Shookspeare nerd

This is an autobiographical piece. Names have been changed for anonymity, but it's otherwise left be. ---

The class's first suspicion of Kevin was that he had, somehow, cheated his way up to this course. He just seemed perpetually confused, and strangely antagonistic of the professor. The weirdest example of this was when he asked what an ion was (in a third year EE class?), and was informed that it referred to any positively or negatively charged particle. It would have been strange enough to ask, but his reply of "Either? That doesn't sound right" sealed him in as a well known character in the class of 19 people.

"the duty of every young man" she said.

and the thing is, im autistic. and a lot of people assume that when youre autistic, your social skills just arent very good. but thats not exactly true. your Be Polite skills are kind of eh, and they tend to stay that way, but as a sort of survival mechanism your Be Rude skills become amazing simply because you get put in tons of situations where your choices are to Function or Be Polite. and no one can choose Be Polite forever. the world demands function, it merely encourages politeness.

anyway, it can really catch neurotypicals by surprise, because hey, heres this kind of awkward, graceless guy, who stumbles over his words a lot and is very apologetic. hes probably a huge pushover. but i'm only like that when we're playing The Polite Game, because i am frankly kind of bad at it. but when its time to play The Rude Game, i go fucking ham and asking about the not-going-on-a-mission thing is Super Rude. so i said:

"sister hadlock... they wont let me go because i lit-er-ally cannot stop sucking dicks. i dont know why, its just so, so hard."

*dramatic pause*

"also - its very difficult to stop."

anyway, it almost killed her. i think she'd expected to just kind of steamroll me for the entire conversation, but the answer crushed her soul. instead of continuing her interrogation she made a noise like a horse drowning in a bog and left.

to add insult to injury, she went to the bishop after that, thinking he'd chew me out for being an ass, but instead he chewed her out for not minding her own business. then she went to my parents after that, who basically went "yeah, babylon was pretty rude. but youre also pretty rude. what are you, mad that he's better at it than you?"

i think he said it so i'd be more morally okay with fishing? i actually dont remember the context.

point was, he told me this, and he understimated (by a very large margin) how much i liked worms. i was a worm boy. very wormy. and after hearing that, i went home, and i dug through the garden, flipped over every rock, did everything i could to gather as many worms as i could, and then i uh.

i cut them all in half. every worm i could find. all of them. with scissors.

i then took this pile of split worms, and i put them in a box with a bit of lettuce and some water and stuff and went to bed expecting to double my worms overnight. i have math autism, so i had a vague understanding that if i did this just a few times in a row, i would eventually have a completely unreasonable amount of worms.

i was very excited to become this plane's worm emperor.

(i think i was...six?)

anyway, i did not become the inheritor of the worm crown. i instead woke up to a box of dead worms and cried. a lot. i got diagnosed with panic attacks as a teenager, but i think i had them as a kid, i just had no idea what they were. i was kind of processing that a.) i had killed what i had assumed was every single worm in my yard, and thus would have no more worms, and b). i was going to like, worm hell.

(six year babylon spent a lot of time worrying about god.)

so i kind of freaked out, and i climbed a tree, because god can only smite you if you're touching the ground (?) and i sat up there mostly inconsolable until my mom came out and asked, hey, what's up? what happened?

so i explained to her that i had killed all of the worms, forever, and was also Damned, and she took me to the compost pile, and we dug for all of five seconds and found like twenty more worms.

the compost pile was full of worms.

she then told me that a). there were more worms, and we could put them back under rocks and stuff and recolonize our yard and b). that one day, i would die, and go to heaven, and be able to talk to the worms face to face. that i'd be able to tell them all that i was very sorry, and that i killed them on accident, driven only by excessive Love, and that she was positive they would forgive me because worms have six hearts and no malice.

at that point, i think i was sixty percent tear-snot by weight, and i had no choice but to gather enough worms that i could hug them. which my mom helped with. and then after that she helped me put some worms back under each rock.

and for my epilogue: i spent a significant portion of my childhood in trees. and for many years after, even when my mom didnt know i was watching, i would catch her giving the space under the rocks a light spritz with the hose. not because she loved worms.

i learned this fact on accident, i'm sorry to confirm

when i was six i heard the lie and lifted every rock

i gathered all the worms at once, a mighty writhing crop

i cut and cut and cut at them, and only did i stop

when every worm was split in twain, no bodies left to chop

---

i put the halves in shelter with some water and some food

i hoped to wake the next day and go see what i'd accrued

my dream of worms legion was dead, as were the worms inside

i learned that love can kill its host, the worms my fratricide

i sat there on the summer grass and cried and cried and cried.

---

i left the lawn to climb a tree, to hide my shame from God

in the game of men vs trees vs Him, trees only died when sawed

whereas God got tree'd in eden first, then twice in Golgotha

i sat and stayed and feared for Hell until my mom came up

---

"you okay?" she asked me and i trusted her The Most

i explained how all the worms were gone, all dead, and now i'd roast

in worm hell for all eternity, a just and honest post

she coaxed me down from my tall tree and lead me to compost

---

"we have such worms," she asid to me, her hands wrist deep in rot

she pulled them out in big handfuls, a mighty squirming crop

"and the worms you killed, you kill from love, a feeling worms know well

they have six hearts to love you know, nor bones to pick as well,

If you don't run, I'll just tell you, most people's bodies cannot take that kind of abuse. No matter how much you train, you will not be able to run 20k a day. It's like how you can't train to make your cuts heal faster. You recover as fast as you recover. So while a big part of what made this guy so succesful was the dedication and mental toughness needed to actually run 20k a day, an equally big part was that he healed like fucking Wolverine. And that's fine, but it would've been nice if he knew that and stopped telling new guys to commit suicide by jogging.

Different guy on the team ran like, 5-6k a day, which actually isn't all that much. His problem when he gave advice was that he didn't really get that 5-6k a day doesn't generally produce elite results for most people. He was lucky in the sense that he didn't have to work all that hard to get great results, and unlucky in the sense that if he pushed himself much further than that, he fell apart.

@creamsoda-slut no, this was a thing on our team too. The 20k guy had a cast iron stomach and he loved hotdogs. I eat hotdogs as a like, a nostalgia thing, but he just truly genuinely loved them. So some runs, he'd duck into a gas station and buy some. Pair it with the fact that this guy also had a major league pot belly, and it was a sort of accidental psychological warfare tactic. I'd be running along, panting, sweating, dying of heastroke by the AZ canals, and then Mr. 20k would blitz past, potbelly jutting 3 inches past his nose, a greasy gas station hotdog in both hands, and then he'd yell HEY BABS YER DOINGF FERFIFIC and I'd realize in the kind of sluggish way you realize everything when it's over 100 degrees that he had a third hotdog in his mouth and wasn't even out of breath. And then he'd slap my ass and chortle through his hotdog in this sort of huffy HEUHEUHEUHEUHEU and just rocket over the horizon. It was incredible. Like running with Dionysus.

Another time, we had a girl who wore a tankini on a run to the pool. Some of the other girls were Scandalized, so the coach made a thing about it and she was super embarrassed to be called out and then for the next pool run he showed up in a yellow speedo, gave himself a wedgie up to his nips and just slow jogged in front of the complainers the whole way to the pool. There was nothing they could do. If they tried to go fast, he could just pick up speed indefinitely, he was impossibly fast, and if they went slow, he, he had no issue just taking a mozy with his buns out.

Nobody complained about the tankini after that.

At another race, him and a few other varsity were having a contest to see who could pee up a tree the highest. He won when he ran up to the tree, still pissing, and did a sort of half-backflip that resulted in him falling straight on his head while also whipping piss like 12 feet up the tree. Everyone cheered him on so fucking hard, and he was ecstatic, I distinctly remember doing one of thus chest bump things with him and getting pushed back like 8 feet, but immediately afterwards he had his race and he kept getting lost because it turned out that the whole landing directly on his head thing gave him a concussion. And despite going on like, 3 wrong turns, he still won that race.

I'm not much of an artist, but this was my best attempt.

if you have not been escorted by a coyote, its a pretty silly experience. they follow behind you, but at a respectable distance, occasionally doing weird bark-yip-yodels. unless you slow down. then they continuously do their bark-yip-yodels, as a reminder that you should not linger near their babies. very chatty critters, coyotes. they always left our fastest guy alone because he’d toss the last inch of his mid run gas station hotdogs their way

The smoke clears, just a little. Glaurung lands back on all four feet, the ground shaking at the impact. His head turns towards Maedhros.

There is blood spilling out from between his jaws, dripping thick down onto the ground. More pours out from underneath him, spattering across the dirt as the wound in his belly ripples and the torn flesh convulses.

Glaurung sees him. He snarls, blood spraying from his mouth.

Maedhros raises his sword.

Glaurung snarls again, but it’s weaker. His eyes dart to the side. Once, and then again. Maedhros sets his stance. His sword ripples bright through the air, cutting through the smoke swirling around them. 

Ch 12, A Thread Unraveled by @theheirofashandfire