it. He grinned and grabbed the human’s fist and tossed him back.
“Dammnit!” SideEffect shouted. “If I could feel those bones I’d be even more pissed!”
“And now I am...” Darkseid looked outside his window to see a series of explosions ripple across Apokalips.
A man flew down to his window, a billowing red cape.
“I’m afraid not, Darkseid, this is the Scion’s war.” Superman smiled. “We’re just helping.” He flew in and slammed the leader of Apokalips through the walls.
Kyton looked at Stephen Quain, “Don’t kill the sapient ones.”
Stephne rolled his eyes. “Just because I have a history with the hairball doesn’t mean I’m trigger happy.”
Kalibak looked around in confusion. The crystal bindings were all too familiar and he looked at the human in fear. “Can you please not turn me into crystal again? It really hurts.”
Stephen rolled his eyes.
(T)(D)(T)(F)---(T)(F)(T)(W)
In the black space above Apokalips, a green form looked down upon the world. A scythe and sword were by his side, as was a young pale skinned woman. She shook her head but did not oppose the Scion.
“You started this early.” Death of the Endless sighed. “Why?”
“Because it’s the one thing no one would expect me to actually do.” Wraith drew his daggers from his side and looked them over. His black blade still had a knick in it from when a piece broke off in Atropos. “So I’ll make sure this entire war is off balance.”
Death of the Endless shook her head. “I think she got under your skin. So to speak.”
“She did.” Wraith acknowledged. “For this I am not Death. For this I am the endless rage of the murdered and unavenged. She wants this fight, I’ll give it to her, but on my terms.”
“What are your friends doing?” Death of the Endless looked down.
One half of Apokolips was now thoroughly exploded with mechanical animals running rampant over it. The other half was now a flower covered paradise that had strange trees restraining the parademons and other forces.
“What they do best.” Wraith smiled. “Chaos and Imbalance.”
“And what can we do?” The voice of Astral, Scion of Order asked as he appeared.
“Cage of this reality, separate it from itself.” Wraith leaned on his scythe.
“Shadow reality?” Astral asked.
Wraith nodded.
“I’m gonna need my buddy down there.” Astral nodded.
“I’m your buddy?!” Perfection cooed as he appeared. “Hiya D.o.E.! How’s Delirium?”
“Delerious.” Death of the Endless smiled with a nod.
“All right!” Perfection cheered. “One shadow realm coming up!” He snapped his fingers and a wig very similar to a popular card game anime character’s hair appeared on his head and his clothes shifted to a similar style.
“Does that mean I have to be Kaiba?” Astral sighed.
“Would you?” Perfection asked with a pleading look.
“Okay, fine. This once.” Astral sighed and his trench coat shifted to that of another coat similar to the other one’s rival.
“I’m not watching this.” Wraith sighed as he vanished.
“Man, what a party pooper.” Perfection sighed. “Well it’s time to get twisted!”
(T)(D)(T)(F)---(T)(F)(T)(W)
Anna sat watching her friends and her father. Everyone was relaxed and the party was winding to a close. Vegeta was busy going over a speech with her dad and Salem was busy trying to understand how Ben survived a Carnotaurus as a teenager with no powers.
“We will go to our final battle soon.” Rio sat beside her enjoying some of the last steak.
“Well not our last.” Anna smiled.
Rio shook her head. “I cannot go with you beyond this.”
Anna looked at Rio. “Did I say something, do something?”
Rio shook her head. “I have a responsibility I too will be stepping into, at Arceus’ last request.”
Anna hugged Rio. “You could have said something.”
“I was conflicted.” Rio admitted, “But it was Arlina that made me realize I had to do it.”
Anna nodded. “You’ll always be my sister.”
“You will always be welcome in my world.” Rio smiled and gave a happy yip.
Anna smiled. “Bonds beyond life and death.”
“Bonds beyond time and space.” Rio said as a compliment to it. “I will cherish the time we have had together.”
Anna smiled and held up the pokeball.
“Oh no,we still need that, I don’t want to travel the multiverse exposed to it!” Rio barked nervously.
Anna laughed. “Okay, One last big adventure.”
“Once more unto the breach, my friends.” Alan said as he sat next to them.
“What?” Anna asked.
“The Bard himself.” Alan smiled. “Henry the Fifth.”
Anna nodded. “I’m scared.”
Alan nodded. “So am I. I could lose the most important people to me. But it has to stop, she has to be stopped, he has to be stopped. No more.”
Anna nodded.
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, Or close the wall up with our English dead.” Yaz said. “Act Three, Scene One.”
“Indeed.” Alan smiled and nodded. “I better pick up Teal’c and the other’s too.”
Anna looked at her father quizzically.
“He sounds a lot like Kratos. But he enjoys breaking False gods, so...” He paused. “Disturbingly coincidental hobbies.”
Anna giggled.
“How many of my friends have that hobby?” Alan pondered aloud.
Vegeta jumped up and waved his hand.
“No, Vegeta. Frieza was not a false god.” Alan sighed.
“Fair.” Vegeta harrumphed.
“Well I have to get this all cleaned up tomorrow.” Darius sighed.
Alan gave a baring laugh.
“What?” Darius asked.
“Darius.” Anna scoffed, “We aren’t trashy guests...” She focused and Hong Long came out from her aura and quickly began to pick up trash.
Alan simply focused on various small bits that flew to the trash cans. Within minutes the backyard and the grills were sparkling.
“Kami, do I miss the easy cleanups...” Vegeta sighed. “You know the stars here are bit different, but I like’em.”
Anna smiled and began to point out the constellations. Soon though Alan, Anna and their guests returned to the Camp for one more night of rest.
When they got back Anna and Alan crashed within minutes, Vegeta and Salem were still up staring out at the stars.
“You feel it?” Vegeta asked.
“Like a cat with its hackles up.” Salem nodded.
“What do you do, to keep her safe?” Vegeta asked.
“Got some magic, but mostly I use big guns.” Salem said. “I can hack, but it’s a tertiary skill nowadays. If I get pissed I can jack my bodies’ power up, but not anywhere near as powerful as you.”
Vegeta nodded. “Willing to die?”
“For them?” Salem just nodded.
“Good.” Vegeta nodded. “He wants me up front with Darkseid. How do you think I’ll fair?”
“Depends.” Salem shrugged, “What’s your newest technique?”
“Well I developed a bit of an Ego, if you will.” Vegeta grinned.
“No, not with Darkseid.” Salem shook his head. “Definitely poor on the aggression, but you do not want to take a hit. Especially the Omega Beams, you can’t dodge them, you can only put others in front of them.”
(T)(D)(T)(F)---(T)(F)(T)(W)
“He wasn’t there.” Consumption hissed. “Not even a trace of him.”
Atropos blinked in shock. She felt for certain Wraith would retreat to the Gates of Hell in their home reality. That he wasn’t there was a shock.
“That’s because he’s off picking a fight with Darkseid.” Odin shook his head. “Your plans aren’t coming together, Norn.”
“Don’t call me that.” Atropos said in an off-sweet tone. “I write fates, they make a show of them.”
Odin grunted. He was starting to regret working with this woman.
“As I said it doesn’t matter.” Atropos shoved her hand into her leg, golden ichor rolled out as she pulled an obsidian black shard from her leg. “A piece of his Sin left to remember him by.”
“I can use that.” Sindri shot up, “That will work” He walked over and held out his hands.
Atropos smiled and dropped it in his open palms. The sharp piece struck into the dwarf’s hand and his grief flashed before his eyes and he clutched his hand around the piece as he roared in pain. He forced himself over to his work table and pried it out of his own hand.
Atropos watched in shock.
“It wants you to suffer under your own guilt.” Sindri winced. “Vicious piece, but it has a piece of him, more than enough.”
“Then let Undeath Echo through the multiverse.” Atropos roared with laughter.
Odin watched the woman and slowly tilted his head towards her, then to Sindri. He nodded slowly as he realized what was happening. He had to get out of this mad house and fast.
(T)(D)(T)(F)---(T)(F)(T)(W)
Anna stretched as Hong Long coiled about in the sky, doing his own version of warming up. Alan yawned as he said his goodbyes to his co-workers and bosses.
Dr. Grant handed him a book, an old one signed by another Paleontologist. Quain grinned as he put the book signed by Tim Murphy into his bag. Dr. Ellie Sattler just gave him a hug. Dr. Wu who had the hardest time saying goodbye, despite the few words the two ever exchanged they had become good friends and trusted each other.
“Don’t go bad or I’ll be back.” Alan smiled.
“I don’t think I can anymore.” Wu smiled.
“He’s got the heart!” Anna shouted. “He took a while to grow into it though!”
Dr. Wu smiled and waved. “Take care of her, she still needs her father.”
Alan nodded and stood next to his daughter.
“What do you think, two holes?” Anna asked.
Alan blew a raspberry. “Why waste the energy?”
Anna nodded. “So who is going to make it?”
Alan stroked his chin. “Rock paper scissors?”
Anna rolled her eyes and Hong Long roared and tore into reality leaving an extra large whole gaping open.
“See you in a week!” Anna laughed as she ran and jumped through. Salem came screaming after her shouting about not being ready.
“That’s CHEATING!” Alan shouted as he raced after his daughter. Vegeta sighed and ran after his friend, grumbling about losing the steak-off once more.
As he breached into the multiverse he felt the power of his new nature course through him. He held it back, but just barely. He wanted to show Darkseid exactly how bad he had messed up.
Anna also felt the power crest in her and she looked back and smiled at her father while Salem tumbled in the rear of Hong Long’s frame. She waved as her father and Vegeta skewed off in a different direction.
“I think I’m gonna puke!” Salem groaned as he spun around.
\\\\
First
Previous
End of the Daughter that Follows
SPOTIFY LIST!
////
All the Scions: OH!
S: Yup.
Astral: Fuck.
Maven: With extra cheddar.
Perfection: What?
Maven: It’s a saying from my home reality.
Perfection: But why Cheddar?
DM: How does he even have Cheddar, that’s from England.
Perfection: My head hurts.
S: So that’s her plan folks.
Mosious: That’s not good.
Theten: But there’s no need for Undeath. It’s antithetical to the universe!
Karma: Maybe it’s about exactly that. Like we’re concepts. What if she’s going for Extra material power.
S: Smart woman wins the prize.
Wraith: SHE... ANger... RAGE...
Karma: Oh no, he’s sputtering.
Astral: (steps back)
S: And now folks I work on outlining the final battle. I’ll know more about it’s length in a week or two. In the meantime I will continue to work on GSD.

When I was brand new to NovelAi I had no idea how 2048 tokens really looked as text. So for anyone looking at the tiers, trying to decide how many tokens they want for Clio with the new update, I've tokenized Part of The Great Gatsby by Scott Fitzgerald (public domain since 2021).
That way new users can more easily visualize what the AI's maximum context is for each tier. According to the UI Clio uses the NerdStash Tokenizer, as different tokenizers will convert text to tokens their own way.
------------------------
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”
He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.
And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.
I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.
The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.
It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.
“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.
I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood.
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.
It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.
I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.
Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.
Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.
Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.
And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.
He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.
His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.
“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.
We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.
“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.
Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.
“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”
We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.
The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.
The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.
The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.
“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”
She
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laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)
At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.
I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.
I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.
“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.
“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”
“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”
“I’d like to.”
“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”
“Never.”
“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”
Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.
“What you doing, Nick?”
“I’m a bond man.”
“Who with?”
I told him.
“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively.
This annoyed me.
“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”
“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”
At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.
“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.”
“Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.”
“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.”
Her host looked at her incredulously.
“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.”
I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.
“You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.”
“I don’t know a single—”
“You must know Gatsby.”
“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”
Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.
Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.
“Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.”
“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.
“All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?”
Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.
“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.”
We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.
“You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—”
“I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.”
“Hulking,” insisted Daisy.
Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.
“You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?”
I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way.
“Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?”
“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone.
“Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.”
“Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—”
“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.”
“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.
“You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.
“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?”
There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned towards me.
“I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?”
“That’s why I came over tonight.”
“Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—”
“Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker.
“Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.”
For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.
The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.
“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”
This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.
Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.
“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began.
“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”
“Is something happening?” I inquired innocently.
“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.”
“I don’t.”
“Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.”
“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly.
Miss Baker nodded.
“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?”
Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.
“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety.
She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”
“Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.”
The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.
The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.
Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.
“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”
“I wasn’t back from the war.”
“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”
Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she
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didn’t say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.
“I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.”
“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”
“Very much.”
“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’
“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated—God, I’m sophisticated!”
The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face, as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.
Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the Saturday Evening Post—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamplight, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.
When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.
“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table, “in our very next issue.”
Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up.
“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”
“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow,” explained Daisy, “over at Westchester.”
“Oh—you’re Jordan Baker.”
I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.
“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you.”
“If you’ll get up.”
“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”
“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—”
“Good night,” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”
“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let her run around the country this way.”
“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.
“Her family.”
“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of weekends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”
Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.
“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.
“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white—”
“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?” demanded Tom suddenly.
“Did I?” She looked at me. “I can’t seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know—”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,” he advised me.
I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called: “Wait!”
“I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.”
“That’s right,” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were engaged.”
“It’s a libel. I’m too poor.”
“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. “We heard it from three people, so it must be true.”
Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn’t even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old friend on account of rumours, and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumoured into marriage.
Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he “had some woman in New York” was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.
Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red petrol-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight, and, turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbour’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.
I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.
II
About halfway between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.
But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to
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She entered my place holding a bottle of wine, one of those cheap ones you can drink easily because it's sweet but it's also dangerous because it's so pleasant to ingest.
It wasn't her first time at my house, the other ones always started the same way: we sipped the cheapest drink we could find and talked about anything that came through our minds. They've also finished the same way: we were laying down on my bed unconfortably but smiling, hugged under my blanket with nothing but our underwear beneath it.
This time, it started as usual but it didn't end as such. It ended with her wishing me good luck going foward, but that we "fit too well to work". "It is no one's fault it's not gonna work" she said, in an attempt to give no reason to blame myself, even though the poor girl failed miserably.
She went away through my door, leaving the dark and small room I called home, disappeared through the building's corridor lights and then closed the door with a swing to leave me at my dark place wishing her farewell.
Next day I was supposed to go to a job interview. I didn't manage to get there. A sudden breakdown of memories came through my mind and then my eyes in the form of tears, too embarassing for me, for the people around and for sure for whoever the interviewer might have been to deal with, so I went back home.
I think it happened because that wasn't the first time I was left in my dark room; maybe it was literally but not symbolically.
It happened with others before. The blonde girl that slowly but surely surely stopped sending me mesages and I never managed to see again, the fire haired one that said she wasn't ready for a relationship but was just way too shy to say she wanted another person and not me, leaving it for me to discover the fact all by myself...even some good friends I thought I could count on but couldn't, some due to distance, some due to the tiring but inevitable reality of me dumping the byproducts of my brain fog to everyone around me and some for reasons I'm still trying to figure out to this day.
It's not like I have resentment to any of them, that's the worst of it, because I get where they're coming from. They were all diferent people, all people I had different relations with, but there's one thing in common in all of these stories: me.
And that's where it gets scary...I'm the companion they've all ran away from, and I'm precisely the only person who will be the only one by my side through the rest of my days. And, to me, that's fucking terrifying, because, as whatever god you may or may not believe in is my witness, I would give anything in my life to leave me behind in the dark room as all of them had the good fortune of doing.

As the title mentions I'm an advanced-novella RPer looking for GMs or offering myself as a GM for various text-based RPs. I've provided a sample down below and will ask the same of anybody that reaches out. Outside of writing I tend to spend most of my time on games like Knights of the Old Republic 2, New Vegas, and, indeed, the Hobocop Game. I'm an Associate at Amazon with an otherwise unimpressive social life, occasionally leaving the house to play WH40K Tabletop.
Discord is more-or-less required for me to be interested; sample incoming.
​

The boar is not dead, though to all the other hunters’ senses it is. It lays motionless on its side within the sled, tied down by rope with two arrows sticking discordantly out of its hide like seams of broken bone. Frozen blood pools in the cracked stomach of the sled, collecting rather than leaking now that red ice has sealed the wood. Poison leaching out of the arrowheads keeps the boar docile, and its breathing so light that only Trapper can see. An ovate in too-thin robes shivers as she ties a garland of rosemary around the beast’s neck, murmuring prayers to the ancestors that they might find the kill worthy.
Winter has seized the land in its vise, its unending waves of cold and snow having transformed the Barony of Marlas into a crueler scape, one Trapper doesn’t quite recognize. Tranquility abounds along the driven snow, all through the clearing, hiding the buried world and the woes of man but unable to snuff them out. Trapper knows well what a mirage it is, the oppressive winters of his homeland no less savage than the bloodletting summers. The numbing cold does not soothe his aches, for he knows they’ll be worse come morning, come the thaw. Too soon this clearing will melt, its river gone from white to red, the whole Septima Line thrust back to war.
Baron Orys refuses to yield to midnight season, to accept its peace, and so from his great warhorse’s saddle he brazenly belts out a mixture of drunken lyrics and commands, determined to master this hunt even if he does not partake. An entourage on horseback spreads out in his orbit, ranging from eager young footmen to grizzled junkers, all in varying states of inebriation at his command. Their braying is nearly louder than the hounds’, who hungrily stalk between the sled and the hole they pulled the boar out from. Teased by the hunt but yet unrewarded, they’re too unruly to be kept in check by the kennel master.
On foot slog the unfortunates who actually have to take part in the hunt, Trapper among them. They huddle into their hemp canvas cloaks, glancing up at the moody afternoon sky threatening to crack open with another snowstorm. Dark clouds sweep in low from the south like a riptide, a single vast current swept in from the mountains already menacing the Oldwoods. Its furthest gales reach them as tongues of vengeful cold, flecks of whipped-up snow biting into Trapper’s exposed skin.
By the boar’s nest leans a typical Mallean, one of Trapper’s two erstwhile comrades. Sigorn is tall, pale, broad, with the close-set, wide-boned features of a commoner, and a shock of red hair grown out to protect against the elements. Beneath his cloak he proudly bears his blood-flecked armor, each dent a Darkman put into it a point of dear pride. He’s not the only one, either, the clearing filled with dozens of youths whose first blooding ended in victory amid a blizzard. Baron Orys, deep into his cups after six days of nonstop celebration, saw a break in the storms and gladly called a hunt. When informed he could not go on account of his shattered knee - he simply grinned, and ordered himself tied to his saddle.
Trapper remembers the moment his lord fell from the saddle, burned into his nerves. The screaming of horses, skidding hooves catching on the frozen ground. On the edges of his vision a rider smashes into a branch in the din, others don’t move at all for fear of the blizzard. His spurs dig, his borrowed steed whines, and he races for his lord - only for another to reach him first.
“What a woman.” Sigorn sighs beside Trapper, craning his neck to look at one of their lord’s companions of honor. Susannah Oye, junker unlike the others, a pretty, willowy noblewoman well into motherhood, with the lean, ruthless look of a ranger. Her two poisoned arrows are what struck the boar down, and her pride curls off her body like steam. Sigorn’s face cracks into exaggerated appreciation, and then he turns to their lord’s other honored companion. Another woman, this one as young as they are, haughtily-built and leering with none of Susannah’s refinement. Many of those looks are reserved for Trapper, forced to slog on foot as just another hunter. “Anya too. I think she fancies you, eh?”

​