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Ever wondered why the mixels world is so filled with mysterious happenings and such well that would be because the world makes no sense but it’s been increasing in mysteries with young mixels spotting monsters in their closets and under their beds and other mixels have started to see beasts in the dark and hearing weird noises at night and that’s because the Maskteries have been unleashed after one thousand years being stuck in their huge underground manor!
Have you ever heard things go bump in the night when you're alone? Or crying when you’re the only one in the house?
Well that crying would come from the local griever Doe Dear! This poor mixel comes from deep within the Maskteries’ underground manor and he’s always grieving something! Whether it be some spilled milk or the fact that not even he himself knows who he is. But whatever happens his tragedy mask stays sorrowful and he stays wandering through the shadows clumsily knocking on things and scaring mixels with his ghostly wails.
Have you ever placed your pen right next to you but you somehow lose it?
Or perhaps you look for something and you know where you last put it but it isn't there and then when you stop looking for it you suddenly find it in the most obvious place?
That would be the work of the Maskteries' local kleptomaniac Kleptok! This shady mixel has a thing for nabbing items that she finds interesting of course she'll give it back but she needs to check it out first! So if you notice something in the shadows moving when your about to put something shiny down it might be best if you pick it back up and keep it close.
Have you ever felt like you're being watched?
Like something was just standing right behind you as you walked, or like when you see something in a mirror and when you look behind yourself, it just isn't there anymore?
Well, fear no more for all that worrying was all Scareye's doing! This Masktery just likes to stalk people when they're not looking because it reminds them of something familiar. No one truly knows this mixel's story, some say that they come from the deepest part of the Manor's catacombs while others spread a rumor that they're not even a mixel at all but overall, the one thing agreed by every mixel is that they never want to find out or else something bad might happen to them when they least expect it.

I don't post often for fear of posting in the wrong spots, and if is the wrong forum I apologize. For brevities sake, I will try to get straight to the point but this will be long. To any one that makes it to the end, thank you in advance. If you want to skip to the last five paragraphs you will get the jist of what I am trying to say. I am trying to avoid getting put on probation for disciplinary actions, but they won't be clear with what I have done wrong. I am willing to reconcile at work but I don't want to leave this job without trying to take the proper steps to make things better.
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I'm low man on the totem pole for a big company. A big one, that some might say is too big to fail. What I can say that it is in sales. My issue stems from the fact that I'm just not comfortable enough to chit chat with managers about the topics they want to talk about, which are either inappropriate, distracting me from work, or super personal. I've felt like they've wanted me gone for a minute, but I just don't fit in so I mind my business and do my job to the best of my ability.
Recently I was threatened to be put in a program to correct behaviors they don't like, but Im not officially on this probation. When I asked what the issue was they said certain team members feel I'm not approachable and or they don't like how I walk away when certain managers come over. While I believe I am operating within the rules of engagement, given that their topics make me uncomfortable and Ive chosen not to formally file any complaints, yet.
Here are a couple true examples of why I don't like to chit chat with the managers at work:
Manager 1: Likes to sneak up on you and talk about their sexual escapades they had over the weekend. I personally am not comfortable with this type of conversation at work and when they trap my in a conversation I freeze and draw blanks. I come off as cold because my appearance is intimidating, but I'm truly so uncomfortable I just freeze. When I try to probe and get to know them, the get turned off if I ask them the wrong question. I asked a manager if they watched a certain show and they got upset, said no, and ended the conversation. This same manager is high ranking, and will open a conversation talking about getting caught performing fellatio on a beach in Mexico. This was a true interaction and I wasn't interested.
Manager 2: Likes to take every opportunity to talk about themselves and their plans for vacation, but has literally cost me sales and reprimanded me for it later. This person is very touchy feely, and will subtly force you to shake their hand. I always shake for fear of retaliation but this manager will literally throw you under the bus if you treat them like they aren't a god. This manager will have me do things their way when we were trained to do it another way but the inconsistency causes friction between the rest of the team and I pay the price for that when this manager isn't around.
Manager 3: Very nice and very sweet, but they won't have my back about certain instances for fear of being on the outs with the other managers. But when we are alone, they tend agree with me. This person is new and I care for them but they allow the more tenured managers to gaslight me about any issue I bring up. I still truly care for this person, and don't want them to risk their future when I am just an associate so I just deal with it.
Manager 4: The same as manager 3, but not as nice. And we don't have the rapport for me to really go to them about my problems. They were on leave for a while and came back happy to see me, [they asked first] then gave me a hug, but before the day was over they wouldn't even look at me.
Manager 5: This manager does this weird thing where they ask you how you're doing, ask you something you're passionate about, and then they walk away... Literally just like that. I am getting reprimanded for not being open enough to conform to the culture of the company, but every time this manager asks me how my fishing is going, or if I was gaming last night, in the middle of my response they walk and it hurts every single time. They do this to everyone.
Manager 6: Replaced the manager that hired me and ultimately just won't ever let me plead my case. This manager is a nice person, but I understand this person cares more about appeasing the other managers versus actually getting to the root of the issue. Truly a nice person though, I won't take that away from them.
Manager 7: The big boss. I rarely see this person. They usually don't talk to me unless we cross paths, but for the most part they try to not even look my way. It really sucks because I feel me and this person have the most in common of all the managers. They know what's going on, but they stay out of it. I find this hard to respect none the less.
I know I'm writing a lot but I promise I am leaving a lot of relevant info out. I constantly get praise for holding myself accountable at work, the same people tell me I need to hold myself accountable when it comes to the friction between me and my coworkers. The issue is, I get along pretty well with many of them, and the others I don't chat with, we just don't chat but not for any particular reason. That's just how life works. I also took it upon myself to meet everyone, I learned about 40 names my first week out of over 100 employees and out of no where, the whole store stopped talking to me. I really don't know what I did, and it was too obvious to not feel it was orchestrated behind closed doors, but of course they will never admit to this. They try to make it seem like its the whole store, but I know the people I don't get along with; leadership just won't tell me.
In my meeting today, two managers threatened to put me on a probation of sorts and the focus would be coworker rapport. My sales metrics are trash this quarter but they told me they weren't worried about that. They told me it would last two months, and every week we would go over that week and I would be graded. They said the issues that warranted this meeting were because I walk away when I see managers coming, I have team members that aren't comfortable talking to me, and they were upset because I had an incident where a manager where I refused to shake his hand. If you read the descriptions about the managers above, I feel like most would understand.
I won't parade around like I am innocent, but I don't go out of my way to bother anyone, and I do everything they ask me to do. So I am not insubordinate. Here are the things I know I've done wrong recently, and or things I feel I could have handled better:
--I have been tardy for work maybe three times the past couple of weeks, and I've left early from feeling ill. I don't have a rep for either of these things but I've been stressed out over a recent move and am just falling into a new routine, but I am back on track.
--When I arrive, I go into the break room to clock in and I go straight to the floor. I don't mingle in the back because the managers and their buddies literally stop talking when I come around. I am so uncomfortable I just need to get out of that room. I literally have days where a person I had a good conversation with the day before won't even acknowledge me in the break room because the managers or leads are around. It kinda hurts my feelings, so to keep myself in good spirits to start my shift, I go in the back, and jump right on the sales floor. I know I could afford to play the games they play, but I'm just not built like that. I don't even feel welcomed to eat lunch in the break room. For the past 10 months I sit alone in my car on break.
--I am quiet when I am not around the coworkers I trust. Certain team members have really betrayed me, and don't know that I know that they take everything I tell them to a manager and they talk about it in the breakroom. It's so predictable that I only tell them stuff I want everyone to know. I find it serves my mental health and my ability to sell stuff better to keep conversations with these coworkers superficial and light hearted or avoid them all together but they will literally go tell on me if I don't tell them personal stuff about my life.
--I am a bit short with a particular manager, but never what I would deem disrespectful. I know I should just suck it up and play the game, but this manager makes my days hell at work, does stuff to spite me, and hurts my sales as a result of their inadequacies. They are the manager of sales, and can provide no support or advice to help me as a sales person. I honestly feel alone and lost when they are on they floor, and when I give feedback I get their response "well this is how I do it'. Manager number 2 if you didn't guess already. The other managers won't accept that I've already done everything they've asked me to do as far attempting to connect with everyone.
When I was talking to the managers today, a situation that happened a couple of days ago came up and I quickly realized the scenario was the catalyst for this awkward meeting. My boss singled me out and asked me to do something that would jeopardize my relationship with the other team members but I prepared myself to do it anyway. The following shift, I went home sick and on my way out he tried to give me a high five but I just couldn't bring myself to comply because I had had enough. I told him "no more dap, handshakes, or anything like that; especially after what you did the other night.".
I know I could have handled that differently, but that was the point they chose to take action. They brought up older scenarios that I have already mentioned but they failed to address those situations when they happened. They told me that certain people feel a way about me, but they won't say who. I am entitled to zero due process apparently. Not once did they mention my terrible sales numbers. They have plenty of ammo to use if they wanted a formal and documented meeting, but they only ever come to me when someone who I don't know has their feelings hurt.
I was writing a letter to [redacted] support because our HR isn't truly an HR and they are in the clique of spies utilized by the managers. I figured I would ask the reddit community first what they would do, because this site has really saved my life. I had two weeks of bliss at this job, then the team wouldn't even look at me. It almost brought me to tears many times, but I stuck it out and just grew closer to the people that accepted me when it wasn't cool to stand next to me. Now all of a sudden, I am at risk of being terminated because I refused to fist bump a manager, when truthfully there are other mistakes I've made that they don't even bring up. So I know they are building a case against me and it's fucked up because I gave my all to this company.
What should I do? I am definitely going to apply for new jobs, but I can't just keep running from my problems and starting over in a new place hoping for a change. I need to make a fundamental change in my behavior, or I need to swallow my pride and suck up to the bosses but they constantly move the goal post so I really can't make any progress even if I wanted to. I am fearful of retaliation if I go above the store manager because the regional manager knows what's going on. I am also afraid of retaliation if manager number 2 holds for a fist bump again and I refuse. I am not ready to leave until I hit my sales goals. I owe myself that much.
This company is slick, and if I make the wrong move they will bring up my tardies and other fireable offenses but I have really tried to be an exemplary employee thus far and my team agrees. I will be under the microscope and eventually on probation. Please help, I know quitting is the move, but I gotta change some things before that happens. I knew this was coming, because the behaviors are so predictable, but my journal has but only two entries. I am not the vengeful type, but I don't believe in bullying no matter how passive.
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Thank you,
Your neighborhood, friendly dread head.

When I was getting started, an actor I knew gave me some really good advice. While deciding whether or not to take a certain role, consider three factors: the money, the show, and the people. If at least two of those things are good, accept the job. If they’re paying you well and you love the play, you won’t mind putting up with shitty people. If it’s a great show with a cast full of friends, but you’re not getting paid so well, that’s still alright, it’ll be artistically fulfilling. If it’s a bad show but you love the cast and you’re making money, you’ll probably have the time of your life making fun of the playwright backstage and laughing all the way to the bank.
What my friend failed to mention is that as an aspiring actor, you don’t usually get to be that picky. When I got the call from my agent that a production of The Bacchae was urgently seeking a new chorus member, all I could see were dollar signs. My survival job had just fallen through (the family I nannied for was moving upstate, insisting that Manhattan had just gotten “too dangerous” for their toddler), and my savings were only going to cover my rent for another month.
It was raining the day of my audition, and my train got delayed. I showed up panting (I had to run from the subway station) and my hair a disaster. Luckily, in The Bacchae, the chorus is full of… well… Bacchae. Fervent followers of Dionysus, wild women, drunk and running through the countryside. In the climax of the play, they crowd the protagonist in a frenzy, literally ripping him limb from limb.
I’ll never know if it was my frenetic energy from barely making it to the theater on time, or my actual acting, but I got the part. My costume fitting was the next day– they weren’t kidding about urgently needing a replacement. Which thrilled me, because I wasn’t kidding about urgently needing the money. At the fitting, I discovered something my agent failed to mention about the production: this wasn’t just any version of The Bacchae, it was a recreation– an attempt to perform the play in the traditional Greek style. In other words, everyone was wearing masks.
I’ve never been fond of masks. We had to do a few assignments with them in my college acting courses; covering your face can enhance the physicality of your body, something like that. But I never liked wearing them, or seeing other people wearing them. It wouldn’t be fair to call it a full-on fear, but the stiffness, the lack of expression, gives me a weird feeling in my stomach. And wearing one, your field of vision limited, your mouth covered, making it harder to breathe, harder to project your voice– I don’t like it. It’s as simple as that.
But I needed the money. My costume wasn’t ugly, per se, just strange: a long white dress, or maybe toga is a better word, the fabric about the thickness of a burlap sack. My mask, stark white, paper mache, covering my entire face except my eyes, the mouth carved to imitate a grin. No shoes. My hair tucked into a wild black wig– we wore wigs, they explained to me, so the chorus could be identical, indistinguishable. We moved as one, spoke as one, and were meant to look like one. They even made sure to cast women of the same height. In our costumes, it was impossible to tell which of us was which.
It didn’t help that I was an outsider to the rest of the cast, joining the show weeks into rehearsals. Everyone seemed annoyed that they had to teach me the blocking, the inflection of the lines (so my voice didn’t stick out from the other chorus girls), and where to go backstage during scenes with no chorus. A few people tried to be nice to me, but quickly gave up when they realized I knew nothing about Greek theater, or masked theater, or the avant garde. My last show had been a regional production of Cats, for God’s sake. I was totally out of my element.
Things got especially sour when I tried to ask what had happened to the girl I was replacing. Nobody wanted to talk about it. People gasped when I brought it up. The clearest answer I got was a whispered, hesitant, “she fell,” but the person wouldn’t elaborate any further. The cast seemed superstitious, uncomfortable, like talking about her would cause them to suffer her fate: removal from the show. And it was clear that, aside from me, everyone else loved this show. The actor playing Dionysus, the couple of times he deigned to talk to me, just kept gushing about how honored he was to play this role, how electrifying it felt to put his history minor to use, to show people a piece of the world’s theatrical beginnings.
I thought the show was fine. Kinda boring, kinda scary. I don’t think I “get” The Bacchae. In brief, the story is about Dionysus, son of Zeus, disguised as a human. He and his followers (the chorus) show up in a town, but the leader of the town, Pentheus, is upset about it. He doesn’t understand why all these women are acting crazy, and he arrests Dionysus, not believing him to be an actual God. As punishment, Dionysus possesses Pentheus’s own mother with the same madness as his followers, and together, with their bare hands, they rip Pentheus apart. His mom walks back into town holding her son’s head, thinking it to be, in her madness, the head of a lion. When she realizes what she’s done, she is overwhelmed by grief, and futilely attempts to put Pentheus’s mutilated corpse back together. Dionysus returns, basically saying, “well, he said I wasn’t a God, and that’s blasphemous, so he got what was coming to him.” Pentheus’s mother is exiled.
It’s incredibly dark. In the reviews, critics called it daring, challenging, a bloody spectacle, a feminist masterpiece. I don’t really get what part of “a man who’s a God possesses women’s minds, driving them to murder” screams “feminism,” but hey, I’m the girl who commuted to New Jersey every day for four months to do Cats, what do I know?
Here’s something I do know: the other chorus girls did not like me. And they took their jobs seriously. As we waited to enter for each scene, there was dead quiet in the wings. Usually, there’s some light joking, maybe quickly running lines, maybe physical warmups, shaking out your nerves– I tried to do this once. Before our entrance at the top of the show, we all gathered in the stage right wing, all twelve of us, a perfect and identical dozen. It was a dress rehearsal. No audience. I did a few jumping jacks, trying to hype myself up. Another masked girl grabbed my bicep, hard. When I turned, she just shook her head “no.” Just a simple, silent, “no.” We don’t do that here. We stand silently in the wings, focusing on our craft, breathing, waiting for our entrance. I never tried it again.
When you can’t talk to your coworkers, acting becomes a lot less fun. The collaboration element is totally gone. And honestly, the “acting” element was gone for me, too. How am I supposed to find my character or sense of identity in a role when my role is “don’t let your voice stick out, don’t take a wrong step, blend in perfectly with eleven women who dislike you?”
So before the shows, instead of chatting, or doing jumping jacks, I wandered the theater. I’ve always loved theaters; the dramatic architecture, the ornate prosceniums, the stark contrast of backstage, so dark, so dusty. The theater was no Broadway house, but it had a fly system (which we didn’t use, because the Greeks wouldn’t have been able to fly anything in), just over three hundred seats (including a mezzanine– fancy!), and lots of backstage space. I could say more about it, because I spent hours during the run of the show wandering, but it wouldn’t be terribly interesting to anyone who’s not me. Just know, it was a beautiful old theater– and I mean OLD. Built in the 1910s, just before the Great Depression. I used to love imagining how many generations of people had performed on that stage, imagining what they’d think of this show, or what they’d think of me.
About a week into my wandering, on some fifteen-minute break, I was looking at the ladder that led up to the catwalk– a long, thin metal walkway stretching across the stage from above, usually used for hanging lights. I wondered how long it had been since it was used during a show. I wondered if it was even safe. What would the view be like from up there, seeing the entire stage from thirty feet in the air?
I slowly looked up the ladder. I wouldn’t actually climb it. That would be crazy, right? I’m not particularly good with heights. As my eyes lifted, I made eye contact– or rather, mask contact– with someone. A fellow chorus girl, up on the catwalk.
I stopped breathing for a second. What was she doing up there? I started to say something stupid, like, “Why are you up there?” when just as quickly as the face appeared, it vanished. I saw her white robed form retreat down the catwalk, heading for a different ladder, probably. It was weird. Why did she run? Embarrassed to be caught somewhere she shouldn’t be?
I allowed myself to entertain a little fantasy: maybe she was just like me. Maybe she also hated the other chorus girls, and didn’t “get” The Bacchae. Maybe she was exploring the theater for fun on our break, enjoying the old architecture, like I did. I had no idea who she was under the mask, and she had no idea who I was. She probably thought I was one of the normal judgemental girls, and ran off before I could tell on her to the stage manager.
I was filled with unfounded hope. Could I make a friend here? Was it possible? After two and a half weeks of silence from the other girls, it was hard to imagine. How would I find her? How would I let her know it was me– that I had seen her on the catwalk, and we were the same?
After that day, I got much more observant. When the director called for a break, instead of immediately retreating into the depths of backstage, I watched my eleven doppelgangers carefully, tracking who went for water, who went back to the dressing rooms, who ran off towards the vending machines. It was hard to tell everyone apart, but people had to take their masks off to drink water eventually. I memorized faces and tried to keep track of them. I started to get a handle on everyone’s patterns, narrowing down potential adventurers.
It was impossible. Eleven people is too many to observe. But I’m an actor. Memorizing shit is literally my job. By week four, just days from opening, I had three potential girls. I tried to stick close to them during rehearsals, picking one to follow each day, but nobody ever wandered towards the catwalk. Maybe the girl, whoever she was, had been scared away from adventuring when I caught her. I started to lose hope. We were opening soon– I should focus on making my entrances, not making friends.
But then I saw her again.
This time, it was half an hour before the curtain went up for our invited dress rehearsal. The press was there. I was nervous. I knew I had my part down, but when you’re doing a show, no matter how prepared you are, there’s always the lingering fear that you’ll freeze up, forget everything, and ruin everyone’s hard work. It just means that you care. I was surprised that I cared so much. I still didn’t even get the play. I couldn’t let the other girls see me weak. I barely show my real feelings to people I care about, much less mean actresses who look down on me. To get away from it all, I wandered down to another unused part of the stage: the orchestra pit. We did have music in the show, but the Greeks didn’t have orchestra pits. So it was closed off, being used as storage.
I loved it down there. I loved looking through the storage bins, finding props from long-forgotten productions– sometimes I would find something incredible, something I swore was from the day the theater opened, something old and valuable– and usually, I could never find it again. Those bins were a treasure trove. Of all the weird little spaces I found backstage, the pit was my favorite. I felt like a real explorer down there, illuminating my path with my phone flashlight, getting spooked when a mouse ran over my foot (of course the theater had mice, it was more than a hundred years old! And besides, every building has mice in New York City).
That day, I wasn’t there to look around. Just to sit. Just to catch my breath. I tiptoed down the creaky steps, and plopped myself on the ground, surrounded by bins. I inhaled and exhaled, smelling the mildew-y scent of old props on every side of me. And that’s when I heard a noise. Not a mouse noise– I was used to those. Something bigger. I turned my phone flashlight on immediately, calling, “hello?”
And the light landed on a mask, just like mine. Mine which was currently off, because I was doing my breathing exercises. I felt exposed– she could see my face, but I couldn’t see hers. I stood up. “You scared me!”
She didn’t respond. She looked at me for a second, and started to retreat the other way, towards the stairs at the other side of the pit.
“Wait!” I called. “I won’t tell anyone I saw you!”
She stopped for a second. But then she kept walking. I stood and followed. “Please stop. Can I at least know who you are? I don’t fit in with most of the chorus girls–”
I reached for her long white toga. I swear, I had it in my hand, but somehow, she slipped away. I staggered a bit, almost tripped, confused that I hadn’t made contact with her costume. And when I looked back up, I only saw a glimpse of her disappearing up the stairs. I tried to follow, again, but I found that side of the pit’s stairs reached a dead end. I didn’t understand how she’d gotten out. And when I looked back down at my phone, it was time for places. Disappointed and defeated, I rushed away to the other stairs, making my way to the stage right wing to wait for my entrance.
I counted heads immediately when I arrived. Maybe she hadn’t made it back yet. But, alas: twelve. All accounted for. I nudged a girl next to me, subtly. “Who was the last one here besides me?”
She just stared at me for a moment, which came off as very creepy through the blank dead stare of her mask. “How the fuck am I supposed to know? We all look exactly the same.”
I sighed. “Okay. Thanks.” For nothing, I thought bitterly.
The invited dress went well. The press liked it, as I’ve already said. I was distracted the entire time. After that day, I made it a habit to count all the girls when the stage manager called for “places.” If I was right about this girl, she, like me, would be one of the last, if not the last one there. She would be wandering, exploring, getting away from the bullies.
I wish I hadn’t done this. I wish I’d given up when she disappeared on a dead-end staircase. I wish I’d never seen her on the catwalk. Because when I started counting heads, I noticed something impossible. Sometimes, before we went on, I counted thirteen identical masked faces.
It was a chorus of twelve. It was supposed to be twelve. I’d recount. Recount again. Thirteen. A chill went down my spine. We all looked the same. Same masks, same togas, same wigs. Who was the imposter? How could anyone be an imposter? It didn’t make sense. How would they get into the theater? How would they get a costume?
I started counting more often. Between scenes, in the dressing rooms, even on stage during dull moments. It fluctuated. Sometimes I’d count twelve for a whole day, an entire show, and sigh in relief, feeling like some curse was broken. But the next day, at least once, I’d count thirteen.
And it seemed as if one masked pair of eyes was always trained on me. I don’t know how she knew it was me. We looked the same. But she’d stare. It felt scary, but also ridiculous– I couldn’t be sure it was the same person looking every time. I couldn’t be sure it was unlucky number thirteen. But I felt like it was.
I felt a lot of things. I felt like I couldn’t tell anyone. The other girls already didn’t like me– I couldn’t have them thinking I was crazy. And admitting the presence of the thirteenth would mean admitting to my adventures into forbidden backstage areas. I couldn’t lose this job. I was living paycheck to paycheck. I wasn’t eating well, or sleeping well– maybe this was all a hallucination. And somehow, my biggest feeling was that if I told someone about the thirteenth, I’d never see her again.
And I needed to see her again. The obsession had only gotten stronger. I knew, somehow, deep inside, that she was the one I had seen on the catwalk and in the orchestra pit. I no longer wanted to be her friend– I wanted to corner her. To ask who she was, and why she was sneaking in as if she was one of us. I wanted to ask what she wanted from me.
Because she must want something from me, right? Why else would she stare? Why would she appear only to me?
The timing never lined up. The show had opened at this point, and I had a job to do: delighting the audience. I couldn’t skip my entrance to catch number thirteen. The chorus formations would look ridiculous with a missing person. And as much as the other girls hated me, I owed it to them as my costars to make them look good.
Logically, I knew there was only one person the thirteenth could be: Catalina, the actress I’d replaced. She must be jealous of me. Bitter. Maybe she wanted to take my role, like I’d taken hers. It would be insane, but it was all that made sense. She was the only other person who had the costume, who knew the keypad code to get into the theater. She must have recovered from her fall and come to find me.
It was almost like a game. It definitely made the show more interesting for me. Before I realized what was happening, I dreaded performances. I felt stupid, taking on this role in a show I didn’t even understand. But now I had so much to do. I had to plan.
I started showing up early, an hour before my call time. I walked my old spots, thinking I may see her. The other chorus girls were impressed that I was showing up early, thinking it showed some sort of dedication to the show. I think they even started to hate me less. They still detested any attempts at conversation in the wings, but in the dressing room, I started to have a few breakthroughs. In particular, I started a semi-friendship with Erin. Ironically, she had been one of the three women I thought may be the thirteenth, until I realized the thirteenth wasn’t really one of us at all.
She was the only person who I could actually ask about Catalina. “Did she ever say anything about the theater? The building, I mean? Did she have a favorite part of it?”
Erin would laugh at my seemingly random specificity. “We weren’t close, Michelle. I have no idea what she thought about the theater.”
“What did she do on her breaks?”
Erin thought for a second. “I don’t know. I never saw her at the vending machines, or the dressing room. I guess she found some quiet place to run lines.”
That confirmed it, for me. A quiet place like the catwalk. Or the orchestra pit. We were three weeks into our five week run when I came up with a plan to catch Catalina. It wasn’t a great plan, and I had no idea if it would work, but showing up an hour early every day was making me tired and producing zero results. I needed a new strategy. I realized that after seeing her in the pit, I only ever saw the thirteenth when all twelve of us were together.
So I told a white lie. One night after the show, when everyone was changing in the dressing room, I appealed to my fellow chorus girls. “Are you guys busy before the show tomorrow?” I innocently asked. “I’m feeling a little shaky on some of the entrances. If we could all get here just twenty minutes before our call time tomorrow, I’d love to run some stuff with you guys. I’ve been running it on my own, but without the entire team, I don’t always remember where I fit.”
To my surprise and intense joy, everyone agreed. They really did seem to respect me more when I looked like I was taking my role seriously. I could barely sleep that night, I was so excited to see if my plan worked. And hey, if it didn’t, I had two more weeks of shows to think up something else.
It was a Sunday night, our last show of the week. Mondays are often “dark days” in professional theater, meaning there are no shows that day to give the team a rest. I had planned this on purpose– if I failed, I had a dark day to reflect on that failure and try again.
At 5:40, twenty minutes before our call time, all the girls were assembled and in costume. We started running entrances. After ten minutes, I thought my plan had failed. We had run our first three entrances, and I never counted more than twelve heads in the wings. But around 5:55, as we got to our entrances in act two, offstage, I locked eyes with a mask. A thirteenth mask.
I quickly told everyone “I think I got it, you guys, thank you so much for coming early!” Everyone mumbled that it was no problem, that they were happy to help.
The thirteenth mask broke eye contact with me, looking around in confusion– perhaps distress. The girls started to trickle back towards the dressing room. The thirteenth turned and power-walked away. I shoved through the crowd to catch her, not calling out like I had in the past. I knew she didn’t respond to that. I knew I had to catch her now or never. Once we were out of the crowd’s eyeline, I began to run. She ran, too. “You’re not getting away this time!” I yelled, like some kind of cartoon superhero. My adrenaline was pumping, and blood rushed to my ears.
After I yelled, I suddenly became aware of another set of running feet behind me. “Michelle? Where are you going?” It was Erin’s voice.
“Don’t follow me!” I hastily called back, picking up speed. The thirteenth also picked up speed. Though she was running just as fast as I was, she showed no signs of exertion. I couldn’t hear heavy breathing, or heavy feet on the floor. It was like she was gliding. It infuriated me.
Erin didn’t let up. “Michelle, the stage manager is gonna wonder where we are!”
I ignored her. The thirteenth rounded a corner, and I realized where she was going: the catwalk. The ladder.
She ascended the rungs rapidly, like a spider. I clamored up much less gracefully. Erin’s voice had a heavy tinge of concern. “Michelle, what are you doing?! It’s not safe up there!”
“Then don’t follow me!” I yelled back, exasperated. “This is between me and her!” Despite my vocal warning, I heard Erin climbing behind me.
Once on the metal rail, I looked both ways, terrified she’d escaped me again. But her white toga was just a few feet away, retreating into darkness. I lunged at her. The entire catwalk shook. The thirteenth and I both grabbed the railing to steady ourselves. We met eyes. Or rather, we met masks.
“You have nowhere to go.” I stated.
I heard Erin reaching the top of the ladder behind me. “Michelle, come down, please. You’re scaring me.”
“I can’t. I finally have her.” I took a step towards the thirteenth. She took an equal and opposite step back. “Take the mask off.” I beckoned her. “I know it’s you, Catalina.”
I felt the rail shake slightly as Erin got on it. “What are you talking about, Michelle?!”
“She’s been sneaking in, Erin! She’s been standing in the wings with us before we enter! For weeks!” I took another step towards the thirteenth. In my peripheral vision, I could see how high we were above the stage. Thirty feet. You could die, falling from that height.
“It’s not Catalina. It can’t be. Stop this.” Erin called. Finally, frustrated, I turned towards her.
“Who else could it be?!”
Erin had taken her mask off. Her face was streaked with terror. “Catalina died, Michelle. She fell off this catwalk, directly onto her face, and she died. Please come down with me. I don’t know who you’re talking to, and I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but it isn’t worth it.”
“What are you talking about? I’m talking to–”
I turned back, and she was gone. Vanished like a bad dream. “I swear to God, Erin.” I started to say. “She was right in front of me. I chased her here–”
I turned back to Erin. The thirteenth was behind her.
It made no sense. Nobody can move that fast. Nobody can be in front of me one second and behind me the next. It was inhuman. I stopped speaking. I stopped breathing. It sucks to learn that in a fight-or-flight situation, my answer is to freeze.
Erin must’ve seen how my face changed. “Michelle?” She asked quietly. “What’s wrong?”
Behind her, the thirteenth raised a hand to her mask. Her hands were impossibly pale. How had I never noticed that before? She gripped the mask in her hand. Time stretched. It must’ve only been a second, because Erin didn’t move. But it felt like years of my life passed me by as the thirteenth, inch by inch, raised her mask from her face. Or– raised her mask.
Because there was no face.
Under the mask, pale and gruesome, was a bloody flat edge. Broken, disgusting, it was impossible to make out eyes, or a nose, or a mouth. Inside a somewhat face-shaped frame of stark-white skin, all I could see was flesh, red and raw, squished in on itself. Like someone had fallen from a very high height. And landed on their face.
By the time I finally began to react, it was too late. The thirteenth– or, Catalina– or, the ghost, or– whatever the fuck that thing was. It moved its hands from the mask to Erin’s shoulders. And it pushed. And she screamed, agonizingly loud, as she flew over the side of the railing. And she screamed for the second or so she was in the air. I was screaming, too. And after the crunch of her body hitting the wooden floor of the stage, everyone else screamed, cast and crew alike.
I stared down at her limp form from thirty feet up. Her legs were twisted the wrong way. A pool of blood began to seep out of her. When I looked up again, I expected the thirteenth to be gone, but it wasn’t. With no eyes, it was also looking down at Erin. At what it had done.
And then, slowly, it turned towards me. On all fours, backwards, I scrambled away from it on the catwalk, terrified, not wanting to be next. The thirteenth’s shoulders shook rapidly, like a person laughing. But it made no sound. It never made a sound. Not going up the stairs of the orchestra pit. Not when it pushed Erin. And not as it climbed back down the ladder, rung by rung. I found myself alone on the catwalk.
Erin survived, somehow, paralyzed from the waist down. Apparently she fell on her legs, which, when you’re falling from thirty feet up, is a good thing. If she’d gone down head first, there was no chance. The show had to close, of course. When they lost Catalina a few weeks into rehearsal, she was replaceable. But with me refusing to go on, and Erin in the hospital, there was nothing to be done. I haven’t seen Erin since that day. I feel too guilty. But I was never arrested, so I guess she told the authorities that I didn’t push her. I don’t know what she told them. I don’t know what I would’ve told them, had they asked me.
I don’t do stage plays anymore. The family I used to nanny for gave me a star-studded recommendation, and now I make my living taking care of a five-year-old and a two-year-old for another filthy-rich family. I still act, but I only audition for film work.
I don’t even see plays these days. I won’t set foot in a theater. If the thirteenth had vanished off that catwalk, maybe things would be different. Maybe I could chalk it up to an extreme hallucination, some terrifying creature my mind brewed up to cope with the stress of the show and paying rent. Maybe I could even forget its bloody mess of viscera in the vague shape of a face.
But I saw it go down that ladder. Rung by fucking rung. And I know it’s still out there.
Erin was unlucky. Erin was a victim of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. And if I step inside a theater again, some way, somehow, I know the thirteenth will get me on another catwalk.
This time, I’ll be the one going over the railing.
And I’ve never once landed on my feet.

After a few altercations with a problematic Girlfriend (Bella) your close friend, Jake, needed to spend some time with friends so he called up You up (as your off duty at the time) and a few others just to hang-out and have fun, but just two days later it turns out that Jake’s Ex had a killing streak. A few days later as you get called in to work on a new case the person you see on the floor caught you off guard, as you look at the scene in front of you another friend of yours, Kyle, comes up to talk to you…
Kyle: Hey, you doin’ ok?
…
Kyle: That's good to hear.
…
Kyle: I’m doin’ fine thanks
…
Kyle: Yeah “What a scene!” is right! Creepy basement, Weird thing written in blood on the wall, just blood spatters everywhere, a pentagram made completely drawn out on the floor with a picture frame, car keys, a book, some random kitchen knife (looks like it’s been used quite frequently though), and a big lop of hair all placed on one of the five points on the pentagram. As if that weren't enough Jake's Ex lying dead on the floor with a knife sticking out of her chest with a shit ton of ash discoloring her clothes. Weird ass scene if you ask me.
…
Kyle: Yeah how DO we tell Jake about this?
…
Kyle: The keys? Yeah these are car keys I just said that are you even paying atte-
…
Kyle: Wait…your right these are the keys to Jake’s car, that uhhh… Bel-Air! right?
…
​
Kyle: Yeah. Just wait till we tell him this *sigh* he won’t take this well at all.
…
Kyle: Both his car keys being stolen and having to be taken in a evidence and his Ex committing suicide, he still loved her after all even with all the shit she put him through.
…
Kyle: I think you should tell him, after all you’ve known him the longest it might make him feel better if his childhood friend told him instead dontcha’ think?
Random officer: Ok everyone! Forensics are here and everyone else can leave, except you Kyle. We need your detective skills for this one!
Kyle: Welp you heard her, I’ll talk to you later buddy, but you better get on home take your mind off all…this and rest for the night, I’ll inform you of everything in the morning, sound good?
…
Kyle: Great now you best get on talk to you later
…
*Police chatter and sirens in the background*
*footsteps followed by a car door opening and closing as the listener gets in*
*Sounds of a car starting up and driving off as listener leaves*
*listener parks car and gets out opens the door to his house and walks in*
*Telephone rings and listener picks it up after a few rings*
…
Kyle: Hey! I know it’s a little soon, but we found a few major things that are pretty concerning one of those things being a Book of demonology, soul fusion, and transmutation/ possession along with finding a picture of all of us in that picture frame with everyone else's eyes “X” out with a sloppoly drawn heart on Jake and Bella’s head I think we all know what that means at least, but what I can figure out is what the books are for, I mean demonology that stuffs all made up isn’t it? Well anyway I’ll get back to you in the morning. I know you must be tired and You still gotta be the one to break this news to Jake and all that so I say sleep on it and do all that shit tomorrow. Have a good night buddy.
*Listener puts phone back on stand, gets underneath the covers, and falls asleep*
The end of part:1

tldr : Awesome game with a lot of missing features. Blizzard made the perfect game for casual players but made it so simple that the engame is just a headache to play. They wanted to create something new but ended creating d3 with a lifeless open wolrd map.
The feedback im giving is not coming from an elite nor a casual player... i put myself between these two.
Changes i wish they would add/change :

• More monster variety : a massive open world but yet we fight the same monsters in every region... if seasons bring more im okay with that.
  
• World scaling : This feature feels good and bad at the same time. Maybe we should have more difficulty levels because right now the world feels easy af... world bosses die under 2-3 mins. Maybe increase the helltide area level to +10 or more which would affect everything in that area bosses too. (love the random high level boss in helltide, its like finding butcher)
  
• Open World : Global chat ? Proximity chat? Teleporting to players ?(not from town). Huge open world 0 interaction.
  
• Challenges & Difficulty : Probably devs are working on balance changes, as of now there is barely any challenge. If you wanna find challenge you have to go +10/15 lvl above your current level (with sigils) and even that feels somewhat easy. Just for example the first capstone dungeon is from lvl70+ and a lots of people including me did that on lvl57 (with a sorc).
  

Rewards & Drops: This part is my nightmare, as i saw how people loved the low drop rates in the beta i had hopes that this is gonna be the normal and every legendary drop gives me joy but no... after reaching lvl45+ legendary items drop like trash and in few hours your entire build is done. (any build). Isnt it better to grind for the stuff you want instead of getting everything instantly ?
Gold : I know this is a diablo thing but cant we have smaller gold amounts? like 10-100-1000-10k? watching these millions grow and spend is weird and removes the value. If my friend asks how much to enchante a weapon its so much more user friendly so say 500 than 133million...
Helltide : by far the best feature imo. Farming is rewarding there.
PvP : i saw other arpg games struggle with this to work for years and probably Lost Ark does it the best where you dont fight with your pve gear. If pve gear stays in pvp zones its gonna stay broken.
Aspects & Dungeons : dungeons are fine but the way we get all the aspects is again too easy, an aspect should be dropped inside that specific dungeon, so its worth going in more times, lucky drop is more rewarding.
Endgame & stats : Well the endgame grind loop is pretty much same as in D3. The nightmare dungeons/capstone are nice but there has to be some limits for builds. Lets dont turn this game into a run simulator with trillions of damage numbers floating above us. for example add limit to run speed.
Gems : that bag is needed asap
Inventory : the size is okay but dont make a dungeon drop 4x more than i can carry... this teleporting in and out is annoying
Map : (UI) : some filters would be nice and a list for all the sidequests which is done and not.
Bugs : - monsters stay dead in air - a lot of elites sometimes spawn inside cities - after teleporting skills cant be used - some fire effect from elites make the fps drop insanely - after joining and leaving the group brokes your own man, nothing is refreshing - sometimes and event pops up and randomly disappears. - there are still many sidequest with no cutscene skip function - after todays patch some monsters spawn under ground or in walls
<3

Just an average girl She always wore a smile She was cheerful and happy for a short while Now she's older Things are getting colder Life's not what she thought She wished someone had told her
She told you she was down, you let it slip by So from then on, she kept it on the inside She told herself she was alright But she was telling white lies Can't you tell? Look at her dull eyes
Tried to stop herself from crying almost every night But she knew there was no chance of feeling alright Summer came by, all she wore was long sleeves 'Cause those cuts on her wrists were bleeding through you see
She knew she was depressed, didn't want to admit it Didn't think she fit it, everyone seemed to miss it She carried on like a soldier with a battle wound Bleeding out from every cut her body consumed
She had no friends at school, all alone she sat And if someone were to notice she would blame the cat But those cuts on her wrist, they were no mistake But no one cared enough to save her from this self-hate
Things were going down, never really up And here she is now stuck in this stupid rut She knew exactly what she had to do next Just stand on that chair and tie the rope around her neck She wrote a letter with her hands shaking wild "Look at me now! Are you proud of your precious child?" But she knew that her parents weren't the ones to blame It was the world that should bow down its head in shame
She stood up on the chair and looked out at the moon Just don't think, it'll all be over soon The chair fell down as she took her final breath It's all over, all gone, now she's greeting death
Her Mom walks in, she falls down to the floor And now nothing can take back what she just saw The little girl that she raised is just hanging there Her body's pale and her face is violently bare
She sees the note and unfolds it with care All she does is stare How can this be fair? She starts reading as the tears roll down her face I'm sorry Mom but this world is just not my place
I've tried for so long to fix this and fit in I've come to realize this world's full of sin There's nothing for me here, I'm just a waste of space I've got no reason to stay here with this awful race
It's a disgrace, I was misplaced Born in the wrong time and in the wrong place It's okay though, 'cause you'll see me soon You'll know when your time has come Just look at the moon
As it shines bright throughout the night And remember everyone's facing their own fight But I can't deal with the pain, I'm not a fighter You'll make it through the night Just hug your pillow tighter
So let the world know, that I died in vain 'Cause the world around me, is the one to blame And I know in a year, you'll forget I'm gone 'Cause I'm not really something to be dwelled on That's what they used to tell me, all those kids at school So I'm going by the law, "majority rules" My presence on this earth is not needed any longer And if anything, I hope this makes you stronger
You're the best friend that I ever had It's such a shame I had to make you so very sad But just remember that you meant everything to me And to my heart, you're the only one that held the key
Now it's time to go, I'm running out of space to write And yes I lost my fight, but please just hold on tight I'm watching over you from the clouds above And sending down the purest and whitest dove
To watch over you, and be my helpful eye So this is it world, goodbye

Have you ever wanted to get off opiates so badly you'd be willing to do anything?
Summer, 2017. Orange County, California
I park my car in another part of the same neighborhood. I don't bother to check my surroundings. I pick a water bottle up off the floor, get my works ready, and prep an extremely strong shot of furanylfentanyl for myself. My heart is racing, I'm shaking, I'm sweating, I feel sick to my stomach. How is it possible that I feel this sick and terrible so soon after my last shot?
I'm in trouble.
I use the seatbelt to crudely constrict blood flow to my arm. I inject the furanylfentanyl and cap the needle. I open my car door and lean my head towards the opening, in case I have to vomit.
The rush hits too quickly. My heart slows. My muscles relax. My stomach does a backflip. I try to cling to what pleasurable sensations I can, but nausea overwhelms me and an encapsulating weakness dulls the entire experience. I start to salivate, a sure sign that I am about to throw up. I start to feel very dizzy.
"NO!" I scream. "Don't overdose! don't overdose!" I yell, slapping myself in the face. The sudden movement of slapping myself causes my nausea to worsen. I let my head hang over the opening in my car door to the asphalt below.
"Stay awake. Stay awake. Stay awake," I yell, out loud, to keep me engaged. I hear a dog bark and do my best to look up from the asphalt. There is a woman walking her dog away from me. Did she see me? Does it matter?
If she calls the cops, does it matter? I try to keep watching her as she continues to walk away. Does anything matter? Does anyone even see me? Am I just a ghost, stuck on this hellish plane with my only relief being small chunks of fake feelings that I buy for hundreds of dollars and shoot into my veins, until my body finally breaks down and dies on me?
Something snaps within me.
This has to end – NOW.
Later that night.
"Ok, Bryson sent you here, and he always sends good people, so we can just do all the intake stuff tomorrow. Your bed is upstairs. Hey, Logan!" the chunky, tan, toothless house manager turns and yells towards the living room of my new flophouse, at the two 20-somethings playing Call of Duty on a gigantic HDTV.
"What," one of them snaps, quietly and unenthusiastically, not looking away from the TV. All I can see is the Boston Celtics flat-brim hat that he has on backwards.
"Can you show the new guy here to his bed? It's in your room," the house manager says.
"What? Why is he in my room?" Logan asks, irritation plain in his voice.
"Because I said so," the house manager says, walking towards them now, as if he is going to get in front of the TV and block their view of it.
The kid with the Celtics hat gets up suddenly and starts to walk towards me. He strides past me, not even looking at me.
"Thanks," I say to the house manager, before turning away from him to follow the lazily bobbing Celtics hat upstairs.
"See you tomorrow morning! Don't forget to come see me in the morning!" the flophouse manager calls after us. Despite not having me fill out any paperwork or giving me a drug test, I will be able to start living here right away because I have private health insurance. I might as well have swiped my health insurance card at the door of this flophouse hotel.
Logan walks like he can do no wrong and the world owes him something, which makes me hate him instantly. He leads me to the first bedroom at the top of the stairs, which is indistinguishable from any other middle-class suburban single-family home. It is smaller than my childhood bedroom, with two twin beds maybe 5 feet apart, two small nightstands that practically touch each other, and one dresser.
"This is my bed. Don't touch any of my stuff. That dresser is mine," he says, pointing to the indiscriminate wooden dresser against the wall opposite our beds. I feel a flash of anger.
"Nah. There’s only one dresser. We'll split it up tomorrow," I say. He turns towards me and looks me in the eyes. He’s taller than me, with long dark hair and a lean frame. I stare at him, my jaw clenched in rage, daring him to touch me, so I can take my anger out on something besides myself. I don't care if he knows how to fight and whips my ass right now, I'm at the absolute end of my rope with living on this Earth. He scoffs and walks out of the room. I sit on the twin bed that is now ‘mine’. It feels brand new. New beds means that a new flophouse has arrived in Orange County.
I wish I didn't have to precipitate my withdrawal, but this has to end sometime, and there is no time but now. I have four somas, six xanax bars, and half a naltrexone pill - 25mg - in my pocket. I pull the loose pills out of my pocket and look at them.
Six xanax bars is definitely not enough to make me black out. Six xanax bars isn't even enough to fully get rid of the restlessness, let alone cause me to sleep through the night, but at least I have 4 somas. The muscle-relaxing somas will have to do some heavy lifting, but I know they can do it.
Somas absolutely wreck me. I haven’t taken one in a long time, but I know I respond strongly to them. Taking six xanax and four somas would ordinarily be enough to cause me to black out for a full day, but I don’t know if they will even work through 25 milligrams of naltrexone.
Just thinking the word ‘naltrexone’ causes my stomach to drop and my heart to start racing. I am absolutely petrified at the thought of taking this naltrexone.
Well, it’s time to nut the fuck up and do it, Lonnie. You decided to go on your little furanylfentanyl binge, now you have to take this naltrexone. You made your shitty flophouse bed, now you have to lay in it. You’re going to be sick either way by the time the morning comes.
I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry with anxiety. How much do somas contribute to respiratory depression? I can’t remember off the top of my head. I don’t remember what the median lethal dose is, what the mechanism of action is, or even what receptors it interacts with, aside from the same GABA receptors that xanax acts upon. I wonder if there is an increased risk of respiratory depression from combining soma with xanax.
I pull out of my phone, so I can google just how sedating the soma is when combined with xanax, to make sure I am not going to stop breathing during the procedure.
You’re wasting your time, Lonnie. You have to be conscious in the morning and able to talk to the house manager. You’ve overdosed 3 times in the past few weeks. If you can inject enough fentanyl to kill 5 people, you can take 4 somas with 6 xanax. It isn’t going to kill you – and if it does, who cares? Either way, it’ll finally be over.
This has to end. I’d rather die than keep doing this, anyway.
I walk into the bathroom, the pills clenched in my fist like a loaded revolver, and close the door. I turn on the sink and put all 4 somas in my mouth. I stick my head in the sink and part my lips slightly, drinking from the stream as if I had a straw in my mouth. I swallow the pills and then put all 6 xanax in my mouth. I turn the tap off and start to chew.
My mouth fills with the incredibly bitter taste of the xanax. I used to watch people do this and nearly throw up at the mere sight alone. Now, my mouth salivates with excitement as the bitterness overwhelms me.
I hate how much my brain loves the bitter taste of chemicals. I wish my brain hated the bitterness, like normal people. I hate being a drug addict.
I swallow a few times to clear my mouth out and then drink more from the tap. I look at the orange half-pill of naltrexone in my hand. I sigh. This is going to suck.
Hurry up and swallow it, bitch boy. You don’t want to black out and start throwing fruit around before the withdrawal kicks in, like you did at Amelia’s house.
I can’t look away from the orange half-pill.
Just take it and get it over with. Put the naltrexone in your mouth and swallow it.
I know this is going to make me sick within 3 minutes of taking it. I might as well swallow dynamite – in fact, I would prefer to swallow dynamite. The taste of the xanax lingers in my mouth. I have to take the naltrexone. There is no avoiding it.
I put the pill in my mouth and drink from the tap again. I swallow the naltrexone, turn off the sink, and go back to my new flophouse bedroom, my heart pounding with overwhelming anxiety, feeling like I just made the worst decision I have ever made in my life, which is saying something. I turn off the lights, close the door, and get into the bed. I lay down on my side and close my eyes firmly. I am going to sleep, right now.
5 minutes into self-induced ultra-rapid detox.
My stomach is cramping. It hurts so bad that I can’t move my hands away from it. It feels like I swallowed poison. There is an odd sensation of electricity attached to the pain that is coming from the back of my neck. I am curled in the fetal position because my stomach hurts so bad, but everything else hurts too. How did it hit this hard and this fast? It wasn’t supposed to hit this hard or this quickly.
I throw the blanket off of me. It’s so hot, I can’t bear to have that blanket anywhere near me. The heat is so intense, I can feel it radiating off my skin. I am covered in sweat.
Why does my stomach hurt so bad? It has never hurt this bad before. I can barely breathe through the pain.
9 minutes into the procedure.
It’s so cold, my sweat feels like prickly ice water. I reach for the blanket and wrap it around me as tightly as I can. I move my feet, so the blanket is wrapped completely around them. I can feel my toes writhing back and forth, my legs moving uncontrollably. I am shaking uncontrollably, so I shake intentionally. Where is the xanax? Please, kick in. Please. Please.
God, if you’re listening, stop playing with me and kill me or let that xanax through my first-pass metabolism and into my bloodstream. I chewed it. It should be kicking in and making these symptoms milder.
T+ 14 minutes.
I feel an electric zap in my stomach that becomes a cramp. I hold my abdominals and try to massage them to stop the cramp, which is so painful I can’t breathe. I have the sudden need to use the bathroom. I jump out of bed and powerwalk to the bathroom. Luckily everyone is still downstairs playing video games or not home yet. At least this flophouse doesn’t have a curfew.
I sit down on the toilet and try to sit still. I cannot stop my body from moving for even one second. It feels like my insides are on fire. This is discomfort beyond anything I have ever experienced or imagined.
T+ 20 minutes.
It is so hot. I can’t believe how overheated I feel. I must be on the precipice of brain damage. I lay on the bed, curled in the fetal position, drenched in sweat, forcing myself to shake as vigorously as I can so that I can pretend that I am complicit in this. The xanax has to be kicking in any second now. I should be nearly unconscious right now.
A fresh electric cramp hits my stomach, driving the air from my lungs. I get up from the bed, power walking back to the bathroom, doubled over with pain. I sit down on the toilet and feel the urge to scream. I leave my body bent forward because I can’t sit up straight with this cramp. I see the trash can right across from me. My stomach is so fucked up, maybe I just need to throw up.
T+ 1 hour.
I inhale. I exhale. I inhale. I exhale.
I am not asleep, but I am not awake. I can tell that horrible things are happening in my body and brain, but I am too sedated now to be able to maintain full awareness. I am scared that I will be aware of the moment when I stop breathing – that I will suffocate while I am fully conscious, since that is exactly what I deserve.
I am no longer panicking, but my stomach is beyond fucked. I have been getting up every 5 minutes to go to the bathroom, and now my roommate is in here. It is 12 AM. I have 6 hours left to go.
The soma has all but gotten rid of the cramps. I can now lay still. The temperature swings aren’t nearly as bad – it almost seems as if they’re happening to a body that I can feel but is not mine.
You’re going to do it, Lonnie. You’re outsmarting addiction. Before you know it, you’re going to be getting the naltrexone implant, and then you’ll be back to training hard for college basketball.
I get up from the bed. I walk back to the bathroom, now having to walk carefully, my arms outstretched. The combination of the xanax and the somas has me extremely uncoordinated. I walk towards the bathroom, closing one eye to combat the double vision I have now. I slowly reach for the door and open it. I close it behind me, carefully and slowly. I walk to the toilet and sit on it as quickly as I can, due to the growing urgency of the signals from my stomach. I put my head in my hands and my elbows on my knees. One of my elbows slip immediately, and I almost fall off the toilet.
I fix my seat and put my head back in my hands, more carefully this time. Though I feel physical sensations of pain and discomfort, they are being sent through a deeply dizzying diversion. The discomfort is distant. I can’t be bothered to worry about it right now.
Stay awake, Lonnie. You can’t pass out on the toilet. You’ll get caught and kicked out or taken to a hospital. I cradle my head. I’ll get up in a second.
I hear a loud crashing sound and open my eyes. I’m sandwiched between the toilet and the wall. I reach up for the toilet and successfully pull the seat down after several failed attempts, so I can use it to help me up. Slowly and carefully, I get up from the floor. I pull the seat up and sit back down on the toilet.
I stand up from the toilet and start to walk out of the bathroom. Before I even make it to the door, I feel the need to sit back on the toilet.
This is not good. The soma probably relaxed everything too much. I might have to sit on this toilet for the rest of the night, shitting my brains out. I cradle my head in my hands, so I can relax on the toilet.
Don’t relax too much, Lonnie. You might fall asleep on the toilet. Just keep breathing. You’re probably not breathing very much. You should NOT be conscious right now. Just because the naltrexone is painful enough to force you to maintain consciousness doesn’t mean that your body isn’t barely clinging to life.
I inhale. I exhale.
I feel myself slipping off the toilet. Fuck, I need to get up. I need to do something to stay awake. I can take a shower; I just have to get up from the toilet. Give it another second, though.
I can just wait here for one more second.
​
I woke up 3 days later in the ICU as they were pulling the breathing tubes out of me

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

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

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

I'm finishing off a second floor flex room and going to be reshuffling some TVs. The line had blurred on quality so much though in the last 2 years that I'm a little bit confused on what to get.
I currently have a Vizio p75f in my living room that gets a ton of light. That is going to be moved to the flex room so I need something to replace it. We do have automatic shades and usually watch at night. Majority of the stuff we watch in that room is Netflix, Prime, Hulu etc.
In my media/video game room I have a Sony 900f (love the picture)and TCL 55p series in the bed room so I'm really impartial to any brands.
Wants:

• Bright and has excellent glare/ reflection handling
• Chromecast but if not I already have a 4K dongle I can hook up.
• Earc to hook up my Sony A7000 sb.
• $1500ish budget

With that being said, I'm looking for a bang for your buck in the next month or two and have narrowed it down to a few that have caught my eye. What would you go with that will last me a few years? I have Best Buy gift cards as well so it's going to bring my costs way down anyway.

• Sony x90k - $1200-1300ish through dealer
• TCL 655 - $1400
• TCL Q7 - $1400
• Hisense U8H - $1400
• Hisense U7H - $1000

I’m working on renovating a ~600 sq ft mother-in-law unit in a basement, with the hopes of making in an appropriate long-term living space for a small woman currently in her late 80’s. The space needs to be a good blend of safe and comfortable/aesthetically pleasing, to entice her into living there sooner rather than later. She’s a bit spoiled and picky in terms of ambiance, and reluctant to leave her nice but unsuitable home.
What I’m reading is that for flooring, the best choice is rubber due to its give and anti-slip properties (even when wet), and the runner-up is cork because it also has give, traction, and low trip risk (compared with carpet, etc.). Carpet is ok, but not suitable for potentially wet areas, and needs to be low-profile/short-pile, and the transition between it and other flooring can be a trip hazard. Cement (the current flooring), stone, tile, and hardwood are no-goes because they’re very hard (higher risk of injury during fall) and (less importantly) cold under the feet. Area rugs are a huge no due to the major trip hazard.
Unfortunately what I’m seeing so far is that the rubber options are pretty expensive and there are very few design options (basically, it’s ugly, primarily grey or black, and that will be a major turn-off for her). Cork is pretty easily damaged and not very water resistant, which could be an issue in the kitchen and bathroom areas, and can also get pretty pricey. I’m reading really mixed things about the safety of vinyl, which comes in a greater variety of nice and affordable aesthetics, but is less cushioned than the other two, and may be quite slippery, especially when wet (opinions/experiences about this seem to differ by source).
Does anyone have personal or professional experience with home renovations for aging-in-place, and cost-effective recommendations for safe flooring? Do you have vinyl in your home, and if so, do you find it slippery (or do you think you would if you were elderly/clumsy)? Any other random tips you wish you’d known during aging-in-place renovations?

So I haven’t pulled the trigger on anything yet, I was leaning towards KEF R3’s and R2C with a Rythmik sub and maybe Hypex/Purifi amp and undecided receiver (Anthem, Arcam, NAD, Hegel?), but I just heard a few stereo speakers with McIntosh amps and now I get why most audiophiles just have 2 speakers. Granted the towers I listened to were $20,000 each but omfg. The perfect phantom center, amazing separation, and no subwoofer needed (my neighbors complain so this is a plus for me, rumble is not good in my case). Should I just get 2 great towers, a center, a used McIntosh and call it a day?
These are the systems I heard:
-Dynaudio focus bookshelf and floor standing speakers with Bryston amps - they sounded good, not too exciting, very “honest”
-McIntosh tube amp with $20,000 Bowers & Wilkins 800 Series towers that looked like they came from space - Very detailed, separation was incredible, and I liked the brightness (maybe because of the amp?). This was my favorite combo of the bunch. It also looks horrendous to me, I would never put this in my living room regardless of price.
-McIntosh solid state amp with $18,000 KEF Blade - also great sounding but the high end roll off was a little strange to me, maybe especially after hearing the B&W’s these sounded a little muted on the top end. Low end extension was great, probably the best of all the systems I heard
-McIntosh integrated tube pre amp with vintage looking JBL L52 Classic bookshelf speakers. These were my least favorite sounding and simultaneously my most favorite looking speakers. Does anyone make a vintage looking box like this that sounds incredible? That would be my dream here.
Mark Levenson amp with Martin Logan Electromotion speakers - these were also incredible. Very balanced, even coverage frequency wise. Maybe my second favorite setup. These also visually look very bad to me.
The salesman wanted me to listen to these systems to see which “brand sound” I preferred, to focus on that brand. He was also recommending the new $8000 McIntosh MHT300 all in one receiver (way too rich for my blood). What should I do? Who makes a great vintage style tower and center I can find a deal on the used market and would I need a 3 channel used McIntosh with McIntosh Receiver? Has anyone compared Hypex/Purifi to McIntosh? Should I go that route and which receiver should I get? More confused now than when I started hah

To begin, two major changes need to be made to both FTWD and TWD. Firstly, Travis is shot in the neck, and he does throw himself out of the helicopter, but he survives by landing in a river. Secondly, in TWD, Carl doesn't die. Instead, Morgan sacrifices his life in some grand gesture, and his final plea is for Rick to end the war.
My Reasoning:

1. Not only was Travis' death sudden and absurd, but it also ruined any potential he had to become an excellent character. In my version, Madison and Co are still pushed forward by news of his "death," killing two birds with one stone and allowing for a myriad of interesting possibilities.
2. This allows TWD to continue closer to how it did in the comics, a way I find much more narratively satisfying, and doesn't allow Morgan to crossover--thus stopping FTWD from becoming the "Morgan and Friends Show". (Maybe he can die saving Carl--bringing his character arc of not being able to protect Duane full circle.)

These are not entire seasons. These are simply general ideas. P.S. - Reading this in one sitting might make it feel like a breakneck pace, but just try to picture your own episodes within these seasons.
SEASON 3
With Travis now alive, it allows season three to play out basically the same, until the mid-season finale, where Travis would reveal himself as alive. From there, we would get a Travis-centric episode like we did with Daniel, showing how he stitched up his own neck wound and lived in the wilderness until he was found by Walker's people. As someone else said on this sub, this would open up the possibility of Travis being a bridge between the two people groups.
Because of his siding with Walker, we could get a very interesting dynamic between Travis and the other Clarks, specifically Madison. Story beats would have to change, but this will help the overarching story overall. For my purposes, Travis (while with Walker's people) would revert to his more pacifist self as he was in seasons 1 and 2. However, this would not change his tendency for violence, which he would struggle with during the duration of the season. Luciana still leaves, Daniel is still shot by Strand, Madison still kills Troy, and Nick still destroys the dam.
TLDR: Travis survives his gunshot wound and becomes a bridge between the two communities. The rest of the season's events basically play out the same, with obvious changes.
​

SEASON 4

The dam has exploded. And after a minor time skip, we meet up with our crew: Madison, Alicia, Nick, and Travis, who are hiding out in an abandoned gas station. You see, while the dam is gone and quite a few of the Proctors with it, they're still everywhere; searching for the people who tried to wipe them out. In a hail-mary attempt, the Clarks flee up north, leaving Mexico and hopefully the Proctors by heading into Texas. They all assume Daniel and Strand are dead, and whatever sense of morality they had at the ranch has now completely been lost. They are ruthless to both walkers and people, both of which they find plenty of in the Texas plains.
One of the main relationships I want to grow in this season is between Nick and Travis. While they did interact in the other seasons, it was to a very small extent--most of Travis' time was spent with his own son Chris. But with Travis' brutality more or less returning, and Nick no longer being the fun-loving and adventurous 19-year-old we knew, they grow closer--two men who have lost their innocence and themselves to the apocalypse. Nick will become the son Travis never had. But as they grow closer, so do Madison and Alycia. However, it's not a paternal healthy bond, it's Alycia trying to live up to the "Golden Child" standard she's kept for herself. With Madison's tendency to care more about Nick becoming ever more obvious, Alycia is driven by a need to please her mother--something that will eventually tear the family apart. But for all intents and purposes, the Clarks are the strongest they've ever been.
After a few episodes of traveling through Texas, they are stopped by three members of a Biker Gang (think Hell's Angels or Sons of Anarchy). They try to intimidate our crew into giving up what little supplies they have, but with a single look from Madison, two of the bikers are dead and the other is nearly beaten to death. Travis argues they take the bikes and leave, but Madison suspects they have a camp nearby--and after a torture session performed by Travis, she's told that she's right. They are led to the Dell Diamond Baseball Stadium, which the Bikers call home. After an initial standoff, our crew is let in. Everyone is wary of these Bikers, but after only a little while, they quickly integrate into the group. Travis fits right in with the rough-and-tumble men, Alycia is praised for what little medical skill she has (which she uses to heal the tortured Biker, named Cole), Nick becomes a valuable asset for what the Bikers do, and Madison quickly rises up the ranks.
You see, these Bikers are like the Saviors. They run a protection racket. But instead of Negan's view of people: that they're a resource to be maintained, the Bikers simply destroy whoever doesn't bend to their will. However, there's a major problem: both manpower and bullets are hard to come by in the apocalypse, especially when they kill whoever disobeys them. But that's where Nick fits right in. With his skill with the walkers, he dons the blood and guts once more, using it to lead entire walker hordes into stubborn communities. They've found another new home. But as Travis and Madison make clear, it is not permanent.
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All seems well until word begins to spread amongst the Bikers. Their pre-apocalypse rivals, the Proctors, have made their presence known. In a show of force, the leader of the Bikers takes most of his men out to meet with the Proctors. At the same time, a young girl named Charlie is let into the stadium. Nick becomes a surrogate older brother, and they grow close. But our group, of course now fearful, vote to remain at the stadium with a few other nameless civilians and a healing Cole. It's going to be a few days, so Madison and the family lock the stadium down. No one in or out. That's when the Vultures show up.
Like season four of FTWD, they're still a corny group of hippies, but our group has dealt with worse. Way worse. Madison and Travis leave the stadium to talk to the Vultures, while Nick and Alycia stay back with Charlie. However, the young girl is revealed to be a double agent, the one who let the Vultures know that the majority of the Bikers were leaving. She pulls a gun on Nick and Alycia just as Madison and Travis single-handily slaughter all of the Vultures. None are left alive. Hearing the commotion, mixed with fear and anger, Charlie shoots Nick. But Alycia, in a split second, kills Charlie.
Now dying of a gunshot wound, Alycia desperately begins surgery on Nick. Madison is purely focused on her son, but the weight of what they just did is finally beginning to set on Travis. Nick is treated just as the Bikers return, a majority of their numbers wiped out. We then get a Strand-focused episode, revealing how after the dam he was captured by Proctor John himself. But we see how he was unable to worm his way into a position of power within the Proctors. We get to see how the Proctors tracked our group all the way from Mexico, and how they had a massive battle with the Bikers we know, wiping most of them out. But the Bikers we know escaped, and the Proctors have followed them.
Out of both time and options, Nick sneaks away (still very much injured), his plans unclear. However, the Proctors show up, Strand at the helm. He's the spokesperson for the Proctors now, but a wrench is thrown in the plan for battle when he sees Madison and Alycia inside the stadium. Proctor John holds his attack too, realizing his chance for revenge is within his grasp. He then proposes a deal to the Bikers, saying that if given Madison and Co, they'll leave. This, of course, is a lie. The Bikers deliberate, with Cole being the main voice for trading them over. Travis tries everything he can to convince the Bikers to not hand them over, but realizes that being killed either by the Bikers or the Proctors isn't much of an option. Bound and gagged, the Clarks (minus Nick, who Madison fears for) are handed over.
Put on their knees and guns put to their heads, Strand tries to talk John out of it--trying to make him pause and think. But it's no use.
Just as bullets are about to be fired, a massive herd comes out of nowhere! Nick has led them all here, and being careful, he slips through the herd and unties his family. He tells them to do the guts trick, which they do, but for whatever reason, he turns back. As he moves through the herd, careful not to get shot or eaten, he finds Strand fighting for his life. Nick then steps in, helps him with the trick, and leads him to safety--but not before seeing Proctor John fighting the herd. It looks like he's winning; using a row of his soldiers to gun down the horde, until Nick sneaks up behind him and slits his throat. Now leaderless and surrounded, the Proctors and the Bikers are wiped out. Covered in guts and aimless, our crew leaves the stadium.
Weeks later, and after a few more misadventures, Nick goes out hunting. As he does so, he stumbles upon a man dressed like a cowboy, and sitting against a pickup truck: John Dorie. The same exchange happens, where John asks whoever is in the shadows if they would like to join him. Nick reveals himself, and it ends the same way as it did in the show, "So what's your story?"
TLDR: Madison and Co escape Mexico only to join up with a biker gang in an old baseball stadium in Texas. The Proctors return, old rivals of the Bikers, and a massive battle ensues. A group called the Vultures show up as the Bikers leave, and are quickly slaughtered by Madison and Travis. The Proctors come with Strand in tow, and after quick thinking from Nick, the family and Strand escape, while both the Bikers and the Proctors are wiped out by a herd of walkers. Nick then meets a man named John Dorie.
​

Season 5

John Dorie is what Morgan should have been for the Clarks: the exact opposite of what they are. While they're ruthless and cold, he's merciful and warm. His mission is simple: find his wife. And because of Nick's insistence (and Travis' persuasion of Madison), they decide to help him do so. He explains they separated several weeks ago, after meeting at his cabin and living there for the majority of the apocalypse. But he is far from incapable. In fact, he's the best shot of the entire group and anyone they ever come across.
Tensions however, are high. Madison of course doesn't trust John, and hates the influence he seemingly having on her son. She thinks that his kindness is weakness, and fights to keep her control over Nick.
Based on the evidence John gathered, his best guess is that his wife was abducted and taken north, into Colorado. With nowhere else to go, the Clarks travel with John north. Having entered Colorado, John soon catches a trail. He finds evidence of a camp with the same logo as he found before, that of a key. He feels that they're getting closer, and he turns out to be right, as they find a small community of survivors living inside an old motel. He wants to go in and talk, but Madison isn't risking it. Instead, and with much pushback from John, our main crew goes in guns raised.
Using a small herd of walkers Nick gathered, they take out the guards and quickly find the leader of the community. At gunpoint, the man explains that he's part of a network of communities under one woman, Virginia. They're called the Pioneers, and their goal is to make Colorado the beginning of a new United States. Madison, Alycia, and Strand laugh at the idea, but Nick and Travis are more open to it. After stealing supplies, weapons, and a vehicle, our crew moves on to find John's wife. Or so he thinks.
A few days later, our group finds another one of the settlements, an old ski lodge. This time, however, based on both Travis' and John's pleas, they go in as if they're just some survivors. As they are let in, they see that the lodge is heavily armed--a death sentence had they gone in guns blazing. They stay for a while, with Nick, Travis, and John warming up to the idea of a multi-settlement government. John finds out that his wife is at the capital of the settlement, Lawton. Eager to hit the road to see his wife again, he tells the group to get ready to head out. Madison, however, has no such plan. Nick argues they should go with him, but Madison argues that nothing like this could last and that it's likely all a lie. Madison and Strand want to take over the lodge, killing them all if it came to it. Travis is against it, his guilt driving him to try to stop murdering, but Madison's mind is unchanged. Survival at any cost is her plan now, and if a few nobodies have to die for it, so what? Madison is going to keep everyone together, no matter what. So, under the cover of the night, John and Nick sneak off the lodge grounds and leave.
In the morning, Madison sees they're both gone. Enraged, she prepares to go out and immediately find them until a massive snowstorm hits, forcing them to stay inside. For Nick and John, however, a test of will is what the storm becomes. Frostbite and starvation are mere days away, and they seem to be going in circles. Until a search party finds them. They're grabbed and treated as they are taken to the capital settlement. The search party wasn't for them, but for a young girl, but finding the men so close to death stopped the search. At least for now.
Back at the lodge, Madison is planning for a seize of power. People are anxious, and she has enough trust with the guards to grab some guns. But Travis stops her. He talks to her and looks at her as if she's a different person, something that seems to haunt her. They've grown apart, barely showing any physical affection.
At Lawton, Nick and John see that the settlement is large, larger than anything they've come across so far. They have large walls, farms, livestock, freshly constructed buildings, and people. Anxious to get to his wife, John meets with the mastermind behind it all: Virginia. But unlike the show, she's a genuinely kind woman. She really does want the best for people, and after some deliberation, John finally gets to see his wife. She explains that during her own supply run, she ran into the Pioneers needing help. She did, and they invited her to join. She left a note for John, telling him where to find her, but a massive herd forced them to leave early. It's a joyous moment and something that deeply saddens Nick, reminding him of Luciana.
Until he hears a voice, "Nick?" He turns around and sees Luciana standing behind him! They embrace, and she tells some story about how she found these communities. She apologizes for ever leaving him and promises to never do it again. And after this moment, Nick asks her to be his wife. She says yes, and he couldn't be happier.
Two weeks later, Madison, Travis, Alycia, and Strand are escorted to Lawton, where they reunite with Nick. He explains what happened, and in a seemingly hopeful moment, a wedding is held. Nick and Luciana get married, and all the while Madison plots.
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After five or six months, we see how the family has gotten used to this way of life. Nick and Luciana are happy and working together, Strand has become a high-ranking Pioneer, Alycia has become a rather skilled doctor, Travis has settled down with Madison (though they're still very distant), working the fields next to a small cabin, and John and his wife work as rangers. Life is good. It's peaceful. With all the communities working together, it can seem like anything is possible. But Madison isn't happy. She doesn't trust any of it. And neither does Strand. She believes that at any second, a revolt will happen. An enemy group will rise up. She feels the Pioneers are too trusting, too hopeful. She wants to keep her family safe, and she doesn't think Virginia can.
One day, a community-wide meeting is called, where all the heads of the communities will come together to discuss general going-ons and plans for the future. All the heads come to meet in an old courthouse, including Strand. That day, Madison asks Virginia to meet, and she raises her issues: how they are too trusting, and a severe lack of top-down control. Virginia assures her that those things will happen--in time, but not to rush them. Madison asks her if she will ever actually make those changes, and Virginia pauses before saying...no. Madison then pulls a gun and shoots Virginia in the head. As soon as the shot rings out, Strand leaves the main courtroom where all the heads of communities are, locks the doors, and starts a fire. In mere minutes, the entire courthouse is in flames, and everyone inside is dead.
Immediately, there is chaos, as people think it was an attack. Madison steps up, explaining that Virginia was killed, and the fire was started by anarchists. Strand then grabs a random man and drags him up to the stage where Madison stands. After making up some story about the man, she asks the people if the anarchist should live, and there is a resounding and furious flurry of "no's". She pulls out her pistol and executes the man to the horror of Travis, Nick, and John.
At night, Madison meets with John, as he's become a high-ranking ranger. He knows that that man was innocent, but Madison seems to have no remorse. She explains very calmly that he's going to help contain the chaos, or she will kill his wife. To his shock, Madison waits for a response. He finally sputters out that he'll help. She lets him go back home, knowing he'll do whatever she wants.
Then, she goes home to Travis, who's distraught. He knows everything that happened was staged, and that Strand was helping plan it from the beginning. He's enraged, but Madison remains calm, explaining that everything she did was to protect her family. Travis is beyond shocked, exclaiming that everything that was happening was protecting her family. She looks at him, cold as ice, and tells him that he's not her family. He's not blood. Nick and Alycia are all that matter to her. Travis is horrified and heartbroken--too stunned to speak. She walks over to him and explains that if all he is is against her, he's a danger to her family. She then grabs a nearby knife and stabs him in the gut. She looks away from his eyes as he gasps for air, and as she twists the knife deeper into his stomach. She rips the knife out and he collapses on the floor, dying. She watches him suffer, and just like that, both Travis and the Madison we knew, are dead.
TLDR: Madison and Co follow a good-hearted cowboy named John Dorie into Colorado in search of his wife. After a few altercations with this group's settlements, John reunites with his wife and Nick reunites with Luciana. Months later, Madison and Strand enact a plot to seize control of power. Madison kills Virginia, and Strand lights a building aflame with all head of communities inside. Madison then threatens John into working for her, and she kills Travis.
​

Season 6

"Travis was killed by the anarchists." That's the lie that's told. The one spread around. At his funeral, Nick is devastated, barely able to hold it together as he gives a speech. John is silent, suspecting that Madison is the one who killed him. She knows that he knows, but she doesn't care. She cries at the funeral. But just for a moment.
Thanks to John's help, the communities have calmed down. Order has been re-established. Madison and Strand have taken up leadership of the Pioneers, but they quickly ditch the key logos and outfits. The rangers are trained to be merciless--gone are the days of trusting new people. A new rule is established: kill on site. Thanks to this, the communities are stronger than ever. John lives in perpetual fear of Madison, worried that at any moment she'll claim his wife is a member of the Anarchists, and have her killed. In order to avoid this, he becomes a vital tool for Madison, doing anything she says.
Nick is deep in grief, numb to his now wife and the outside world...until Luciana breaks wonderful news: she's pregnant. Nick is shocked, but excited--ready to be the father his dad never was.
In the meantime, Madison uses John to round up people who would stand against her, and after planting evidence and calling them Anarchists, she has them executed. Her family and community is secure. It looks like no one can stand in her way--except one woman: Luciana. Now pregnant and fearful of the dangerous new woman in control of Lawton, she wants to leave with Nick. He argues that they need to stay, it's his mother after all, and that they can't keep running forever. But she sees the danger.
That night, Nick and Alycia and hanging out together when he proudly tells her Luciana is pregnant. Alycia is really happy for him, until Nick tells her that he's decided he's going to leave Lawton with her after she gives birth. At the same time, Madison goes to Nick's home and meets with Luciana. She plays up the whole "sympathetic mother figure" deducing rather quickly that Luciana is pregnant. Luciana then tells her that they'll be leaving soon, much to the dismay of Madison. She soon leaves once Nick returns, not acting as if she knows about the pregnancy and their plans.
The next day John offers to take Nick down to one of their outermost communities, a few days ride. He accepts, feeling on top of the world. At that time, a group of armed Rangers burst into Nick's home, searching the entire place. Luciana is confused, but she is quickly tackled to the ground. Then, they find what they're searching for: the same knife used to kill Travis. Dragged out of her home, she's thrown into a holding cell.
A few hours out from Lawton, John struggles with the immense guilt of something. Nick asks him what's wrong, and he finally explains that Strand told him to take Nick out of town for a few days while something happened. Fearing something really bad is going to happen, Nick races back to Lawton, with the help of John.
The knife is supposedly the one that killed Travis, and Luciana is scheduled for a public execution that same day. At the time of the execution, Luciana is brought up on the gallows, in front of public of view, and Strand gives a speech about order and safety. Madison is absent. Nick reaches the main gates, but is temporarily blocked. Using sheer adrenaline and channeling Travis, he fights off the two guards and races to the center of town to see Luciana, noose around her neck. He screams for them to stop, but with the crank of a lever, the trapdoor falls, and Luciana suffocates to death. Nick can't do anything as he falls over, weeping, saying, "She's pregnant...she's pregnant..." Alycia comes running from the Infirmary, unaware of what's happening. John finally makes it to the town square, and using his crackshot aim, shoots Luciana down. But it's too late. For whatever the reason, she turned fast, and John walks over and quietly puts an end to her reanimated self.
Nick is completely broken now. He lays in a ball on the ground, unable to move. Alycia attempts to comfort him, but he pushes her away. John walks over to him, attempting to apologize or make what he did right, but Nick snaps. Grabbing a knife off of Alycia, he stabs John is the gut, and begins to beat his face in. Alycia tries to stop him, but Nick kicks her away as he takes swing after swing, beating John nearly to death. Nick then stops, grabs John's rifle, and screams for Strand. Strand, still standing on the gallows, attempts to duck as Nick fires at him, hitting him in the shoulder with a bullet. Nicks keeps firing, until his gun clicks empty. He stands, surrounded by Rangers and civilians.
He's locked in a cell, fists bloody and eyes empty. Madison comes to the cell, trying to play innocence, until Nick grabs her by the throat. He squeezes, a fire lit behind his eyes. All the pieces fit together now. Everything. He begins to laugh hysterically, realizing it was his own mother who killed his pregnant wife. "You...you actually thought I would what--just fall back into your own arms? Be your own little "Nicky' again!?" He tightens his grip, but he's too good a man. He can't do it. He releases her, utterly defeated. Madison leaves, telling Strand that he'll come around.
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A long time later, months, years, we're not sure--somehow, Nick is out of the cell. It's wintertime in Colorado, and he's living in the wilderness now, sporting much longer hair and a beard. Using tricks he learned while in Mexico and from Travis, he lives as a nomad. But no matter how far he travels, he's still hunted by the Pioneers.
In a flashback, we see that is was Strand who let Nick out of the cell. Nick just about kills him, but seeing the guilt Strand feels, Nick decides to just leave. He's quiet and stealthy, just stealing one of Travis' jackets and a machete. But before he leaves, he sneaks to Alycia, and pleads with her to come with him. She refuses, deciding to stay with Madison. He's sad, but he doesn't stick around. He climbs over one of the walls, and slips away.
In the present, we follow Nick as he lives in the woods of Colorado. He's almost completely silent, barely even grunting. He dispatches walkers with ease, and because of Travis, he knows how to live purely off the land alone. He's almost unrecognizable. One day, while cooking a rabbit, two Pioneers come across him on horseback. They dismount, holding him up at gunpoint, and tell him that he's going to return to Lawton with them. He doesn't speak as he pulls out his machete and cleaves one of the Pioneers' arms off. The man screams in agony as Nick impales the other one mercilessly. He kills the second man, then turns and grabs the other man's rifle. He checks its ammo, slings it across his back, and begins to raise his machete at the first Pioneer--before the man begins to weep. He begins blubbering about his wife, how they have a child on the way. Nick lowers his blade, wipes the blood on his sleeve, and sheathes it. The Pioneer begs for bandage, medicine, anything, but Nick just leaves, saying, "Tell her to stop coming after me."
The problem for Nick is that, essentially, he's trapped. Because of the thirteen-community network Madison now controls, he's surrounded, on all sides, by people attempting to capture him. It miles of land, sure, but not something easily escaped. So he's done what little he can--evade the larger search parties, and deal with the smaller pairs of rangers he encounters.
His new plan is to head farther north, hopefully into Wyoming or Montana. So for an episode he heads north, evading capture.
At the same time, Madison continues to rule the communities with an iron fist. But there's a problem: people have been disappearing from within the communities. Alicia has matured over this time, taking up a leadership position under her mother. She's an advocate for letting Nick go, but Madison can't. Strand still works for her, though he has become more brazen after his secret releasing of Nick. Madison suspects it was him who did it, but she waits to act. John has become the head of tracking Nick down, but he does his job in a way that slows down the process.
Madison calls him in for a meeting, and explains that his new mission will be discovering where her citizens are going. Thankful to be off of Nick, he accepts.
Nick makes his way to the furthermost community after days of travel, called "The Lanes". Sneaking past guards and the occasional walker, he makes it to Colorado border, and stops. He feels horribly guilty for leaving his sister with his mother, and he can't seem to shake the feeling. Then, he sees something odd: a small group of civilians sneaking out of the Lanes. He watches them, then decides to follow. After traveling deeper into the woods than he's gone before, he stumbles upon the civilians destination: The Copse.
An idyllic home deep in the Colorado woods, Nick is greeted by an old eccentric man: Teddy. Teddy is kind and wise, offering to take Nick's weapons, as he won't need them there. Nick cautiously obliges, and after a few days, falls in love with the place. Everyone who's fled from the communities has come here, and it's perfect. Until John finds it.
With six rangers vs an entire commune, Nick prepares for battle. But Teddy tells him to stop, and to let happen what needs to happen. Confused by his order, he steps down. John sees the place, and realizes that this is what the communities can be. He decides not to tell Madison about the commune, and he returns to his wife, and they leave together in secret.
After more drama and death, Madison stops all her rangers from looking for Nick, and switches the mission to finding this rumored commune. Nick catches wind of this, and warns Teddy that this is coming. Teddy refuses to arm, but Nick circumvents this by talking to the people of the commune. He finally steps into a position of leadership, rallying the citizens into protecting what they have. The citizens come together and form a fighting force, right as the first Rangers arrive.
It's a bloody battle, but the Rangers are defeated. Nick realizes that the people cannot defeat 13 communities, but they can convert them. After more fights, persuading, and uprising, nearly half of all the communities have rallied under Nick against Madison and her army.
Eager to get out from under her thumb of oppression, people from within Lawton begin to revolt. Madison, of course, shuts this down--brutally beating anyone who stands against her. Alicia sees now that her mother is truly gone, and begins to communicate with Nick, planning a final stand.
After weeks of fighting and plotting, it all comes to a head. All of Nick's forces, now seven communities, rally together to charge, all at once, to Madison's six community army stationed at Lawton. Strand, however, attempts to sabotage Madison's army by destroying their ammo reserves. He's caught, tortured for his involvement in the civil war, and in one final act of brutality by Madison, beheaded in view of both her own and Nick's armies.
On this, both sides clash, resulting in a massive firefight. Hundreds are killed between the two groups, and in the end, Lawton is in flames and Nick is within Madison's home. They fight, and it's brutal and hard to watch as we see our once mother and son duo trade blows. Nick finally gets the upper hand, and a mortally wounded Madison makes one last remark, "I kept you and Alicia safe. I did that no matter what. I tried to keep us all together..." Nick shakes his head. "You tore us apart Mom. I love you, even after what you did to us. To me. But this can't go on."
Madison hears these words, and sheds a tear. Nick looks away as Madison Clark dies. Nick leaves the house, teary-eyed, and explains what happened to the people. The war is ended. The Communities are reunited.
A few weeks later, Nick and Alicia share one last moment together--embracing at Lawton's gates. Alicia has become the leader of these communities, and peace has now truly been established. But Nick can't stay. The memories here haunt him. He's decided to leave. Go north. He shares one last goodbye to everyone he's met over the past years, and he departs, once again alone and on the road.
TLDR: After a brutal betrayal by Madison, Nick leaves Lawton. After a long time spent in the woods, he finds a new home: a peaceful commune. but realizing his mother will never stop searching for him, he rallies together the people of the commune and half of all the others. After betrayals, beheadings, and losses. The war is ended, and peace returns to the Colorado Communities. Nick decides to leave, and he's once again alone on the road.
THE END
I know that this was a long read, and I appreciate all of those who did. A few parts need work, but overall, this is a very rough draft for how I would have handled Fear.
Thanks to AI, attached are some admittedly rough designs for what our characters could have looked like in the later seasons:
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Nick in season 6.
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Nick on the road.
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Alicia in Colorado.
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An older Travis and Madison in one of the Pioneer's communities.
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John Dorie at a snowy Lawton.

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

When I was brand new to NovelAi I had no idea how 2048 tokens really looked as text. So for anyone looking at the tiers, trying to decide how many tokens they want for Clio with the new update, I've tokenized Part of The Great Gatsby by Scott Fitzgerald (public domain since 2021).
That way new users can more easily visualize what the AI's maximum context is for each tier. According to the UI Clio uses the NerdStash Tokenizer, as different tokenizers will convert text to tokens their own way.
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In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”
He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.
And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.
I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.
The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.
It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.
“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.
I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood.
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.
It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.
I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.
Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.
Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.
Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.
And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.
He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.
His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.
“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.
We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.
“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.
Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.
“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”
We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.
The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.
The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.
The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.
“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”
She
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laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)
At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.
I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.
I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.
“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.
“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”
“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”
“I’d like to.”
“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”
“Never.”
“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”
Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.
“What you doing, Nick?”
“I’m a bond man.”
“Who with?”
I told him.
“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively.
This annoyed me.
“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”
“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”
At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.
“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.”
“Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.”
“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.”
Her host looked at her incredulously.
“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.”
I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.
“You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.”
“I don’t know a single—”
“You must know Gatsby.”
“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”
Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.
Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.
“Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.”
“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.
“All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?”
Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.
“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.”
We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.
“You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—”
“I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.”
“Hulking,” insisted Daisy.
Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.
“You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?”
I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way.
“Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?”
“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone.
“Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.”
“Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—”
“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.”
“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.
“You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.
“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?”
There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned towards me.
“I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?”
“That’s why I came over tonight.”
“Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—”
“Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker.
“Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.”
For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.
The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.
“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”
This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.
Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.
“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began.
“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”
“Is something happening?” I inquired innocently.
“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.”
“I don’t.”
“Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.”
“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly.
Miss Baker nodded.
“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?”
Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.
“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety.
She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”
“Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.”
The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.
The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.
Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.
“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”
“I wasn’t back from the war.”
“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”
Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she
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didn’t say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.
“I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.”
“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”
“Very much.”
“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’
“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated—God, I’m sophisticated!”
The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face, as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.
Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the Saturday Evening Post—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamplight, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.
When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.
“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table, “in our very next issue.”
Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up.
“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”
“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow,” explained Daisy, “over at Westchester.”
“Oh—you’re Jordan Baker.”
I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.
“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you.”
“If you’ll get up.”
“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”
“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—”
“Good night,” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”
“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let her run around the country this way.”
“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.
“Her family.”
“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of weekends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”
Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.
“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.
“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white—”
“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?” demanded Tom suddenly.
“Did I?” She looked at me. “I can’t seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know—”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,” he advised me.
I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called: “Wait!”
“I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.”
“That’s right,” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were engaged.”
“It’s a libel. I’m too poor.”
“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. “We heard it from three people, so it must be true.”
Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn’t even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old friend on account of rumours, and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumoured into marriage.
Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he “had some woman in New York” was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.
Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red petrol-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight, and, turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbour’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.
I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.
II
About halfway between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.
But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to
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I've tried them all. SubmitHub, OneSubmit, Musosoup, etc. etc. All a total rip off. A big con game where people manufacture playlists/blogs/podcast/etc with the #1 goal of monetizing them for wannabe artists that keep paying those submission fees! Substantive connections to legitimate placement deals are rare.
Then there's sponsored social media campaigns. Likewise, you have to spend A TON of money to get the kind of results needed to launch a career - if that is even possible from just advertising on social. I doubt it is.
Then there's MusicXray.com. I've been on it for just a few weeks and already was chosen for an legit nationally syndicated radio program focused on new artists. I've also been asked to submit one of my tracks for a film placement. You heard me, someone actually reached out to discuss one of my cuts and *gasp* they actually listened to the entire track. No promises. No hype. Just "we're considering it and will let you know."
I have NO problem with rejection when I know I'm dealing with real film music directors and placement agencies. I've been at this long enough I know its just a numbers game - like any job.
MusicXray pushes all the buttons for me. First, they don't bullshit you. You pay $10/track for what they call "song diagnostics." Five "industry professionals" score your track. The final score is presented in an easy to understand "Your song has X % of being placed." I have to say, I submitted 7 tracks, and included one of my weakest tracks intentionally to see how their ratings compared with my self-evaluation. Yeah - they caught the weak track. It was scored 24% likely to be placed.
And the track that was chosen for the nationally syndicated radio show? They gave that a 94% chance of placement. So at this point, I'm a believer in their "song diagnostics" as an invaluable tool to prevent you from bullshitting yourself about how good your music is.
Do you have to pay submission fees? Of course. Submission fees, like rejection, I also don't have a problem with. As long as you know it is a legitimate opportunity with a big potential payout if you are selected.
MusicXray.com has a ton of opportunities that are obviously written by industry professionals because they are highly descriptive of exactly what it is they are looking for. They'll give you "sounds like" artist examples. The listings go into great detail about the project you are submitting to and you can get a good idea whether or not you've got a song that might actually stand a chance. Opportunities include major motion picture placement (with A-list actors). Many opportunities pay between $1000 - $50,000 dollars.
Best of all, their clients can set up their own search criteria for what they are looking for, and if you are a match THEY WILL ACTUALLY REACH OUT TO YOU AND INVITE YOU TO SUBMIT.
I just got a rejection for a national ad campaign placement, but you know what? The music director actually was thoughtful enough to include a brief note of why they decided my track wasn't the right fit.
So if MusicXray's song diagnostics are scoring your tracks above 50% likely placement, you might want to give them a serious look.

February 8, 2146, Project Chameleon HQ, Brussels, PRE
It has been a few weeks since Project Autumn has returned back to her normal life. Her days were pretty routine. She would wake up and eat breakfast. Then head to briefs and classes. Then, she would eat lunch before heading off to drills and training that left her sore and extremely fatigued. Autumn would eat dinner, shower, talk to Juliette for a few hours before falling asleep to do it all over again. The days soon became three weeks since she saw Juliette in person. Autumn’s next mission to Rio was quickly approaching. Autumn was excited about it, but what she really wanted to do was spend time with the girl that she really liked. Her training was done, and she was packing her bags for her mission. Autumn was told that she would be a part of the next gauntlet that would take place after she gets back from Rio. She was very excited about it and couldn’t wait to tell Juliette. Autumn looked at the time and saw that it was still five hours before she would normally call Juliette. She was bored, lonely, and really wanted to talk to her. Autumn wrestled with this as she packed her bags.
Agents of Chaos HQ, New York City Containment Zone, PRE
Icari raced through one of the remaining buildings of what was once an overpopulated city. Most of what was once known as New York City was destroyed during the Great War. The city was deserted and hardly anyone lived there. It became the perfect location for the headquarters for the Agents of Chaos. Icari found this out through hacking the government’s mainframe. She decided to put an end to them once and for all. Icari also wanted to know what their connection was to the Prospers. She raced floor to floor eliminating their commanders and whoever she came across. Soon, she found the last remaining members as she stalked
them in the lower parts of the building with her curved blades ready to strike. Icari cornered them ready to end the threat of the Agents of Chaos. They knew that they were out of bullets and out of time. They huddled in fear from what they perceived to be their inevitable demise.
“Wait! Please, don’t kill us.” Agent 1 said with fear in their voice.
Icari was shocked and amused as she stopped and said, “Wait…what? Why shouldn’t I?”
“Be…because we are extremely sorry for all of the stuff that we have done.” Agent 1 replied.
Icari scoffed and started to move closer to them. She suddenly froze when she received a notice of an incoming call. Icari smiled when she saw that it was from Project Autumn.
Icari looked at the Agents and said, “Hey, can you all give me some time. I really need to answer this call.” Icari answered the call with a French accent. “Hello, Mademoiselle Autumn. Is everything alright?”
“Did. Did she just put us on hold?” Agent 1 asked.
“I know right and what’s up with the French accent?” Agent 2 replied.
Icari glared at the agents and put a finger to her lips to silence them. They quickly covered their mouths with their hands with fear in their eyes.
Autumn replied, “Hi, Juliette. It is so good to hear your voice. Yes, everything is fine. I am packing for my mission to Rio. I was bored and lonely. I started to think about you and how much I really miss you.”
Icari smiled as she sat down on a desk facing the agents and said. “Aww. That is sweet of you to say. I have been thinking about you too.”
Autumn said, “I hope that I am not bothering you or anything. Are you busy right now?”
Icari replied, “No, not at all. I was taking care of something easy, but it can wait.”
Autumn quickly replied, “Are you sure? We can talk later if you want.”
Icari smiled and said, “No, it’s okay. I am sure that we can talk now.”
Meanwhile, the remaining Agents of Chaos began to argue with one another about what they
should do. Icari could hear their bickering and became extremely annoyed with everything that they were saying. She stood up and glared at them.
Icari counted the remaining agents, sighed, and said, “Autumn, give me a moment, please. It should take me… about thirty seconds to finish this simple task.”
Autumn replied, “Umm…sure. Take your time. I will be here when you are done. Please don’t take too long.”
Icari smiled and said, “Thank you, Mademoiselle. I promise not to keep you waiting long.”
Icari lunged at the remaining agents as they backed away in horror. Fifteen seconds later, Icari had taken care of the last remaining Agent of Chaos. She picked up a cloth and cleaned her daggers. Icari put them away before she pulled out a black disc out of her pocket. She headed towards their command center.
Icari asked, “Autumn, are you still with me?”
Autumn quickly replied, “Yes, yes. I am still here.”
Icari smiled as she put the disc on the main computer’s case and pushed a button as lights began to light up clockwise. She smiled and said, “Thank you for waiting.”
Autumn smiled and replied, “You’re welcome. I would have waited longer.” Autumn teased as she continued. “But… I guess the issue wasn’t as difficult as you thought.”
Icari laughed and said as she left the command center, “Sorry, I suppose I overestimated how difficult the issue would be.”
Autumn laughed and said, “I guess that I wouldn’t know, but the reason that I called you earlier than normal is I have news that I couldn’t wait to tell you at our normal time.”
Icari picked up a bag as she headed down the stairs to the basement where the building’s support beams were located. Icari said, “News? I appreciate you calling me to give us more time to talk, but what is the news?”
Autumn replied as Icari put small boxes with tubes filled with a green and yellow substance on the support beams and flipped a switch, “Yes, I was told earlier today, that after I get back from the mission to Rio, I will take part in the next gauntlet to decide who I may get paired with. What do you think?”
Icari was shocked and froze when she heard the news. She became scared that it would become a lot more difficult for her to see Autumn. Many feelings and thoughts ran through her head.
Autumn became concerned and asked, “Juliette, are you still there?”
Icari shook her head and replied, “Sorry, to make you concerned, and I am happy for you. Are you excited about your mission to Rio?”
Icari threw the empty bag aside after she placed the last box. She started to head back up the steps to the command center.
Autumn was excited as she replied, “I am super excited to be going for a couple weeks. They said that I deserve it from all of the stuff that I have dealt with lately. It will be two weeks of nothing but swimming and relaxing in the summer air.” Autumn became nervous as she continued. “B-but I- I w-wish that you could be there. It would be my first Valentine’s Day spending it with someone that I really like.”
Icari saw that all of the lights were lit green as she retrieved the black disc. She smiled and said, “Well. Mademoiselle, I may be able to make your wish come true.”
Autumn was shocked as she said, “Really? Tell me you aren’t joking or teasing me. Are you being serious?”
Icari had walked down the stairs to a door that led to an alley. She smiled and replied, “I would not joke or tease you to turn around and break your heart. I cannot make any promises, but I will make sure that I will do my best to help your wish come true.”
Icari walked out the door and pushed a button on her wrist. Suddenly, a black and red motorcycle appeared in the shadows with a black and red helmet with cat ears on it.
Autumn was sad as she said, “I understand. I thought that it would be a great time spending the two weeks with you instead of alone by myself.”
Icari sat on the motorcycle and put on the helmet. The sun started to peek in the east sky. She started
up the motorcycle as she replied, “Do not be sad, Autumn. I promise you that you will have my answer by the time that you land in Rio. You might be surprised by what I can do in such a short period of time.”
Icari pushed a button on her motorcycle as she drove off and disappeared from site. She pushed another button that caused an explosion behind her, and the building collapsed into dust.
Autumn blushed and said, “I believe you and look forward to your answer. Listen, I have to finish packing, eat dinner, and shower. Can I call you later?”
Icari smiled as she replied, “I understand, and you can call me whenever you like. I look forward to talking to you soon, Mademoiselle Autumn.”
Autumn said, “I look forward to talking to you soon too, Juliette. Bye for now.”
Icari said, “Bye for now.” There was a small click. Icari sighed before she continued. “Watcher, are you there?”
Watcher scoffed. “Yes, I am here. Are you done flirting with your girlfriend?” Watcher said annoyed.
Icari snapped back, “I wasn’t flirting with her, and she isn’t my girlfriend. Listen. When I get back to the safe house, I will be uploading the files that I uploaded from the Agents of Chaos mainframe. I need you to decipher the files to see if they were working for the Prospers and any other useful information.”
“Anything else?” Watcher asked.
Icari replied, “Yes, I need you to immediately hack into the system and book a flight for me from Harrisburg to Rio De Janeiro. I need a limousine to take myself and Autumn to the harbor, where a boat will ferry us to a beach home on Paqueta Island. We will be there for two weeks. Put everything under the name Juliette Trudeau.”
“Why should I?” Watcher asked abrasively.
Icari replied, “Well, you have two choices. Either I am out of your hair for two weeks, or I make your life a living hell for the next two weeks. Then, I still book it on my own. You choose.”
“Fine. Fine. It’s not like I care if you spend time with your girlfriend or not. Everything will be taken care of by the time you make it to the safe house and upload the files.” Watcher replied.
Icari snapped back, “For the last time, she is not my girlfriend! And thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t mention it. It is kind of nice to see you happy once more. Have fun and
remember that we have a war to win.” Watcher said kindly.
Icari smiled and said, “Yeah, I won’t forget.”
An hour and a half later, Icari pulled into the safe house in Harrisburg. She pushed a button on her motorcycle and the garage door opened. Icari pushed the button, and it closed. She pushed another button, and they became visible once more. Icari took off her helmet and placed it on her motorcycle. She walked to a wall in the garage and revealed a secret panel. Icari inputted the code, and a secret staircase was revealed. She walked down the stairs as the wall closed behind her. A room lit up as she opened the door. The computer turned on and system was running. Icari approached the computer as she took the black disc out of her pocket. She put the disc on a reader. The lights flashed on and worked in reverse. Icari received the itinerary, confirmation for the rentals, and digital tickets. As the disc was uploaded to their mainframe, Icari walks to a closet marked for Juliette. She opened up the closet and pulled out two bags already packed for her for two weeks in a summer environment. Icari closed the door. When she was done, she walked over to check the disc and saw that it was fully uploaded. Icari grabbed the bags and walked up the stairs. When she got near the top, the computer shut down, door sealed closed, and the secret door into the garage opened. After Icari had passed, the door closed and sealed shut. Icari walked into a normal home and left the bags near the front door. She cooked lunch at the same time Autumn would call her. They talked for a few hours before Autumn headed to bed. Soon, Autumn and Icari headed to their perspective airports to start their journey to Rio. Five hours and forty-five minutes later, Juliette’s plan landed at the International Airport in Rio
De Janeiro. She grabbed her carry-on bag and went to get her check in luggage. Juliette headed for the main doors and walked out into a sunny midmorning day. The air was refreshing, and it was already setting up to be a warm day. Juliette had made sure to change her appearance before she left for the airport. Juliette looked around and saw a limousine. The driver was standing outside it. He was holding a sign with Juliette Trudeau written on it in big letters. She smiled and walked over to him. The driver eyed her as she approached.
Juliette said,” Olá, eu sou Juliette Trudeau.”
The driver lowered the sign. “Olá, eu estive esperando por você, Sra. Trudeau.” The driver replied.
Juliette smiled and asked, “Can I see your sign while you put in my bags in the trunk, please?”
The driver bowed. “As you wish, Sra. Trudeau. Your guest should arrive soon from Brussels.” The driver replied as he handed over the sign and a marker.
Juliette smiled as she took the sign and marker from the driver while she said, “Obrigado.”
“De nada, Sra. Trudeau.” The driver said as he placed Juliette’s luggage in the back.
He walked to where Juliette was and took the sign and marker from her. The driver opened the door for Juliette to get in. When she was seated, he closed the door and stood outside of the limousine. Thirty minutes later, Juliette’s heart began to race as she saw Autumn walk out of the airport with her luggage in tow. Autumn had put on her glasses and looked around. She froze when she looked towards the limousine. Autumn slowly walked over to the driver.
Autumn cautiously said, “Hi, I am Project Autumn. Are you looking for me?”
The driver bowed. “Yes, I have been expecting you, Sra. Autumn. Let me put your luggage in the trunk.” The driver replied.
Autumn thought, “I never would think that Project Chameleon would have a limo waiting for me at the airport.”
Autumn replied, “Umm… sure. Thank you.”
The driver opened the door for Autumn to get in. He closed the door after she was comfortably seated in the back of the limousine. Autumn watched the driver take her stuff to the back. She was startled, and her heartbeat faster when she heard the sound of a familiar voice from inside the limousine.
Juliette smiled and said, “Hello, Mademoiselle, Autumn.”
Autumn instinctively lunged at Juliette as she turned to face her and kissed her lips. She immediately realized what she had done from the shocked look on Juliette’s face and blushed as she moved away. Juliette smiled and took Autumn’s hands into her own.
Autumn said, “Hi, and I’m sorry Juliette. I don’t know what came over me. I just got so excited that you were here.” Autumn took a deep breath before she continued. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
Juliette replied, “It’s okay. I am happy to see you too. I told you that you would have my answer by the time that you had landed here. I thought that the best way for me to give you my answer was to be here in person to give it to you.”
They heard the sound of the trunk closing and saw the driver walk down the side of the limousine to the driver’s door. He opened it, got in, closed the door, and started the engine. He pulled away from the cub and headed towards the pier.
Autumn said, “I am really glad that you brought your answer to me. When did you get here? How long will you be able to stay here?”
Juliette squeezed Autumn’s hands and smiled as she replied, “So am I. I got here around two hours before you did. If it is alright with you, I plan on being here the entire two weeks that you are.”
Autumn smiled as she said, “Yes, yes. That would be perfect for me. But…where are we headed?”
Juliette winked as she replied, “It is a secret, and you will have to find out when we get there.”
The driver drove them through town as they talked in the back of the limousine. When they arrived at the pier, The driver parked the limousine and got out. He went to the side and opened the
door. Autumn and Juliette got out and looked around. They spotted a yacht ready to go as the driver took their luggage out of the trunk. Some men came over and grabbed their luggage, and they followed them onto the yacht as the limousine pulled away. Thirty minutes later the yacht pulled away from the pier and headed towards a small island. Autumn looked around excitedly as Juliette smiled and watched her reactions. Soon, they had docked at the island. Another limousine was waiting at the pier as they got off the yacht. The same two men carried their luggage off of the yacht, and the driver put the luggage in the trunk of the limousine after Autumn and Juliette got in. They drove them a little ways until they reached an office building. Juliette got out and checked in. She came back out with their keys. The driver drove them to the beach front rental home. As Autumn got out, she was amazed. She turned to face Juliette as the driver took their luggage out of the trunk.
Juliette smiled brightly as she said, “Surprise.”
Autumn was still shocked as she asked, “Are we staying here the entire time?
Juliette nodded as she replied, “Oui, this is the rental home that I had reserved for us the two weeks. Are you surprised?”
Autumn looked at home and back at Juliette. She blushed as she replied, “Very much so. I can’t believe that you would go through all of this trouble just for me. Thank you.”
Juliette smiled and said, “It was no trouble at all to see you. You’re very welcome. Shall we go inside?”
Autumn blushed and replied, “Yes, I would like that.”
They grabbed their luggage and headed to the front door. Juliette pulled out the key cards and handed one to Autumn. She swiped the key card reader. It beeped, turned green, and an audible click could be heard signaling that it had been unlocked. They headed inside and were at awe from how beautiful everything looked. They looked around and saw two large rooms, a kitchen, patio, living room, both rooms had a bathroom, a breakfast nook, pool, jacuzzi, grill, study, and everything that someone would need. They walked back to the bedrooms.
Juliette asked, “Which room would you like to take?”
Autumn looked away and replied, “Well…I was…thinking that…that we could share…the same room, if…if you don’t mind.”
Juliette smiled and replied, “I don’t mind. I would enjoy that very much.”
Autumn smiled and said, “I would like that too.”
They picked the largest room and took their stuff in there. They put everything away and decided to change into their swimsuits. They headed to the beach and swam for a while. Autumn and Juliette grew closer through the days. They spent every day together. On Valentine’s Day, they went swimming when the sun rose. Autumn and Juliette came back and feed each other chocolates and ate chocolates. They laughed and were having fun until Juliette remembered that soon Autumn would leave for the labyrinth to run the gauntlet and became sad. Autumn noticed this and became concerned.
Autumn was concerned as she asked, “What is wrong, Juliette? Why are you so sad?”
Juliette frowned as she replied, “I just remembered that you will be going away soon for the gauntlet
where they will team you up with a new partner. Then, there will be no room for me in your…”
Juliette was shocked as she looked up at Autumn who had put her finger on her lips.
Autumn smiled warmly as she said, “No one will take your place in my heart, Juliette. I don’t care who they pair me with, but you will be the only one for me. So, do not worry about that. I will always be only yours.”
Juliette smiled and lunged forward knocking Autumn over and the chocolates onto the floor. She kissed Autumn deeply. The day past and was the best Valentine’s Day Autumn ever had. She woke up the next morning to realize that Juliette wasn’t in bed with her. Autumn could hear Juliette’s voice carrying in from the patio. She decided to see what is going on. She was sleepy as she got up, stretched and yawned as she put on a robe. She walked to the patio as she rubbed her eyes.
Juliette said, “.... Yes I... I promise that...See you...I.., you.”
Autumn smiled when she saw Juliette watching the sun rise. She was in a robe and held a cup of coffee. Autumn walked over to Juliette and hugged her from behind. She caught the smell of the coffee, the morning air, the beach, and Juliette’s hair. Juliette smiled and giggled from Autumn’s warm embrace. She leaned back into her. Then, Juliette turned around to face Autumn and handed her the mug that she was holding as she leaned against the railing. Autumn sipped coffee and smiled.
Juliette said, “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
Autumn smiled and nodded as she replied, “Good morning. I slept very well. I woke up, and you weren’t in bed. I heard you talking to someone. Is everything okay? Who were you talking to?”
Juliette took the mug from Autumn as she replied, “I am sorry to have worried you. I am usually back in bed before you wake up. Yes, everything is fine. I was talking to Dr. Hubert like I do every morning to make sure everything is okay back at home. You know that you could always just run away with me. I know a place where they will never find us. We could start a new life together.”
Autumn smiled warmly as she said, “I am glad everything is going well back home for you. I would like that, but you know that I can’t leave. We would have to look over our shoulders for the rest of our lives on the run.”
Juliette frowned, looked at the mug, and replied, “I know, and I wouldn’t want to live on the run either.” Juliette paused before she continued. “I just have a bad feeling about this. Please, stay safe.”
Autumn put her hands on Juliette’s as she replied, “I will be safe. There is nothing to worry about. The gauntlet is completely safe, because only training rounds are allowed to tally up scores. I will call you immediately after it is over to prove that nothing happened to me.”
Juliette looked into Autumns eyes and said, “I hope that you are right.”
The rest of the time flew by and soon they headed back to the airport for their flights. Autumn left first, and Juliette left next. Juliette landed in Harrisburg International Airport. Autumn landed at Brussels. They had a quick conversation as Icari made it to the safe house. After they hung up, Icari got a phone call from Watcher.
“Hey, Icari. I hope that you had fun. I went over the files that you sent me, but I couldn’t decode them. So, I…” Watcher started to say.
There was a brief pause before a monotone girl’s voice spoke. “Hi, mommy. We need to talk.” The girl said.

TL;DR: We need as many veterans as possible to sign this petition and to call on Congress to hold a vote on H. J. Res. 44. If you are not a veteran, then we still need you to send this link to someone who is!
We all know that as of 12:00 AM June 1st, millions of Americans were made felons if they did not comply with ATF’s pistol brace ban. And while GOA obtained an injunction protecting our own members, this there are millions of Americans—including millions of wounded veterans—who are still not covered. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, there are over “4.9 million veterans, or 27 percent of all veterans [with] a service-connected disability.” Each of those veterans has a constitutionally protected right to a stabilizing brace on their firearms—because the Second Amendment protects all arms.
We need veterans to sign this petition to Congress to bring to the House floor for a vote, Rep. Clyde’s H.J. Res. 44 to reverse the ATF rule immediately!
GOA will hand deliver this letter to Congress on behalf of every veteran who signs. The letter says:

Congress must repeal the unconstitutional and discriminatory pistol brace ban by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives (ATF) that hurts our nation’s disabled population, especially America’s disabled veterans who sacrificed their bodies to defend our nation. Therefore, we, the undersigned veterans, urge Congress to use the Congressional Review Act to reverse the ATF rule immediately.

For some Members of Congress who squish out on Second Amendment issues all the time, hearing from veterans who support pistol braces might be just what tips them over the edge to vote for H. J. Res. 44.
So if you are a vet, please sign here. And if you know a veteran, please send her or him this link so they can sign too!
Pistol braces were originally designed and intended to help wounded combat veterans have access to the best self-defense tools on the market. That’s why the letter reminds Congress:

For many disabled veterans, pistol braces may be the only means to safely and effectively exercise the right to keep and bear arms and to defend themselves and their loved ones. Alex Bosco of SB Tactical first invented the pistol stabilizing brace for his friend—a wounded veteran.

And on June 1st, President Biden took that away.
That is the message that key Members of Congress needs to hear!
If you are a veteran or know someone who is a veteran, please sign this petition to add your name to GOA’s letter to Congress demanding that they reverse the ATF’s unconstitutional ban!
Join with countless other veterans and tell Congress to:

1. Protect the right of those who have served the People to keep their firearms.
   
2. Oppose this executive overreach by the ATF.
   
3. Stand up for wounded veterans and the constitutionally protected rights they fought to protect.
   
4. Immediately and completely repeal ofthe ATF pistol brace ban that hurts our nation’s veterans.
   

And if you’re not a veteran, I hope you understand what a powerful message that is for Congress to hear. If you know any veterans, please urge them to sign this letter to Congress as well.
To all who served, thank you.
And to all gun rights activists who take action, thank you for standing with Gun Owners of America.

There are so many pregnancy symptoms I was prepared for but this was not one of them! I have a patch of skin under my boobs/top of my belly, right where the elastic of a bra lands, that has been increasingly uncomfortable in the last few weeks. At best it's just incredibly itchy (the kind of itch that isn't relieved by scratching), at worst it feels like I'm being stabbed with hot needles or have an extreme sunburn. I can't stand wearing any of my bras, even the softest, stretchiest lounge bras are excruciating. Sometimes even having the fabric of a t-shirt touching it is uncomfortable. I can tell it's definitely nerve pain and not just dry/stretched skin because moisturizer makes absolutely no difference, there's some numbness involved, and the burning feels like classic nerve pain.
I'm only 28 weeks and I'm dreading this getting worse as my belly grows. It's made going to the office absolutely miserable - I'm uncomfortable and self conscious if I don't wear a bra, but I'm in horrible pain if I do. I've found some tight tank tops to wrangle my tits that are uncomfortable but not painful so far, but I made the mistake of wearing a dress with a gentle elastic band in that area last week and spent hours typing with one hand while I held the elastic away from my body.
I'm losing my mind, y'all. And while my boss is a pretty kind and empathetic dude, it feels really weird to be like "hey I want to start working from home super early because I can't wear bras anymore and I don't want to wave my tits around the office." (I know there's no obligation to give details but I've always been really open with him so it would feel weird to suddenly not give any explanation for a change in my schedule).
Has anyone else experienced this? Anything that helps?

I can't stop feeling like we're all just prisoners of a mental construct called a "country".
We're born into captivity, and then forced to live and act a certain way.
We're given a social security number so that the government can keep track of the people they own.
We're trapped within borders and told we can't leave without a special pass.
Not everything that's bad is illegal, and not everything that's illegal is bad. Following laws doesn't make someone a good person, and violating laws doesn't make someone a bad person. We're all under the command of people who think they know what's best for all of us.
If an act only harms yourself, or does no harm to anyone, then the only reason why consequences would exist is to give more power to authoritative forces.
(there do need to be laws and regulations, because some people are bad, and there should be consequences for actions that are outwardly harmful. But as it stands, we are trapped and powerless against the authoritative forces that own us. We are nothing more than cattle.)