i liked the aunt i had that loved my art and did drugs

Mommy Says

Pairing: Philip Hamilton x reader
Word Count: 4,153ish (I did not expect that)
T/W: Fluff!
A/N: For Adorable Anon’s request: “Philip x reader where they’re married and have two daughters and Philip insists on the reader taking a day to herself while he watches the kids and it’s just a disaster lmao but it’s a cute disaster.”
Hahah, poor Philip! This is so cute! Also, yes, the kids call him daddy. I can’t see a 5 year old calling her father: father, or dad so  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ) (Mia is 5 and Riley is 7)
Tags: @justfangirlingaround@applesislife@iworshipmusicals

“Wake up, wake up, wake up!” 

Philip felt as if he was in a waterbed with the way your two little girls, Mia and Riley were bouncing on the bed. He rolled onto his back as they continued to beckon him to well…wake up. Squinting when one of the girls pulled the curtain open to reveal the bright and shining sun outside. The other jumped up, landing on Philip, he didn’t even respond, her tiny body didn’t make much of a difference, even when falling on him. He placed his hands over his eyes, groaning a little after glancing at the clock. It was only 8:30. 

“Wake up!” Riley giggled, poking his bicep from the side of the bed as Mia shoved at his chest, over and over again.

Walking past the bedroom you saw what they were up to. Sighing, you entered the room. Pulling the curtains back, Philip hummed, as you fixed the situation. You gently moved Riley out of the way, sending her the direction of the door. Next, you picked up Mia, taking her off of Philip’s chest, telling her she is not Tarzan, nor is he. Setting her down you bent down to talk to them by the doorway. 

“Come on, girls, what did I say?” you asked in a gentle, but stern tone.

“Today’s daddy’s day off…,” they told you, looking at the floor. 

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St. Vincent Is Telling You Everything

“I told you more than I would tell my own mother.”

September 10, 2017, 10:34 a.m.
By Laura Snapes | BuzzFeed Contributor
Reporting From New York, New York

Annie Clark was reconfiguring some older material for her upcoming tour when she realized how alien it felt to play it. She could adapt the arrangements to her harsher new sound — the sleazy, acid aesthetic of Masseduction, her upcoming fifth solo record as St. Vincent — but the writing’s proggy complexity was cockblocking the emotion. “In so many ways, I thought I was being completely transparent and brave in every record, only to realize that they are very oblique,” Clark told BuzzFeed News. She cackled and looked delighted. “Who knew! I had no idea.”

Clark is much too self-aware for this to be completely true. But the difference between her polite, guarded Texan past and confrontational present is colossal. When I first interviewed Clark in 2009, she nervously pressed her pendant against her lips and face, leaving a red lipstick pox on her insane cheekbones. By 2014’s St. Vincent, Clark’s public persona would be imperious.

But these days, she’s a playful freak who revels in showing the tightness of her grip, a disposition aided by long, straight eyebrows that dance like Memphis squiggles. In late July, she appeared in the lobby of New York City’s Marlton Hotel, her temporary home during the making of Masseduction. She had come from pilates — which she likes because it makes her sing better and “come a lot harder” — and disappeared to change out of her leopard-print gym shorts. When I mentioned a recent paparazzi photo of her looking like a sexy detective in another skintight leopard-patterned getup, she asked twice, with predatory delight, whether I’d looked at her camel toe. (No! Okay, maybe!) The only time her control slipped was when the hotel’s stereo started playing “Who,” a knotty song from the album she made with David Byrne, and she shriveled like a salted snail at hearing her own voice.

Self-possession like hers is often interpreted as pretentious, or pathological. But over time, the confidence that the younger, anxious Clark had to fake has become bracingly real. You can hear it in Masseduction, a record of pop fluidity and queer possibility. It’s the best thing she’s ever done, and there are no bad St. Vincent records. It’s partly harsh, heady, erotic synth-pop visions steered by her diamond-sharp guitar, and while Clark has written plenty of ballads, there have never been any as brutal and gorgeous as these. Its lurch between apocalypse and ecstasy mirrors how it felt to be kicked in the head by the past couple years.

In a way, Clark was right about the obscurity of her past work, filled with archetypes and distanced observations — emotions through a stained-glass window. If not a clear pane, then Masseduction is at least a peep show on heartache, fucking, addiction, destitution, and suicide. And her relatively new life as a very public figure, thanks to relationships with Cara Delevingne and Kristen Stewart, gives it an extra frisson. Tabloids will rush to find the former, the famed British supermodel, on an album littered with wasted bodies, especially on “Young Lover,” where Clark finds someone overdosed in the bathtub. She recounts the night with terror but also arrestingly ugly indignation. “Oh, so what / Your mother did a number / So I get gloves of rubber / To clean up the spill,” she sneers.

“Scenario has to rhyme, babe,” is all Clark said about its veracity. She was bemused at being asked to explain the lyrics. To her, this record is butt-naked. “I told you everything,” she stressed. “I told you more than I would tell my own mother. It’s right there.”

Annie Clark
Nedda Afsari

Masseduction started out with three tenets: It would feature programmed beats and pedal steel guitar, and examine power and seduction. “What does power look like, who wields it, how do they wield it — emotionally, sexually, financially?” Clark ticked off her fingers.

The album was properly born over a creative first-date dinner with Jack Antonoff, the Bleachers frontman who also recently produced and wrote with Lorde and Taylor Swift. Clark was looking for a teammate; they told each other everything that was going wrong in their lives and decided that total oblivion was the only way out of their heads. “It wasn’t, ‘Hey, let’s make a record together, that’ll be fun,’” Antonoff told me. “It was, ‘Let’s absolutely go all the way and find the absolute best thing that exists here,’ which is really the only way to work on things.”

That grit is Clark’s MO. Until recently, she claimed to have taken approximately 36 hours off in between returning from touring 2011’s Strange Mercy and starting work on 2014’s St. Vincent. The concerts for the latter were bonkers, starting the run as avant-garde, meticulously choreographed deconstructions of a traditional rock show, and ending it with exorcisms that entailed Clark crumpling down a 10-foot pink plywood pyramid like a drunken horse. She often stole objects from the crowd: a pair of crutches, someone’s dinner. The spectacle of her murdering the thing she’d trained for was addictive.

St. Vincent during the 2015 Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival.
Frazer Harrison / Getty Images

“Touring became a blood sport for me. I mean, I was born with a whip anyway, and touring became this self-flagellating exercise,” she said, clenching her jaw and lashing each shoulder with an imaginary strap. “And I was seeking that kind of physical exhaustion; I was seeking the pain.”

She doesn’t know why, and she’s okay not knowing why, though eventually she did accept that her relationship to touring was a form of delirium. On the new album’s “Sugarboy,” a dystopian, post-Moroder disco banger, she describes herself as a “casualty hanging on from the balcony.” (She literally climbed rafters in some theaters, kicking away security guards.) This hysteria is one of the reasons she considers Masseduction her saddest record. “I lost my mind, I lost people, I gained people, I stopped touring,” Clark said of that period between 2014 and 2017. “It was just a lot of a lot, you know.”

After the St. Vincent tour dates ended, Clark had to learn to construct and value life away from the road — she had been on tour since age 16, when she worked as an assistant for her aunt and uncle’s jazz group. “And I still love that,” she said of touring, “but it’s more like a component of my life now rather than…my life.” Back home she indulged in a “period of bacchanalia,” and briefly got into self-medicating, an experience she turned into the lunatic track “Pills”: Imagine the Stepford Wives lost in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory (Kamasi Washington guests on saxophone; Delevingne sings on the chorus).

She’s transfixed by the forces that can swallow us — “You know, drugs, sex, and rock ‘n’ roll,” she winked. “So corny. Kill me! Kill me dead!” Though sometimes she uses those themes to dress up more mundane relationship dynamics. “Savior” explores the unhealthiness of mutual projection through a funny S&M parable involving nurses and nuns and our tediously prosaic concepts of kink: “You put me in a teacher’s little denim skirt,” Clark moans on the song. “Ruler and desk so I can make it hurt / But I keep you on your best behavior / Honey, I can’t be your savior.” The album’s self-destructive dynamic comes out on the title track — “I can’t turn off what turns me on,” she wails over twisted guitar — and her protagonists never stop annihilating each other for their own benefit, whether for carnal kicks, or for the mothers who “milk their young” in the song “Los Ageless.”

The album cover for Masseduction.
Loma Vista Recordings

And then there’s the heartbreaking “Happy Birthday Johnny,” which sounds like a snowflake but crushes like an anvil. It calls back to the title track of her 2007 debut Marry Me, about “John” who’s “a rock with a heart like a socket I can plug into at will”; and to “Prince Johnny,” the decadent downtown royal from St. Vincent. She said she feels compassion and hopelessness for his self-destruction, but can’t judge because she’s just like him. Maybe he’s also a cipher for the way humans use each other — Clark flatly refused to talk about him. “One thing I have learned in six records and 10 years is that I’m not obliged to answer any questions — a lesson I more or less only recently learned.” She stared into the bar, fixing a grim expression through her orange aviators. “Next question.”

At any rate, the song is a whole story. Once conspirators, her and Johnny’s literal fire-starting days are behind them, and now he lives on the street, calling up Clark at New Year’s for “dough to get something to eat.” She demurs, and he calls her a queenly miser who’s sold out for fame. “But if they only knew the real version of me / Only you know the secrets, the swamp, and the fear,” she pleads. It is deeply tragic, being shamed — perhaps rightly — by the person who once understood your shame.

Antonoff theorized that she’s mourning a past on the record. On the forthcoming Fear the Future Tour (named after a new song, and to resemble a Jenny Holzer maxim), Clark said she probably won’t be flinging herself around stages as much because “I think I’m emotionally throwing myself around a lot more.”

A still from St. Vincent’s “New York” music video.
Alex Da Carte

In late July, Tiffany & Co. announced Clark as one of the faces of its fall advertising campaign. Diamonds and waspy Americana are a weirdly prim contrast to the freaky propaganda aesthetic that Clark is calling “manic panic” — the Masseduction album cover is a photo of a nice ass in a leopard-print thong bodysuit. But like any savvy propagandist, Clark’s image will be everywhere this year. Having directed a short film, The Birthday Party, as part of the horror anthology XX, she’s now due to direct a feature-length, female-led adaptation of The Picture of Dorian Gray. (“The most rich text I have ever read: transgression, modernity, society, repressed queerness.”) There’s also a multimedia performance as part of October’s Red Bull Music Academy in Los Angeles, and an upcoming art exhibition in New York. A coffee table book. Essays. (She calls art “a fountain of youth” that’s given her everything and everyone in her life, hence her urge to make everything.) And that’s just the exposure she has control over.

Celebrities like to pretend that their success is the result of some cosmic fluke, but Clark has said quite openly that the best part of becoming more famous thanks to her love life is “just getting the opportunity to do more work in different fields,” which nobody ever admits! (Though her 2015 Grammy for Best Alternative Album and overwhelming critical acclaim probably helped, too.)

St. Vincent, Zoe Kravitz, and Zosia Mamet at the Tiffany & Co.-presented Whitney Biennial VIP Opening in March 2017 in New York.
Mike Coppola / Getty Images

One of Clark’s best-known songs, 2014’s “Digital Witness,” is about social media voyeurism. “I wonder if, in the future, privacy will be something that only the 1 percent can afford,” she told Rolling Stone that year, which now seems beautifully naive. From the second she and Delevingne were spotted together at the 2015 BRIT Awards, the UK’s pervy yet ever-scandalized tabloid media went nuts that their hottest young model was dating a woman, and pursued them so staunchly that the couple once took revenge by firing water pistols at the paparazzi.

“She really is so famous!” Clark said of Delevingne, feigning hammy disbelief at the attention they received. “That shouldn’t have been shocking to me, but it was shocking to me in the sense that she’s such a sweet, really, deeply kind, unspoiled person. She has more compassion in her little finger than—” She waved her hand around her torso with a grim laugh. (The pair reportedly split last fall, but Clark would only say they were “never not close.”)

Clark’s self-assurance helped her to perceive the tabloid aggression and celebrity weirdness as baffling rather than distorting. She was too classy to run with my suggestion that attending that Taylor Swift 4th of July party must’ve been an interesting anthropological study. “That was, I think, in the midst of a game of Celebrity,” she said of a photo of her wearing the same stars ’n’ stripes onesie as Gigi Hadid, Karlie Kloss, and Ruby Rose. She took a long pause. “I was very bad at it!”

From left: Cara Delevingne and Annie Clark
Schiller Graphics

But she was disturbed by dangerous high-speed car chases from paparazzi in pursuit of photos of the couple; she thinks the gossip industrial complex relates to a wider societal disparity. “The biggest problem was that the value system of it is all based on aspiration,” she said with genuine concern. “It’s wealth aspiration, fame aspiration. But if the government, if the world was just generally a more compassionate, empathetic place, people wouldn’t be aspiring to…that. They would be more fulfilled with their own lives if the wealth gap in general wasn’t so insane.” Admittedly, it was hard not to want to look at them, in matching sharp suits and laser-cut Burberry, queering the archetype of the male rock star dating the young supermodel, watching the context around an established artist mutate in front of you.

There is the kind of halfway-benign personal invasion where paparazzi follow you and your girlfriend around an airport. But then there is the kind where the never-not-creepy Daily Mail doorsteps your older sister at home in Texas and calls up your well-meaning uncle to sandbag him into revealing that your father went to prison in 2010 for participating in multimillion-dollar stock fraud. Although it is grotesque to treat the paper’s muckraking as a puzzle piece, it did illuminate part of the story behind Strange Mercy, which Clark had — understandably — only ever vaguely attributed to an overwhelming period of loss. “Suitcase of cash in the back of my stick shift,” she sang on “Year of the Tiger.” “I had to be the best of the bourgeoisie / Now my kingdom for a cup of coffee.” (She cowrote the song with her mother, Sharon, who split from Clark’s father when she was three.)

“Everybody has their personal tragedies and their crosses to bear,” Clark said in a clipped tone. She calls her father’s 12-year prison sentence “a horrible tragedy. On so many different levels. So absolutely heartbreaking.” She — an adult — could handle it. But her younger half- and stepsiblings on her father’s side are still teenagers. “And I specifically would never talk about that or have ever mentioned that in a myriad of questions about Strange Mercy because it seems like an incredible betrayal of my family. But most specifically, my youngest siblings who are innocent children. They were kiddos.”

She described the Daily Mail story as “faux concern,” and reiterated that the paper couldn’t find any dirt on her, no matter how outrageously they tried. “I’m not ashamed of my family,” she said. Then I asked her whether her father going to prison had spun her own moral compass, or made her reconsider any values of right and wrong that he may have instilled in her. She was momentarily confused, and then let rip a massive, absurd, demonstrative laugh. She kept going. “I love my father,” she said eventually, still tickled. “I love my father very much, as any child loves their parent. He’s very intelligent and erudite and a good writer and incredibly well read, and those are all things that I value and I’m glad that he instilled in me.” She paused, and kept on laughing.

In the run-up to announcing Masseduction, Clark was Instagramming absurdist junket-styled videos, in which she wears a hot pink skirt and a transparent rubber top the color of ash, and takes questions from an off-screen interviewer. Her answers were scripted by the musician and comedian Carrie Brownstein, who is also her ex-girlfriend. One video poses the question of whether Annie Clark and St. Vincent are the same person. She pauses to consider. “Honestly, you’d have to ask her.” What’s it like being a woman in music? “Good question,” she muses, as the camera zooms to her black and yellow fingernails, which spell out “FUCK OFFF.”

These films might factor into her upcoming tour, but the answers were also written for journalists. Earlier in July, in London, Clark found alternative ways to conduct interviews for hours at a time. She invited some female journalists to get massages with her (too weird with men, even though she was face-down on the table the whole time, avoiding eye contact). Other writers were invited into a 10-by-10-foot pink wooden box that was constructed in a North London studio especially for the occasion. Her interrogators had to duck through a low door to enter the blacklit space. “Not full-on crawl, because that’s a little heavy-handed,” she clarified. Inside, she looped a pedal steel recording and lit a Diptyque candle that struggled to mask the paint fumes.

St. Vincent / Via Instagram

If anyone asked her an obvious question — like where the name St. Vincent came from — she planned to play prerecorded answers and “check my email, or stretch, or zone out for a second,” she said, sounding almost disappointed that she didn’t get a chance to enact her schemes. She insisted she wasn’t being antagonistic. But sitting opposite Annie Clark for two hours is often intimidating enough without the added fear that she’s about to make fun of you to your face: It is a gigantic power play! “Oh, deeply so,” she said, affecting a wryly elegant tone. “But then also not at all because I was the insane person stuck in a box for eight hours!”

If critics and fans are bored of this sort of thing — see Arcade Fire’s recent album campaign — they are clearly not as tired as the artists who have to smile politely at writers who don’t know how to use Google. Plus, Arcade Fire’s hijinks felt cynical; Clark’s feels like a rejection of the idea that women artists are meant to be relatable, having endured a career’s worth of inane juxtapositions between her pretty face and gnarly shredding like it means anything.

The point, she said, was that putting ourselves in a totally different, slightly strange context can produce interesting results. (She and I were meant to do Pilates together — before an oversold class spared me the indignity.) Why not make everything thoughtful and curated? If the stakes are already high, why not aim even higher and put yourself in extreme circumstances to see what happens? If Clark has done two things for the cerebral indie-rock world that she’s long outstripped, it’s teach about sex (thank god), and expose its low-risk complacency for a con.

Nedda Afsari

Of course, in some people’s eyes, this makes her a phony, a manipulator. Earlier this year, legendary cultural critic Greil Marcus wrote an admirably dim-witted column for Pitchfork where he compared Clark to the slippery Father John Misty, aka Josh Tillman, claiming that they “perform as artists of such pretentiousness you couldn’t possibly figure out how to talk to them. … There’s no way to address a saint: To be a saint you have to be dead … Such characters allow themselves to appear as if touched by God, which is what they’re selling, and laugh at you if you’re so square not to know who they really are: to join their club.”

If Marcus had read any of the million interviews that Clark is parodying in her high-concept clips, he would know the name is rooted in humiliation and squalor — the hospital where Dylan Thomas died — rather than divine aspiration. “And I have never, nor would I ever, put the kind of trapdoors and booby traps in my music to make the listener feel dumb,” Clark told me in response to Marcus’s theories. “I have enough hubris not to kill myself, but I actually have such a deep respect for the listener that I have never tried to pander. Songs and arrangements were complex and convoluted at times, but they were sincere attempts at connecting.”

She hoped there will be no mistaking her intent with her new record, which “is so first-person and sad.” But if anyone does, she knows it’s not her job to correct them.

A still from the “New York” music video.
Alex Da Carte

A still from the “New York” music video. If you want to use Masseduction as a treasure map, then this is what it tells us about Annie Clark’s personal life. She experienced a complicated kind of heartbreak. Sometimes that makes her crazy and neurotic: “I won’t cry wolf in the kitchen,” she swears on woozy opener “Hang on Me,” but threatens to jump off her roof “just to punish you” on the vengeful, cracked opera of “Smoking Section,” the last song. Sometimes a mental safety net stretches out when she might otherwise get hurt. “Slip my hand from your hand / Leave you dancing with a ghost,” she sings on “Slow Disco,” the most tender song she’s ever written. “Don’t it beat a slow dance to death?” a forlorn and disembodied voice repeats as it fades out.

Her world is changing, and that’s unsettling. “Too few of our old crew left on Astor,” she sings on “New York,” a song about lost heroes. On “Fear the Future,” she belts the title as the song reaches a pyrotechnic cataclysm that sounds like a truckload of fireworks being dumped inside a volcano.

But if you respond in kind to Clark’s vulnerability, then these are the more meaningful revelations that we can take from Masseduction into our lives: Relatability is a crock, and sincerity doesn’t take a single form. “I refuse to seem less threatening, if that’s how I’m perceived,” said Clark. “Ultimate freedom is not caring whether you are liked, because you are making something you really love and believe in.” On Masseduction Clark tells us that all the good forms of desire — love, sex, art — are self-destructive. But at their best, they create just that little bit more than they consume, and can eventually alchemize anxiety into total power.

Andrae Deon Davis

What’s good world! This is a story about a young man some of you may know and others may not, but let me take you on a ride through my life. I was born in March 1982 and raised in Little Rock, Arkansas on the south side of the city. The middle child of three, I had an older brother named Chris and a little sister, Katheryn. My single mother, Wendy, was so beautiful, hardworking, church going, and could sing her butt off. She had one of the most beautiful voices you would ever hear. She took care of her kids on her own and made sure we had things provided for.

Chris had a different father while Kat and I had the same dad. Our dad, Ramon, was a preacher and was part of a gospel singing group. His side of the family was into church heavy and could sing very well. I guess that’s how my mother and father met. Just about every weekend, I would go spend time with my dad and my paternal grandmother, Mae. Kat was too young, so she really couldn’t come. Grandma Mae just loved the boys of the family, not really caring much about the girls at all for some reason. I recall going to be with my dad to watch him sing and play drums, and sometimes lead the group on a song or two. My mother didn’t really care for him, as she would sometimes prevent my sister and I from seeing him and often calling him “Reverend Low Down.” I’m guessing she had personal issues going on with him. Sometimes my dad wouldn’t show up when he said he was coming. I would just have a fit and cry often times because I loved being around my dad so much.

As the years progressed, the streets started taking a bad turn in the late 80’s. Drugs and gangs were on the rise and my brother Chris was slowly getting more involved in the streets. He was hanging with his neighborhood friends. They all went to Mitchell Elementary, hung out every day, and played for a little league football team called the Sunset Tigers. One day Chris and his friends got together and made up a posse. This was during the time that gangster rap was thriving. You had your N.W.A’s and other similar groups, etc. Chris and friends, Alex, Harold, T.J., Bobby, Frankie, and Ant used to hang on this corner called Shillier, and on this corner the street number was 23rd. They decided to take 23rd and make it into a posse. They were kicking people’s butts fighting, stealing, and they were even doing makeshift tattoos with erasers putting “23rd” on their arms. The click took a turn in the early 90’s however. Some of the friends went their ways, but the posse continued to grow, turning into “the Crips.” Alex, Ant, Frankie, and Bobby, remained “23rd” and my brother Chris, Harold, T.J. became “8ball Bloods.” Later through the years, the friends became enemies, and over time relations worsened.

During this time in the early 90’s, it was evident the streets weren’t safe anymore. You had “Bloods” around the corner, and “Crips” on the next. There was drive by after drive by, killing after killing, and violence was rampant. Seeing this, my mother moved around quite a bit, but never quite out of the area. Chris would go spend time with our maternal grandma, Henrie Lee, and our uncles Willie, Mooney, Kwanis, and Aunt Edwina to try to keep him out of trouble. But that didn’t help anyway. Chris was getting into a lot of trouble, so they moved to 29th and Summit in a big, beautiful house on the corner. Though the home itself was a nicer place to live than the last living environment, it was directly across the street from the Sunset Projects. The whole block was full of “Bloods” and “Vice Lords,” drug dealers, killers, and crack addicts. Anything and everything you can name was on that block. There was something peculiar going on. Chris started to really change, selling dope heavy, getting busted, and the streets just took him under. My mother, too, started to change. She was a janitor for the school district making good money, but lost her job because the streets were getting to her. Things just started to change for the worst it seemed as she later on became a crack addict herself.

My brother’s friends were serving off our porch, and serving my mother as well. I was finding crack pipes all around the house, seeing my mother sleep with all kinds of men, walking in her room and seeing her lie across the bed butt naked, sleep with a crack pipe on the side of the night stand. Winter came and we would have no lights, water, or gas at times. Roaches and maggots were in our food, and we’d only be surviving off of Faygo pop drinks and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. Often times, we’d ask the neighbors for clean drinking water. Things were so bad, not only did we have pests and rodents living with us, rats would chew up our clothes. So one day, my Grandma Henrie Lee just got sick and tired, and came and got Kat and I while we both were still in elementary school. My brother, Chris, was in jail for beating up a teacher at Southwest Jr. High. Grandma Henrie made sure Kat and I were good, showing us how to respect others, and how to take care of ourselves. My mother continued to stay out in the streets. Progressively declining and starting to be more visibly battered, becoming very skinny, and not looking like the mother I had known. She looked like she could die any day.

As a young man entering junior high at Henderson, I also was straggling the line between being in the streets like my brother or growing up to be a good young man. One day I got caught throwing up gang signs. Somebody told my Uncle Willie, who was a police officer by trade, and understandably stern with me. My uncle got on me tough, put a whipping to my backside, and told me forcefully that he would not let me end up in these streets like Chris. He just didn’t want to lose another nephew, so he did what he could to influence and rear me. By this time it was the late 90’s, and I was entering high school. My grandmother sent me to live with my Uncle Willie and his wife because she felt that I needed a father figure in my life. After reviewing her options, she thought that Uncle Willie was the best fit, and I must say Uncle Willie did a good job at it. He took me in and showed me how to be a respectful, clean, and responsible young man.

While I was in high school, my mom went to prison. The drugs did her so bad, and she just didn’t want help. She was in jail my last two years of high school. Hoping she would get out by the time I graduated in 2000, when she didn’t, my mother sent me a letter telling me how sorry she was. I was just in tears uncontrollably. The slight bright side was that my brother Chris actually did get out of jail in time to watch me graduate. I don’t believe people in high school ever knew what was going on in my life because I never showed it. I would always dressed nice and kept a smile on my face. I would try to keep people smiling, laughing just to be silly, and enjoying being the life of the party. My Uncle Willie’s wife was trying to get me to go to college heavy. She had me applying for school after school. I loved drawing, and was looking at art schools, but there was something different I wanted to do. I wanted to cut hair though never in life had I picked up clippers. I told my uncle’s wife that I wanted to go to barber school and she just shot my dreams down. She said that I would never make it cutting hair since there’s no money in it. Because she came from a family that went on to school, she figured that’s what I needed to do.

Hearing this, I decided to go and talk to my grandmother seeing that I knew she’d give me a different opinion. She told me to be whatever I want to be and if that’s being a barber then I should do it. She said she knew I would make it and be okay if I followed my heart. So then I had a talk with my uncle. He just kept it all out real, saying that college is not for everybody.
He advised that if I felt that it’s not for me, then I should just do something productive. That was like the best advice I’d ever heard. After talking with them, I applied to barber school and got accepted. After this, my uncle’s wife didn’t like it at all. We wound up getting into it and she didn’t want me living there anymore. She even went on to say that I was the reason that my uncle and her weren’t working out. After facing this news, I decided to bounce and go live with my brother Chris. He made sure I was straight, but I knew this new lifestyle came with other facets. Chris was then selling drugs really heavy, and most nights we had to answer the door with guns. There were drug addicts running in and out of the home, due to my brother selling everything you can name. With me responding to the cards I was given, everything came with a grain a salt. I was now pursuing my dream of becoming a barber, but things in my life were still becoming worse.

I ended up moving out of the apartment from my brother because of safety. By this time it’s 2001, and I had a girl by the name of Shae. She was fresh out of high school, and both of us got a place together in the same complex that my brother Chris was staying in. I was still in school, but after school I would drive her car around and cut hair for $5 while she was at work. She held me down, paid the bills until I was out of school, and worked long hours to make it happen. My brother was keeping the drugs and guns at our apartment so the cops wouldn’t know where to find it if they busted him. Chris was getting big time, making all kinds of money, and things just started to change in 2002. He started messing with more of the wrong people, and I watched as friends and family got jealous. People were getting over on him, yet Chris and some of our cousins had the city on lock. Things went sour, and Chris ended up catching an attempted murder charge. He shot a chick seven times, and got into it with more people. It got so bad that he told me and Shae to move somewhere else because he didn’t feel that we were safe staying there anymore. He told me to give the drugs and guns to our cousins so they can come up on some money to get him out.

Chris was later able to get out on a $250,000 bond. He was out of jail only three months when he and I talked, and he told me I’m the reason he sold drugs and did what he did. It was because of how he coped with how we were struggling and how he wanted to see the family bounce back. Then a couple weeks after this, Chris got killed. He was found shot dead in a ditch on July 4th, 2002. I had lost my only brother, and our cousin was killed the day before. Grandma Henrie Lee died a couple months later, then I lost my best friend Braylon that same summer, all in one year. Then, to compound this, I broke up with my girlfriend Shae after three years due to the pressure.

Despite this, I ended up getting out of school in 2003, becoming one of the city of Little Rock’s highly talked about barbers. I have traveled around the nation cutting all kinds of celebrities’ hair. I won the “Best Barber” award in 2006. As well, I also became a rapper and had one of the best songs that came out in the city, called “Do the Jump Rope.” The hit made mainstream, allowing me to perform on MTV Sweet 16, and opening up for various big-time artists. Then, however, I knew there was a bigger picture I had drawn out.

In 2008, my mom went back to prison again. I used to be so upset at her, but I learned to let it go, and allow God to handle it. She will always be my mom, and you only get one. For her to get better, she will need me and my sister to hold her down and be there for her when needed. I decided to move to Atlanta in 2008. I jumped out on faith, leaving everything behind. All of my worries, stress, my losses, and just started over. I haven’t looked back since. I’ve met and fostered great connections with people since arriving. In January 2014, I opened my own shop in Atlanta called Levelz Beauty and Barber Lounge. It was one of the most talked about shops in the city. But closed it down in July 2015 due to conflict of interest with my Business partner. Also, I’m glad to say that my mother is out of prison now and has been clean since her release in 2011.

This story is a testament of my life and its struggles. I understand I’ve gone through a lot to get where I wanted to be. It was nothing but the grace of God that got me through this. For the people who are always looking from the outside, you never know what the person you are viewing is going through on the inside. What I did showed people that no matter what happens in your life, it can get better. And I’m a witness to that. Now that I’ve told you, you can see why I’m blessed and why I draw people to me. That’s because I put my mind on being successful and to be the best I want to be. All the stuff I’ve been through in my life, I use it as motivation. I feel that y'all should do the same and stop making excuses. So to all of you that’s going through it, it’s up to y'all to get up and get it! Stop blaming the next man for your struggles. This is my story and I hope y'all enjoyed it.


#20 The Fixing Procedure Part 6 (Harry Styles)


Was this what you were waiting for? Well, this is long and has a lot of details so, happy reading! 

Here are the earlier parts: Part 1Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Please comment and let me know what you think about it? 

I woke up and found myself entangled around his body. I rested my head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat at a constant pace. The last two days had been eventful. I figured out many loose ends to the story and tried to join them together. Edward had been around more often. It seemed like every place Harry claimed to have a beautiful memory, Edward had one quite horrible in relation.

I got off his chest and walked to the bathroom to get ready for the day. Edward loved to mark me as his all over my body. I was covered in red; his marks littered all over my body. I blushed, not having this kind of a relationship with anyone before. I never got connected to the ones I slept with; not like there were many but, Edward was taking all my firsts away. This scared me to bits because he didn’t exist. Harry did, and if I fixed him then, he would go away leaving his bits behind in Harry. I was falling for a different person.

“Where do we go today?” I asked as I walked out.

“Can’t you let it go?” He asked, annoyed.

“Do you want to stay stuck in the hospital? Not have a life anymore? Not do things like normal people? For that you need to be fixed and, I can’t do that if I don’t know what the fuck happened!” I retaliated.

“I have shown you a lot, already!” He got up.

“You have shown me nothing! Just places and random instances! Harry doesn’t know what landed him in the hospital. You do! You were the one who hit those people. You were the one who can tell me what happened that month. You were involved in a fucking gang, Edward! And, there are only two who survived along with you! I want to know what happened and from the beginning!”

“And, if I don’t tell you? What then?” He smirked.

“Who is Emily? I want to meet her. You were with her for three years. I want to talk to her. Now, you can either take me to her or I’ll find her myself!” I told him.

“Why can’t you just play your fucking role? You’re the nurse, right? Give me my meds and take care of my routine! Why interfere with my life! You’re already whoring around with me, isn’t that enough of a sidetrack from your job!”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. Here I was falling for him and, “I am whoring around with you? Is that what this is?” I asked, hurt evident on my face.

“Eliza,” He stepped forward. He knew he had crossed the line.

“It’s alright. I am a whore after all. I am a whore for my mother, for my friends, that is my definition and you’ve explained it all.” I walked towards my luggage, packing it up.

“Eliza, I didn’t-“

“You didn’t what? Want me to think there could be something between us? Don’t you think I know that!”

“What are you saying?” His turn to step back, now.

“What do you think of yourself? Are you the only one with problems? Only one with a fucked up life? Here, I am giving myself entirely to you just to try and fix you! What am I getting out of it? You will walk out of the hospital free and, you’ll easily forget me and live your life! What am I getting by falling in love with you, when you don’t even exist! You know what? You can go and fuck yourself. I’ll walk out of that place and never return but, you’ll be stuck there, working through the same routine, with some other nurse and wishing somebody paid an iota of love and interest, I give to you and you’ll have none. I’ll walk out and continue living my life, because, I am anyway here for a limited time but, you’re going to be stuck in that tiny room, with boxes of your previous life and a no escape route,” I looked at his straight in the eye. It was time to bring Edward down from his high. I banged the door and walked out of the house.

Searching for an address on my Maps, I walked towards Emily’s house. I rang the doorbell to have the girl in the picture look at me. She was beautiful. I felt a pang of jealousy. This is the girl who had both their love. “Hi, I’m Eliza,” I put my hand forward. “I’m Harry’s nurse, and I would like to talk to you if you’re free?”

Her eyes widened and she nodded. I walked in and sat down. She came and sat in front of me, “What can I help you with?” She asked.

“Congratulations on your engagement,” I said, looking at her finger.

“Yeah, umm, got engaged last month. Thank you, umm…how’s Harry?” She asked,

“Not good. I need to know what happened, Emily. I need your version. He is still extremely closed off, and I have random pieces with me which don’t meet anywhere.”

She nodded, “I dated Harry for three years. We were like the ‘it’ couple, living the life,” She smiled at the memory. “Harry was always a happy guy. He had great friends, is incredibly smart and so kind. You need to know he is very kind.”

“When did you meet him?” I asked.

“We must be 17 or 18?” She explained. This is after the incident with his mother at seventeen. Edward didn’t come out till he was 20. She went on, “He was a lovely guy, made me feel so loved and wanted. I had planned to set my life with him,” She played along with her ring finger. “I thought I knew him. For almost three years with him, he hadn’t shown a streak of anger. It was strange at times and, he was so understanding, not very confrontational. Yeah, you could see he had a dark side but, everybody does. You could see it come out during his martial art classes, the way he played with knives, my God. During sex, sometimes he got really possessive, then, you could see it. But, he was always so calm and sweet, it never could prepare me for what happened.”

“He was acting a bit strangely. Umm, he distanced himself from me, and his other friends and started hanging around with Jacques and his gang. They were always bad news. Typical fighters and drug abusers, what else could you expect from those low lives. One day, he walked out his house, covered in blood, like somebody had beaten him up badly, and I met him, tried to clean him and he was so angry. You could see that anger in his eyes, so much hatred, I could never think Harry could have that and, after that, he just distanced himself. He didn’t meet me, was always with those bastards and sent me away with really harsh words every time, I tried to talk-” She started crying and I sat beside her, rubbing her back. “You have to know, Harry would never do this!  I have known him for almost 4 years, three of which we dated and he had never shown this kind of vibe,” I nodded, understand her.

“I caught them dealing with drugs once and, I got so angry at him. There was news every other day that he beat someone up. His own friends who were worried about his, his stepfather so, I went up to him and confronted him. Asked him his problem and why he was acting like this. He insulted me, which I was prepared for but, when I didn’t let go…he slapped me. And, screamed about leaving him alone and not wanting me anymore. In less than a month, he was sent away by his mother. That’s all I know.” She wiped her eyes.

A man entered through the main door and looked at me, “What happened?” He walked towards her.

“This is Eliza. She is Harry’s nurse.”

“Please leave,” He said. “We don’t know Harry anymore, and you’re upsetting my fiancé. I don’t mean to be rude but, Harry has ruined and scarred our lives enough. I would know, I was his best friend!” He hugged her.

“I’m really sorry for whatever happened to you. But, Harry needs help. He has been abused his entire life and he has taken it and suppressed it. He needs your help to get better,” I tried to explain.

“He doesn’t want help! We tried! I have scars to prove the number of times we sought to help him!”

“Nate, please calm down…” Emily tried to calm him. He sighed and sat down beside her.

“Harry has Dissociative Identity Disorder. You must have heard about it? He has been abused his entire life and, Harry doesn’t have those bruises because somebody else took it for him. And, the one you met was a different side of him who was suppressed and abused since he was born by his stepfather. He has gone through hell, and the only way I can fix him is if there are people who loved Harry there for him. Harry doesn’t remember anything. He doesn’t know what happened. He doesn’t look at your pictures because he thinks you guys left him when he needed you. He knows about the engagement. That caused his aggression come out in the hospital, too! I know, you have gone through a lot but, if you still care about him, he needs your help,” Nate looked away, and I saw a tear slip out. “Here is my card, if you change your mind. Thank you for helping me, Emily. You joined a lot of dots, today,” I hugged her and walked out.

Till now, it was clear from all the stories that Edward came out after an incident of abuse between him and his stepfather. It came out in full blow because he hadn’t shown himself for three years. To fix them, Harry needs to know that, another side of him exists. He has to be made known that, this other guy takes over the time he seems to always loose. It is only after acceptance that we can bring the two personalities together, to make a balance of emotions. Harry needs to feel angry.

I kept walking in the direction of his house. I had no idea what I would do now. I would fix him but, at what cost? The hypnosis can only be done by the doctor. Most probably Aunt Cathy but, until then, we need to know what happened so, that Harry knows and the correct treatment can be chosen.

“Eliza!” I heard Harry shout as I looked up. He was running towards me. He was dressed differently. His hair was in a bun and he was wearing torn skinny jeans with a black striped shirt. This was not Harry. He stopped, letting me take in his look. “This is what I look like,” he smirked.

“You look like you’re from a criminal gang with half your buttons open. You know the types, who hit on girls while sitting on their bikes and whistle. The type who abuses and hits and so on. Your look completes your personality, Edward. Congratulations,” I walked away.

“I’m not an abuser or a teaser or whatever,” He ran to catch up and walk beside me. “I have made some bad choices but, that isn’t who I am.”

“Our choices make us, Edward. You’ve made yours. I’ll leave in an hour. Aunty Cathy will send another car to take you back.”

“What?” He panicked. I could see him panicking. “Where are you going to go?” He asked, worry laced in his statement.

“Back home. I’m going to start my semester, early. Cancel my idea of a sabbatical, and it’s all settled.”

“What? No, it’s not. You promised you’ll never leave me. Stop walking!” He held my arm and pulled me to stand in front of him. We were in front of his house. “You promised - your words. Harry needs you, and he will not cope without you.”

“Harry needs me?” I laughed.

“I need you, look at me! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry!” He cried, and fell to his knees, hugging me around his waist. Edward was the passionate one, too. “I was so scared. You’ll hate me and then, leave and I’ll be alone. But, you’ll leave me anyway, won’t you? After I am fixed? You will go away and I’m falling in love with you. Harry is in love with you. I love you, Eliza!”His confessions shook me.

I sat down on my knees to meet his face. It was wet with tears, “I will never leave you. But, we can only be together, forever if you’re fixed. You have so much potential. I have seen your work! And, you’re letting it all go. I won’t leave you or hate you. I will understand, I promise. You have to let go, baby.”

“I didn’t mean to call you a whore,” I winced, “I am sorry, I thought if I’ll be mean…I thought I was fixing things! I love you, Eliza! I’m so sorry!” He cried into my shoulder.

“I won’t go. If you promise to let me help you, now. You would not lose me. I won’t let it happen, but, for therapy to begin we need to know, what happened that month.”

“I’ll help you,” He said, getting on his feet and pulling me up. “But, you’re not lea-” I kissed him.

“I’m not leaving you,” I confirmed.

He smiled, pushing my hair back and kissing me, again. He picked me up as I wrapped my legs around his waist and, took us inside the house. I kept kissing down his neck as he figured a way up the stairs.

“These jeans are too tight to pull off,” I sighed, trying to get it off of him while he kept kissing any part of my skin he could contact.

“Will I forget you? Will I forget all of this?” he asked and, he entered me, filling me up and making me moan.

“What?” I whispered and he slowly increased his speed. He knew the exact way to get me to react in bed.

“What happens when we become one? I will disappear, right? Harry will remain,” He asked, kissing my lips.

“No, you will not disappear. You will remain as a part of him. They say that all your memories, will become his memories and, you’ll be complete. You won’t forget me or lose yourself. You’ll just be recognised as one person and grow up together with both your memories together, oh please go faster!” I screamed the last statement.

“Please don’t let me disappear, Eliza,” He moaned, as he let go inside me, claiming me all over again as his.

“I won’t, baby.”

Did you like it? 

Please let me know all about it? I’ll be waiting! 

Comments? or Doubts? Ask away! 

Request for Part 7


Until the next update - theStylesproject


My name is Adrina and I was born and raised in Raleigh, North Carolina. I grew up mostly in the projects. My first memories of knowing I was different was at the age of eight. Although I was in kindergarten and didn’t know anything about gender identity, I did know I was more interested in feminine things. My teacher would let us play in different stations. I would always pick the stations with the doll babies and I would play house. I was still a rough little boy, because I would pop the heads off the dolls. But then, I would take the doll to the assistant teacher, saying “Look” and she would fix it.

In grade school, I played with boys sometimes, but I noticed they would try to hump me. I guess the boys knew I was feminine. They would act out the sexual roles of a man. Hanging with the girls, I was just like one of them. I did cheers clapping and stomping on the bus.

From a young age, I liked boys and I don’t know why or where it came from. Being around girls came more naturally than hanging out with boys. My mother always knew I was feminine, but she was in denial. She would say, “Fix your hands,” and things like that. She let this girl that was my friend spend the night once and I had my first sleep over. We talked about boys and I did her hair. We had a blast. What’s funny about that situation is that my friend’s brother saw how feminine I acted and wanted to hang out with me. He sorta stole me from her. We rode bikes, stole candy bars from the Winn Dixie, went swimming in the creek, and played in the club house. I used to stay gone with him for so long my mom got pissed. 

He really got me very comfortable with him, which led to him making a move on me. I didn’t know anything about sex. I was young and he was like twelve. I fooled around with him because I liked him. One of my cousin’s friends saw us and told my cousin. They beat him up; his face was beet red and he was crying. I felt so bad. They asked me if I wanted them to stop and I said yes. 

Then, my little brother was born and, around this time, my mother became a drug addict. The responsibility of his welfare fell on me and I was only nine years old. I studied my mother when she made bottles, changed his diapers, and bathed him. I was a natural at child-rearing and my mother was rarely home. She would be gone for weeks at a time. Yet I raised my brother like he was my own; I was so nurturing and caring. I just remember feeding him and watching televisions shows like the A team, Night Rider, A Different World, and Mash, which always put me to sleep. ACS took us from my mother and we were placed in a foster home. 

We were only there for a couple of months before my aunt adopted me, but nobody wanted my brother. There were visitations, but they eventually stopped and my living situation with my aunt was hell. She didn’t have the patience to deal with a little boy with emotional problems. I was frustrated and angry about how I was snatched from my home, but she didn’t know any of this. She took me to visit a therapist every week and nothing became of these weekly meetings. I just remember this man showing me pictures of black spots on paper and asking me what I saw. I even told my social worker that I wanted to go back to the foster home with my brother, but she just blew it off as me being problematic. 

Even though my mother was gone for days on end, I didn’t want to be any other place but home. I moved with my grandmother, finished middle school, and went to high school. God knows I love my grandmother, but we didn’t do anything but go to church. Monday through Friday, we had night services. On Saturday, we had choir rehearsal. Sundays, we had Sunday school, morning service, and an afternoon service. So, religion was basically crammed down my throat, but I never once heard the pastor preach about homosexuality. My grandmother was a devoted Christian and we did everything through church. My cousins and I went swimming at the YMCA on Thursday nights and it was fun.

I was very sheltered and naive to the world. High school wasn’t bad, because I was very outgoing, popular, and extremely well-liked. All through school, I was into the performing arts. I was in show choir, took dance, was on the step team, and ran track. I was very good at it. I was also very active in other ways. I did the school skit, went to the homecoming football game, and went to the homecoming dance with my friends. I had a blast. I was so wrapped up in my own world that I never really paid boys any mind. 

My high school years were out of this world and were some of the best times of my life. In show choir, my school came to New York City to compete in a competition and I stayed in the Marriott Marquee hotel. My room view was of the Coca Cola lights in Time Square and, from then on, I was sold. I knew NYC was where I wanted to live. 

In my junior year of high school, I was old enough to get into the gay clubs. When I first started to go, I would see gay boys dressing feminine and I would see drag queens and trans girls. The trans girls were so beautiful and they had their looks together. At last, I found out what I wanted to be. The club was my life and I used to love to just go and dance. I was always different from my friends: they were gay boys and I was like the girl out of our clique. I met this guy who knew about transgender women and he introduced me to a group of them who lived together in a house. I was 18 and I met this one that was so real; she had a nice body and breasts. My mind was blown. I couldn’t even believe how beautiful she was.

So from that day on, I wanted to be a beautiful trans woman. I graduated from high school and got a job at N&C State University working in the dining hall. I love every minute of it and I got the college experience first hand. I wasn’t taking hormones and didn’t know anything about them. I did get comfortable with talking to guys and some of them invited me to their dorm rooms, but it was scary. I worked and went clubbing to show off my new outfits and hair styles and to dance with men who were attracted to trans women.

Later, my bestie at the time invited me to attend a trip to DC for a weekend that turned into a month. Then, we went to Baltimore and Philly and eventually ended up in New York. The bright lights went to my head and I decided to stay for good. I had never seen so many people on a subway train at once and it ran all night long. I was 21 at the time, so the city was like my new toy. I just loved the crowdedness.

In New York, the trans girls had beauty, “realness,” and took the lifestyle very seriously. When I first started taking hormones, it was all about dedication to my womanhood. I lived, ate, and breathed hormones. I didn’t have a job, so I was put on to street hustling. I never knew you could make $400 in a hour. Trans women were all the rage and money was so plentiful. I made a lot of money and ran through bottles of hormones like they were water. I wanted to look the best I could and I just had a ball and lived life without any worries. The money made me addicted to the fast lifestyle. I alway protected myself for the most part, but if a guy said he had two hundred dollars, he had me, and I would go with him to the end of the world.

All the fun and the partying stopped for me and reality set in when a close friend of mine was murdered in the Bronx. It scared me to my core; I had never lost a friend before. I really had to evaluate my life and figure out what I wanted to do. So, I decided to attend college and chose Borough of Manhattan Community College. I graduated in May 2013 with an Associate’s Degree in Human Services. That was the proudest moment of my life and I was able to have a dream and achieve it. I am job hunting now and it’s a little rough, but I am in a much better place and I am trying to be more productive with my time and life.

Charles’ story

I have now updated this as of watching “Oh brother, Where art thou”.  I had to make some changes but I was definitely on the right track at the end of 5B.   I have crossed out what was wrong and updated the rest.  What do you all think?

This is my theory, as of viewing the PLL Season 6 premiere, “Game on Charles”

Charles, Jason and Alison are in this shot with Jessica DiLaurentis.

Charles is Jessica Di Laurentis’ nephew from her twin sister.  Charles is also  and Kenneth DiLauerentis’ son. Jessica’s twin tricked him/seduced him and had his love child. Jason is his cousin, and genetic sibling (Peter Hastings is his dad). Alison is Charles’ half sister, genetic sibling, and cousin. Ali is the daughter that Kenneth loved above all his other children.

Charles’ mom, Jessica’s twin, was institutionalized and was unable to care for charles (during the time of the home video at Campbell farm) and Charles was living with the DiLaurentis’. and Jason was very close to him and thought of him as a brother. They played and argued just as brothers all the time always do. They especially loved to play-fight over Alison. They wanted to play with her all time. She was like their doll.  Until Jason Ali was attacked in their kitchen almost drowned in the bathtub by Charles. Jessica lied and said Charles had attacked Jason and tried to kill him. She purposely lied because she had guessed/found out Charles was Kenneth’s son and she didn’t want her husband to see the boys together and figure out Jason wasn’t his. Charles was sent to Radley for treatment before being sent back to foster care.  Kenneth and Jessica decided to instutionalize Charles at Radley.

Jessica DiLaurentis, to avoid scandal told the kids that Charles was sick and died and they would never see him again. Jason was told that Charlie was not real and was a figment of his imagination.  He was traumatized by all the events followed by the fight in the kitchen lies.  That’s why he abused drugs and alcohol.

Although Charles wasn’t crazy - maybe just violent - to begin with. The betrayal as a child by his aunt  parents and the loss of his friend brother and sister became an obsession for him.

I feel as though once he left the foster system RAdleyhe changed his identity and became a con man. He faked his way into college, may have even faked an accent to get what he wants. He also really kept close watch on Rosewood and the DiLaurentis at this time.

He is the one that kept NAT going, it probably started so he could keep tabs on his family and Rosewood, eventually he uses those videos to blackmail people or to sell to others to mAke money.

Jessica covered for him because he’s her son, and she thought Ali was dead and he threatened her with exposing what she did to him and he would expose himself to Kenneth.

I think Wren is A. I think after HS he made his way to London faked an accent, made his way into Cambridge by stealing someone’s place. He came back to the U.S. with a British name, a degree and used that to get into UPenn and cozy up to Melissa.

What do u guys think?



















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