I’m starting to fall behind on this.
A new POV today.
You now get to see the thought process of our resident little MAN!
I hope you enjoy.
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Memory Transcription Subject: ”Captain Lefty”, Manliest of Lads, wielder of the No-Horny Bat
Date[standardized human time]: December 7, 2136
I was happy to see that I wouldn’t have to hurt anyone if I wanted to be a father in my future. The last thing that I want is to hurt whoever my mate ends up being.
Anyway, I was now the wielder of the No-Horny Bat. It has become my sworn oath to eliminate the corruption of lust wherever it may spread. It was my duty to prepare everyone for the trials of life and bonk away all of the badness that would prevent them from being good people.
I liked my new job.
Anyway, it was getting late, but the soldiers had invited me over for something. I didn’t know why, but I did know that it was probably a celebration of some sort.
I came out to the clearing outside the building and saw the soldiers setting up some boxes.
“There he is…” one of them, a male with noticeably pale coloration, spoke up as he noticed me. “The man of the hour.”
I smiled slightly at the attention.
“Have you ever had soda before?” He asked. I shook my head. “Well, it’s some pretty good beverage. We’ve got multiple different kinds for you to test out.” He opened a box and pulled out a brightly colored branded can.
I took the ice cold can and watched as he opened his own can. I did the same, and took a sip.
The cold drink was acidic, with a very clearly artificial flavor, but it was also quite tasty.
“It’s good.” I said.
“Alright. So, your name’s Lefty?” He asked.
I stood there, slightly confused. “Yes?”
The soldier nodded. “It’s a good nickname, but I’m not sure if it’s quite fitting.”
“What do you mean?” I asked curiously.
“What you did and what you said earlier have marked you as deserving of something more… grandiose.” He explained.
“I was… just being a decent person. There isn’t much else to it.” I said, honestly.
“That’s our point.” I heard a female soldier, one with her hair pulled into a ponytail, say. “Your altruism is worthy of being an inspiration to every man, woman, and child in the entire universe.”
I’m an inspiration for the entire universe?
I nodded in understanding.
“You, my friend…” another female soldier, with what seemed to be a rather… robust build, at least in comparison to other human women, walked in. “Are a chad hatchling. A chadchling, dare I say.”
…
…
…
That was one of the worst puns I’ve ever heard. I could tell that the other two soldiers thought the same way.
I laughed anyway, as I knew that it was made in good spirit. The other two soldiers followed my example.
I really was an inspiration.
“Well… what names do you think would fit?” I asked
“What about Odin?” The ponytailed soldier suggested.
“Odin?” I was curious as to what that name was supposed mean.
“He’s the Norse god of death and wisdom, and is known to have lost one of his eyes in his pursuit of knowledge.” The soldier explained.
The humans had gods? This was exciting!
Most religious practices were destroyed by the betterment in an attempt to reduce weakness. And now, I was probably the first Arxur to learn about a completely new pantheon!
“You do realize that, in the actual myths, Odin was just a bit of a jerk, right?” The pale soldier commented.
“He’s still a pretty cool guy when he isn’t up to something. I bet that he’d be proud to be the namesake of this child.” The ponytailed soldier replied.
I took a sip of my soda. “Well, while we’re figuring out my name, would you like to tell me your names?” I asked.
“Oh, where were our manners this whole time. I’m Caden.” The pale man spoke.
“Martha.” The ponytailed lady said.
“Emily.” The robust woman said.
As I looked at Emily, I realized something about her. I walked up to her a bit.
“You were the one Sarep gestured to in comparison to Olivia. Are you alright?” I asked, hoping that my concern was showing. I feel like having your millet size compared to someone else’s was quite offensive.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I was a bit miffed back then, but I’m alright now. Thank you for your concern though.” She said as she gave me a pat on the shoulder.
I smiled.
“So, what do you say? About the name, I mean.” Caden asked.
I thought for a few moment. Odin was a god of wisdom. I would agree that the good ideals by which I live my life could be considered wisdom. Odin was also a highly revered figure in his pantheon. He also could only see out of one eye, just like me.
I thought about what a god of death and wisdom would think of this. My own wisdom, my ideals, my vision, could all lead me towards a noble death.
A death worth the pride of a death god, to end a life lived in a way worth the pride of a wisdom god.
“I like Odin.” I finally decided.
First
Previous

Hey everyone,
My boss at my last job was a total creep and inappropriate with me. He would come into my office and stare at my chest, stand behind me at my desk so I couldn't move away so he could smell my hair, he asked me what I would talk to my male coworkers about and even asked me if I had a good relationship with my father.
​
I was terrified the entire time and did my best to always be professional. I raised my voice to him once and let him know that he was being inappropriate and I thought that was the end of it. NOPE. He changed tactics and used his position at the company to force my coworkers to watch and record me all the time (recording me in my office, if I was driving with a coworker to a worksite, even if I was talking about hobbies to someone I thought was a work friend).
​
I think he even had someone watching me at my apartment complex. Why? My boss would talk to me the very next time he saw me about very specific things that only someone who was there and saw me would know I was doing at that time. I even had one coworker lean into his phone while we were driving to a worksite and say loudly, "Well I personally think you should be looped in on that topic since it's related to your job!" and then the very next time I saw my boss (about 3 hours later) he comes over and talks to me about that thing.
​
I really think he was obsessed with me and angry that I raised my voice. I feel bad for my coworkers who had to join him in order to protect their own jobs and I feel bad for myself that I had to put up with this mistreatment and harassment for months.
​
My partner and family told me that I should let it all go now that I have a new job and move on. I didn't tell HR at the old job about my boss because I knew he was close with HR and his own boss protected him ( I also couldn't afford to be fired). There were other women who left after a very short time in that position before me so I'm sure I wasn't the only one who he did this to. My loved ones are worried about me getting into trouble if I went after him with a lawyer or reported him to the people above him at the company.
​
What would you do?

Of course not all, but many muslim guys want that traditional wife especially as it is getting more uncommon and rare nowadays. But the bigger the reward, the more we have to work for it.

1. Want a pious wife? Be more pious.
   1. Take the 5 pillars seriously, especially a commonly failed one - 5 prayers
   2. Don't look at p0rn if you want someone who doesn't display their beauty
   3. Don't do drugs / smoke / zina.
   4. Don't gender mix if you want your future wife to have no male friends.
   5. Have a pious character.
      1. Don't backbite / slander.
      2. Don't be a hypocrite.
      3. Have mercy on people and control your anger
      4. Don't fall into extremes such as Cheating / Abuse
      5. Be kind to Allah's creations - People, Animals, Environment
   6. Study the tafseer and the authentic hadiths to be knowledgable in the religion and to be the religious leader of the household.
   7. Most importantly, be steadfast in your faith. As this world is increasingly getting more secular / atheistic you need to be that religious rock that your family can rely on to keep pushing.
2. Want an attractive wife? Be more attractive.
   1. Get your bodyfat down to 10 - 12%. Six pack is not a big deal to girls tbh, but have a chiseled jaw and a v-shape body is. Look into CICO.
   2. Lift weights to get in shape (V Shape). It is impossible for you to get too muscular unless you take steroids which is haram. Progressively overload with near muscular failure on a consistent basis.
   3. Take care of your hair. Look into fin and minox for hair loss prevention tools. Hair transplant is not haram according to major scholarly consensus. Look into castor oil / herbal shampoos / hair fibers to thicken hair. Play around with certain products to help shape your hair (In a halal way ofc).
   4. Skin care. Tretinoin helps with acne scars. Sunscreen for sun damage. Take Vitamin C serum / Niacinimide everyday to brighten your skin. Remember to cleanse and moisturize daily.
   5. Wardrobe. Focus on this once you get to near 15% body fat. Try to see if you can get tailored clothes that fit. Look up youtube videos for good male fashion combinations. Obviously protect your naval to knee area.
3. Want a feminine wife? Be more masculine.
   1. Balance. Be a leader, but not a dictator. Be assertive, but not controlling. Be consistent, but not stubborn. Be decisive, but not impulsive. Be stoic, but not emotionless. Be confident, but not arrogant. Be brave, but not reckless.
   2. Read the seerah and follow his (SAW) example and how he acted as a man.
   3. As the protector, look into a training gym to be a decent physical fighter. Look up halal marshal arts. Don't strike the face.
   4. Deep voice. This is a lot of genetics but some of it is in your control. Learn to speak from your diaphragm instead of nose. Don't speak quickly. Learn to speak with a downward inflection at the end of the sentence.
   5. Practice body language. Look up charisma guides.
4. Want a house wife? Be the provider.
   1. Obviously you don't need to get a 400K income per year, but try to strive for a job that gives you a WLB and provides an income that is more than 2 times the average of the household in your local area. Look for a job that is stable and in a market that is always hiring with a good future.
   2. Own property (In a halal way ofc). If you can pay it off before marriage, then great!
   3. Try to start / invest into a business. This way if you lose your job for any reason you still have another financial leg to stand on.
   4. Don't be miserly, but don't be luxurious. Strike a good balance. Be good with budgeting and study halal finances.
   5. Have savings for emergencies.
5. Want a mature wife? Be more mature.
   1. Be more emotionally intelligent. You can gain this in social interactions with your male friends and female mahrams. Try to be out of auto pilot mode and understand your own emotions and why you think and react in certain situations. Do the same with other people. This is arguably the most underrated trait that men ignore in their self improvement journeys.
   2. Be more mentally healthy. Try to identify and treat any mental issues you have before marrying an entire person like anxiety / depression / anger / etc. I suggest therapy. I am a guy and I mitigated many of my own issues through therapy. I agree that its more helpful to women than men overall, but its 100% worth a try for at least a few sessions.
   3. Have more responsibilities in your life. This can be owning a pet like a cat or fish to some volunteering in the weekends. Any responsibility outside of work to help you be prepared for your marriage life. Remember to learn from your inevitable mistakes and don't go too overboard.
   4. Learn more about the world. Read books. Listen to podcasts. Get off reddit forums and social media influencers. They are a bunch of echo chambers and you hardly expand your knowledge. But obviously stay away from haram medium in all rounds. More knowledge will help cultivate your mental maturity.
   5. Read the seerah, and understand the prophet's life very carefully and understand the tough decisions he had to make.
6. Want an active wife in the house? Be more active in the house.
   1. Know how to cook and clean so you can help your wife in case of any issues. Try to help without her asking for help. Practice this with your own parents or siblings.
   2. Be prepare to take care of children daily and heavily. Don't let your wife do everything, especially if you plan to lead the household. Having little to no involvement in your children's lives will have them see you as a stranger instead of a father.
   3. Be aware of the load going on in the house including things like invisible load. If you want to be the household / family leader you have to aim to take 60 - 50% of the entire load and your wife 40 - 50%.
7. Want a wife who doesn't divorce you? Be that person not worth divorcing.
   1. All the points I stated are not just before your wedding date. But you have to continue even during marriage. Marriage is the start point of a new life / not a goal.

And look this all sounds like a lot of work, but understand that if a good wife is only 5% of the female ummah than be the top 5% of the male ummah to acquire / cultivate such a marriage.
And most importantly. Pray to Allah he gives you the best wife you want and that you become the best husband she wants.

My wife seemed sound asleep as I looked over at her side of the bed, awakened in a cold sweat in the middle of the night from the strangest dream. Like many of my dreams, they don’t exactly manifest in the form of placing me in its shoes, seeing the fantasy world from my own point of view. It’s more like watching a film play out before me; the invisible camera operator guides the picture whichever so way they please, and I simply sit back and watch it unfold. I’d brought this up to my psychiatrist many times before, of course, and his reaction was always the same. “Isn’t it obvious, Ace?” he’d playfully tease, “You’re an actor. It only makes sense.”
This one started differently than any other one my mind had conjured up before. I was guided along an aisle between a sea of auditorium seats, and vertically ahead sat the dock of the theater stage. Unlike the vacant cushioned red row seats that surrounded me, the stage appeared occupied with 12 figures that I assumed to be the actors. From this distance, their faces and even the outlines of their bodies stood as a blur.
The ‘camera’ proceeded forward, and as it did so, my line of sight became more in-focused, and strangely enough, I could make out that they were all of a similar size, race, age, and near identical in stature, only slightly different in their demeanor, and I could almost swear, the closer I got, I could hear them all speaking amongst each other with the exact same voice. It didn’t take me long to figure out that they were identical variants of one another, but furthermore, I was a little embarrassed of myself of how long it took to realize that they were all actually duplicates of myself.
Twelve different versions of myself, dressed in separate costumes and hairstyles, speaking in different accents and dialects, all mingling amongst themselves in a single horizontal line across the stage, the entire scene looked like a moving painting of Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. As I stepped closer - or I should say ‘glided’ closer, wherever which way this imaginary ‘camera’ intended to lead me - one peculiar version of myself stood out to me first. It wore a brown leather jacket, washed-out jeans on top of rugged boots, and blew a cigarette as the fumes danced over its curly brown bowl-cut hair.
That was the Lance Jackson character I’d played in The Curbside Chronicles, one of my first gigs on an old NBC serial drama back in my early acting days. The character was somewhat of a rip-off of James Dean’s Rebel Without a Cause if the angsty teen persona didn’t sell that enough.
Another one presently on the stage was my Reese Malone character I’d played in my first feature film role, a shy but clever recluse who served as the ‘nerdy one’ of the bunch amongst the main cast in the movie. And no, I didn’t get the girl in the end.
Henry Clerval, in a made-for-TV adaptation of Frankenstein, appeared on the stage as well, standing out like a sore thumb dressed in 19th-century garb. That one landed me a Primetime Emmy nomination.
Then there was Charlie Stone, the tall, dark, and handsome gentleman next door who actually did get the girl this time in a romantic comedy I’d played in. Don’t confuse that flattering description of myself with me being conceited; my makeup artist did wonders for me in that role, I remember. God, I secretly cringe looking back on it, though I’d never mention a word of it in interviews.
Cliff Potter, the passionate and eager-to-please high school teacher with a chip on his shoulder, did everything in his power to prove to his inner-city students the importance of a good education to get far in this life. Ugh, not one of my proudest works - another to add to the bad trend of ‘white savior’ flicks from the 90s.
As the perspective shifted through the line of the various roles I’d played over the years, like a physical timeline of my portfolio reflected before me, I began to notice the main one who stood center stage, not talking to anyone. Instead, his eyes stared off aimlessly into the empty crowd.
It was one of the more recent roles I’d played, just after the one that landed me my first Oscar. Jonathan Mayfield, a good family man, loyal husband, caring father role I nabbed in ABC’s latest sitcom, Joop’s Boulevard, a complete reverse from the role I’d played prior…
I tried to make out the words that were being said amongst the crowd of duplicates of myself, but to no avail. You know how dreams are; nothing makes sense at all while everything also does at the same time, in the moment, at least. It’s not until you wake up and realize how nonsensical everything is. Words and text appear impossible to decipher in dreams, and hearing things with your left and right brain sometimes proved no different.
Though, as I concentrated harder, I began to notice that the volume that they were all speaking at began to descend, until, eventually, they each came down to a subtle whisper to the variant next to them. Just going off of my judge of character, though I still couldn’t make out their words, they seemed to be whispering out of means to keep some sort of secret, as if they didn’t want to be heard. Everyone but Jonathan, that is, who remained as frozen and rooted to the ground as a tree, staring off blankly into the distance.
Then the ‘camera’ began to pan more toward his direction, and soon began closing in on his face. Even though my physical body wasn’t present in this very scene, from some abstract dimension, I suppose, a sensation from within my gut grew a nervous itch. Something was off about Jonathan’s eyes. They were mine, of course, with my actor body serving as the canvas that played him, but his lifeless eyes, as I perceived them, weren’t actually lifeless at all. Something lay just beyond the windows of his sockets.
He was afraid. Of what, I didn’t know, and that, in turn, made me just as anxious…
In the frame of the dream currently presented by the ‘camera,’ Jonathan then remained the only center focus of attention, his paralyzed, panic-filled eyes serving as a close-up shot. It’s almost as if he was staring at me face-to-face, making me more uneasy. And at once, the whispering amongst the eleven other clones of myself stopped altogether, and dead silence remained.
I could feel my heartbeat rapidly climb from that imaginary place where my body would’ve otherwise stood, and slowly, as the ‘camera’ panned into an over-the-shoulder shot in reference to Jonathan, I suddenly discovered the source of fear shared by him and the rest.
Behind him stood the character I chose to shut the door on and never look back a little over a year ago now, the one who, even in my dreams, still came knocking even after all this time. The Oscar winner himself…
He stood parallel behind Jonathan, glaring malevolently at him, but Jonathan remained to stare forward, trembling, as if he knew turning his head would end for him the same way it did the Greeks who looked Medusa in the eye.
I woke from the dream immediately after that with a sort of survivor’s relief, as if doing so saved Jonathan’s life. Ridiculous, I know, but as I said before, you know how dreams can be…
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chateau Marmont
The following afternoon, we wrapped up shooting for the day for the new and upcoming police detective role I was currently starring in as the lead, and I was now leaving the studio lot to meet Patrice for lunch at the Chateau Marmont, our usual lunch date spot. She had ordered her usual caesar salad with a side of just berries (said she was trying to watch her weight, which I thought was ridiculous; she looked fine) and I got the charcuterie board with a side of hummus and fries.
Patrice liked to make fun of the way I took it upon myself to remove pieces of crackers and cheese of the sort that overlapped each other and placed them at their own corners of the plate. I’m one of those types; I just didn’t like things on my plate touching each other.
Some moments passed of us picking out our meals before she started with her opening question.
“How’s shooting going?” she asked, taking a bite out of her salad.
I nodded, as I was still chewing my own food before scarfing it down and answering, “Good. I think this season’s gonna be really good this time around.”
“That’s good to hear. I’m sure the ABC execs could use the pull. Not everyone’s fully gotten on board with moving everything over to streaming, it seems like.”
“It’s streaming,” I affirmed.
“I know, but you know how stubborn a lot of the oldheads are with understanding that the days of episodic, weekly releases are kind of a thing of the past. Everyone wants to binge nowadays.”
“Mmm, I don’t know. I think there’s some sort of strategy to doing weekly releases over dumping everything at once still,” I added. “I mean, think about it, you binge a whole 13, 22-episode season at once in, like, one or two days, and then now you’re craving more and you have to wait a whole entire before the next one is released, versus if you release then weekly throughout the season, it gives more time for people to talk about it, bringing in more viewership and buzz, and then before you know it, hey, season two is out before winter.”
Patrice concurred with a nod. “Touche. Maybe you can sit in with me at some of these exec meetings back at Universal; they could learn a thing or two from you.”
Patrice was only five years my junior, but if you ask me, leagues ahead of me in the game. I’d been acting since I was a child and got my first break when I was a still pretty much a kid at the age of 15, but ever since she sealed her first contract with CBS to direct an episode of Jordan Peele’s 2019 revamp of The Twilight Zone, she’s been a trailblazer amongst her peers, defying the odds that a woman can still make it in this business well past her prime. She’s long paid her dues jumping through hoops, from running miscellaneous (and at times downright demanding) errands as an on-set PA, then onto 2nd Assistant Director, followed by 1st Assistant Director, before finally landing her big break. The rest is history; she runs her own production company now after her first Primetime Emmy win, and is now in talks to direct and produce the next big project in collaboration with Monkey Paw, A24, as well as Blumhouse. To say I was proud of her was an understatement. She didn’t need my approval.
She then changed the subject.
“So, when I woke up this morning, I found a nice little note left on the kitchen island after you left,” she spoke in a playful inflection, as though it were an inside joke of some kind.
I furrowed my brows. “What note?” I asked honestly.
She smirked suspiciously, like a parent questioning a guilty child.
“Oh, it’s like that, huh?” she teased.
“Uh, sorry, hon, I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insisted.
She shook her head. “You’re not gonna give me anything, huh?”
“Give you what?”
“You’re acting skills may fool the rest of the world, but you can’t fool me.”
She then pulled out a small folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of her blazer, which I assumed was the note she was referring to. She held it up momentarily for emphasis before opening it up and revealing what was inscribed.
“‘Til death deliver us from evil, dear Sadie,” she read the words aloud, sending slight shivers down my spine.
A nervous chuckle escaped me, as I didn’t have a clue as to where the note came from, though there seemed to be no other suspect at the moment. She and I were the only ones who lived in that big house, and Teresa, our cleaning lady, only stopped by once every two weeks, and this week wasn’t her turn.
“Hey, tell you what, I won’t spoil any ‘possible’ upcoming surprises for our… you know,” Patrice said.
I did know exactly what she was referring to. Our 7th anniversary was just two weeks away, and no, I didn’t forget. But this wasn’t part of any elaborate scheme leading up to a big surprise. That wasn’t what I had planned, anyways.
“Patty, I’m sorry, honey, I seriously don’t know-”
“Gosh, you thespians sure know how to commit to a role, don’t you?” she leaned back in her seat, hands clasped, still attempting to fish it out of me - to which ‘it,’ I still wasn’t sure of.
“You said you found it on the kitchen table this morning?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
I took a closer look at the words, particularly the handwriting. It wasn’t in the way that I wrote.
“That’s not even my handwriting,” I noted.
“Oh yeah, I’m quite aware of your dedication skills to playing the part - believe me, I know,” she egged on.
I stammered at what to say next, but nothing came out.
“Like I said, I won’t spoil the fun. I’ll just play along and see where this leads me to,” she continued. “Besides, who said I maybe didn’t have a little surprise of my own?”
She sipped her sparkling lemon water as my eyes somehow got transfixed on the endless bubbles fluttering to the top of the glass.
“‘Til death deliver us from evil, dear Sadie?” I repeated the words.
It was the most quoted, repeated, and arguably recognized line from modern-day cinema taken from the last picture that cemented my status as an Academy Award winner. It was as famous a line as “Good evening, Clarice” or “May the Force be with you.”
“I’ve tried not to even think about that script since…” I began, then faltered.
Patrice grew quieter as well, dancing her fork between her salad.
“I know,” she spoke in a low voice. “Me neither. That’s why I was… intrigued, is all. Hopefully, it doesn’t in damage control or anything like that,” she dryly humored.
After taking a bite from her fork, she looked up and noticed the solemn demeanor on my face, and quickly reverted herself.
“I was just kidding, babe,” she tried to soothe.
I took in a quick, deep breath and looked down to notice I’d barely touched my food.
“You know how I feel about that role,” I said almost in a whisper.
Patrice nodded earnestly. “I’m sorry. That was… insensitive of me. Trust and believe, I didn’t forget.”
All I could remember, on the other hand, from last night was that disturbing, trippy-ass dream. I never experienced anything like it. I just said I hadn’t thought of that role since then, and yet, he showed up at my subconscious door last night, clear as day, as true as the sky is blue…
“I think I might need to pay Cromwell a visit,” I suggested.
“Cromwell? Why?”
“I think I might be sleepwalking.”
“Um, what makes you think that? You’ve never sleepwalked before. Right? Well, at least as long as I’ve known you.”
“No, I haven’t, but I remember my mother saying that my dad used to do it years ago from time to time. Not too often, just once in a blue moon, but it did happen, so I know it runs in the family. I’ve been told it’s genetic.”
“Do you think it can happen this late in your age?”
“It’s possible. It’s the only other explanation I can think of as to how that got there.”
I could tell Patrice wanted to prod again with another playful tease at the notion that I was bluffing but could perceive her noticeably restraining herself.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Cedars-Sinai Medical Center
“So, how’s the production going?” Dr. Cromwell asked, taking a seat in the chair across from mine.
“Well,” I nodded. “Very well.”
“That’s very good to hear.”
His cheerful, gravelly, booming voice was filtered throughout his old age, and I always found his grey mustache to be a suitable accessory to his facial features. Patrice jokingly referred to him as the ‘real-life Pringles man.’
“My wife and I finally got through season one just the other week,” he continued, “after we finally had some time to ourselves to relax finally, and I gotta say, you might be my new favorite TV dad, Ace.”
I smiled and forced a flattered chuckle. “Aww, you’re too kind, Kirk.”
“Well, I think the day I become ‘too kind’ might be the day my field of profession is a little too oversaturated,” he joked. “So tell me, what’s on your mind? I know since the last time we spoke, we were at a different place, but it seems that things have improved since then, which is wonderful, but I’ll go ahead and stop speaking and let you have the floor, yeah?”
I inhaled and exhaled.
“Well, like you mentioned, things have been a lot better since last year. I, uh, haven’t had a drink in six months, so that’s something.”
“Good,” Cromwell uttered. “Is that something you’ve been managing well? Are you happy with staying sober?”
“Much happier,” I affirmed. “I haven’t had a taste for a beer, wine, anything since…”
My mind began to trail off to last night’s vision of terror. The menacing figure looming over Jonathan flashed in my mind.
“... Yeah, since then,” I finished.
“That’s great, Ace,” Cromwell said. “That’s really great. Glad to hear things are going well for you.”
“Mmm, well, almost perfectly well.”
A short laugh escaped Cromwell. “I guess I suppose you wouldn’t be here today if things were, am I right?”
“Yeah… just a forewarning, it’s nothing bad, really. At least, nothing at this level, I should say.”
Cromwell’s lips furrowed in a curious study.
“I… think I sleepwalked last night,” I confessed in a low tone as if I had just admitted to wetting the bed. “As far as I know, I’ve never done it before. I mean, Patrice claims I never have, but I do know it runs in the family. My father used to do it once in a while, years before he passed, per my mother.”
“Hmm,” Cromwell uttered. “What made you come to that conclusion? That you sleepwalked?”
“Well, yesterday, Patrice and I had lunch, and she pulled out a note that she said I left on the kitchen island either the night before or maybe the next morning - whenever. I have it right here, actually.”
I pulled out the note and handed it to him to see for himself.
“Recognize the words?” I asked.
Doc’s eyes danced left and right in succession as they studied the paper.
“‘Til death deliver us from evil, dear Sadie,” Cromwell repeated the words. “If I didn’t know any better, that’s a quote from The Eight Ball, isn’t it?”
“Uh, yeah, that’s right.”
“Congratulations on your Oscar win, by the way.”
I hesitated a moment before responding with, “Thank you.”
“But uh… I’m sure you’re not just here to gloat about your recent career boost to me now, are you?” Cromwell candidly confirmed.
“... No,” I answered sincerely. “To be honest, Kirk, I know it sounds a little ungrateful to say, but I’m not proud of my win. Everyone around me praises me for my work, applauds me for my performance, saying I absolutely, without a doubt, deserved it, but the truth is…”
I trailed off, noticing Cromwell’s understanding visage, knowing good well why I felt the way I did.
“... Well, you remember how I was last year,” I stated, to which Cromwell concurred with a single nod. “The heavy amounts of drinking, the bad financial decisions I made, the random violent outbursts…”
I shook my head at every word that carried with my voice, ashamed of each action I’d made in the past year following the departure from the role.
“I swore to myself,” I continued, “swore to Patrice, that I’d never take it that far ever again for any role that comes my way from here on out. I will never commit myself that much to a character like that again. Any character.”
Cromwell squiggled his notes on a piece of paper.
“I’m going to assume that,” Cromwell held up the note, “that based on this note, and based on what you’ve told me today, you believe this is what you wrote when you slept-walked - excuse me, sleepwalked - last night, something in relation to the character you played in that film? The same film that nabbed you the Academy Award, must be still haunting you? Is that correct for me to assume, Ace?”
My face stared off at the ground at Cromwell’s feet, I’d imagine in the same pose I’d seen Jonathan replicating in the dream. And as with the dream, from some unseen dimension, I could feel the presence of some malevolent figure looming over me, with me oblivious to his company.
I simply nodded as an answer, as if speaking might set off an internal alarm of dreadful pandemonium.
A moment of silence passed before I finally had the courage to speak again, clearing my throat.
“If you notice, too,” I added, “from my pre-screening sheet when I signed in at the desk, you’ll notice my handwriting on their compared to the handwriting on the note aren’t even the same. I know that because when I took on the role of… him, I adapted a new one to better immerse myself.”
I followed Doc’s eyes again, noticing them shift left and right from both sheets of paper, as his head nodded in confirmation.
“Yeah, it does look like two different people wrote these,” Cromwell said. “Ace, last night, when you believed to have been sleepwalking, as you claim, do you recall having any dreams of some sort?” Cromwell finally asked. I was expecting it.
“Yes,” I whispered. “He was there.”
“Who was?”
That face… that face burned into my brain. A glare that could make the Devil himself flench.
“Geb Oleander,” I hissed his name, like spouting venom from a snake. “The character I played.”
“Mmm,” Cromwell nodded. “And why do you think Geb would show up in your dream last night? Has he been on your mind lately?”
I shook my head. “No, no he hasn’t,” I answered quickly. “He’s the last thing I’d want on my mind. And I’m not sure why he popped up in my dream, or nightmare, I should call it.”
“Describe the dream to me - if you feel comfortable, of course.”
Maybe talking it out with someone was just what I needed to shake the feeling off. After all, that’s what Kirk was here for.
I described in as great of detail as I could recollect, from how the perspective of the dream seemed equivalent to treading along a dolly camera system, and how it felt like I was floating rather than walking, to the numerous duplicate versions of myself in the different roles I’d played over the years lined up on stage mingling, and of course, the terrifying transition of the dream into a nightmare as the camera closed in on the Jonathan alter ego-version of myself, petrified as a prey locking eyes with its predator.
“I haven’t thought about him in over a year, and there he was, as if he was just, you know, taunting me,” I spoke. “Almost like a reminder, you know? Like, he was saying, ‘I’m still here.’”
I don’t think I realized it at that moment, but my voice had changed to his when I said the words, and with a shuddered recoil, quickly brought myself back.
The doc’s left hand scribbled across the paper in various loops and directions, which I assumed was legible to him and only him.
“Ace, correct me if I’m wrong, but the current part you’re playing right now - that you’re currently shooting - is a detective role, yes?” Cromwell asked.
“Yes,” I nodded.
“This is a new sort of part for you, isn’t it?”
I tilted my head left and right in a so-so way. “I’ve played similar personality types in the past, but this is my first actual role as a cop, yes.”
“So you’ve been fulfilling this new role as a police detective, a very competent one at his job, I’d assume, and you’re now having visions and nightmares of a previous role you played as a serial killer returning in your sleep… can you guess where I might be going with this?”
It wasn’t that hard to put two and two together. I think Kirk sometimes forgets that part of my job as an actor is to be a part-time psychologist in order to get in the heads of each character I play. No offense to him.
“You think the archetype of the detective is in a tug-a-war within my subconscious against that of the serial killer?” I presumed to be the correct answer.
Cromwell nodded, then raised his hand in preparation for possible blowback, “It’s all right, you can say it.”
I let out a brief sigh. “I know it’s your job to analyze down to the barest bone, but don’t you think that might be a bit of a reach, Doc?”
“Ace, wouldn’t you agree cutting a patient down to the barest bone to discover an ailment can be quite unnecessary when all they came in with was a bad cough?” Cromwell remarked.
As funny as it sounded, I suppose he had a point.
He continued, “Sometimes, the simplest answer is just that. Our brains hide everything from us while at the same time leaving behind its messy footprints for all of us to see. You being the actor that you are of your caliber, I’d imagine, are putting in all this work, all this research, studying this new character you’ve taken on from top to bottom, reshaping your mind into that of an actual detective - this is simultaneously coinciding with the previous role that you did as the complete opposite, whether your consciousness chooses to recognize it or not. I can see it clear as day. You soon start to realize that our different personalities within us aren’t just separate pieces of a puzzle, but instead they all bleed into each other. A baked pie had to be whole before it got sliced into pieces, it didn’t just become that way to start. Now, am I one-hundred percent confident that I’m right on that theory? Of course not. Everything is subject to be questioned and further analyzed like anything else, and me being an expert doesn’t make me the expert. However, the last thing I want for you is to overthink and overanalyze a problem that’s already proving to be somewhat stressful for you. For the sake of simplicity, for now, let’s just say things are exactly as they appear, yeah?”
At the end of the session, after some time chit-chatting and discussing more trivial matters, Cromwell slipped me his own special doctor’s note for reference in case the studio execs or producers needed it.
“I’m gonna prescribe you some Trazadone,” Cromwell said. “We’ll start you at a low dose of 25 mg, and if need be, we can increase the dosage if your quality of sleep doesn’t improve. It should help lower the chances of any potential sleepwalking in the future. I also recommend asking Patrice to keep tabs on you as well, see if she notices any unusual sleep patterns from you or, of course, if you commit the naughty deed, of you sleepwalk again.”
He smiled to add a pinch of humor at the end to always try and end on a positive note, putting up his finger like a parent politely correcting their child, and I appreciated his warm goodwill. I was to have a follow-up appointment with him again three weeks from now for an update.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
After picking up my Trazadone prescription from the pharmacy, I was exiting the hospital lobby when suddenly a high, cheery female voice called out my name.
“Ace!” the voice called.
I jerked my head, always expecting the 50/50 chance of an unexpected fan encounter, then was met with delightful surprise to see my old co-star.
“Mandy,” I grinned as I made my way over to her for a hug.
We briefly embraced, as we hadn’t seen each other in a little over eight months since we wrapped up shooting on The Eight Ball, and a firsthand, up-close witness to my elaborate performance as the notorious Geb Oleander. She did reach out to me much later than that, actually, after news broke out - thanks to TMZ, yours truly - that I went into rehab, showing her support and that if Patrice and I ever needed anything she’d be there.
“How’ve you been?” she began. “You and Patrice getting by well?”
“Yeah, we’re great, Patrice is doing wonderful. I mean, can’t even begin to scratch the surface,” I said forcing a chuckle.
“Oh, that’s so good to hear… and you? How’ve things been? I know since we last spoke, things were kinda…”
She didn’t have to finish, as I knew exactly what she was about to say.
“I’m doing much better, thanks,” I assured her. “Much, much better.”
“That’s great, Ace. Seriously, I’m happy for you - happy for you both.”
“Thanks, Mandy. You look great, by the way. I’m digging the blonde on you.”
She blushingly scoffed. “Aww, you like it? Thought I’d switch things up, ya know? Gotta reinvent yourself every once in a while. You’re not looking too bad yourself, these days. TJ and I’ve been watching Joop’s Boulevard almost every week, when we have time, that is, and we both just adore you as Jonathan on the show.”
I coyly smirked to the side. “Aww, thanks,” I appreciated. “I see you’re making big moves yourself. Hear you’re in talks with signing a deal with Disney for an upcoming Marvel project?”
“Mmm,” Mandy playfully grinned, looking to the side. “I’ll just say, it’s ‘in the talks’ still.”
“Nice. I have no doubt they’ll find a good fit for you. Patrice is more of the geek with that stuff, so I’m sure she could give you some pointers.”
She laughed. “Well, Ace, I’d love to stay and chat some more, but I got a meeting to get to in like” - she looked at her smartwatch - “yikes, fifteen minutes.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course, no worries, we’ll catch up,” I let her on her way.
We were both just leaving the hospital and on our way out, and I held the door open for her as we both exited the building. She pulled out her Ray Bans and slipped them over her eyes as the bright LA sun stunned us both in the face.
“But hey,” Mandy said, “send me a text later and we should all plan to get together and have dinner or something, yeah? TJ and I, you and Patrice? We’ll make it a double date.”
“Absolutely, that sounds good to me. I’ll catch ya later, Mandy.”
“It was good seeing you, Ace!” she smiled and waved as she walked in the opposite direction of the parking lot to her car.
“You too…” I almost forgot to say back.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I made it all the way back to my Jeep Grand Cherokee (Patrice gifted it to me for my 47th birthday last year) and after taking a seat behind the wheel and shutting the door, stared at the orange bottle of pills I’d just been given. My eyes, for some reason, got fixated on seeing my name in capitalized print across the label, then to my date of birth.
When I looked up at the rows of cars lined up across from me, I could still see Mandy making her way to her car, reaching in her purse for her keys, strolling carelessly by in her flowy dress, and her dyed blonde hair dancing in the wind. She was a natural brunette, I remembered, and the only other time she dyed it blonde, from as long as I’ve known her, was when she starred alongside me in The Eight Ball…
Then, a strange phenomenon began to occur. Recalling the events, it was hard to say specifically when each moment overtook me, but by a weird flash, not of light, but brief black-tinted shades of vision, overlapped my eyes, like the switching shutter of a vintage projector, and my brain grew foggier with each passing second. It was like slowly noticing and growing more cognizant of upcoming inebriation, though, I hadn’t had a drink in a little over a year. I was afraid of passing out, but in a moment’s notice, it was suddenly over just as soon as it started, or so it seemed.
Some beats had passed before realizing that my eyes had followed Mandy all the way from her stroll in the parking lot all the way to her car. I’d been staring at her for way too long, I thought. But it was only just that - a thought. I’d compare another time to this sensation almost like when I used to get ‘runner’s high’ when I used to do long-distance running, but it felt as though me, myself, were taking a seat behind the wheel of my conscious, and the rest of my body started driving on autopilot. I suppose that explains why I didn’t take notice of me tossing out the bottle of Trazadone on the overpass not too long after.
Again, it’s hard to say how long the entire thing lasted, but at some point, I made it back home to Patrice in time for dinner that evening.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
She was in her study, as usual, typing profusely on her desktop, answering and sending emails back-to-back, with a cup of hot tea on the side.
“Hey, hon,” she greeted.
“Hey.”
“How’d it go?”
“How’d what go?”
“Your appointment with Cromwell?”
“Oh… yeah, it went well.”
“So, what’d he say?”
“Um, he, uh… prescribed me some Trazadone. Said it would help with the sleepwalking. If that’s what it is.”
“Okay, well that’s a good start. When’s your follow-up?”
“Three weeks from now.”
She nodded, then her eyes furrowed at the sight of what I assumed was my attire.
“Did you have that on when you left this morning?” she questioned.
“What do you mean?” I sounded puzzled.
She shrugged. “I coulda sworn you threw on your teal blazer and slacks when you left this morning, not your jeans and leather jacket.”
“It’s just blue, baby.”
“No, it’s teal.”
I scoffed. “You like the blazer better?”
“You look good to me in either one, handsome.”
She shot me a devious smirk, and I shot back a playful wink.
“Let me go grab my pills out of the car, I think I left them.”
“Okay.”
When I got to the car to check, however, I began to wonder just where the hell I put them. Losing little things like keys or cards were normal for me, and Patrice often had fail safes in place for me in the event of it happening, but strangely, I found the brown bag that I’d pulled the bottle out of, but not the bottle.
Recounting my steps, the last thing I could honestly recall was getting in the car after leaving the hospital, and staring at the prescription bottle, confirming that I did indeed pull it out from the bag. All just after I got done talking to Mandy…
I checked under all of the seats to see if it rolled under, but found nothing. Then I checked the trunk, to which there was still no orange bottle, but something else unusual caught my attention. An ever-so-slight hint of greenish-blue glistened in the sunlight over me barely sticking out from the cargo floor, stuffed in the spare wheel tub.
Then Patrice’s voice naggingly echoed in my brain, “It’s teal.”
I lifted the compartment, and there it was. My ‘teal’ blazer and gray slacks, both crunched and sloppily bundled up atop the spare tire. Damn, I just took that to get dry-cleaned last week, too. And then I noticed another color jumbled across the solid tints of teal and gray.
Splatters of newly-dried crimson…
Is that why I changed? Was I bleeding earlier? Surely, I would’ve remembered that…
I went back into the house to meet Patrice in the study.
“Honey, I’m gonna have to drive back to the hospital, I can’t find my-”
When I made it to the doorway, I noticed she wasn’t there. But this time I could hear the TV was turned on, with the volume echoing throughout the house with how loud Patrice must’ve had it. I met her in the living room and saw her standing in front of the screen with her hand clasped over her mouth, eyes liquidated in horror and dread.
“What is it, honey?” I stood next to her.
She said nothing, just stared at the news ahead, and I soon did the same.
Breaking news reported that Mandy Shoemaker, who I’d just seen not too long ago, was found stabbed to death in her home. Her husband, TJ, also a friend to Patrice and I, wasn’t home at the time, and unfortunately had to be the one to find her desolate body sprawled on the living room floor.
Patrice sniffled, and I put my arm around her for comfort.
The news anchor spoke, “It’s still unknown at this time of any prime suspects and as to a motive for the horrific murder of Mrs. Shoemaker, but police have shared a disturbing finding at the crime scene that we presume was left behind by the perpetrator. We do want to warn folks sitting at home or at work, viewer discretion is advised.”
They proceeded to show a partially blurred photo of Mandy’s lifeless body, revealing barely legible blurred letters carved into her torso by the sick fuck. He left behind a message? God…
The news anchors translated the words for us in fine print, as they didn’t want to show the actual photo taken at the crime scene for obvious reasons. When I read what was inscribed into her skin, I felt nauseous, taking my arm from around Patrice.
“‘Til death deliver us from evil, dear Sadie.”
Then I just blankly stared at the screen, and realized I was standing there just as Jonathan was in the nightmare. I could feel his presence looming over me, somewhere in an unseen dimension, his glaring, hellish eyes jeering at me.
Geb Oleander was back, and it seemed he had some unfinished business with me…

So, I’m autistic and I’m living with my parents while I figure out a career. I have a pretty alternative look, so if I chose a career in which I can’t have pink, I would go with a pitch-black color.
My natural hair is a level 7, cool-toned dark blonde/light brown ashy color, and a fine, straight texture. I have my hair just past my chin.
So, if I went to a hairstylist (I have to find a new one rn), could they remove the pink and do a permanent black? Thanks

What's the most ridiculous thing you've ever seen in a beauty or hair salon?

I've been getting my hair dyed deep blue at a salon for about 3 months now and I love my stylist, but I was wondering if anyone has any tips for keeping the hair color off the rest of your skin.
My hair is about chin length and the color bleeds onto the back of my neck every night, and sometimes onto my cheek depending on how I slept. I've been using acetone on cotton swabs to remove as much as possible so I don't look like a total Smurf at work. I've also started wearing a sleeping bonnet to try to keep the blue contained but since my hair is short and pretty fine textured, it tends to slide off.
Does anyone have any tips? For clarification, I don't mean keeping the dye off my skin while it's being colored, like with Vasoline. Just want to stop bathing in acetone every morning to look normal 🙃 and cuz it's probably bad for me? Lol, assuming it is. The intense color transfer only lasts about a week or two, but since I'm getting my hair dyed about every 5 weeks, it's becoming tiresome to deal with and I really wanna stay blue for a long time.

So I got a Cyberpower UPS (BRG1500AVRLCD) because power in my house fluctuates a lot. Sometimes this new unit read 148V input. One night it started beeping and making a buzzing sound, like a hair trimming machine. This sound goes away when I turn off the UPS (duh), but comes back when turned back on even when it's not plugged into the wall outlet and there's no device drawing power from it.
Read the manual and there's nothing I could find realted to this specific issue.
Is my UPS done for? Should I get a new one under warranty? Any tips and recommendations welcome.

It's harder for us to just do something we're supposed to do, I've had to cope with this ever since I was a kid to combat my fear of failure. I wanted to know your rituals too!
For example: As a kid, if I have to study something, I'd start imagining characters inside the curriculum, or my teddy bears are students. Now as a uni student, I have to "cue" its study time through a hot caffeinated drink, a specific lamp, noise cancellation headphones, and study with me videos (dont forget the ambience or lofi:,) )
To try being less late, I estimate the time it will take me to get out of bed. Which is about 30 minutes if I have uni. Im still late, but 10 minutes is better than 20! As a kid, mom took care of that honestly, and I was still late and got shit for it:(
To focus in school as a kid, I'd try to focus just till I take in the new information. Once the teacher starts repeating, I doodle, imagine my favourite characters in the class, imagine monsters entering and me beating them haha. But I always keep an ear out, once I feel "hey, I didnt hear that before?" I tune back in. Nowadays, I can doodle, or play on the phone while recording the lectures. I try to take notes sometimes cause it keeps me occupied from being bored, but some days are harder than others in doing that.
If I wanna take a bath but Im feeling lazy, I comb my hair beforehand. I have curly hair, dry brushing makes it super poofy, so that helps me shower cause otherwise I'll look like a fool if I go out like that.
I try to keep a bottle of water beside me to remember drinking. I still have trouble organizing my room though, most times I wait till suddenly I get the desire.
What are your rituals?

For the last 12 months (started HRT at 42 - currently 48) I’ve had an issue I can’t find any comfort with. Or any discussion of. My pubic hair itches. So down the sides between thigh and - well - area. I scratch till it bleeds. Not vaginal. Not vulva. Just sides. And when the hair is waxed off it itches where the new line between skin and hair is. It sounds ridiculous. So silly. But it’s really painful. And sore. And difficult to deal with. And constant. I wake up with it. I gave it in work. The sweet, sweet relief if scratching is not worth the bleeding. And I can’t spend my work life with my hands down my pants. I don’t have scabies or crabs or anything like that. It just appears that my body is rejecting my own hair. Does anyone else get this? I’ve made it seem light hearted but it’s becoming a big deal. It hurts. It physically bleeds. It sucks. Xx

I'm posting somewhat early because I have an event tonight. The doctor says I just scratched my cornea and it's not pink eye so Im good to go.
I am now the Creative Director and Press Manager for the 2023 DC Pride week! The meeting went well last night and I'm looking forward to the event we have coming up. Im still waiting on feedback from the DMP Assistant job but I have a feeling that the connections I make with the DC Pride Alliance will help out a bit.
Tonight I get to participate in the CherryDC performances. Im just helping out as crew but it supports the community and raises funds for mental health awareness. I will be volunteering all weekend.
I got my new meds from the Pharmacy today. It is prescription strength Prilosec and Pepcid and they have worked wonders. I already feel like a whole new person. I was even able to eat a slice of pizza today.
I went to a laser hair removal session today. This lady was thorough. An issue I had with the last place was that they would miss spots and then hair would grow in weird. This woman got in all the crevices. I got a full Brazillian so IYKYK. I haven't been touched that much in months, lol.
My shift is later tonight so Im going to rest up until I need to get moving. This is the first thing Im doing all on my own so I'm going to have to pull networking skills out of somewhere.