merrill edge

anonymous asked:

You are so cool man. Okay, I just got into investing as in I opened an account with bank of america merrill edge for retirement but haven't done anything else. I know I should like buy safe stocks and stuff, but I am so wary of researching this. like i just don't trust sources that i google or magazines (my dad was interested in stocks and lost a lot of money so I just can't trust him or those magazines). I see that you have set up different markets (target retirement, inflation protected), (1/2

(2/2) and other funds. How did you get started? Where did you research? Like books or things. Thank you for your time!

Aw, thank you Anon! So, this is a little bit of a narrative, buckle up. (There is a readmore below! Read more!) 

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faejilly  asked:

Merrill or Isabela

“Don’t worry, kitten. It won’t be for long.”

Merrill stares a little. It’s rude. Of course it’s rude, in a city where everyone seems to be hiding something, and people always act strangely when she looks at them too hard, as if they’ve just realised they might have a spot on their chin, or think they’re going to start bleeding everywhere. But Isabela looked tired. Weary and windblown, and Merrill had missed her, after the Arishok. She’d been terribly brave, and now she was standing in Merrill’s doorway, a place where whole generations of spiders made use of the left corner, and she didn’t have a seat.

Elgar’nan. Why is my house always such a mess? It’s—”

“—it’s clean, sometimes. I’ll swear.” Isabela grins. It is almost right. “It’s all right. I’ll go back to the Hanged Man. Just…not right now. Please?”

Merrill hugs her before any other words spill out, laughing and feeling the mix of skin and fine corsetry and a shirt as sturdy as sailcloth, and press of the other woman’s jewelry against her cheek, blood warm and one of her first happy memories of this house. She feels Isabela’s hand in her hair, and soon they’re both laughing, with Merrill pushing her down gently onto the bed for want of a chair.

“You can stay as long as you need,” Merrill says, letting out a squeak of surprise when Isabela presses a kiss to the back of her hand, as if she were a fine lady in a tale.


“Don’t worry, lethallan. It won’t—”

“—oh, Merrill—”

“—it won’t be for long.”

Isabela looks at her friend. Really looks at her, or tries to. It’s easy just to see the edges of Merrill. Easier to look at smiling Merrill. Shy Merrill. Twine and stories and by-the-Dread-Wolf-housekeeping-is-hard-Merrill, than the woman made up from all of that. But now, all of Merrill’s bright edges are covered up with blood, and there is glass in her hair, in the folds of her clothing. She stands in the doorway of Isabela’s little room, and smells of sulfur and sadness.

Feelings are hard, but this is simple. Isabela reaches forward, and plucks the largest shard from Merrill’s hair. It’s thick glass. Her palms, long practiced and heavily calloused, are safe. Under guttering lamplight, it carries and faint, oily sheen. She sets it down.

“You broke the mirror, kitten.”

“I had to,” she says, steady and small. “I had—”

“—you have a place to bunk tonight,” Isabela says, firm. “And full use of my wretched tin bath. Best the Hanged Man has to offer.”

Merrill takes both of Isabela’s hands in hers, and something twists, deep inside, when her friend kisses both her palms.