Strep throat and back pain

36 yo here ...So for at least 6 months I've been noticing my periods have been closer together. Are other people getting this as well?? Like I just had my period 16 days ago... And guess what! She back, and with the worst cramps. My cramps have been pretty terrible the last year, and I am on the copper IUD, so I'm not a stranger to terrible cramps. I'm going to see my OB soon to talk with her about potentially getting on HRT, even if it's a really low form. I also have been getting really crazy nightmares (I do typically have real vivid ones) but these scare me right out of sleep! No crazy hot flashes, but I do get hotter than normal. Just curious about what other peri folks are going through, and what you've started on hormones wise (if at all). I've also chatted with my partner about going through this wild time, and we've discussed him getting a vasectomy/ me trying taking the copper out to see if that helps my period pain and frequency at all. Thanks in advance 🙂

I (19f) at the time was not invited on my dad's (44) trip to south africa with my stepmom (40ish) and her three children (13) (15) and (19). At the time of the trip all her children presented as male. I'm a trans girl (only mentioning because it may be relevant in judging.)
My dad Had excitedly told me he was going on a trip to south africa with his new family and his reasoning that i wasn't invited was because my stepmoms mom was the one paying for all of them and "money was tight." (my stepmom had just bought a brand new electric mustang at the time and a very expensive renovation to his house was underway lol.) He seemed to be disappointed that I wasn't happy for him. he called me when he was there looking all happy and telling me how amazing the trip was and i felt awful being left out.
there had been difficulties in our relationship. i was at the start of my transition and was very moody and hormonal: for example I stood up for myself when i was being held in covid quarantine for 5 days after a negative test and my stepmom had brought me a bag of baby carrots as my "meal" saying "that's food eat!". Things were very tumultuous at the time and i was kicked out the house for being “horrible”, this vacation was shortly after.
I was sad though and I expressed it to my dad and his perspective although he didn't say it like this seemed to be that i was just ungrateful because i'd gone on trips with him in the past and this was (paraphrasing here:) "her family's vacation they were just bringing him along to welcome him into their side of the "family." My stepsister 17f now did come out as trans later on and everyone was very kind, patient, welcoming, supportive, and gentle with her. They still are.
He brought me back some gifts from south africa so I guess he was thinking about me.
his perspective here seemed to be that i was behaving hurtfully for not just being happy for him.
it's bothered me for a long time and seeing others having been through something similar i thought i should post.
Although i don't think so, i could be the a-hole because Instead of responding with words and actions of gratitude for all he did for me. i responded with words and actions of pain and sadness because i had felt left out.
Am i the a-hole here? and if not how should i respond. I love my dad and when it doesn't come to things like money or how he doesn't trust me and often suspects me of lying about little things our relationship is pretty darn good.
(This is a rep*st from amitheasshole because after i contacted mods to ask why poop mode they removed my post even though i'd seen many others just like it:( ig the rules have changed since those other posts)

My father passed away recently due to epilepsy in his sleep. My world shattered that day. It hasn't been the same since, yet I am surprised how strong I have been to handle and carry myself day by day.
The pain of his absence hits me the most at night. I reminisce the beautiful moments we had together throughout my childhood. He played both parent roles while achieving his dreams and supporting the community.
What haunts me is the flashback of seeing him lifeless in his bed two hours later after telling each other "I love you." It was the last "I love you" I received from him. I couldn't save him despite my efforts of performing CPR while the ambulance were on the way. Deep down, I blame myself for arriving at his bedside to check up on him too late. I blame myself for not being able to rescue him.
I continue to ask myself every night if his last memories before passing away were happy and peaceful. I hope they were. The idea of him having horrible memories and flashbacks hurts me. The slightest pain that my father suffered hurt me physically and emotionally.
I miss my father tremendously. He revolved around my world and my siblings and I revolved around his. We were tight-knit family that did the most together. He consistently showed and told us that we were his biggest blessing in his life. My heart hurts the most at night as I feel his absence. My heart screams his name hoping that this wasn't real and he would come back to me. I wish I didn't have to go through this so soon.

Hi all, I am an 18 y/o female who has recently gone through a tonsilloadenoidectomy. I am about a month post op and I would like to share my experience as I know this Reddit thread alone has helped ease my mind.
Day of the surgery: I was very nervous as expected, but when they took me back the worry slowly dissipated. All of my physicians and nurses told me continuously that it was going to be a painful recovery, so I was fully prepared for the worst. I went into surgery, and it all went well and woke up shortly after. The whole experience, waiting room to discharge took about 2 hours. I wasn't in terrible pain as I was still not all there from the anesthesia. They discharged me with a prescription of Oxy and Magic mouthwash. My surgeon had told me to rotate Tylenol and Ibuprophen every 4 hours for the next 24 hours. In hindsight I should have switched to strictly Tylenol after that, but I did not. (foreshadowing) Pain: 3/10
Day 1-3: These days were not eventful. I rested, iced my throat, and ate a metric fuck ton of popsicles. I rotated Ibuprophen and Tylenol every 4 hours, and that pretty well took care of the pain and brought it only to a discomfort. Only when I was tired of being uncomfortable would I use the mouthwash which basically numbs the throat and the tonsil beds. Swallowing was uncomfortable but I pushed through and drank an insane amount of water. Like almost 2 gallons every day, I saw so many people saying that being hydrated is one of the most important parts, and I found that so true. It not only cools your throat, but it makes it so you are more comfortable swallowing and makes the transition to other foods easier. My diet pretty much consisted of pasta, cottage cheese, and apple sauce. At this point I was going stir crazy, feeling as if I wasn't doing anything and the day was wasted. (I know I just had surgery and needed to heal, but my inner workaholic was dying doing absolutely nothing all day.) Pain: 4/10
Day 4: My scabs were pretty well formed by day 4. Today I pushed my limits and cleaned my car. I was feeling fine, no more discomfort than any of the other days and I was continuously drinking water and making sure I got enough sustenance. I sneezed at about 8 PM and I hemorrhaged. I was gushing blood from my mouth and nose for about 3 hours. My mom took me to the ER and they sprayed the clotting solution into my throat twice with no success in stopping the bleeding. I was throwing up blood from how much I had ingested, and it was a very gnarly sight. They then gave me 4 separate nebulizer treatments of the clotting agents. By 2 AM it seemed to do the trick to stop the bleeding. I believe that I bled for so long because of the constant use of Ibuprophen. They still ended up transporting me to another hospital where an ENT could check me out in the morning. The ENT checked everything out in the morning and said I wouldn't need cauterization and I was on my way home. Pain: 5/10
SIDEBAR: The hemorrhage was very scary. But hearing all of the horror stories and reading all of the experiences, my mind made it into this thing that it simply wasn't. It is scary, there is no discrediting that, but it is essential to remember that it will get better. I was very lucky not having to have another surgery, but even if I was not and had the chance to go back, to not get the surgery, I would not take that offer.
Day 5 and 6: I began strictly only taking Tylenol and magic mouthwash. I was so scared to do anything. I lost a good bit of blood, and I was so terrified to do anything that would cause another bleed. I was so scared that I barely ate for 2 days, only consuming water and popsicles. (more foreshadowing) Still only feeling discomfort, worse in the mornings and evenings before bed, dulled throughout the day. Pain: 5/10
Day 7-11: I ventured and began eating more and trying to get back to some sort of normal after vegetating in fear for 2 days. My scabs were coming off but not cracking and falling off, instead they disintegrated with how much water I drank and keeping my throat moist. I couldn't even tell they were coming off, no sharp pains or discomfort. They mostly came off in my sleep and it was a fun surprise seeing how much was left every morning. Pain: 5/10
Day 12: I worked and felt great, I felt as if I was finally getting my life back. I started spacing out my Tylenol by 6-hour intervals instead of 4 which felt like a big step. Pain: 4/10
Day 13-20: My scabs kept coming off and I was eating almost normally, had to eat slow and be conscious of my throat but other than that I was at about 85% Pain: 3/10
Day 21-present: Before I went to my 3 weeks check up with my ENT, my PCP ran my labs because she thought I looked pale. I had definitely felt some weakness and dizziness in the days that followed my hemorrhage, but I had chalked it up to not being used to activity. I had my check up and they explained that it will probably be 2 more weeks until I can eat Doritos, but other than that I look to be healing very well. The following day I received my labs and discovered I have Iron-Deficiency Anemia due to the hemorrhage. Hindsight being I defintely should've taken better care of myself after the hemorrhage, but we live and we learn. I received an iron transfusion which does not have fun side effects, but we have been monitoring my labs and getting control of it. Pain is almost completely gone, I no longer take Tylenol. I only feel discomfort in the mornings right when I wake up which is typically solved by water.
This very long-winded post about my experience is more for me, being able to write out what happened to help me see that I am through the thick of it and only have healing to do from here. I really just wanted to contribute to this thread as it has helped make me feel as if I was not alone in all of this. I hope that this post helps my fellow workaholic, hypochondriacs know that even though it feels like the world is caving in and you're missing things, this surgery is worth it.
Thank you to everyone that posts on here, helping us not feel alone.

“I’ve felt prompted to share my testimony here for a while now”…
After my dad passed, my oldest brother informed the rest of us that he had left the church. This opened a conversation with my wife about what I wanted to do? We had only been married (temple) about a year at that time . I told her that I had concerns about the church, but did not feel like I wanted to leave. I had made a commitment to her when we were married to live life a certain way, and that included life in the church.
I always hated all of the Book of Mormon challenges the church promoted. It seemed like as soon as you finished it, another challenge would be issued, and you would start all over again. I don’t know how many times I read the Book of Mormon cover to cover on my mission, but I do believe I was the only missionary there who could say they read the whole standard works. It was kinda my side quest . I realize now, the frequency of reading the “most correct book” was no mistake or coincidence. It is designed to limit your source of information to that which is carefully controlled and interpreted by the church.
Over time, more items were added to my “shelf”, the crumbling keystone of my faith.
Like a lot of people in this sub, Covid was an amazing time to distance myself from the church. Zero hours church really set a high standard for me. I was a teachers quorum advisor. And I really did not enjoy the calling. At all. Slowly I started to nuance myself. 1 hour church returned, then two… it was amazing how many TBM’s loved 1 hour or less church, but still praised leadership on the return of meetings.
I had a heart to heart with my wife . That I was done supporting the church. They have shown that their interest lies in our wallets and not the wellbeing of others. She was the only person I cared about who knew at that point. I started getting contacted left and right as soon as my activity went down. But I will remember the voicemail left by a member of the stake presidency on my phone, asking to meet and that he would “hate to assume the worst had happened to me”
yes, the worst thing he could imagine for me was to leave the church, a man I had a passing conversation with twice in my life. I never responded to him or anyone else I wasn’t already friends with in the ward before I left. I owe them nothing.
Two and a half years ago, I told my in-laws I was done with the church. It was one of the hardest things I’ve had to say. Ever. I probably wouldn’t have told anyone, except that there were 3 baby blessings coming up in about 4 months, and I didn’t want to leave anyone hanging, or insult my wife by participating in a spiritual rite that I didn’t believe in.
I do not regret leaving the church, I wish I had done it sooner. I wish I had never “served” a mission. I wish I had never given the church a dime in offerings and tithes. It truly is like Plato’s allegory of the cave. Now that I have seen the outside world crawling on my hands, knees and belly to see the Sun, blinding and painful to my eyes used only to shadows cast by firelight. I can never go back, because I never want to. I am shocked every time I see my friends and family perform mental gymnastics to justify the actions of the church, or their own prejudices. It is right there. Freedom is right there, and all you have to do is not justify it anymore.
But for some, the opportunity loss is too great a cost, so they will continue to give everything until they die or their shelf finally breaks. I hope this is helpful to someone in a similar situation as I was. I say these things in the name of cheese and rice. Amen.

Hi guys I get uncomfortable pain in my upper back from sitting in just any random chairs and find it really hard to work on my computer.
I have been working out in the gym for 3 months focussing more on back and yet still there's only 25% improvement. I also saw a physiotherapist in my small city and he didn't do much but told me I have major kyphosis hump.
Is there any effective solutions to it? I spend a lot of time just lying in bed in a reclined position. Any solutions I find online are just not fast or effective enough and seems it would take me more than a year to see any significant improvement.
I used to have a better chair before which was helpful but still used to hurt, now it's just extremely bad. Any help would be appreciated. Thank you

The earth opened and the monsters came, and it was the end of the world. But it didn’t feel like it because we were still here.
There was never a time I can remember where the creatures did not lurk in the shadows, kidnapping stray helpless children or hapless adults; sometimes it would be that someone of Golgotha would go missing and whispers over breakfast would be the consequences of it. Funerals were frivolous, even if there were sometimes candles lit in the absence of the missing. Generally, it would be the elders that would sit around wooden tables, hum old hymns and maybe they would whisper a few kind words to Elohim or Allah or perhaps a more pagan variety; I came from a fully loaded Christian household where the paganistic murmurs were often seen as little better than the monsters that came from the earth.
Whatever the case may be, it was simple mourning, simple human mourning and it was sad and miserable and more numbing every time I’d see it happen. Sometimes it would be Lady (she was an old shamanistic-style woman with tattered robes and graying hair, even some whiskers on her chin too) that would culminate a hymn in the streets with her incense or more for the missing, but it was Christian and good in that way. Always about Jesus, always good clean words and simple gospels that were quiet and weak.
It was a young woman that’d gone missing sometime the previous night; there’d been a patrol sent out among the old ruins too because the missing girl was the daughter of a Boss. The Bosses were distinguished leaders in Golgotha, due to their tendency for extreme and untempered cruelty and whenever someone crossed a Boss or whenever a Boss lost something precious, everyone took notice, because the Bosses controlled the functions of Golgotha. It just so happened the Boss whose daughter went missing was also the fellow that controlled the water supply. His name was Harold and that wily sonofagun shut off the pumps that moved ground water into our homes. He was the only one with the key and said he’d not divulge it to a soul if the girl wasn’t returned.
Some of the boys on the compound cultivated a posse with impassioned cries of mutual aid and such, but Boss Harold, no matter how much they threatened or how many of his fingers they snapped in their desperate grasp for humanity, would not comply. Most of the boys surmised it was likely the girl was dead and her remains would be impossible to find due to the way monsters tended to grind bones into powder and dry swallow even the gristle of our fragile bodies; there’d be nothing left—or if there was anything left of her it wouldn’t be her any longer (assuredly she’d be a husk or unworthy of saving). When hard torture failed, the boys cried for more reason, and yet Boss Harold would not budge. The old Boss said, “I’ll stop the motor of the world until she’s found!”
A group of rabblerousing youths had absconded with his daughter or so he said; the reality was much more likely that she had run from home of her own free will either by wanderlust or ignorance. When all was said and done, the families came to me and said, “Hey, Harlan, buddy, pal, you’ve lost weight. You’re looking good, Mister Harlan, did you get a haircut?”
I’d heard about the girl. I’d heard about the posse sent out to Boss Harold’s abode—the compound ain’t that big—and knew they’d be coming for me because I was a scavver, a person that wades through the old ruins either for illusory history pages or weapons or even (and this one was a rare treat) lost people. I knew they’d come for my services and had already put together my pack for travels with rations and light tools—no gun; drawing attention in the old ruins was a dumb thing because sound could travel forever.
“I’m going,” I told the group that’d been sent for me, “I don’t reckon any of you’d like to come with me?” I looked over the dirty faces, the faces of men, women, children that could scarcely be called grown, and none stood out because they were all tired and dirty and I imagined I looked much the same.
Then a girl’s voice broke out from the crowd, and she stumbled forward from the line of strangers that’d come to see me at my door. “I’ll go!” she said, “I want to go with you, Mister Harlan.”
It was unsurprising. Youngsters always thought the old ruins were like a field trip, like maybe they’d find a souvenir for their sweetie and come home with a good story. Most didn’t come back, and those that did usually came back with scars beneath the skin from what they’d seen in the out there. It was like a game for them and when they saw what the world outside the walls held, they would retreat into themselves for fear. It wasn’t just the monsters. It was the ruins themselves, the overwhelming demolition of us; we were gone and yet we were here. It’s a hard thing to cope. I looked over the skinny girl with a grimy face; she couldn’t have been older than sixteen. Her hair was cropped very short, and I could see no immediate deformities that might slow my travels, so I asked, “What’d your parents say?”
Without flinching, the girl shouldered her pack straps with her thumbs and almost cheerily answered, “They’re dead, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir.” I stepped nearer her, looked over her face and saw perhaps a will I’d not seen in some time. Maybe she would be more of a help than a hinderance. “Do you have everything you need?”
“Yes.”
“Then we leave immediately.” I shouldered my own pack and followed up with, “Do not bring any fucking guns.”
“Got it! No fuckinguns.” Her tone was sarcastic, but not unserious. It was the best I could hope for, and besides it was always better whenever I travelled with someone else.
We took off from my small hidey-hole and moved through the narrow stretches of street, tall metal and concrete stood on either of our sides, mostly housing and hydroponics, with a few spots with stools where a person could stop in for a drink of cool water. Although a few of the Bosses had toyed with the idea of expanding the hydroponics so that we might produce corn whiskey in bulk, this was scrapped when the math was done; the space was insufficient for such luxuries, but this did not stop some from fermenting small berries in batches when no one else was paying attention. Wine was incredibly rare, had a moldy taste to it, but was sweet and a further reminder of maybe why we held on. I liked wine pretty good, but sometimes I’d find an old bottle in the ruins or get a jug of liquor from one of the far settlements and that’s what I really cherished.
“You ever been out of town?” I asked her.
“No.”
“Don’t act a hero, don’t be funny out there, don’t make noise, don’t get in my way. If I tell you something, you do it without questions.”
First, I heard her footsteps fall slowly, then more quickly before she answered me as though she had to stop and think about what she was going to do next; perhaps she was having second thoughts? “Don’t try to scare me from the ruins,” she said, “I’ve wanted to go out there for years now and everyone always says there’s old stuff. Our old stuff. Stuff that used to belong to us.”
“Used to belong to us? What do you mean?”
“Humans or whatever. It used to be ours.”
“It hasn’t been ours within my lifetime. Leave it to them, because it’s theirs now. If you find some small thing out there that you like, then take it, but otherwise, it ain’t home no more.” There was no need for me to elaborate on who I meant whenever I said them, because anyone knew exactly who they were: the creatures from beneath the earth, the demons, the monsters.
We came to the outer sections of town near the gate and the walls stood high over our heads while morning breeze kicked up spirals of sand wisps across the ground. The walls were probably fifty or sixty feet tall, and several yards thick with titanium and concrete and rebar; along the parapets of our fortifications were patrolmen that watched the horizon and fired at anything that moved with fifty-caliber bullets. The men up there, and they were mostly men (the show-off types), wore ballistic weaves, bent and tarnished war helmets of the past, and carried mottled fatigue colors on their bodies like for-real militiamen. There hadn’t been an attempt on Golgotha from the monsters in days; it was a quiet week.
The nearest dirt street spilled into an open square with sandbag barricades overlooking the gate from atop a small hill. I waved down Maron. Boss Maron wore boots and an old-school cowboy hat with an aluminum star pinned on its forehead center; he swaggered over, “Going out, Mister Harlan?” His mustache caterpillar wiggled, nearly obscuring a toothy grin.
I nodded.
“It’s ‘cause Harold ain’t it?”
I nodded.
“You know that crazy bastard had some of my guards lock up the boys that stormed his home? If you ask me, he deserved whatever pain those fellas brought to him for shutting the pumps off.”
I idly studied the sidearm holstered on his hip then looked at the nearby guards by the gate, each with automatic weapons slung across their chests. “You still locked them up, didn’t you?”
Boss Maron spat in the dirt by his feet and laughed a little dry. “Sure did. Harold’s got the key to the water, and I won’t be crossing him. Don’t want the riffraff questioning Bosses.” He flapped his hand at the notion then swaggered away and waved at his guards to open the gate. The one nearest a breaker box on the righthand side of the gate opened the electrical panel, flipped a switch then the hydraulics on the gate began to decompress as it unlocked and rusty gears began to rock across one another to slide the great, tall metal door open.
“Try not to lose any fingers or toes while you’re out there. Oh!” he seemed to take notice of the young girl following me, “Got a new companion? Does she know what’s happened to the last few that’s traversed those desperate lands with you?”
“Hm?” asked the girl.
“Oh? Harlan?” Boss Maron smiled so hard I’d think his mustache might fall of his face from the sheer tension of the skin beneath it, “He’s a real globetrotter, quite a dealmaker, but just don’t be surprised if he leaves you behind.” This was followed by a sick chuckle.
I refused to respond and merely watched the clockwork gate come to a full open while the guards on either side prepared to angle their guns at the opening like they half-expected something to come barreling towards them. The doorway was empty and through the haze of the wasteland I could scarcely make out the familiar angles of the old ruins far out.
The girl didn’t engage either, for which I was thankful.
Boss Maron wide-stepped closer then patted my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “Don’t forget the shiny flag.” He tucked a foil sheet into my front shirt pocket, “His daughter was due west supposedly. Good luck.” Then he clapped me on the back before returning to his post by the sandbags where a small table displayed his game of solitaire.
We moved through the gate, and I could sense the uneasy rhythm of the young girl’s movement just over my shoulder. As the gate closed behind us with a large and final shudder, I heard her breath become more erratic.
“The air feels thicker out here,” she said.
“It is sometimes,” I tried talking the nerves out of her, “It’s hot and cold all at the same time, ain’t it? Know what I mean? It’s hot devil air, but also you feel chills all over, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” Her pace quickened so that we walked alongside one another.
“It’s just the nerves. You get used to it. Or. Well.”
“Or?”
“Or you don’t get enough time to.”
“What did ol’ Maron mean about other people dying with you?”
“Not many people venture outside the compound and even fewer go into the ruins. It’s all very dangerous. Most don’t make it back. That’s all he meant.”
“But you do. Make it back, I mean.”
I sighed. “I do, yeah.”
“My name’s Aggie, by the way. Sorry I didn’t say that before, Mister Harlan.”
“What’d your parents do when they were still around?”
“Dad was a farmer that worked with the hydroponics and Mom was a general fixer. She liked making clothes when we had the material.”
“Good people, it sounds like.”
“Sometimes,” said Aggie, “Hey, please don’t let me die, alright?” The words weren’t constructed so much as blurted; they came as a joke but did not seem like one.
“Okay.”
For a mile out in a measured circle, there was open sandy, flat ground stretching from around the perimeter walls of Golgotha; all the clutter, junk, and buildings had been disposed of years prior to grant the compound’s snipers comfortable sights in all directions. The openness went out for a mile and in every direction, one could see the ruins, the crumpled dead vehicles, half-snapped spires that lie in angles, and the gloom-red tint in the air that seemed to emanate from the ground like heat waves off fire. It was scarred air, where the creatures had unearthed some great anomaly from beneath the dirt. In honesty, it was like passing through the foul stench of death and painted everything in a blood hue. It stank and it was hot and it was cold.
We moved in relative silence; only the sounds of our boots across granular dirt or the clink of zippers whenever either Aggie or I was to readjust the packs on our shoulders. As we came upon the edges of the ruins, where we entered the red mist, and the air was alien. Finally, Aggie cleared her throat and mentioned through mildly exerted breathing, “Think we’ll find her?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Keep quiet and whisper. We can talk but keep it low.” We began to enter the thick of the ruins where ancient structures crept up on either side of us. “What made you come with me?” It was a question I’d wondered the whole time and figured her reasoning was weak.
“There’s not much home. I’d like to see some of the world before I go. Seems like things get worse and worse and for when I do leave this world, I want to see something other than the walls of home.”
“Fair answer.” Her reasoning was weak. “What if you’ve bit off more than you can chew?”
“Maybe.” She followed this up with another question of her own,” What made you start venturing out?”
“I wanted to see something other than the walls of home.” I felt a smile creep around the corners of my mouth, but quickly tempered myself. “Whenever people go out on their own without a guide, they die. I doubt we’ll find Harold’s daughter.” I left a pause. “You’re nearly her age, ain’t you? Did you ever know her?”
“You speak like she’s dead for sure.”
“Most likely, she is. Did you know her?”
“No, but I guess I’m an optometrist.”
“Optimist,” I corrected.
“Whatever. She’s a piece of home. I feel like I’m old enough to take care of myself and I want to help people. Not everyone thinks that way, but we’re all one big family, aren’t we?”
“While I appreciate your thoughts on it, I doubt the daughter of a Boss would feel the same about you.”
“The Bosses protect us.”
The ruins began to swallow us whole as we ventured through the ancient pathways, broken asphalt and wreckage littered the wide-open street. A nearby, worn post named the path: Fif Aven. I’d gone there before and left most things untouched. Although there were a few open holes in the structures on either side—places where large entryways might’ve gone hundreds of years ago—they were mostly empty, black with shadow, and picked clean long long ago. Non ideal for an alcove of respite from the open air. We shifted down the street, my eyes darting from old signs and vehicles bent and rusted and abandoned. I motioned for Aggie to come closer as I sneaked through the rubble towards a wall where there were no entryways into the monolithic structures. We hugged the wall and moved with trepidation, sometimes climbing across overturned wreckage tiptoeing in our boots to muffle all sound. Every footfall felt like a scream.
“We should go on for another mile or so before we find a place to rest. I know one up the way.”
“Rest? Are you tired already? That’d burn what daylight we have,” said Aggie.
I shook my head, “The last thing you want is to be without your wits in a place like this. If you’re too tired to run, you’re too tired to live.”
“Aren’t they fast? If they catch you in the open, they’ll get you, won’t they?”
I thought of a lie then thought better, “Yes.”
“Oh.”
“If you see one. Don’t scream. Don’t even breathe. If they haven’t seen you, you still have a chance.”
The air grew wet and smelled of chlorine, and I snatched Aggie’s sweating hand in my own before grappling her into my arms; she was small and fought noiselessly for only a second before going still. I shifted us into a concrete doorway with a half-destroyed awning and whispered a quick hush as I glided us near a piece of wreckage.
I felt her tenseness leave and let go of her before she crouched alongside me in the shadowed cover of an old van that had, ages before, slammed into a nearby wall. The door of the vehicle had been removed and we angled in slowly, silently, crawling towards the rear of its cabin to peer from the broken windows, all the while hoping its old axles would not creak. Feeling her hand on my shoulder, I twisted round to look Aggie in the eye; terror erupted from her face in tremors while she mouthed the words: what’s that?
Simply, I put a finger to my lips and took a peek at the thing moving down Fif Aven. The creature was on the smaller side, closer to the size of a run-of-the-mill human, but twitched its muscles in a fashion that contested humanity. The thing walked upright on two feet, but sometimes used its hands to move like an animal. The most intricate and disturbing of its features, however, was its head. With vibrant green skin, with speckles of yellowed globules across the surface of its body (likely filled with creamy pus), with a mishappen balloon head that first opened in half with a mouth folded as an anus, dispersed a corrosive gas into the air while it deflated, then reinflated and quivered—the creature’s head moved as a sack filled with misty gas, wobbly and rubbery. It had no eyes, no other features besides that awful head.
We watched it go, stop, disperse its toxic mist into the air, then leave. I kept my eyes on it, nose and mouth tucked beneath the collar of my shirt, and glanced at Aggie to see she’d followed suit. The smell could choke.
Once I was certain the thing had decided to move well outside of earshot (not that it had ears) I motioned for Aggie to follow me out of the van, down the sidewalk, through an intersection of roads, and into a small opening in one of the smaller structures. Our feet were swift, and I was grateful she was graceful. We moved through the darkness of the structure, and I led with intimate knowledge of the place. There was a safe spot near the rear of the building. I reached out in the dark, felt a handle and pushed into a small closet and pulled Aggie through.
My lantern came alive and bathed us in a warm glow. Shelves across the small room were lined with various supplies I’d left. A few boxes of matches, oil for lanterns, a bedroll, blankets, and other miscellaneous baubles.
Aggie inhaled sharply, “I’ve never seen anything like that! It was. I don’t know. It was weird and gross. Little scary. Is that what they look like?”
I shifted around onto the floor and opened my pack while placing the lantern between my legs. “You’ve been up on the compound’s walls before, ain’t you?”
“Once.”
“Well, sometimes those things get closer to home. I don’t know what you’d call them. Some of the wall guys call them fart heads because when you shoot one in the head with a rifle it goes pfffft. Lotta’ that chlorine shit comes out of them too.”
“Do bullets kill them?” She asked while removing her own pack and fixing her legs alongside mine in the closet; it was a snug fit, but we managed. “Like really kill them or does it just empty those heads?” I could feel her shaking still.
“If you use enough, sure. Durable, but manageable if you have enough firepower. Those are small fries. Normally they wouldn’t sneak up on me though. Normally I’d smell them from far off before they ever get close.”
“Did I distract you?”
“Maybe.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“It was bound to happen, I reckon.” I plunged my hand into my pack and removed a water gourd, taking a deep swallow from it.
She started, “Have,” she stopped then started again, “I wish,” another stop came then she gave up on whatever she was going to say and laid her pack across her lap, seemingly searching for something within.
“We should rest up here for a while. At least until you’ve calmed yourself. Then we’ll set out. Maron said the girl went west. You should have that detail in case this trip happens to be my last. I figured we’d search the northern area first then make our way south, but—I hope she ain’t south.” I exposed the face of my compass.
A thought seemed to occur to Aggie while she removed her own water gourd and took a healthy swig. Sweat glistened off her brow in the dancing light of the lantern, its fire caught in her pupils while she thought. “You don’t actually think you’ll find her, do you?”
I grinned, surprised. “Why do you say that?”
“You think she’s dead already, so why do it?”
“Because they’ll believe me when I come back. I suppose we’ll return in two days, maybe three, then tell them we found her corpse.”
“Well why don’t we just stay here for the remainder?”
“We’ll look for her,” I said.
“But why?”
“It’s the right thing to do, I suppose. Maybe your optometristism is rubbing off on me.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” said Aggie, but I could see her sheepish grin. She held out a hand flat across her eyes and watched the nervous tremors in her fingers.
“Just nerves,” I told her.
“It’s a little exciting.”
“Now that’s a dangerous thought,” I took another swig from my water gourd before returning it to my pack. “Do you know where your parents hailed from?”
“Somewhere up north. Cold lands, but it was hard not to freeze in the winter up that way. Said they came down here years before I was born, hoping they could find a place to settle, but it was all the same. That’s what they said.”
“Never been further north than Golgotha, if I’m being honest. I’m from a place that once was called Georgia, but I’ve not been there in years.”
“Is it true what they told me, Mister Harlan?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is it the same everywhere? Is there no place around that’s not got those awful things?”
“If there’s a place like that, I haven’t seen it yet.”
“Mom used to read to me when I was a little kid,” she said, “I never could pick up reading, but she loved old books that were written before bad times and in those books, people talked about things like green fields that stretched on forever, and places where water streams were clear enough to drink from. Do you remember anything like that?”
I chuckled while continuing to rummage through my pack, “Geez, how old do you think I am? All that was a long time ago.”
“Yeah. You think it’ll ever be like that again?”
I shook my head. “Wishful thinking.” Then I found what I’d been searching for and removed it from my pack. A small tin of tobacco; I sat to rolling a makeshift cigarette then lit it off the lamp.
“That smells funny.”
“Yeah.”
We shared the cigarette in the dark closet, passing it back and forth; her lungs, not being used to the smoke, forced from Aggie a few whimpering coughs that she tried to hide in the hem of her shirt.
I ducked the tobacco out beneath my heel and began reorganizing my pack so that it was less lumpy. “I hope you’re ready for it again. Like I said, that one you saw was a small fry. There’s bigger things out there. Worse things.”
“Should I go, or should I just stay here?” She hadn’t reorganized herself at all and remained seated while I shouldered my pack and peered through a crack in the door.
“Of course, you should come with me. I know it, you’re scared.”
“What if I make it worse and I attract one of those things right to you?” She asked.
I reached down and she took my hand; I lifted her to her feet and we met eyes, “Aggie, you’re coming with me. You’ll do fine. I promise.” It was not often that I’d try and charm someone, but I put forth a smile.
She smiled back and I shut off my lantern before leading her gently through the dark, into the open street where midday sun caught the ruins shadows long and deep. West was where the girl had gone and I intended to follow. Though I’d seen no signs of survivors, I was certain that if they’d braved the previous night, they were likely about in the daytime. Certainly, things would be made easier if I could cup hands around my mouth and echo my voice through the dead city like a game of Marco-Polo. Aggie maintained both energy and quiet alongside me as we moved through the rubble, vaulting over wide-open holes in the street where I could spy the arteries of the dead beast (the old sewer network).
We conversed frankly and in whispers when we came upon a place in the road that was impassible on foot due to a collapsed structure and we stalked more like wounded deer in a forest than humans in a city; our shoulders remained slouched, our bodies were huddled near to each other, and we delved into the dark recesses of another building—possibly a market from old days when patrons congregated for frozen fish sticks. There were massive steel shelves and we took their avenues till we came upon an aperture on the far side of the dark building. We shifted over the broken glass of an old torn out window and landed firmly on an open street.
Then came a sound like firecrackers and I felt cold and Aggies eyes went wide in the dull evening glow of the sun.
“Someone’s brought a gun,” I said.
Before she could say anything, I hugged the wall on our side of the street and moved down the sidewalk, following the sound of those gunshots.
“Maybe it’s someone that could help us?” she tried.
I shook my head.
“What do you mean?” she whispered a bit louder.
“It’s bad news,” I said, then came to a full stop at a corner while another hail of bullets spat from some unseen weapon and echoed all around; we were getting much closer. “Have you ever seen a dead body?” I asked Aggie.
She shook her head, but then stopped. “I was the one that found my mom. She was stiff and cold.”
“She went peacefully?”
Aggie shook her head, “Flu.”
“Any blood?”
“No.”
“If you’re not ready for blood, you might not want to look.”
We rounded the corner to find a small blockade of burnt-out vehicles creating a barrier between us and the action.
Two men with assault rifles fired at a creature towering over them. The creature in question stood thirty feet tall on spindly legs like a spider, but each of its legs were tumorous and its muscles were strangely uneven and mushy; although an arachnid may have eight legs, this one moved sluggishly along on no less than twenty shambling stilts so that the rounded body where the legs met looked more akin to a sea urchin. Several of its long legs stood out on its sides to angle its body through the narrow corridor of the street, its whiskery feet pushing along the walls of buildings overhead. Its whole body stank of wet dog and brimstone.
The men—they looked like young militiamen of Golgotha—staggered in awe of the thing and attempted to walk backwards while reloading. Another spray of bullets erupted from their rifles, and they were empty and the men screamed and one of them tripped across some unseen thing on the ground.
Quick as a fly, one of the massive creature’s legs sprang onto the prone man’s abdomen. Their was a brief cry of pain and then—I felt Aggie pinch onto my shoulder with her thumb and forefinger and I glanced at her to see she’d chewed into the corner of her bottom lip for purchase in response to such a fantastical display of awfulness—the man had no skin, no clothes, he’d been stripped to runny red fibrous tissue with strips of white muscle that twitched in the presence of the air.
“Oh god please god!” screamed the other man while watching his comrade writhe in pain beneath the stalky foot of the skin-taker.
I shuffled lower among the arrangement of vehicles we’d taken refuge behind and me and Aggie breathed softly, glancing eye contact while sitting in the dirt. There wasn’t anything to say.
The sound of the spider creature removing the second man’s skin was slower, torturous, seemingly enjoyed; his screams did not end for too long. I fisted my hands into my jacket pockets then stared at the ground between my knees. I felt Aggie’s thin fingers reach into my pocket and it took me flinching to realize she intended to hold my hand. She was shaking and I was shaking, but she was good and did not scream. And we held hands while we listened to the thick trunks of the spider creature shift on away. And we didn’t move. And we were statues frozen like we belonged among the dead ruins. And we didn’t move. And then Aggie shifted to look before I’d gathered my feelings and motioned me on.
“What’s that?” she asked as simply as she’d asked the color of the sky.
“Bad.” I shook my head and looked for an opening in the blockade of vehicles.
Two meaty blood ponds marked where the men were and on approach, I covered my face in the collar of my shirt; Aggie lifted her forearm to her nose. The stench of the beast and of the viscera was strong in the air.
I examined the ground then found one of their rifles. Standard M16. The strap on the rifle was frayed to ribbons and the barrel of the gun appeared to be slightly bent, but salvageable. I handed the rifle to Aggie and she took it.
“What about no guns?” she asked.
“There’s no bullets left. Besides, it’ll be good to bring it back.” Examining what was left of the bodies, my eyes went away and into my mind where all things become ethereal and difficult to grasp; I looked without seeing and imagined a place where green grass was, a place like in the books Aggie’s mother read. No grass here. Just misery.
“Who were they?” she asked.
“The men?”
“Yeah.”
“They sent out a patrol looking for Boss Harold’s daughter. Looks like we’ve found it. Never should’ve sent them.”
“I want to go home,” said Aggie.
“Me too.” I blinked and shifted around to look at her through the red hue that’d gathered between us. Try as I might, the smile on my face almost hurt. “If you stick with me, you’ll be safe.”
We took up in one of the safehouses I’d developed over the past several years, a room hidden up two flights of stairs and large enough to host a party. In the lantern glow we heated rations—eggs and hearty bread with water-thinned weak tomato paste—then ate in relative quiet so that the only thing heard were our jaws over the food that tasted bitter; food always felt slimy and bitter in the ruins where the demons reigned supreme. Their stink was on us. Like sulfur, like rot, like sorrow.
I rolled us each a cigarette and we smoked while looking out through a brackish window that overlooked the black street. No lights in the darkness save blinking yellow eyes caught for moments in dull moonlight whose owners quickly skittered towards an alley.
“How don’t you get lost?” asked Aggie.
“I do sometimes.”
“You could’ve fooled me.”
“I mean, I know the ruins fine enough, I reckon, but then I feel like I’m drowning in it every time I come here.” I took a long draw from my cigarette, finished it, then planted it beneath my boot.
“Did you have parents?” she asked.
“Everyone has parents.”
“What were they like?” Aggie held her cigarette out from her like she didn’t actually want it, but just as I looked over at her, pulling my eyes from the window, she jammed it into her lips.
“They were fine. Just fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Yeah.”
“I wish it was better,” said Aggie.
“Don’t imagine there’s ever been a point in history where we didn’t want it to be better.”
“Maybe.” She coughed through smoke.
I moved to dim the lamp and sat atop my bedroll. “You should sleep.”
“Don’t think I could sleep. I’ll have nightmares.” She pitched the remainder of her cigarette.
“Can’t be worse than the real deal.”I shut off the lamp and we laid in pitch black.
“How do you do it?” she asked.
“Most of the time, it feels like I’m not.” I stared at the ceiling I couldn’t see. “Go to sleep.”
At daybreak, we ate bread and water then gathered our things before setting into that awful wasteland. Sand gathered around our legs in wisps as we trundled tiredly onto the street of the ruins and Aggie said nothing. There wasn’t a thought in my mind as my joints protested at us climbing over the wreckage of an overturned semi-truck; first I went, then I hoisted Aggie up by her lanky arms then we jumped onto the other side, moving less like scouts and more like hungover comer-downers.
Passing through the ruins, each step feeling more like a glide and less creaky, Aggie spoke from over my shoulder as I kept my eyes sharp on the buildings’ shadows, “I doubt we’ll find her,” she said.
“What happened to the optimism?” I shifted to catch her face; she seemed dejected, tired, perhaps disillusioned by the previous day’s happenings.
“I didn’t know there were things like that in this world. Like that spider thing. Those men didn’t stand a chance.”
I shook my head, and we continued moving. “There are worse things still over the horizon. Most assuredly there is. Now you asked me before why I come out here in these ruins, why I’ve trekked the wasteland, and I’ll give you the opportunity to ask it again—maybe I’ll have something different to say.”
“Okay. Why then?”
“Because,” I kicked at a half eroded aluminum can left on the ground, “Places like Golgotha, or even where I’ve come from, there’s nothing like the red sky or the open road. There are no ties, no people. There’s only the next step.”
She took up directly beside me as we turned onto a street corner where the sidewalk mostly remained intact. “Sounds stupid to me.”
“There it is then.”
“Sorry,” she muttered, then she spoke even more clearly, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just don’t get it.”
“It’s because I’m a dealmaker,” I said.
“That’s what Maron called you before, wasn’t it?” Aggie absently stared at the sky, at the edges of the high spires overhead that seemed to swallow us whenever clouds passed over the sun. “What’s that mean?”
“It means it’s harder for me to die.”
“Just luck, if you ask me.”
I clenched my jaw. “Probably, it is. Yeah.”
Then, with time, we came to the garden. A place in the ruins where greenery existed—even if the plants that grew from the soil were otherworldly and aggressive. There was the solitary sound of dirt catching crags in the structures as hard wind pushed silt through the narrow streets of the ruins, then there was also the sound of a flute, a flute made of bone and skin. The sound was sickly sweet, illusive, something no human could play even if they listened carefully and practiced for hundreds of years. There was the flute, the greenery, the clacking of hooves against old stone that’d risen from the earth much the same as the demons.
Aggie whispered, “What’s that music?”
I reached out my hand so that she would hold it and I tried to smile. “There are worse things still over the horizon.”
Her delicate scrawny fingers wrapped around my own and though I felt her trembling, she trusted me (I hoped she really did). I led her towards the garden, through a walkway with tall obelisks of flame on either side. “What is this place?” whimpered Aggie.
“If you are asked your name, tell it plainly without hesitation,” I said, “Do not leave my side. Do not run.”
“Where are we going?” her eyes scanned the garden, the flames dancing in the midday reddish light, the trees bent at impossible angles, the glorious green grass that looked cool and soft. I’d been in awe the first time I’d seen it.
I smiled, “Just like your mom’s old books. Green grass.”
The flute grew louder as we came closer and the hoof beats on stone shifted with enthusiasm.
There in the center of the garden stood Baphomet, ten feet tall, feminine midsection with goatish head and legs. It pranced with the flute to its mouth, and the tune resounded playfully all around. The creature danced across an area of stones in the center of the garden, a place where there were rock tables and chairs and sigils upon the ground—amid the open furniture, there stood a throne of human bones and near where Baphomet played its wily tune, there was a covered well, rope tautly hanging from its crank as if there was something heavy on the other end.
I smelled you coming, said Baphomet. Even as it spoke, it continued to play its flute without pause. Its muscular shoulders glistening with reddish sweat, its horns gloriously pointed and reveled in its merriment.
“Let us convene,” I said, mouth dry and feeling heady.
Convene?
“I’m here for the girl.”
I felt Aggie shift uncomfortably beside me, but I kept my eyes locked on Baphomet.
It seems you have one already.
“She came west, towards here two days ago. She was a runaway. You have her.”
Come, Harlan, come and dance with me. Baphomet did not stop its flute or its dancing.
I sighed. “I’m here to make a deal.”
Baphomet froze, allowing the boney flute to drop from its goatish lips. Its animal eyes casually switched between me then Aggie, before it turned to face us completely. A deal?
“Y-yes,” I nearly choked.
You’ve brought so little to bargain with. Baphomet shifted and walked to its throne to sit, clacking its long nails against the armrest. Unless. The creature allowed the word to hang against my brain like a splinter.
I lifted the hand holding Aggie’s. “A deal,” I tried.
Quick as a flash, Baphomet disappeared in a haze of black smoke then reappeared over Aggie’s shoulder. I dropped her hand and stepped away while the creature exhausted dew from its nose before sniffing Aggie’s ear.
Aggie swallowed hard, “Harlan?” she asked, “What’s it doing?”
“I’m sorry, Aggie.”
Baphomet took its hands through her short hair and inhaled sharply. A long tongue fell from its mouth and saliva oozed before it snapped its snout shut. The pleasure will be all mine.
“Harlan, let’s go—I want to go home.” Aggie’s tears rolled down her face in full while the large hand of Baphomet lightly squeezed her cheeks into a pucker.
You are home.
Baphomet took Aggie and moved her casually; her legs moved feebly, knees shaking.
Sit darling. Said Baphomet, motioning to its throne. Aggie took the chair and the creature snorted approval.
The demon moved jauntily to the well, where its strong arms began to roll the crank; with each rotation, the sound of cries grew closer. Until finally, all limbs pulled backwards in bondage, there dangled Boss Harold’s daughter; deep cuts and blood painted her mangled, distorted body. She’d been pushed into the well belly first, suspended by her wrists and ankles. I bit my tongue.
“Oh god,” I heard Aggie say. It sounded like a far-off girl from an unknown planet.
Baphomet lifted the girl from her bondage then sliced the rope with a razor-sharp fingernail. I hesitantly moved closer to the scene and removed my jacket.
RoyalRoad
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TL;DR I just about regret ever choosing homeschool after looking back on it.
I’m an 18 year old who is graduating in a matter of weeks and after all of it all I feel is sad. I’ve been in homeschool since the start of 6th grade and the only reason I even went to homeschool was because on one random morning at the start of 6th grade I decided I didn’t want to go and ended up asking for homeschool i’ve always had great grades just a lazy work ethic when it came to school with how free of a schedule homeschool gave me from 6th to 12th grade my life consisted of playing videos games and watching youtube with the occasional going out to family events. Now coming up on graduation that lazy work ethic caught up to me and I wasn’t eligible to have a traditional graduation walk with my peers because I was short on having enough credits to graduate in time for the graduation ceremony. Now I sit here waiting for my last class to be turned in during summer school so I can have a personal graduation with just me, school staff, and family because I have no other options for a graduation ceremony. Throughout every single year of homeschool everything was kind of just a blow by and everytime I saw people that were in in-person school I was never jealous of them or felt any bad way. I was never jealous of proms, school trips, homecomings, seeing others going to movies and going out with each other and having a lot of friends. But, now come graduation time because I even missed my own graduation ceremony I sit here everyday almost 24/7 if not 24/7 thinking about every single thing I missed. Including those proms, homecomings, friend groups, and going to see movies and etc. It now breaks me mentally knowing I missed every experience school basically had to offer from walking into those doors on the first day of high school to walking that stage being handed a diploma on the last day. I’ve cried over this many times and faced nothing but regret. Now everytime I see a social media post about graduating even if it’s not from this year it breaks me down and I start to not be able to control my emotions. I regret every single schooling decision i’ve made since 6th grade and what kills me a lot is the fact that in 2021 I tried to go back to in-person school but because my credits were once again behind because of my lazy work ethic I wasn’t able to get back into in-person school. So the fact knowing that I attempted go back and was unsuccessful makes me even hurt worse. Ever since this time of regret and sadness has started my family has been nothing short of worrying for my mental health and my parents both think i’m now depressed and I myself am even starting to think so as well. I have no clue where to start when trying to cope with this or even trying to move past it i’ve tried acknowledging my feelings i’ve tried venting and as much as venting to someone does help for the time being it doesn’t quite seem to get the job done emotionally for me. Another thing getting to me is that I obviously searched the internet to see how anyone else in my position of feeling like they missed everything has coped with this and I see a lot of people end up hating people that did experience those high school experiences and feel more than left out when people around them start talking about highschool memories and with my situation I just don’t wanna grow up hating graduations or anyone that did experience those high school experiences unlike me. I know infront of me I have a whole life and even an opportunity to experience college but as of right now all I can think about is missing all those experiences and I know in the future with the friends I end up making I myself with have to deal with that pain of never being able to relate to something as small as a graduation day. I just needed somewhere to get this off because it’s doing nothing short than a number on me.

Howdy l've been role-playing and writing in general for at least a decade. I am a Male who can play male and female characters. I have original ideas all over and a lot of Fandoms I'm in, which I'Il include below. I'm looking for OCXOC. Every character must be 18+ I have plenty of original characters and ideas along with fandom plots.
For original ideas, i like action, horror and a variety of other sub-genres. with depending romance. I do have a variety. I really like monsters and creepy things from the horror genre like vampires and Tentacles, and l even have my own idea set up in modern times dealing with vampires and hunters and all of that i also enjoy eldritch type horror. I also like old-school slasher films and space sci-fi horror similar to the Alien Franchise.
Now on fandoms! To get some other things down, l only play OC. The anime fandoms i like are Jojo's, Chainsaw Man, Naruto, JJK, Soul Eater, and more. I'm well versed in the Jojo's, Naruto, and JJK, and soul eater fandoms, though it's been a while since ï've stopped keeping up with soul eater. Other fandoms im in include Percy Jackson, Call of Duty, Marvel, and DC.
I tend to use character sheets to describe my character. These are very thorough and usually consist of names, backgrounds, and personalities, along with an in-depth look on appearance. More so on appearances, I don't usually use picture references, but I will if you would like me to.
The types of characters I write are the lone wolf type that has some sad past, which leads them to potentially go off the rails and gain a villain arc.I like all types of tropes, especially enemies to lovers or rivalry. I also really enjoy opposites attracted as a whole from either opposite personality or something else they would be opposites in. Enemies to lovers takes my heart, though.
I love seeing the characters go past theurge to ultimately hate each other and/or go past their usual way of disliking the others' lineage or upcoming I also love good written trauma moments. Like character death's, moments of pain and strife only to see the characters to deal and either be consumed or overcome them. I tend to either come up with original ideas for these scenes or use anime scenes as inspiration with narrative tweaks.
REQUIREMENT
I think my two biggest requirements are creativity and good pacing. Like any story, I feel these two things are very necessary to make a good story. Now, by Creativity, I don't mean you need to bring absolute craziness into the story, but abilities, character etc need to have some good genuine thought put into them. Along with that comes good pacing, which means I don't personally care about response length, and mine will vary from scene to scene accordingly.
I'm pretty much done if you have any questions. I'm here, and I'd love to hear back from you in chat the password is your favorite color. Supply it in chat only.

Hi guys I get uncomfortable pain in my upper back from sitting in just any random chairs and find it really hard to work on my computer.
I have been working out in the gym for 3 months focussing more on back and yet still there's only 25% improvement. I also saw a physiotherapist in my small city and he didn't do much but told me I have major kyphosis hump.
Is there any effective solutions to it? I spend a lot of time just lying in bed in a reclined position. Any solutions I find online are just not fast or effective enough and seems it would take me more than a year to see any significant improvement.
I used to have a better chair before which was helpful but still used to hurt, now it's just extremely bad. Any help would be appreciated. Thank you 🙏

A few months ago I (21F) started using honey pot sensitive foaming wash at first it was fine then a week later my pubic area developed a large patch of dry flaky skin and it went away and then it came back out of nowhere and ever since the patch has remained in the exact same area and it sheds larges flakes of skin every few days. I can’t tell if it’s just a coincidence or caused by the wash. I need to visit a doctor but i haven’t been able to due to me not having insurance I’ve tried not using it and it doesn’t go away. I use Vaseline, neosporin, cocoa butter, I’ve tried everything to make this go away and it doesn’t work, I exfoliate and it just comes right back thankfully it’s not itchy or painful just uncomfortable slightly, has anyone else experienced something similar to this with honey pot products or any feminine products!

As a kid I remember having UTIs often. I’ve always always have had to use the bathroom way more than people. I will hurt and have to pee and it will be just like a drop. But to me it feels like a full bladder. Everytime I’ve ever had an ultrasound done. They need your bladder full for certain types of ultrasounds. Well I would be hurting and needing to pee bad. And I will go and it’s not even close to full. But they say “everything looks normal.” I got pregnant and had my kid a year ago. I leak alittle pee now. I am still hurting. I can’t jump, or put pressure where my bladder would be cause it hurts and feels heavy. I had surgery back in February. They used a catheter in surgery to drain my bladder. I woke up from that surgery in so much pain from them drainer my bladder. I hurt to the point in tears. I hurt days after. I had a check up a month past from surgery and I talked with him and he prescribed Vesicare 5mg which made it hurt worse. So I stopped it. I don’t drink a lot no more through the day to keep me “dried out” cause I cannot stand the pain. Sodas hurt, water hurts worse than sodas. I don’t think food flares it up. Never got worse when eating it hurts all time all day long. No one around me understands the pain. He wants me to come in for a follow up. One of my family members think it’s IC. What do yall think?

A cabin remained half-rooved on its eastern face by pelts of dead things while the west slanted with a freshly cleared and smooth metal—it stood alongside a dugout stocked with crates; the structures overlooked an open plane of snow from their hilly perch and beyond that there were black jagged trees against the dreary yonder. Though the wind pushed as an abrupt force against the cabin’s walls, within the noise was hardly a whisper and the heater lamps along the interior walls of the large singular room offered a steady hum that disappeared even that.
The room had two beds—one double and another short cot pushed into a corner— and each was separated by a thin curtain nailed to the overhead support beams; the curtain caught in the life of the place, the gust from the heater lamps, the movement of those that lived there, and it listed so carefully it might not have moved at all.
Opposite the beds on the far wall, there stood a kitchen with cabinets and a stove, and the stove was attended by a thin young woman; she was no older than her second decade. In the corner by the stove just beyond where the kitchen counter ended, there sat a rocking chair where an old man nestled underneath pelts and a wool blanket, and he puffed tobacco and he watched the woman as she worked—she stirred the pot over a red eye and examined the liquid which lowly simmered. The man watched her silently, eyes far away like in remembrance. He absently pushed his gray mustache down with the forefinger and thumb of his right hand. Smoke came from the pipe in spider string and the man blinked dumbly.
Amid the place where pelts lined the floor between the far wall of beds and the far wall of the kitchen, there sat a young pale boy with a scrap of canvas rubbish in the center—he used the canvas strip, browned and filthy, like a bird in his play, spreading the strip out and letting it fall to the ground. “Fly,” whispered the small boy to the strip; each time he lifted the rubbish, it fell to the floor by his crossed legs, and he repeated this process.
The adults ignored the boy, and the woman swiped the back of her hand across her forehead then wiped her knuckles down the front of her blouse. “It’ll be ready soon,” she said.
The man nodded then drifted off in his long expression again, staring at the door which remained closed. Wind speed pitched and the door seemed to warp inward. Alongside the door, there sat a thick glass porthole which one could use to look out on the snow-covered landscape; the curtains before the porthole were mostly drawn but on late evenings, light splintered through ghostly.
Shrugging of his warm coverings, the man lifted from the chair and crossed the room to pull aside the curtains; he stood there in the light of the hole, painted dull in his gray thermals. He watched outside, scratched his receding hairline and when he moved to shut the curtain, he saw the boy had joined him there at the window. The man smiled, lifted the curtain, and angled from there, allowing the boy to peer outside; he puffed on his pipe heavily, holding the thing stiffly with his free hand and offering a glance to the woman by the stove who watched the pair from where she was.
“I can’t even see the road,” said the boy.
The man nodded, “Snow covered it.”
“It’s winter?”
Again, the man nodded.
Winter, with the mutated ecology of the planet, was nearly a death sentence in northern Manitoba. Those places just north of Lake Winnipeg were mostly forgotten or abandoned, but there still lingered a few souls that dared the relative safety of the frozen wasteland—sometimes curious vagabonds, sometimes ex-convicts, or slaves, sometimes even criminals upstarted townships where there was nothing prior.
“Pa, I see someone,” said the boy.
The man angled forward again, squinted through the porthole, and puffed the pipe hard so his face glowed orange then moved surprisingly quickly to hand the pipe to the woman; she fumbled with the object and sat it upright on the counter while he rushed to remove a parka from a wall hook by the door. He shouldered into the thing and then leapt to the place by the door where his boots were kept and slammed into them each, knotting them swiftly.
“What is it?” the woman’s voice shook.
They caught one another’s eyes. “Snowmobile,” said the man.
“One?”
He nodded and strapped his gloves on then moved to the latch of the door—before levering the thing, he took another glance at the boy.
“We’ll shut it behind you,” said the boy. The woman nodded.
The door swung inward with explosive force and the outside wind ripped into the warm abode. The man immediately shivered and stumbled into the snow, appropriately clothed save his legs where only his gray thermals clung to him.
After spilling into the boot-high snow, the man twisted around and aided the others in shutting the door behind him; he pulled as they pushed, and he listened past the howling wind for the latch on the opposite side of the door. He let go of the door and spun to inspect the far-off blinding whiteness—clouds of snow were thrown up in the wake of a barreling snowmobile; it headed towards him, first from between the naked spaces between the black trees then into the open white. The man threw up both his hands, waving the snowmobile down, long stepping through the arduous terrain till he came to the bottom of the perch that supported the cabin. His shouts of, “Hey!” were totally lost in the wind but still he shouted.
The snowmobile braked twenty yards out from the man and the stranger on the machine killed the engine, adjusted the strings around their throat and threw off the hood of their own parka to expose blackened goggles beneath a gray tuque; a wrap obscured the lower half of their face. The stranger took a gloved hand to yank the wrap from their mouth and yelled over the wind a greeting then removed themselves from the seat to land in the snow.
“Cold?” offered the man with a shout.
The stranger nodded in agreement and removed an oblong instrument case from the rear storage grates of the snowmobile then took a few careful steps towards the man.
“Dinner’s almost ready! I’m sure you’d like the warmth!” The man waved the stranger closer and the stranger obliged, following the man towards the cabin; each of the figures tumbled through the snow with slow and swiveling footwork. The man stopped at the door, supporting himself on the exterior wall by the porthole.
The stranger angled within arm’s reach, so the man did not have to yell as loudly as before. “Guitar?” The man pointed at the case which the stranger carried.
The stranger nodded.
“Maybe you’ll play us something.” he pounded on the metal of the exterior door, “It’s been some time since I’ve heard music.” The door opened and the two stumbled into the cabin.
The stranger shivered and snow dust fell from their shoulders as they deposited the guitar case on the floor by their feet—they moved directly to help the man and the boy close the door while the woman watched and held her elbows by the porthole.
With the door sealed and the latch secured, the man removed his parka so that he was in his boots and thermals.
The stranger removed their own parka, lifted the goggles to their forehead, and stepped to the nearby heater lamp to remove their gloves and warm their hands against the radiating warmth; the stranger was a young tall man with a hint of facial hair just below his nose and along his jaw. He wore a gun belt occupied on his right hip with a revolver. His fingers were covered in long faded scars all over. “Thanks,” said the young man, “Clarkesville far? I think I was turned around in the snow. I’m not so used to it.”
The older man went to his rocking chair to cover himself with the wool blanket; he huffed and shivered. “At least a hundred kilometers west from here. You’re looking for Clearwater?”
The young man nodded then shifted to place his back to the heater lamp so that he could look on the family fully. “I’m Gomez,” he said to them. The man in the rocking chair stiffened in his seat and craned forward so that his boots were flatly planted before him.
The boy offered his name first with a smile so broad it exposed that his front two teeth along the bottom row were missing entirely. “Patrick,” said the boy.
The woman spoke gently and nodded in a quick reply, “Tam-Tam.”
“Huh?” asked the man in the chair, “You’re unfamiliar of the area? Where are you from?”
Gomez stuffed his arms beneath his armpits. “Originally?”
The man motioned for his pipe and Tam-Tam handed it to him—puffed on the dead tobacco and frowned. He nodded at Gomez.
“I’ve been making my way across the U.S. Mostly western territories, but I heard it was safer in Canada—North Country. Fewer prowlers. Originally though? Far south. Zapatistas—joined their cause for a bit, but,” Gomez looked to the guitar case on the floor, “I was better at music than killing. Or at least preferred it.” The young man let go of a small laugh, “Do you know anything of the Zapatistas?”
The man nodded, stroked his great mustache, and craned far to lift matches from the counter. He lit the pipe, and it smoked alive while he shook the match and puffed. “Durango.” The man hooked a thumb at himself.
Gomez nodded. “I played there before. Good money. Good people.”
The man grinned slyly over his pipe, “What are the odds? All the way up here?”
“It’s a small world,” Gomez agreed, “It’s getting smaller all the time. What are you doing so far from home?”
“Same as you. It’s safer, right? Everyone said, but I’m not so sure.”
The boy interjected, “You play music?” Patrick neared the case which sat on the floor, and he leaned forward to examine the outside of the object; it was constructed from a very hard, shining, plastic material.
“I do,” said Gomez.
“I haven’t heard music before. We sing sometimes, but not music for real,” said the boy.
Gomez frowned. “How old are you?”
Patrick turned to the man in the chair. “Pa?”
“He’s six,” said the man.
Tam-Tam shook her head, removing the pot from the hot eye. “He’s almost six.”
“Almost six,” said the boy, turning back to look at the stranger.
Gomez shook his head. “Almost six and you’ve never heard music? Not for real?” He sniffed through a cold clog and swallowed hard. “I’ll play you some.”
Patrick’s eyes widened and a delicate smile grew across his mouth.
“I’m Emil,” said the man in his chair, “You offered yours, so my name’s Emil.” Smoke erupted from his mouth while the pipe glowed orange. The older man wafted the air with his hand to dispel the smoke.
Tam-Tam Shut off the oven and placed the pot of stew on the counter atop a towel swatch and she pressed her face to the brim and inhaled.
“Is it good, dear?” asked Emil leaning forward in his chair by the counter to question the woman; the woman lifted a steaming ladle to her mouth and sipped then nodded and Patrick moved quickly to the woman’s side.
The boy received the first bowl and then turned to look at the interloper, metal spoon jammed into the side of his jaw while he spoke, “Play some music.”
“After,” said Emil, placing the pipe on the counter to grab himself some grub.
Emil ate while rocking in his chair and Tam-Tam leaned with her back against the counter, sipping directly from her bowl without a utensil. Gomez took his own bowl and squatted by the front door, pressing his lower back against the wall for support; Patrick, eyes wide, remained enamored with the strange man and questioned more, “Pa said it's warm in other places, that it’s not so dark either. What’s it like where you come from?”
Gomez smiled at the boy, blew on the spoonful he held in front of his lips then nodded, “It’s dangerous, more dangerous.”
Patrick nodded emphatically then finished his food with enthusiasm.
The stranger examined the bowl while turning the stew in his mouth with his tongue; the concoction had long-cut onions, chunked potatoes, strange jerky meat. “Pelts,” said Gomez.
Emil perked with a mouthful, unable to speak.
“You have pelts all over—are you a hunter?”
Emil swallowed back, “Trapper,” he nodded then continued the excavation of his bowl.
“Elk?”
The old man in the chair hissed in air to cool the food in his mouth then swallowed without hardly chewing, and patted his chest, “Sometimes.”
Gomez stirred his bowl, took a final bite then dipped the spoon there in the stew and sat the dish by his foot and moved to kneel and open his instrument case.
“It’ll get cold,” protested Tam-Tam.
Gomez smiled, “I’ll eat it. Your boy seems excited. Besides, I’d like to play a little.” He wiggled his scarred fingers, “It’ll work the cold out of my hands.”
He pressed the switches of the case while turning it on its side and opened it to expose a flamenco guitar. Patrick edged near the stranger, and Gomez nodded at the boy and lifted the guitar from its case, angling himself against the wall in a half-sit where his rear levitated. Gomez played the strings a bit, listened, twisted the nobs at the head of the guitar.
“Is that it?” asked the boy.
Gomez shook his head, “Just testing it. Warming my hands on it.”
In moments, the man began ‘Paloma Negra’, singing the words gently, in a higher register than his speaking voice would have otherwise hinted at. Patrick watched the man while he played, the boy’s hands remained clasped behind himself while he teetered on his heels and listened. Emil rocked in the chair, finished his meal, and relit the pipe. Tam-Tam listened most absently and instead went for seconds in the pot; she turned with her lower back on the counter and watched the man with the guitar.
There was no other noise besides the song which felt haunted alongside the hum of the heater lamps. Once it finished, the boy clapped, Emil clapped, Tam-Tam nodded, and Gomez bowed then sat the guitar beneath the porthole by the doorway.
“Thank you,” said Gomez.
“That’s quite good,” said Emil. As if spurred on by the music, the man gently rotated a palm around his stomach and rocked in his chair more fervently, “Where’d you learn to play like that?”
“All over,” said Gomez, “I like to pick up songs where I find them. Sometimes a fellow musician has a piece I like, almost never their own anyway, so I think we all share in some way.”
“Poetic,” offered Tam-Tam.
Gomez caught the woman’s eyes, nodded. “I guess it is.”
“Where’d you find that one?” asked Emil, “I heard it a few times but never this far north. It’s like a love song,” he offered the last sentence to the others in the room.
“You’re right—sort of,” Gomez placed his body against the wall by the door, glanced at the bowl of food he’d left on the floor then sighed and bowed again to lift it—the interloper tilted the bowl back on his bottom lip and sipped then casually leaned with the utensil against his sternum. “Somewhere in Mexico is where I heard it first. Maybe same as you.”
Patrick examined the guitar under the porthole, put his face directly up to the strings and peered into the hole in the center of the instrument; his expression was one of awe. He quickly whipped from the thing and stared at the guitarist and opened his mouth like he intended to ask a question. The boy stared at the scars on the interloper’s hands. “What’s those from?”
Not understanding the direction of the question, Gomez looked down to examine his fingers then shifted on his feet and nodded. “Mechanical work.”
Emil continued rocking in his chair and gathered the wool around his throat. “Where did you do that?”
“Zapatistas,” Gomez sipped from the bowl again and chewed, “It’s work I was never good at.” The young man shrugged.
“I wasn’t going to pry, but seeing as the boy’s asked, I’ll push more some if it’s not impolite.”
“It’s not,” Gomez agreed.
“That’s a lot of deep scarring for mechanical work,” Emil rocked in his chair, puffed, raised a furry eyebrow, “What stuff did you work on?”
“You want to know?”
Emil nodded, withdrew the pipe from his mouth and rolled his wrist out in front of himself then slammed the mouthpiece into his teeth.
“I worked with the army, but before then—well there was a boy, a little Chicano lad taken into one of the El Paso houses way back and all the girls that worked there loved him, but his mother perished, and no one even knew who she was. That was, oh,” Gomez tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, “Twenty-two years ago or a little more.”
“Your hands?” asked Tam-Tam.
Gomez smiled warm and continued, “Well this little boy was given a name, but what’s in a name?” He seemed to pose the question to Emil who shook his head like he didn’t understand.
“I don’t understand,” said Emil aloud.
The younger man continued with the tale, “There was this boy, but he was taken over the Republican border by a group of desperados calling themselves Los Carniceros,” Gomez angled down to look at the boy, “Patrick, do you know what a desperado is?”
The boy shook his head, his expression one of total bafflement and a twinkle of nervousness. “A music-people?”
Gomez laughed heartily while Emil shuffled under his wool blanket—the older man stopped rocking in his chair, craned forward so his elbows rested on his knees and his thermals showed as the blanket slipped around his armpits. The hum of the heater lamps continued beside the silence.
“Los Carniceros are a group of fancy criminals that hail out of Veracruz, but they have networks all over. San Luis Potosi.” Gomez’s eyes locked with Emil’s, “Durango. They have connections with the cattle industries all over Mexico. Their name’s tongue-in-cheek, but that shouldn’t fool anyone—they are just as ready to butcher a man as they are a cow. They control the food; they control the politicians; they control trade.” Gomez shook his head. “I’ve gotten carried away. This is no history lesson. There was a boy taken into Los Carniceros territory. He was bought—I’m glad that never happened to you, Patrick—boys that are bought are never kept good for long. So, they brought Johnny-Boy, that’s what they called him, into their inner circle and they used to have Johnny-Boy fight dogs in a ring for the amusement of Los Carniceros’s officers. Sometimes they gambled on the whether the boy would die, but he never did.”
Tam-Tam shivered aloud and rubbed her biceps with her hands and shook her head. “What’s that have anything to do with your hands?”
“You’re right,” said Gomez, “I guess what I mean is when you spend time fighting dogs, they bite—they bite hard, and they break skin that needs to heal. But just as well as dogs bite, so too does the boy that is raised as a dog.” Gomez shrugged.
“Quite the story,” said Emil; he’d refrained from rocking in his chair and stayed very still. “You fought dogs?”
“I did. It’s been a helluva long time, but you know I did, Emil Vargas.”
The older man took a long drag from his pipe then cupped the thing in his hands while his vision drifted around the room. “Have you come to take me back?” asked the older man.
The interloper shook his head.
Emil’s gaze drifted to the faces of Patrick and Tam-Tam. “Will it just be me?”
Gomez shook his head, “I can do you first. You won’t need to see it.”
“What?” clamored Tam-Tam, “What the hell is going on?”
Patrick stumbled away from the stranger, clung to Tam-Tam, and said nothing but began to let out a low sob.
Emil took one last drag and tossed the pipe to the counter. “It wouldn’t help to beg?”
“Would it stop you?” asked Gomez.
“Probably not,” nodded the older man, “Me first then.”
Gomez withdrew his revolver and Tam-Tam let go of an awful shriek as Emil’s head jerked back in his chair to the bullet entering his chest. At the second bullet, Emil’s limbs shot out from him like he was a star.
Patrick and Tam-Tam gathered around each other, shuffled to the counter of the kitchen.
Juan Rodriguez—that was the interloper’s real name—took a step forward and fired the gun again and Tam-Tam struck the counter and blood rained down from her forehead; to perhaps save Patrick, she shoved the boy away in her death spasm. The boy stumbled over onto his knees and when he raised his head, Juan towered over him.
Patrick, almost six, shook violently and wept.
“Turn around,” said Juan.
Patrick turned away from the interloper, stared at the corpses of his mother and father.
Juan fired the revolver one last time and the boy hit the floor; the man holstered the pistol and wiped his cheek with a sleeve. His face was touched with blood splatter; he searched the floor, found a scrap of canvas, bent to snatch it. He wiped his face clear with the canvas and sighed and tossed the scrap away.
The cabin was entirely quiet, save the hum of the heater lamps, and Juan set about clearing the bodies from the cabin, first by opening the door. He chucked the corpse of the boy into the snow by the door, piled his mother alongside him, and fought with the heavier corpse of Emil till Juan fell into the snow beside the others. He pulled himself from the thick storm, staggered through the whistle-blow wind and fought through grunts and mild shouts to close the door.
Upon spinning with the closed door at his back, he saw several of the heater lamps had gone out in the wind. Shivering, teeth chattering, Juan found Emil’s matches on the counter and set about relighting each of the heater lamps which had gone out; he did the act automatonlike, a person driven by force but no lively one.
Through the harsh outside wind, which sounded like breathing against the boards, he hummed a tune to himself that manifested into him whistling a light tune—the River Kwai March—then rifled through the cabinetry of the kitchen, went through the footlocker by the double bed and dumped the contents onto the floor; he kicked the personal affects—papers, trinkets—across the boards. Among the things, he found a shiny glass-reflective tablet, lifted it, pocketed the thing into his parka, then kept looking for what else might catch his attention. He found a small square picture, frameless, face down and lifted it to his eyes then angled over to the nearest heater lamp with it pinched by the corner. The photo was of a woman too young to be a mother—she was more of a girl, really; she carried a fat-bellied infant on her hip in one arm and with the other, she held up a dual-finger peace sign. Juan stared at the picture in complete silence then chuckled at the blank expression of the baby, then threw the square photo like a shuriken across the room; it thunked against the wall and disappeared behind the double bed, never to be seen ever again.
As it went full dark outside, the chitter sounds of outside became prevalent, and Juan went to the porthole by the door, pulled the curtains tightly closed and offered no response to the alien sounds which culminated around the walls of the cabin. It was delirium incarnate—abyssal noise which swallowed even the blizzard howl. Things moved outside and Juan went to the kitchen again, looked over the cabinet doors, opened and slammed them; he huffed with exasperation and moved to the pot where the cooled stew sat and began to eat directly from there with the ladle. His far-off eyesight glared into the dimness of the heater lamps, his face glowing by them, and once he was finished with the pot, he chucked the thing and watched the leftover contents splatter into a wild configuration across the single room’s floor.
Only after removing his boots, he fell onto the double bed, removed his revolver from the holster and placed it there on the well-maintained bedding beside himself; he slept with his parka draped over his torso.
He did not open his eyes for the insect noises of the outside.
In the morning, he promptly wiped sleep from his eyes, rebolstered his weapon, and stared across the room with a blank expression. In a moment, spasm-like, he removed the tuque he slept in to reveal a head of black hair, and scratched his fingers over his head. He replaced the tuque, went to the porthole; upon swiping away the curtains, he stared into the white expanse, the black forest beyond—he took the sleeve of his thermal shirt and wiped across the porthole’s glass where condensation fogged.
Knee-high snow hills spilled inward as he opened the door, and he kicked the snow out lazily and stomped into the mess while shouldering his parka on; the hood flapped helplessly till he stiffly yanked it down his forehead. The wind was entirely mild, still. Through goggled eyes, he examined around the entrance, but there was no sign of the corpses—he waywardly stomped through the heavied snow in the place he’d deposited them and there was nothing below the surface.
Juan stumbled through the high snow around to where the dugout stood alongside the cabin and traced a smallish hill where he crawled for a moment to gather his footing. Snow had fallen in through the high apertures of the dugout, but there was a small door-gate attached between two of the pillars which held the slanted roof of the dugout. After fighting the door-gate out, he squeezed through, removed a flashlight from the inner pocket of his parka and settled down the few steps which led into the earth. A bit of morning light spilled in through those spaces of the wall along the high points, just beneath the roof, but Juan held the flashlight in his mouth and began examining the mess of snow-dusted containers.
Along the lefthand were sacks, well preserved if only for the weather; he kicked a tobacco sack—there was a crunch underfoot. Opposite the piled sacks of grains, vegetables, and dried meats were many metal crates, each one with hinges. At the rear of the dugout were a series of battery banks which seemed to hum with electricity.
He stomped each of the sacks, cocked his left ear to the air and began making a mess of the dugout. One crate contained expensive wooden boarding, he tipped this over into the little hallway created by the goods and carefully examined the contents and then he went to the next. The next crate was bolts of fabrics and twine and he sneered, shook his head.
The interloper took a moment, fell rear-first on the sacks, pulled the flashlight from his mouth and pawed across his forehead and throat; he sighed and sat quiet—in a moment, he was back at the search, more furiously. He rocked his head backward, so the parka hood fell away; sweat shined his face. There were condensed snares and jaws and there was a small crate of maple-infused wine; Juan froze when holding one of the bottles up to the higher natural light. He grimaced but set the box of bottles by the entryway, removing one which he slid into his parka. The Clarkesville Winery stamp was impressed on the metal wall of the package.
After several crates of canned goods, his movements became more sluggish and Juan came upon a crate that seemed to be more of the same, but whenever he tipped it over for the contents to spill out, a smaller, ornate wooden box fell out and he hushed, “Fuck,” while hunkering into the mess to retrieve the box. Some old master carved Laelia Orchids into the grain alongside stalkish invasive sage; the wood—Acacia—was old but well kept. The bronze hardware shone cleanly enough.
The container was no longer than his forearm and he briefly held the thing to the high-light and moved to the entrance and fell haphazardly onto the strewn and half-deflated frozen tobacco sacks.
He opened the small box’s latch and flipped it’s top open and smiled at the contents and quicky slapped the box shut.
In a flash, he unburied his snowmobile with his hands, harnessed his guitar case to its rear, then trailed through the snow gathered against the side of the cabin, using the exterior wall as support with his hand. He came to the backside of the structure, tilted his head to gaze again over at the dugout then swiveled to look at the thick metal tank buried in the ground and marked by a big hump in the snow. Juan moved to the tank, brushed off the snow with gloved hands, nodded to himself. Quickly, he returned to the tank with a hand-pick and bucket he snatched from the dugout. With a few swings, fuel spilled through the punctures he’d created; he placed the bucket beneath the handmade spigots to catch the fuel—in seconds the bucket sloshed full as he lifted it and wavered round to the front of the cabin where the door remained open.
He doused the innards of the structure with the bucket and whipped the object against the interior wall then removed the matches from the counter. Standing in the doorway, he lit the awaiting inferno; the heat explosion pushed him wobble-legged outside while he covered his face from it; he hustled to the snowmobile without looking back.
The vehicle came alive, and Juan trailed across the plane he’d used the day prior. As the snowmobile met the sparse black tree line, the flames too met the fuel tank at the back of the cabin; a heavy eruption signaled, and blackbirds cawed as they trailed across the milk-blue sky.
Among the rush of trees there was a translucent figure and Juan roundabouted the snowmobile. Upon edging to the place of the forest, still very near the trapper’s cabin, Juan caught sight of a stickman among the wide spaced trunks. The noises exhausted from its face the same as a cicada’s tymbal call. Juan killed the engine, removed his pistol, leapt from the snowmobile.
The stickman fought in the snow with something unseen, bulbous-jointed limbs erratically clawed against the ground; it seemed more crab than humanoid. Juan approached with the pistol leveled out in front of himself. The stickman, a North Country native, took up great armfuls of snow as it tumbled to the ground, slanted onto its feet, then tumbled over again. It was caught in a bear trap and as the thing fought against the jaw, its leg twisted worse and worse, and the cicada call grew more distressed. Its hollow limb, smashed and fibrous like a fresh and splintered bamboo shoot, offered no blood at the wound.
“Huh,” said Juan, lowering the gun to his side. He shook his head. The stickman called to him.
The interloper returned to his snowmobile and went west.
Archive

Episode 1 - The Killer
Based on Squid Game and some other stuff. Ignore errors please.
July 14th, 2012. Eric Williams runs out of his apartment, puking. He had gotten drunk with his friends at a bar the night prior, and he regretted it. He eventually stops puking, and stumbles to his apartment, due to his hangover. Inside, he looks around at the mess from the party, then at the helmet on display. The helmet was of his deceased friend, who lost their life in the army. Eric goes to his room to get ready for his work at the military camp. He’s soon to go outside, but he notices an envelop on his table. It was not there before. He opens it, and sees a keycard inside, bearing the number 16 on it. A sticky note is attached reads the address that he must go to. It’s an underground subway. He immediately assumes that it is just his friend Andrew playing a prank on him. He grabs his keys, and gets in his car. He drives to 7/11, where Andrew works, and arrives at the 7/11. He enters and greets Andrew, and hands him the card asking why he left it. Andrew’s confused, and opens the envelope, seeming surprised at the keycard inside. Eric asks why he’s so confused. Andrew stares at it, before reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a key card with the number 39 on it. Eric grabs it, and asks that if it wasn’t him, then who else could it be. Andrew asks if his card also had the subway location also, and Eric nods. Andrew responds that they should go there to check it out, and Eric agrees. They make a plan to meet up at the subway at 2:00 p.m, and eventually, the time hits 2:00 p.m. The two make it down into the subway, and see nothing but an empty train. They both carry guns to ensure their own safety. Eric, using sign language, asks Andrew if they should check inside the empty train, and Andrew nods yes. They approach the train, but as they stand beside it, contemplating entering, two masked men knock them unconscious. They drag them into the train, as it leaves to the true destination. Eric awakes, and Jemez up to see a navy blue room with dark grey floor and ceiling tiles. He’s confused, as he no longer has any form of contact with the outside world. He looks down at his chest, and sees his key card with the number 16 hanging from a necklace, and upon looking at everyone else, everyone else has it too. He heads over to the center of the lobby, seeing other people. He looks down, and sees an icon board with 40 people’s icons on it. He notices Andrew’s number 39 on it, and Andrew notices him. They meet up again, and Andrew asks him if he knows what’s going on. Eric says he was going to ask the same thing. Before they can say anything else, 7 men walk in. They have no form of identity disguise, and nothing over their faces. They wear black clothing across the entire rest of their bodies. They greet them, and tell them that the 40 “test subjects” will be playing a set of 7 “games.” They are confused of why they are called test subjects, but receive no answer but a glare from the man in the middle. They tell them that if they win, they shall receive 10 million dollars for every game they win, and if they want to leave, they could do so now. The prize spikes their attention, but some seem suspicious at the sudden introduction of money. They tell them they have a few minutes to prepare, and leave. #01 sits in his bed, clearly not listening to he guards, and reminisces about his previous encounter with the games. Andrew talks to Eric, and sees 01 sitting alone. Eric sees him too, and the two go to him. He notices them, it he keeps his composure. Andrew is the first of the three to speak, saying hi to him. He responds with hello, and Eric asks why he’s sitting alone, and he just shrugs. Andrew introduces himself and Eric to him, and 01 introduces himself as Zachariah, or Zac for short. The three talk for a bit, until the intercom cuts on, and orders all subjects to enter the first door, and enter the room inside. They all go the hallway, and make their way to a room resembling an alley. #10 looks around, then realizes that this is an escape room. The intercom cuts back on, and says that if they don’t leave in 5 minutes time, then a door will open, and they will all be “punished.” Zac puts his hands in his pocket, and finds a key inside, which reads “exit.” He chooses not to acknowledge it, and hides it. #10 tells everyone to look around, and another subject finds a note, almost instantly. #10 goes over to it, takes it, and reads it aloud. It’s a riddle, in which the answer is fire. #10 is disappointed that it’s so easy, but immediately finds a trash can on fire. #06 knocks over the trash can, and stomps out the fire. #10 thanks him, and grabs the hot key. He reads the number 2 on the key, and tells everyone to look around for something with the number 2 on it. #15 finds something with it after a few seconds, and shows #10. Zac contemplates whether or not he should help, but he chooses not to. #10 opens the locked box, and reads the note inside. “Looking Below From Above.” #38 realizes immediately that it has to do with a balcony, and sees the mannequin on a balcony staring at the players. He parkours up to the balcony, and grabs a key from his hand reading “fake.” He tells #10, who is stumped. The clock goes down from 3:29 to 0:00. Everyone is surprised, and suddenly the punishment door open, and out walks out with a gun and a knife. #10 walks to the front, hoping to defend the others, but the man pulls out a knife, and stabs #10 in the throat. He falls to the ground, and he person behind him, #28 is shot dead. Subjects begin to panic, and several die. Zac immediately goes to the door, opening it, and running out. Several of them escape, and Eric is the last one. He enters, but his foot is caught by the door. He runs through, but his foot gets dislocated, as Andrew tries to drag him out. He limps away with Andrew, as the subjects inside are locked in room. The killer removes his mask, revealing a terrified young man. He’s shot in the head by the “security camera”, and so are the others. The balcony guy is killed as well.
Should I release the rest?

I have been having hip issues for almost 4 years.
It all started in 2020 when I went to basic training for the Army, where everyone is told to never go to medical because you'll be at basic longer. "Wait for AIT!" is the most common sentence you will ever be told when dealing with anything regarding injury. Well, I did wait for AIT (advanced individual training) and I am not sure how I feel now.
I knew I was going to be at AIT a while given how long my job schooling was, and that was not including COVID factors with a waitlist of people wanting to get into classes. The first time I went to get it checked out, it went like this:
Me: Yeah, I've been having hip pain since about halfway through basic.
Doc: *presses on my hip and has me move it* Yeah, I think it is just the hip flexor pain. You'll be okay if I put you on this profile for a bit and then you can do regular things.
SPOILER ALERT: I could not do regular things.
I spent my 5 and a half months there doing moderated physical training and still having extreme hip pain until it was almost time to go home. Being Army National Guard, if you get injured while you're on active orders, they want you to have paper work and proof you tried to "fix it" in case it comes up in the future. So, I went back to medical with about 2 weeks left in my time at the lovely Fort Huachuca. This time it goes like this:
Me: I've had hip pain since middle of basic training which was about 5ish months ago.
Doc: tells me the same thing as the last one, but this time gives me a referral to physical therapy to prove that I tried to "fix it."
Say less.
A couple days later, I go to PT and the physical therapist is in shock. Just by me answering some more questions and him properly examining my hip, he says to me, "You should have been in here months ago." which appalled 19 year old me. By this point, two doctors had told me I was fine and my mom was admonishing me for not being able to do everything because she said I was "trying to get out of work." Yeah, because I joined the Army to get out of work. At this point, everything regarding care was going to have to happen while I was home though.
The first thing I did when I got home was get my COVID vaccine and book an appointment with PT after a phone call with my primary doctor. I did PT from end of May 2021-November 2021, and kinda gave up on feeling pain free. I thought it was a me problem and it was my fault. In hindsight, this is dumb. I was told by my physical therapist that he was very concerned with how I reacted with dry needling and PT because a "19 year old athletic girl should not be having issues like this." and we might want to consider an MRI in the future. I agree, Sir. My family did not, and I sucked at advocting for my health, so I just suffered.
I kinda just accepted my fate because no one was with me in stating that this was a severe enough issue to pursue other options. Believe it or not, it took me getting diagnosed with anxiety and depression a year later, as well as therapy to finally put my foot down. Shoutout to my therapist fr. Although, it took me over a year of therapy and messing around with the correct medication to finally get to the point where my mental health was decent, and it was time for physical health.
During my "wow, I am not doing well" era of 2023, I started getting back pain and my hip would regularly pop out of place. My parents said to go to a chiropractor and that was something I had not tried yet, so yeah let's try it. He was a super nice man, but he was out of his depth and I think he was nervous to tell me that he could not help me. We did X-rays, found out that a lot of past injuries of mine were not as minor as I thought they were (seriously, please rehab any injury no matter how small you think it is, christ), and I went to the chiropractor almost every day. For a month. Yeah. That got tiring real fast.
So, you may be thinking to yourself, "OP, what was your breaking point?" Well, it happened. I went swing dancing a couple week ago, and I was in the most excruciating pain the next morning. I booked an appointment with a doctor immediately.
For context, I am in a different state than I was when I came back home, so I am going through a whole new health system, and so far people listen to me.
I got X-rays (again). Doctor informed me that a hip impingement was shown on this. I immediately got scheduled for an MRI and MRA which in on the 18th (finally!) I am also getting some injections to see if it truly is how bad we all think it is. I started physical therapy again because what do I have to lose and it will make my insurance happy. My physical therapist was flabbergasted by everything and told me that he can tell from the one day of working with me, I have joint damage, muscle damage, and most likely nerve and tissue damage. It feels good actually being told what is going on.
So, here I am. Almost 4 years of pain, and I am finally getting the ball rolling because I got tired of being in pain. I'm 22F and I can't workout like I used to or go dancing. I've never had surgery for an injury before. Honestly, I'm terrified. However, I know that no matter what shows on the MRI/MRA, I am getting that surgery. I just can't live like this anymore.
TLDR: I've had hip issues for almost 4 years and have tried multiple things/seen multiple doctors with varying degrees of success. However, now I am finally advocating for myself and getting the help I need. :)
I think I will update this as I go through this journey, so if you want to read more of my yapping, you can. Or ignore me.

I am either so deeply entrenched in pain that I sob on the floor asking why, or I am a shell of a person who reflects my outside environment. I flip back on forth randomly and suddenly, and for the few people who have witnessed this it terrifies them. I can understand why, it probably looks terrifying. Like I’m some fucking insane villain.
I can’t explain it well, but my presence often carries with it burden. My whole life there has been something about me that people inherently don’t like and I don’t know what it is. To this day, I try so hard to fit a specific image depending on who I’m with, I fear I have never developed who I am. Social situations are filled with fear because I need to act a certain way. I need to be a certain image. I cannot let them know the fear in my mind and I cannot act awkward or draw too much attention.
I have Tourette’s & ADHD, so this adds another layer. I’m also a transgender man, which comes with its own struggles, just cause you know it couldn’t get any worse.
I hate who I am, I hate the masks I wear, I hate this world, I hate this life.

Hello! I’ve (24f) been looking at this thread since I found out I needed surgery and all these posts helped me go into my surgery less nervous. I hope this post can help others feel less worried!
I had scheduled my surgery last Wednesday, after being in the ER the prior Thursday. I was afraid I was moving too fast to get it removed, many of the people in my life were worried about this as well. The surgeon had essentially told me I was a ticking time bomb and it was only a matter of time before I had another gallbladder attack.
Yesterday I went in and it would’ve been a lot smoother if my veins wanted to good, but they didn’t. Lol. But after an hour (7 sticks, 4 nurses, an ultrasound, and two vein finders later) they were able to get my iv in. This actually helped keep my mind off the surgery until it was time. About 30 minutes later I was saying bye to my mom and they were taking me back. The medicine they gave me made me feel really loopy and I was talking and joking around with the people in the OR. Once they gave me the anesthesia, i was out.
When i woke up, i was moved back to my pre op room. I don’t remember too much about my post op time. I remember talking slow and just being extremely tired. According to my mom, I was extremely nauseous before and after surgery so they kept me in recovery for an hour and a half. They also mentioned to her that if i had not come in, i would’ve been in the ER by that night having emergency surgery due to how inflamed my gallbladder was.
With all this being said, i feel pretty decent. The pain i have is 100% better than what I was having with my gallbladder. Ive been a bit nauseous but not too bad, just trying to eat this that are kinda bland right now (yogurt, mashed potatoes, etc). If you’re on the fence about getting yours removed, i say do it because at any point it could worse and bd surgery is so much easier when you don’t have vr any infections!! You’ll also have an easier time leading up to the surgery if you don’t have pain in the butt veins like I do!!

I was with friends and they said that they use their tongue to pronounce "L".
I realized that I was using my throat. I would clench my throat (low) and release it to produce the sound. My tongue is stationary, relaxed at the bottom of my mouth and actually a bit back from my teeth.
Is this a known way to pronounce "l" in English or am I crazy?
If I try to move my tongue like they do when I do it, it sounds like nonsense.
My friends were American and Canadian, and they all did it the same with their tongues. I'm Canadian but with an American accent living in the US and it sounds the same according to them. My mom and brother both use their tongues to their teeth like everyone else, so I'm not sure why I do it this way.
Any thoughts? ChatGPT tells me I'm weird.