Restaurants with chicken livers near me

I would appreciate a few suggestions from you experienced folks to get me going so I can focus my research.
Here are a few things I would like to achieve.

• Be able to go ~42 mi round trip with a little to spare so ai wouldn't have to charge for a longer trip
• I have a couple of brutal hills near my home I will need to tackle consistently. I belive they are about a 20 degree grade over a few hundred feet. If they can't tackle hills it will be useless to me as I can get anywhere without tackling it.
• I'm 6'ft 2 230 lbs
• Off road capable would be nice to have for future as I get into more stuff but not all the time
• Value for money and reliable is important
• Budget up to $2500 ish but of course if there is a more economical option I appreciate value

Much appreciated. Excited to join this club.

[I M17 is in love with this girl F19]Yeah, I don't know why i fell in love with this girl (she's not a dude) i have confirmed it but yeah i absolutely fell in love while talking to her, we started talking closely near 2020 online and these two years we have been in touch and so. I have never met her but yeah i have her number. I am currently trying to fight the addiction i have and trying to be better so i can ask out in future. I hope i get this girl, she's from my state but like 23 Miles away lol 😭 she is the most funniest person on the planet i have clicked with and I'll get better just for her 💯
If you ever finds this post, i absolutely love you i don't care how you look, you absolutely look fine ass to me ❗❗I won't care what everybody thinks about you, you are a fine girl to me
I don't know what will happen in future but I'll try hard 💯

Hello everyone, long time lurker here with finally something to ask! This is a bit of a weird one and I would really appreciate anyone's help with this as me and my partner are stumped.
Last year we moved into a new flat opposite a small park. It's a fairly nice park, well maintained, play equipment, and a huge apple tree right in the middle. Now a couple months pass and we are nicely settled, it's coming to the end of summer and BOOM - quite literally, something hits our double doors. And again. And again. Turns out when you place a fruit tree in the middle of a park where kids and teens hang out, and then that fruit drops, it becomes perfect ammo to start slinging around and at people's houses.
This happened near daily for weeks, we called 111 when it hit the windows, doors, and even cars - we were then told to call the police, but by the time they got here the kids had scarpered. We've tried recording but it's slightly too far to get a good photo, and I'm sure it's not the same kids each time. We've contacted the council and forestry department SO many times with different forms and complaints, and we are in contact with some local councillors but apparently nothing can be done in regards to pruning the tree or anything else. It ended up with my partner going out and throwing away each load of apples which had dropped daily, but new ones dropped by the evenings and it would happen again. Our main concern is the tree, not the kids - kids will be kids, but if we can prune the tree or remove the temptation then brilliant - but apparently trying to get the council to do anything about a tree is like getting blood from a stone.
Now it's coming up again in a few months, and we have a baby this time round. We are so anxious about it scaring her or even hitting her one day, as one nearly hit me when I was pregnant last year. My partner will still be going out daily to clear the apples before work but is there anything else we can do? Ideally we'd like a permanent solution but does it look like we will be stuck being apple farmers for the foreseeable future?
I really appreciate if you've read this far, and if there's a more appropriate sub to post this on then please let me know.
Sincerely, a worried mum who now absolutely hates apples

I have had countless nightmares throughout my life, typically occurring every other night. My most recent one, and one of the worst I've had in a while, happened during a vacation I just got home from. I will need to put some context into this, and this story will be rather long, so bear with me here.
In my most recent nightmare I mentioned above, I woke up normally in my house. It was the middle of the night, but I was hungry, and decided to sneak down the stairs and into the kitchen to grab a snack without waking up my family. Once I was a few feet from the refrigerator, I heard footsteps from several entities behind me. I turned around to see just a few black figures, huddled tightly in a group. I knew who three of the five were by the outlines. They were all hostile animatronics, the ones from the horror video game, Five Nights at Freddy's 4. The video game franchise as a whole does not scare me, nor do really any horror movies or games, so it was weird seeing them watching me grab my snack. I saw the animatronic bear, chicken, and rabbit, but not the fox, and I had no idea who the other 2 figures were. Their eyes were not glowing in the slightest, and they were not approaching me, but only moving exactly as I do, and never getting too close. This did not concern me in the slightest, as a typical hallucination looks just like that for me. I went back to my room to eat my snack and fall sleep, when they stopped moving in their typical pattern, and spread out around the house.
Once I was back in my room, and I had tucked myself back into bed, and I felt the worst sense of sudden dread in my life, as if something terrible was about to happen. I knew by some nightmare logic that the figures really were hunting me down, and then I got scared, knowing that I do feel pain in my nightmares. Indeed, I was about to suffer. I sat in my bed, paralyzed with fear about the situation, and planned to just sit there and pray until sunrise. Worst of all, my door was wide open, and with my bed right next to it, an attack could be too sudden. I was going to have to be lucky, as the animatronics were moving in random patterns, entering rooms around the house. 15 minutes later, I heard footsteps coming to my door. I was paralyzed with fear and dread, because there was one animatronic in particular that I knew was going to take his time and torture me if I was ever caught by him. The animatronic entered my room, but luckily it was not the one I feared most. It was certainly about to kill me still, so I was rapidly planning ways of how I could make my death as fast as it could be. I threw my head into it's jaws, reached my arms out, and crunched it's teeth down into my head. It was fast and painless.
Of course, it's a nightmare, and it was not nearly over yet. That was the easy part done. I woke up again after death, in the same situation again, but outside, in an open field on my land. The layout of the field made the experience worse in a way, as it was mostly open, but with a strip of dense forest running through the middle that takes up about one third of the field. At the bottom and and top were ways through it, without having to go through the brush. This is all on about 5 acres of land, so I did not have much of a place to hide from my now sprinting animatronic pursuers. I woke up with the animatronics in a full sprint everywhere in the field. They were sprinting at all times, even if I had not been seen. I got up, ran, and hid in the densely forested area, and in a thick bush. I waited and got spotted eventually, so I got up and ran until I could no longer run. Eventually, I was caught again, but my death would hurt this time. I died via stab wounds to the gut, and all around the torso, but I was stabbed mercifully fast.
This experience, being a nightmare, meant I still had to die another time. This death would be very different, though. I woke up for the third time, but with the worst dread of my life. The fear this time was unspeakable. For no apparent reason, I was far more scared this time around. I was in the house again, and in my bed, but I stayed in bed and never got out. I just sat up, and waited for sunrise again. I had more hope this time, as the sun was only about twenty minutes from officially rising. I was starting to see light in the sky, but with more fear than I have ever had before, bad instincts kicked in. You see, in the house was a system of 6 radio-like devices me and the family used for communication. I held the "Talk" button, and spoke a message into all the rooms in the house, hoping for my family to respond. As you could imagine this was idiotic. I kept staring at my radio, waiting for a reply, when I heard a reply from my family, but something was awfully wrong. The reply came from the radio I was at, and from directly behind me, on the other side of the bed. I turned around and saw the one animatronic I hoped would never get me, and I was about to suffer.
I backed out of my bed, and into the corner of the room. It approached me awfully slow, giving me the opportunity to run at it, and deliver multiple two foot kicks to the body. I hoped these would do something, but the animatronic was utterly un-phased. Here, I finally saw a red glow in the animatronic's eyes, as it still slowly closed the distance to me. It got to me, put it's hands on my shoulder, and looked down at me, with eyes flickering on and off. This was about to be it, the worst pain of my life. There, I was tortured for minutes upon minutes. It peeled the skin off my arms and legs like giant gloves, sliced tendons and ligaments, and cracked all of my ribs, while keeping me alive. All my other bones were being fractured, and I was getting big cuts in my chest all over the place. It kept me alive until I had looked like a mangled corpse smeared on the ground.
Finally, I got to wake up, and I stayed up for about 2 hours before going back to sleep. Once I woke up, I really was unaffected, and not scared anymore, even in the dark room. When I did go back to sleep, however, I started dreaming again. I woke up in a continuation of that same dream, but this time, in the middle of an unknown forest...
​
For those who do not know what I am talking about, below is an image of the being that killed me for the third time in my nightmare. I know this is rather ridiculous, but that's just the way it happened.
​
https://preview.redd.it/rtwrkdj1k8pa1.png?width=250&format=png&auto=webp&s=155c9d12603e5fa8c53bb2b7347169b409966e5a

hello - thanks for reading! its 2 am please excuse any typos
at about midnight last night my 60 mother (loves six hours away near my sister) was admitted to the er after having recovered from covid due to coughing up blood and black stool. i am trying to stay positive about that.
today was bad due to heat, i really dislike heat. and then after dinner i was wlcomed by a bad headache and stomach pain. no clue on the cause - we just had blts and i got all the seeds out of tomato slices i had.
roommates gather together and we discuss the bad rent situation we have (backlog of unpaid rent while waiting on rental assistance, no clue on what to due if it doesnt go through) absurd amount of money to think about with stomach pain, actually cannot stand due to anxiety knots caused by it.
cant sleep now - i might fall right asleep in about ten minutes, who knows. i wanted my birthday week to start uneventful and chill, but now this is gonna sit with me for a few more days
i hope youre all having good days, readers, we take em for granted sometimes

I'm moving to a bigger city for the first time in my life soon. Hoping to work in a nice restaurant with high standards and creative food so that I can learn more, improve my skills, and be a part of something stellar. However, I'm afraid that at 28yo, maybe I have too much experience in "the wrong places." I've quit a couple of fine dining job opportunities that I've had because of rampant food safety issues, inconsistency, and poor leadership. Other than that I've only worked so-so stuff, baking, managing a food truck, and some restaurants and catering gigs.
I've heard that if you're not in the club (ie culinary school graduate or already have yourself established in fine dining), then you have little chance of getting in.
What do I need to do? Specifically in Seattle if you know. I'd like answers from folks who actually know, not people that want to tell me that fine dining isn't worth it. I want the experience. Thanks.

Despite the early afternoon hours, the jovial Iron Tankard tavern was packed full with noisy patrons. Mostly regulars, craftsmen, artificers, merchants, off-duty guards, though an occasional mercenary misfit could also be spotted, scurrying around the bounty board or chatting down the innkeeper for job suggestions. The walled town of Ashenfort was relatively small, it being a passing, yet reputable, trade-post along the main road that connected the capital city and the coast-line settlements. Travelers came and went by the hour, never staying for long, turning over goods and coin, but also services. If one was in search for an uncanny set of hands to help along a most arduous task, then this was certainly the place to look.
The joyous, drunken and merry chattering continued through the crowded chamber, with the tavern workers doing their utmost to squeeze past the countless customers and bring the desired orders to their tables. Everyone seemed so keenly busy, to the point nobody noticed the unseemly figure push their way through the front door.
Taking but a single step further, Sir Andrew of the noble house Medellin, had to visually keep himself from recoiling. Unused to the tavern stench, the fickle smell of alcohol, combined with sweat, grease and perhaps even vomit, assaulted his noble nostrils and almost triggered a gag reflex "By the king.." He grumbled under his breath, fixing that ragged traveling-cloak that flapped over his chest and hiding the armored plate underneath. His deep-sea eyes peered across the board, eyeing for someone it seemed, before his gloved hand rose to his lips, covering them as he adamantly cleared his throat. Ignored. Taking a deep breath, the knight stepped forward, brushing his wave-like, sand-blonde hair behind his ear before trying again "Excuse me, gentlemen-"
Dismissed, again, with only a few pitiful glances being thrown his way, more out of irritation for being too close to the table than anything else. The young knight huffed in annoyance, briefly closing his eyes, before opening them as his stern, dramatic voice cried out
"Hear me, men and women of Valeron! I am Sir Andrew Medellin, sword-paladin to the arch-duke of the western-fold, banner-man to his holy grace- Augustus Percivalus Drakefort the third. I was quested by our noble king with slaying the terrible dragon that's been ravaging our western borders, laying waste to our precious serfdom and leaving nothing but scorched earth behind. Though I accepted the task honorably and in good faith, my sword yearning to pierce the foul dragon's wicked heart, I will admit that I find myself outmatched. The dragon's vision is far and great, its breath a flaming sundering.. I have no hope of meeting it face to face in the open. For this, I require to enter the lair of the beast and catch it off-guard.. I require assistance, from one of you, noble characters, someone versed in the art of.. Stealth and deceit, whom could perhaps assist in shrouding my noble approach into the jaws of evil?"
Silence, attention, all eyes on him. The tavern had its breath taken away by the man's speech, but just as a smile of triumph crept onto his tender lips, Andrew was bombarded by a chortling choir of laughter. Amused, some within the crowd nearly choked on their drinks, while Andrew's grumbling expression faded in excitement. After another moment of silence on his side, he added, though with far less enthusiasm in his sighing voice, enough only for a select few to hear- Or rather, anyone that paid attention still.
"I am also willing to compensate you for your troubles.. 2000 coins up front, plus another 8000 when the quest is done. Additionally, the king has given me leave me with issuing amnesty to any.. Unsavory characters that had a run in with our law in the past, pardoning all of their heinous crimes in return for assisting me."
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Simple and, relatively short, premise to a medieval-fantasy prompt that revolves around a pair of unlikely allies teaming up to stop a much bigger, looming threat! If you have any ideas/suggestions or thoughts of your own that you'd like us cleared in advance, feel free to let me know. World-wise this is more or less a blank slate, so in regards to races, magic, politics, geography etc. we'll be able to include a variety.
For this story I'd really like to explore the relationship between a noble, religiously truthful, honorably overzealous, naive knight and a deceitful, witty and playful sort of rogue-like character contrast. My own pitch idea would be an assassin character, perhaps someone who already had a close-encounter with the lord of Medellin in the past, a fact that will be brought up and/or revealed at a crucial moment to intensify their situation or perhaps even strengthen their bond? I have a soft-spot for enemies-turned-friends-turned-lovers sort of dynamics, so this is what I was trying to go for with- Judge me all you want~
I'd preferably not know much about your character in advance, wanting to explore their pasts and stories through the RP, but if you feel it crucial and/or want to take your character in a completely different direction- Do let me know.
I normally write 2-3 paragraphs of detail, with the range mostly varying from how fast the scene is progressing. I prefer quality over quantity and will never nag you if you require more time to reply. I will, however, be nit-picky if you respond to a full-fledged, action-packed, word-exploding essay with a meager 3 line reply -.-
I mostly prefer writing on Discord and Reddit PM's (easiest for me to manage and read), and use chat only to make contact so we can exchange ID's
I am alright with including NSFW themes in regards to story progression and character development, but they are *completely* optional and in no way necessary. Feel free to let me know in advance, otherwise I will assume they are to be omitted.
Hope to hear from you wonderful writers soon!~

Hi everyone. I noticed my anxiety and agoraphobia over the past couple months has gotten worse. I used to maintain decently w cbd here and there, but I find that I'm getting frustrated or my fight or flight is seriously kicking in. People seem to have no situational awareness and I know logically it's a minor thing, but it's something that is really effecting my mental health when I'm out in public.
For context, just shopping in a store the other day. I'm reaching for a can of food and my bf is near me. Suddenly, a middle aged man w a cart barrels through towards me and an employee is inches from me, reaching for items directly below me. I suddenly moved so I wouldn't be touched or run over by this guy w the cart. No 'pardon me' 'excuse me', nothing.
This morning I come to do my laundry at my local laundromat. I usually chat w a little old lady here but she usually gets in my personal space to clean literally crumbs from the floor.
I am putting laundry in and I'm suddenly butt-to-butt with the laundry attendant, a woman comes in w a body bag sized laundry bag and almost hits me w it and I try to back up and the laundry woman is directly behind me, inches behind me, dustpan and broom in hand. I finished loading the laundry and went to my car for a deep breath.
I called my bf to vent and he understands mostly how I feel, but I'm starting to feel like a burden to him. Idk how to cope anymore. I feel like I'm on edge all the time.
Any tips would be amazing. I don't have health insurance so I can't be seen by a doctor anytime soon Thanks for listening

How old are you? What's your gender? Give us a general description of yourself.
I am 18. Biologically female.
I am definitely more on the quiet side. Definitely have some teenage angst.
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Describe your upbringing.
I dont think I was parented too much and I had to teach myself a lot of basic skills (thank god for youtube) But I was raised by a single mother with 3 kids who had to work constantly to keep food on the table, so it's understandable.
Overall my upbringing with chaotic and messy.. but I wouldn't change it. I think everything has shaped me into who I am today and Im okay with it.
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What do you do as a job or as a career?
I dont yet have a career.. Currently applying to entry level jobs.
Hoping to get a job one day that earns me enough money to not stress about bills. I will say task initiation is a big struggle for me.
If you had to spend an entire weekend by yourself, how would you feel?
Absolutely refreshed. People stress me out, I try to avoid interacting with them. Though being near other humans, preferably in the corner of the room, is enjoyable.
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What kinds of activities do you prefer?
My top hobby is art. I also do rubiks cube, puzzles, shopping, cooking, sudoko, sleeping..
But a lot of my time is taken up researching my interests, it refreshes me the most. I like neuroscience, MBTI, torture mechanisms, beetlejuice (mainly musical), math, and whatever educational videos happen to pop up on my youtube feed
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How curious are you? Do you have more ideas then you can execute?
Im usually curious.
I dont know if I have many ideas.. but I definitely think about things more than I do them.
I am very curious into human nature, but I also enjoy learning about how the world works (it irks me how little we know, I am constantly finding dead ends)
Currently I am just starting to get into computers.
I absolutely cant stand learning about history, bores me to death.
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Would you enjoy taking on a leadership position? Do you think you would be good at it? What would your leadership style be?
No, But I think I would be good at it. I would try to be clear with my words and efficient in my actions. I would give everyone a task to do. If someone repeatedly cannot hold up their task, they would have a one on one with me so I cant help them through it. If they show carelessness, they're out. throw them overboard
Maybe a bit like a dictatorship..? uhh
idk I guess maybe people can have vote, but I have final say.
On a larger scale like the president, I would not choose to be leader
but 10-50 people I can manage
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Are you coordinated? Do you enjoy working with your hands in some form?
Nope, constantly falling on shit.
I enjoy working with my hands. (art, rubiks cube) I have great development in fine motor skills.
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Are you artistic?
Ive spent a whole lotta time on anatomy, perspective, values ect. So that I can mess it all up and play around
I enjoy drawing extreme faces and messy creatures.
but I can get very technical with my art. An art deco feel.
I loooove mandalas.
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What's your opinion about the past, present, and future? How do you deal with them?
My opinions..?
Past.. I have poor recollection of the past.
Present.. I tend to miss things in my environment and constantly have my girlfriend fill me in (shes an ISTJ hehe)
Future.. I think about a lot, but I dont plan
for much
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How do you act when others request your help to do something (anything)?
I like helping people sometimes. I like teaching people more than I do just doing stuff for them. I want them to be able to do it on their own.
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Do you need logical consistency in your life?
Yes..? I dont know what this means exactly. I like things to make sense. confusion bothers me a lot.
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How important is efficiency to you?
I like efficiency, as in the quickest way to get somewhere while maintaining quality. This is mostly driven from laziness
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Do you control others, even if indirectly?
Some people have said I do. I disagree.. I think its more me trying to place how I think onto them when they aren't making a lick of sense
maybe that is controlling now that I think about it
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What is your learning style? Do you prefer classes involving memorization, logic, creativity, or your physical senses?
I like creating a system of notes. I recently got into note taking inspired by Zettelkasten. I struggle learning in noisy environments. I need something preoccupy my brain like food or fidget's. I like all things mentioned, creativity not so much.
I like when information is given to me in a straightforward way, with examples. I can add interpretations later but I need the raw base foundation of information first.
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How good are you at strategizing? Do you easily break up projects into manageable tasks?
I can do it.. doesnt mean I do. I procrastinate until the last minute most times. Im not sure why.
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What are your aspirations in life, professionally and personally?
I dont know ? Every time I start to go down a path, I back out and dig a new one. Im hoping this doesn't last outside my teenage years, its like a constant rediscovery of myself and I hate it.
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What are your fears? What makes you uncomfortable? What do you hate? Why?
Im afraid of dying a painful death. Im afraid of being casted out by others. I am afraid of living on the streets and loosing hope for life.
Maybe also.. being close to people. Eh
I dont know what I hate ? in a general sense I have no idea
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What do the "highs" in your life look like?
I don't know, preferably I found routines that work for me and can set and work on goals
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What do the "lows" in your life look like?
very emotional, desperate and lonely. But Ive always had a roof over my head and (for the most part) food on the table.
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How attached are you to reality? Do you daydream often?
I dont think I daydream but I live in my head a lot. Like I said, I have little attention to the world around me, I can easily miss something that everyone else sees.
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Imagine you are alone in a blank, empty room. There is nothing for you to do and no one to talk to. What do you think about?
Why the hell I am in the room and who the hell put me there
after a long while.. probably about my friends and family and if they're safe from this mysterious person
after a LOOONG while
probably if I am dead. is this the afterlife? is this all there is? does this confirm or deny a god?
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How long do you take to make an important decision? And do you change your mind once you've made it?
Long time
Im a terrible decision maker
I can change my mind with new information, but If I've already put it in my note system its pretty much final.
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How long do you take to process your emotions? How important are emotions in your life?
Not long. Ive gotten decently good with my emotional maturity.
Emotions arent something I try to pay attention too, but they are something that adds value to life.
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Do you ever catch yourself agreeing with others just to appease them and keep the conversation going?
Sometimes. I hate it. Recently Ive been trying to stop people pleasing so much but now I come off as aggressive
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Do you break rules often? Do you think authority should be challenged, or that they know better?
Finally last question. Props to anyone to actual read this whole thing, and thank you.
I dont break rules unless they are silly. I don't really try to challenge authority, I think they're important to keep things running.
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I think I am (in order from most to least sure):
ISTP
ISFP
INTP
INFP
All I know for sure is Im definitely an IxxP

Sorry for the long post.
So out of the blue, I was told by my employer that I need to get CISSP certified by the end of March. This was the first week of February. Now, although I have a decade and half years of experience working in network security, soc and vapt, also training in and around those areas, this was still a daunting target. I made it clear that a month and a half or so isn't a realistic target. But of course, that was disregarded by the management. I however began the preparation taking my own sweet time. I was in no particular hurry. I told myself come what may, I will give the exam when I am ready for it.
3 weeks in, and I am only 2 domains done. Clearly, end of March was a fantasy at this rate.
Meanwhile ISC2 were running an offer that allowed me to attempt once by the end of March and if required again by end of May. I couldn't let this go. I thought this was made for me. I could tell my employer that I attempted it by March end. And give myself a more realistic chance on the second attempt. Seemed like a win win situation.
Then with a week or so left. I am almost completing domain 3. I had given up hope of even contemplating clearing it on the fruit attempt. However, for some reason I made a mad rush to at least finish 6 domains before the first attempt. I obviously didn't have the time to study properly for them. I resorted to watching videos instead of reading the books. It wasn't like the domains were completely new to me. I knew some parts of it, and did not know some other parts. I actually covered 2 domains one night before the exam day. I did finish practice tests from the Sybex practice tests book. I finished 5 of the 8 domains and scored 70 to 80 percent in them. The other 3 domains, I did not have the time to.
3 to 4 days before the exam, I don't think I slept well. I was getting anxious thinking about it. I am not sure why, I suddenly felt like I didn't have the stamina to sit a second time for the exam. I felt like my experience alone should be enough to make up for any lack of reading time. A part of me also said that it was wishful thinking.
So it's exam time. Still no sleep. But I am at the exam center, almost feeling like a lamb to the slaughter. The exam starts. I pray. I never do that , but this time I did. Now I have read others finish the exam at 125 questions. I am already counting down to it. Not because I was confident I will clear, but because I would know that the torture would end anytime after it.
10 mins into the exam and I am 10 questions down. I wanted to be somewhere around the 40 to 45 questions per hour mark. The exam is sure as heck confusing and I can only be confident about 1 in 5 questions. An hour down and 50 questions down, I am not sure if I need to slow down a bit. Still unsure if I am doing well. I was a lot more confident about my answers while attempting the Sybex practice questions. There were a lot of best guesses in my responses. 2 hours and about a 100 down. I know I am nearing the finish. 120 odd done and I am almost uninterested because I had zero confidence in my responses. I was mentally preparing myself for a second attempt. It felt gut wrenching, because I wasn't confident about clearing the exam even after the second attempt. Such were the nature of the questions and the options. I couldn't possibly answer them with any confidence whatsoever. 125th question and the exam ends. I see no information on whether I passed or failed. I call the invigilator and he asks me to end the exam, collect the printout and belongings and leave. That felt so cold. It felt like he was too apologetic that he couldn't say it directly that I failed. I collect my printout.
It starts with a congratulations. I am not sure why it said congratulations. Maybe the fact that I haven't slept for a while is making me read things that aren't there. I felt too stupid to confirm with him what was written on the paper. So I step out and take a good long look at what is written. I read, re-read, look around and read it again. Finally I was convinced that I actually cleared. It felt like a huge burden was removed from me. I was so relieved.
Here are the resources, I used:
Domain 1: OSG. Read everything cover to cover.
Domain 2: OSG. Read everything cover to cover.
At this point, I completely hate the OSG.
Domain 3: AIO. Read everything cover to cover.
Domain 4: AIO. No time to read cover to cover. Just read the parts I felt I did not know well.
Domain 5: SNT. Only watched the videos. Cross-referenced with the CBK reference guide, because it had fewer pages to read.
Domain 6: This domain is primarily what I did for a living. Did not have enough time to read this domain. Banking on just my experience.
Domain 7: Watched FR Secure video from 2020.
Domain 8: Watched FR Secure video from 2020.
Sybex Practice Tests: Domains 1 to 5. No time for the other 3 domains. Scored 70 to 80 percent. No other question bank. No time for it.
What I realized most about the exam is that experience across the domains matters a lot. Also you need to trust yourself when responding to the question and avoid re-contemplating. Trust your first instincts. Chose either the OSG and the AIO, but not as the Bible, only as a guide.
Good luck to any future test takers.

For over 7 months up to possibly a year, my 9 year old daughter has been experiencing moderate to severe abdominal pains. They come on suddenly and are quite sharp, ranging to a dull lingering feeling and can often last hours. The pain travels sometimes from one side to the other, primarily left.
During the first major severe flare up (about 7 months ago) we were concerned about appendicitis, but the Emergency Room at the hospital ruled it out. They did however note that her lymph nodes on her neck were very enlarged, she was not sick at the time or recently beforehand.
Since then there are times that are worse than others but almost every day has pain for at least 2 hours of that day.
At the end of February her general care doctor finally ordered an ultrasound which was done on 24/02/23. The ultrasound showed all abdominal organs as normal. No gallstones or gallbladder wall thickening. The only finding was "multiple prominent mesenteric lymph nodes".
The ultrasound summary was that the appearances are suggestive of mesenteric adenitis.
The general care doctor told us this was no problem and just happens when kids get sick, and sent us away.
After looking into the condition it seems children only get this condition for a few weeks at most, not nearly a year, and she has not been sick for nearly a year, in fact barely a cold during that whole time.
What could be causing this? She can't keep being in sharp pain every day with no help.
We have an appointment scheduled with a different general care doctor tomorrow. What conditions could I ask about that could cause this? Are there any specific tests I could enquire to have done?
Additional information, in the family there are autoimmune conditions, type 1 diabetes (her blood sugar is fine), Crohn's disease, Inflammatory bowel disease.
Please give me suggestions of what to check with the doctor or tests to follow this up with if possible.

Last minute made the split decision to get my first haircut in life it would have been 28 full years next month. I got fed up with how expensive upkeep was, how long it took to manage, how painful it was to comb and straighten and how I most times didn't like how it looked long, even tho line ups made me look a whole lot better. I got the haircut yesterday and I still haven't shown anyone or took pictures because I don't want attention. We didn't talk about it too much at the barber, he faced me away from the mirror and he didn't make a big deal. I had class in an hour and I just made the appointment and drove there, told him what I wanted and didn't back out. I thought I would be emotional and regretful but honestly it hasn't sunk in yet, but it's been a burden my entire life. My haircut is really nice but I don't want to hear people's opinions and telling me I should have kept it. It doesn't feel uncomfortable, I can put on a Hoodia and hat without problems, no more hair ties, long hours getting my hair done, burning my scalp, braids, being told my hair is a mess, having to always have a hat , spending so much money on matienence. It was a huge burden. I tried to keep it so people wouldn't shame me but it was nearly impossible to keep neat and free of dandruff. I spent hours trying to comb it but it just stayed so coarse at the root. It was so difficult to put a comb through it and I constantly brushed it. It was honestly like a curse, it caused me so much judgement. I remember I was so ill one time and my mom still forced me to go get it washed and straightened, I needed sleep and rest and I still was forced. I have so many bad memories with my hair, and put into styles that I hated. I'm numb to it now. I know I have the option to grow it again but I feel liberated and never want to go through that stress again. I still feel the pain of years of being combed, my scalp being burned, the pain of being in a ponytail and nails digging into my scalp to clean it, and the horrible chemicals and straightening for so many years. It honestly was traumatic at times. I still don't want attention but I'm glad it's gone. I hope the trauma was cut from it as well

Had a dude who invaded and was then critical striked 3-5 times by me and the host, never lost health. Then he one shot us both with a basic spell that wouldn’t have done nearly enough damage normally. Any way to get this guy reported?

*Spoilers ahead*
If you haven't finished the series may want to skip this thread.
Ok so I just finished the series and it was a bit trippy. Very deep and thought provoking and raw and a wild ride.
Buuuuut I def missed / didn't get some things and hopefully you redditors who are way more artistically inclined and smarter than me can help me because I have a BUNCH OF QUESTIONS that were not clear to me:

1. Were Marissa and Dre supposed to have been an item sexually or was Dre into her romantically? Dre is a lot more protective of Marissa than being a simple clingy sister would explain, imo.
   
2. Was Dre supposed to be autistic or just a "strange person"? Because early on, she seems to be engaging in like "stimming " behaviors with the headphones and finger sucking and other behaviors... but then all that is like magically gone at some point.
   
3. What is the weird obsession with food in this show? Why are so many scenes hinged around food? Especially the dichotomy between junk and health food. She kills the one guy and he only has healthy food in his fridge which she clearly hates but then he has all junk in his pantry. She makes the formerly obese guy relapse on a food binge.. she eats while the college guy master bates the cop keys in on it as an M.O. etc etc... why?
   
4. (Gonna be politically incorrect here for a second sorry) Why is dre a "masculine presenting" lesbian by the end of the story? I didn't get what prompted that change in her characters appearance and mannerisms.
   
5. Why does Harris shutting off the phone service, shut down her access to using the phone? That's not how phones work. All the texts and pics and everything would be there she just would have to charge the phone and turn it on or get it fixed. She wouldn't have to restore service to get what's on the phone?
   
6. Why do the Jackson's seem to think Dre killed their daughter when it is confirmed later on by khalids brother when he spoke to the detective that it was a suicide?
   
7. Why wouldn't the Jackson's have called the cops on Dre...? like if I was sure someone killed my daughter and they broke in my house, and I felt the need to shoot at them.. i would have reported all that at least.
   
8. WHY DOES EVERYONE LOOK TOTALLY DIFFERENT IN EPISODE 6?????
   
9. What do you all think was the purpose of having the detective and Dre have the same last name?
   
10. Did Dre kill her own grandmother and that's how she ended up in foster care? What do you think happened to Dre to end up where/how she did?
    
11. What was up with that women's empowerment group cult thing near Bonnaroo? Why help dre clean her car of the blood from an obvious murder but then lie to her about getting her passes to the show when they knew that's what she really wanted?
    

Looking forward to some answers! Thanks!
(Make fun of me if you want, I promise I'm not an idiot but these things just were not clear to me...maybe I was just too tired watching this to ponder it all so I'm sorry in advanced if my questions were obviously answered.)

Today was the factory tour. I had won a spot through our local radio station. They were giving out two free passes, but I had no one else to take so I sold the other. I had called mostly out of boredom and to try out my luck. I was, to my surprise, the first to call in.
Pickup was at 9:00 AM. It had been arranged by Ardec & Ordec Winery. The cab had arrived five minutes past the pickup time: a factory van hosting the company logo on its side pulled up. I stared at the large, superimposed face of a larger woman drinking from a glass of wine. Her lips were bright red, her cheeks rosy; hair long and brown.
The door had slid open by itself. Inside, several other guests - I counted seven - greeted me with excited smiles. I stared up at the blistering sun and stepped in. The fresh air conditioning was paradise, and it smelled of lavender. The seats and floors were especially clean, as if someone had meticulously gone through every corner, crevice, and hole.
I introduced myself to the other guests, whom I noticed were holding glasses of freshly poured wine, and they introduced themselves in return. One woman, Maria, had caught my eye; strangely resembling the woman on the side of the van. Before I could utter a word to her, a glass of white wine was handed to me.
"Freshly made," said the man who had handed it to me. "Bottled just this morning."
I gave my thanks, sniffed it, and took a snip. I wasn't a wine connoisseur, but I loved the taste of it. It was exquisite, refreshing, fruity, and sweet. My personal favorite.
The tour group and I chatted on our way to the factory.
I noticed the windows were dark. When I asked why, the same man who had handed me my wine stated, "Long drive, not much to see but countryside."
Seeing the countryside was my favorite part about leaving the city on road trips. But soon, videos advertising Ardec & Ordec wines were projected onto the windows. A young woman, donning a white coat with the factory logo embroidered on a pocket, appeared as b-roll of the factory played behind her. She discussed the process of collecting the swine for winemaking and then a brief overview of what to expect during our factory tour. They gave away very little about the winemaking process, which I appreciated.
We arrived shortly after 9:30.
Upon our arrival, we were offered several more samples of their wine. One in particular, a chardonnay they had said, was especially tasty. I felt partly out of place, unable to engage with the others as they discussed different notes and characteristics of the wine.
A buzz had settled in, though, and soon, I stopped caring. I promised myself I'd enjoy the tour, and think little about whether I could participate or not. The wine tasted good. The fresh, country air was refreshing.
The factory, from what I could see, shielding my eyes from the sun, was its own small town; made up of several tall and large brick buildings. Before we could enter, our tour guide, John, instructed us to put on masks; the kind you see doctors wear.
"It's to help mask the smell," he stated, handing masks out to each member of our group. We put them on quickly, eager to get started with the tour already.
We entered through a side entrance, directly onto the main floor where the swine were housed and their sweat collected for winemaking.
The heat was almost unbearable.
Our tour group had begun to fan themselves with their hats and shirts; some pressed the still-cold wine glasses to their foreheads and cheeks.
John explained the heat was generated by industrial heat lamps. They hovered above the swine and were used to accelerate perspiration. He claimed the sweat was a key and "secret" ingredient used to give the wine its distinct flavor.
Despite the masks, it smelled foul - mostly of bacon when it's cooking and feces. Some of the other guests turned their faces away from where the smell was emanating. John noticed and instructed us to pinch the top of our masks, where the bridge of our noses met. A new smell, one of perfume, quickly replaced the former one.
John smiled up at us. "Better right?"
We nodded in unison and made our way over to a brightly lit hallway.
This hallway was as clean as the van had been. We were instructed to stand under several different shower heads. John said this would help sanitize us, as we might be bringing in germs and bacteria from the outside that could infect and harm the swine.
Finished, we entered the main factory building. It was a large, open space comprised of three rows. Each row contained six large cages where the swine were numbered and housed. The cages were made of thick iron bars and an electric netting above to keep the swine from escaping.
As John had stated, round industrial heat lamps hung from the netting. The cages contained two long troughs: one for feeding and another filled with water. They sat atop a soft, netted floor, where the sweat fell through and collected in large tanks. Large ostomy bags hung from their sides, but some were ripped open; likely from stress.
Beyond this, there was little space for the swine to move around; not that they could have moved much if they had the space.
Some of the swine weighed near 600 pounds - the illegal weight limit for our country - but most were far bigger than this, having been here for so long. They were naked; their bellies full of dirt, dead skin, and grime. Their entire bodies were soaked in sweat. Their backs and scalps were singed from being so close to the heat lamps. Some of the swine had lost their hair from so much pulling, exposing raw patches of scalp that had begun to cook underneath the heat. Flies swarmed around them, feeding and breeding on the exposed flesh.
One in particular, a female, cried out for her mother. She was the smallest of them. Number 23.
John explained she was new and had not yet acclimated to her new home. She was collected at seventeen years old, having reached the illegal weight limit a year earlier but kept hidden by her mother. The mother, he explained, had been executed.
One of the members of our tour group broke away, teasing number twenty. He looked over at us and, asking John, said, "What happens when they die?"
"Leather," he replied. "And meat."
I looked at my watch, noting the leather band had a small stamp on it: A&O.
Maria approached Number 23, with a look of recognition and sorrow on her face. She held onto one of the bars with a shaky hand.
Before anyone could take notice of her, an older woman approached us with two silver plates of freshly poured wine. They were passed around quickly, as the heat had become truly unbearable at this point. We drank in the wine, savoring more of the taste, just as Number 23 had begun to claw at her thick bed of hair; crying still for her deceased mother.

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

I had a lot of trouble with 0 and only really got the hang of it near the end, and for Kiwami 1 I had a lot of fun and got pretty good at the fighting. But, in Kiwami 2 I’m really struggling. It took me like twenty minutes to beat the man in black. Is there any major things that I should do to get the hang of it?

For the past six months, my college-age son (we'll call him Dennis) has been dating a Dominican girl (we'll call her Maria). Maria has been here for many years and speaks really good English, but Dennis tells me that sometimes she misses home. I share her pain. My childhood move from Ohio to Pennsylvania was drastic.
Anyway, a few months ago, Dennis mentioned that he wanted to introduce me to Maria and that they would like to stay with me for a weekend. I eagerly agreed and looked forward to spending time with the both of them. Dennis' mother and I split a few years ago, and I don't see him nearly as much as I used to. After hanging up the phone, a lightbulb went off in my head. Maria mentioned to Dennis that she missed home, so maybe I could bring home to her. I decided that I would do some research and make my house as tropical as possible for her visit.
Two weeks ago, a few days before Dennis and Maria arrived, I went into my local grocery store and bought a whole bunch of tropical fruit, some kumquat-scented shampoo, as well as some food for Caribbean recipes I found online. I also bought a Hawaiian shirt and a sombrero to complete the ensemble. I was determined to make my house as tropical as possible.
Fast forward to the night they arrived, and I had the heater cranked to 80. I was also playing some mariachi music and had prepared some plantains for frying. Dennis and Maria arrived, and I welcomed them inside. Maria seemed very nice, and I told her that I wanted to make her feel as though she never left the DR. I then offered them both piña coladas, which I had made in the blender, and she accepted. I could tell that I had made quite an impression because she couldn't stop smiling, but Dennis looked really upset and asked to speak to me privately.
He asked me what the hell I was doing and that I was embarrassing him in front Maria. I told him that I was making the house tropical so that Maria would feel more comfortable. Pennsylvania winters can be very harsh, after all. Dennis told me that I was making a fool of myself and that my sombrero and the mariachi music weren't even Dominican. I told him to relax and just try to have a good time. When he drives for long periods of time, he can get really wound up, so I figured that had something to do with it. Besides, Maria couldn't possibly judge me too harshly, not after I did all of this for her.
Long story short, attempt after attempt over the weekend to do tropical things were shot down by my son, and I was really getting put out. I felt like my attempt wasn't perfect, but that he needed to put himself in my shoes and try to empathize. Dennis and Maria are still dating, I think, but Dennis hasn't returned my calls. I've tried asking my ex-wife about their relationship, but she doesn't seem to want to talk to me. They say "no good deed goes unpunished," and that really feels true here. I just want my son back, but I don't know what to say. The kumquat shampoo was also never used. AITA?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ofc I’m within a smaller budget and I wanted something light and ultrabook-like. The store near me has a swift 3x with core i5 11th gen and 16 gb ram. I know the laptop also comes with the i7 processor but that one isn’t available in the stores.
I don’t plan on gaming but i still will use the computer extensively for long hours daily. Will the swift 3x serve me well in the long run? Should I go out of my way and look for the swift 3x with the i7 processor instead?