No kidding I really hate my city Hong Kong so much. We people have the longest working hours, highest population density, most expensive housing and worst of all longest life-span, you lose hope if you live in Hong Kong. The scenes in the MV might look really aesthetic but trust me it is no fun living in such place without Seventeen running around. But then I think I hate it so much because there’s nothing I can do to make this city any better ,this city where I was born and will forever belong to.
******important: the political view implied in the edits is only my own thoughts, it has nothing to do with my babies ******
by mldrgrl Rated: PG Summary: Post-Tithonus. Mulder makes a confession that Scully can’t agree with and ends up getting herself (more) hurt in the process.
She tried very hard not to resent his hovering, but it was a difficult task. She was grateful, truly grateful to him for staying in New York and for driving her back home as soon as she could get herself released. Though her relationship with Mulder had some ups and downs lately, she had felt, at the time, that allowing him to escort her back to DC was an easier option than calling her mother. At least she could bid Mulder adieu at her door, or so she thought.
Displaying more stubbornness than usual, Mulder insisted on seeing her comfortably ensconced in her apartment, which meant not just bringing her, and her bag, inside, but changing her sheets, getting her videos from Blockbuster, books to read, and groceries. She let him run all the errands he could think of because at least it got him out from underfoot. She just wanted to be alone with her pain and not have to pretend to be fine for anyone. Pretense was exhausting.
One of the more frustrating aspects of the nature of her gunshot wound was that no matter which way she turned, sat, lay, or breathed, she always felt a slight burning in her abdomen. Even if she was making a remarkably speedy recovery, something the doctors attributed to her overall health and fitness, it didn’t mean the healing was easy. Alone, she would’ve felt free to give in to the need to groan or curse in frustration. With Mulder there, she had to hide her grimaces. The smallest squeak and he was by her side asking if she was all right and what he could do.
She had been laying in bed for over an hour, propped up slightly by a pillow and lightly dozing. All that morning, whenever she sat up or stood up, a hot and cold flush would wash over her and she’d sway slightly with the feeling of being faint. It was an aftereffect of the blood loss, she knew, but the little pauses she took to collect herself had kept Mulder on her like a barnacle since she’d woken up and found him making oatmeal in her kitchen. She finally escaped him by feigning the need for a nap, which turned out to be the truth.
She heard the shuffle of Mulder’s feet outside her bedroom door, but she didn’t open her eyes. The door, which she kept ajar at his insistence, eked open and she felt his presence in her room. He whispered her name and she sighed, but kept her eyes closed.
When you see the people who you think are not in on the secret, if you really understand, you have to revise your opinion completely, and say that the squares are the people who are really far out… because they don’t even know where they started. An enlightened hindu, or buddhist, looks at the ignorant people of this world, and says, ‘My respects.’ Because here I see the divine essence having altogether forgotten what it is, and playing the most far out game of being completely lost. Congratulations, how far out can you get?!
So if you understand that, you don’t start a war. Don't challenge them, don’t bug them, don’t frighten them.
Not because they are immature, not because they are babies and you must not scare babies, it has nothing to do with that.
You must not frighten them because they are doing a very far out act,
they are walking on a tightrope miles up and if you shout they may lose their nerve. For it is a risky game, this tightrope walking, and you can get ulcers from it and all sorts of trouble but you must respect it and say 'congratulations for being so far out.’
DISCLAIMER: The author has nothing against cakes or ugly babies. In fact, this author thinks that ugly babies are the bee’s knees, and routinely stops on her way to the store to play with any ugly baby. The author also sympathizes with ugly babies, as the author herself was born with a striking resemblance to a potato, but has thankfully lost all semblance with the noble spud as time has gone by.
She now resembles a stringbean.
Now, on with the story!
It amused Jack to no end that Bitty and Bob were similar in so many ways.
“Kick him in the ass, honey!”
“Aim for his junk, son! Hit'im where it hurts!”
Comments such as these were a staple at Falconers games, and it was all down to Bob Zimmerman and Eric Bittle-Zimmerman. Their passion to see Jack succeed was not the only thing that made them similar, however. There was also the notorious cake incident.
“Son, that cake isn’t good for anything other than being bird food,” Bob said at Alicia’s birthday dinner, crumbling the cake that Jack had brought in his powerful fists.
“Yes, well, you don’t have to maul it to make your point,” Jack replied, frowning.
“What you need is something substantial, something bursting with flavor. Something with taste and texture. Something like-”
“Pie’s here, everyone!” Bitty called, floating in like the vision that he was.
Bob’s eyes glazed over as the smell of the freshly baked pie hit him. “Son,” he croaked, “do you know how much I love you?”
“Aw, merci, papa,” Jack said, grinning.
“Not you, boy,” Bob snorted dismissively. “My true son,” he said, pulling Bitty in close. “The best thing that Jack ever did was to marry you,” Bob said, and started to wax poetic about his son-in-law.
“We won the Stanley Cup five years in a row, with me as captain. I was youngest captain in the NHL. I graduated with First Class Honors-”
“Bob, would you like to have the cherry or the pecan and peanut butter pie first?”
“My son,” Bob said, smiling happily, ruffling Bitty’s hair. “My little sunshine boy.”
And that was how Jack, Alicia, and the woebegone cake were soundly ignored for the rest of the evening.
Desserts were not the only instance that Bob and Bitty were proven to think alike. Proof, the Ugly Baby Incident of 2020. Jack’s cousin Zach had popped over for a visit, and he’d brought along his bundle of joy.
“Hey, Zach- AAAGH!” Bob screamed recoiling at the sight of the the bundle of mush in his nephew’s arms. “AAAH, that’s a cute baby, Zach, what’s his name?” Bob said, rescuing himself.
“His name is Pierre, uncle,” Zach said fondly. “Oh, hey Jack.” Jack, who had just entered the room, smiled at the blob of flesh and proceeded to coo at it. Birds of a feather, Bob thought to himself.
“Honey, where did you- OH LORD ALMIGHTY!” Bitty stopped dead at the sight of the squirming, wailing, red-faced infant and hastily sought to salvage the situation. “Oh Lord Almighty, what a precious baby!” He cried shrilly, plastering a forced smile onto his face.
“Would you like to hold him?”
Bob intervened as Bitty looked likely to faint at the thought. “Oh, no can do, Zach. Eric sprained his wrist the other day while kneading dough. He’ll have to pass.”
“What about you, uncle Bob?” Zack went on obliviously.
“Oh, no. My pesky arthritis is wreaking havoc on my delicate wrists, you know,” Bob replied, lying through his teeth. Jack glared at his father as the baby was passed to him instead, and proceeded to spit up all over his shirt.
Later, after Zach had left, Bob pulled Bitty and Jack aside. “Son, now you know that I love you, but I’ve been thinking. When you decide to have a baby, let’s use Eric’s sperm.”
Jack glared daggers at his father. “Last I checked, you don’t get a say in this,” he growled. “Besides, I look fine now regardless of my infancy.”
“Yes,” Bob agreed hurriedly, “but I want to save you two the aggravation. Alicia and I had to wait till you hit puberty just to be sure that you weren’t always going to look like a mashed potato with peas for eyes, you know.”
Bitty chuckled and gently hugged Jack. “Don’t worry, peanut,” he crooned, instantly soothing his irate husband. “We’ll love our babies no matter what they look like, because they’ll be ours.”
Bob shook his head. The boy clearly didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. He dashed to the family photos album and returned just as Bitty was going outside to play some “hockey” with Jack. Bob barre the doorway and held up the picture. “What’s up, Bo- OH SWEET JESUS!” Bob grinned triumphantly as Bitty fell over laughing hysterically at the photo of baby Jack. “He’s…so…”
“Hmph,” Jack huffed.
“…cute,” Bitty wheezed out. “Jack, honey, I’m just glad that life did you a solid at around puberty. But you know, I’d still have fallen for you even if you looked like that. I fell for all of you, honey, not just your looks.”
Jack beamed and whisked Bitty upstairs, all pretense of playing hockey forgotten. Bob followed the pair with his eyes, his heart now ease. Never again would the Zimmerman’s have to deal with the fright of a mashed potato baby, and it was all thanks to Bob.