Mailed

To me, the term "cancel culture" is a weapon of the unencumbered mind. It is the last ditch "Well you’re wrong" defense of someone that’s purposely keeping themselves ignorant.

It’s the anti-Woke.

"You want me to realize that my actions have further consequences than me simply eating a burger?"

Yeah, dude. That’s part of being a citizen of the world.

Here I am, dealing with an overwhelming amount of cat poop, and you’re questioning why I don’t want to buy from certain retailers or eat from certain restaurants? Why I don’t want to give money to people that support detestable views and/or commit unacceptable acts? (Looking at you, big game hunter man. Real tough shooting endangered animals with your high-end scope from half a mile away. Real sporting. A nice look for you and the company you’re the face of. Real fancy.) Why I won’t put up with massive amounts of abuse from companies that have a long history of treating people badly?

I have cat poop to deal with. Lots, and lots of cat poop.

Why?

"Because you have two cats? Duh?"

Naw, man. I have tons of cat poop to deal with because I don’t buy those little plastic cat litter bags anymore. I haven’t used them for a long long time. From the moment I first realized that plastic is bad for the environment.

They’re finally notifying the general public that bits of plastic have made their way into the food we eat and the water we drink. They’re suggesting drinking tap water to help limit plastic consumption.

Like, it’s not just fish, people!

I knew it wasn’t just fish from the first moment they cut that fish open and all those tiny microbeads came rolling out. That’s why I stopped buying the face cleaner with the little balls in it. Because they were plastic being washed directly down the drain. Their purpose was to be washed down the drain.

And humans are the most disgusting creatures on the planet. Even knowing that we’re fouling the water, we run our sewers right into the sea. Just a bare minimum of cleaning, then we release contaminated water back into the wild. Back into our food supply.

"But I didn’t know. Don’t blame me. It was my parents’ generation that started it."

The information is freely available. Holding your hands over your ears and going "La-la-la" doesn’t mean you didn’t know or have the opportunity to educate yourself.

Human greed is ruining the environment.

Just like human greed is ruining the human body.

"What?!?"

Yeah, brah.

There is tons of sugar in everyday foods–some that shouldn’t even have sugar in them–because the sugar industry falsified scientific reports. They pointed an accusatory finger to FAT (which messed up the butter industry, the snack industry, the diet market) and denied, denied, denied.

It was an epic tapdance number of "Nah, nah, sugar doesn’t cause heart problems. That’s all fat and cholesterol. Diabetes? Never heard of it" as they DUMPED sugar into cereals, packaged meals, meat products, childrens’ drinks, BREAD. Everything got a healthy dose of sugary sugar.

And the current Big Sugar? "Don’t blame us. It wasn’t us. It was those other guys we bought this multibillion dollar industry from. We’re sweet young lambs. We’re just as shocked as you all are" doesn’t work.

We’re still irate.

Even though people had been yelling for DECADES that sugar is unhealthy, we’re still irate. Because sugar is addictive. Our brains love it. We can remember where sugary snacks are more readily than we can remember where we put our glasses down.

The human brain is wired to respond to things. And the people we trusted made us distrust things we shouldn’t have while pouring poison-levels of sugar into every food on the shelves. To the point that a whole market for "sugar free" and "organic" foods developed into a multi-multibillion dollar industry.

And on the whole, we still don’t know what’s in our food.

Sometimes, we’re not even sure if our food is actually food, and not "food." There’s so much filling and pilling going on that I low-key expect that I’m eating cancer causing stuff when I buy store brand packaged food.

I overcome my sense of dread to eat the food I buy, because I don’t trust the government to enforce the "All food must be food" laws.

So with all that stress happening everyday, where I’m side-eyeing cans of coffee and slowly chewing my bread to see if I can taste the cancer causer, why would I CHOOSE to give money to transphobes and racists? Why would I support homophobes and women-haters?

Why would I climb off my couch to give money to horrible people I wouldn’t spit on if they were on fire?

"Cancel culture" is the excuse small-minds give as to why their businesses are tanking.

Take a look at themselves? Consider why people might be disgusted or angered by something they’ve done/said/supported with money earned from the company? Nah. It’s better to scream "They canceled us? They can’t do that!" and hire a trollfarm to go out and spam message boards and blogs and just make everyday a little bit worse for regular people.

A CEO gives money received from the company to a horrible cause.

I can choose to not give that company my money.

That’s pretty much the definition of capitalism.

There’s a free market out there, and I’m freely choosing not to eat racist chicken or use misogynistic crafting supplies.

I am dealing with massive amounts of cat poop even though the most convenient thing would be to buy the plastic cat litter bags. I could scoop the poop into a bag, tie it off, toss it in the trash, and that would be that. No muss, fuss, or visible proof that cats even defecate.

Instead there are dried cat poops filling the bathroom garbage, and even if they don’t smell, they are far from sightly.

And that’s what I deal with, day after day. Massive amounts of cat poop.

Because plastics are killing the planet I’m living on. Fracking is ripping holes in the planet’s crust. People washing their cars are letting the polluted runoff flood into the storm drains. Internet service providers are cheating us. Cable TV is running out of content. And the thought of eating racist chicken, and having to deal with the subsequent guilt, is just too much for me.

Cancel culture is simply the public expressing their free-market choice to not give money to terrible people.

Because just like all the filthy water trickles its way down into the sea, that burger that tastes so good in the moment was purchased with money that will trickle into the pockets of those that should not be supported.

I don’t judge what other people choose to do with their money. But when I’m constantly bombarded with people complaining about "cancel culture," I feel like those people are trying to tell me what to do with my money.

This is a democracy. Stop acting like fascists.

It’s tired. It’s old. And it’s killing everything.

Wake up.

Panoply at Amazon

CW: disturbing. obsession. serial killer. clown.

SHOCKY THE CLOWN

The story of “Shocky the Clown” (real title TBD).

Killer picks a victim, stalks and terrifies him, kills those close to him, is arrested and executed/experiences a one of a kind death, returns for that final victim.

Popcorn fair but for your text-to-speech earholes.

Killer POV: creepy obsession. stalking. heavy introspection and f’d up stuff.

Victim POV: begins during/after the execution/death. some slight flashbacking, but just fill in deets. mostly action.


Killer POV: The feel of being electricity. Of having the power of gods. To be able to see him, and know that he was invisible, unseen, able to do anything he wanted to his dear love.

Victim POV: There was a sense of being watched. Of something frightening lurking around every corner. It was what Aaron hated the most about the whole thing: the loss of his sense of safety.

The world had become a thing of shadow and fear.

He wanted his sense of self back.

He wanted to be comfortable in his own skin.

He wanted to look around at the empty room and be able to accept that it was empty. That leering nightmare face wasn’t going to pop up in the window or behind him in the mirror.

He wanted to believe the monster was dead. And he couldn’t.

Because the monster built a home in his head. And Aaron had nowhere else to live.

Killer POV: They were chasing him. He could hear them crashing through the woods behind him.

He would not stop. Could not stop.
Because if he let them stop him, he would never see his love again. Would never taste his supple flesh and eat his strength.

And oh, but his love was strong. He’d cried over the losses he’d been dealt–“Mama, mama,” he’d screamed, a beautiful wail of pain–but he hadn’t given up. He’d still tried to fight back. And even in his failure he was beautiful.

And Ian wanted him back. Would take him back.

Because they were one soul in two bodies. They belonged together, no matter what the world said or fooled his love into believing.

They belonged together. They were ONE. Because he willed it so.

Killer POV: he doesn’t really view Aaron as a person. Refuses to call him by his name because that’s not the name his love would have.

Aaron.

Victim POV: he feels guilty that he “brought that evil clown” into his family’s life, never mind that it wasn’t his fault. He has misplaced guilt and a lot of bubbling rage.

A fukking killer supernatural clown wants to come after him?!? Aaron’s gonna fukk him up!

Alternating -> Ian || Aaron


They were chasing him. He could hear them crashing through the woods behind him.

He would not stop. Could not stop.

Because if he let them stop him, he would never see his love again. Would never taste his supple flesh and eat his strength.

And oh, but his love was strong. He’d cried over the losses he’d been dealt–“Mama, mama,” he’d screamed, a beautiful wail of pain–but he hadn’t given up. He’d still tried to fight back. And even in his failure he was beautiful.

And Ian wanted him back. Would take him back.

Because they were one soul in two bodies. They belonged together, no matter what the world said or fooled his love into believing.

They belonged together. They were ONE. Because he willed it so.

His pursuers were getting closer and the number had grown.

The strength in his legs and lungs was failing, but he urged himself on–FASTER! HARDER! STRONGER!–and refused to stop even when his legs began to tremble with the strain and his breathing took on a whistling wheeze.

He ran uphill through the woods, away from the distant lights of the town. He didn’t know where he was going, but if he could find someplace to go to ground, he would take the chance.


The feel of being electricity. Of having the power of gods. To be able to see him, and know that he was invisible, unseen, able to do anything he wanted to his dear love.

His Arianetta.


There was a sense of being watched. Of something frightening lurking around every corner. It was what Aaron hated the most about the whole thing: the loss of his sense of safety.

The world had become a thing of shadow and fear.

He wanted his sense of self back.

He wanted to be comfortable in his own skin.

He wanted to look around at the empty room and be able to accept that it was empty. That leering nightmare face wasn’t going to pop up in the window or behind him in the mirror.

He wanted to believe the monster was dead. And he couldn’t.

Because the monster built a home in his head. And Aaron had nowhere else to live.

Ian DeMorne, the name the monster had worn when he was walking around everyday. The Clown when he put on his Face and went out to do horrible horrible things.

My Arianetta. My darling. My love,” ground out that voice.

And though Aaron couldn’t feel the breath on his skin or those hands on his hips, he knew that they were there.

He woke the house with his screams.

Aunt Katy burst in with a mini-baseball bat in her hands and a wild determination to her eyes. “What is it? What’s going on!”

Aaron sat up from where he’d been clenching the edge of his blanket over his cheeks and scooted back until his shoulders met the headboard. “I’m okay. I’m sorry. I’m alright.”

What’s going on in there?” Cousin Armando called from his room.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep,” Aunt Katy commanded gently.

Aaron could see the bedroom lights disappearing down the hallway behind her as six bedroom doors closed, click, click. His room was at the end of the hall; they could hear everything that he did. (There was a reason he loved music.)

“Are you all right, dear?” Aunt Katy asked. She had lowered the bat down to her side and her left arm crossed her waist to lightly rest on her right elbow.

Her nails were painted a rainbow of hues, each striped with a swirl of colors, pinks, blues, green, yellows, reds, purples, and bursts of glittery silver. He appreciated her attempts to bring color into this otherwise bland place.

“I’m alright, Aunt Katy. I’m so sorry I woke everyone.” He straightened his blankets with his hands and fought not to be exposed in his bedclothes.

“I’m sorry you’re having bad dreams again,” she said gently.

He scoffed a laugh. “I know it’s a bit morbid, but I would have thought his death would stop all the nightmares, not give me more. It just feels like I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. I know it’s not real, but I feel like it is.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“I know. It’s alright,” he said. He attempted to give her a smile.

She accepted it graciously as she did all things.

There were so many limitations to their interactions. The cameras and the microphones were everywhere, and the children of Facility C were all Specials.

He was a Special.

Talking to him was dangerous to everyone around him that was lesser than a Gamma.

Aunt Katy was a Delta.

“Thank you for coming to protect me,” he said.

Her smile was something real and just for him. “I’ll always come for you,” she said. “It’s my duty as your Aunt.”

Aaron laughed. “Thank you Aunty.”

“Bad dreams all gone?” she asked.

“All gone,” he assured. His heartbeat was still a little fast, but it was already slowing.

“I’ll give you a chance to get settled,” she said, turning toward the door. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he said.

Once she was gone with the door firmly closed behind her, he scrambled out of bed to change his pajamas for another pair. He tried to be quiet as everyone was trying to sleep, but his skin was cringing away from the sweat damp fabric.

He hoped the nightmares weren’t going to get bad again.

He hated making extra work for the laundry workers.


He feels me! He knows that I am here!

It was joy bursting across his every sense. To know that his Arianetta could feel his presence.

That he could still touch his Arianetta on some level.

Watching his love, he admired the lines of his form and fretted over his health.

“I would pamper you if I could,” Ian whispered, aching to reach out and touch.


Katy couldn’t imagine letting her nephew stay in that place alone. Given everything that a growing body needed while at the same time denied the connection of family and of love.

She’d seen the adults that came out of State Youth Facilities. They always seemed mildly bewildered by the world around them as they had to adjust to making decisions of their own.

It hadn’t taken much to fudge a bit of her resume. A few creds passed here and there, and now she was “Aunt Katy” to six Specials.

It was mildly daunting.

Except one of those Specials was her nephew and she wasn’t going to leave him in this place without knowing for sure that he was being treated well and wasn’t growing up to be a robot.


“She doesn’t belong.”

“No. But she’s good for the boy. He wasn’t doing well until her arrival. I think on some level he remembers her.”

“She’s wasting her talents.”

“Perhaps for a time. But he’s only going to be young for a few more years. She’ll move on when he does. Think of this as her taking a vacation.”

“Still… What a waste.”

TBC

Kakushigoto 01 at Amazon

I don’t know how it happened, but I forgot today was Thanksgiving. Which means that I started the day with a turkey fresh from the freezer.

It’s totally possible to cook a turkey from frozen: you cook it for time-and-a-half, and you really want to have a pan big enough to deal with the extra melt juice.

I did not have a big enough pan. But I thought I could fake it with tinfoil walls.

It refused to be faked.

Oil drizzled on the oven bottom, which means it filled up with smoke.

No big. I shut the oven off, took the turkey out, wiped the bottom, and turned the oven back on.

It smoked like crazy.

I cleaned again. Still smoked. Like 4 times over an hour.

I don’t see any leftover spilled oil, but it won’t stop smoking 🙁

I’m not even sure my turkey was done cooking. All the temperature shenanigans leave some questions unanswered. I just couldn’t handle dealing with all the smoke and gross and I smell like a fry cook.

I let the turkey rest–so all the juices didn’t immediately escape–cut off a bunch and threw it in a pan. I made gravy in another pan, then poured it on the turkey and heated it through.

The turkey with the gravy was tender and delicious and great with potatoes, so whatever. Dinner saved.

I just have a whole half a turkey left that’s a big ol’ question mark on the cooked meter. Ugh.

Thank goodness for soup, that’s all I know. I can’t even make a turkey pot pie with my oven smoking like it is.

First world problems, yo.

Hope the rest of you had a good time. Even if you don’t celebrate the day as anything other than a food day–or maybe not even that–I wish you well.

Faizel 02 at Amazon