Happy smile dental clinic

Link to original story
https://www.reddit.com/nosleep/comments/10meqmh/the_big_rock_candy_mountain_part_1/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button
The floor of the cell is covered in decades of mildew and dust. This disgusting carpet does nothing to dull the pain as I skip across it, thrown in by someone with the intention of making a point.
My Name’s Mike, and if any of you are the types to go on a deep dive, you probably know A little about me already.
For those of you that don’t, Jesus I don’t know exactly where to begin.
The Cliff’s notes would be that I spent a little over a decade either being a serial killer or a vigilante. I won’t try to justify my actions, both of those are just sides of the same shitty coin. I’m not a person to be idolized or emulated, so I choose not to plead my case.
Now, while I thought that was just about as screwed up as life could get, one day, out of the blue, after burying my best, fuck, my only friend I found myself, somewhere else. A world that looked and felt like mine, but one where the things that go bump in the night actually existed.
Where I came from, I’d seen monsters, to be sure, but only the kind that happen when people break.
Since I’ve been here? Got caught up in some demented gameshow for demons or something, threw a massive shit in the punch bowl of the thing running the production, and got the world’s unluckiest man his freedom.
And that leads me to my current situation, staring down the rage filled, mildly bruised face of that asshole, that fucking, demonic Ted Turner, Art.
He runs a hand aggressively through his slicked back hair, standing at the door to my cell.
“Looks like your little plan didn’t work, exactly as I predicted, you fuck.
I mean, great try with the little cat thing you had, honestly didn’t see that coming. But, Jesus, Mike, what was your end game? “ Art gloats.
“Cards on the table? It was a lot better, but shit fell through, that whiskey abomination, it was the one that ratted me out I assume?
That being said, still got Kev out. And you can’t really ‘flip off his lightswitch’ if he didn’t let you screw around with his wiring, can you? “ I grin, I keep it, even as a Gucci shoe slams into my face.
Am I scared? Of God damn course I am, I’ve been pissing myself (metaphorically speaking.) since I realised that the rules of reality don’t really apply any more.
Every new grain of sand on the beach of hell my life has become, tosses me further down the road of mental failure. Shit, that’s half of what fucked up my last plan in the first place.
If I could have just kept my shit together long enough, I’d be sipping a beer with Kev in some shit hole town somewhere. But the only thing harder than trying to stamp down fear in the face of God’s and monsters, is trying to do it while projecting some kind of ‘death fears me ‘ persona.
Between you and I? Death doesn’t fear me, in fact, it seems to love to hang around. And every day I have to stare down that grim spectre, the closer I get to losing the tenuous grip on reality I have .
“Oh, fuck Kev. He’s smart enough to stay off my radar, and too stupid to figure out a way to come back at me.
He's got a 1 bedroom in Idaho or something? Salud, good on him.
You, I had high hopes for, and then you decide to wipe your ass all over my carpet, cost me more than I could even explain, and even, get me a little roughed up. My favorite shell, anyway.
I want to recoup some loses Mike. So, you, get to be a part of another one of my projects.
You thought The Path was bad? Oh, you literal, fucking clown, you haven’t seen anything.
I won’t spoil it for you, the devil’s in the details and all, but you know what everyone loves?
Prison.
Not being in it themselves, of course, but seeing others, especially those they hate in there.
This place isn’t fair, the path was a boxing match with Queensbury rules, this is a handcuffed knife fight.
And I can’t wait to see you figure out, all the little surprises it has in store for you. “ Art laughs and tosses me a battered, ancient looking smartphone, “ Feel free to drum me up some good press online if you want. “
My heart is pounding, I have to use every bit of will I have to stop from shaking, to roll my neck and sit against the cold, padless cement bed behind me.
I feel sick, my stomach boiling and gurgling.
“For the love of whatever the demonic equivalent of Christ is, why not just kill me? I’m right here, I have no way of fighting back, and you know damn well that if you give me enough time, I’m going to find a way to wipe my ass on your doorframe next. “ My tone is flippant, or at least, I hope it is.
“The ego on you kid, you think you’re that guy don’t you?
They exist, don’t get me wrong, probably a couple thousand folks capable of taking me out, but trust me, you are not one of them.
This isn’t some ‘Arch’ idiocy where I leave my greatest rival alive. This is me watching you squirm because I can, and making a little profit on the deal.
Don’t flatter yourself. “ Art has produced a long thin knife as he talks, he spins and rolls it absently.
“Before your guys dragged me off, I met something. A corner store, I don’t know if it was haunted, possessed, or if it was some kind of creature that just decided to look like a knock off 7-11.
Point being, it was out there, ethereal, I couldn’t hurt it, outwit it, even slow it down. I ran from that thing as fast as I could. It gave me some serious Lovecraft vibes.
You, Art, are not that guy. “ I notice myself tapping my finger nervously on the slime covered floor, I focus, stopping the tic.
The tip of Art’s knife glows, the sick, grey sheen isn’t heat, but something that makes me start to back up.
“I am, but you will never see that. You’re not worth the effort.
I want to give you a little something though. “ Art stalks toward me, I stand as I back into the farthest corner of the cell, “ Proud of your face paint were you? “
Art grins, and for a moment lets some of his true self slip through. For just a moment I see timeless horror in his eyes, a dark black void of consumed souls and unrestrained evil.
That knife parts my flesh with pain like a whip. Without even using the blade, it’s presence flenses my face, opening up raw, textured furrows in my flesh.
He leaves after he is done, laughing to himself.
The pain makes me black out, my stomach is boiling, I come to dry heaving, the effort sends me back into the oblivion of sleep.
I don’t know how long has passed, my face feels like it is on fire, and the thick steel bars of my cell door are closed.
It takes me two minutes of cupping my hands under the grime laden steel tap to get enough water to clear off a spot on the rusted, old, wall mounted steel mirror.
No mortal hand could have scarred me as accurately as Art did. The wounds, not healed, but cauterised as to not make me bleed out, used depth, and width, to create a colorless replica of my makeup.
I know trauma, physical as well as mental, and these are scars that will never heal. As the fact sinks in that my face is literally no longer my own, I scream, heart pounding, I split open my knees on the cold cement floor.
Pain flares, threatens to send me back to the bliss of unconsciousness, but I don’t care.
I read Kev’s journals, and they paint me in a really… positive light, in a sense.
What I mean is, going by what he thought he saw, I’m some kind of supervillian or something. Tossing three hundred pound air conditioners ( it was the outer shell, seventy pounds, physics and luck did the rest.), wrestling Art ( I was clinging on for dear life, had it not been for Jr and the mass of denizens, I’d have been killed with a flick of his wrist.), or appearing like a ghost (people, even immortal are very unobservant. Especially in an emergency.).
I’m great at seeming horrifying, and that’s a weapon in and of itself, but at the end of the day, that’s all it is.
Kneeling in my own blood, vision blurry with pain, I realise how small, vulnerable, and unarmed I truly am.
By the time daylight shines through the yellow reinforced glass window, I’m already awake. I’ve spent an hour and a half calming myself, trying to find some focus, some centre to keep me going.
I’ve been in prison before, back home, first and last time I tried plying my trade outside of America.
Being the stupid payaso gringo that I am I bit off so much more than I can chew that I wound up choking on it for 2 months in a Mexican prison.
The routine of, count, lineup, chow, remained the same.
The demographics of the population on the other hand…
Being observant is one of my main skills and as I was brought into the absurdly sized cafeteria, I was taken aback at just how many people were here.
Tens of Thousands, easily, maybe a hundred. I try and think of how many missing person cases this accounts for, and even that math doesn’t quite add up.
I quickly inventory the groups that make up the place, not that it wasn’t obvious.
The first, of course are the guards. Some, the majority, appear to be human, well geared up and in intimidating physical condition.
But a handful, they are clearly, something else. Some are smooth featured ebony skinned giants, carrying truncheons that could crush a car engine. Others are grinning, pale skinned bad attempts at human copies, wild eyed and twitching.
Second would be what I called the cultists. They all appeared to style themselves after certain tropes and urban legends, clearly human, but dressing, tattooing and mutilating themselves to appear like, myths, legends, and monsters.
The subtle violence I see tells me I’ve found the gangs.
Third are the Everymen, I can’t see any kind of pattern to them, but they seem to make up the majority of the population. They keep their distance from the guards and the cultists, but on more than one occasion I see then stand, united against attempts at extortion.
The last group, I call the candles, people that are clearly on their way out mentally and physically. Sunken eyed, and set upon from all angles, at any moment these folks could be simply snuffed out.
I keep my distance, and stay respectful, the meandering, twisting line seems to take hours to get me my thick slice of crumbling yellow bread, and thick red slurry that reminds me of porridge masquerading as meat.
My coat is gone but I’m left with the majority of the clothing I fashioned back in the path. I see a mix of unwashed orange uniforms and ‘civilian’ clothing, some of the cultists, bordering more on costume than wardrobe.
As the massive, butchers apron wearing man in smeared clown makeup sits down, I wish I’d have been issued something more generic. I saw this coming the second I noticed a lump of Chlorophiles in blood stained getups.
“You sit with us. “ I can’t tell if it’s an accent or speech pattern, the clown sounds strange, either way.
I eat a spoonful of the red sludge.
“No disrespect intended, I’m not one for clubs. I’m going to make no waves, no plays, nothing. I’m a ghost. “ I say, levelly, avoiding eye contact.
Why, you might ask, having been told about my adventures in murder.
Well, that’s just it. Murder is easy, and any time you saw me end a life, it was just that.
A fight, that’s another thing entirely, especially against someone with a significant weight and height advantage.
“Not asking. You got friends. “ The massive clown moves his bulk closer, it’s like sitting next to a forklift.
I eat the bread, it tastes amazing until I swallow, then has a foul, chemical aftertaste.
I drink some tepid, burgundy fluid that might be caffeinated.
No weapons nearby, no one watching that might step in. I’m full of bruises and sprains, and probably anemic from blood loss. Not to mention one eye is running at about fifty per cent. Art didn’t sever the optic nerve last time, but he wasn’t gentle. My heart races.
“I don’t play well with people who take clowning and slap a coat of dark paint on it.
You guys are Clown Killers. You are good at killing, I’m sure, but the clown part, it’s tacked on.
Myself, I’m a killer clown…. “ I had a really good rant planned, honestly, it was a corker, douche bags would have used it in memes for a decade.
But before I can react, with one massive hand, he bounces my face off of the pitted steel table.
It rings my bell, but not as much as I let on. In clowning terms, what I do Is called a pratfall.
For those of you that don’t speak nerd, I oversell the hit, falling backwards, eyes fluttering.
I tip backwards, reaching out my left arm, as if to steady myself. The meat mountain is unbothered, knowing I have no chance unarmed, in this close, he let’s me grab one shoulder of the butchers apron. The material is thick, and matted in stains that will never come out, literally or metaphorically.
If you want to take someone out, in a relatively harmless way, you don’t want to choke them. It takes forever, usually ends up killing them, and generally is a bad idea for everyone involved.
Your goal is go cut off blood flow to the brain as quickly and fully as possible.
I hook my thumb around the opposite shoulder strap, and snap my body backward, the apron acting as an impromptu Garrotte.
His right arm is knotted through my left, as he tries to struggle, to put his murderous intent and ability to work, the choke only becomes tighter.
I don’t want enemies here, and I only have so many tricks to play before things come to a knock down drag out fight, so I leave the clown unharmed.
I do need friends, but the look I get as I take a seat at a loose collection of men is cold and fearful.
A red haired guy, five foot nine or so, makes eye contact, “Anything we can help you with? “ he says, fearless.
“Yeah, despite the face work I’ve had done, I have fuck all in common with any of those penny wise, Icp, Gacy dressed, assholes.
I need a tribe guys, you all look like the unlucky ones around here, but I don’t want to get involved in bloodshed.
I’m Mike “ I know, that’s only mostly true, but I mean it, either way. I extend a hand.
“Chris. “ the red haired guy says, he wears a white dress shirt and surprisingly blue jeans, “Those stains around your cuffs tell me otherwise.
If you’re telling the truth, that’s great. If you are lying, and still sane enough to keep your word, that’s even better. “ Chris’s tone is mirthless, I read him easily. He’s been here a long time for a short life, he looks thirty max, and I shudder to think how young he may have been when he came in.
Chris catches me up on the ins and outs of this place, beyond what a general knowledge of prison would give.
Everyone here has crimes they were not convicted of, that would, otherwise put them in jail for life. A large amount, obviously are murderers, torturers, real bastards.
But a significant minority are just regular folks, maybe a bit thoughtless, but that have collected a litany of small, petty, in cases almost victim less crimes.
No one seems to be aware of the… reality t.v. Meets demonic fast food aspect of things, but there is a Doom cherry on this fear Sunday.
There is a single way someone can get out. To earn 20 tokens.
And how does one earn these tokens you ask?
Each day the prison holds an event, to call it a challenge would insinuate a level of fair play that is simply not there. The events range from somewhat fair, a fight or game of chance, to esoteric rituals complex enough to rip someone’s soul from their body.
These tokens are also the sole form of currency in the prison, they can buy everything from commissary snacks to literal free passes from guards.
The economy has created a cut throat society, the heads of the cults not even taking advantage of being able to be free, but simply reveling in the power of being psychotic and enabled.
The weak are enslaved, their lives traded on the off chance at tokens.
So, of course, braindead asshole that I am, I signed myself right up. Feeling a little more confidant after climbing Mount Bozo.
It's 8pm and the volunteers are rounded up and brought to a massive room that has all the trappings of a gymnasium, but the scale is large enough easily hold the focus of tonight’s events.
In tiered bleachers all around us, our fellow prisoners cheer and scream. The smell of thousands of unwashed, men is overpowering, the din of excitement is deafening.
But my attention is focussed on the small, single floor home, sitting out of place in the middle of the polished wood floor.
What I wouldn’t give for Demi to appear right now, give me the low down on all the supernatural bullshit that is heading my way. But the longer we stayed in the mountain the less and less the most useful voice in my head could, or would, make an appearance.
I study each of my fellow volunteers, the goal seems simple, last the longest in the home. Men enter and leave within minutes. They come out looking shaken, with minor lacerations, and a general sense of shell shock.
By the time my turn arrives, I think I know what I’m in for.
I’m wrong.
As the baby blue door closes behind me, nothing immediately in the home causes me concern. The fixtures and furniture is a bit out of date, the lighting is, not inviting, and there is a general fog of gloom hanging around.
I smile, I’ve felt this before. Granted I had Demi feeding me supernatural errata at the time, but, I’m positive I can wing it.
“So, I think I may have met one of you guys before. Back in New York, a Happy-Face corner store, anyone you know?
Scary dude, took a couple of pieces out of me.
But this, it’s more like an MMA fight, right? I tap out when you start kicking my ass? “ I stretch, trying to see if I’m getting any kind of reaction.
I inventory the objects around me, last time everything that wasn’t nailed down, shifted, changed and tried to take me apart.
You may have noticed by now, I love using the phrase ‘ last time’, and that’s because up until this moment, I haven’t learned a fucking thing here.
Mike’s first rule of paranormal survival, last time means nothing.
“It’s you” the voice is young, late teens, and male.
I spin, expecting violence, then, wishing violence.
I know the young man, not this pale, older, revenant with a self inflicted gunshot wound, but I know him none the less.
I’m not being metaphorical when I say my heart misses a beat, I almost fall over, pounding at my chest to stop it’s arythmatic pounding.
I knew what happened to him, found it out long after I could do anything about it. And wasn’t in the best of places when I did.
I’ll call him a ghost for simplicity sake, but this kid, he’s my first, and biggest mistake.
I based who I turned into on finding what I thought was one of the worst people on earth. This kid’s father.
I did things to him worthy of what I knew he did. And to top it all off, I had him die by his wife’s hand.
Well, a decade later I find out, the guy wasn’t a Saint, but he didn’t do anything worthy of the twisted shit I put him through.
I got wind of some false information put out there in a moment of rage by a tech savvy ten year old. The kid never intended it to see the light of day
“I found out about you Mike, I saw that you were a hero. “ The voice is thin echoes like a stuck record.
“No kid, don’t think that. “ I mumble, I’m shaking, the air is freezing, each breath comes out as white mist.
I’m sitting on the flower printed couch now, and it hits me.
I’d assumed because Art couldn’t screw around in my head last time, the same went for everything here.
Remember what we said about last time.
“My told me what happened one night, what I made you do.
I destroyed her memory of him, I made a real Hero kill him, I couldn’t keep hurting people. “ I can see images, flashing in my mind, memories that are not mine.
I’m counting seconds, trying to focus, trying to stay long enough to get the token. It has to have been fifteen, twenty minutes at least.
I try to work up a smirk, to convince myself that I’m just being played by the paranormal equivalent of a heckler.
That’s not it though, This place, this house, is reaching inside me and finding places to look. As I stare into the young man’s rotted eyes I know this is some part of him, torn away from whatever rest he was entitled to.
The lights dim, then turn off. The house is silent.
Hollywood gets being both a lunatic and a hitman wrong in equal measure. No matter how much morality you want to inject into the profession, there are going to come times when you make mistakes.
As the lights slowly turn to a dull orange glow, I’m surrounded by the hovering, mutilated forms of mine.
Those that died that could have been spared, those that died because of my inaction, or stupidity. I’ve never forgotten them, I use them to make sure I never make the same mistakes again, but having them looming, screaming, all demanding I hear their stories, their accusations, their placations.
It's too much, I stumble from the couch, trying to avoid the icy touch of these phantoms. For a moment I find some last scrap of courage, I close my eyes, shut out the shrieking din of the dead.
The silence hits like a truck, I focus, trying to calm my burned out nerves.
Then they are reignited like a fucking welding torch.
“This place didn’t bring us here.
We’ve been right next to you for years Mike. We can’t leave. “ The voice of my first mistake.
Like a toddler I try to run with my eyes closed, I trip over a glass coffee table, clawing my way up the door, grasping at the handle.
I can feel a slight pull now, almost magnetic, trying to drag me backwards.
My hands shake too much, I have to steady my right wrist with my left hand, the floor becomes slick, I see the door, escape start to move further away as I’m pulled backward.
I've taken a hit or two, and had a couple of three day benders that have made me piss myself. But as I stumble, trying to make progress on the nearly friction less floor, I have another unpleasant first experience.
I grab the handle, pulling myself out of the house, launching my body into a skin peeling tumble across unforgiving plank flooring.
I’m a shaking, fetal wreck, by the time I’ve pulled myself together enough to take in my surroundings, I see the red Led clock displaying my time.
42 seconds. Bottom of the barrel. The jeers and booing from the crowd do nothing for my frayed nerves or the storm of fear and anxiety going through my mind.
I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep, it has nothing to do with the concrete slab that serves as my bed.
My stomach has been knotting and cramping, with each passing second I get more worried I blew some internal gasket in one of the many life or death struggles in the past months.
When I finally manage to vomit, the urge is strong enough I get no where near the filth crusted hole in the floor that serves as my toilet. And my worst fears are confirmed as I see the massive pile of vomit is mostly blood.
… and bones? Is that an eyeball? A piece of fur?
The mass begins to pull itself together, bits and pieces forming the most rudimentary attempt at a face.
“Junior? “ I say, stunned.

Wande Magazine: How does it feel being Kashmir’s greatest living poet? (he has died since then)

Rehman Rahi: To say this myself would not be appropriate. Whatever people may think of me, I respect it. I have only ever attempted something feeble and small. Poetry was God’s gift to me. All my life, I have campaigned for the Kashmiri language. So when people recognise my work, it obviously makes me happy. I ask myself, ‘Is this really true?’ Those who have said this about me are well-known literary figures, so one feels they must be speaking the truth (laughs).
My single-minded effort has been to raise the standard of the Kashmiri language so that it achieves a status on par with the great languages of the world in which literature is written; to bring it to the notice of the world’s great writers so that they know what’s happening with this language.
It is God's blessing that verses and poems came to me that people have appreciated. If people didn’t appreciate my poetry, they wouldn’t have translated it. A lot of my poetry has been translated and it has gotten me recognition. When I meet people at different places who show respect for me and my work, I feel I must have done something good (smiles).

Are you disappointed that Kashmiris don’t sufficiently value their poets? As a poet, what do you desire from your community?

I want readers for Kashmiri poetry. I write poetry and it gets published but then someone should read it. There should be readers of Kashmiri poetry. Only after reading it can someone make an opinion about whether it is good or bad poetry. Or whether the poet is writing in the old traditional way or the modern or whether the poet is representing his people and society in his poetry. This can only be known and understood once someone reads it.
I feel very sad that there are not many readers of the Kashmiri language. It’s terribly sad. Earlier, not many books were published in Kashmiri, till even Mehjoor’s time. In his time, sixteen-page poetry pamphlets used to be published. These were not books or collections of poems. Today, almost every day there is a new collection of poetry and it’s brought out in a very professional manner. However, there are very few readers. Those who purchase books are different. Serious readers are different. Even if you lend someone a book, it’s not expected that they would read it. The one main reason for this is that the new generation of Kashmiris—those in schools, colleges and universities (who are the future readers) don’t have much of an inclination towards the Kashmiri language. They have not been taught and trained in this language. It’s not really their fault. There is no such culture in their homes, or in our schools or in society. Kashmiri language and those who speak it are looked down upon. People feel proud to speak in Urdu and other languages even if they don't speak those well. I feel really sad. Our recognition and the recognition of the Kashmiri language should come from young people.
If there are no readers for Kashmiri poetry, what is the fun of writing poetry?
There is a small minority of people, even some youngsters who show a lot of interest in Kashmiri poetry, but their number is very small. Looking at them one gets happy. There is hope that maybe in future the number of these people would increase.
A modest movement for the Kashmiri language is underway for which some organizations like Adbi Markaz Kamraz are specially working. Many others are working towards this end. If they succeed in their efforts, more people might get interested in the Kashmiri language.

Why don't major and influential poets like you participate in Kashmir’s intellectual and political discourse?

Kashmir has no real tradition of what you call political poetry. There are bits and pieces of political poetry in Sheikh ul Alam’s work which speak about the times he lived in. Majorly, it is Sufi poetry which has dominated the Kashmiri literary landscape. Sufi poetry is metaphysical and doesn’t have much to do with the affairs of this world. This is one main reason why poets haven’t been part of the political discourse.
However, it is not entirely true that we [poets] don’t participate at all. Recently, I participated in a political rally. It’s not necessary to mention where. A leader at the rally complained that Kashmiri poets aren't part of the political discourse. In response, I read a nazm there. They were surprised to hear the nazm in which I had talked about the Kashmiri struggle at length. The nazm is called Khak e Karbala.
Since 1947 onwards, many poets in Kashmir have written about the contemporary times they were living in and about their political and social realities. A lot has been written. I have also written at length. Now when people don’t read, what can I do about it? It then seems we haven’t written anything.
Poets don’t participate in protest demonstrations and rallies. But whenever we felt it was necessary to participate, we participated without hesitation, especially for the [promotion] Kashmiri language for which we have held demonstrations for weeks altogether in Pratap Park [Lal Chowk, Srinagar]. Men and women participated in that demonstration and we sat there for a week. The result [of that demonstration] was that the Kashmiri language was introduced in primary classes at schools.
We also have to look at the peculiarities of different eras in Kashmir. Mehjoor and Azad were political poets and Dina Nath Nadim was in and out a political poet. Mehjoor and Azad are among the first poets who represented Kashmir’s political reality in their poems. Mehjoor showed the Kashmiri people their history. He showed that we [Kashmiris] are not a small people and that we possess a rich history in our cultural and political past. He offered Kashmiris their history and invoked us to rise. After 1947, there was a concerted effort to elevate the Kashmiri language through the inclusion of other genres of literature, which weren't part of the Kashmiri language before such as short stories, essays, novels and literary criticism.
In contemporary times, we have Zareef Ahmad Zareef whose entire poetry is political and many others like Amin Kamil have written at length about the politics of this place, especially after 1947 which we now call resistance poetry.
I have also tried my hand at resistance poetry. But as I said, there is only one handicap, which is that there are very few readers available. If there are readers of Kashmiri, this language will survive. If there are no readers, it will die. It is said, that every day in the world there are languages which die as there are no speakers. If the same happens with Kashmir, then what is Rehman Rahi, Dina Nath Nadim or Mehjoor?
We have also witnessed a massive change in social and political times. In the past, if you would have asked Sheikh ul Alam or Shams Faqir to write or comment on political times, they wouldn’t have been able to do it. There was no such culture in those times. They used to speak or write about an otherworldly metaphysical world.
The present times are different. The present times are very political in nature. We live in a very political world.

Are you worried about the future of the Kashmiri language and poetry?

I am worried but not sad because new writers are being born in Kashmir. We have a handful of serious readers who read Kashmiri literature and then comment and write about it. Many books have appeared critiquing and appreciating the work of poets like me. These bunch of people have realized that writing in Kashmiri is a serious affair and should be taken seriously unlike our children in schools and colleges who pay no attention and consider Kashmiri literature not worthy of their interest and attention.
If only Kashmiri people would realize how rich our language is, we will work for it day and night. The Kashmiri language has great potential. I have never been disappointed by the Kashmiri language. It’s not restrictive language. At times while writing poetry, there would be challenges such as there was no word available in Persian, Sanskrit, Urdu or even Kashmiri but such is the nature of the Kashmir language that I could make new words, which were later accepted and appreciated.
If the Kashmiri nation has to truly survive, it will only survive through the Kashmiri language. Otherwise Kashmiri nation will be a soulless nation.
Is there anyone among the younger crop of Kashmiri poets who you think holds promise?
There are many. They aren’t young poets, but they are my younger contemporaries. Rafiq Raaz is an excellent poet. There are limitations with his oeuvre, of course, but he is a genuine poet who will contribute a great deal to Kashmiri literature. There are limitations to his poetry because he gets too concerned about the technicalities and restricts himself.
I have written a verse about Rafiq Raaz in one of my books.
Rafiq Raaz chu muchraan tilismii khanan barr Sarood khan chiss sormi nazar ti khamosh hi
There is Shafi Shauq, who has been a professor at the University of Kashmir. Shad Ramzan is another fine poet. Shahnaz Rashid is another promising poet.
Shahnaz Rashid writes both ghazals and nazms. He didn’t write nazms but I encouraged him and he wrote some brilliant nazms. Ghulam Rasool Josh from Charar-e-Sharief is another excellent poet.
There are excellent poetesses as well such as Ruksana Jabeen and Naseem Shafaie. While Jabeen writes in both Kashmiri and Urdu, Shafaie writes in Kashmiri alone. Shafaie has received an award from the Sahitya Academy.
Kashmiris have produced great poetry because they have faced oppression. Sufi poetry, in fact, was a response to the deplorable conditions of our people. Today, there are only a few genuine Sufi poets in Kashmir.

How do you see the rise of BJP? What does it portend for Kashmir?

There is always a reason to worry when men of narrow thought come to power. They might think they are right in themselves, but they are not. Take Modi for instance. He is a Hindutva man and he might think Hindutva is a great philosophy. To an extent, it is fine if he or other Indians feel Hindutva gives them some historical identity and they have some sort of past to live up to. It becomes problematic when they adopt a narrow vision of politics. If we don’t accept the narrow politics of some Muslim leaders who believe that Muslims are the only great community, how can I accept Hindutva?
Another problem with the current times is the spectre of party politics and the notion that one's party should win by hook or crook. In my younger days, the youth used to look up to political parties as philosophical bastions. Youth were attracted to them mainly because the parties had some philosophical ideas to offer. I, for one, was attracted to the communist ideology and became a member of the Communist Party in Kashmir. I really thought they had something new to offer and some new ideas. Later on, I was disillusioned and today I can’t call myself a follower of Marx. However, back then, it did seem that Marx was saying something that no one before had articulated.
With the coming to power of these people, if the Kashmiri identity is attacked, I will oppose it. It should be opposed by everybody. The Kashmiri identity has some peculiar characteristics which should be protected.
We often hear of the killings in Kashmir. We hear about someone being shot on the roadside or someone being shot while buying essentials. We also hear of men entering homes and killing people. I just remembered a verse. There is a word in this couplet, “mogjaar”, which means freedom.
Parwardigar’e saane ti mogjaar mekh karam Kath poshe waare baaghe barikh boale badle bamm
Wech aasi daare lyie, ti pellet gun aechen pharrem Shah taan kruuth pyom pepper krath seene dam
Almighty, show mercy, guide us to the path of freedom Every word of this flower garden they barter with a bomb
If a window opens the breadth of an eyelid, a pellet gun robs the eye of light Pepper guns make the air bitter, metonymy, a lung pogrom
This was written last year on September 28 [2016]. I saw a picture of a young girl who had been blinded and it moved me and made me cry. There is tremendous oppression here and we must raise our voices against it. As a poet, this is my protest against it. I can’t do anything else.

Did you ever think of returning your awards when artists across India were doing so to protest curbs on artistic and intellectual freedom? If not, why?

Had I been given any awards by the government, I would have returned them. The awards I have received are from literary organisations like Sahitya Academy, Jnanpith or Kabeer Samaan. These are not awards from politicians. The awards I have received were in recognition of the Kashmiri language. Why should I return them?
When I won the Jnanpith award, journalists asked me how I felt. I told them that with this award, the Kashmiri language has moved forward. Whether I, as a poet, moved forward or not, the Kashmiri language definitely has. This [Jnanpith award] was a recognition of the Kashmiri language. Why should I reject it? How can I reject it?

Kashmir witnessed a bloody summer in 2016 and nearly a hundred people were killed and hundreds lost eyesight. But there was no word from Kashmir’s greatest living poet. What was the reason for your silence?

It is totally wrong to say that I have been silent. I have written many poems in protest, not just last year but also in the turbulent nineties. I have written many poems about the oppression in Kashmir and the resistance as well. Not just me, but many poets have been actively writing.
I will recite a poem I wrote in 1990 and you tell me whether the accusations against me hold any truth. I once recited this poem at a political rally. I told the gathering they weren’t truly aware of what was happening. I told them that they might be in politics but they didn’t know much. The poem is titled Khak-e-Karbala, or the dust of Karbala, which is used by the faithful to heal the wounds inflicted as part of marsiya during Muharram. I sent the poem to many prominent newspapers at that time but no one published it.
In my recent collection Kadla Thatis Peth (On The Pier of the Bridge), there are a few poems that expressly talk about the present political situation. It’s not my fault that people don’t read. What can I do about it?
I will now recite some lines from Khak-e-Karbala:
Agar ni saanen chokken zabaan kanh Magar yi rath gassi ni raaiygan zanh
Phezaar dyitan beshoar keatil Yi daage laanath yi yas ni challnai
Yi rath mushuk saar boambran hyund Yi rath haya mand yemburzal’an hyund
Yi rath talatum jawaan johdun Yi rath tafazul qayaam ohad’uk
Yi rath ba faize Hussain khoda joo Yi rath ba fazle khoda sorakh ruu
Yi rath chu baarav divan buuziv Shaheed qoamuk bayaan boeziv
Setha setha kaal annigaetis manz preyn gulami Lalluv bye sakh zuv zante zahar heattis manz
Setha setha kaal chaangi dod rath Na aayi kanh ath na draayi kanh wath
Zamaan woth nindri aes wathav na Cztaan chi zanjeer aes chattav na
Bedaar ehsaas prazznatte gov Choppyear Azadi hyund talab pyov
Dua mongukh aes ti gash sarrhev Chu kya lyeakith laani, pane parhev
Shurren muqabal sippah treavikh Machine gun kotran chalevikh
Su foaj koachan ti angnan manz Mahali jang zan ti bazran manz
Jawaan thod woth ti gueel siinas Buzargh broah poak ti prathh jabeenas
Aennis dopukh woth kuthen muchar barr Kaellis dopukh raam naam sathe parr
Saleem maerikh Salaam moarukh Habib moarukh Hishaam moarukh
Hu beang balai baam moarukh Yi muktidu ko imam moarukh
Yi shahar moaruk yi gaam moarukh Kasheere hund subah sham moarukh
Agar ni sannen chokken zabaan kanh Magar yi rath gassi ni raiy ganh zanh
Yi rath amanat chu Karbala huk Yi rath tas ni tehreer inqilab’uk
Zamaan hargah pricchev haqeeqat Dapyus reashe maale ker bagawat
I have recited this poem at many events in the presence of several leaders. There are five-six collections of my poetry that have poems about the political situation, and about my fundamental concern, which is of a man in this universe.

Do you think poets should remain distanced from the political life of the place they belong to or live in?

One cannot stay aloof at all. Politics is like air and it reaches everywhere. In Kashmir, if a man goes to a baker’s shop and finds that the size of the bread is not what he expected, politics over it will start. They will say "Yi ha kor hindustaanan (This is India’s handiwork)"(laughs). What happens in Kashmir on a day-to-day basis can make an artist politically conscious. But the artist or the poet doesn’t have to become a politician. He has to remain a poet. What does being a poet mean? It shouldn’t be only translating experience into verse but presenting it in such a way so that the reader sees himself/herself through that experience.
Poets can’t remain distanced from the politics of their place but they shouldn’t become victims of politics either. It’s one thing to do poetry and another to do sloganeering. Mehjoor and Azad did some bit of sloganeering, but they wrote wonderful poetry. Mehjoor’s most popular poem Wala Ha Bagwano is more of a slogan than poetry. Azad was an avowed Marxist. He used to agitate for farmers’ rights. They were great poets, and yet political.

What do you think is the role of a writer or intellectual in a place like Kashmir?

The primary role of a writer or poet is to agitate and protest through his craft alone. His role is to move the reader and to make him feel the agony. The poet doesn’t report. That is the journalist’s job. The journalist explains that this person was killed in these circumstances. The poet’s job is to depict the killing as if it happened in front of the reader, and as if the reader himself was being killed. The living reality of a poem should move the soul of the reader.
Craft and imagination is the key for writers and poets. Their craft should make the written word a living reality. The role of the poet is the creation and that is why it’s called takhleeq (creation) because what the poet sees and feels he translates (creates) onto the page.

https://wandemag.com/poets-poltics-and-rehman-rahi/

I’m an anxious person and always try to make people feel comfortable around me/like me. I always feel on edge. (I haven’t been to a therapist yet, I’m not diagnosed with anxiety, but I’m sure I have it). I know I put on a fake personality when I’m around people, masking. I smile, try to make myself seem happy. But this can come across as condescending. For example, tonight my mom asked me to cook some chicken. So I started cooking, and asked her if I had too much butter in the pan. She said oh I asked you to cook with oil. I totally missed that part of her instruction and I said I can take out the butter. I had just started melting the butter, chicken wasn’t even on the pan yet. And she got angry at me, “just do it your way!”. And told me I was being condescending. I just wanted to make the chicken the right way, how she wants it. I understand what she’s saying now. Thinking back, I rushed to say “oh I can take out the butter” in a nice tone, but it sound fake, as if I’m secretly angry about it. But I wasn’t angry. I just wanted to make the chicken the right way. My heart hurts and I feel like crying. I didn’t want to make her mad. There’s something wrong with me. This is something I need help with. How do I just be myself around people? How do I not put on a fake happiness and this pleasing attitude when talking to people? I don’t want to sound condescending. I am pretty sure this is the reason I have no friends, and the reason work exhausts me. Because I’m constantly trying to be this pleasant person to make people like me. It’s like some defense mechanism, I think. I know it backfires. I can’t just be myself around people. Nobody wants a depresso around.
Also I can’t express these feelings to my mom because she thinks me reacting sadly is me trying to make her seem like “the bad one”.

Name: Hibiki Kanako
Age: 16
Appearance: Slender frame, well-muscled body, long cobalt hair, violet eyes, pale skin, bluebird tattoo over her right breast.
Personality: Sweet, friendly, calm, collected, intelligent, fun-loving, easy-going, girly, and dedicated.
Clothing: Tight blue jeans, brown-furred boots, long-sleeved black shirt, pink tank top, violet parka jacket, blue gem necklace around her neck.
Quirk: Songstress. Kanako is able to manipulate sound waves through the use of her vocal cords. She can sing to strengthen her allies, confuse her enemies, calm down large crowds, release an ear-piercing sonic scream, or hype people with an energizing song.
Quirk Drawbacks: Since her Quirk is dependent on her vocal cords, she could severely damage her vocal cords if she overuses her Quirk. And since hers is a sound-related Quirk, if anyone finds a way to keep her from singing or plugging their ears, then her Quirk will become ineffective. She is also dependent on how much oxygen she can inhale.
Hero Name: The Musical Hero: Maestra
Hero Costume: White and blue tie-dye pants with black and silver musical notes and lines decorating the edges, knee-high blue boots, a silver belt with a dark blue sarong wrapped around her waist that acts as an insulating material that can be used as either a shield by sending a small sound wave through it or be used as a capture weapon. Blue corset, black and blue crop-top shirt with the image of a music note on the front, long-sleeved blue and silver jacket, her necklace, a domino mask, and an interesting weapon that consists of two iron bars connected by a chain.
Background: Hailing from Hokkaido, Kanako grew up on a small farm with her father, mother, grandmother, older sister, brother-in-law, and two younger siblings. Her life was fairly simple but she didn't mind it since it was all she knew, then one day she traveled to a nearby farmer's market with her parents, and she discovered a traveling musician. Having never really been around music other than the simple guitar songs her father would play, hearing a new type of music had a very big impact on her. But it wasn't just the music. It was also the impact it had on people. The joy and happiness she could see on their faces made her want to be a part of it.
Using what little money she had from helping out her family, Kanako researched all kinds of pop music, idols, hip-hop, and everything in between. She even started learning how to dance to hip-hop music to keep herself in shape. Deciding to try her luck with a crowd, Kanako did a small performance for the people at the farmer's market and she became a hit. But her joy was soon cut short when a villain attacked and wrecked the market. Seeing everyone around her scared, Kanako released a massive sonic cry that incapacitated the villain.
After seeing that her music can not only bring smiles to people's faces but also keep them safe, she left her family's farm and heads to Musutafu to become a hero.

I'm 35 female and I have recessed maxilla due to braces and retraction headgear age 12-15. I have constant stuffy nose and breathing issues. Exhaustion all the time sleep issues and headache and squashed face, clicking whenever open and close mouth. My lower jaw naturally wants to stick out further but is always forced back by upper teeth and maxilla. So I have SSI disability for brain injury and PTSD and I have no income besides that and I'm on Medicaid in Washington State. I have no idea how to get jaw surgery. I definitely want maxilla advanced somehow and possibly a tiny bit lower jaw but I think lower jaw could be fine just from getting my maxilla moved forward. Anyway, how do poor people get these things paid for? I read BCBS is good but seeing as I'm on and qualify for Medicaid I don't think they'll let me sign up even if I do pay for them. So I looked at surgery in Mexico one surgeon in Cancun wants to push my lower jaw BACK which would make the whole situation worse and makes me worried about even trying in Mexico. I don't know if any of the surgeons in Mexico know anything about the braces and retraction issue. I was quoted 14,000 for it in Mexico. This the email I got. There is no way I'm getting my lower jaw shortened not in a thousand years. Are they just incompetent? Has best reviews. Cancun Dental Design. I have no idea how I would afford this in USA. Help?
Just talked to the Specialist about your case and he mentioned we would do the treatment below.
Underbite Surgery (Mandibular Osteotomy) Otherwise called the Bilateral Sagittal Split is a lower jaw surgery that consists of a mandibular osteotomy to stretch or retrude the jaw. This type of surgery allows the mandible to be adjusted and fixed in the desired position to correct the underbite malocclusion
• Corrects the lower jaw position • Improves speech and eating • Enhances aesthetics • Fixes the open bite condition
We would be able to do your full treatment for $14,000usd
Includes: - Experienced Oral Maxillofacial Surgeon - Upper and lower osteotomies Orthognathic surgery - 1 night in the hospital - Hospital Surgery Suite - Hospital Recovery Suite - Anesthesiologist in Hospital - Nurse assistants for Oral Surgery - Nurse assistants for Anesthesiologist Nurse assistance for Recover and Hospital Stay - 3D imaging CT scan - Panorex X- ray - Post-surgery imaging CT scan - All clinic post op appts - Clinic staff and assistants - Transportation to/from Airport to hotel - Transportation to/from Hotel to clinic (only if staying in the Hotel Zone)
You will need to be in Cancun a minimum of 12 days and preferably 14 days.

even when you have a nice partner.... you just... give your whole life for these kids... constant worry and anxiety... they might end up with a shitty partner and you cant do shit about it.. my mom is a mom lol obviously and her whole motherhood life has been a misery and just because we are grown now doesnt mean it stopped. nope its gotten worse. she lost our brotheher son a few years ago. . . i have a friend who is married who is a nice person all around.. who actually came onto me... while he had a baby at home! i think about his wife and how . . she didnt get what she thought she was getting (a good, honest man). i work at a health care facility and see a lot of parents . . . just no. nope. motherhood overall sounds like a raw deal and im glad im not one of them. life is awful in general. im glad i can stop the trauma now lol. ive had to watch my mom cry for my whole life. and it just continues. so im glad... im so lucky.. ive been so dumb and careless and i probably should have gotten pregnant thanks to my stupidity... somehow god spared me and didnt make some poor kid live with the consequences of my dumb actions. . . or maybe i just cant have kids??? that would be a freebie honestly.
my friend's body got so messed up with her pregnancy. it's just a raw raw deal and i cant believe women sacrifice so much for it... i've never really had that feeling of wanting a child and i feel grateful.. sometimes i feel sad because wanting a family might give my life more direction and meaning. . so maybe i AM missing out on something... but it just looks so god awful... idk how you all do it. i guess you must really want to have a child to go thru with having one in this day and age. i would just... i would just beeline it to the next abortion clinic . . . it just looks so awful. my mom is crying as we speak. she worries so much about us. its been nothing but misery for her my whole life. my dad was abusive, we were poor, just the works. . .
i even resent my mom . . . for example she will literally weep because my nephew isnt baptized. she says if something happens to him and he isnt baptized, there will not be a place in heaven for him...
my dad isnt in the picture. hasn't been for about 15 years. he has a new wife and a new child. he doesnt care if his kids are well. who we are with. what we are doing. he is happy in his new life. meanwhile my mom is the one weeping and crying and suffering over us.
it feels like i resent her for caring so much and being able to do so little. i want her to get a grip and stop caring so goddamn much but FOR real. not out of spite, which she can do sometimes, but for REAL. just get a life and stop crying.
i know its not her fault . . .
she hates my brother in law... it drips off of her... i know he has done wrong in the past.... things seem to have improved . . . but she says she has a bad vibe about him and i cannot argue with someone's vibe.
yeah so... it just seems like a raw deal.
im glad im single. i intend to remain so for a while longer. i dont want kids. it steals your body, your mind, your future . . . it just seems so unfair to the woman... women dont trap men... men trap women.

Hello fellow dreamers. Around a months ago, I spiralled into DR after a bad weed high. I've noticed I do not feel any particular emotion besides anger (not that I get angry a lot). I mean, I do laugh, and I smile which I belive is all genuine and I even cry. However, when it comes to feeling it on the inside (happiness, sorrow, jealousy, fear) I'm empty, it really feels like my dopamine systems broken or something. The only thing leading me at the moment is my own values and morals. My friends make jokes and I genuinely think they're funny, I watch shows and laugh to myself but deep down I still feel nothing from it. It's like my mood is one straight line, no ups or downs.
Could sombody give me some assistance?

16m I smile and I laugh sure but I always have this weight on me. Like something that's holding me from being genuinely happy. I can't really explain it and I'm sorry.

At recess, Hanna looked at her friend Ruby who was coming back from the drop-off zone and she carried a small happy meal in her hand, and when she made it over to Hanna by the swings, she said in a gleeful question, “My mother got me a happy-meal?”. Ruby questioned the reward to make her more excited to see it in her hand. “My mom though, she sounded really upset”, Ruby added, “I think my parents are fighting because it looked like she was crying. Maybe that's why she got it because she felt bad”. Ruby at first seemed to make herself sad but suddenly started opening the box with a smile in front.
Hanna nodded her head and peaked in the red box with Ruby to see what she got.
“She got me chicken nuggets and fries”, Ruby cheerfully says.
“She got ranch this time too”, then see’s a toy in her box and figured this was opposing. But before she could say anymore she sees Hanna looking depressed and looked at her with a strong cheerful smile.
“Do you want to share?”, Ruby says gently.
Before Hanna could say yes, especially relieved that Ruby asked, she said depressingly, “My mom wouldn’t let me eat happy-meals. She says only people who ‘take’ eat those, and says it's inhumane for them to take advantage of us”.
Ruby looked at her food steadily, and asked, “What's inhumane?”.
Hanna while getting back on her swing says, “I think it means something bad, I think”.
“Like what?”.
“Like if you shoot someone with a gun, it means inhumane”, Hanna says softly.
Ruby eats a fry and glances at another girl on the slide, and looks back at Hanna.
“My brother was put in jail for holding a gun in school”, Ruby says sadly. “Is he Inhumane?”.
Before Hanna can answer, not that she had anything to say, Ruby says, “Well maybe it means loneliness. Like if you're lonely then you're inhumane because my brother said he was lonely”.
Hanna then thinks about her mother and father. “Like my mother”, she says softly.
Ruby nods her head in agreement with herself, then hands her fries to Hanna after getting on the swing next to her. “Have it”, Ruby says. “I don’t like fries anyway”.
Later that day, Hanna said at the dinner table to her mother, and father, “Mom, I think Ruby is not a good girl”.
Her mother, while putting warm gravy on her smashed potatoes, asked, “Why is that?”.
Hanna giggles, and says, “She says she’s suspicious of her mother's reward of getting her a happy meal at recess, and complains she’s worried that her parents are splitting”.
Her mother looks at her father while putting down the vegetables, “Did you hear what their son did at his high school?”.
The father, without looking at her nods his head and continues cutting his steak on his plate. Her mother then turns back to Hanna.
“Is she white?”, her mother says with a giggle.
“Yes”, Hanna then adds, “they're so ungrateful, right mommy?”.
“You didn’t eat it, right?”, the mother asks strictly.
Hanna, while still tasting the salt from the fries, and the strong crunch from the chicken nuggets, says lightly, “No. I wouldn’t dare”, and takes a bite of her smashed potatoes. Drinking water to clear her throat and excuse herself to the bathroom to throw it all backup, by sticking her fingers deep in the back of her mouth.

Where your just feeling yourself and seeing progress in yourself? Sometimes it comes around and smacks you in the back of the head and your just sitting there relishing in the fact you are here. You are here to see your own smile in the mirror, You are here to see the smiles and encouragement of others that are true and genuine people.
To wake up and say, I am proud of myself. Even after possible misfortunes and wanting to call it quits so many times. Today is the day I get to be happy and proud of myself.
It's a small win. It doesn't get to last long because of all the massive amounts of BS everywhere you look. I will still take that small win today and share it with all of you, to hopefully give you a win in your path.

Ryan wrote lastly on a piece of paper before he left his parents home, “...I love whoever, and there’s nothing you could do about it”, but right away throws the note in his pocket. He grabs his cases and small bag from his old bedroom closet, and goes downstairs to leave a ‘thank you’ note. While grabbing his coat from the hanger, seeing a red note attached to his sleeve, he reads that it's from his mother and father before they left. He opens it hesitantly and it says: “Be careful going back to campus. Please take some food before you go. We're happy you came home in time before anything went further. ‘You're cured. Thank the lord you're finally cured”. Ryan rereads it again, and marches fourth in the night towards the sidewalk. Making his way to the bus stop near the corner of the neighborhood and continuing to take the bus back to his college campus.
It was March 30th, 1958, Ryan remembered while marking on his pocket calendar. He feels the note gracing against his leg, poking every time he stretches his arms. He decides to hold it in his hand, making sure it doesn't fall out from clumsiness; looking out the window, seeing the repetitions of houses, and streets, flowing side by side going near as the bus pushes further into the night. Happy he took the bus earlier, he imagines his bed at his dorm and pictures his friends from baseball sitting with him asking, “what your parents say? Did you tell them?”
Before Ryan can continue rethinking his dorm room he sees two boys talking to each other, smiling and giggling down a few seats. When one of them glances at him, he quickly looks away at the window while sensing something rising to the surface. He holds his case against the seat next to him as the bus makes a hard right. He tried getting a good look at one of the boys but both kept glancing at his direction. Thus, Ryan rereads the letter his father left for him before he left, but just reads: “You're cured. Thank the lord you're finally cured”.
He rubs his thigh, and taps his feet on the floor. Harshly crumpling the paper into his bag, he conjures the word in his head while seeing his face reflect on the glass. Cured, Ryan thought softly, what is it like to be cured, exactly?
When he arrives at his stop, Ryan accidentally drops his bag on the exit. The boys asked if he needed any help and Ryan quickly smiled and said, “It's easier than it looks”. He repositions his case in his left hand, while holding his bag under his shoulders. When marching forward to his building, he sees the two boy’s get off with each other and go to the same dorm building as him. In the hall of their dorm building after taking his time climbing the stairs, now regrets choosing the upper floors when picking rooms, he grabs his key in his pocket, throwing away the note in the trashcan nearby. Before he enters his dorm room, Ryan see’s one of the boys unlocking their door down the hall smiling at each other. Ryan see’s them laughing about something before one of them see’s Ryan looking at them. One of the boys with nice blonde hair, and a cheeky smile with a strong stance, as Ryan observed, asked, “Hey. Do you want to come in for a drink?”. He neatly resists and says, “No thanks. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening”, and gently closes the door behind him and goes to the phone book.
At first, he was hesitant, but then stubbornly rethought the word: cured. What is it like to be cured in today's world? Ryan thought while holding his head from a burying headache coming in. He grabs his dial phone, and rings up the front desk. “Hello”, he begins, “I would like to report to the police about a disturbance about two boys”. But before he can rethink putting the phone down, hearing the word again ‘cured’. He says quickly to the women on the other side, “yes, I can hold”.
After a few minutes, a man's voice says, “Hello, how can I help you?”.
And right away, Ryan hangs up and prepares for bed. He rests his head thinking again, what's it like to be cured in today's world? By then, he closes his eyes and dreams.

Hi friends. This is a long story and has been the worst year of my life and I just need to see if anyone else has gone through something similar.
Back in December 2022, I noticed a lump on my vulva. It was causing quite a bit of pain. I went to my OB/GYN and he said I had a bartholins gland cyst and it should resolve on its own. About a month later, it was causing more pain and getting bigger so they were going to excise/drain the cyst. The doctor put me to sleep and I was woken up a half an hour later and told it had resolved itself. I remember laying in the hospital bed, reaching down and being able to still feel the lump. I thought maybe it was just residual swelling and let it go. They're the doctors, right?
In May of 2022, I was still having pain and the lump was still there. I went to see a new gynecologist who told me he felt the lump and sent me to a Urogynecologist. She was wonderful and caring and listened go my concerns. In July, I had another surgery to excise/drain whst they still thought was a bartholin's gland cyst. She ended up not being able to drain it and had to do a partial vulvectomy to remove most of the mass. The doctor finished the surgery, sent the 'cyst' to be biopsied as a precaution and a week later, the results ended up in my EMR.
The biopsy results stated that I had an angiomyxoma (although they didn't know if it was aggressive or superficial but were leaning toward aggressive), a (typically) benign soft tissue neoplasm, which has only been reported in about 300 people. They sent me to gyne oncology and I had another partial vulvectomy in September 2022, (a few days after I was supposed to be getting married, btw. We pushed the wedding back to 2023) The oncologist finished the surgery, went out to talk to my mom and told her he couldn't get it all, it was too close to my rectum. The pathology in the middle of the surgery was subsequent with the angiomyxoma diagnosis. The following day, he came to talk to both of us and started throwing around the words cancer and sarcoma, saying I would need another surgery with gyne oncology and a colo-rectal doctor and I would likely need radiation.
I went home, started to heal and cope with my new reality. I went in about a week or 2 later for a follow up and he told me he had "good news." The new pathology report stated that I had "nodular hyperplasia of the bartholin's gland", it is benign and im good to go. My fiance and I were dumbfounded and obviously so happy I would not need further treatment but I was skeptical and asked for a second opinion. They sent the biopsies to Cleveland Clinic to look at. They sent slides from both surgeries. The new pathology report from the first surgery still stated "Aggressive Angiomyxoma" and the new report from the second surgery said "nodular hyperplasia of bartholin's gland."
I went back for another follow up a few months later and told the doctor I'm still having pain and asking more questions that had us concerned as time went on. I felt as though all of my questions were blown off and all he would say is "well the pathology shows this and that's great."
I'm about 6-7 months post op and still having pain. He told me to try pelvic floor physical therapy and I'm so scared it's just going to make things worse. I know my body and just have a feeling something still isn't right. No other gyne oncologists near me take my insurance and im not opposed to traveling for another opinion but feel like i need a doctor familiar with this. I really don't know where to go from here.

This past Saturday I had been working on my soon to be new home, and after a long day of labor I got home and immediately collapsed and went to bed. I live right outside of Wilmington Delaware, in a condo complex with a C- in crime score. Not particularly bad, not too good either. A convenient location right off the highway to get to the majority of east coast cities.
Sunday morning I woke up, took a shower, and then gunned for the door to go back to work on the house. I gave my wife and daughter a kiss goodbye, grabbed my phone, keys and wallet, and leave. As I’m approaching my car in the parking area I notice my door is slightly open… not a great sign. I opened the door and noticed my glove box and center console have been completely ransacked. Paperwork I had just gotten two days prior now laid dormant on the floor of the driver and passenger seat. I had also forgotten my day bag in the back seat.
It happened, my car had been robbed. Typically I’m great about locking my car door, Saturday night though, I suppose I missed a critical step in ensuring the safety of the contents of my car.
This is an important time in my life right now, I’m in the middle of a house purchase, work is going crazy, and my second kid will be here in two months. I brushed it off, told my wife what happened, and drove to the house I’m working on. During my drive I gave the Non-Emergency line a call. The gentlemen who answered was very kind.
He collected important information and asked for my location. I let him know that I was on the road and that it would be a few hours before I returned home. He asked that I gave the non-emergency line a call back when I’m home so they could send an officer out. Ugh. Now, in my life I haven’t had the best experience with police. Nothing directly involving me, but lots of second hand interaction and stories from family, so I was naturally inclined to assume the local police wouldn’t be useful. Admittedly, I wrote the entire situation as a loss, I felt hopeless.
Over the next few hours I took mental inventory of what was missing. Originally I had only thought that change and a Bluetooth speaker were missing, some of which was in my center console and others in the bag that was in my back seat. I began to fully remember what I had lost: An Android cellphone, an Apple iPhone, Bluetooth Speaker, home purchase paperwork, $10 in cash, and a few other things.
At this point I was mostly nervous about the iPhone, as it was a backup iPhone 12 I got some time ago which had all my Apple Wallet cards on it. Once I realized I logged into Find my IPhone and activated lost mode on the iPhone. I figured the best case scenario would be to ensure my data was protected. The evening settles in, I’ve accepted defeat, and head to bed.
This morning I clock on for work, and as I’m sitting in a work meeting I get a pestering notification on my phone. Lost iPhone has been turned on. I immediately open Find My iPhone to see the device had checked in, but then immediately was turned off. I was frustrated… not only did this person steal my property, they rubbed it in by trying to further use the device they stole.
Only for a moment however I was frustrated. I further read the information on my phone screen and a smile went from ear to ear. That minute or two the phone was turned on was long enough for the iPhone to pick up an address.
I was motivated at this point. I didn’t know what would happen, but I figured hey, what the hell, let’s give the non-emergency line a ring again. I called in, gave them a recap. They collected my information and let me know I should hear back soon. At this point I half expected the officer to tell me too much time had passed for anything to be done… but boy was I totally wrong.
Officer Thomas gave me a call and let me know that he was outside of my condo. He asked for a recap of the situation, what was taken, and if I had any additional information. I shared the Find my IPhone information. Officer Thomas had another officer come along to swab for DNA and collect finger prints off of my car - I was stunlocked! He then let me know that he was filing a warrant for the address listed on my Find my iPhone. I’m not sure what I thought would happen, but given what I was always taught, and believed, I thought I would have eaten dust.
After about an hour or two Officer Thomas and the officer taking DNA and finger prints finished up with me. I made more assumptions… I’m sure nothing will come of it, this is probably the last I’ll hear of it. Officer Thomas then proceed to send me several texts over the next few hours, he wants pictures of the Bluetooth Speaker, Pictures of my Bag, Cell Phone Serial Number, and various credible bits of information.
I scour my iPhone photos going years back finding the best pictures I possibly could for the items stolen. I sent some blurry and dark photos that I had taken, and then also some screenshots from Walmart and Amazon listings for the original items.
Again, I made assumption. I assumed he was just doing his typical paper work for his reports. Mind you, hours earlier I had also filed with my insurance regarding the situation, so at the minimum I was happy to have a police report for my claim.
A few hours pass and I get a missed call from Officer Thomas… I was playing video games and had my headphones up pretty loud. He took the time to text me however and let me know that they had recovered a phone, but it was smashed, and asked if I could send over the devices IMEI.
I sent the information, this time assuming that if they did actually goto the persons house there would be no way they were silly enough to leave a stolen phone right there.
A few hours later go by again, I received a call, and a third officer lets me know that he’s outside and that he’d like me to come out. I step outside and he lets me know that he believe he has my property. Officer Thomas was working overtime to get everything settled today so this officer was stepping in to help get everything tied up so he could go home. I was shocked. Jaw on the ground floored.
The iPhone was taken for evidence. I’m guessing the thief immediately smashed the iPhone once they realized it was out in lost mode. I got everything else back besides the few dollars of cash I had in the glove box.
The entire time I made assumptions against the police. Assumed they wouldn’t help, or weren’t able to. I was wrong every step of the way. Not only did New Castle Police impress me, but Officer Thomas was a godsend.
I cannot say how immensely shocked I am even now. I’m not sure what happened with the person who stole my items and broke into my car. I’d assume it’s more then a ticket, but I’ll have to find out next time I speak with Officer Thomas.
I just wanted to share my story. It may be benign to some, but it was a truly eye opening experience for me. These guys showed me they care about their jobs and their community.

23 Male 19 Female
What did I do wrong?
So I’m 23 years old, never really had a real relationship or girlfriend I guess you could say. Maybe what you could call a couple friends with benefits over the years, some of these didn’t even involve sex per se due to shyness on my part up till about 18-19 (besides these girls I’ve also had a couple prostitute encounters I’m not exactly proud of, morally). Of course that’s besides the point, I’m just saying that to point out that I’m not just looking for sex like some typical teenager or virgin stereotype at any age.
Anyways to get to the point I recently moved to a new city, well like a year ago actually but recently got a job a month or two back. I meet this girl, who seems to be into sex no strings attached type stuff, at first I thought it was a joke but then I realized I’m just not looking for that. Eventually I meet her friend who seems to like me and possibly wants something serious. So I think she’s cute and we start talking etc.
So one day she comes up to me and decides to give me her phone number, and with me wanting to look kinda bad ass (I guess you could say I was “playing hard to get” although I feel like it was partly subconscious on my part; some of it may have just been shyness idk really) I kinda just briefly made eye contact for a split second and then stared away from her while not saying a single word and repeating her phone number in my head. As soon as she leaves my presence I write it down. Now by this point in time she had expressed interest in dating and had told me she loved me several times. So I was kinda exited.
Well then flash forward a few days, I hadn’t seen her in awhile due to some septum surgery I needed where I had 4 days off work, it had only been maybe 3 days after she had given me her number that I decided to take the dive and give her a call or text. Went with a text, not wanting to dive head first into something I decide to ask her for a ride as my car was at the mechanic, could’ve gotten rides from anybody else but I wanted to see her in person ofc so I could talk to her. Now keep in my this was the first time I had contact with her since she gave me her number, and normally she’s very happy and bubbly, gives me hugs etc. Like she’s just always smiling and cheerful but as soon as I get in the car with her I immediately notice a change in her. She seems stoic, not wanting to let that get in the way of things I proceed to ask her out. She says she’ll think about it. So then the next day I finalize the plans with her over text and she still says she’s not sure. And then nothing happened and I got stood up basically. This is my first time posting on this subreddit and really anywhere on the internet regarding stuff like this. I normally don’t do things like this but I kinda feel like I’m at crossroads now and I need to improve myself, socially, interpersonally whatever. But most importantly where did I go wrong?