Subreddit for Runaways on Hulu. Based off the Marvel comic series written by Brian K. Vaughan with art by Adrian Alphona. 'After discovering their parents are super-villains in disguise, a group of teenagers band together to run away from their homes in order to atone for their parents' actions and to discover the secrets of their origins.'
Welcome to the SB League! Here you can challenge the 18 Gym Leaders in 3v3 Smogon OU battles! Gotta beat 'em all!
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Howdy I’m a m21 that’s been in a relationship with my gf 22 for just under 8 years now. But the last two years we’ve gone from multiple times a week to if I’m lucky once a month.
We started dating in middle school and are still going today. She is an absolute amazing gf attentive to my emotional needs, loves PDA, and cuddles with me whenever we’re at home weather it’s in bed, on the couch everyday without fail. I am madly in love with her but we haven’t had sex on a regular basis in a few years now. So we lost our virginity to each other and after that we were a 4-5 times a week type of couple. Things started to taper off a bit once we got to our senior year of high school but still nothing to complain about. We stayed at a what I would say is pretty average level for a relationship up until 2021. In February 2021 her father passed away very suddenly (like from 100% healthy to having pass in around 2 weeks). This was naturally deviating to her and she handled it about as well as anyone could. She’s been in therapy ever since then and she’s made great progress. But (I’m really not trying to sound like an asshole but please tell me if I am being one) our bedroom life has come to a complete stand still ever since. After his passing I did everything I could for her and we ended up not having sex for around 4 months. I never complained during that time as I figured that was the last thing that needed to be brought up in a time like that. Trying to be an emotional rock for her was what seemed like the best corse of action and to try and help her adjust to life after this tragedy. I’ve been as selfless as a guy can be to try and help. But now im reaching my breaking point. I consider once every other month to be her lobito really picking up. I’ve tried to have conversations with her about this but it always ends with her just crying and saying sorry while not ever listening to what I say. No matter how I approach the conversation. All of this has caused me to ask her straight up if she’s asexual because whenever we do have sex unless she has smoked weed before hand it’s really bad. Just no effort on her side and she expects me to do all the work. She also keeps teasing me (which under normal circumstances I would enjoy) but doesn’t understand that it only makes my sexual frustration 100x worse and acts like I’m an asshole went I get upset after she teases me. She always just says that she’s just not in the mood. So I’ve just given up on trying but it still eats away at me daily. I feel really stuck and don’t know what to do. I’m sorry if this is incoherent or hard to fallow. I’m a terrible writer. Any advice is much appreciated
Hi there! I am a mum to a beautiful 8 month old girl and I have been exclusively breastfeeding this whole time, for which I am very grateful to be able to do. LO is starting daycare now so I have been pumping and introducing a bottle (finally having some success here).
I'd love to be able to get some more freedom back and potentially have a few drinks and a late night with my girlfriends again, but am wondering realistically when my baby would accept dad giving her a bottle and putting her to sleep. She is used to nursing to sleep but I do settle her during wakes by rocking and patting her back or butt.
She is going through a sleep regression at the moment so I may wait until the worst has passed before trying anything too new and overwhelming but just thought I'd get some perspective.
TLDR: if you EBF, how old was your baby when dad/non-BF-Parent could do a full bedtime routine without you?
Meet vishwa, a 30-year-old newcomer to Ontario who is passionate about classic rock music, particularly Pink Floyd(fav band). I am a sports enthusiast and a die-hard fan of Arsenal Football Club. In my free time, I loves to swim, read, watch movies/tv series, workout, take care of mental health, explore the city, new place to eat. Currently, I am working in a factory and completing my studies(fitness and health promotion) simultaneously, I am waiting for my physical therapy license. I have a great interest in the healthcare field and i am dedicated to improving the lives of people through my work. Despite my busy schedule, I find time for my hobbies and passions. I am very excited to be living in Ontario and eager to explore everything the province has to offer, from its natural beauty to its cultural attractions. I am looking forward to making new friends, discovering new music, and experiencing all the joys of my new home.
Depth is a prerequisite for what I'm looking for. Deep, thought-provoking talks need to come naturally. We must have similar tastes because for me, music is a language. Be ridiculous, have a nice sense of humour, and be a little bit ambitious. Also, I find it rather beautiful when people aren't overly preoccupied with social media or how other people perceive them. someone who lives in the moment and doesn't need approbation.
Don’t judge me by what I’m about to say but…….
I smoked something I shouldn’t have. My brain was tuned to Demon Radio. I was hearing a demon speak to me all night long and all the next day. Telling me how I have 4 days to live. Then down to one. Then down to as soon I get home. Then I said the wrong things and it said I had 1 hour to kill myself or it’s going to take my family’s souls to hell. By this point I have been convinced this is real and really happening. It used my sisters voice to further manipulate me and I ended up driving my car really fast it said let go of the wheel I said no I’m not dying that way. I pull up to a shell by a couple beers and head towards Walmart. I have negotiated with the demon that knife will do. I chug most of a Budweiser (I don’t drink at all) park my crown vic right outside the welcome doors of Walmart and run inside the nearest sharpest object is a pizza cutter. All while telling myself I have to kill myself to save my family over and over. I rip open the packaging and look for a place where I won’t be bothered. Can’t find one. Stop looking. Running out of time. Sock aisle. Sit. Begin cutting left arm. Quick deep cuts down the street not across. Demon cheering me on. Deeper. Deeper. Faster. People are noticing. Do you need help? Are you ok? I’m fine leave me alone. I get up. Run towards dressing rooms. Run into a man. Arm severely wounded hemorrhaging blood. Bloody pizza cutter in on hand. He freezes. I check every dressing room door. All locked. Fuck. Running out of time. Pools and trails of heavy thick red blood marking everywhere I’ve been. Heads up. Security Guard. Quick walking towards exit now everything’s blurry. Pocket the pizza cutter so I don’t look like a maniac who is trying to hurt more than just himself. Blow past the receipt lady. Car’s right where I left it. Initially walk past the car but knew police would tie me to it if I survive, not only have I faked my family but I’ll have to deal with a dui. Open container, full beer. Get in the car and I throw both away. Drive off deeper into the parking lot. Park all fucked up. My dad calls me. Where are you? He witness a full length day of me talking to the demon he knew I wasn’t right. Walmart. Wyd? Saving you. Lala (my sister) is trying to call you. Ok I’ll call her. Call her. Break down can’t tell what’s real anymore. Phone dies. My conversation with my sister continues via the demon. (It used Lala’s voice) . My sister in my head telling me I fucked up I have to kill myself. Suddenly unconvinced that this is real. Fuck you! My sister would never tell me to kill myself! Look down at arm. Holy fucking shit what did I do. Cops swarm the area. Pizza cutter sits nexts to cigarettes. Cops pulls up. The whole right side of car is a wall. Window don’t go down door won’t open. He goes around . Hey man what’s going on . I’m saving my family. Don’t remember the convo too good but I tell him I’m teaching for a smoke while teaching without hesitation. I thought he’d get mad but I guess he realized I’m more a danger to myself than I am to him. He lets me smoke one. This entire time I’ve been pumping my fist in an effort to bleed out. Hey cop what time is it. 959. I was supposed to die a minute ago. Completely defeated I finished the cig and flick. I make my way out of the car. Frisk. Emts. Ambulance. Get tied down. I start talking shit to the demon. When all of sudden. Another voice soothing at first. Revealed to be the devil himself. “Taken a special interest in me”. Holy shit. Fear over 9000. Going insane in my head. My subconscious continues to disrespect and insult the devil. He beckons me to continue tell me everything. Visions of eternal suffering. I can’t make it stop. Fall asleep they say. When you wake up you will wake up in fire. Holy shit no. Been awake over 30 hours fighting off sedatives. Holy shit no. Get to the hospital. Completely insane. Strap down ripping straps. Eventually accept my fate. Decide to sleep but my subconscious has developed Tourette’s and is constantly insulting the devil. I bet I don’t mean it I can’t make it stop. He says my subconscious is just telling him everything it truly feels. He hangs on every word. Everytime I’m about to fall asleep my subconscious makes our situation worse. The first demon says your already in the deepest shithole you can be in just fall asleep. Holy shit no. Panic. Panic. Panic. More sedatives. Finally asleep. Wake up intermittently while receiving stitches. Ow. Fuck. Ow. “You think that hurts? Just you waiiiiiit”. Sleep. Darkness. Wake up. Hospital. Not on fire. Holy shit why am I here? I’m supposed to be dead. They lied. It wasn’t real. Arm? Stitched. They make their presence known. Holy shit it’s still happening. Why didn’t I die? You have to do it yourself. “Rip out your stitches and you will bleed to death” over and over and over and over . So I start ripping them. Can’t do it. Think of the suffering ahead of me . Find the strength. Rip one or two . Nurses notice. Sedatives & strap down . Wake up new stitches. Being transferred. Demons volume has gone down . Have a nice conversation with the emt about street fighter the entire ride to the psyche ward. Notice my gold bracelet is gone. Bummer. One last echo chamber, “your days are numbered”. Holy shit . Now at the psyche ward. Spent 3 1/2 days there . Each day tuning off of demon radio and coming back to human radio. Psyche ward is a whole other story. Get out family takes me to eat get me new clothes shoes haircut. Says they found a rehab ranch I’ll be spending a year in once my arm heals. Reconvince me of reality and say I was being manipulated. They were never in danger. The demons have tried to get you to kill yourself before but your too strong you’d never do that. Unless it meant you’d save your loved ones. You would do anything to save us. Even the one thing you’d never do. The demons hated you for your strong will. And used against you. We’re here your here. Let’s go get food. It. Wasn’t. Real. A day goes by. Then another. Now today. Got my stitches removed and healing pretty well. I cut really deep and pretty far. Who knew a pizza cutter could do that. Looking forward to the ranch rehab.
He could well have been one of Australia's worst serial killers, who perhaps remarkably escaped conviction on any charge.
Brown was born in Merinda and spent most of his life in North Queensland.
He worked mainly as a maintenance carpenter for the department of public works, where coworkers remembered him as a polite and obsessively neat man who always had sharp creases ironed into his work clothing.
In 1944 he married Hester Porter (née Andersen), who had 3 children from a previous marriage. Hester later told her older sister Milly that she had once caught Brown molesting a child, and had since tried to keep him away from children.
Later Brown started a relationship with Hester's younger sister, Charlotte, who had 5 children of her own. The affair was "known but not acknowledged" by family members. In 1978 Hester, who was now bedridden with arthritis, died after hitting her head in a fall at home. It was later revealed that the family doctor had signed the death certificate without examining the body, and that Brown had hastily had it cremated days later. Many family members believe Brown murdered Hester.
Charlotte moved in with Brown soon after Hester's death, and the couple married later in the year.
In 1982 another sister of Hester's came forward and confided in family members that she'd been molested by Brown when she was a child. This sparked a string of accusations by yet more family members of childhood sexual abuse at the hands of Brown, with a total of 45 seperate cases. Many of his child victims had been taken to Antill Creek, 25 kms south west of Townsville, to be molested. However, no charges were pursued at the time.
7yo Judith Mackay and her 5yo sister Susan disappeared from a bus stop just 200m from their Townsville home on an August morning in 1970. A search was mounted later that day, and their bodies were found two days later in the dry bed of Antill Creek.
Both girls had been raped, strangled and stabbed, and their school uniforms were found neatly folded in their school bags and placed next to each of their bodies.
Several witnesses reported seeing the girls on the morning of the abduction with a suspicious man driving a rare blue Vauxhall Victor, with some reporting the vehicle had a drivers door in a mismatched colour. Other witnesses reported the car was actually a blue Holden, however one witness, a worker at a service station, refilled the vehicle and stated the petrol cap was on the left side of the vehicle, which meant it could not be a Holden.
The physical descriptions of the man given by witnesses matched Brown's somewhat unique wiry appearance, although police at the time focused on finding the vehicle, not the driver - no identikit or drawing was displayed to the public.
Police believed at the time the car was a Holden, and the witness statements suggesting otherwise were discounted.
Brown was working at the Mackay sisters' school at the time of the murders, and relatives later reported instances of strange behaviour by Brown at the time. He seemed obsessed with the case, at one stage he falsely claimed to know the girls' father, and he offered to take other family members to the site "where the bodies were found". He also drove a blue Vauxhall Victor with an odd coloured drivers door at the time - he soon removed the door and replaced it, buried it, before later recovering it and taking it to a local tip, because "he didn't want people bothering him".
A few weeks after the murder, Brown confessed to the killings when speaking to a stranger he had spent the afternoon drinking with in a pub. The conversation was reported to police, who then spoke to Brown and officially discounted the drunken confession.
Years later Brown again confessed to the murders to a workmate, who didn't report the conversation to police, believing Brown had been joking.
Following a Crimestoppers program in 1999, a family member contacted police and the cold case was reopened. Brown was charged with dozens of counts of sexual abuse of children, and the murders of the Mackay sisters. The trial ended with a hung jury, and Brown was later deemed unfit for retrial due to his worsening Alzheimer's.
The case has been closed with all involved satisfied that Brown committed the murders.
Adelaide Oval abduction
Brown is regarded as a suspect, with the identikit of the abductor baring a striking resemblance.
After seeing Browns picture on TV in relation to the the Mackay murder trial, a witness from the Oval case, who saw the two girls being led away by a man, came forward to state that Brown was the man she had seen - this was however 25 years later, and the witness was aged just 14 at the time of the abduction. It can be argued though that Brown's distinctive appearance hadn't changed a great deal in that time.
She had also reported that the man wore horn rimmed glasses, which he had dropped and picked up. Brown was known to wear horn rimmed glasses at the time.
Attempts to establish whether Brown could have been in Adelaide at the time have proven fruitless. Employee records may have shown if he had been on leave from work at the time, but those records have been destroyed, possibly in the Brisbane floods of 1974.
The only reported link to Adelaide was from a former colleague who reported a conversation with Brown during which he mentioned seeing construction of the Adelaide Festival Centre nearing completion. This would have placed him in Adelaide at some stage during a window of time which also coincides with the Oval disappearances.
Although no other links have been made, the fresh allegations regarding the Adelaide Oval case has led to suspicion that Brown may have been active in Adelaide - and once again, the identikit of the man seen with Beaumont children when they disappeared bares a resemblance to Brown.
Fourteen year old Wallman disappeared in Eimeo, Queensland on her way to school in March 1974.
Witnesses reported seeing a blue Vauxhall in the area at the time. Brown and his wife, Hester, had been to visit relatives in Mackay, however Brown's Vauxhall had broken down and the couple returned home by train, with Brown returning to Mackay alone to pick up the car. Depending on some variables, police believe it possible that Brown was passing through Eimeo (around 10km from Mackay) at the time of the disappearance.
Wallman was never seen again and no body was ever found.
Eighteen year old Graham was a door-to-door saleswoman who was murdered in July 1975. She was door knocking in the area of Brown's house on the day she was murdered.
Police believe two men were involved in the crime, however Graham's body was found at Antill Creek, close to where the Mackay sisters were found.
Brown died alone in a nursing home in July 2002, leaving instructions that no public death notices be placed. Only one stepdaughter was made aware of his funeral, and he left no surviving blood relatives.
Note: I didn't write this, I just shared it.
"Dude, what are you laughing at?" Asked my friend Steve as my laughter slowly changed from a giggle to an outright cackle. I was in the chair nursing a PBR and baked out of my gourd. Steve and Darnell were on the couch locked into a fierce game of 2K. They were also crossfaded. There was nothing happening of comedic value.
I said it was nothing as I always do. If you hang out with me enough you'll notice this happens from time to time. Some people are weirded out by it. Fortunately I've always been able to find friends who find it an endearing quirk.
The truth is that I can't explain it. Other than to say sometimes I hear it.
For the life of me I can't describe it. I've sat in my room for hours trying to say it. I've tried to sing it in the shower. I've banged shit together to try to make it. I've used a synth ran through an obscene string of effects pedals and dicked around in pro tools until the shrooms wore off trying to recreate it. I never get close.
I've been hearing it for a long time. At first it was terrifying. I'd hear it in the middle of the night and start screaming in my bed. At first, my parents chalked it up to run of the mill night terrors. They got annoyed when I'd ask "what was that?" Or "where is that coming from?" when they heard nothing and I couldn't even describe it. They got worried when they realized I was serious.
Doctors thought it was neurological. Tests revealed nothing. There was concern I was just acting out and questions were raised about our home life. But we were happy enough. Nothing out of the ordinary and certainly no abuse. The diagnosis was eventually auditory hallucinations. And since I showed no other signs of mental illness, it was recommended that they get me on a strict sleep schedule, and see a therapist specializing in cognitive behavioral therapy.
I realized at this point even at a young age that this wasn't going away, and I no longer felt like I was in danger, so I might as well just pretend that it was working.
The only thing that bothered me, or rather, bothers me. I don't know what it is. Medical science has tried and failed. No textbook in any field, nor just Google for that matter, is useful when it's impossible to spell what you're trying to research.
I'm sure Joel Osteen would tell me Jesus will rid me of it if I send enough money. I had a guy at White Castle tell me he could stop it. I just have to give up all of my earthly possessions, go out to his totally not a commune farm, stop worrying about the guns and drink his bathwater once a day like all of his follo... I mean friends.
Honestly though I don't care that I hear it. Like I said, I don't feel like I'm in danger because of it, it stopped even being annoying long ago. I just can't help but wonder about it. Is it a word? Is it a code I need to break? Is it the name of some cosmic entity who wants me to be it's vanguard but doesn't yet understand our plane of existence well enough to know it's name is a sound that can't be made here? Am I hearing it when I hear it or just thinking about the last time I heard it.
Sometimes I hear it so much that it stops having meaning. Obviously it's never really had meaning.
The best way I can explain what I mean by that is to tell you to think about the penis game. You know, where you and your other annoying teenage friends would be at a park, or a McDonald's and just say penis louder and louder until someone makes you stop. At a certain point penis stops meaning a sexual organ. It no longer conjures images of a big veiny dong triumphantly at full mast. It's just noise. Sometimes it's just noise to me.
Honestly I'd like to just think Lovecraft isn't fiction. But I can't simply because he at least tried to spell his shit.
Every now and then the absurdity hits me in just the right way and I can't help but laugh. I just don't know.
I only know two things. The first is that I'll never know for sure. The second is that until the day I die, sometimes I'll hear it.
Link to original story https://www.reddit.com/nosleep/comments/10meqmh/the_big_rock_candy_mountain_part_1/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button
The floor of the cell is covered in decades of mildew and dust. This disgusting carpet does nothing to dull the pain as I skip across it, thrown in by someone with the intention of making a point.
My Name’s Mike, and if any of you are the types to go on a deep dive, you probably know A little about me already.
For those of you that don’t, Jesus I don’t know exactly where to begin.
The Cliff’s notes would be that I spent a little over a decade either being a serial killer or a vigilante. I won’t try to justify my actions, both of those are just sides of the same shitty coin. I’m not a person to be idolized or emulated, so I choose not to plead my case.
Now, while I thought that was just about as screwed up as life could get, one day, out of the blue, after burying my best, fuck, my only friend I found myself, somewhere else. A world that looked and felt like mine, but one where the things that go bump in the night actually existed.
Where I came from, I’d seen monsters, to be sure, but only the kind that happen when people break.
Since I’ve been here? Got caught up in some demented gameshow for demons or something, threw a massive shit in the punch bowl of the thing running the production, and got the world’s unluckiest man his freedom.
And that leads me to my current situation, staring down the rage filled, mildly bruised face of that asshole, that fucking, demonic Ted Turner, Art.
He runs a hand aggressively through his slicked back hair, standing at the door to my cell.
“Looks like your little plan didn’t work, exactly as I predicted, you fuck.
I mean, great try with the little cat thing you had, honestly didn’t see that coming. But, Jesus, Mike, what was your end game? “ Art gloats.
“Cards on the table? It was a lot better, but shit fell through, that whiskey abomination, it was the one that ratted me out I assume?
That being said, still got Kev out. And you can’t really ‘flip off his lightswitch’ if he didn’t let you screw around with his wiring, can you? “ I grin, I keep it, even as a Gucci shoe slams into my face.
Am I scared? Of God damn course I am, I’ve been pissing myself (metaphorically speaking.) since I realised that the rules of reality don’t really apply any more.
Every new grain of sand on the beach of hell my life has become, tosses me further down the road of mental failure. Shit, that’s half of what fucked up my last plan in the first place.
If I could have just kept my shit together long enough, I’d be sipping a beer with Kev in some shit hole town somewhere. But the only thing harder than trying to stamp down fear in the face of God’s and monsters, is trying to do it while projecting some kind of ‘death fears me ‘ persona.
Between you and I? Death doesn’t fear me, in fact, it seems to love to hang around. And every day I have to stare down that grim spectre, the closer I get to losing the tenuous grip on reality I have .
“Oh, fuck Kev. He’s smart enough to stay off my radar, and too stupid to figure out a way to come back at me.
He's got a 1 bedroom in Idaho or something? Salud, good on him.
You, I had high hopes for, and then you decide to wipe your ass all over my carpet, cost me more than I could even explain, and even, get me a little roughed up. My favorite shell, anyway.
I want to recoup some loses Mike. So, you, get to be a part of another one of my projects.
You thought The Path was bad? Oh, you literal, fucking clown, you haven’t seen anything.
I won’t spoil it for you, the devil’s in the details and all, but you know what everyone loves?
Not being in it themselves, of course, but seeing others, especially those they hate in there.
This place isn’t fair, the path was a boxing match with Queensbury rules, this is a handcuffed knife fight.
And I can’t wait to see you figure out, all the little surprises it has in store for you. “ Art laughs and tosses me a battered, ancient looking smartphone, “ Feel free to drum me up some good press online if you want. “
My heart is pounding, I have to use every bit of will I have to stop from shaking, to roll my neck and sit against the cold, padless cement bed behind me.
I feel sick, my stomach boiling and gurgling.
“For the love of whatever the demonic equivalent of Christ is, why not just kill me? I’m right here, I have no way of fighting back, and you know damn well that if you give me enough time, I’m going to find a way to wipe my ass on your doorframe next. “ My tone is flippant, or at least, I hope it is.
“The ego on you kid, you think you’re that guy don’t you?
They exist, don’t get me wrong, probably a couple thousand folks capable of taking me out, but trust me, you are not one of them.
This isn’t some ‘Arch’ idiocy where I leave my greatest rival alive. This is me watching you squirm because I can, and making a little profit on the deal.
Don’t flatter yourself. “ Art has produced a long thin knife as he talks, he spins and rolls it absently.
“Before your guys dragged me off, I met something. A corner store, I don’t know if it was haunted, possessed, or if it was some kind of creature that just decided to look like a knock off 7-11.
Point being, it was out there, ethereal, I couldn’t hurt it, outwit it, even slow it down. I ran from that thing as fast as I could. It gave me some serious Lovecraft vibes.
You, Art, are not that guy. “ I notice myself tapping my finger nervously on the slime covered floor, I focus, stopping the tic.
The tip of Art’s knife glows, the sick, grey sheen isn’t heat, but something that makes me start to back up.
“I am, but you will never see that. You’re not worth the effort.
I want to give you a little something though. “ Art stalks toward me, I stand as I back into the farthest corner of the cell, “ Proud of your face paint were you? “
Art grins, and for a moment lets some of his true self slip through. For just a moment I see timeless horror in his eyes, a dark black void of consumed souls and unrestrained evil.
That knife parts my flesh with pain like a whip. Without even using the blade, it’s presence flenses my face, opening up raw, textured furrows in my flesh.
He leaves after he is done, laughing to himself.
The pain makes me black out, my stomach is boiling, I come to dry heaving, the effort sends me back into the oblivion of sleep.
I don’t know how long has passed, my face feels like it is on fire, and the thick steel bars of my cell door are closed.
It takes me two minutes of cupping my hands under the grime laden steel tap to get enough water to clear off a spot on the rusted, old, wall mounted steel mirror.
No mortal hand could have scarred me as accurately as Art did. The wounds, not healed, but cauterised as to not make me bleed out, used depth, and width, to create a colorless replica of my makeup.
I know trauma, physical as well as mental, and these are scars that will never heal. As the fact sinks in that my face is literally no longer my own, I scream, heart pounding, I split open my knees on the cold cement floor.
Pain flares, threatens to send me back to the bliss of unconsciousness, but I don’t care.
I read Kev’s journals, and they paint me in a really… positive light, in a sense.
What I mean is, going by what he thought he saw, I’m some kind of supervillian or something. Tossing three hundred pound air conditioners ( it was the outer shell, seventy pounds, physics and luck did the rest.), wrestling Art ( I was clinging on for dear life, had it not been for Jr and the mass of denizens, I’d have been killed with a flick of his wrist.), or appearing like a ghost (people, even immortal are very unobservant. Especially in an emergency.).
I’m great at seeming horrifying, and that’s a weapon in and of itself, but at the end of the day, that’s all it is.
Kneeling in my own blood, vision blurry with pain, I realise how small, vulnerable, and unarmed I truly am.
By the time daylight shines through the yellow reinforced glass window, I’m already awake. I’ve spent an hour and a half calming myself, trying to find some focus, some centre to keep me going.
I’ve been in prison before, back home, first and last time I tried plying my trade outside of America.
Being the stupid payaso gringo that I am I bit off so much more than I can chew that I wound up choking on it for 2 months in a Mexican prison.
The routine of, count, lineup, chow, remained the same.
The demographics of the population on the other hand…
Being observant is one of my main skills and as I was brought into the absurdly sized cafeteria, I was taken aback at just how many people were here.
Tens of Thousands, easily, maybe a hundred. I try and think of how many missing person cases this accounts for, and even that math doesn’t quite add up.
I quickly inventory the groups that make up the place, not that it wasn’t obvious.
The first, of course are the guards. Some, the majority, appear to be human, well geared up and in intimidating physical condition.
But a handful, they are clearly, something else. Some are smooth featured ebony skinned giants, carrying truncheons that could crush a car engine. Others are grinning, pale skinned bad attempts at human copies, wild eyed and twitching.
Second would be what I called the cultists. They all appeared to style themselves after certain tropes and urban legends, clearly human, but dressing, tattooing and mutilating themselves to appear like, myths, legends, and monsters.
The subtle violence I see tells me I’ve found the gangs.
Third are the Everymen, I can’t see any kind of pattern to them, but they seem to make up the majority of the population. They keep their distance from the guards and the cultists, but on more than one occasion I see then stand, united against attempts at extortion.
The last group, I call the candles, people that are clearly on their way out mentally and physically. Sunken eyed, and set upon from all angles, at any moment these folks could be simply snuffed out.
I keep my distance, and stay respectful, the meandering, twisting line seems to take hours to get me my thick slice of crumbling yellow bread, and thick red slurry that reminds me of porridge masquerading as meat.
My coat is gone but I’m left with the majority of the clothing I fashioned back in the path. I see a mix of unwashed orange uniforms and ‘civilian’ clothing, some of the cultists, bordering more on costume than wardrobe.
As the massive, butchers apron wearing man in smeared clown makeup sits down, I wish I’d have been issued something more generic. I saw this coming the second I noticed a lump of Chlorophiles in blood stained getups.
“You sit with us. “ I can’t tell if it’s an accent or speech pattern, the clown sounds strange, either way.
I eat a spoonful of the red sludge.
“No disrespect intended, I’m not one for clubs. I’m going to make no waves, no plays, nothing. I’m a ghost. “ I say, levelly, avoiding eye contact.
Why, you might ask, having been told about my adventures in murder.
Well, that’s just it. Murder is easy, and any time you saw me end a life, it was just that.
A fight, that’s another thing entirely, especially against someone with a significant weight and height advantage.
“Not asking. You got friends. “ The massive clown moves his bulk closer, it’s like sitting next to a forklift.
I eat the bread, it tastes amazing until I swallow, then has a foul, chemical aftertaste.
I drink some tepid, burgundy fluid that might be caffeinated.
No weapons nearby, no one watching that might step in. I’m full of bruises and sprains, and probably anemic from blood loss. Not to mention one eye is running at about fifty per cent. Art didn’t sever the optic nerve last time, but he wasn’t gentle. My heart races.
“I don’t play well with people who take clowning and slap a coat of dark paint on it.
You guys are Clown Killers. You are good at killing, I’m sure, but the clown part, it’s tacked on.
Myself, I’m a killer clown…. “ I had a really good rant planned, honestly, it was a corker, douche bags would have used it in memes for a decade.
But before I can react, with one massive hand, he bounces my face off of the pitted steel table.
It rings my bell, but not as much as I let on. In clowning terms, what I do Is called a pratfall.
For those of you that don’t speak nerd, I oversell the hit, falling backwards, eyes fluttering.
I tip backwards, reaching out my left arm, as if to steady myself. The meat mountain is unbothered, knowing I have no chance unarmed, in this close, he let’s me grab one shoulder of the butchers apron. The material is thick, and matted in stains that will never come out, literally or metaphorically.
If you want to take someone out, in a relatively harmless way, you don’t want to choke them. It takes forever, usually ends up killing them, and generally is a bad idea for everyone involved.
Your goal is go cut off blood flow to the brain as quickly and fully as possible.
I hook my thumb around the opposite shoulder strap, and snap my body backward, the apron acting as an impromptu Garrotte.
His right arm is knotted through my left, as he tries to struggle, to put his murderous intent and ability to work, the choke only becomes tighter.
I don’t want enemies here, and I only have so many tricks to play before things come to a knock down drag out fight, so I leave the clown unharmed.
I do need friends, but the look I get as I take a seat at a loose collection of men is cold and fearful.
A red haired guy, five foot nine or so, makes eye contact, “Anything we can help you with? “ he says, fearless.
“Yeah, despite the face work I’ve had done, I have fuck all in common with any of those penny wise, Icp, Gacy dressed, assholes.
I need a tribe guys, you all look like the unlucky ones around here, but I don’t want to get involved in bloodshed.
I’m Mike “ I know, that’s only mostly true, but I mean it, either way. I extend a hand.
“Chris. “ the red haired guy says, he wears a white dress shirt and surprisingly blue jeans, “Those stains around your cuffs tell me otherwise.
If you’re telling the truth, that’s great. If you are lying, and still sane enough to keep your word, that’s even better. “ Chris’s tone is mirthless, I read him easily. He’s been here a long time for a short life, he looks thirty max, and I shudder to think how young he may have been when he came in.
Chris catches me up on the ins and outs of this place, beyond what a general knowledge of prison would give.
Everyone here has crimes they were not convicted of, that would, otherwise put them in jail for life. A large amount, obviously are murderers, torturers, real bastards.
But a significant minority are just regular folks, maybe a bit thoughtless, but that have collected a litany of small, petty, in cases almost victim less crimes.
No one seems to be aware of the… reality t.v. Meets demonic fast food aspect of things, but there is a Doom cherry on this fear Sunday.
There is a single way someone can get out. To earn 20 tokens.
And how does one earn these tokens you ask?
Each day the prison holds an event, to call it a challenge would insinuate a level of fair play that is simply not there. The events range from somewhat fair, a fight or game of chance, to esoteric rituals complex enough to rip someone’s soul from their body.
These tokens are also the sole form of currency in the prison, they can buy everything from commissary snacks to literal free passes from guards.
The economy has created a cut throat society, the heads of the cults not even taking advantage of being able to be free, but simply reveling in the power of being psychotic and enabled.
The weak are enslaved, their lives traded on the off chance at tokens.
So, of course, braindead asshole that I am, I signed myself right up. Feeling a little more confidant after climbing Mount Bozo.
It's 8pm and the volunteers are rounded up and brought to a massive room that has all the trappings of a gymnasium, but the scale is large enough easily hold the focus of tonight’s events.
In tiered bleachers all around us, our fellow prisoners cheer and scream. The smell of thousands of unwashed, men is overpowering, the din of excitement is deafening.
But my attention is focussed on the small, single floor home, sitting out of place in the middle of the polished wood floor.
What I wouldn’t give for Demi to appear right now, give me the low down on all the supernatural bullshit that is heading my way. But the longer we stayed in the mountain the less and less the most useful voice in my head could, or would, make an appearance.
I study each of my fellow volunteers, the goal seems simple, last the longest in the home. Men enter and leave within minutes. They come out looking shaken, with minor lacerations, and a general sense of shell shock.
By the time my turn arrives, I think I know what I’m in for.
As the baby blue door closes behind me, nothing immediately in the home causes me concern. The fixtures and furniture is a bit out of date, the lighting is, not inviting, and there is a general fog of gloom hanging around.
I smile, I’ve felt this before. Granted I had Demi feeding me supernatural errata at the time, but, I’m positive I can wing it.
“So, I think I may have met one of you guys before. Back in New York, a Happy-Face corner store, anyone you know?
Scary dude, took a couple of pieces out of me.
But this, it’s more like an MMA fight, right? I tap out when you start kicking my ass? “ I stretch, trying to see if I’m getting any kind of reaction.
I inventory the objects around me, last time everything that wasn’t nailed down, shifted, changed and tried to take me apart.
You may have noticed by now, I love using the phrase ‘ last time’, and that’s because up until this moment, I haven’t learned a fucking thing here.
Mike’s first rule of paranormal survival, last time means nothing.
“It’s you” the voice is young, late teens, and male.
I spin, expecting violence, then, wishing violence.
I know the young man, not this pale, older, revenant with a self inflicted gunshot wound, but I know him none the less.
I’m not being metaphorical when I say my heart misses a beat, I almost fall over, pounding at my chest to stop it’s arythmatic pounding.
I knew what happened to him, found it out long after I could do anything about it. And wasn’t in the best of places when I did.
I’ll call him a ghost for simplicity sake, but this kid, he’s my first, and biggest mistake.
I based who I turned into on finding what I thought was one of the worst people on earth. This kid’s father.
I did things to him worthy of what I knew he did. And to top it all off, I had him die by his wife’s hand.
Well, a decade later I find out, the guy wasn’t a Saint, but he didn’t do anything worthy of the twisted shit I put him through.
I got wind of some false information put out there in a moment of rage by a tech savvy ten year old. The kid never intended it to see the light of day
“I found out about you Mike, I saw that you were a hero. “ The voice is thin echoes like a stuck record.
“No kid, don’t think that. “ I mumble, I’m shaking, the air is freezing, each breath comes out as white mist.
I’m sitting on the flower printed couch now, and it hits me.
I’d assumed because Art couldn’t screw around in my head last time, the same went for everything here.
Remember what we said about last time.
“My told me what happened one night, what I made you do.
I destroyed her memory of him, I made a real Hero kill him, I couldn’t keep hurting people. “ I can see images, flashing in my mind, memories that are not mine.
I’m counting seconds, trying to focus, trying to stay long enough to get the token. It has to have been fifteen, twenty minutes at least.
I try to work up a smirk, to convince myself that I’m just being played by the paranormal equivalent of a heckler.
That’s not it though, This place, this house, is reaching inside me and finding places to look. As I stare into the young man’s rotted eyes I know this is some part of him, torn away from whatever rest he was entitled to.
The lights dim, then turn off. The house is silent.
Hollywood gets being both a lunatic and a hitman wrong in equal measure. No matter how much morality you want to inject into the profession, there are going to come times when you make mistakes.
As the lights slowly turn to a dull orange glow, I’m surrounded by the hovering, mutilated forms of mine.
Those that died that could have been spared, those that died because of my inaction, or stupidity. I’ve never forgotten them, I use them to make sure I never make the same mistakes again, but having them looming, screaming, all demanding I hear their stories, their accusations, their placations.
It's too much, I stumble from the couch, trying to avoid the icy touch of these phantoms. For a moment I find some last scrap of courage, I close my eyes, shut out the shrieking din of the dead.
The silence hits like a truck, I focus, trying to calm my burned out nerves.
Then they are reignited like a fucking welding torch.
“This place didn’t bring us here.
We’ve been right next to you for years Mike. We can’t leave. “ The voice of my first mistake.
Like a toddler I try to run with my eyes closed, I trip over a glass coffee table, clawing my way up the door, grasping at the handle.
I can feel a slight pull now, almost magnetic, trying to drag me backwards.
My hands shake too much, I have to steady my right wrist with my left hand, the floor becomes slick, I see the door, escape start to move further away as I’m pulled backward.
I've taken a hit or two, and had a couple of three day benders that have made me piss myself. But as I stumble, trying to make progress on the nearly friction less floor, I have another unpleasant first experience.
I grab the handle, pulling myself out of the house, launching my body into a skin peeling tumble across unforgiving plank flooring.
I’m a shaking, fetal wreck, by the time I’ve pulled myself together enough to take in my surroundings, I see the red Led clock displaying my time.
42 seconds. Bottom of the barrel. The jeers and booing from the crowd do nothing for my frayed nerves or the storm of fear and anxiety going through my mind.
I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep, it has nothing to do with the concrete slab that serves as my bed.
My stomach has been knotting and cramping, with each passing second I get more worried I blew some internal gasket in one of the many life or death struggles in the past months.
When I finally manage to vomit, the urge is strong enough I get no where near the filth crusted hole in the floor that serves as my toilet. And my worst fears are confirmed as I see the massive pile of vomit is mostly blood.
… and bones? Is that an eyeball? A piece of fur?
The mass begins to pull itself together, bits and pieces forming the most rudimentary attempt at a face.
“Junior? “ I say, stunned.
For the past six months, my college-age son (we'll call him Dennis) has been dating a Dominican girl (we'll call her Maria). Maria has been here for many years and speaks really good English, but Dennis tells me that sometimes she misses home. I share her pain. My childhood move from Ohio to Pennsylvania was drastic.
Anyway, a few months ago, Dennis mentioned that he wanted to introduce me to Maria and that they would like to stay with me for a weekend. I eagerly agreed and looked forward to spending time with the both of them. Dennis' mother and I split a few years ago, and I don't see him nearly as much as I used to. After hanging up the phone, a lightbulb went off in my head. Maria mentioned to Dennis that she missed home, so maybe I could bring home to her. I decided that I would do some research and make my house as tropical as possible for her visit.
Two weeks ago, a few days before Dennis and Maria arrived, I went into my local grocery store and bought a whole bunch of tropical fruit, some kumquat-scented shampoo, as well as some food for Caribbean recipes I found online. I also bought a Hawaiian shirt and a sombrero to complete the ensemble. I was determined to make my house as tropical as possible.
Fast forward to the night they arrived, and I had the heater cranked to 80. I was also playing some mariachi music and had prepared some plantains for frying. Dennis and Maria arrived, and I welcomed them inside. Maria seemed very nice, and I told her that I wanted to make her feel as though she never left the DR. I then offered them both piña coladas, which I had made in the blender, and she accepted. I could tell that I had made quite an impression because she couldn't stop smiling, but Dennis looked really upset and asked to speak to me privately.
He asked me what the hell I was doing and that I was embarrassing him in front Maria. I told him that I was making the house tropical so that Maria would feel more comfortable. Pennsylvania winters can be very harsh, after all. Dennis told me that I was making a fool of myself and that my sombrero and the mariachi music weren't even Dominican. I told him to relax and just try to have a good time. When he drives for long periods of time, he can get really wound up, so I figured that had something to do with it. Besides, Maria couldn't possibly judge me too harshly, not after I did all of this for her.
Long story short, attempt after attempt over the weekend to do tropical things were shot down by my son, and I was really getting put out. I felt like my attempt wasn't perfect, but that he needed to put himself in my shoes and try to empathize. Dennis and Maria are still dating, I think, but Dennis hasn't returned my calls. I've tried asking my ex-wife about their relationship, but she doesn't seem to want to talk to me. They say "no good deed goes unpunished," and that really feels true here. I just want my son back, but I don't know what to say. The kumquat shampoo was also never used. AITA?
So ill try keep this as short as possible (its a long story). I decided to separate from my wife at the beginning of the year. I am in the armed forces in the UK and we were based about 500miles from our home. Her first initial reaction was that she wanted to quit her job, take our 2 small children and move in with her parents (who live near our home far away) I asked her to stay but she wanted to be with her "support network". She also originally wanted to move into our joint home with me to pay the full mortgage and bills indefinitely, regardless of her own income/job status. I managed to convince her to stay for a few months while I tried to get a transfer. I got a transfer approved (at some detriment to my career) and she quit her job and moved in with her folks a month before I transferred. Solicitors letters started getting sent to get the ball rolling on our custody, assets etc. It was agreed originally verbally that I would have the children 3 nights a week when I transferred, the closest thing to 50/50 I can manage on a shift pattern. Annual leave would likely bring this avg up anyways.
2 weeks after she moved she started complaining about income and wanting child maintenance. I did a child maint calculator online and offered her the full amount based on 3nights a week. She was unsatisfied by this and asked me to add my half of the rental income we get for renting out our house. I called the child maint service and they said its only profit (if any) that gets added to this. I added the profit (even though its not declared) and the amount went up by £5 per month. I paid her and she was still unsatisfied. All of a sudden she decides that my military accommodation (which consists of an en suite room bigger than a hotel room with 2 double beds, kitchen area and separate bathroom) is unsuitable for the children to stay in and that the 3 nights a week will not be granted. Instead I am to have the children every second weekend with 2 "non-residential periods" during the week with no overnight stays during the week during school term since "this will be disruptive to their routine and therefore their education" and that "child maintenance is to be reassessed based on this". I went to the child maint service myself and said that I believe that this was a power move to get more money from me by using the kids. They said that the default is to pay the cost of 1 overnight stay per week if there is a dispute. turns out she contacted them and asked for them to charge me to the avg of 0 overnight stays per night! Until a court order or separation agreement is in place, 1 night per week is the rate I have to pay by order of the Child Maint Service.
I just want to see my kids as much as possible, my lawyer has asked her to provide assurance that I will have the kids 3 nights a week if I stay somewhere else but so far 2 letters have been ignored by her and her solicitor with only offers on the financial side of the separation (splitting on my pension, savings and buying out of the house). I would have taken her to court by now but my solicitor suggested doing some negotiations through letters first since she is completely unwilling to negotiate or discuss the matter in person or over text. Phrases have been thrown around by her like "i am their legal guardian" "it's not my fault" "you chose this" and "i will not be bullied by you" whenever i question her decision or motives. Now I am on deployment for 4 months since December and her lawyer still sent a letter in December asking me to buy or sell the house. My lawyer replied saying i am on deployment so nothing can be done but a childcare agreement would also have to be in place. 2 months passed and its clear my ex is under pressure from her parents and the rising mortgage for something to change, her lawyer sent another letter saying that I am being obstructive and that it may escalate to a court order to force the sale of the house. So we replied saying I'll buy the house but when I move in I want the children 3 nights a week + holidays....its been 4 weeks and still nothing back. In addition I return home next week and I asked to have the kids for 2 weeks. But this was denied. I was told I could only have them for 1 week despite being gone 4 months over Christmas.
This is more of a rant than an ask for help as I know I should just do the whole court thing but has anyone got any other suggestions/advice/warnings?
My baby is 9 months old and is getting a little bitey lately. I stop nursing, tell her no, she either gets really upset or pretend upset, repeat. I don’t know if this is a sign that she’s done nursing, if she’s just teething, or boundary testing/seeing that “hey I can make mommy react to things within my control”. Either way, my supply is affected, which isn’t the hugest deal since she’s eating food now. I don’t know if I should be pumping during the day when she’s at daycare if she’s just going to get home and play Twilight all evening. Will this pass and she’ll want to nurse big time again? Do I let my supply naturally dwindle since she’s moving onto food and wean?
I'm 35 female and I have recessed maxilla due to braces and retraction headgear age 12-15. I have constant stuffy nose and breathing issues. Exhaustion all the time sleep issues and headache and squashed face, clicking whenever open and close mouth. My lower jaw naturally wants to stick out further but is always forced back by upper teeth and maxilla. So I have SSI disability for brain injury and PTSD and I have no income besides that and I'm on Medicaid in Washington State. I have no idea how to get jaw surgery. I definitely want maxilla advanced somehow and possibly a tiny bit lower jaw but I think lower jaw could be fine just from getting my maxilla moved forward. Anyway, how do poor people get these things paid for? I read BCBS is good but seeing as I'm on and qualify for Medicaid I don't think they'll let me sign up even if I do pay for them. So I looked at surgery in Mexico one surgeon in Cancun wants to push my lower jaw BACK which would make the whole situation worse and makes me worried about even trying in Mexico. I don't know if any of the surgeons in Mexico know anything about the braces and retraction issue. I was quoted 14,000 for it in Mexico. This the email I got. There is no way I'm getting my lower jaw shortened not in a thousand years. Are they just incompetent? Has best reviews. Cancun Dental Design. I have no idea how I would afford this in USA. Help?
Just talked to the Specialist about your case and he mentioned we would do the treatment below.
Underbite Surgery (Mandibular Osteotomy) Otherwise called the Bilateral Sagittal Split is a lower jaw surgery that consists of a mandibular osteotomy to stretch or retrude the jaw. This type of surgery allows the mandible to be adjusted and fixed in the desired position to correct the underbite malocclusion
• Corrects the lower jaw position • Improves speech and eating • Enhances aesthetics • Fixes the open bite condition
We would be able to do your full treatment for $14,000usd
Includes: - Experienced Oral Maxillofacial Surgeon - Upper and lower osteotomies Orthognathic surgery - 1 night in the hospital - Hospital Surgery Suite - Hospital Recovery Suite - Anesthesiologist in Hospital - Nurse assistants for Oral Surgery - Nurse assistants for Anesthesiologist Nurse assistance for Recover and Hospital Stay - 3D imaging CT scan - Panorex X- ray - Post-surgery imaging CT scan - All clinic post op appts - Clinic staff and assistants - Transportation to/from Airport to hotel - Transportation to/from Hotel to clinic (only if staying in the Hotel Zone)
You will need to be in Cancun a minimum of 12 days and preferably 14 days.
There's never any mention in government for voting on mandatory vacation pay, mandatory parental paid leave that is long enough and enough is paid to where both parents can stay home with their child for longer than a damn week, mandatory healthcare coverage paid by employers, employers no longer being able to just fire you for no damn reason because of the stupid at will policies, better yet just healthcare for all period... Putting term limits on the supreme court justices and us being able to do something about homelessness like mandatory basic housing, mental health services, etc etc. The USA is a dystopian capitalist hellscape and it's only getting worse. You have boomers mainly and the religious right/conservatives who want to keep us where we are and make things even worse, Puerto Rico, Guam and the Marshall Islands should either be made full states with all state benefits, or they should get their damn freedom back. Same with Hawaii in the sense of if they don't want to be part of the USA, since they were taken theough imperialism they should have the right to leave the union if they want.
It's insane to me that our citizens are clearly miserable as fuck.... I mean we have skyrocketing high depression rates, everyone's on pharmaceuticals, psych meds or on booze/illegal drugs. Instead of having a sliding scale based on income fine system, we don't so that way the rich pay off fines and see it as an extra tax and the poor go to prison. Now they're making prisoners make shit for companies and there's quotas to lock up as many people as possible. I mean for fuck sakes, we have to as a society be able to push back somehow. Protests are useless. The right and left can't work together at all nor should they. I really do think the only solution is to split the country in 2. Send the conservatives to go lives in conservative land where it's like the south and moderates/more left leaning people who actually care about the working class should have our own country. The powers that be would never allow it ofc. When the core is rotten the rest is all tainted and that's pretty much the USA's problem. The whole government is rotten and pro corporation and until things seriously change I think we are screwed.
We need to create some sort of massive movement that really catches on and gets people mobilized and we tell the government enough is enough. Corporations and business owners have sucked away our will to live, our individuality, our happiness, etc and we want to run the show. We don't even need managers and bosses. We know how to do the work, maybe keep on managers, the workers can elect on who stays and who goes, they can vote on major company matters and they can vote on wages based on how difficult your job is. As workers we should reap the rewards of our labor. Not some asshole boss or ceo who takes 99% of the cake and gives us crumbs the fight over. The right and conservatives can go live in Gilead and the rest of us can create a better, just and humane society.
I really think it's our only hope at a happy existence.
I decided to watch survivor 41 with my family and just realized that if Lindsey plays her idol Omar then it is a 2-2 split between Johnathan and Romeo. The only people who can vote are Mike, Maryanne, Linsey, and Omar. Most likely, Omar and Linsey stick with their vote against Johnathan wanting him out. Mike and Maryanne would then most likely have to vote out Johnathan with the fear of if they don't do it, they will draw rocks and Mike or Marryane will be out because both Romeo and Johnathan are immune. (I haven't watched the Finale episode so don't spoil anything else please)
I 54F was told by my father that his best friends daughter who is also in her 50s is really his biological child and my sister - backstory me and my mother would often run into my sister and her mother in public and it was always said that we look a lot alike, when I was around 30 years old my father confessed to my mother that he knew he was the biological father and had known for years my mother then told me, my father has since passed away and after he passed I told my Aunt (my father's sister) about this situation and she advised me to not say anything. I want this secret to be revealed because I would love to have a relationship with my sister while we are both still living but am hesitant to speak up because I don't want to disrupt her life and negatively impact her relationship with her mother and the man she knows as her father, it is important to note that the sister in question is physically disabled but not mentally and that she has lived in a nursing home for two decades, it may also be important to note that I have many half siblings from my father that I know of one whom passed away without me ever developing a relationship with them as we only met once as well as potentially more half siblings that I don't know of due to my father traveling abroad through as a merchant seaman in his younger years, WIBTA for revealing this secret?
It was recently my landlord's son's birthday, who I get along with decently. I wouldn't say we're friends, but we've had the occasional conversation and spent time together before because we have mutual hobbies. Over the past year or so though, I've grown apart from the son because every time I tried to invite him to something, he'd cancel last minute with a long-winded excuse as to what happened. Whatever though, not all friendships work out.
So as his birthday was coming around, my landlord asked if I had any idea what his son might want as a gift, and I let my landlord know about a specific game that his son had been interested in. It was Twilight Imperium 4th edition for anyone who's curious. The whole game runs about $150.
After I let my landlord know that his son wanted this game, my landlord mentioned that the game was really expensive, especially for some plastic and a little bit of cardboard. I agreed that it was a bit pricey, but assured him that $150 for that game was fairly reasonable. It took a little convincing, and showing him comparable games, but after a while, my landlord agreed that $150 for the new version was a worthwhile expense for his son.
Then my landlord asked me what I was going to get his son for his birthday, and I let him know that I wasn't planning on getting his son anything. I hadn't really seen his son in a few months, and we didn't speak regularly so it felt weird giving him an unexpected gift. I also wasn't invited to the son's birthday party, which I heard about secondhand, so I figured this meant I was in the clear to not get him a gift.
So some time goes by, and when my landlord's son's birthday comes around, he sends me a huge thank you for the birthday gift. It came out of nowhere, because I didn't get him a gift, and I didn't even wish him a happy birthday. I replied to ask what he was talking about, and he just sent me a picture of the game, with a tag on it that said it was from my landlord and me. I just told him to enjoy it and decided not to burst his bubble that I didn't get him anything.
Now, I have an awkward living situation, where my landlord is also my roommate, so when I got home I let my landlord know that I appreciated him saying the gift was from both of us, but I asked him not to do it again in the future. I felt weird about him giving out a gift from me without my knowledge or permission. He said that was no problem, but then he let me know my portion of the gift was $75. At this point, I was feeling really confused, and I asked him why my portion was $75. I didn't agree to split it, and I told him I wouldn't be getting his son a gift.
My landlord simply started insisting that it was implied we would split the cost of the gift, and the only reason he bought such an expensive gift is that he thought I was going to split it with him. I told him no, it was an unreasonable expectation and again reminded him that I was not going to get his son a gift. My landlord then brought up that my not getting a gift was what implied that I wanted to split the cost and send a mutual gift. I again replied no, that's a completely unreasonable jump in reasoning. The conversation ended with passive-aggressive tension and me just going to my room.
A few days later, I received my utility bills, which I split with my landlord and pay in the middle of the month. At the end, there was an extra charge of $75 that didn't say what it was. Naturally, I asked what the $75 was, and my landlord again started insisting that I had to pay a fair share of his son's gift, and it would be expected at the same time as every other utility. I didn't even reply as I set the bill down and gave him everything but the $75 for the gift. He started counting it and told me I was short the $75, to which I just walked away.
A few more days passed, and when I got home I found an eviction notice for failure to pay my entire utility bill. I've already arranged to simply move out at this point because this isn't the first issue I've had with my landlord, but the eviction notice just sealed it for me. I gave my landlord my 30-day notice that I was leaving, and I've been avoiding him during the little bit of time I'm at home each night.
I also don't think anything will come of the eviction, especially since proper protocol for California wasn't followed in giving it to me. That being said, I am absolutely seething in anger at that cheap-ass piece of garbage.
Also, my landlord's son is a 29-year-old man if you're wondering.