Cabin Creature

I’m afraid to feel happy. I know that sounds stupid, but there has been enough in my past to make me wary about hoping for or receiving good things. I’m scared I’ll jinx it or curse it or tempt the universe to prove me foolish for being optimistic because it has happened so many goddamn times. But that ends this week, for I either succeed in starting this new chapter of my life or I die. Either way, on Saturday I’m moving out of my murder building, breathing or otherwise. While it was bittersweet a few months ago, now I’m reflecting more on the amount of bullshit I put up with just to live somewhere. And sure, there were good things, the amount of natural light I get in my suite is very pleasant, I’m close to everything, and I praise the national treasure who patrols these grounds and keeps us all safe. That’s about it, but boy do I love waking up to some natural light pouring in. 

What I won’t miss is much more numerous. I will no longer be at the mercy of our janky elevators and not have the option to choose the stairs because they only go down and the door locks behind. I won’t miss the random knocking from the weirdos on my floor or their uncomfortable invites into their apartments where I feared I would never emerge from again. No more will I have all white walls that I can’t hang much on since they’re the cursed popcorn material. No more will I have to pay four to eight dollars a week on laundry depending on whether I have to do two loads or dry my shit twice because the dryer doesn’t always want to participate in its one function. My rent won’t continue to go up each year since the place is already fully paid for. I’ll have air conditioning and die less violently in the hot months. I won’t have to worry about fire alarm tests, scheduled water shut downs, planned power outages. There won’t be anymore screaming fights across the hall or lunatics yelling at weird hours or dumbasses exploding their apartment trying to cook crack. Not being in such close proximity with other humans will be nice.

Over a year ago I was walking home from dance and I saw a message from a coworker that had come in whilst I was in class. He was asking if I knew why there were a butt ton of emergency vehicles outside my building since he saw photos on the What the Hell Just Happened Victoria facebook page. By the time I got back, there were no more flashing lights but there was the poorly cleaned up aftermath. I saw a huge bloodstain several paces from the front entrance which I stepped around to get inside. Following that were bloodstains of bare footprints and a smaller splash of wiped up blood at the entrance of the elevator that also happened to open up first when I summoned one. I dodged these marks like a cursed game of hopscotch and didn’t breathe normally until I was safe in my house. I found out later that a woman had been stabbed. She’d made it all the way from an apartment on the fourth floor, down the elevator, and outside before collapsing and or succumbing to her injuries. For three days I saw the ghosts of this woman’s last steps before the ground was finally spotless again. While it was certainly an isolated incident, having someone be murdered in my murder building while I was living there, hell a few hours before I came home was haunting. For five years there were no casualties until there was and I still think about her when I come home, when I use that particular elevator. It’ll be nice not to have to worry about people being stabbed to death in the building I live in.

It’s been six years since I’ve had a dishwasher. Eight years since I had a bedroom. I’m going to have my own front and back yard for the first time in nine years, with trees and grass and plants! I’m going to wake up to quiet and fresh air rather than screaming streeple and the stench of piss, crack, weed, and cigarette smoke all congealing together in wretched harmony. I’ll be able to ride my bike in a pleasant neighborhood. The only weirdos wandering the streets will be deer. I can just bask on a lawn or patio again after almost a decade of not having that option. I will be free! Free to be at peace, free from downtown and tall buildings and constant sounds. Free to enter and exit my house willingly without any constantly-shutting-down obstacles beforehand. Free of using a fob to get everywhere, free of keys for my bike and mail. Free from the maintenance guy continuously hitting on me after fixing my sink, blocking my front door, and having a master key to my house. Free from being harassed by another guy twice in the elevator. Free of landlords that don’t want to do what I’m paying them for and leaving me with an oven that didn’t work for a year and a fridge with a broken shelf, and shit plumbing that led my bathroom to flood three separate times. Free of relying on so many other people to be considerate, avoid arson, do their job after charging me exorbitant amounts of money each month. I’ll even be free of worrying so much about the potential Big One earthquake since having a one storey house collapse on me is way more comforting than an eighteen story stack of concrete and asbestos!

In February 2022, I underwent my boob refund. Approximately three months later—definitely before my June Show—I figured out that my gender was all over the place and that I wanted to be log shaped to emphasize that fluidity. So I got on the waitlist for top surgery. Now, four years later, after being abandoned by my original surgeon, I have refunded the rest of my boobage. As of Thursday morning, my chest is flat beneath the swelling. 

Update from day two: uhhh my entire freaking body hurts as though I went through a vigorous workout. I’m still very grossed out by the tubes hanging from my body, collecting whatever the fuck nonsense is seeping from my wounds. My binder is too long for my torso, and hot, and itchy but four weeks from now I will be free of it. And after my dressings and tube/bags are removed, I can shower and properly cleanse myself. I am incredibly uncomfortable now, but I won’t be forever, and that’s what matters. I am embarking on my journey of becoming a log and no longer being constrained by undershirt boob supports, the climate is simply too hot for that now.

“Hard work pays off” means little more than jack-shit in my opinion. Maybe once, long ago there was truth in that but not now. In this ai poisoned, world war three threatened, late stage capitalism fouled, climate crisis tarnished timeline, there is no reason to delude ourselves into believing that burning ourselves out for the sake of a good future will yield anything but the burnout. 

Nearly every good thing that has happened in my pitiful adult life has to do with luck. I am not a lucky person at the best of times, in fact, I’m more akin to cursed. But the near future of peace and security I have waiting for me is the luckiest thing to have ever happened I think. It came to me not by excellent work ethic but pure luck. I lucked out in gaining a friend who is in a place to be incredibly generous. I lucked out in that friend having a close family that uses their resources to change a life like mine rather than hoard it all and leave unused. I lucked out in that friend’s luck. But I, me, myself, did absolutely nothing. All of my plans were scattered into the wind, some because my body called it quits before I was twenty, some because of that stupid fucking pandemic, others because the economy is a hellscape. That was all terribly unlucky. Out of my control. Regardless of how hard I tried in life. And to be honest with you, I thought that was it for me. With my body degrading, my bank account fading, the support of government systems non-existent, there wasn’t really anything I could do to wholly improve my life. I can’t afford to move out of my murder building because I’m poor, I can’t keep attending dance classes because I hurt, I can’t really travel because I’m still poor, I can’t write because I’m too exhausted, and I can’t save for any kind of future since the cost of breathing goes up every year and minimum wage doesn’t match that. That’s the bleak truth of it and if I hadn’t lucked out in the way that I did, this would continue to be my life. And while I try to take it day by day and enjoy the little things and comforts I can get, it’s depressing to have lost so much before anything really began. 

But it won’t be that way much longer and I cannot express just how astoundingly meaningful, beautiful, loving it is for my friend and her kin to provide me with a home. Not a garage, not a murder building, not a dwelling that isn’t owned, a haven. And this is the point I want to make with all my yapping—luck is the most valuable currency, it is the key that opens all locks. And not all of us have it while some have it in excess—but it can be shared. One of the most human things a person with a shit ton of luck can do is pass some of it along to others, like my friend did for me, like her parental units did for us. For the first time in almost a decade, I have hope for my future and with the luck I have come into, I will do what I can to support others when I wasn't able to before. Perhaps not in as drastic a way, but that isn’t what’s important. What’s important is that I will do what I can as my friend did what she could. I will try, for I believe that if everyone passed around what luck they could spare, eventually, we would all have some and for many of us, our lives would be changed for the greater, which, ultimately, is a net positive for the world. 

As I approach thirty, I’ve learned some things. Things like hard work doesn’t pay off where it should. If you work good then you just get given more work or maybe you don’t get anything despite giving it your all. Saving money won’t buy you a house, university no longer guarantees a career, being good at your job doesn’t mean a raise. It’s pretty disheartening, especially being in a generation that grew up being told hard work pays off. You know where that saying is true though regardless of the state of the world? Fortnite. 

I never played first person shooter games until this year. Hell, I didn’t play video games until Baldur’s Gate came out. The former has always intimidated me though. I figured my brain was too slow to play such things since my noggin likes to buffer. Fortnite always intrigued me but only recently did I delve in it. Lemme tell you I was very bad. In fact I’m still not great. That said, despite not playing every day or even close, my abysmal aim has improved, my fear of close combat has lessened, and my reflexes have sharpened. I can see myself improving after each round. Beyond that though, you get rewarded in-game. You get prizes, points, customizable little something-somethings that spruce up your life. Fortnite is such a silly game because it’s a battle royal, but with goofy pizzazz. You acquire characters that you like or think are funny, not ones that blend into the background well. You get emotes, dances, music that makes no difference to how you play beyond adding some amusement. I know there are die-hard players who take this shit seriously but I cannot take them seriously whatsoever because this game is just congealed nonsense. And it’s great. 

I like being able to get stuff with the points I earn by improving how I play. Maybe I’m simpleminded but after having little to no reward for what I do in real life, it’s nice to make that up through a video game. It’s not a continuous story either, just pretty quick rounds that you can quit whenever. It’s an easy way to give yourself that little victory boost. Listen man, I know that plenty of people think violent video games make violent people. I’m here to say “nah”. I hate guns, I hate conflict, all my murderous rage stays suppressed and dormant. I have a grand ol’ time getting better at killing folks in game but you have to be a very specific type of person to want to then do that in real life. Real life is permanent, video games aren’t, if you can’t differentiate that, you have other problems that need addressing. 

Hi. It's been awhile. A lot has happened in the time of my absence, I got some good future news, some neutral present news, and some disappointing past news. 

Before you get too comfortable with my being here, let me forewarn ye, I am returning as a trickle, not a tsunami. Bits and pieces will show up here and there, and, having an un-thrilling life, maybe just some thoughts that can’t be spread into a whole blog. Slivers of bark rather than the entire log so to speak. So, what have I been up to of late?

THE DISAPPOINTING PAST 

I reached as much of a breaking point as I could afford to reach. My body and brain have been in shambles and I needed to do something asap. I was going to apply again for disability earlier than planned –it was going to be summer, when I didn’t have dance classes to worry about– but I couldn’t keep waiting. So, I dropped dance as step one. It was a devastating decision that really threw me into the gutter. For a while I felt the same as I had when someone died. It broke me but I had to keep reminding myself that unlike death, this was temporary. I just needed to get accepted and then I could get back to feeding my soul.  

THE NEUTRAL PRESENT 

In the event of murdering my future savings plan, I was able to go down to working one day a week right away. I’m just going to predominantly live off my retirement fund until it’s low enough to go whine to the government about paying me poverty funds. I can’t go back to dance yet though, since I can’t risk that showing up in my bank statements until after I get accepted, which sucks and probably belongs in the disappointing past news but narratively it wouldn’t flow. So let’s all agree to ignore that. Cutting down work is why I am tentatively writing again because I have more time to replenish my brain cells. I’m hoping to get back to writing book two as well soon and pulling myself out of my couch potato funk.

THE GOOD FUTURE 

I don’t want to say much about this yet, for so much has already gone sideways and I still find this unbelievable. Such good things don’t typically happen to me. But without saying much, there is a place for me to live that isn’t my murder building and won’t take more than half of my income and can be a safe haven to heal and grow. It’s so close, yet so far and I’m afraid that if I tell anyone then it will be ripped away so I’m going to wait until I’m somewhat settled and the universe can’t hurt me as easily. There are some other updates too that will all probably appear in future logs that I can’t easily hint about here yet so—woooo anticipation!

Sometimes it feels like moments in life aren’t real. Not specifically the tragic moments, when someone dies or you encounter a traumatizing experience. Just random days, interactions, conversations. Sometimes it feels like I’m an actor or a character in a video game, if things go sideways, you can always yell “cut” or reload to a previous save. But I’m not an actor, nor am I a video game avatar. A small part of my brain always knows this, I think, which is why I still can’t act like a dick or believe that consequences won’t matter, but it’s not always the majority of my brain having this knowledge. Which is spooky. I don’t know if I’ve just removed myself so far from life that it feels like fiction or what, but it’s weird, to say the least, when the memories of these moments hit and I’m forced to fully realize that they happened in real life. 

Maybe I can put some blame on my dreams, for they come across so often as reality, especially when based in this world and in my life. When they’re so outside what I’m used to, I typically know that it’s a dream. But the ones where I’m just working a shift, of having a regular conversation with friends, doing something I’ve done plenty of times before, that’s when it gets confusing around what really happened. So maybe that’s my problem. Or maybe only part of the problem. 

Perhaps another part is my chronic headaches and migraines. A lot of the time I feel like I’m not fully here, like I’m at a distance from the world. I’m currently sitting on my couch, but I don’t feel like all of me is sitting here. My head is more separate, more behind me, floating a bit, in the room. It’s partially paying attention, partially understanding it’s here, but not entirely. I often have this strange floating sensation so would that be contributing? I don’t know. There’s a possibility though, I suppose. Plenty of times I don’t want to be in my body. The thing aches and malfunctions far too often so am I just constantly separating my conscience from my body to such an extent that I don’t always know what’s real? Am I just going insane? 

I wouldn’t be surprised. How can I not go insane at this point? After spending so much of my life trying to do what’s right by others, by myself, by my future, only for everything to shatter into a thousand pieces anyway, how might I stay sane? Plenty of the impacting lessons I learned as a child have turned out to be lies. So much of my energy is spent being a decent person, but failing in life nonetheless whilst cruel bigots thrive despite being the worst of people. I know it takes approximately the same amount of energy to be a decent person as it does to be an awful person, one you notice the strain earlier and the other you learn much later. But gods, do I hate that plenty of people haven’t yet been forced to face the consequence of screwing everyone else over while I get to be exhausted every day. 

Like, what even is life anymore? Have you noticed the utter madness that is this timeline? It feels like a farce, a practical joke. It’s every ridiculous thing that could happen, happening at once. If reality doesn’t feel real, how am I to tell the difference? Sometimes I remember that I’m not far from thirty and that ageing exists and I just want to flee to my mind palace and never return because of how bleak those two reminders are. Thirty isn’t old, however, I always thought I’d be more than a shell of a person by then. I thought that by working hard to maintain my body and soul as a youngling, then I would flourish all the more as I aged and grew into myself and experienced life and learned who I was. But that doesn't seem to be happening.

Delivery should be convenient, no? Ordering stuff to your door so you needn’t venture into the world is the whole point of mailpeople. That’s why mailboxes sit in the front yard or as slots in doors. Online shopping, online delivery, the likes invoke imagery of someone knocking, or notifying in some way, that you have something on your doorstep. 

When I went to have my eyes checked for an annual exam, they told me they could order my contacts and ship them to me all easy peasy. I even asked how big the box would be because I know what with me living in an apartment building, and a sketchy-ass murder building at that, people don’t like to deliver to my wee mailbox. Most of the time, I can’t blame them. It’s a tiny-ass box. But the vessel for my seeing discs was also said to be small, small enough to fit. So that’s what we settled on, I would have my contacts shipped directly to me to save me from bussing to the optometrist. Yippee. Super simple. 

Except not actually. 

I got a notice on my mailbox one day, it was the “sorry we missed you,” notice. It was annoying but maybe the box was awkwardly big. No matter, there’s a Shopper’s, London Drugs, and random wee postal outlet all nearby, a quick stroll. Was my package at any of those places? Nah. It was a forty minute bus ride away. I messaged the one friend who has a car, asking her the favor of driving me there perchance. She agreed. Crisis averted. 

Except not actually. 

The place had weird fucking hours. It opened somewhat late, which worked for my friend since she would take me there, take me back and keep on heading to work right after. I checked the notice so many times because it took me forever to figure out the location of the place and because I wanted to quadruple check the hours so as to not inconvenience my friend. I think it said something like 9am-1pm, 2pm-5pm. I assumed only one person worked and had an hour break halfway. 

Well, we get there and the place is closed. The hours on the door stated, 10am-12pm, 1pm-4pm. That sucks. So we head back, friend with car assures me, since the place is super close to her house, she’ll just pick them up on my behalf the next day or day following. After I ranted about this in our groupchat, my pink coworker friend searched up the place again–she helped find the address–and on their cursed website it stated their hours were, 11am-1pm, 2pm-3pm or something stupid like that. Whatever it was, know this: the times on the notice, front door, and website were all different. Now, whilst my body thinks I’m eighty-seven, I am still more able than other decrepit folk when it comes to getting around. But what if I wasn’t? I had those contacts ordered to me directly to save me a fifteen minute bus ride and it turned into a two day, strategically timed, wild-with-rabies-goose-chase. I was upset, to say the least. 

Imagine: you’re in a stairwell, it’s dim, empty, grey. You would use the elevator, if it was more reliable, but you have places to be. So you descend the concrete steps for a while when you hear something. Eerie whistling echoing throughout the stairwell. You can’t tell where it’s coming from. Above you or below? Nevermind, you try to ignore it and carry on, down, down, down. Then you come upon them, fellow users of the stairs. You realize one of them is responsible for the whistling.Except there’s something off. Many things are off. A quick glance would have told you the source of the whistling and nothing more. But you steal more than a quick glance and now you can’t help but keep your gaze on them as your eyes catch on each thing wrong about your neighbours. 

Their eyes are the wrong color, unnatural. And with the whistler, the irises are too big, they cover too much of the whites. All three have unsettling smiles, as though drawn on, but in such a way that you can’t tell if they’re happy or sad. Especially with their brows, seemingly paralyzed in an upturned shape. Their makeup, their clothes, all are made up of happy, bright colors. But the setting, the dingy stairs, the grey walls, the echo-y whistling drains the life from the rainbow collected before you. 

Yes, something is very wrong. It may be a saturday, the start of the weekend where stairwell traffic wouldn’t be much of a surprise. Nor would three individuals decked out in bright clothing and makeup. And it’s October, ‘tis the spooky season. But it’s only the twenty-fifth, not halloween and the halloween festivities would be on the coming friday night and saturday after. Not on an afternoon a week in advance. So why, in your descent of the almost empty stairwell, are you now face to face with three clowns? Why did the whistling suddenly stop? And why did they start staring like that…at you…in unison?

You can shriek in fear now. It’s okay, they understand.

No, but like, straight up, could you imagine?! That would be freaky as hell. Luckily, when we were in my stairwell, decked out in clowncore glory, there was no one to hear my companion whistling. As far as we know. There was definitely no one who came upon us though whilst we took strange, unhinged photos. Were that to occur, it would be a simple explanation, but whomst knows if it would be simply understood. The Princess Party was odd enough to explain, let alone the Clown Party. 

I forgot to come up with a theme when my birthday came round, but we had something planned for the friend who came next. So naturally, we went about town, the mall, and Boston Pizza as a quartet of clowns. We got questioned. We got glances. We got weird ass photos in the dark of my unlit apartment. And we got cupcakes and pie. Themed parties are really one of the greatest things we remembered we could do. And honestly, clowncore is a vibe, a fun one. It’s hard to be casual about it, but we would all definitely be down for another random clown day. It’s the spice of life, looking like a fool, and we go about it like Olympic champions. 

There is a house. It’s a simple house, one storey ranch, built in the eighties. It’s nothing spectacular but it has nice yards, a bay window, fruit trees. It’s a dream, a hope, a wish, this house. Something near yet too far away to reach. But it’s fun to imagine nonetheless. It’s fun to picture how I’d decorate my room, what furniture we’d fill the place with, where I’d park my plants. We can paint the walls any color, fill our garden with any seeds, choose our cabinet handles, our preferred shape of mirror. The limits are without limits. 

There are so many little things that I think about at random times of the day such as changing my pillow cases each season as well as the dish towels, what all cutlery I can acquire, what is the most aesthetically cute way to store my stuffies. I remember wallpaper is a thing, and rugs, and accent chairs. All the different types of storage solutions fill my brain way too often. 

But it isn’t just dreaming of the house itself, it’s the lifestyle that comes with it. I start imagining the hobbies I’d pick up whilst living in this house. I’d take up barbequing, maybe do some backyard kickboxing and tai chi, I’d house bees. I see myself sitting on the deck and crocheting or knitting, perhaps sipping a cup of tea whilst watching the sun set. I see myself tending to a colorful garden, growing grapes, harvesting pumpkins. Maybe I could make a little chicken coop and keep fluffy chickens, consuming their eggs for breakfast each afternoon. 

Somehow, I’d create a wee contained utopia of sorts and live my best life in this house. This house that I don’t have in person but have in my heart. I could get a cat, or two. Figure out how to play the violin in the garage so I don’t make my neighbors hate me. Maybe I’d somehow become really savvy with handiwork and do minor house repairs and renovations. There’s this part in my brain that keeps telling me, this is the place where things get better, where they improve and heal and repair. 

Nearly a fortnight ago, our Princess Party commenced. It was a thrilling, silly occasion that included frolicking stupidly around a park. A very useful park, for it had all the whimsy a princess needs: ducks, squirrels, flowers, ponds. As well as things we could have used less of, like the old man with the fancy camera taking pictures of us or the tourists with their phones out taking pictures of us or the senior people walking past taking pictures of us. You know, if you just ask, we’d almost certainly say yes. We’ve had people do that before, it would maybe be a bit uncomfortable for us but we appreciate the asking permission. It’s also quite flattering to see people so enthralled with our Saturday get ups. 

The Princess Party Saturday was sure to receive looks and questions which we were wholly prepared for. It would be pretty damn stupid to go about in public, the five of us decked out in pointy hats with billowing tulle and flouncy skirts, and not expect a side eye here or there, or a “is there a special occasion happening?” It would be foolish, cocky, dare I say ignorant of the behavior of our fellow humans. However, I am troubled by the audacity people have to take pictures of strangers, without said stranger’s permission, as though they’re at a zoo. 

This happened when I was a child, swimming around the local pier with my friends. We paddled to a floating dock a little ways away and as we basked in the sun, we noticed the horde or tourists… photographing us… children in swimsuits. Sure it’s legal or whatever, public place and all that, but it’s fucking weird too! None of those people were our parents and we weren’t any of their kids so why are photos being taken of our soggy asses? Why are people compelled to do that? I don’t like the fact that a random old dude has however many pictures of me and my mates in our regal getup. I don’t like the fact that I have no information about what was captured. He was so unapologetic about it too. They all were, no one trying to hide or be discreet. 

I’ve seen plenty of brides and their grooms out and about and I’ve looked in their direction. I try to stare only when they aren’t looking or I’m not in their view but that’s where it stops. I stare, I admire, I move on. I don’t whip my phone out and start snapping up shots of spiffy people I have never met. Hell, the amount of cool ass outfits I’ve seen people wear have tempted me greatly, but I don’t give in because it’s weird. I simply collect the image with my eyeballs and stow it away in my brain. Maybe I’ll be able to recall it again one day, maybe not, but it brought me joy for some time nonetheless without making anyone feel violated. 

There’s such a simple pleasure in receiving a fortune cookie with your meal. Even though much of the time it’s an incredibly basic fortune or not even a fortune but a random quote, it’s still fun to crack open that little cookie and collect the paper inside. 

Such was the mindset my friend had going into hers when we were sat at a table in a mall food court. She cracked open her cookie and the four of us leaned in, anticipating what might be written. It was instructions. It was instructions to go online to the fortune cookie’s website. My pink friend said she wouldn’t even bother, but the owner of the fortune cookie was in too deep, she had to see what was up. The site had the audacity to request her email before she went further, but she gave it nonetheless. There was a mystery to get to the bottom of. I believe she typed in a code that was on the “fortune” paper and that’s how she got her result.

Sorry, better luck next time.

I beg thine absolute most genuinely pure pardon? HUH? If I could skillfully type in a sputtering way, I would, but you’ll just have to imagine it. How’m’st is that all she gets? All of those extra steps and not a fortune whatsoever? Since when was that a thing? No quote? No list of lucky numbers? Just a “sorry, try again” message? IS THIS THE WORLD WE LIVE IN NOW?

The third friend who was there hates apps, er, to be more specific, hates that everything has an app now. And I’m inclined to agree. This took that kind of nonsense to a whole nother level. Why, in the name of all that is unholy, do you need to go online to figure out what your fortune cookie wants to tell you? Is it solely just so that company can send you spam emails? Is that how desperate people are these days? Like, what are we doing? 

I don’t want to sound like an old curmudgeon saying “back in my day”, however, I think childhood and teenhood were better without existing so much on the internet. Granted many people my age did, I just wasn’t one of them but now it’s so much easier to end up on there. Everyone films everything even if you didn’t agree to that and the judgement is worldwide. Being a teenager and even a teenager of sorts part two: the twenties edition, is stupid already. Discovering yourself is hard and weird and uncomfortable a lot of the time, and it’s made worse that seemingly everyone is paying attention to everything you do. You have to fit in but you also have to be unique but not too unique but not too on trend. I’ve seen some discussion of late about the disappearance of young people's personalities. Everyone is so afraid of being ridiculed and it’s not even unwarranted because everyone is also not afraid of ridiculing others. You can be anonymous on the internet or just say whatever even when you aren’t because it’s not like you’re saying these things to one’s face. But because of this fear, people won’t admit what they like, they won’t get excited in front of others, they won’t display their passions because they don’t want snarky comments and judgement. 

As I said in another post, me and a couple friends are trying to depart from our "pathetic era”. What one friend often says is “to be cringe, is to be free”. This is an important step to becoming un-pathetic. Because in order to fully be yourself in your truest form, you must embrace being cringe at times. You must allow yourself to be silly, to like what you like unapologetically. We cannot become cardboard cutouts of empty humans. Expressing oneself without fear is the ultimate form of power. Dressing the way you want, talking about the things that truly interest you, not toning your personality down to nothing when in public. Life is hard and sad enough, why do we have to make it worse? Show appreciation for things, give a kudos and leave a comment on that fanfiction you really enjoy so the author knows someone cares. Recommend a show to your friends that you can all watch together so they can finally see why you won’t shut up about it. Play your music out loud in your workplace that’s cool enough to let the staff put on their own playlists. Display your artwork, your books, design your room to be something that matches the true you. 

People will always find other people cringy, and that’s okay so long as we keep it to ourselves. Miserable jealous people will always make a remark about it but that’s because they have nothing better to do. Don’t let your own opinions or the shallow opinions of others prevent you from living life how you want and learning who you are as you embrace the world and all it offers. I keep feeling stupid for really enjoying young adult books even though I’m twenty-six, but who cares, that shit’s great if you know what you like. I like animated movies and shows. I like listening to music that’s all over the place. I like my plushie collection and playing Baldur’s Gate with the girls and shopping at Hot Topic. I like that my house is more mismatched than it’s ever been because now I don’t feel like I need to stay within a certain aesthetic. I like stuff and things because I am a living human being. And whether they’ll admit it or not, so does everybody else. Acting like you only enjoy things ironically and being too cool to care is not a great long term plan. It’s how to have no real relationships or no authentic happiness.

Because the Pride Parade and following festivities is in July, it’s hot as hell outside. We learned that the hard way after the first Pride since covid came about and we all nearly suffered heatstroke. Ever since then, we split up the day a bit. We watch the parade, then go to brunch, then go to the vendor tents to peruse the goods. 

We love brunch so any excuse to get it is great for us. So that’s what we were doing after the parade. We were eating out beloved breakfast foods, enjoying the protection from the outside heat, slurping cold beverages and chatting. In the past, our random conversations have gotten a chuckle out of passersby and waiters. This day however, we weren’t exactly discussing anything enticing or scintillating. We were talking about the bizarre plotlines and unexpected violence in young adult books. It wasn’t our most witty conversation nor humorous, we were really just rambling. I only mention this because I otherwise have no idea why what happened later on occurred. 

We were sat at a corner table that was really meant for three but the four of us squeezed in because we like ourselves a booth. The small table next to me was occupied but I avoided looking in that direction lest I make accidental eye contact with my neighbour. I was aware of the presence as we were yapping, but I paid little mind overall. Until I heard him talking to the waitress. He was complimenting the joint and the staff and the exchange between them was merry and friendly. They asked for each other’s names and I assumed he must be a regular, the both of them finally learning the names that belonged to familiar faces. I didn’t eavesdrop too much since I was still talking to my mates. 

The waitress came round to us and asked if we wanted our bills, to which we said yes and, at the same time, the fellow left. I learned afterward that her question was a hint to him to exit before anything was revealed. She didn’t come back with our receipts, instead she came over and let us all know that the gent who’d been quietly sat next to us by himself had paid for our meals. I don’t know if it’s because he thought we looked cool, what with our colorful pride getup, or if he was enjoying our conversation, or if he just thought we all looked like we could use the help, but he paid for four meals and drinks nonetheless. This was not a cheap purchase for him, especially given that he paid for his own food too, but I guess there was something about us that made him think we were worth giving to. 

He wanted to leave before we received our bills so he was gone before we could thank him. I never even saw his face, I only heard his voice and learned from his exchange with the waitress that his name was Daryl. We were flabbergasted to say the least and spent the rest of the day on a high because of this man’s random act of kindness. I wish I could tell him how grateful I am and how much we all appreciated it and how happy it made us but since I can’t, I’m going to write about him and his deed instead. 

People need to get their attention spans in check. I am sick and tired of things not being interesting enough because there’s no action. I’m sick and tired of people just wanting fast paced plot. I’m a writer. I have been writing a story for ages. I’ve had these characters developing in my head for years but I’m afraid to put them on paper. I’m afraid that the first part of my story won’t ever be picked up because there is too much “filler”. But we need filler dammit! That’s where character development happens! That’s where relationships strengthen and personal growth occurs and self reflection is had. When things are quiet, we get to see the impact from the things that were loud.

Except some people don’t want that. Some people have the attention span of a goldfish and they can’t follow one moment of calm or silence. Shows and movies are getting stupid because there isn’t any time to breathe. They don’t make many episodes these days that contain “slice of life” moments. It’s maddening. I have seen so many videos of people talking about the importance of pacing and why certain things failed because there wasn’t enough build up. Do you know how many times they reference Avatar the Last Airbender? So many! Because that animated treasure is spectacular and that’s including the “nonsense” episodes because they have CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT! You get to see these people think and grow in those slower moments and all the harshness that happens to them hits harder when you’re reminded that they’re just kids. They act like kids during these times and it hurts because they have so much weight on their little shoulders. The Mandalorian is great for this too. There’s the over arcing story and then each episode is a side quest slowly leading to that. Which is wonderful since you see how much the bonds in that show grow. You see people flourish emotionally. This is important.

We need more slice of life moments. Re-reading the Hunger Games, I noticed how many of these precious scenes were taken out of the movies due to runtime, and I get it, but at the same time, it’s frustrating. Especially because you so often hear the same sentiment, that it won’t capture people’s attention, it’s not interesting enough, or relevant to the overall plot. But you know what? I think it very damn well is. I cried over the deaths of characters in the books, but I shed naught a tear in the movies since nothing enough was established between people. The amount of loss there is in that trilogy that the movies just scratch the surface of is insane. But it isn’t just adaptations. Books themselves have weird ass pacing where you can’t take a breather and pause for a moment. The Mortal Instruments is chaotic as all hell. Six books, thick books, take place over the course of less than a year. Do you know how much tomfoolery happens in those books? Like every chapter there’s something. Those kids barely get a break but you’re supposed to believe that two of them have fallen so incredibly in love with each other even though they barely know one another because shit keeps happening and they can hardly have a conversation!

You know how I’ve written in the past just how much I cherish the days with my friends where we don’t do much but yap? It’s because those yapping days carry the most interesting conversation, the deepest topics, the personal stuff that we feel we can voice in the safety of my house. Sure, we still chat about a plethora of things on our days when we do stuff, but the focus is usually on the stuff that we’re doing rather than ourselves. And that balance is what keeps our bonds with one another strong and dynamic. We see all sides of one another, who we are alone, who we are around others, how we interact with the world, how we interact with uncertainty or discomfort or unfamiliarity. If we had to rely on constantly doing stuff to remain friends, then we aren’t really friends. Our outings add excitement but they aren’t the foundation of us as a group. The same goes with writing. If you constantly need something to be happening to keep the audience engaged, then the audience is stupid and/or you’re a bad writer. Entertainment can be compelling in a myriad of ways. Panic Room is not a fast paced movie but it’s full of tension and keeps you at the edge of your seat. It’s not an action movie, but it’s still entertaining. You’re still invested in what will happen next. 

I’m perfectly aware that not all stories need to be as multifaceted as humans truly are. But I wish it wasn’t such a risk to have that in general. I don’t want to have to stress about cutting out scenes that are really just about character interaction rather than the furthering of the plot. I don’t want us to feel like we need to condense so much character growth and development by making the audience fill in the gaps themselves. That’s a large part of why Arcane season two irked a lot of people. It relied on gap filling over actually showing us the progression. Writing is an art, it comes in many styles and forms, so it’s wrong to try and squish it all into one thing. 

Because I’ve done this most of my life, allow me to make a dance analogy: when you go to the ballet, you’re likely not expecting super intense, face paced, loud music-d showyness. You’re expecting elegance, tranquility, classical music, intermission in the middle of a three hour show about one story. You aren’t going to whine if you don’t see dancers break out in jazz or tap because that isn’t the style. If you wanted that, then you’d go elsewhere. Now, maybe, this is a stupid comparison because dance performances in general aren’t nearly as popular as movies and tv shows. But I don’t think any particular dance styles are being shut out or dwindling because someone wants to blend them all together or change them to make something more interesting. There are still distinct forms of dance and people naturally separate them with no problem as far as I’m aware. So why can’t we do this with writing? Why can’t we just accept some stories are going to be slower paced or more character heavy than others? Why can’t we just let people express themselves and take the risk and see how it goes without trying to mold everything into a perfect little box first? 

Our twenties is basically teenagehood part two, we aren’t really adults yet, just at a higher stage of figuring ourselves out and being cringey in a new and different way. Unfortunately for my friend group, our early twenties, the more formative years, were nuked by covid. We were thrust into limbo, unable to grow or progress or evolve. Instead, we devolved in a way, the pandemic wearing us out in every aspect, just trying to make it through our bleak lives with little thought of the future. Because during those few years, there was no future or past or really present, it was just a blur of time that muddled our memories and left us wondering what happened when. It was like we went through a wormhole, one day we were barely twenty, then the next we were twenty-three with very little knowledge of how we got there. 

Now we’re in the latter half of our second teenagehood but we don’t feel like it because we missed out on all the weird shit we may or may not have done had the world not shut down for a spell. So lately, we’ve been working to remedy that. Right now we are in, what one friend calls, our Pathetic Era. Most of us live at home, have sad jobs or no jobs, few go to school, and when we gather, we hide in our introverted bubble. But no more. This is the summer of exploration, of Exposure Therapy. We’re having the deep conversations now, not the usual ones about the socioeconomic state of the world but the ones about our bodies, our desires. We had a day of dressing scandalously (by our standards) to make peace with our figures, prancing about town feeling so terribly uncomfortable but pushing through regardless. A couple of us even dared to swipe right on Tinder, not necessarily engaging in conversation from that but the swipe alone is a leap from where we used to be. 

It wasn’t just covid that ruined us unfortunately, we were also slammed with trauma and drama in pretty quick succession which did us no favors and further made us into scared children rather than fully fledged adults. This is why we are now often manifesting the energy of being thirty, flirty, and thriving. With how disabled we all are, our bodies feel way older than thirty, so we got that down. We’ve dipped our toes into the flirty aspect recently with our silly little outfits. The thriving remains untouched, but we are still dreaming and planning dammit, for that day. The day we live in a house without parents, find our significant others, have careers instead of jobs. We keep pressing forward for that day, we can’t give up or give in or die, it would be too embarrassing. What have we accomplished yet? Nothing! We can’t perish in World War Three or in the earthquake that’s supposed to sink our island or be exterminated in any other way. We have stuff to do, and things still. 

We lost so much precious time, we no longer have the energy we used to. It’s depressing because we really didn’t stand a chance. The whole world was frozen in time for years. But we aren’t wallowing, we are scheming. We have activities galore this summer, man, and we usually hibernate in the summer because we all hate the heat for the most part, but not this time. This time round, we’re going places. Not far away places but places that aren’t just my bachelor suite. We had Pride, we got the indigenous market coming up, the museum, a renaissance faire, playland, haircuts, and mini local vacations. There’s a list. This summer, we reinvent ourselves so when the ideal time to exist, aka autumn, comes round, we’ll enter the new season glamorous and glorious and glowing. We’ll conquer the bland months, rainy and grey, the trademark of the pacific northwest that we love so much, in our newly refurbished skins, our fresh identities. 

It’s so incredibly ironic that the transphobic assholes, who are constantly screaming about trans people being predatory, are also wanting to know everybody’s genitals to determine what sex or gender a person is. Like, bruh, how do you not see? It’s so gross, and creepy, and weird. It’s also insane that these fuckers have gotten so far fighting a made up battle in their heads. 

With trans people in the States having their passports rejected, the UK passing a law stating that trans women will no longer be considered women, and all the anti-trans tomfoolery between, has made a lot of people’s lives hell. Governing bodies are striving to, if they haven’t already, deny gender affirming surgery which saves adults and gender affirming care, like puberty blockers which saves children. They are perfectly happy with all the suicides that come with abolishing this kind of care. They preach that they’re protecting youths while condemning so many of them to death by preventing them from ever feeling wholly themselves. 

Our bodies can be a special prison during the in-between times of gender discovery and gender affirming care. You’re stuck in this form that your whole being knows is wrong, yet you can’t just switch it. It’s a long ass process already, only to be made worse with all the evil bigwigs making uneducated decisions on other people’s bodies. 

The thing too though, is that this doesn’t just affect trans people, it affects anyone who doesn’t conform to gender norms, anybody who isn’t deemed feminine enough. These dumbasses are engaging in a witchhunt that fucks with everybody. Women who were born women and identify as such are being accused otherwise because they have broader shoulders, or a strong jawline, or small chest, or decent muscle mass. With the thing in the UK, trans men are also now considered women, so for all of those screaming about women being assaulted in bathrooms, it’s gonna be waayyyy easier for cis men to lie about being trans just to get in there. Also women are being harassed in bathrooms by other women who don’t see them as womanly enough, so that’s just grand. 

Like this whole hatred of us is so stupid and unnecessary. We out here just trying to live our lives and that makes people so angry. They are so obsessed about what’s under our clothes to an insane degree. Why do you care about my boobs? Why do you care about what I pee from? That is literally none of your business and it doesn’t affect you. The fact laws are being made over this is dystopian as fuck. First you wanna take over people’s uterus’s, now this? 

Transphobes are small in numbers, just like the bastard politicians, the wannabe dictators, the billionaires. The rest of us decent folk outnumber them, we will always outnumber them. They will always find something else to whine about, to take away from the rest of us, whether it be healthcare, rights, housing, equality, bodily autonomy. But here’s the thing, they cannot get rid of us all. Those in power can’t pull a President Snow and throw everyone they don’t like into an arena. They can’t overwhelm us if we stand together, if we stand for each other, regardless if our life paths are the same. Hold hands anyway. Things will only continue to get worse if we remain divided. We need to make a united force so we can topple our enemies. After that we can get more specific with ideals. One of the issues with the elections here is that we have one party that openly sucks and several parties that more or less don’t. Problem with voting with this layout is all the stupidheads flock to that one party while the rest of us end up scattered so we’ll never have a majority vote. Options are good, it’s just unfortunate that the worst of us are so good at creating a single group whilst the rest of us get stuck on the ideas for the future before defeating the enemy in the present. 

We cannot keep allowing this kind of baseless fear mongering. We cannot allow books on LGBTQ+ topics to be banned from schools and libraries. We cannot allow trans women to be without any safe spaces by banning them from everywhere. We cannot allow others to normalize interrogating such a tiny group of people about their bodies. These horrible human beings want everyone to believe that by being who we are, we are dangerous and predatory and constantly trying to convert everyone else to join us. These are lies. You know who’s really predatory for women? It’s men. You know who’s really predatory to children? Also men. You know who tries to convert others into their “cult”? Religious groups like Christians, Mormons, Jehova’s Witnesses. Trans women have never been the problem, the LGBTQ+ community isn’t trying to brainwash your kids. Sure there are bad eggs, but that goes with humanity as a whole, some people, regardless of who they identify as or where they’re from, just suck. But for the most part, we just want equal rights and control over our own bodies. We want to be seen as human, treated with dignity and respect, afforded the necessary care to flourish mentally, physically, and emotionally. That’s all. This bathroom debate is utter bullshit crafted by women who hate other women. It’s disgusting and disgraceful and an absolute shame that pieces of garbage like J.K. Rowling have so much money to waste on these hateful campaigns. 

Last week, I mentioned that I would talk about characters looking too beautiful when it doesn’t make sense. Well, imma talk about it this week. 

When it comes to period pieces, medieval fantasy, and dystopian genres, it makes sense for the characters to look like unbedazzled individuals. Otherwise, it’s distracting. I don’t need everyone to be covered in slop, however, oftentimes people are too clean, their clothes too fresh. Take The Hunger Games films for example: Katniss and Peeta hardly ever look like shit. Sometimes you see bruising, sometimes some dirt here and there, but almost never like an absolute mess. Need I remind you, the hunger games are a fight to the death, the rebellion is chaotic, people leave the end of book three scarred and not okay. Katniss temporarily loses her hearing and Peeta loses his leg in book one. Also they’re grimy and covered in filth, even when Katniss washes up when she can, there is a constant feeling of being unclean. Which, yeah, no duh, these kids are fighting for their lives in the contained wilderness. Book two, everyone is suffering the aftermath of poison fog and their skin is pissed for days. Also the amount of burns Katniss gets in both book one and three is extensive, she has skin grafts all over her body towards the end of the trilogy. People are not awesome looking in that series most of the time, yet in the movies, you barely see anything and it’s distracting.

Pirates of the Caribbean, Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, are just a few examples of people looking like regular people who don’t shower every day or have a consistent skin routine or access to a laundromat. They have little to no visible makeup, dirt underneath short nails, tangled or disheveled hair, and their clothes look well worn like they’ve owned them for years. And it makes such a huge difference! The new live action of Avatar: the Last Airbender has unnaturally crisp clothing for the characters. The colors are bright and completely unblemished, there’s no wear and tear, and overall it looks like they’re in brand new clothing. The Last of Us show is also suffering a similar problem where people are trekking for days in sewers and dusty-ass places and running for their absolute lives, yet the hair is still in a cute bun or in neat curls, the skin is clear and makeup unharmed. 

It just takes you out of it a bit. It’s like a stage in a way, where people are dancing and you, in the audience, are watching. You watch this flurry of precise movement and beautiful costumes and everything is looking so clean until someone’s hairpiece falls out and lands on the stage. Now all you can focus on is this stupid little thing on the ground wondering if anyone will notice it or trip on it or scoot it out of the way. This tiny little error takes from the entire performance. That’s what it’s like when characters lack dirt.