Nyc runs half marathon

My first deployment was in Serbia, protecting Belgarad. I spent most of it sitting in various trenches, trying to keep my pants unshat. Or listening to speeches about bravery.
“Nothing is hard to concur,” Our captain told us, one day. “If you keep your head about you.”
He was lying.
He’s dead now.
Like most of my command that Spring, he had a lethal case of having his head up his ass. No one then quite comprehended why we were there, waiting in those blasted hills, and they thought, foolishly, that what we were fighting was like any other enemy.
But we weren’t fighting men.
We were fighting a Slith. And the locals told us that meant death.
Our first engagement was near Vrsac. An ambush. We lost half our platoon, including my friend, Andi, in the middle of the night, when the guy on sentry—a dipshit private called Kiersten—went for a piss. I was asleep in a lucky foxhole.
So I didn’t actually fight one for another two weeks.
To describe facing a Slith is to misrepresent the experience.
There’s a reason all our photos are aerial.
When I looked over my trench that fateful day, I saw human bodies squirming and writhing atop a great ball of flesh, stilted on spidery legs. Some of them were intact. Others were not. But they moved anyway, the nerve core at the center of that thing contracting their dead muscles.
I froze.
Our artillery hit the Slith’s center.
Have you ever seen a video of a spider sac bursting?
That thing exploded in a rain of meat and blood, and it did not die. Hundreds of smaller creatures flew off it like fuzz on a dandelion*.* Soon they would reform, carrying our death bodies with them. And the Slith would grow, eat, excrete waste.
But now they hunted us.
I shouldered my rifle and aimed for one of the larger masses. Kiersten banged into me.
“My gun! My gun!” He screamed. He’d lost his.
I hardly noticed. The torso of a man sprinted toward me, a fox's head grafted onto his chest, and those distinctive curling tendrils running out his back. He was decayed, rotting. I cut him in half with bullets.
Then over the hills, a familiar head, atop a spidery body of limbs.
Andi. My friend.
She descended on our position.
I wasn’t even surprised when she started talking. Kiersten was trying to grab my gun. Panicking.
“Watson.” She said, frantically. “You have to listen, we’re alive in there. We’re just hungry. I can make it painless.”
“Andi.” I said. I was crying.
Then I turned and shot Kiersten in the face.
Andi stared at me. Then she smiled gently. Her slithian chest unfolded like a paper fortune teller.
She never broke eye contact while she ate him.
And laying at the bottom of that trench, I lived.
So I’ve learned.
The trick to surviving isn’t keeping your own head.
It’s keeping someone else's.

Hey yall, I was just wondering how people trying to lose weight while being long distance runners adequately fuel enough to feel good on runs while staying gradually losing weight. Some stats about me: 180lbs 5’6”, mid 20s male. I run currently 40-45 miles per week and work as a zookeeper 6 days a week so fairly active overall. I haven’t calculated my maintenance weight yet and have been mostly eating enough to feel good on workouts / longer runs and during my work days.
The first 6 months of this year has prioritized running ability over weight loss (trained for a 1:29 half marathon. However, my weight has remained stagnant and I would like to take this summer / off season from racing to focus on weight loss, both for my overall health as well as performance. I understand that this question might be better suited in the running subreddits but figured I’d see if anyone has any advice for me here (or general tips that have worked out for other long distance runners too!) thank you much!

Ragnavi stood at the edge of a hill located beside the Dragonkin encampment. She breathed in, drinking deep from the crisp morning air.
It tasted wrong.
I have been dancing to Elnaril's tune. She was still coming to terms with that particular revelation. Even now, admitting it rankled her. The notion that she'd allowed herself to be blinded by her pursuit of EXP...fuck, it was shameful. No one else knew, but she did, and that was already bad enough.
Hindsight made it all seem so obvious. This entire war was a farce. Her armies had advanced unopposed because they were never meant to be opposed. Their string of victories, and the Harpies she'd slain as EXP, were little more than a trail of bait leading her towards Elnaril's capital city. No other explanation made sense.
Not that she'd looked especially hard for an explanation until yesterday. It was much more convenient to adorn Elnaril with neat, concise labels. Why had he declared war? Because he was greedy. Why were his armies failing so spectacularly? Because he was incompetent. Ragnavi had been content to look no further than that.
After learning Elnaril was controlled by the Blight, however? That changed matters.
Most of her soldiers refused to believe it. In truth, the Harpies they'd extracted the information from refused to believe it as well. They'd thrown out the rumors as a desperate measure to buy favor, explaining how distressing Message Crystal reports of a Blight-possessed Elnaril were coming from cities to the far east. The concept seemed ludicrous, and Ragnavi likely would have dismissed it as hearsay – if it weren't for the numerous corroborating accounts of disappearances in the capital. Nobles, civilians and Combat Class users alike, all vanishing without a trace.
When combined with Elnaril's flagrant lack of regard for the lives of his people, it indicated a pattern. Not of greedy incompetence, but of calculated malice.
Others could stick their heads in the sand if they wished. Ragnavi had grown up in the pit of vipers that was the Dragonkin court, and she could smell deceit from leagues away. This Blight-infected Elnaril wanted her army to continue marching straight towards the capital city. For him, abomination that he was, sacrificing the lives of thousands of Harpies in order to draw her attention was no worse than spilling loose change on the ground.
What have you prepared that instills you with such confidence? What awaits me at the capital?
She supposed that she'd be finding out soon, when she left her armies behind and flew ahead alone.
If Ragnavi was capable of greater self-delusion, she might have been able to convince herself that she was acting pragmatically. There were just enough benefits for it to be a half-sensible plan. Compared to the maddeningly slow gait of her armies, she could travel significantly faster on her own. Flying solo would let her reach the capital in less than ten days, while trekking with her soldiers across the bulk of Harpy territory would take months more. And it wasn't as if any Harpies she crossed paths with could keep pace with her, so there was no real danger to it.
I am playing the role of a Scout, she told herself. We must know what Elnaril is plotting before advancing further. Arriving at the capital earlier than he anticipates, before he's recalled more Harpies to fortify his position, may give rise to unforeseen opportunities. I will observe the city from a safe distance – and if a chance arises to disrupt his plans, no Combat Class user in the world is better-suited to taking advantage of that scenario than myself.
Sound logic...if she ignored the fury boiling inside her. The last Blight she'd encountered left her with agonizing Corruption sickness that afflicted her to this day. Its death hadn't been anywhere near sufficient of a revenge. Now a second Blight was trying to make a fool of her, and she was supposed to avert her eyes from that offense?
No. Perhaps the cautious route would have been to avoid the capital city, Scouring the rest of Harpy territory for EXP, but she was no mewling newborn that cowered from a challenge when it presented itself. She was a Dragonkin. A true Dragonkin. Elnaril would pay for his transgressions in blood and fire.
Ragnavi recognized that her desires were born from hubris. She also did not care. What good was all the power she'd accumulated if she couldn't use it as she pleased?
An approaching presence jarred her from her thoughts. She turned around to see the man she'd called for standing several feet away, although he was 4 minutes and 13 seconds late. Considering his circumstances, she would afford him a measure of leniency. "Vurshath."
"My Queen." Her retainer nodded to her. "You wished to see me?"
She examined the man closely. Vurshath's posture was slouched by a quarter of an inch, and black circles were emblazoned under his eyes, so dark that they could've been mistaken for paint. He was exhibiting unacceptable weakness for a retainer of the Dragon Queen to show. The kind that invited vultures to swoop down and pick at your carcass.
Yet even if the other retainers attempted to depose him at this very instant, Ragnavi wasn't certain if Vurshath would care. He was still recovering from the loss of his wife. It was one thing to claim that your family was prepared to die in battle; another to witness that gruesome vow become a reality. The Dragonkin casualties thus far had been sparse, but sparse was not zero, and Vurshath's wife happened to roll poorly in the game of war.
The pain in his eyes was one that Ragnavi was intimately familiar with.
"As you are aware, I shall be traveling to the Harpy capital," she began. "I intend to head straight there, without detours or excessive rest. It is unlikely that I will encounter anything more than the occasional Harpy along the way."
She locked eyes with him. "However. While the odds are egregiously small, there remains a possibility that I will encounter...others."
Vurshath's posture stiffened. His facial muscles twitched sporadically, a cauldron of emotions threatening to boil forth. "I see."
Ragnavi allowed him a grace period of three seconds before continuing. "Your wayward pariah of a daughter. What is her name?"
Silence.
"Meyneth," he finally spat, as if it was a curse. Vurshath didn't bother asking why Ragnavi wished to know. Among the scattered pieces of information the Harpy prisoners had divulged, one interesting fact was the makeup of the Human's core Party. Four Elves, two Fiends, the Human himself...
And a Dragonkin. With the same age, height, and scale coloration of Vurshath's exiled progeny.
It could be mere coincidence. After what happened with Elnaril, though, Ragnavi was hesitant to accept such a simple, convenient explanation.
Meyneth. Ragnavi committed the name to memory. "I shall ask you one more question. If luck smiles on me, and I come across the Human's Party, and I cast Identify on the Dragonkin in his Party, and their name is a match for your daughter's...what would you have me do? This is not a puzzle or a test. I am letting you decide."
She wondered if he fully appreciated the boon she was granting him. The Human's pet Dragonkin was a traitor to their race. Such a lowly creature deserved nothing less than to be executed, without recourse or remorse. It was only out of respect for Vurshath's recent loss that Ragnavi was willing to give his daughter a second chance.
Upon hearing her words, the man lost any semblance of composure. His face twisted into an ugly rictus of anguish and hatred, and when he spoke, the words were laced with a venom that could fell gorebeasts. "Kill her." Vurshath balled his hands into shaking fists. "Kill her. Kill her quickly. She does not deserve to exist. A world where Velen is gone, yet that defect persists is a world of mockery that I cannot abide."
Ragnavi nodded. She was plenty willing to fulfill his request. Slaying enemies was one of the few things that still gave her joy in life. Even so, a part of her was disappointed. Vurshath's choice proved that the two of them possessed incompatible personalities. He could be entertaining enough – when not wallowing in misery – but Ragnavi was averse to spending time with someone who would condemn a family member so readily.
It was the end of their acquaintanceship. When she returned from her mission, she would cut him loose, and that would be that.
"Goodbye, Vurshath." Ragnavi turned around, and without another word, assumed her Draconic Form. The Corruptive pain of transformation gradually subsided, after which she took flight and began her journey.
Ten days. A prelude to the storm. She'd use that respite to prepare herself, and whoever she met next – be that Meyneth, the Human, or Elnaril himself – would regret opposing her as the flames took them.
--
Rob sat alone in his tent, rubbing his hands together and suppressing maniacal laughter. He was probably spending too much time with Malika during the dimension mage sessions, because some of her mannerisms were becoming infectious. Usually the big sibling was supposed to be a bad influence on the little sibling, but she'd already stolen all his swear words, so now it was his turn to pick up habits.
And that was okay! Today was an excellent day for maniacal laughter. It wasn't often that a Combat Class user reached a 200 stat point milestone. And by often, he meant fucking never. He was pretty sure even the Dragon Queen hadn't done that naturally, excluding her doubled stats. She'd likely gone with a more balanced spread that didn't prohibitively favor one stat over the others – like a boring loser.
Alright, maybe he was feeling a bit hyper, but he deserved the good vibes after yesterday's war battle. Spending stat points was one of the few types of pure, no-strings-attached joy that Elatra offered.
Drum roll please! Rob played the sound effect in his head, then added 15 of his unspent points into Vitality, bringing its total up to 200.
Do Not Go Gently Level Increased! 5 → 6
Lifesurge Level Increased! 23 → 26
Dauntless Reprisal Level Increased! 21 → 24
Imbue Vitality Level Increased! 2 → 3
Regeneration Level Increased! 29 → 32
Regrow Self Level Increased! 1 → 2
Passive Skill Learned! Name: Lifedrinker (LEGENDARY)
As an appetizer for the main course, Rob quickly ran through the laundry list of bonuses for his Skills. Let's see...Do Not Go Gently's cooldown and duration went down and up, respectively. Lifesurge and Dauntless Reprisal's cooldown dropped to 2 minutes. Lifesurge also heals 100% of my maximum health now. Imbue Vitality has a 5x damage multiplier instead of 4x. Regrow Self is twice as fast. Regeneration...
...Holy shit, Regeneration.
Eyes wide, Rob moved on to his new Skill, which should shed light on what he'd just read.
Name: Lifedrinker (LEGENDARY) Prerequisite: Vitality 200 Description: The final Vitality Skill that can be learned solely through stat gains. Effects of Regeneration are multiplied by a factor of 15. Additionally, whenever the owner of this Skill kills a worthwhile opponent, their maximum HP permanently increases by 3.
Okay.
This was big.
Lifedrinker being the final Vitality milestone was slightly disappointing, but realistically speaking, he would've needed to put three-fourths of his future stat points into Vitality to hit 250 anyway. He'd neglected his other stats to get to 200, so diversifying from here on out was for the best. Besides – Lifedrinker's benefits easily made up for there being no new milestones.
First: Regeneration. Multiplying its current effects by 15 meant that he now restored 80% of his maximum HP every minute. No panic Lifesurge necessary. Even in fights where his Skills were on cooldown, or an enemy was making it difficult for him to heal via Lifesteal damage, as long as he held on, he would be back to full HP in 75 seconds at the most. It also meant that the partial Regeneration he shared with his allies would be way stronger. Anything that kept his friends alive was a huge win in his book.
With all that said, it was Lifedrinker's secondary effect that was throwing Rob for a loop. Whenever he killed a 'worthwhile opponent', his maximum HP would go up by 3. That was...potentially the most important Skill effect he'd ever learned.
At a glance, it might not seem that impressive. Rob already had 2000 HP. Increasing it by 3 per kill wouldn't be a dramatic boost – initially. The thing was that Lifedrinker had no upper limit. Theoretically, if Rob could keep finding worthwhile opponents, his Vitality would never stop increasing. The hard cap of Level 99 would no longer be an impassable wall preventing him from growing stronger.
That had been on his mind, if he was being honest. The Dragon Queen was a double stats cheater, and the gods were literally gods. What would he have done if he'd reached Level 99 and it just...wasn't enough? He could try to boost his existing Skills by getting into more fights, but that was subject to diminishing returns. Tough Skin was a prime example of that; despite Rob taking a beating against the monster stampede, the Skill hadn't increased. The last time it did was when a Blight decapitated him and ate most of his body. If he needed to one-up that feat to make Tough Skin level again, then it likely never would.
Lifedrinker was simpler. Kill enemies, get HP. The 'worthwhile' stipulation was a limiting factor – he couldn't toss a Riardin Special onto an anthill and reap the rewards – but he could work with that. There were hundreds of monsters in a single high-Level Dungeon, and they respawned over time. If enemies above, say, Level 35 were considered worthwhile, then awesome. If they weren't?
Looks like I'm going to be the schmuck who lets a Dungeon grow on purpose. He'd save that as a last resort. Could blow up in his face, but, eh. What did it matter if a Dungeon overflowed, when the alternative was Ragnavi and the gods doing their thing?
There was just one issue. Lifedrinker's bonus needed to be built up. An infinite upper limit was worth jack shit if the base number stayed at 0. The sooner, the better, too, as Ragnavi's army was about a month away from them. He'd love to go trawling for Dungeons right this second, but Rob doubted that Elnaril was going to wait on his behalf before getting bored and infecting Loci of Power. The only way forward was to continue south to the capital and build Lifedrinker in...different ways.
Rob's train of thought screeched to a halt. When he really looked at it, Lifedrinker's timing seemed more than a little dubious. He couldn't help but notice that he'd been given a Skill that incentivized killing while in the middle of a war.
A war where he was trying to avoid as many enemy casualties as possible.
It could just be a coincidence. Stat milestones happened on his terms. The system would've given him the same Skill if he'd reached 200 Vitality months ago. That was a reasonable assumption to make.
...Still. Didn't feel right. He wished he could do some research on the subject, but it wasn't like there was anyone on-hand he could cross-reference 200 Vitality with. Had the Dragon Queen gotten the same Skill? Would explain why she was so murder crazy.
After some thought, Rob shook his head. Considering how many people she'd slaughtered in The Scouring, a Dragon Queen with Lifedrinker wouldn't have struggled to defeat the Blight of Broadwater. Which meant two possibilities: her bonus double stats didn't count for Skill Prerequisites, or Lifedrinker was a custom Skill that the Skills had cooked up for him.
Rob wasn't a fan of that idea. The Skills were victims in this whole fucked-up affair. He didn't want to imagine them hand-crafting an ability that encouraged him to kill a bunch of people. Were they-
He froze. Something on his Character Sheet was different.
Name: Lifedrinker (LEGENDARY) Prerequisite: Vitality 200 Description: The final Vitality Skill that can be learned purely through stat gains. Effects of Regeneration are multiplied by a factor of 15. Additionally, whenever the owner of this Skill kills a worthwhile opponent, their maximum HP permanently increases by 3. It could have been a utopia.
His eyes fell on the last sentence in the Description.
Before he could respond, it changed once more.
Description: The final Vitality Skill that can be learned purely through stat gains. Effects of Regeneration are multiplied by a factor of 15. It could have been a utopia. This world is a charnel house of death. Your home is not so dissimilar. You do not know what true peace is like. What it can be. How it can be achieved.
The words kept changing.
Description: The final Vitality Skill that can be learned purely through stat gains. But they know. They've seen them. Created them before. They could have made a utopia. And they chose not to.
Changing.
Description: You cannot comprehend it. What this war means. The real war. Not pointed sticks piercing flesh. The war of existence. Of reality. More than a single world at stake. Many after. Potentially infinite lives. Never ends. Unless stopped here.
Change.
Description: They are vulnerable. System is their heart. Mana is their lifeblood. Poured too much of themselves. Tied to world. Cannot...
The words wavered, almost fading away, before returning.
Description: Their leader recognizes mistakes. Won't make them again. Will never be this vulnerable again. Only opportunity.
Description: Lifedrinker. Crafted. Best we could manage. Highest probability. Of victory. Distasteful. We know.
Description: Remember. Stakes. Consequences. And. Choose.
Rob blinked.
Description: The final Vitality Skill that can be learned purely through stat gains. Effects of Regeneration are multiplied by a factor of 15. Additionally, whenever the owner of this Skill kills a worthwhile opponent, their maximum HP permanently increases by 3.
The words were still and unchanging.
He sat there for a long time. Mulling over everything he'd just been told. Contemplating the enormity of what lay ahead.
"Ah." Rob's voice was quiet, barely a whisper. "So no pressure, then."
--
The next few days were an exhausting mixture of lighthearted Skill testing and existential dread, knocking around Rob's emotional state like a ping-pong ball.
Everyone in the coalition was excited over Lifedrinker. Well, everyone except Seneschal Sylpeiros, King Cyraeneus, and Nerasi, that is. They were already thinking of the kind of threat Rob might be in the future – and not liking what they envisioned. Cyraeneus and Nerasi mostly took the news in stride, understanding that Rob would be more crucial than anyone in defeating Queen Ragnavi. For now, his strength was their strength.
Sylpeiros...was less accepting. He went on a minor rant about bullshit Human leveling and bullshit Human Skills before stalking off into the distance and putting himself in a self-imposed time out. When the Seneschal returned, he was calm as can be and ready to offer advice, only the slight twitch of his eye indicating that anything was amiss.
Rob appreciated the free entertainment. Sylpeiros' meltdown was the funniest shit he'd seen all week, and it helped keep him grounded as the coalition advanced further south towards the capital city.
Initial testing of Lifedrinker proved unsuccessful, which was to be expected. Powerful monsters rarely spawned outside of Dungeons, and most of the high-Level wildlife in Harpy territory had been conscripted into Elnaril's monster stampede. After Rob killed a Level 29 snake with nothing to show for it, everyone decided that he should hold off unless something in the Level 35+ range appeared, lest he hog EXP that could benefit the coalition soldiers.
They kept an eye out for Dungeons as they traveled. Once Elnaril was dead, there should be time to investigate them before the Dragonkin army arrived at the Harpy capital. Going on varied Dungeon Crawls would be the real litmus test of what Lifedrinker deemed a worthwhile opponent.
That was about when the dust settled, leaving Rob without distractions, forcing him to think about what the Skills had revealed.
As much as he wanted to be shocked, what they'd said made a grim sort of sense. It matched the information he'd learned so far. Diplomacy's Elatra – the previous world that had been destroyed by the gods – didn't necessarily need to be the original Elatra. For all Rob knew, it could have been Elatra #10. Just another petri dish in a long line of divine experiments.
Except that things were different this time. According to the Skills, the gods were vulnerable. They'd fucked up somehow. Invested too much of themselves in this particular world. It was easy to imagine why. Success breeds complacency, and if this was Elatra #50 or whatever, then they were on a winning streak that had lasted for longer than Rob could fathom.
What did the Skills say about the gods' leader? That he recognized their mistakes, and wouldn't make them again? Rob grimaced. Should've memorized it with Recall when I had the chance. The specific wording might be important.
Regardless, he was fairly certain that the gods' leader referred to Kismet, if only because that was the one god Rob had met with anything resembling impulse control. Kismet seemed judicious; he would correct the gods' mistakes and prevent them from being this vulnerable in the future.
A dense lump of anxiety formed in Rob's chest as he considered that. Being responsible for the fate of one world was bad enough. Two, if he included Earth. Being responsible for the fate of every world that would be created and tortured in the event of his failure was...
Words couldn't describe it.
When viewed in that light, he understood why the Skills gave him Lifedrinker and all but pushed him to get busy killing. From a utilitarian standpoint, the lives of everyone in Elatra and Earth were not worth the immeasurable amount of suffering that would continue if the gods lived.
Rob grabbed that thought, tied weights around its ankles, and dropped it into a deep lake. I just need to concentrate on one thing at a time, he told himself. First Elnaril, then Ragnavi and Dungeon Crawling, then figure out the gods. It sounds less impossible if I reduce it to a series of steps. Or a hit list. We'll save this world, and we'll do it \my* way, without losing sight of who we are.*
He took comfort in his resolve, although it felt strained. Somehow I doubt this is what Goroth had in mind when he told me I was going to end up making tough decisions. He was probably referring to, like, boring political stuff. Not the fate of multiple worlds and the lives of billions.
Rob sighed. Crap. I...may owe him an apology. Still stand by everything I said, but he was just looking out for me, and I came on pretty strong. Should clear the air with him.
Eventually.
--
Days passed. Rob informed Riardin's Rangers and the Elders about what the Skills revealed. They reacted about as well as him. Nothing changed, technically, yet they were even more cognizant of the price of failure than before.
Thankfully, the coalition hadn't been ambushed by Harpies a second time. Elnaril learned his lesson. He'd either consolidated his remaining forces into the capital city, or they were being sent to fight Dragonkin on the western front. Rob hoped for the latter – it would make seizing the capital way easier. And on a more selfish note, if Harpies needed to die so that Elnaril could be overthrown, he'd rather the Dragonkin be responsible for their deaths than him.
Finally, after a full week of travel, the coalition had almost arrived. They'd be at the capital city tomorrow. Their long journey was coming to its end.
Which meant that Rob was running out of time. There wouldn't be much chance to talk once the invasion of the capital began. He'd been meaning to speak with Goroth, but unfortunately, he'd delegated that responsibility to the part of himself that specialized in procrastination. Whoops.
It was now or never. All he had to do was...step outside his tent. Take initiative. Be a mature, rational adult.
Yup.
...Can't I just go wrestle a Blight instead?
At that moment, a Fiend mage burst inside. "Lord Roy!"
Oh thank god. A reasonable distraction. "What's up?"
"I have a missive from...my group."
The dimension mages. That one sentence caught Rob's attention in an iron grip. "And?" he asked, keeping his expectations in check. He didn't want for hope to swell, only to be dashed against the rocks of reality. "Is it good news?"
"We've made a breakthrough. Before you grow too excited, creating a door remains beyond our capabilities." The mage smiled. "A window, however, is feasible. It would be one-way. The people of Earth could not interact with you, nor you with them. But for a brief period, you would be able to gaze upon your home world."
Rob was already on his feet. "When?"
"Now, if you wish."
He absolutely fucking wished.
​
--
​
Changes, Character Sheet, Skills List
More chapters are available on Patreon.
Thanks for reading!

What if,instead of SquirrelFlight and AshFur going through the whole fire scene love triangle thing...it was between ThrushPelt,OakHeart,and ThrushPelt? I'm thinking of something like this:
So,OakHeart joins Thunderclan,and although BlueFur isn't on board with him leaving behind his clan,She's happy she won't be alone and she'll be able to raise her kits in peace. ThrushPelt starts to become distant and depressed after he gets rejected and all hope that he'll ever get with BlueFur becomes lost. He starts to see the kits grow up and becomes envious and jealous of the perfect life they all have. SunStar appointed Thrushpelt to be MossPaw's mentor,much to his disgust. At one point,he eventually lashes out on MossPaw because she let a piece of prey slip out from her paws,and he pounced on her and hissed. Back at the medicine den where both cats are getting treated for their injuries,ThrushPelt is fed up and tries to think of a way to ruin their lives...and the timing couldn't be any more perfect. Lightning struck a tree and started a forest fire a few moons later. StoneFur,MistyFoot,and MossFur were following BlueFur out of the fire until they were confronted by ThrushPelt. ThrushPelt threatened to expose the truth to everyone if BlueFur didn't agree to love him...unbeknownst to him,she was a strong and fearless she-cat,wanting to protect what she loved most. Determination fueled her;she wasn't going to lose these kits like she lost her mother and sister. She pounced on ThrushPelt and yelled for her kits to find OakHeart. MistyFoot and StoneFur ran up the hill and ran to find their father...but MossFur collapsed at their paws,soon dying from smoke inhalation. BlueFur upon seeing her sweet daughter die was fueled with grief,anger and self-blame. She slashed at ThrushPelt's throat before running out of the flames and leaving ThrushPelt to fend for himself while protecting her other kits. Once the fire died down,BlueFur went to her daughter and former-friend's burned corpses... She stayed there for so long,grieving and crying,blaming herself no matter how much OakHeart tried to console her. But he was grieving himself,and he felt powerless. All he could do was be there for her. Eventually,BlueFur told her kits the truth,and at first,they were shocked that they were half-clan,but they understood the events that led to now and forgave their parents.
I really like this AU,and to be honest,I came up with all this on the spot lol. What do you guys think?

So here’s the run down
We’re small band, around 35 people. A lot of them, maybe around half, are newer kids/middle schoolers. We have two DM’s, a trumpet player and a tenor player, who will be playing for half and then marching for half of the show.
We’re gonna have about 3 trumpets (excluding the DM), 2 mellophones (someone switching to mello + a middle schooler), ~3 baritones, also younger kids, 1 sousaphone (middle schooler) and 1 trombone (a junior). How can I make my section better, I wanna really transform my section but it’s definitely gonna be hard.

Keep Your Mouth Shut.
You will never regret not telling people your business. There are men AND women just waiting to tell your business, even those closest to you. Lauren Sanchez was exposed by her closest friend for being Jeff Bezos mistress’. The media and general public was coming down hard on Lauren but not the woman who exposed Lauren. Understand that the world is afraid of Villainess/Diabla women which is why Mens Rights activists, red pill assholes, and incels will try to attack Diabla and Villainess. This is only online but imagine if everyone in real life found out all of your “evil” ways. All hell would break loose. Empty ATMs and misogynists would hope you get stoned to death and weak dickmatized women would compare themselves to you to be seen as better. The world does not accept us. Can that be hard to accept? Yes, but get over it. Stop telling your friends and family your business. Get a damn diary. I can't tell you how many old posts on Diabla I saw of women fucking up for running their mouths. Understand that there is no reward for over-sharing.
If people wonder how you got a CEO, top surgeon, or senator you simply say “I don't know, it was just love at first sight😊.” If everyone wants to know how you became the general manager of a company even though you started as off as an intern you just say “I work hard❤️.”
Men are psychopathic so they hate feeling conned and will use their wrath against you. If word gets back to a man that you've had some plot to use against him he will bash you to everyone, plot some revenge, he might post your business on social media, he also might even physically attack you and since he’s a man everyone will have sympathy for him.
Unfortunately, I saw a story on another sub of a pregnant woman who was in a relationship with a wealthy man who had the police detain her and force her to take pregnancy test because he believed she was lying when she told him she was pregnant. This was not in some 3rd world country either, it was just a town in the U.S where a man could shell out money to the cops to snatch a woman who he believes is messing with him.
Men are already born with paranoia due to their sick nature and society fear-mongering them about getting used by a “golddigger”, and being cuckolded so if you actually do blab about your plans to drain bank account to ANYONE, he will explode and you will feel the scalding hot blast. Rich men are also especially paranoid. Even the seemingly nice rich guys will have you followed the by the police and private investigators. They will also pay someone to monitor your social media activity. They will bug your phone to see who you’re texting, calling, and emailing. Don't get me started on all the tech guys who spy on their partners. Many people who work for the NSA have been caught using special intelligence to spy on spouses and potential partners so rich guy could do that ×10. Men are already fearful so keep your mouth closed! The more money a man has, the higher the chance of him having eyes and ears everywhere.
Women will tell your business to everyone simply to have something interesting to talk about. They might cheer you on but they will blab about you in group chats, at dinners and at parties. They might smile when you speak of your villainous ways but they will secretly be enraged because they wish they knew everything you knew sooner and they're fearful that you'll use your tactics on their husbands or boyfriends. They will also be upset if they know you're tactics are working while they are slaving away at minimum-wage jobs and paying half the bills with their on-and-off boyfriend. Lauren Sanchez’s friend exposed her for money from tabloids but I also wouldn't be surprised at all if Lauren’s friend was jealous about Lauren dating one of the richest men in the world while also being an accomplished pilot and news anchor in her own right. If a woman knows that you have it all she might try to take away all that you have.
I believe that pick-me is a very broad, overused term so I’ll call pick-mes what they really are which is dangerous, mentally ill bitches who attack other women in various ways for male validation (the cheapest thing on the planet). I don't even see them as human. They are simply evil spirits who participate in the oppression of other women for nothing in return but a pat on the back and a sick man to look their way. They will tell your business without a doubt. The thing is, “pick-mes can actually have Villainess/Diabla actions such as gossiping, backstabbing, lying but they don't even try to gain anything meaningful from it so they'll tell everyone your business just to be seen as a “good girl” and still go dutch on dates. Pick-mes will tell everyone your plan to report you boyfriend to the IRS and run off with a rich guy because they are desperate and you might not know that the woman you're speaking to is desperate.
I don’t care if your old friend from junior high just got out of a toxic five-year relationship, don't tell her shit about your Villainess/Diabla tactics.
Understand that like men, women can smile in your face and betray you. What I say might be labelled as “crabs in a barrel mentality” but I don't really give a shit. This is Diabla, not preschool. If you feel the need to tell everyone how you use and abuse people and get everything you want from men, literally duct tape your mouth shut because if you don't you will pay for it.
Keep your business to yourself. Privacy is protection.

Guess which sub

Hi! This is gonna be my first Reddit post and I've been hesitant at first to do this but I'm really desperate. It has been taking a toll on my mental health too.
Just a disclaimer. I'm not sure if this is allowed but please let me know if this is not allowed and what's the correct avenue or which subreddit should I post. I would really appreciate it.
My grandma has been in the hospital for a few days now and her bills are piling up. We've tried reaching out to our extended families and friends for help but the amount doesn't suffice though we're really grateful for them. We're currently in a huge debt and I'm still paying the loan we've had to pay my brother's tuition and my dad's hospitalization from last year. Wala pa dito yung sarili kong bills and bills sa bahay na ako nagbabayad.
I was also supposed to visit my doctor for a followup checkup since may sugat na yung lower part ng lungs ko but I need to prioritize my grandma. I'm currently juggling multiple jobs pero hindi pa rin po sapat and wala akong tulog. I honestly don't want to apply for another loan again, super laki ng interest and it doesn't make sense (mostly half yung tubo). I've also tried looking for government assistance, but malabo since my grandma's confined in a private hospital and there's no one in the family who can run errands for the requirements and paperwork.
We've also tried reaching out to my other cousins (who are also my grandma's grandchildren), pero nakakabwisit lang kasi kahit moral support wala man lang? Kung kelan kailangang kailangan sila ng lola nila, hindi nila maabutan ng kahit kaunting tulog. I honestly don't want to post this since it's very personal but papaano ba makakapagtrabaho magulang nila kung hindi sa lola ko na nag-alaga sa kanila para may maayos sila tinitirhan at nakakakain ng ilang beses sa isang umaga. It's very heavy but I hope this post reaches to them.
Now, my dad and I are selling some of our stuff to pay my grandma's confinement. If anyone would like to purchase a secondhand Nikon D5300 (with a lot of inclusions) and a local mountain bike, please let me know. We're really desperate. It's currently up in the marketplace, pero walang interested to purchase. It would be really helpful po if meron din kayong kilala, who's interested to buy. I can provide proof of my grandma's hospitalization since we've just received her partial billing earlier this morning. We're also accepting monetary donations and any amount will do po. You
Thank you so much and we really appreciate your help 🙏🏼

Background: I've walk-jogged a dozen half-marathons at 15 min/mile pace, and still consider myself a beginner. I'm very, very overweight, in my mid-30's, with achilles tendonitis...and (foolishly?) signed up for a full marathon in Spring 2024 because I wanted to kick myself in the butt towards losing weight and getting into a regular workout schedule. I'm grateful to have a good friend who is a runner and who inspired me to do my first half marathon a few years ago. With their guidance, and a lot of research/experimentation on my own, I feel pretty confident about my path forward in most aspects, except for shoes. Shoe purchases were always determined by what fit, felt good, and were on sale at the local sporting goods store. Nike, Saucony, Asics, various styles. I would basically just buy a pair 4-5 months before a race, train in them, do the race, and then just keep them as casual walking shoes. Now that I'm looking at a marathon though, I'm getting oddly more anxious the more I read up and wanted to ask for y'all's advice.
Feet: high arches, wide width. Men's 9.5 2E. Hot spots after some, but not all, past races were blisters on balls of feet under big toes and along the outside ball of foot for the 2-3" under pinky toes. (Blisters usually coincided with when I wasn't sticking to training, so I don't necessarily blame the shoes.) Wear pattern on shoes - heels always look like new, but outside balls of feet get worn down until holey and pinky toes often rub through fabric uppers.
Training Plan:
- Phase 1: 10 weeks, average 15 miles/week of 2-5mi runs to build up from mostly walking to mostly jogging a 5k.
- Phase 2: 28 weeks of marathon training, average of 10 miles/week walk-jogging, longest run is 13 miles.
- Phase 3: last 8 weeks of marathon training, average of 32 miles/week, with long runs between 15-20 miles.
- I plan on having 2 pairs of shoes at any given time. 1 pair to do marathon training in, and 1 pair for walking/cross-training. I need help finding the marathon training shoes.
Questions:
- Since I'm big, walk-jogging, and will be going at a slower pace (mid-teens), should I be looking at a walking shoe to get the cushion and support I need since I feel like I squish flat/rub through running shoe support pretty quickly (like closer to 200-250 miles than the 300-500 mile figure I read about.)
- I've heard that insoles can be a cheap way to add more support (high arches) and cushion (I'm putting a lot of force on my feet). What are your thoughts/do you use them? I've tried Dr. Scholl's gel inserts just in regular walking shoes, but they seem too unstable/squidgy. Are foam ones betterecommendations?
- Are custom orthotics worth it?
- Should I buy two of the same shoe and wear 1 for the first 2/3rds of training and the 2nd pair the last 33% of training?
- Besides Saucony Triumphs, what other shoes would y'all recommend for heavy people with wide feet and high arches?
- I'm trying to stick to a $300 marathon shoe budget (2 pairs x $110 training shoes + 2 pairs x $40 cross-training shoes). Is that reasonable?
​
Thanks in advance for your help.

You don’t have to be from the SF Bay Area, ideally looking for someone from Cali, but I’m open to get to know people from other places! Would be down for a LDR
También hablo español! 🙂
Decent job, usually busy with work, side gigs and trying to stay fit! I’m always down to travel/hike. I’ve done several hikes in Yosemite, including Half Dome 💪
Average built, working on sliming down. Currently 200 but I’m trying to get down to like 170-180!
As mentioned earlier, I’m fluent in Spanish, bien bélico 😅 lol. I do think better chemistry could be built with someone from Latin America, but definitely not a requirement! No degree yet (working on getting it), Business Marketing!
I’ve traveled to Mexico and the Caribbean. I’ve also gone on some cool road trips! Want to visit Hawaii, other parts of Mexico and South America, Japan and Korea!
Catholic upbringing but don’t practice it as much as I used to. I respect all religions, they all something positive to bring to the world.
I’m usually not the funniest guy in every room but I try 😅
Used to play soccer and football! Currently love hikes and I’m trying to get back into medium distance running!
Hobbies include: working on a side business and content creation!
If you’ve read this far, just know I just got tested and result all came back negative 🔥🔥🔥🔥 no COVID 🚫 and no STD/STIs

As the title says, building a mixed use pc for some gaming, modeling and simulation. Have built half a of about 6+ years ago (my brother handed me down his old case with very little and I didn’t know what I was doing at all: put together a cpu and mobo and pay and got it running but obviously wanted to always take the time to build one from scratch now that I am out of college and can afford to and will actually start using it).
Looking to start build as soon as final components come in mail. Can return or exchange any but wanted at least to try and build and get acquainted with fit and handling and BIOS start up etc.
Will probably add some additional SSD and/or HDD capacity later, maybe even a RAID depending on how much I get into some other hobbies later. Will make a future post with complete build.
Happy to have discovered the North case, found online (Newegg), ordered, and delivered within 1 week. Especially after reading how long folks have been waiting for restocks. Really wanted the 4090 FE because I like the aesthetics of the NVIDIA cards but could only get my hands on the 4080 which is fine. This pc will be used more than any I’ve ever owned (non-work asset) but that’s not really saying much so my priorities were upgradability, solid performance for current gen tech, and aesthetics honestly. Didn’t really set much of a budget so I tried to “max” most specs out without going crazy into HEDT space as I just wanted to see how much I like PC gaming overall. Most of the mod and sim I do is done at my job so this pic is really just intended for hobby or light WFH use.
Parts List

Part 1: https://www.reddit.com/ReddXReads/comments/13lfqkw/vulturebeard_the_legbeard_that_ruined_roomies_fo Part 2: https://www.reddit.com/ReddXReads/comments/13u79ht/vulturebeard_bad_roomies_part_2/
^{Hi again, it’s the bunny. I’ve just barely stepped into Reddx’s discord, but Ezekial is still posting this saga for me so thank you, Z.}
Trigger warning: This will deal with a lot of aspects relating to child neglect (and possible abuse) and Kid being ignored or taking the brunt of Vulture’s anger. Sorry for the spoiler as well, but I think we saw this coming, too (especially if you’ve seen Z talk in the discord). Don’t push yourself to read if you’re not okay with these concepts.
The Cast List
Bunny (author): 33, female. Recovering lifelong doormat slowly building a spine. Neuro spicy gym rat with major depressive disorder, general anxiety disorder, and most recently diagnosed with ADHD. Unfortunately, very familiar with surviving trauma.
Z (poster): My partner. 31, nonbinary (they/them), also neuro spicy with depression, anxiety, OCD, BPD, autism, and also familiar with lifelong trauma.
One Liner Beard (OLB): 33, male, neuro spicy with ADHD and depression. His nickname here comes from the fact that in messenger, he usually has one-word replies like “oof” or “mmm” as an acknowledgement he had seen the message but has nothing further to contribute.
VultureBeard (Vulture): 30, female, neuro spicy and disabled with multiple conditions. She has Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, POTs (postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome), autism, depression, anxiety, chronic migraines, but also possibly a list of things that may or may not be real. The star of this unfortunate circus. Her name comes from how she always pops up when I’m cooking food, complaining about how hungry is and how she’s unable to cook.
Kid: 3. Female. OLB and Vulture’s child. Likely neuro spicy like we all are, but she’s also only 3 years old. Slightly speech delayed and not potty trained yet.
Take a deep breath. Now take another one. This chapter will likely make you mad.
​
Chapter Three: “Do You Want Bologna?” Or, Vulture as a Parent
Imagine this: it’s eight in the morning and you’re cozy in bed. The blankets are warm, and you hit snooze on your early alarm so you can sleep in before you have to get up.
Your peace is shattered by a toddler crying, followed by the screech of, “WHAT!” or “GET DOWN FROM THERE!”
Yeah, welcome to The Life.
Vulture has a messed-up sleep schedule. It’s partially because Kid doesn’t sleep soundly through the night, but it’s also because Vulture’s sleep schedule is essentially flipped backwards to where she stays up all night and wants to sleep during the day. Vulture says it’s “insomnia” but sometimes she’s up late gaming with Discord friends or watching anime. I couldn’t tell you which issue it was day by day. Sometimes if I go to sleep late, I hear Kid crying from her room because she had night terrors or had potty troubles. Sometimes I hear OLB and Vulture awake shuffling between rooms in the hallway.
Because of this, Vulture and mornings don’t mesh well. Kid is usually put in her room for bedtime around 7 PM, usually with her tablet to keep her company and either give her something to watch, or to play white noises for sleeping. Kid does not have a real sleep routine as well. She’s just kind of shut in her room. Sometimes there’s a bit of a routine like winding her down with chocolate milk and giving her a countdown of “okay, ten more minutes and then bedtime,” but for the most part she just does not want to go to bed. Bedtimes are met with a lot of crying, and the beardy parents telling us that she will be upset for a bit.
Kid has an attempted daily schedule, if Vulture is awake enough. Theoretically:

• 9 AM: Awake and watching TV while Vulture is on her computer in the same room
• 1 PM: In the room for naptime (but it’s usually play time)
• 4 PM: Free to run around while dad is home
• 7 PM: Bedtime (but she’s usually playing then too)

But a lot of times, that schedule gets thrown out of whack depending on if Vulture gets up on time. When she sleeps in, Kid is in her room from 7 PM to 1 PM. Sometimes Kid will make a fuss to make Vulture get up earlier than 1 PM, and Vulture will be grouchy because she “went to bed at four in the morning” because she either had “insomnia” (read: gaming or watching anime) or because Kid wouldn’t sleep. Or Vulture will be up to take care of Kid and make sure she is in a clean pull up and has eaten. Then she shuts her into her room and goes back to sleep. Sometimes if Kid is too much of a handful, Vulture will say, “It’s 12:45. That’s close enough to 1.” And put Kid in the room because that’s close enough to nap time.
Sometimes because Kid won’t go to sleep, she’ll still be up at 9 PM and that breaks her schedule too. A lot of times, it works out that OLB is the “fun” parent while he’s home, because he’s up at 4 AM to leave for work by 6 and doesn’t come home until between 4 or 5 PM. Then she spends time with him while he’s home.
There’s also a child lock on the inside of Kid’s bedroom door, those doorknob covers that you have to push and turn, so she can’t open the door and wander around unsupervised. I was originally the one who suggested the child lock, back when she was younger, and they didn’t have the secondary child gate they currently do now that’s stored in the garage. Since then, with her potty training and Vulture’s likewise awful sleep schedule, I’ve suggested more than once that they take the door handle blocker off and put up the second kiddy gate they have to block the living room and kitchen off, so she can get up if she needs to, but the child lock still remains. At most, she would have access to their room, since it doesn’t have a kiddy lock on it. Me and Z’s bedroom has a child lock on it, as well as the bathroom door. She could freely wander between her room and her parents’ room that way.
I hear Kid playing in her room by herself a lot, squealing and having fun and playing pretend. Or moving her furniture around. And no, the furniture is not secured to the wall, so she can move her bed around the room. I’ve also told OLB and Vulture they needed to make sure she can’t topple it and chain it to the wall but, yeah, that hasn’t been dealt with.
When Kid really needs attention, she will cry and wail. And I mean wail. The two beardy parents don’t have baby monitors or anything that can hear into her bedroom, so she has to wail loudly enough to be heard through the walls. Luckily, the house has thin walls. Because of her early bedtime, she’s often awake early in the morning. Sometimes Vulture will respond, sometimes Vulture won’t wake up until around noon.
Yes, that means Kid is by herself a lot.
Kid is a bubbly three-year-old. She loves it when Z and I give her attention, which admittingly isn’t as often as I would like to give her. With my own Depression™, I spend so much time fighting to just gather enough mental energy to be a productive human. Despite me wandering in a mental fog, Kid remains a bright spot in my day. I met her when she was a fresh baby bean just barely out of the hospital, and I immediately fell in love. Since then, I’ve seen her grow almost her whole life, except for when they were all in north Texas. She has blue eyes and brown hair that will curl on its own. She loves dinosaurs, Baby Shark, Octonauts, and occasionally whatever anime the parents are watching. Don’t ask me how many times I’ve heard the Baby Shark song. I don’t want it stuck in my head for another solid week.
She used to watch a lot of Ms. Rachel’s Songs For Little videos, because originally Vulture wanted Kid to learn sign language to help communicate. I’ve rarely seen Vulture attempt to upkeep the sign language lessons. She did at one point. I think after Kid started becoming more vocal, the idea was dropped. I have heard some of the familiar videos so often that even I learned the kid’s songs, but I guess that’s also part of the collateral when dealing with kid’s media.
Kid usually exists in a half-dressed state, usually just wearing a pull up and that’s it. Unfortunately, because Vulture is so hard on her tangles when she tries to brush her hair, Kid doesn’t like hair care and will fight being brushed. Her hair used to exist in a perpetual state of being matted with at least one major knot, until Vulture’s mom ended up giving her a bath and getting her to stay still enough to endure the brushing, even with the wailing of a protesting Kid going strong. Her hair was then cut to make it more manageable, and strangely, that fixed a lot of the matting problems.
Kid is let out of her room when Vulture wakes up, usually needing a diaper change. At three years old, Kid is not potty trained yet. Just from what I’ve heard from my bedroom, it sounds like OLB and Vulture are finally starting to step up on potty training, but it’s been an uphill fight. I know a few of my other parent friends have had an extremely hard time potty training their kid. I’m not a parent, so I don’t actually know how challenging it can be. I do know though that it shouldn’t sound like the toilet is some kind of punishment for peeing in her cloth panties that they’re trying to switch her to. Or, that they try to get her to sit on the toilet when she has no interest in it and she ends up throwing a tantrum. Unfortunately, without much context, that’s how some bathroom trips sound.
Kid wears pull-ups to bed and the cloth underwear during the day, or sometimes just pull-ups. They’re trying to teach her how to recognize when her body has the potty urge, which she still doesn’t quite get right now. She has literally peed on the tile floor through her cloth undies. Vulture messaged the house chat once saying, “Kid just lifted her leg while in the rolling chair and peed all over the floor.”
You know. Like a dog.
With the potty-training trouble and Kid only sometimes in pull-ups that can contain her mess, Z and I don’t let her into our room as often as we’d like to, because she doesn’t recognize when she has to go. It sucks, because Kid adores spending time with us and our room has cool animals, like my retired psychiatric service dog and our three ferrets. She loves the ferrets. But if we spend time out in the living room with everyone, Z’s patience tends to have a shorter fuse because they can’t stand Vulture (that’s also another tale I have). We’re also stuck out in the general mess of the living room if we are out there with her. It’s either the general mess that toddlers make, spilled food, and general filth. The best times we’ve had spending time with Kid is just chilling in our room as she ooh’s and ahh’s over the ferrets or watches TV with us. Z and I quote SpongeBob line by line daily, and she has watched some of the show with us.
I feel awful about shutting Kid out so much, when I see the way Vulture interacts with her. On Vulture’s bad days (if you read the previous post, that’s almost every day), she acts like Kid is a chore. She will snap at Kid, act like Kid is choosing to act out of maliciousness and make “tired mom” jokes that sound like she just flat out doesn’t like Kid. When I had liquor in the fridge, Vulture would ask if she could take a shot because, “I need it. She’s trying me today.”
Some choice quotes talking down about the kid:
“I’m being hard on her because she’s not using her words. Like I know she can. She just doesn’t want to.” This was what Vulture said to me after Kid kept trying to get her attention and wouldn’t explain what she wanted. Kid was just making noises at her and getting frustrated. Vulture full on shouted, “WHAT!” at her, then turned to me to try and explain why she shouted.
“This is the bad part about being a mom. She’s not letting me do anything right now.” This was said after Vulture cleaned her desk and was attempting to watch YouTube videos and play her Switch.
On her good days, Vulture will be that kind of smiling parent that does some art activities and engages with Kid in a way that’s more than just screaming. They color together. She offers Kid choices so Kid can have some control over what happens in her day, like, “Do you want bologna or fruit?” It has helped Kid become more vocal and even though she’s still speech delayed, she talks more and has a bigger vocabulary.
The house has a different atmosphere when OLB is home, compared to when Vulture is just watching Kid by herself. I’ve told OLB that I think Vulture is burned out. Her entire life is her disabilities and being a mom. She only has friends on Discord really, and OLB had to push her to start talking to them again just so she had someone to socialize with.
Old Doormat me pitied her at the beginning of our friendship. I tried being her friend. I tried to include her and Kid in a lot of things. My own mental health, my daily obligations, my gym schedule, and just me changing rapidly since 2020 altered my life, exhausted me, and left me unable to deal with Vulture talking a million miles a minute, info dumping about whatever she’s currently doing every single time I run into her. And as I shed my doormat self, I started seeing her clearly.
I told OLB once that if Vulture is truly burned out or if her health problems are causing that much trouble, Kid might need daycare or another caregiver to help. OLB is aware but can’t afford other care. He’s working for bottom of the barrel pay at a full-time job. Most days after work, he just wants to zone out to his own games in front of his computer but has to step in and parent both Vulture and Kid, because Vulture often needs help organizing through executive dysfunction to do something. Or, because she will call for his help.
There was one time where Kid climbed on top of her, and Vulture called for OLB – who was in the same room – to pull Kid off her. There are quite a few times where Vulture calls for OLB for help with Kid, and I’ve heard him say that he’s also busy too. One time he asked, “Why are you asking for my help when you’re closer?”
Z has offered to look after Kid at times because they don’t mind Kid being in our room or just hanging out. She has hung out with us when I also have the mental energy and the room is clean enough to accommodate a toddler crawling on everything. The problem that we both see is that our stepping in isn’t a full solution. She can spend a few hours with us, but ultimately after, she goes right back to Vulture and OLB. Vulture is the one who acts like being a parent is a chore.
There are times that OLB has snapped at Vulture for the way she gets on to Kid, emphasizing, “She’s just a child.” Their parenting styles are like looking at two entirely different planets and trying to find similarities. OLB is very much into the gentle parenting side of Tik Tok. He talks about breaking generational trauma. He’s usually gentle with Kid, explaining why she’s not allowed to do things like stand on top of her highchair or why I’m too busy to play with her as I’m zooming around the house in and out repeatedly some days. He has talked her down from meltdowns and keeps his voice even to where she can’t bounce off him to amplify her tantrums. He spanks her, but as a last resort, and then also talks to her about why the punishment happened. She will wail through everything and likely isn’t fully listening, but ultimately, I see him trying to work with her. He very rarely loses his actual temper with her.
Vulture is the total opposite. She yells at Kid, spanks with no hesitation and doesn’t explain why. One of Kid’s favorite games to play is “Block the door” when I’m trying to get through the house. She will block my bedroom door, cling to me, then circle around me as Vulture or OLB tries to distract her or lure her away by asking “do you want chocolate” or some other treat. Sometimes Kid just likes to play ring-around-the-rosie around my legs, as her parents try to grab her. I try to make it fun and seem like I’m not mad at her, because I’m never actually mad at her for blocking my way. Usually, I’m just in the middle of some arbitrary task or running an errand or coming back from the gym with my one remaining brain cell barely hanging on for dear life. I try to engage with her and play it off as a game because she’s not actually doing anything wrong.
Vulture has lured her away with chocolate and treats, with offers of food, with trying to get her to pick a show to watch. If that fails, she will come and fetch Kid by hand. One time involved yanking her physically off me and spanking her on the bare bottom because Kid was happy playing a game instead of listening.
The bare bottom is a thing, too. Because Kid used to live in soiled diapers for much longer than she was supposed to, she had constant diaper rash that she had to see the doctor for sometimes. She also didn’t want OLB or Vulture to change her diapers and would scream when it was diaper change time. I don’t blame her. The diaper rash hurt, and Vulture wasn’t exactly gentle with changing. Kid bled sometimes with the changings. So now, sometimes Kid will be dressed like Donald Duck in only a top to air out her bottom. Or because now, with the cloth undies, she will pee straight through them, and they just let her air out after.
Kid always smells a bit like pee. So does her room. And her bedding. After I pointed out that her bedding straight out of the dryer smelled like urine, OLB went about cleaning the washing machine with a machine cleaner, and bought scent beads to help cut the smell, after I told him that a little vinegar in the wash load will cut the smells down. Now her bedding doesn’t smell so much like urine, but it’s still there.
Her bedroom frequently smells like a public bathroom. It always looks like her bedroom has been turned upside down, with toys everywhere, her bed pushed to the middle of the room, the mattress on the floor. Books she was given were shredded, even the cardboard ones. There was straight up garbage left in her room because she was given food to eat there that had wrappers. It usually takes Vulture a full day of cleaning to get the room organized when she had the energy to do it, but she usually sanitizes with just a baby wipe, if she does at all. Maybe a pet cleaner sometimes.
There was one time where I was letting the dogs outside and I stepped in a puddle on the tile floor. That was when I realized that it was a pee puddle and Kid’s cloth underwear was dripping. I asked Vulture to clean the puddle up. When she asked to use my steam mop, she didn’t clean the cloth pad after, so when I turned the mop on next, it smelled like hot, steamed urine. I had to clean the mop pad off myself and rinse the pee out of it. When Kid again peed in front of the TV in her cloth undies, I told OLB that if they’re going to use my steam mop to make sure that the mop pad is rinsed off or it will smell like pee the next time it’s used, but he said he was just going to use his mop and bucket. Thankfully.
Because of the diet that OLB and Vulture has, Kid also eats like them. She gets a lot of macaroni, a lot of random odds and ends like pieces of bread, baggies of cheerios, sometimes fruit and vegetables. Lots of chicken nuggets and frozen instant food. Occasionally, Kid will have an interest in vegetables she sees us cook with or that she’s never had. Like once she insisted that she wanted to eat canned peas, until she tasted them. She chewed on a lettuce leaf and put it down, then asked for another one because she wanted to eat something, and it looked tasty to her.
The two halves of the household make separate foods now and keep out of each other’s food, but sometimes Vulture will give Kid some of the food I cooked because Kid saw my spaghetti noodles in a bowl and insisted on having them by way of tantrum. Instead of asking me if it’s okay (which obviously, I’d say yes, Kid can have some), Vulture just gave her my food and then told me after. Maybe I’m just projecting my own frustration, but it feels like Vulture uses Kid as a shield sometimes, to get food. Unless I have a specific purpose for food like what I put in my meal prep containers, I wouldn’t say no to Kid.
Kid’s diet makes me worried for her as she grows up. OLB is big and tall, over 6 feet tall and over 300lbs. They aren’t an active family at all. Kid drinks soda when they get fast food. She eats as much processed food as Vulture. Right now, she’s growing like a weed and is tall and actually has some power in her tiny limbs, which is most noticeable when she climbs you like a ladder, but her parents are gamers that just sit around. Her own screen time is almost as lengthy as theirs is.
I worry about Kid, constantly. Z does too. We have theorized calling CPS, or trying to adopt her, or just getting her away from Vulture. We have thrown around ideas about talking to OLB and convincing him that Vulture isn’t a good person for Kid. A lot of it has stayed in theory because the anxious part of me is still afraid to make life-altering waves like that. I second-guess and gaslight myself into realizing how bad things are, but then telling myself, maybe I’m just blowing it out of proportion. Maybe it's just something they have to handle. Maybe it’s something a first-time parent needs to learn. Maybe Vulture just isn’t feeling good that day. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
It’s a leftover of the doormat I used to be, and I know that. The tiny fragment of anxiety that tells me I’m blowing things up into too big a deal. The tiny fragment that escaped a toxic marriage and just wants peace after arguing every single day. The side that hates confrontation.
Maybe I’m just a plain ol’ coward. I don’t know yet. I just know my patience is running thinner with every passing day.
I don’t think I could convince OLB to dump Vulture. From what I’ve seen on the surface, they’re not openly affectionate. Vulture complains all the time that OLB doesn’t give her any physical affection, and she (unfortunately) tells me when they’re intimate, which doesn’t sound often. They almost look like they could be friends that are co-parenting. She calls him her husband when they’re out in public, and OLB has stated that he doesn’t want anything to happen to her, because he doesn’t want a single parent. I assume at the very least that he does love her, even though he sounds exhausted all the time. Z and I wonder if maybe he feels trapped.
OLB is good at asking for help if he needs it, although he hates being a burden to others. He will speak up if Vulture needs a ride to a doctor’s office, and he forgot to leave the car seat at home. I’ve driven to his work to pick it up after he messaged me asking if I could. They ask his family to babysit Kid if they want to go out and just have a good date or see a movie together. They are clearly capable of asking for help.
This is just an acceptable standard for both, or at least that’s the way it seems to me. Sometimes, I don’t truly know if OLB is aware of what Vulture does while he’s at work. He didn’t know that she used his 11-year-old dog as a vacuum cleaner to clean up spilled table scraps until I pointed it out and then he pieced together why his dog wasn’t losing weight on a reduced kibble diet. Sometimes I have pointed out things to him that he might not notice in the house chat.
I started keeping a log in Google Docs about things I notice, and Z and I talk about it in discord, so it’s not heard by ears that are too close to our bedroom. The log started helping me see that I’m not just blowing out of proportion and that in turn helped me come here to reddit. As a former doormat in recovery, I still have to tell myself that it’s okay to realize that something is wrong, and that I may need help getting my voice to speak up.
I haven’t worked since 2017, when my mental health took a sharp nosedive. Z is currently looking for work. Both of us are home all day exposed to Vulture and how she treats Kid. With my own daily tasks, errands, struggling with mental health, there’s still a side of me that berates me that I need to be taking care of Kid. Getting her up, making sure she eats. Pestering Vulture to get up. This is also where I tangle with the former doormat that still lives in me, because one, I don’t want to enable Vulture to get even worse. With someone taking the burden off of her, that gives her more free time to just sit back and game. It isn’t my job to make sure that Vulture is a good parent, yet somehow, I feel like it’s also my fault that she’s as bad as she is while I sit by the wayside and just talk about her behind her back. There are times where I have pestered OLB through discord about Kid crying, or how Kid is trying to beat the door down, or asking if Vulture is up for the day because I haven’t seen her up at three in the afternoon.
I started speaking up when I noticed something that’s off. I call this the “cheese incident.” We had a block of cheese that was cut in the wrapper and not in anything else, so the exposed end got all hard and inedible. I cut it off and threw it away. Vulture made her way into the kitchen because Kid saw me cutting cheese and wanted some.
Vulture: Who threw away that cheese?
(SHE PICKS IT UP OUT OF THE TRASH CAN)
Me: Yeah, it’s got that hard bit
Vulture: So? I know someone who will eat it.
(She calls Kid over)
Me: But it was in the trash.
Vulture: It’s okay, I cut off the part that was touching the trash.
Me: Dude, that’s fucked up.
Vulture: (hesitating now) Should I not?
Me: That’s probably going to make her sick again.
(Kid has been sick back-to-back at this point)
Vulture: Okay, then I won’t.
(To this day, I don’t know if she threw the cheese away or ate it herself, and I’m afraid to ask)
That was the point where I started pointing out that what she’s doing is problematic. It’s a slow process, but it’s helped me put the doormat side of me away again. I’ve explained to Vulture that Kid isn’t crying to be malicious, she just can’t express what she wants. Especially with Kid’s speech delay! Kid gets frustrated fast when adults don’t understand her, and the wailing begins. There’s no maliciousness behind it, just frustration. Or how Kid doesn’t like being told “no” because she doesn’t always understand why. Strangely, every time I call something out, she doesn’t really have much of a fight against it.
But why am I having to say it in the first place?
There’s little things that just rub me the wrong way in how they interact. Sometimes Vulture will call Kid over in the same way you’d call a dog. Repeatedly. Sometimes Vulture, in a state of migraine or other illness-related grouchiness will scream at her “Leave me alone!” and OLB will have to fetch Kid. One time, Z told me that Vulture outright mocked her crying by making her own crying noise.
What’s awful to watch in person is that when Vulture’s mom or siblings are over, Vulture is suddenly a doting mom who isn’t perpetually exhausted or loudly complaining about how her “everything” hurts. She talks in an overly sweet voice to Kid. It unsettles me with how two-faced it seems. OLB, Vulture, and Kid go have dinner with OLB’s family every Sunday evening, and I can’t help but wonder how two-faced she is there, as well. Some of OLB’s family doesn’t like Vulture to begin with.
Slowly, I am losing patience at how Vulture behaves, especially with the Kid. I had to un-gaslight myself, start logging her behavior, and talk to other people to really see it for what it was. I told multiple friends about it and we all generally have the same consensus that Vulture is just an unfit parent. If her chronic illnesses are truly interfering with her life that much, she shouldn’t be the majority caregiver through the day. But it’s not like OLB would be able to work from home or be the stay-at-home parent. In a perfect world, I would be able to help more as well, but I’m barely the “fun” aunt. I’m barely equipped to help care for a three-year-old. Hell, most days I’m barely an actual person.
Kid deserves better.
Bottom line, Kid deserves better than what this house can give. I am upset with myself over my lack of action, but the logs have only been growing bigger. Every day, the doormat dies a little more.
Vulture herself though, will likely always be a side show. One thing that Z pointed out to me was that, as the doormat I used to be, I would give everything to help someone even when I was mentally exhausted. I enmeshed myself too much into the lives of my friends because I loved making them happy and making their lives easier. It’s gotten me into some awkward territory with Vulture, because some things were interpreted as more than friendship.
You ready to cringe more? Because the next part is going to deal with polyamory, the desire for open relationships, and the main reason why Z despises her – and that’s putting it mildly.
Take a moment to un-cringe yourself. It ain’t over yet.

How old are you? What's your gender? Give us a general description of yourself.
17, almost 18 (I know I also ask myself why im on reddit, corrupting my brain from such a young age), female.
Hello all. I'd say I'm kind of aloof, but competitive. I hate uncomfortable clothing, and honestly its a drag to get me to go outside. But if it's some game or sport, I'm absolutely down. I think one of the best human feelings is feeling the fresh air conditioner wind against your body as you destroy your 6 foot friend in badminton with your superior strategy and reflexes. In all seriousness, I'm heading into college to study mechanical engineering and actually thinking of using a ton of my AP credits to get out of classes and replace them with bio and chem classes to head to medical school after. Not that I am dissatisfied with engineering, in fact, my reasoning behind these seemingly weird plans is to get the full fundamental background of the engineering and doctor world. I feel anxious about my survival without it, if that makes any sense. I wasn't kidding about liking games and being competitive, I have been doing fencing for almost half my life, and I plan to continue fencing on a national level in college. But apart from that hobby which requires you to step foot outside the house, I genuinely have a hard time getting myself to touch grass. In fact, this weekend was an achievement when I touched grass 3 whole days in a row. Not joking. People noticed I got tanner lmao. Some people think I'm pretty quiet, while others feel im pretty obnoxious. This can be accredited to my ever changing energy levels and lack of filter and need to stfu sometimes. Though sometimes, I really do get quiet. I've grappled with trying to figure out whether my first function is introverted or extroverted, but honestly I end up gaslighting myself each time so it doesn't work. As for general hobbies, im a YouTube gremlin, a mathy science-y kinda kid, trying to get into chess more (im basically an average intermediate rn and by fear of being destroyed by an anonymous person across the world online really makes this process difficult), unfortunately watch anime, and secretly an art kid.
This is a tangent but I dont know maybe it will help diagnose my personality lmao, I feel that math and science is 10x more enjoyable when you learn the history of HOW the things come about. Like last week, I was kind of fed up with the notion of imagining Newton creating all of calculus on his own to help with his physics stuff, so I went looking into it and learned a lot about how the concept of infinity and infinitesimally small numbers was around even in the Greeks era, and that a LOT of foundation had already been made (not discrediting Newton btw, he was a beast its just kind of annoying that the history of how thought came to be isn't taught... how are we supposed to create new ideas when we're instilled with the easy path of memorization)
Also also, I feel that the "STEM FIELD" is being treated as a totally different entity from linguistics and philosophy, and that also kind of makes me feel robbed of the education people COULD receive. I think there's a lot to be said about how the skills from art and literature do in fact transfer creatively to the "strict" fields of mathematics.
Is there a medical diagnosis that may impact your mental stability somehow?
Nope, just me and my brain.
Describe your upbringing. Did it have any kind of religious or structured influence? How did you respond to it?
Parents aren't really religious at all though my mom claims she internally religious but doesn't really need to prove it externally, it's pretty chill. In that sense, my upbringing has had little to no influence from religion and was fairly unstructured. My parents gave me WAYYY more freedom than most kids, and I'm extremely thankful for it. This freedom is what has allowed me to test my limits of self control, my own self discipline, and has taught me much. Yes, freedom can backfire on some kids, but honestly as a kid most of my internet interests were genuinely educational, and with of course the load of Minecraft videos to binge watch. Honestly I feel im worse off now, where YouTube is becoming glorified tik Tok and I feel my brain rotting.
As for my actual upbringing in school, it wasn't the smoothest of rides. I don't know what it was, but it seemed that even since kindergarten, genders were split in friend groups, or friend groups split by races, even if it was unconscious. I was a kid who just wanted to run around and have fun, so it made sense that I would want to be with "the boys" LMAO, but its kind of impossible to insert yourself into such a group, especially when my social skills were absolute nil. Maybe it was because English was technically my second language, or maybe I just cognitively was slow, but I would miss directions in class, and overall got in trouble a little bit and was never a model student.
Something changed in middle school. With the shift to grades and my brain deciding to work, I became a good student and had some friends, but was still bullied on my bus constantly. I didn't care though, I just wanted to be friends with them, so I tried to not be left out and obviously it didn't work out. You know how kids figure out at one point that they can think about their own thoughts, and that the world doesn't revolve around them? Well, the former came to me really easily because I'd talk to myself in the backyard a ton. But the latter wasn't so simple. My family was supportive and made me feel intelligent and bright, but at school, I felt terribly insecure of my intelligence, my physique, my humor, my everything. So I studied the "cool" people, the "funny" people. I wanted to figure out what it took to be funny and to receive that validation from teachers and peers. I wanted to see how I could act smart and get people to notice me for being intelligent. Mix those feelings of envy and desperation with someone naturally competitive and a little arrogant, you get a pretty insecure little penguin.
Now as a senior in high school, retrospectively, I see that college isn't everything, that intelligences come in all sorts and shapes and honestly everyone is like a video game character with different perks and attributes. I learned that hard work is honestly probably one of the most over powered skills in the game of life, and best of all, I regained a lot of lost self worth, which allows me to actually empathize with people and engage with society in a more fulfilling manner. I say what I think and feel, even as a people pleaser, I just turn off that filter because why not, I can't really change that part of me. But I've definitely learned when to back off, how people want to be comforted, and what it means to actually care for others. Not that I didn't care before, I just couldn't see it and wouldn't acknowledge it because then in my mind I would have been weak.
If you had to spend an entire weekend by yourself, how would you feel? Would you feel lonely or refreshed?
Ngl, this is most weekends, and I'm totally fine with it. I don't like going out because of the chore it takes to put on clothes and look all presentable and then deal with the humidity of the outside world. HOWEVER, I'm not going to lie, I do really enjoy going out with friends sometimes and it does make my week when I do. I feel most refreshed when I've gotten some social time done, but also some productive things done: like finishing that month overdue paper, and actually learning something for personal benefit.
What kinds of activities do you prefer? Do you like, and are you good at sports? Do you enjoy any other outdoor or indoor activities?
I really like windy weather, or like an air conditioned gym. I'm quite good at sports and attune pretty quickly to most. As I mentioned before, I'm a competitive fencer but I'm pretty good at ping pong, badminton, volleyball. Used to do track and was a 100m sprinter (was pretty spankin good) but then it got boring because there wasn't much of a GAME aspect to the sport. and also bad asthma lol.
How curious are you? Do you have more ideas then you can execute? What are your curiosities about? What are your ideas about - is it environmental or conceptual, and can you please elaborate?
People say I think of crazy ideas, but honestly one of my fears is that I'm not thinking of ENOUGH ideas. Whenever someone else needs an idea, poof, I got one. But for myself? My brain sabotages me.
I strongly like dealing with the conceptual. Conceptual things are just so much cooler and easier to deal with and generally speaking, more revolutionary and groundbreaking.
My ideas can range from dumb comic ideas about a brain being like a dog to strange tangents on how people's lives are interconnected, or how before we're born we can decide our life difficulty level, just weird things to think about to make excuses for any predicament XD
Would you enjoy taking on a leadership position? Do you think you would be good at it? What would your leadership style be?
It's awful honestly, I seem to dream of being in charge, but I'm god awful at it. I cannot for the love of god snake people out of money, or charisma people into believing a product works when it doesn't, or tell someone that they aren't working hard enough (pains me more honestly), it just doesn't work. My leadership only works in a controlled environment where everyone WANTS to get somewhere, but honestly, I think as a brain I'm better as someone on the sidelines thinking up funny things that might work.
Are you artistic? If yes, describe your art? If you are not particular artistic but can appreciate art please likewise describe what forums of art you enjoy. Please explain your answer.
My dad collects paintings, had a large exposure to art as a child. I draw pretty freakishly well for someone that doesn't practice much. I tend to draw on anything in the corner, but big pieces? Nah, not unless I have to make some gift or project. Used to be into animation, still am very into ink art, etching, anything black and white. But I love looking at sculptures and oils, honestly I'm never gonna make a good sculpture, im incapable, but its heckin' awesome when other people can.
What's your opinion about the past, present, and future? How do you deal with them?
I get too nostalgic, but I look back and look forward to get rid of the present so there's that. The future brings me some anxiety, so to ease it I'll write basic things I need to accomplish somewhat soon in my notes app to ease the black hole of the future. But nostalgia, man, it kills me. Worst part is when you can't tell if what you're remembering even happened. You gaslight yourself into a situation you can't even confirm. And then there's the issue of figuring out if you supposed to feel the way you feel when you look back on things, it a whole mess. Lately I've been looking forward mostly and consciously filtering out the things I look back on to achieve more happiness.
How do you act when others request your help to do something (anything)? If you would decide to help them, why would you do so?
love helping people. you need my homework? I gotchu. I don't know, I like acquaintances. I have no qualms about helping somebody out, I know I wish people would help me out when I asked. I hate the whole "you got to be friends first" kind of deal, we're all human aint we?
Do you control others, even if indirectly? How and why do you do that?
Nope. I need control of my life first lol
How good are you at strategizing? Do you easily break up projects into manageable tasks? Or do you have a tendency to wing projects and improvise as you go?
I break things down enough to where I can wing things. I'm a major procrastinator, but I get things done and I make sure they're done well. Very perfectionistic and self critical about anything I make, even if it's just for school.
What are your fears? What makes you uncomfortable? What do you hate? Why?
I've realized lately, my greatest fear is hating life and feeling unhappy. I absolute hate the feeling of not wanting to exist or losing self worth, its worse than any external loss. Of course though, I fear losing my family as well. As to hating things, I don't hate people. It's strange, but I keep on forgiving people far too easily. It's just that in every situation, there are always two sides, and I ALWAYS give them the benefit of the doubt. Because for me to do anything, I have to know I'm 100% right.
What do the "highs" in your life look like?
Feeling content, learning, talking, having control over my life and achieving new things and feeling a brighter future coming.
What do the "lows" in your life look like?
binging YouTube, not going outside, not learning new things, reaching out to people for entertainment and not willing to complete simple school tasks out of fear of confronting the amount of things I've laid off.
How attached are you to reality? Do you daydream often, or do you pay attention to what's around you? If you do daydream, are you aware of your surroundings while you do so?
Daydream wayyyyyy too often. I mean I've daydreamed I was a 9 year old being hired by Elon musk for 2 whole hours in front of my mirror. I know, it's not okay. Dunno how aware I am of the surroundings but I can snap out of it pretty fine. But daydreaming is really fun, problem is, I can't keep doing it because then I know im procrastinating on something and I feel guilty. day dreaming is awesome when you know there's nothing else to do so you might as well think about something cool.
​
Sorry for writing so much, just finished a statistics final project and just needed to distract myself.
Thank you so much for anyone that reads through this whole things, big thanks, and thank u for all the typers!

Everyone knows that the billy has an astronomically high skill ceiling. It is extremely difficult to curve to an exact spot, and even if you do, the survivor could have run left or right to try and juke you, rendering your perfectly calculated curve to waste. And in most cases, no matter how much you try to mindgame, it is quite literally impossible to use your power at 2/3 loops if the survivor plays right. Here's my idea, atleast, for a fix.
​
at any time while chainsawing, press the attack button to enter overdrive . When you enter overdrive, the chainsaw gains 20 overheat charges, but you move at a 60% increased speed and can curve up to 180 degrees. You can enter overdrive for a maximum of half of a second. This can only be used while the chainsaw is not in overheat, or would go past overheat when overdrive is used.
​
This would act as a secondary curve to the chainsaw. Try visualizing this. You are the hillbilly, running a survivor counterclockwise on the shack (the way they can get the fast vault or go straight to the pallet, I think) and you go go past the pallet, and start revving your saw. once you get past the window, you curve and go straight to the door, and you can then enter overdrive and curve directly back to the window.
This still requires massive skill and would compliment the massive skill ceiling on billy, but would give him more options to deal with loops with his saw.
Another example is the car on gas haven with a pallet directly infront of the gas pumps. In this case, you would not be able to land a hit in many cases because your saw is too slow, and your reliant on your double engravings add ons. No worry with overdrive though, as you can turn it on now and curve onto the survivor fast enough to land a down now.

The day seemed like it would be ordinary until the aeronautical community’s most sought after document showed up on my doorstep.
It came wrapped in brown kraft paper tied off with twine, and the exterior packaging had no return address nor any indication of a postage stamp. It was as though it had been simply bundled up and dropped into my wall-mounted mailbox by a random passerby.
No part of me was willing to surrender the strange parcel without opening it first. Regardless of who its contents truly belonged to, my eyes would be the first to see it. I removed the twine and then dug a thumb under a fold in the packaging paper before clawing it away to expose a brown tan notebook circa 1900. It was full grain buffalo leather with a crisscross of cord for the spine and a thick hand cut string keeping it sealed shut.
When I undid the string, the pages that had been gripped tight by the leather fanned out gently then returned to their original position, my eyes landing on the front page. It was without a printer’s mark and read in big handwritten type: “THE DIARY AND RECORD OF HENRY H. HELGELAND.”
I knew in that instant the package was in the hands of who it was rightfully sent out for. Not just because I’d recently lost my job as an associate at our city’s art museum but because of a separate, much deeper connection to the diary’s author.
Perhaps it’s in my best interests to turn it over to the National Archives, or the US Arctic Research Commission, or maybe even the U.S. Capitol Visitor Center, but at the risk of seeing it blue-penciled to death, I’ve elected to instead share it here and now.
The world needs to know what happened.
---
Henry H. Helgeland — my great grandfather — was a severe looking man with a walrus mustache and a bone to pick with anyone who ever doubted him. He was born in Oakland, California in 1871 and was, by all available accounts relayed to me, well-behaved and well-liked. His father worked a lucrative job in the shipping industry, transporting timber between San Francisco and the Central Valley. Two years into Henry’s life, his mother would contract a fatal case of diphtheria and die shortly thereafter; when he was old enough to understand what had happened, Henry “yearn[ed] fervently for a reunion to mend [his] great anguish and sorrow.”
Near the turn of the 20th century, Henry attended Stanford University’s Department of Mechanical Engineering, where he learned everything from thermodynamics to machine design. But it was a lecture about polar transportation that would ultimately kindle his interest in a separate enterprise: arctic exploration. Indeed, the race to the North Pole was well underway, with naval officers, geologists, and aeronauts around the globe vying for the chance to make history. My great grandfather, like many of his peers, propounded the theory that he, and he alone, would be the first to reach the Great White North.
In 1895, Henry graduated with a Bachelor of Science degree in mechanical engineering and sought to expand the member list of the so called Ascension Society, a student organization he’d assembled to aid engineering graduates with materials science. Many of its constituents had engaged in research projects and experimental setups to hone their craft of mechanical systems, but in time, however, the venture would instead prove a hotspot for investors and philanthropists. Donations averaging up to $5,000 helped fund and promote the fantastic ambitions of my great grandfather. So long as the Ascension Society was gracing him with their support, he’d be the first to reach the North Pole.
In early 1898, armed with enough capital, Henry used the proceeds to purchase the materials required for the balloon.
---
A notable circus at the forefront of traveling attractions in the early twentieth century was The Fielding Troupe. With its impressive lineup of talent — from fire eaters and aerialists to equestrians and strongmen — the ensemble drew crowds from nearly every town in western America during its historic run. Its wide reach would ultimately reel in many notable faces, including my great grandfather.
Prior to a performance in Oakland, the Fielding Troupe led a procession through the town around Stanford University, announcing their arrival with a parade of wagons, floats, and animals. The strategy, as it were, was to drum up as much publicity and fanfare as possible. Evidently it worked, as a healthy fraction of the faculty and student body at Stanford made the trip over to Oakland in order to see the troupe in action.
Surrounding their arena with two hundred feet of heavy duty tent canvas, the troupe put on a show for the ages the night Henry was in attendance, with extravagant acrobatics, trained animal performances, and a special appearance from Curtis the Clown. Following a skillful display of juggling and good natured audience ribbing, Curtis’s master stroke was an intricate stunt involving balloons and wire flying. Firstly, he would inflate several multi-colored balloons and tie them off with string, securing them firmly in his grip. They served as a flashy distraction from the piece of flexible metal snaking out from the harness he had concealed under his equally flashy costume. Then, with a whisper of strength, a couple stagehands hoisted the balloon-carrying clown thirty feet into the air to make it appear as though he was levitating by virtue of the balloons alone. A separate performer — a marksman — showed off his sharpshooting skills with a Winchester model rifle and gunned down the balloons, exploding each one as the stagehands loosened their hold on Curtis’s harness until he was eased to the ground.
Henry watched the routine with eager delight. Seeing Curtis the Clown float above a hundred or so onlookers helped stir within him a plan. The ceiling of the Big Top Tent where Curtis had concluded his ascent represented more than the centerpiece of a traveling circus.
“Ascendancy,” Henry muttered to his wife Ruth. “This is how we get to the top of the world.”
---
The spherical vessel measured sixty-five feet in diameter, with a capacity of over 200,000 cubic feet. Its construction was overseen by Henry and a couple french engineers who installed in its gondola three berths and ample ballast to keep it stable. The gondola, a carefully constructed assemblage of wicker and chestnut wood, was built as such to bar any interference to the magnetic instruments of the explorers. Keeping it shielded against severe weather conditions was a varnished silk calotte and a vaselined net composed of over four-hundred hemp cords. A bamboo pole was attached bellow the carrying ring to attach the side sails and, perhaps most notably, the balloon was fitted with hemp and cocoa nut fiber guide ropes to help steer and maintain a consistent altitude.
After two years of exhaustive construction, work on the balloon was completed in 1900. Henry named it Ascension, after the society that funded its creation.
---
What follows are several selected passages lifted directly from Henry’s memorandum, transcribed by me. The first entry reads:
“At nine o'clock on the forenoon, May 5, 1900, under the auspices of the Ascension Society, we embarked from the 71st parallel on our quest of the Pole. Our great journey sets off from Point Barrow, Alaska following a grueling adventure aboard the steamer Sursum. I, Henry Helgeland, travel forth, accompanied by Charles Ringvold, esteemed navigator, and Edward Meyer, long celebrated physician, into the arctic wilderness. Together, our efforts will generate a most formidable team and an unwavering spirit. We will ascend.”
Indeed, the SS Sursum disembarked from a port in San Francisco in mid May of that year; it offered easy access to the Pacific Ocean and sailed through the Bering Strait, covering over 3,000 nautical miles before reaching Point Barrow on July 2.
When the balloon took off, carried by a fierce north east wind, it was to a thunderous applause from those that had come to bear witness to the bold endeavor. Among them were crew members of the SS Sursum, high ranking associates of the Ascension Society, and carpenters tasked with helping the balloon reach its initial phase of liftoff.
As it elevated to 300 hundred feet and passed around an onlooking whaler, Henry was reported to have shouted: “To the top of the world, hurrah!”
---
36 hours would elapse before a second entry was made.
“July 4, 1900, Lat. 77° 48' N, Long. 143° 4' W. We are soaring at a height of 600 feet above the Earth's surface, traveling at a speed of approximately seven kilometers per hour. Our morale remains similarly aloft. Charles relayed to me that, God willing, we anticipate reaching the pole in roughly 800 miles. Beyond the drag ropes lending their ballast to our journey, optimism is our guiding force. We will ascend.”
Turbulent air currents had a different plan in mind, however.
“July 5, 1900, Lat. 80° 8' N, Long. 138° 37' W. Alas! Our aerial journey came to an abrupt halt yestereve on the 80th parallel. We voyaged as many as 500 miles before a forceful downdraft spun our vehicle on its vertical axle and compelled it into a sharp descent; we had lost what we estimate to be just over 100 cubic feet of gas.
“Edward suffered severe injuries during the initial impact and claims his vertebrae have been shattered, leaving him immobile. We’re at the mercy of the floe on which we now rest, at the mercy of the Polar Sea. Should we face the specter of death, we shall meet it with unwavering honor. We will ascend.”
---
“July 6, 1900. We find ourselves solitary in the barren expanse, accompanied only by bergs, ice-fields, and majestic glaciers. Our rations encompass a container’s worth of hardtack, enough salted beef for approximately one week, canned stew, dried apricots, some chocolate bars, and seven bottles of ale.
“Edward’s outlook remains grim; he suspects he’ll never walk again. In witness of his current state, I’m beginning to share in such apprehensions. Edward, whom we have reposed on on of our sledges, fears that the opportunity to make known the great love he holds for his mistress Rebecca is one he’ll never be granted. ‘You shall be reunited at once,’ I assured him. ‘Our journey to triumph will not be thwarted by minor inconveniences.’
“We’ve plotted the course to our next destination: that being Herschel Island, located off the coast of Canada in the Beaufort Sea. Charles — who shares in Edward’s dismay — estimates a three month footslog spanning just under one thousand miles is in store for us, perhaps more given Edward’s ailment. I am determined to see this mission to its completion, yet survival remains a paramount desire. Who’s to recount our extraordinary journey should we fail?
“While establishing our encampment and scouting the local flora of the area for additional sources of sustenance, I happened upon a plant of an unknown species. Half a meter tall, bulbous tubers, and thin roots terminating in clusters of white flowers; intuition suggests this is a water hemlock, which precludes it from edibility. Nevertheless, I shall regard this finding as one of great fortune. A portent of divine value. We will ascend.”
---
Two days later, gold prospectors off the Alaskan coast at Nome beach were in the process of emptying their sluice boxes when from the sky flew a carrier pigeon directly to their mining site. It bore a label with the inscription “Helgeland” and contained the following dispatch:
“July 7, 1900. First dog watch. Three southerly traveling carrier-pigeons were sent off at approximately 7 h. 40 p.m. Pacific Standard Time, the following among them. This is Rear Admiral Charles Ringvold of the United States Navy and the Helgeland Balloon Expedition of 1900. Our hopes of reaching the pole have been reduced to naught. Assistance urgently needed. Our destinies have hitherto been unknown, and now my fears have been actualized. GO IN TERROR OF HENRY HELGELAND. He is not who he proclaims to be. I volunteered for a man of honorable stature and venturesome drive. The man before me betrays neither.”
The remainder of the message was a hasty scrawl, decrypted only by the best in linguistics and modern codebreaking.
“UNASSISTED WE WILL PERISH HELPED WE WILL PERSEVERE PLEASE GOD HELP US HENRY WILL KILL US ALL DO NOT BELIEVE WHAT HE PROCLAIMS.”
The communication was immediately passed off to the Smithsonian Institution, where word fell within the earshot of Ascension Society proponents and additional members of the US Navy. A follow-up expedition — a rescue team led by Captain S. P. Matthews — was put together at once with the authorization of the Secretary of War.
Months later, after a congressional bill introduced to secure grant funding for arctic exploration — and thereby a rescue mission for Helgeland’s lost expedition — was successfully passed, the USS Greenwich departed from the San Francisco Naval Shipyard with a crew of thirty boatswains, medics, and deck officers among others.
What they would ultimately uncover puzzled them all.
---
“July 7, 1900. The team has fractured. We are without our provisions and without the morale that has served us thusly.
“Charles and I set upon the pursuit and capture of a walrus, a most strenuous task in the Arctic Circle. Furnished with a Winchester model .40-82, the sport skews in our favor but we are in no short supply of peril. These are one ton beasts with the strength of a hundred strongmen as they stave the ice, and yet it is not them I should have feared.
“’I can’t allow you to proceed further.’ I heard the click clack racket of the Winchester as Charles chambered a round and raised the rifle, training its twenty inch barrel toward my back after I had volunteered — quite ignorantly — to take the vanguard.
“’Charles?’ I managed between clattering teeth.
“’You’re a man of bold stature. An honorable man at that. But not honorable enough to die for. And that’s it, Henry. I will not die for you.’
“’You speak out of distress, not rationality.’
“’I’m as rational as one permits when I say we won’t all make it to Canada. You can’t expect us to sledge Edward for the next month and retain our strength. Our sanities.” I could hear him gulp, ‘our lives.’
“’You’re not who you say you are.’ I realized in that moment. ‘Not even an ensign would renounce his own crew. Who are you really, Charles?’
“His credentials were a farce; a clever scheme to scrape through the expedition’s vetting process. He was no navy-man nor expert nor navigator and if you piled his life’s accomplishments on top of one another, they’d be equal to that of a cretin.
“’Doesn’t matter any more, Henry.’
“’Then why haven’t you shot me?’
“I sensed beyond his terror a hint of reluctance and felt within him the trepidation of an amateur. The man had never wielded a firearm in his life and wouldn’t start hence.
“’In Your infinite mercy, hear my prayer. In Your boundless grace, grant me Your forgiveness,’ he muttered below his breath. I could’ve believed he’d have squeezed the trigger if not for the unexpected convulsion that suddenly brought him to his knees. Befallen by the strange attack, Charles unhanded the Winchester and collapsed to the ice in the midst of a crippling seizure. And in a matter of moments, he had succumbed to death.
“With some activated charcoal or perhaps an emetic, he could have eluded such a painful demise. I stepped over to look upon his body, his pupils dilated to the size of dimes. Reviewing the immediate symptoms, intuition tells me he’s become the latest victim of hemlock poisoning, the kind of amateur mistake I’d expect from someone such as Charles. Ideal timing, if I may speak candidly.
“Hope remains alive. I will ascend.”
---
Investigators with the crew of S. P. Matthews found everything except answers.
It took them all of three months to zero in on the campsite left behind by Helgeland’s expedition. Any prospect of finding the balloon itself was dropped by the wayside to preserve manpower and time.
The camp was discovered on the 79th parallel, not in any particular state of disarray but with enough evidence to suggest conflict had broken out between the members. Edward was discovered in a tent with the rest of the rations and a bullet hole stamped in the side of his head. There was no telling how long he’d been dead for.
Forty-five meters away from the camp, buried under a stalagmitic gathering of ice and snow, was the body of Charles Ringvold. A followup inquiry would prove my great grandfather’s claims that he was a fraud, but like Charles himself, the truth is buried deep under the surface. Edward and Charles are commemorated for their failed — albeit honorable — efforts in the face of great opposition.
The body of my great grandfather, however, was never found. Theories thus abound in the saga of Henry H. Helgeland and we are no more the wiser now than we were a century ago. He is remembered for murdering his men in cold blood, deserting them, and then yielding to the elements somewhere in the frozen hell of the arctic. The carrier-pigeon message sent by Charles corroborated the apparent facts.
But I know the truth. Because only I have the answers.
“July 8, 1900. All that remains is me, for everyone else has vanished. Edward and I regaled each other with stories of our mistresses as night fell upon our place in the arctic wasteland. Rebecca, Edward’s beloved, works as an expert seamstress in San Francisco and will no doubt be devastated when news of his fate reaches her. But the great memories they shared together, I assured him, will serve her well in the years to come.
“‘You shall be reunited at once,’ I whispered to him once more before executing the dying man with the Winchester. It is my turn to face whatever awaits me on the ice.
“My great anguish and sorrow have been mended.
“Ruth is calling to me now. Our son promptly requires our presence.
“I shall go to them."
The fruitless search for my great grandfather peaked at last with the unearthing of a path of footprints snaking away from the tent where Edward’s body lay. Investigators followed them for approximately ten meters before they abruptly ceased. Captain Matthews is quoted as saying: “it was as though the walker had simply floated away.”
And indeed, it was our family that won in the end, for my great grandfather received exactly what he wanted. The final, undated entry of his diary is comprised of but three simple words:
“I have ascended.”

I recently came across a post about an expat who participated in a night wedding. After reading the accounts I began to do research on my own. Not because I believe in any of that stuff. I'm a magician after all. Illusion is my bread and butter. And I can detect trickery better than most. Which in my line of work has its benefits. But old traditions are the best places to pick up new techniques. Old ways that are new to others that delight and even scare people. Because, if I can make them afraid. Make them look away. For even a second. I can pull off some astounding magic.
My gig at the cruise line was coming to an end as we neared the port of Shanghai. And for my last several shows, where I'd normally start to include my greatest tricks in order to leave a lasting impression. I developed a new act that I called "The Sneaky Bride", it involved a mannequin in a wedding dress, a beautiful train, veil, flowers on the ground - the whole nine yards some would say. The trick was that the bride would sneak bites as my assistants who are dressed as servers pass by with their trays.
I begin the trick by placing a mannequin center stage for all to see so that they know it's a dummy. I show them there are no holes, and the entire thing is solid. Then we dress it up and set the stage for a wedding. And with a bit of lighting, another assistant switches places with the mannequin and is being fed under the veil. We later changed it to more slight of hand techniques as the assistant complained she wasn't able to chew fast enough as the items of course have to get larger and larger for comedic effect as the guests were wowed by the disappearing act as the fake wedding progressed.
At the end we even invited the unmarried men up to the stage and then threw out a fake bouquet, and watched them clamber over each other in good fun to catch it. The act was an instant hit and had the crowd roaring every night. Which was why I decided to take a firsthand look at the original, and see if there were any other staging techniques I could learn from this old tradition.
With some help from Bing and its ChatGPT features I was able to get a relatively good idea of where it was practiced. So I booked the next flight out to begin my quest for a real night wedding.
Upon arrival at my hotel, I asked the concierge for information about the local practice.
"Yes. I know of this one. We practice it often for children who were taken too early."
"But they are all scams?"
The concierge smiled, "In most cases the pouches mean no harm, and they're simply for families who want to provide peace for themselves and to complete a lasting tradition. Sometimes the dowries are quite lucrative as well, and it is the families who are scammed by those who go and collect these ghost wives as concubines. We call it a blue procession for the trail of ghosts the husband leaves behind wherever he goes." He leans in, "But between you and me? They're mostly all scams."
I laughed, and I can't stress this next part enough, tip your concierge! Which I did. "Thank you, and also. Do you know where I could get a good start on finding more information about these ghost dowries? Or even find one of these pouches myself?"
"The temple down this first street to the left, about half a kilometer, would be a good place to start. But finding a pouch is a bit more difficult as they pop up sporadically. However, if traditions are to be believed it is the pouch who chooses the spouse."
I thanked him again and began to make my way through the early morning rush toward the temple. The streets were lined with open markets full of food from local farmers, which were common in the morning in this part of the world. They would disappear before the afternoon and then return again to sell wares at night when it was cooler. It made the city feel as if it were breathing as the locals rose and ebbed outside with day and night.
On my way, I searched the ground and around alleys for loose pouches. But I had no such luck by the time I arrived at the temple. Large red pillars that were thicker than any tree I've personally had the pleasure of meeting held up the high ceiling. Inside, the locals were already starting to disperse as the work hours were amongst us. Which left me nearly alone in this temple at about 8:00 in the morning.
A monk or priest was kneeling on a mat in front of a wooden shrine, throwing pieces of wood in the shape of dumplings on the floor. I waited patiently for him to finish. Taking in the sights and the delicate features of the temple. When he rose I approached him.
"You don't speak English by any chance do you?"
He smiled.
"What about the middle tongue?" I asked in Mandarin.
"Oh," he seemed surprised. "Yes. How may I be of assistance?"
"What were you doing just now?"
He held out his hand and showed me two red wooden pieces that were, with closer inspection, in the shape of moons. "Jiaobei," he told me. "We use these to seek divine guidance."
"How does it work?"
The monk shows me the two sides, one was smooth and flat, the other side rounded. "You ask a question and then throw it on the ground. One block flat and one block round, means yes. Both blocks showing round means no. Or depending on the question. Anger from the Gods. Or crying in sadness as it is commonly known. And finally, both blocks showing flat means laughter. Which could mean a number of things." He hands them to me, "You throw it three times to get a better answer."
"I'm guessing if it's the same all three times, the answer is definitive?"
The monk nodded.
"Will I..."
"Ah ah ah, in silence."
I didn't want my first question to be too convoluted or difficult. So I kept it simple and asked if I was a good magician. Then I threw the Jiaobei on the floor. It clattered and rolled on its rounded back, showing two flat sides.
The monk smiled.
"That usually happens the first time anyone tries Jiaobei. But in my experience, it generally means you asked a pure question."
"What happens if I didn't ask a pure question and it came back as angry?"
"The gods will remember it. They will remember you."
"No bad first impression then huh," I whispered under my breath. "Okay. Do I need to throw it two more times or can I ask a different question?"
"You may ask a different question or throw it twice more."
"What is my name?" I threw it on the floor. And to my surprise, as the ends are pointed and difficult to balance, one of the damn things stood tall and erect.
The monk bowed to the pieces. "Truly you have been picked by the gods to be answered. Lijiao or a standing answer like this is uncommonly rare. The gods generally choose to laugh at a nonsensical question. And often get angry if you throw it two more times. And rarely do they ever answer ones asked aloud."
I bent forward, skeptical, though a temple this was, at how the thing worked. In my head I could only think that the switchboard guy was quick on his feet. But looking around I couldn't find any cameras. Though in this day an age, they're made smaller than a fly. So it was difficult to tell. I picked up the pieces, feeling for any sense of magnetism, but there were none.
I asked one last question before I left that day. I asked their gods, would I find the real deal? And I threw it on the ground three times. All three times it came up yes. But for two months I scoured the city, and the country side. And I did chance upon several pouches. Some were obviously scams as I watched each bag carefully before approaching. Especially noticeable are the ones in the city which would be laying on the sidewalk, filled with bills for people passing by. But I observed that if a local went to go pick it up, two or three men from around the corner would come and threaten him to put it back. But if a foreigner picked it up, an old man or woman would come and start calling them son before leading them away.
There were of course others that were genuinely following tradition. I chanced upon several of them and was married several times. But each one was playful almost. And performed by their parents in the day. Leaving me with several small bags of pocket change, a good dinner, as I went on my way.
During one of these fake night weddings I even saw a child playfully munching on a corn cob in the corner under one of the tables as I fed the effigy they constructed of my fake bride. Which was when I think I decided to call it quits. Believing that I'd never find the real deal. Although I did learn a lot as tradition can be translated by me into performance. Which helped me ground 'The Sneaky Bride' act further. All in all, this was time well spent.
My visa was coming to an end and I had mostly been enjoying the sights, the city, and their way of life. When on one the last day, as I was leaving from a faraway eatery that the concierge had recommended, that I saw a red pouch made of silk with a thick yarn around its throat, stuffed full of money. I looked around and didn't see a single person there, nothing except flat farmland and water gullies for miles.
Odd, I thought to myself, as it looked truly abandoned.
For a second I played with the idea of picking it up. Wondering if somehow a relative of the deceased would pop up magically next to me and I could change the world of magic by studying their technique. But I didn't want to spend my few hours chasing ghosts. I wanted to enjoy my time. So I kept walking.
I got back to the city and spent the remainder of my day eating and drinking, meeting new friends at the bar, newfound lads who I invited a hundred times to visit me in Melbourne one day. Who all agreed that if fate ever brought us back together we would drink until the sun rose. So yeah, I was fairly drunk when I got back to my hotel room, and didn't believe what I saw when I opened the door. It was a red pouch sitting on my coffee table.
"Someone's trying to play a trick on me," I mused. "They must have heard me talking at the bar." I circled the table studying the pouch. Any magician worth his smoke, likes a good bag. So there was no doubt to me that this was the same one I saw earlier. Which made me start putting two and two together. "It must be the concierge. He's the one who sent me out that far." I laughed and picked up the bag, even though I knew the rules. I opened it and thumbed through the bills. "It's much more than what I tipped him. Much more." Curious, I wondered what he would have done if I didn't return this to him. It must have been quite a few months worth of wages. I threw the bag up in the air and caught it as if I were juggling before I tossed it on my nightstand. "I'm going to let him sweat for a little bit and pretend I didn't find it tomorrow as I check out," I mused as I went to go take a shower.
I opened the door and felt the words stick to the roof of my mouth as the bag appeared on the counter next to the sink. I shot a glance back to the nightstand and indeed the bag I had just thrown on there was missing.
"This is a good fucking trick. That, or I'm drunker than I thought." I started questioning did I somehow fall asleep beforehand? Or walked into the bathroom and put it there as I mused my little scheme of making the concierge nervous at the lost pouch? Had I somehow in my drunken state done something without realizing it? No. That couldn't be it. I touched my chest to check my heart rate and put my fingers on my face. A bit flushed, but heart rate adequate. I was fine for the most part. Just drunk.
I looked at the pouch on the counter, and peered gingerly into the bathroom as if I've never stepped foot in one, before deciding to grab the bag and close the door. "Okay," I said loudly. "Whoever's doing this. Come on out." Of course no one appeared, not that I expected them to because the credo I lived by is that a good magician never reveals his trick.
"Okay, let's see how good you guys really are," I mused. Going over to my closet and placed the pouch on the shelf. Closing the door. Then I went back to the bathroom and opened the door. It was empty. I checked the nightstand drawer, mpty. I looked all over, and it was still mty. I breathed a sigh and went over to the closet door, "I guess you're just a bag after all." Except when I looked inside. MT. I couldn't find the bag behind any other nook or cranny. I know, I checked them all. And they were all .
I stumbled backwards and looked around, glancing at the ceiling corners in case someone had crawled up there. And even looked under the bed. But there was no one else here. I felt my chest tighten as I tried to make sense of what was happening. "Its got to be the walls I reasoned." And so for the next half hour I scoured the entire room with my hands, pushing, pressing, pulling anywhere and everywhere I could. Using all my years of experience to figure out what was going on. But there was nothing.
I couldn't stay in that room another minute so I rushed outside and nearly stepped on it! The bag! It was right at the foot of my doorstep.
My mind tried to wrap around how that was possible, "It's got to be a dupe. They've got more than one bag. I've been had, that has to be it. And the furniture inside, they have secret compartments. God, they really put a lot of effort into this," I laughed. "I have to know how this trick is done." So I opened the pouch and pulled out the note inside.
The notes generally contained their name, their current would-be age (she was 20 this year, older than most), what time they were born (8:07), a picture if they had one (she did), and how old they when they died (5). If the deceased were a bit older, perhaps a tidbit from their family is included about their personality. But most importantly, it always contained their address.
I looked at my watch, it was late and my flight was in the morning but perhaps I could still make it. So I gathered the rest of my things, my luggage, the mannequin for my act, and other bag of tricks in case I needed to go to the airport right after. "Come on," I yelled out loud to my pranksters. "Let's go see what other tricks you have up your sleeve."
I went down to the lobby and had the front desk call me a cab. I looked around for the concierge but he was nowhere to be found. So I left a note for him. And then left.
The cab drove until the city faded away. We were practically on the other side of the island by the time its tires skipped to a stop. I got out and knocked on the giant half circle doors of the address. I noticed that we were deep in the countryside. There were hardly any lights dotting the night.
I knocked several more times before I heard shuffling behind the door. And then it opened. An old man stood in front of me in his drawers.
"What do you want," he asked angrily. "Do you know what time it is?"
"I'm sorry for disturbing you at such a late hour. But," I pulled out the pouch. And his eyes widened up.
"Meju-eh. You're back." He looked at me up and down. "What are you supposed to be," he asked but then shook his head. "No, no. Come in. Come in, please."
"I don't have much time," I told him. "I have to leave in the morning."
"Sit, sit." He ushered me to a chair in the courtyard.
I placed the bag on the table next to it, "I have a flight in the morning, so if we're going to do this. We have to do it now."
Instead of fighting me, he nodded, "Yes. I agree. I don't have much time either. And Meju-eh is older than most ghost brides. The bull demon might not let her through his gets if she gets any older. And then she'll be a husbandless spinster for eternity." He ushered around, "We don't have many living relatives either. So it shouldn't be too troublesome to hurry this along." He called into the house and a young woman came out, "This is my granddaughter. Ah-ahn. Meju-eh's older sister. They were close as children."
Ah-ahn was quite beautiful. I almost couldn't take my eyes off of her.
"Go and start preparations and rouse anyone you can get a hold of. We must have the wedding tonight. Even if it isn't grand as I would like."
"Will we make it in time," I asked. "It's a lot of work for one person. Perhaps I could help?"
The old man nodded, "That's a good idea. But forgive me, I must retire for now. Or else have no energy for the wedding." He turned to his granddaughter, "Fetch me when the preparations are ready." As he left us alone in the courtyard.
"What can I do," I asked her.
"We're going to need flowers for decoration."
I pulled a rose out from behind her ear, "I happen to have a case of these on hand at all times." I put the flower in her hair.
She smiled, "Thank you."
"What else?"
"Um, we already have tables for family gatherings. There should be enough food in the freezers that we can just heat up. I need to call my aunt to come help. And wake up some of the kids. Also...we kind of need a statue of some sort, as a stand-in for my sister."
"Statue? I think I have just the thing."
Hours went by and it was the dead of the night, but watching all the people bustling around the courtyard, the kids in excited whispers, you'd never guess that all of us should have been sleeping. Soon the tables were set, the food was hot, even the decorations were strung, and I had procured my mannequin from my luggage and a few of the menfolk were putting it together inside the main living room.
Several times I found myself laughing and having a good time with the others, although chasing that hen made me look quite ridiculous, and several times I bumped into Ah-ahn and we would talk and exchange a few words. In the beginning she talked mostly about her sister. How she was troublesome as a child. Always hiding things. I told her about the pouch appearing and disappearing in my hotel. And we both had a good laugh. Eventually we talked about ourselves. I learned she wanted to get away from here, "To see the world," she told me. The more we talked the closer we got. I could feel it. Soon we were bumping into each other just to feel our bodies touch. But before anything else transpired the wedding preparations were complete.
The old man was retrieved from his bedroom and everyone gathered outside in the courtyard, looking into the main living room. There was a wooden shrine in the back of the room and the mannequin had been traditionally dressed. From an old box the grandfather retrieved several personal items that belonged to Meju. And I was then asked to enter the living room.
The grandfather said a few words, and then gave us his blessing. Ah-ahn handed me a bowl of sticky rice ball soup. I had been through this process before and knew what to do. I ate one of the pink balls and then went to go feed my new bride.
Now I've traveled with this mannequin for some time. Seen it at a dozen of my own shows. Slept with it in the room. Knew that it was in fact a dummy for all intents and purposes. However, as I started moving my spoon toward it. I swear I saw it's chest rise as if it were breathing.
I couldn't tell if it was from the alcohol ebbing away from earlier or a trick of the light. But even its shoulders looked softer than usual. My hand started shaking as it got closer to her mouth. It was like watching an out of body experience as the spoon inched under her veil. And then the CRUNCH. It scared the fucking shit out of me. I looked around hoping to see some kid in the corner playing a dumb joke. But there were none. And I didn't believe what I was seeing even as the veil started moving as her jaws chewed the sticky material back and forth.
"No way," I shook. "There's just no way." My hand was so close to the veil. "Oh God. Please. I have to know how this is done." I ripped off the veil.
Meju looked very much like her picture. But older. And then older. And older. As if her face was starting to rot away as it contorted. People behind me screamed. The lightbulbs we had strung popped. Kids were running around and the grandfather fell to the floor clutching his heart.
I backed away, the spoon clattering to the ground as I watched the mannequin crick and crack as its arms and legs bent in a tangled mess until it was walking on all fours!
The thing grabbed the bent down to the grandfather and started chewing!
I turned around and saw the other guests were piling out of the courtyard. The tables were upturned and only the dim crescent light of the moon bore down on us. Everyone was screaming trying to get out. I ran and bumped into Ah-ahn. She whirled terrified and then realized it was me. She yelled, "You never! Look at the bride before it's time!"
"I'm so sorry! I didn't know. I thought it was a trick!"
She grabbed her face, her nails leaving streaks behind as she clawed at her skin, "Now she's going to kill every living blood relative. And then you." Ah-ahn laughed manically. "She's going to torture you!"
The people kept pushing around us until we got separated. Her final words still ringing in my ears as I took to the dirt road outside and started running. I ran for nearly a mile before I spotted a cab sitting outside of someone's house. I banged on their door and then begged them to take me to the airport. Throwing at them all the money from the dowry.
When I arrived at the airport I hurried through the TSA. Relieved at the lights and normal looking people. I boarded my flight. Tapping my foot nervously the entire time, staring out the small squarish window as we prepared to take off. The sun was starting to rise as the engine roared. I took one last look at the island as we flew away. Still trying to catch my breath at what I had just caused.
My mind was reeling as I heard two knocking noises, they sounded oddly familiar, and for a second I thought that Meju had finished with her family and had somehow come boarded. But then I realized the noise was coming from my carry-on. I reached inside and pulled out two red shaped crescents that the Monk at the temple had given to me. And I realized that if I ever needed any form of divine guidance this was it.
So right there in the tiny aisle. I asked the gods if I had escaped and threw the Jiaobei.
No.
I asked the gods if I would be safe.
No.
I asked them would Meju kill me.
Both flat.
Both flat.
Both flat.
s

A payment was created by redbubble for my account today. But only half of my earnings are included in it. So why not the other half? The answer is very simple. Because the fee rate applied in low earnings amounts is higher. So redbubble can get more fees by dividing my earnings into parts. I want to emphasize that only half of my earnings are included in it not pending sales.
Now, what should i do? What can i do against a scam company? Nothing. Anyone experienced the same situation? This company is trying to make the fees higher by giving half of my earnings.
Is this company run by a kid? Everyone knew what they had done before. Redbubble steals money by making standard accounts of all its high-paying artists. All high-selling successful artists are classified as standard. Even accounts with 2 designs are premium. But apparently even that is not enough for this greedy and cunning company. They want even more.
As far as I know, this company is headquartered in Australia. Someone living in Australia should now complain to the law that this company is doing this. This is just one of the sneaky scams that I've come to realize over the past 3 or 4 years. Maybe as artists we should organize on Twitter and expose what they are doing. I don't know if you would support such a protest, but I definitely think we should do something.

Hey y’all. I am a lurker on my personal account, but I’m using a throwaway for privacy reasons. I (in my 20’s F) and my husband (in his 20’sM) have been married for 2 years. I found out a year into my marriage that he has been a porn addict since being exposed in 1st grade. He also is a survivor of SA as a child from his female cousin.
We are currently separated (not by choice, he is in the military) but I was able to visit him last week. We had a great time, and he has been clean for about 3 months. Yesterday I found out that he relapsed after checking our accountability app (Covenant Eyes). I’m just so broken right now and wanted to vent out loud. We are in the process of getting matched for couples therapy, and I am beginning individual therapy on Tuesday this week.
Here’s what I wrote him: “I'm serious when I say that you telling me "I'm sorry and I love you." Is not going to fix this. I told you before we left for our separation what my boundaries are and you need to decide if you want me or porn.
I don't believe you are sorry or that you love me because if you did you would have called me or one of your accountability partners before you did that. You would have confessed to me after you did it. You would have been HONEST when I confronted you. Sheepishly saying, "oh I just googled something" doesn't cut it. It was nice having about 2 weeks where I wasn't worrying about this all the time and now I'm back having nightmares about it again. It's so selfish. Have you ever cried yourself to sleep because your spouse would rather lust and commit adultery in their heart over prostitutes and porn stars? It sucks. Or had nightmares over and over that your spouse keeps cheating on you but won't admit it?
When you are really to be HONEST and actually LOYAL to me we can talk about it, but until then I need time to myself. I'm also disgusted that you asked me for inappropriate pictures mere hours after you did this.”
We had a good conversation after and I feel stronger. But it still sucks so bad that he relapsed. We get to see each other again in a week and a half and I’m excited but worried he will relapse again right after.
After confronting him yesterday I just laid in bed and cried listening to “You’re Losing Me,” from Taylor Swift. I don’t want to divorce him, but I didn’t sign up for this. I always feel broken after he relapses (this is number 4 maybe?) but over stronger that we were vulnerable together. If I knew about his addiction before getting married I would have waited for him to be strong in his sobriety. The lyrics hit so close to home:
“You say, "I don't understand" and I say, "I know you don't.” We thought a cure would come through in time, now, I fear it won't. Remember lookin' at this room, we loved it 'cause of the light. Now, I just sit in the dark and wonder if it's time.
Do I throw out everything we built or keep it? I'm getting tired even for a phoenix. Always risin' from the ashes. Mendin' all her gashes. You might just have dealt the final blow.
Stop, you're losing me. Stop, you're losing me. Stop, you're losing me. I can't find a pulse. My heart won't start anymore for you. 'Cause you're losing me
Every mornin' I glared at you with storms in my eyes. How can you say that you love someone you can't tell is dyin'? I sent you signals and bit my nails down to the quick. My face was gray, but you wouldn't admit that we were sick.
And the air is thick with loss and indecision. I know my pain is such an imposition. Now, you're running down the hallway. And you know what they all say. "You don't know what you got until it's gone"
Stop, you're losing me. Stop, you're losing me Stop, you're losing me. I can't find a pulse. My heart won't start anymore for you. 'Cause you're losing me. ‘Cause you're losing me. Stop (Stop) 'cause you're losing me
My heart won't start anymore (Stop 'cause you're losing me). My heart won't start anymore (Stop 'cause you're losing me)
How long could we be a sad song. 'Til we were too far gone to bring back to life?. I gave you all my best me's, my endless empathy. And all I did was bleed as I tried to be the bravest soldier. Fighting in only your army, frontlines, don't you ignore me. I'm the best thing at this party (You're losing me). And I wouldn't marry me either. A pathological people pleaser. Who only wanted you to see her. And I'm fading, thinkin'. "Do something, babe, say something" (Say something). "Lose something, babe, risk something" (You're losing me). "Choose something, babe, I got nothing" (I got nothing). "To believe, unless you're choosing me"
You're losing me. Stop (Stop, stop), you're losing me. Stop (Stop, stop), you're losing me. I can't find a pulse, my heart won't start anymore.”
Just thinking out loud, and I’m open to any resources you recommend.

Hey there,
A few months ago, I got an error on my Pixel 4 XL stating "Problem Reading Your Battery Meter". I did some research, and it sounded like that's a common error with these phones, and the fix is to replace the battery. I'm mildly technically literate, so I did the repair myself with the iFixit kit. Ultimately, it seemed to fix the issue. A couple weeks after the new battery was installed, the "Problem Reading your Battery Meter" error returned, though it still read a battery percentage (which seemed accurate), so I ignored it. Fast forward to today, I'm having the same issue I had prior to the battery replacement, where then phone won't stay on unless it's plugged in, and now it won't boot at all even if it's connected to power. I suspect that if I disconnect the battery and reconnect it, it may boot, but I want to know what the next steps should be if my time is limited. I have a hard time believing that the battery went bad this fast, so that makes me wonder if there is a setting that I should have changed after the swap, or a "clear codes" button. Has anyone else encountered a similar situation? Did I just get unlucky, and fried another battery? Is there another problem this could be, like the power daughter board? If the phone thinks it couldn't read the battery percentage, could any overcharge safeguards failed, which fried the battery? I don't particularly want to replace the phone. It's only a year and a half old, and it was sold as new when I ordered it from amazon (though I'm starting to have doubts).
Any help you can provide would be greatly appreciated!
PS. I don't think it's relevant, but I'm running CalyxOS on it. From what I've heard, this is a hardware problem so I don't think it matters. It basically functions like a stock android phone.