“Use them with care, and use them with respect as to the transformations they can achieve, and you have an extraordinary research tool. Go banging about with a psychedelic drug for a Saturday night turn-on, and you can get into a really bad place, psychologically. Know what you’re using, decide just why you’re using it, and you can have a rich experience. They’re not addictive, and they’re certainly not escapist, either, but they’re exceptionally valuable tools for understanding the human mind, and how it works.”
― Alexander Shulgin, Pihkal: A Chemical Love Story
I don’t get to see many concerts and if I wanted to I would have to travel internationally for it, which is why I missed the concert he signed this at.
I have the nicest friend I could ever ask for.
He went to the concert and he was only allowed to have one signature and security was there to prevent him from getting more. He somehow managed to tell Frank about me without the security noticing.
Frank totally rebelled against all the rules, signed this second piece as well for me and not only that, but he placed a cute little heart beside it as well, sending his love. It’s on a postcard of parachutes that he also gave as a gift. It only reached me now after months but I couldn’t be happier.
I hope that this story made you see the love that is still in this world.
This was done by Pins and Needles tattoo studio for my 18th birthday.
There’s a whole story behind why I love My Chemical Romance but it’s pretty typical, so I’ll just say this: I’m still fighting and this is why. I can love something enough to keep it with me for the rest of my life. @dragons-and-sunsets
I remember when I first watched Life On The Murder Scene my mom was in the room and it was during the part when they were talking about how they’re from Jersey and she was like “wait. Way? MICHAEL Way? GIVE ME A MINUTE!” and sprints out of the room and comes back in with her High School yearbook and long story short my mom and aunt went to high school with Mikey Way
Between Wayhaught and Sanvers it’s become so clear that I am done, so very done, with tempest and angst. I am done with epic level drama. I am done with star crossed lovers and twilight. I am done with pain and pining. I am done with love as a fucking battlefield leaving scars or maiming.
To be fair I might never truly have been into any of that shit, but that was all I was handed. Because love between women is supposed to hurt, according to the narrative we’ve grown up with.
But now, now that we’re getting pairings like these, how could I go back?
Give me caring women in love with each other. Give me gentle development and fluff. Give me a love story where love is not replaced by the flash of passion, but is just another aspect of it. Give me a love story that is not second-degree chemical burns, but instead is that nice electric blanket and a cup of tea. Give me gentle, give me caring, give me intimacy.
SHE was beautiful. Every part of her defined beauty. The way she appropriately dressed, and her taste in music. The way she believed that she wasn’t beautiful even if everyone contradicted her because she wasn’t full of herself.
HE was also beautiful, but in a different way, he had the face of an angel, but the heart of a fiend, nonetheless, they balanced each other out, what a beautiful dysfunctional couple…
[Here is my first little surprise. Now, it is important that you all read this: This fic is my take on Harley Quinn’s origin story. Now I have taken elements from the animated series and I kind of framed the characters around the SS versions of Harley and Mister J. I also just made a lot up (of course) with the help of a friend who brainstorms with me, she is in every way the brains behind this operation as well, I tried to make it as realistic as possible and at the end of most of the fics I will kind of explain/justify my choices if anyone is interested. If you don’t like it, well shit, if you do, fantastic. Xoxo, Doc]
woke up at 6am, sliding my finger across my phone screen to shut off the alarm.
I’ll admit I was excited and perhaps a little apprehensive but excited none the
less. I had been anticipating this day for months as staff from the asylum,
police officers, and military professionals tried to prepare me for one of the
biggest if not the biggest moment of my career. I spent seven years at an Ivy League
university to get my PHD in psychology, forced my way up, and fought to create
a name for myself. I had treated many patients, my work had been published, and
I had conducted seminars, and buried myself in research all for an opportunity
like this one. My colleagues thought I was
stupid to take the job, for one hour, one day a week at 10am sharp I would
travel to the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane and analyse one
of Gotham’s most notorious criminal: The Joker. My colleagues thought it was a
waste of time, why try to fix or understand an
un-fixable and insane man? They kept asking me. Call it
naive, but I didn’t believe that, I believed everyone could be saved in some way;
they just had to want it. I wasn’t a fool either, despite what most people
thought. They don’t give a damn about my publications, my PHD’s, or my work
with The Riddler. All they see is the blonde and the boobs, and the naivety…
but I know my value. I know I am damn good at what I do, and again, I am no
fool. I know what The Joker has done, he is a murderer, an arsonist, a
terrorist, and that is only a vague and shortened list of his crimes. He had
been deemed criminally insane, and I, Doctor Harleen Quinzel, his last chance
at redemption. Many psychologists had tried,
most quitting, others going completely insane. The most notable case was in
regards to Doctor Iobard Shrike. He had had a similar opportunity with The
Joker three years ago but it did not end well. Four sessions, that’s all it
took for Iobard to decide to set his house on fire with his pregnant wife
trapped inside, rob a bank, and then shoot himself whilst surrounded by the
police. No one knew what The Joker had said to him, Shrike had burned his tapes
and his notes to make sure of it. It took me weeks just to convince all parties
to keep the cameras off to gain the patients trust, under the condition that
once my time with him was done (however long or short that may be) I would
surrender a copy of my files to the police and undergo a thirty minute
debrief/psychological evaluation after every session. Getting out of bed I showered
and dressed for the big day.
It took me an hour to get
through security and again to listen to what I had already been briefed on but
I didn’t complain, I was too focused, too excited, too nervous. Once I was in
the room I pulled out my notebook and his rather thick file. Having the file
out was more of a formality though, I knew that file back to front. I must have
straightened and re-straightened the file a dozen times; strumming my
fingernails on the cool metal table, practically buzzing with the anticipation
of it all, and then he entered the room. He did not disappoint, he laughed,
actually, as the guard roughly shoved him into his seat. Bound in a straitjacket, his teeth had been fixed with silver, his hair
was the most vibrant green I had ever seen, his skin was pale, lips rouged, and
his eyes… there was something indescribable about his eyes. I wrote notes about
his appearance, mentally noting the irony of the ‘Damaged’ tattoo on his
forehead. I turned my recorder on.
“Well aren’t you a
dream,” he purred, before laughing again.
I pushed my glasses up
with my forefinger. “Mister… J, my name is Doctor Harleen Quinzel, I will
be seeing you for one hour, once a week from now on.”
“Is that right? Is that
right, Doc?” He laughed lightly.
As cliché as this first
meeting would start out, I felt like it had to be done.
“So, how are you today,
Mister J?” I asked.
He looked down at
himself, “A little tied up, but other than that, just swell,” he said in a
half mocking tone.
I powered on, flipping
through his file without needing to look. He just stared at me, he rolled his
head cracking his neck and extending it. I wrote down that it may be a telling
tick of some sort, or perhaps his bindings were simply uncomfortable.
“So, Mister J, you have
been deemed clinically insane,”
“Well shucks,” I ignored
“You’re in here for
murder, theft, arson; you have more crimes under your belt than most.”
“Just makin’ a living,”
I arched a brow, “Okay,
your most recent endeavour resulted in an Italian mobster being tortured for
five days, why? You call that making a living?”
“He didn’t laugh at my joke.”
“And you think that’s
justified?” I asked.
He leaned back in his
seat, “Do you think it’s justified?”
“I want to talk about you.”
“ButI think you are so
much more interesting.”
Licking my lips I clasped my
hands together on the table, “Mister J, do you think it was justified?” I
He groaned a loud, long, and
obnoxious groan that annoyed me slightly and he rolled his neck.
“Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah!
Tell me, did your mommy and daddy read to you growing up?”
I shifted in my seat, “Mister
J I want to talk about-”
“Tell me if you know this one.
Little Miss Muffet, she sat on a tuffet-”
“Eating her curds and whey;
There came a great
Who sat down beside her,”
He stared at me in a way that
made my blood run cold, “And frightened Little Miss Muffet away.”
I cleared my throat before
resuming, “Mister J I think we should utilise the time we have left-”
He smacked his head hard on
the table and I jumped. “Little Miss Doctor,” Another bang of his head and I
began to panic.
“Was off her rocker,” BANG.
“Thinking she could save the
day,” his voice rose with each line, and blood dripped down his forehead.
“Then came The Joker!” BANG.
The guards burst into the room, grabbing him as he struggled.
“Who wanted to choke her,” his
eyes burned me as he was yanked from the room. I could hear his laugh as he
yelled the last line of his sick poem, “And frightened Little Miss Quinzel
away!” More laughter before it died off in the distance.
I must have stared at the
blood on the table for several minutes, scarcely breathing before I was able to
pack up my things and leave.
Bolting upright in bed I was
drenched in sweat and I could still feel his eyes on me, I could still hear his
dying laughter. Turning my lamp on my Chiappa Rhino 60DS was aimed at the
silhouette by the window in seconds.
“I’m not here to hurt you,
Doctor Quinzel,” The Bat said in a deep gravelly voice.
“No, you’re just here to break
and enter, not very classy.”
He ignored this and I
lowered my gun, I couldn’t see his face but I knew he was looking at it.
“It’s registered, it’s a
dangerous city we live in,” I said, not that I owed him an explanation.
“That’s why I am here, to
protect this city, to protect people like you, to make it better.”
I gave him a look, “I can
take care of myself, now may I ask why you are here?”
Just because he was Batman it
didn’t give him the right to break into people’s houses whenever it pleased
“I wanted to ensure you were
okay, The Joker, he’s tricky. He is manipulative, and I just don’t want him to
I let out an indignant
laugh, “You’ve broken in to offend me by insulting my intelligence and
capabilities as a psychiatrist?”
“I meant no offence,” he said
quickly. “I’m just saying he is a lunatic, a psychopath, many have tried
and failed to ‘help’ him. He has a way of breaking people and as a woman-”
I clenched my fists. I was so
tired of people like Batman, The Joker, and my colleagues thinking that I did
not have what it takes. They reduced me to my sex and they only saw what they
wanted to see, everyone always did.
“Look Batsy,” I cut him
off, “If you have issues with my sex or intelligence I’d be happy to show
you my degrees, or the door. I’m a professional; this is what I do for a
living. I understand The Joker is a dangerous man; I have dealt with many like
him. Thank you for your concern but please leave.”
He was silent for a moment
before he gritted out quickly “Keep your guard up, you don’t want to end
up like Shrike, keep him out of your head.”
And then he was gone, back to
whatever cave he crawled out of. I couldn’t help but wonder if The Joker was
already in my head. All I could hear, echoing in the recesses of my mind was
his voice as he recited the last line of the poem, And frightened Little Miss
Quinzel away! Almost,
Mister J, but I’m going to prove him wrong. I don’t give up that easily even
though I was kind of rattled, I can take it. I knew what I was getting myself
into, and unlike Iobard Shrike, I was going to last damn longer than four days.
The joke will be on The Joker this time. He only made me more determined to
help him today. Thinking about the look on his face when he saw me at our next
session made me smile, but an awful sense of foreboding washed over me as well.
As I slowly began to fall asleep his shocking antics invaded my dreams once
(That is it for chapter one. The reason we made Mister J have a violent outburst instead of immediately laying it thick on the charm, is because we figured he has been through this too many times. He wanted to test her, he wanted to see if she can handle him and it was kind of a scare tactic to weed out the weak if that makes sense.)
How long will this last, this delicious feeling of being alive, of having penetrated the veil which hides beauty and the wonders of celestial vistas? It doesn’t matter, as there can be nothing but gratitude for even a glimpse of what exists for those who can become open to it.
Alexander Shulgin, Pihkal: A Chemical Love Story
Her heart sank into her shoes
as she realized at last how much
she wanted him.
No matter what his past was,
No matter what he had done.
Which was not to say that she
would ever let him know, but
only that he moved her chemically
more than anyone she had ever met, that all other men seemed
pale beside him.