The moment you wake
up to who you are – when your soul wakes, your heart sings, everything suddenly
feels real – you become alive. The you-who-was becomes an alien, someone you
can maybe feel sorry for if she didn’t disgust you. She was a pushover. She
tried to be nice, tried to blend in with the normals. Said things like
“Thank you,” “Okay,” and “I’m fine.” She
practiced smiling in front of a mirror so people would believe the expression
was genuine when she turned it on at appropriate times.
Problem was, she was
anxious all the time, and the smile looked like a gorilla baring its fangs, and
who believes that means something nice? So she-who-was stopped trying. Anyhow,
if you don’t feel like smiling, what’s the point? I figured no one ever
actually, genuinely smiled. The whole world was full of bullshit fakers baring
their teeth at one another. It’s just that they were better at pretending to
smile than I was.
Then I finally
discovered why people smile. I woke up.
A typical Thursday
afternoon. School’s out, your brother’s got the house to himself until the
parents come home drained a little more by yet another day down the crapper,
working with assholes they’d rather punch in the teeth than hang out with. Yet they
spend nine hours a day together. Smiling.
Pretending to give a crap about each other’s kids while they ignore their own.
“Yes, sir,” “Sure, no problem,” “I’m fine, and
you?” Dumbasses. Asleep in coffins made of wages and nailed shut with health
How many people wake
up? Can’t be many. Getting older seems to be a process of growing wearier and
more lethargic along the path to permanent sleep. I mean, look at your parents
and teachers. Look at those working registers at the head of the line with
their dead eyes. Look at your heroes, once they’re old and stop giving a shit
about the causes they fought for when they were young. Connect-the-dots,
color-inside-the-lines, play nice. That’s how most people make it through this
world. Maybe they’re even happy. How would I know? That whole “act as if and it’ll happen” theory of contentment
that guidance counselors and therapists tell you is a load of crap. I suppose
if you grew up in some fantasy family and have no outrageous ambitions, it could
work or you. Hell, maybe some people who act
happy actually are. How would I know?
Good luck. I’m serious. If that’s you, I’m kind of envious. Would be nice to
not have this constant itch at the back of your skull and just under the
School had been
particularly ass that day. I don’t just mean the usual BS classroom stuff no
one cares about, even the teachers. Easy to ignore. Two tenth-graders tried to
get under my skin at lunch, Mark and I-don’t-remember-his-name (Derek’s older
brother). I have a way of dealing with dudes like that: You just stare at them
while imagining what you could do to their eyes with the fork and butter-knife
on your tray. Practice your gorilla-smile at full wattage, and they shut up.
It’s instinct to not poke venomous things.
When the bell went
off at the end of seventh hour, I tossed my notebook into my backpack, threw it
into my locker, jogged down the hallway on my way out through the swinging
glass doors, and took off on my bike away from town. Needed to burn off some
hatred of the human species. Just ride.
later, I was blasting through the forest around Lake Perry. In the air half the
time because the bike club that’s responsible for keeping the path clear
usually slacks off once you’re more than half-way around the lake, as if they
think no one ever rides that far. Whatever. I like a challenge. Took a couple
spills, too, but nothing some Bactine and a couple Band-Aids couldn’t fix.
My heart was
hammering away in my neck, my legs were pumped, my lungs were on fire in the
good kind of way, and my forearms were tight from hanging onto the grips over
yet another fallen tree, when I skidded around a sharp turn and flew out of the
forest near the beach. You can get there by car, because oldsters drive out
there in their SUVs with their families on the weekends. But on a weekday
afternoon it’s nothing but high-schoolers and kids with learner’s permits
bringing their friends out for some beer-soaked swimming or make-out sessions.
And some younger kids like me, who make it out on bikes or get a lift with
I rode across the
mossy rocks to the shoreline and dropped my bike once I reached the sand. Walked
into the cold lake, shoes and all, until it almost soaked my cutoffs. (To hell
with school dress codes. If the legs came down more than three fingers past my
underwear like the rules said, that’s all my parents cared. I told them, “When
Lord Principal gives us reasonable A/C, I’ll wear pants. ‘Til then, I’m
ignoring the no-shorts rule.” They shrugged and smiled and went back to
I was about to let
my sweaty self drop beneath the cool surface when I heard the kind of cruel
laughter that only junior-high school kids produce. Always about stuff that’s not funny.
Near a rusty grill mounted
to a post driven into the sand, the same two bullies from lunch were giving
crap to Derek. A year younger than me, he was pretty cool. At least he
understood the appeal of sitting quietly across the lunch table, wanting nothing
besides hanging out, two mammals feeding together. You don’t need to be a herd
animal to enjoy companionship.
Mark gave Derek a
shove, and Derek’s own brother stuck out a leg. The kid tripped into the sand.
I splashed in their
direction. “Real brave,” I said, “picking on a kid two years younger
said Mark. He gave the rising Derek another shove before heading to intercept
me. “Maybe I should pick on you instead?”
I’m still studying TAB like it’s a therapy/theater event- everyone is someone else, someone from Sherlock’s memories. Time for the Carmichaels. I thought at first they were a variation of the Holmes parents, but that doesn’t quite fit. Back to the drawing board.
So, Sir Eustace. He’s a bully and a coward. An abuser, in hiding as a loving husband. And he ends up dead. Who have we seen that fits that description? Took me a while, but I found a few:
😡. Charles Magnussen, blackmailer. Dead. Some kind of partner with Mycroft. He liked to watch people squirm.
😡. Connie Prince, makeover queen. Dead. On TV, week after week, she bullied her brother Kenny. Kenny’s lover Raoul poisoned her for it.
😡. Carl Powers, the young swimmer. Dead. We feel sorry for “little Carl”, but… “Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing.” Maybe Carl was not such a nice guy.
Both Carl and Connie were killed by the “five pips bomber”. Same poison, in fact. Connie’s death wasn’t personal, it was just another consulting criminal case, so we can put her aside. That leaves Charles and Carl. Charles, Carl….. Hmmm.
Carl: German/Scandinavian form of Charles.
Charles: From Germanic, meaning “man” or “warrior”
Powers: Two origins: from French for “poor”; or……
“from the Old French “Pohier”, indicating a native of Pois, a town in Picardy, North France, so called from the Old French “pois”, fish, because of its well-stocked rivers.“
Magnussen: son of Magnus, which means "great” in Latin, and “Power” in Swedish.
Carl/Charles Powers/Magnussen = Man-fish.
Maybe Mycroft has a type? An obsession? A "bloody stupid power complex”??? 🏭 🐟 ☂ 👀
A reproduced postcard circa early 1900’s of the “Real Carabinieri” translated; Real Police with a #canecorso #dog
#Italy is home to two (2) #police forces, with the #polizia the regular state police while the #carabinieri being part of the #army.
The Carabinieri was founded by Victor Emanuel I, Duke of Savoy and King of Sardinia almost half a century before modern Italy came into existence with their
name coming from the carabina, the #rifle they traditionally carried.
Every major country has utilized in their #military as well as #lawenforcement some type of #breedsofpurpose Italy’s choice was and still is the Cane Corso. A large, athletic #mastiff
Note the ear crop style, a slender framed dog and a tail that isn’t docked unlike today’s #dogs
It’s kind of funny (not really but…) all the hypocrites on tumblr reblogging posts about bullying when they do so themselves. Look at yourself in the mirror first and analyse your behavior, then I’ll take you seriously.
I feel that because my dad doesn't thoroughly express how he loves me and because I was bullied by guys, that I will never allow a man to love me.
This makes me extremely sad because daddy issues are so for real and it breaks my heart to see it happening, and it also makes me kind of sad to see how much of a joke daddy issues have become. I pray that you get peace and closure in your relationship with your dad, and that whether you do or don’t, you don’t allow your past failed relationships with men (which are obviously NOT your fault or responsibility!) cause you to miss out on a wonderful relationship with the right guy or guys (friends or significant others) who will love you properly, my love