Colton americas kids belong

Short back story: I'm going to be 40 a few days after thanksgiving (in America). When I was in my late 20's I'd go hang out and have parties with some people. Two brothers who lived in a double wide who like heavy metal, like heavier than that. They had friends and one of these kids went by the name of wheels, I think his name was Josh.
The first time he showed me his tattoo I didn't really think much of it, the second time he showed me made me think that it was the coolest thing I ever saw. While my tattoo is different I copied the focal point of the tattoo.
One night I drew a disabled logo, traced it really. From my drafting/blueprint/mechanical engineering knowledge I found the center of the persons head as well as the center of the wheel, Took a compass and drew circles that were bigger then the object it was focused around but shared the same center point, if that makes any sense; they where, like, 1/2" apart. I then traced that and like broke some of the circles in random spots.
Point is, there is a handicapped symbol tattooed on my arm. A few years later I went back and had flames wrapped around my arm. It's more or less a half sleeve now, from my wrist to my elbow on my right arm.
Like, I don't know if those who do not know me react to my since of humor negatively or positively. I don't know if people are more in the the, "Why would he do that?" camp or more in the, "I love his ability to recognize who he is, that is awesome."
Extra side note: When I make fun of myself I tend to have a dry sense of humor and sometimes it's in response to someone giving me shit about something. I understand they are not being rude, and part of me is laughing. In no way shape or form am I offended by it.
When I say something in response, bringing the perspective of spending most of my day in a manual wheelchair, it seems mean. Like, does that make sense?

Qualities that might be seen as Trashy: Dysfunctional family history, lower middle class background, had a kid at 19, was poor for a long time, have some tattoos, curse quite a bit, divorced, loud laugher, sometimes make inappropriate jokes, scattered ADD brain, slightly messy, can be clumsy and awkward
Qualities that might be seen as Intimidating (obviously tossing all modesty aside): Currently in the best shape of my life, attractive, successful career, good dresser, many skills such as cooking, logic games, sports, etc., well-traveled, well-read, prestigious college, homeowner, smart, funny, social, great group of friends, hard-won confidence, direct communicator
Guys I typically match with: Attractive, in shape, 5-15 yrs older, moderately successful, come from good families, often (but not always) from upper class backgrounds. Some have kids and have been divorced, some have no kids and have never been married.
I feel like I don’t fit into any certain class or socioeconomic group anymore, like I’m floating around in between two worlds with nowhere to belong. My schooling, career, and cumulative experiences have made me feel less relatable to the sort of people I grew up with, but the way I grew up (plus the tattoos, some parts of my personality) make me feel out of place among upper classes. I also typically date older men because they tend to be as stable as I am, and are able to relate with me on having older children or being divorced, while men my age (in my experience) often still like to drink a lot, are still kind of figuring things out, tend to have less life experience than I, and have much younger children.
I’m looking for the real thing, I want to settle down with my forever person. I always make that very clear in my profiles and during early conversation. I’ve been dating for four years and in that time I’ve done a lot of therapy and self work. I feel so ready for genuine partnership.
However, my experience is that the men from upper class backgrounds just want to woo me until intimacy happens and then disappear, while the more humble type from more modest backgrounds often behave very insecure and get too clingy quickly, which is a turn off and red flag. I just want something normal with someone chill and honest who I can relate with. Why is dating so effing hard. What am I doing wrong?

Throwaway account here. I (17M) have known I was bisexual since I hit puberty but there's a problem, I think. I just don't feel like I fit in with the lgbt community. I'm still closeted and I know there's a lot of people who are lgbt at my school but unfortunately I just can't see myself being friends with them and stuff, I don't know how to say it, they just have a lot of different interests than me and definitely aren't "me".
I know stereotypes aren't great to base off but I'm just different from the stereotype. I'm a sporty guy, I have interests that would be enjoyed primarily by straight people, at least in theory. So I'm friends with all the people I share interests with, and as far as I know they're all straight.
It really pains me to be saying this but I just can't get along with the stereotypical lgbt person. And it pride month has only alienated me further from them. For them, they all have flags and all that and this fancy stuff to show their sexuality. That's not for me. Personally, I just think that both guys and girls can be kinda hot. That's it for me, I just can't connect with them.
I feel like I'm in limbo and don't belong in either place. I'm on several sports teams, and I've had teammates who obviously have beliefs about lgbt people as a whole. I can't tell them anything, yet I don't want to be one of the kids at my school who won't shut up about it. I feel like it's either or, and I don't really know what to do.

The small cargo ship, in the default medium grey, was wholly unremarkable. The same and similar made up the fleets of corporate and private couriers, with the result that it was not surprising to see it anywhere.
The anonymity and ability to blend in served Sidra well…usually. This station, run by the hyper-bureaucratic aslodzhins was the exception. The “bugs,” as many humans called them, had their own ways of doing things and didn’t like a “squishy,” as they called humans and other endoskeletal beings in their own language, upsetting the order.
“Private vessel Hobby Horse, please state the purpose of your visit and expected duration.”
“Station 47 control, I say again: PV Hobby Horse requesting permission to dock in an out-of-the-way small cargo dock for fueling. Expected visit duration no more than a week…seven standard days, but no less than an hour.”
“PV Hobby Horse, docking for fuel cleared at Lock 7-16. All passengers and crew are required to wait inside the vehicle until security arrives to clear you. …Cracked-shell squishy thinks they can—” The controller’s voice cut out as they must have noticed they were still transmitting.
“Thank you, station 47 control. Docking at Lock 7-16. Squishy out….”
Sidra expected one or two security to show up to clear her to enter the station, instead, there were a dozen. She opened the airlock and waited inside. “Come on in.”
The leader, obvious by the shiny, silver emblem in the center of its blast armor, stepped in, followed by two others that made a quick inspection of the ship to verify the claim of no other persons aboard. The brown color of the leader’s head carapace marked them as a drone, while the black carapaces were male and bright blue were female.
Sidra extended a hand. “Sidra Boston; captain, owner, pilot, and sole crew of the Hobby Horse. Welcome to my home.”
“Sub-adjutant-lieutenant-detachment-commander Slivdzak.” The officer looked at her extended hand and grasped it with one their six manipulators.
“Pleasure to meet you, Slivdzak. How can I help?” Sidra felt a secret rush of joy at the way the officer tried and failed to hide their discomfort. She knew that the lack of carapace was as disconcerting to them as the feel of a surprise tarantula crawling on the neck was to humans.
“Captain Sidra Boston—”
“Please, just call me Sid. Drop all the Captain and Boston stuff.”
“Sid, you have not made clear the purpose of your ‘one-hour to seven-day’ stay. Please elaborate.”
“I’m meeting someone here and taking them home.”
The officer looked at a small device it carried. A hologram rose from it, her close-cropped black hair, medium-brown skin, large, green eyes, and humped nose obvious. Beneath the hologram was writing in the bugs’ script. “Are you not a hunter of bounties?”
“Well, if that’s what you want to call it, I guess.”
“Such activity is only allowed in teams of three or more by aslodzhin law 9314-27.664 and safety regulations 647-88.932 and 90991-17.0. In addition, at least one of the team must be aslodzhin.”
“That’s kind of speciesist, isn’t it?”
“The courts have allowed for permanent residents of aslodzhin space to fill the requirements where applicable, in accordance with Galactic Union Resolution on the Rights of Sapients, 74.23.08 Paragraph 12.”
“Great, good to hear. Problem is, I work alone and I’m not after a bug.” She shrugged. “You know how we squishies are.”
“Station command has already decreed that you are not to leave your vessel without the two members chosen for you.” The officer raised to its full height, its head carapace close to scraping the ceiling. “Your team will be here soon. Good day, Captain Sidra Boston.”
“Good day, sub-whatever-whatchamacallit Sliv.”
After the security detail left, she stepped out of the ship to check on the refueling. No sooner had her foot set down outside the airlock than she found herself in the crosshairs of two armed security guards that had been standing out of sight.
“They aren’t kidding about not leaving without a team, huh? Damned bureaucracy.” She stepped back inside the ship and sat on the floor to await her babysitters.
When her team arrived, she was surprised by the presence of the furred, six-limbed hikarin hemi-male. He was easily head and shoulders taller than her, but slight of build, and thin-boned, coming from a lower-gravity world.
The aslodzhin female didn’t surprise her, even in her law enforcement uniform. She wore a red symbol on the chest of her uniform.
Sidra stood. “Okay guys, I’m Sid, and this is my job. You do what I say and stay out of the way we’ll get along fine. You,” she said, pointing at the aslodzhin female, “change out of that uniform. You’ll scare off my skip.”
“Sid, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m senior-squad-chief Dliz, and this is Soolyasin.” Dliz extended a manipulator for a shake and Sidra obliged. Dliz’s compound eyes rotated in a way Sidra didn’t know they could, and she showed frank wonder at the feel of a hand in her manipulator. “Could you do that again?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“You moved your hand, and I could feel the muscles flex…yes! That’s it!” Dliz laughed. “That’s the neatest feeling ever!”
“Am I the first squishy you’ve met?”
“Oh, no. I’ve known Sool since I was a nymph.” Dliz continued to hold on to Sidra’s hand.
“How about humans?” Sidra raised an eyebrow and tried to extricate herself from the increasingly awkward handshake.
“Yes. I mean, I’ve seen plenty passing through, but never met one.” Dliz let go and uttered a quiet apology.
Soolyasin stepped forward. He was dressed in technician’s clothes, complete with tool belt. “You’ll have to forgive Dliz. She’s a fan of bounty hunters in general, and you in particular.”
“Shush.” Dliz stood straight up at attention on her four hind legs, her head scraping the ceiling, her three left manipulators raised in a salute. “What are your orders, Sid?”
“First order of business, you need to lose the uniform and dress in something less conspicuous. Sool, is that a disguise?”
“No, these are my work clothes. When Dliz called I ran straight here.”
“That’s fine. You’ll blend in, no trouble.” Sidra put on a ballistic vest and covered it with a loose jacket. She checked that she had cuffs, shackles, bench warrant, and badge.
She turned toward Dliz. “Do you have a ballistic vest?”
“I have a carapace; I’m not a squishy.”
“Will your carapace stop a slug from a weapon like this?” Sidra held up a high-powered, 6mm rifle.
“Um, no. I have armor, though.”
“Can you wear it under clothes?”
“Yes, but it’s against the regulations.”
“Screw the rules, wear your armor…under your clothes.” She muttered under her breath, “Damned bureaucracy.”
Sidra turned toward Soolyasin. “I think I have a vest that’ll fit you.”
He looked at Sidra, then Dliz, then back again. “Is it going to be that dangerous?”
Sidra showed them the bench warrant. Soolyasin’s eyes grew wide and Dliz’s eyes rolled in a different way to earlier. Sidra thought she might be able to read bug emotions if this kept up.
“You were going after a turgen terrorist by yourself?” he asked.
“Still am. Just don’t want to see my babysitters get hurt.” She turned to look at Dliz. “Dliz, relax. You don’t have to stand at attention. I need you to tell me which of these weapons you’ll let me carry on the station.”
Dliz settled back down onto six legs and looked over the cabinet Sidra had unlocked. In addition to the rifle, she had pistols, tasers, batons, knives, and a shotgun with less-lethal beanbag loads along with standard loads.
“Which of them are capable of breaching the station hull?”
“The 6-mil, and the shotgun, if I loaded it with steel shot or slugs instead of beanbags.” She didn’t mention that the 10mm pistols were just as likely to do the same damage, but she wasn’t going out without at least one lethal weapon.
“In that case, leave the rifle and lethal shotgun rounds behind. I’ll be carrying a beam weapon, too, so we should be covered.”
“What about me?” Soolyasin asked.
“The only thing I need you to do is stay out of the way. Unless I need some inconspicuous eyes in the bay.”
After fitting Soolyasin with a ballistic vest and Dliz getting into civilian clothes over her armor, much to her dismay, they moved to the main cargo bays where they expected their quarry to show. Sidra positioned them so that she could watch arrivals, Dliz could watch her back, and Soolyasin could stay well out of the way unless and until needed.
The first hour went by at glacial speed, with constant interruptions from Dliz and Soolyasin asking questions or pointing at every passerby that might be a turgen in disguise. The next two hours dragged compared to the first.
It was in the middle of the fourth hour that Sidra got notice that the ship carrying her quarry was docking. She moved them to cover the lock where it pulled in, granting them a view on both the personnel airlock and the cargo airlock.
A much smaller contingent of security met the ship, cleared the crew for the station, and left. Four crewmembers, all turgen, filed off. Larger than humans in bulk, grey skin covered with hard dermal denticles, they had two arms, two legs, the remnants of a dorsal fin, and a long, flat tail with which they could do bone-breaking damage.
Sidra waited. If he was going to sneak off the ship, he’d need to do it soon. When it became apparent that he wasn’t going to get out on his own, she radioed Soolyasin.
“Okay, Sool. It’s clear around the ship. Just carry your tool case and walk onboard like you belong there. You’ve seen his picture, if you see him, run. If there’s anyone else on the ship, just tell them you’re checking the fuel gauges because of some regulation or other.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. You got this, and I’ve got your back.”
Soolyasin walked onto the ship, and they could hear him in their headsets, “Hello? Anyone here? I need to check your fuel gauges. Hello?”
A few quiet moments passed before Soolyasin spoke up again. “There’s no one else here,” he said, “I’m co—” His voice was cut off by the sound of a heavy thud.
Sidra ran for the ship, pulling her shotgun into firing position and cycling a round into the chamber. She stopped at the door of the ship and called inside. “Give it up, Otto. The only way you’re leaving here is in cuffs.”
When she didn’t hear anything else, she moved to clear the corners. She looked right where the door to the cockpit was closed. She swiveled around to check the other side only to find it empty as well. “Dliz, move up and cover the exit. The cargo airlock hasn’t been cycled, so this is the only way off.”
She began to move down the passageway when she heard the cockpit door click behind her. She swung around a delivered a 12-gauge beanbag into Otto’s gut at near point-blank range. Rather than stopping him, it enraged him. He turned and swiped at her with his tail.
Sidra tried to dodge out the way, but he managed to knock the shotgun out of her hands. He picked it up and threw it behind himself into the cockpit, next to the limp form of Soolyasin. “Time to go away, bounty hunter.”
He began to move toward her. When he stepped in front of the open door, he was met with a concentrated beam of infrared energy that forced him to jump back. “Listen, soft-skin. You leave now, and I’ll throw your friend out. It’s your one chance to leave alive.”
She drew her 10mm pistol and pointed it at him. “And if I don’t?”
He started toward her again, then stopped when the beam almost connected. “I’ll start by killing your furry friend, then your trigger-happy friend, then you…but nice and slow. There’s no way you’re taking me to a human prison.”
Sidra couldn’t see Dliz, but from the angle of the last beam, she’d moved to where she had more coverage of the passageway toward the cockpit. She knew that if he wanted, he could ignore the burns and rush her, crushing her carapace in a thousand different ways. Her shotgun was far out of reach, not to mention ineffective, but the 10mm pistol was a comforting weight in her hand.
Otto turned his back on her, his tail swishing wildly, smashing against the bulkheads on each side of the passage. “Very well, then. On to killing your furry friend first.”
“I’m warning you, Otto, these are lethal rounds. Put your hands behind your head, your tail between your legs, and drop to your knees.”
By the time Otto had taken a step, Sidra had taken aim and fired a shot into his torso and another into his thigh. He stopped and turned to look at her, bright pink blood running down his leg and back. He laughed. “You’re going to be so much fun.”
The courts tended to look down on spinal injuries, but when a round in the torso and thigh didn’t slow him down, she didn’t feel like she had much choice. She took aim again and fired at the base of his tail. His tail dropped like a dead weight, and he cried out.
The pain dropped him to his knees. Sidra finished the motion by jumping between his shoulder blades to put him flat on the deck. She cuffed his hands behind his back, and secured his ankles with shackles before motioning Dliz to come in.
“Call for medical for Sool and for the idiot here.”
Dliz made the call and medical teams arrived in less than a minute.
“Damn,” Sidra said, “I guess bureaucracy is good for something after all.”
Soolyasin was awake by the time he was loaded onto a stretcher. There didn’t seem to be any broken bones, but he’d been thrown rather hard by Otto’s tail strike. “Sorry I wasn’t any help,” he said.
“Nonsense. I’m sorry I sent you in there and you got hurt. I’m splitting the bounty three ways, even across with both of you.”
“I can’t take any payment,” Dliz said. “It’s against the regulations for police to have any outside earnings.”
“You saved my bacon, though. If you hadn’t been enough of an inconvenience with the beam, he would’ve tail swiped me before I could draw.”
“Still can’t accept any payments or monetary gifts.”
“How about this? You two have been friends forever, right? I’ll pay your portion to Sool, and he can treat you to fancy dinners for the rest of your life.”
“Wha...how much is the bounty?”
“Three-point-seven million Terran credits. About sixteen million galactic.”
Dliz’s eyes rolled in yet another motion. “Damned bureaucracy.”
Reedsy Prompt: Write about someone who has always done something as part of a group, and is now starting to set out solo, or vice versa.
Story published here.

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Dark truth of this world: Indian men are seen as the worst. I was a scumbag as soon as I was born.
My parents had me in the US for a better life but what’s the point. Genetically I’m ugly being 5’7 and brown. Got bullied so much in high school I ate my feelings away and become obese and never learned game or made good friends.
Now I’m the least accomplished 25 yo in America. I somehow have a doctorate, which doesn’t matter nowadays. Only thing that brings me joy is I have a job where I can go far and move up and all my coworkers have big expectations and I haven’t even started.
My hobbies like cooking and volunteering bring temporary joy. But women want badass guys who aren’t short and fat, they don’t want a cooking loser.
Again 5’7 25 yo M virgin who’s Indian and fat. I’m staying at home this year so I can save up money to spend on a trainer, dietician, therapist. I’m not gonna let my genetics define me, I’m gonna get fit mentally and physically but again women don’t like brown guys. Brown women want white guys so their kids end up less brown.
Again my life is over. I’ve spent all of today writing down instructions for my funeral. If something in my life doesn’t change by my bday, I’m ending it.

23M. Basically I grew up dirt poor. I attended a Cal State near me and achieved both a BS and MBA. I graduated with 0 debt. Right now, I am a biz ops manager managing 4 offices making close to 6 figures. It is a stressful, but well-paying job.
I have high ambitions. My dream is to start a successful business, not sure what industry and I'm still learning and trying to figure it out. The only reason I even went to college was to have a safety net in case my ventures fail, which will happen since entrepreneurship consists of trial & error. If I fail, at least I can land back on a comfy corporate 9-5 job instead of slaving in retail for pennies. I have already made a commitment not to have a wife and kids until I accomplish my dream (not like women are knocking at my door anyway). I'm doing this because having a family will conflict with my ability to take risks and will tie me down to one geographical location.
Lately I have been doing research on millionaires and billionaires. I tend to find a good amount of them, not all, tend to have some fancy ivy league education. There are all kinds of schools represented and a few of them did not go to school at all. There are a few at my school who went on to start large F500 companies (2 to 3) and a few others that have gone on to be major execs. There seems to be a bit of an elitist glass ceiling and these opportunities are typically presented to the already wealthy. Can someone like me with a poor background and no fancy degree break into this "class"? I don't want a billion dollars, but I am not going to lie, I am aiming for 10 million. Or the amount that I can f off to South America and never be seen again. It sounds ambitious but I am willing to do whatever it takes to get there. Any advice or thoughts would be appreciated.

Apologies for the long post. Let me start by saying we live in a remote area. We are nowhere near cities so it's not like we can run down to a used lot on the corner and shop around, for those who disagree with the used car choice.
Background:
We have two cars right now: a 1985 Chevy Suburban and a 1997 Toyota Celica. There's 3 kids in our family (8, 7 and 3) and we have another on the way that's due in October. We had a 2016 Kia Sorento but got rid of it after being told the engine needed to be replaced for a second time after having it completely rebuilt 3 years ago. Understandably, I didn't want to dump 8k into the same problem twice. There's also the issue of insurance no longer wanting to cover the vehicle in our state thanks to TikTok videos showing people how to steal them.
We're renting where we live currently but we are closing on a house on 6/9. We have to wait to close on the house before we can sell a piece of property we have because most of our belongings are stored in a storage shed on the property. With the money netted from the property, we plan to buy a 2023 Toyota Highlander. However, not a lot of properties are selling in our area right now and we need a safe vehicle for the family while we wait for it to sell.
The Suburban has a third row and is very reliable but it has terrible gas mileage (12 mpg on average). It does not have airbags and only has lap belts in the back, which is a concern for the kids in booster seats. It was initially bought as more of a vehicle meant to tow trailers and move things but it's become the main family vehicle after we sold the Sorento.
The Celica only has seating for 4 people so it's not really an option. This vehicle has been owned by my spouse for about 10 years. We are both open to selling it.
Now on to the used car:
There is a 2006 GMC Yukon with 250k miles on it for sale for $5000. From what I've read, they're very reliable up to 300k or even 400k miles. This is the only vehicle within a 2 hour drive that has a 3rd row, is decently priced, seemingly taken care of and isn't a total heap of junk. The interior is nice and the owner claims it's been meticulously cared for and regularly maintained. I know the gas mileage isn't THAT much better than the Suburban (average of 16 mpg) but it's safer with better seatbelts and has airbags. Of course we'd get an inspection done and want to look up the CarFax.
I'm here because I thought it would be a good idea to buy a used car in the interim but my mom freaked out on me and acted like I was an idiot. Paying 5k for a used vehicle wouldn't break us financially by any means. We will still have a decent cushion in savings after closing on the house and paying for this vehicle, if we buy it, but we can't stretch much more than 5k in cash on a car for now and we do not want to get a loan.
So... which car should I buy? Wait for the Highlander and drive the Suburban for now or go for the Yukon first while we wait for the property to sell?

Last night, I had just returned from a celebration of my sisters 21st birthday, I am 27, so me and my parents and several of her friends went to the bar, we stayed until almost closing, I had driven one of my cars to the bar, but was a bit over the limit okay, I was too drunk to drive, so I called for a Uber to drive me and my sister home. My parents left at 1am, as they were still sober. I had the driver drop off my sister first, after carrying her into her apartment, then we headed to my house. As soon as we turned the corner, I could see my other car missing from my driveway. I got out and I was mad as hell, I looked but there was no broken glass or any signs of how it was taken. I walked into my house, I immediately sobered up with the realization my car had been stolen. I started the search for the license plate number, vin number and my insurance company phone number. I was on the phone with the police when there was a knock, no let me rephrase that, there was banging on my front door. When I open it, 2 police officers were standing there, I said wow, that was quick, they looked at me funny, asked if I owned a 2014 jeep in black, I replied, yes did you find it already. They just looked at me and told me to place my hands behind my back, I said why, they didn’t say anything and just grabbed me and then threw me to the ground and handcuffed me. I was dragged out of my house and placed into the back of a patrol car and taken to the station.
At the station I was fingerprinted, photographed, searched and my blood was drawn, then they took my shoes and belt. I was placed into a cell, while all the time asking what the hell was going on, 3 hours later I was taken from the cell into an interrogation room, I sat there for about another 4 hours before anyone came in, all this time I was not allowed to call or speak to anyone, I still had no idea why the had me like this.
Finally, a detective came in and sat across from me and once again asked if I owned a black 2014 jeep, then he gave me the license number, I said yes, it was missing from my driveway, I was in the process of calling the police when they showed up. He said we will get to that later. He started asking where I had been last night, I told him at a celebration for my sister’s birthday, he asked who was there with me, I gave everyone’s names and as many phone numbers as I could. I said I wanted to know what the hell was going on, he said that I was under arrest for vehicular manslaughter, hit and run, leaving the scene of a crime, and a few more just for good measure. I said again my car was stolen and I had nothing to do with this at all. They pulled out pictures of the accident and the dead bodies, yes there were 3 teens killed from the other car.
I said I wasn’t driving that car; they could verify by contacting the bar, I spoke with the bartender all night, I had even spoke with the bouncer while I was waiting for my Uber. They could also call Uber to confirm I was being driven from that bar and the times. They didn’t believe me at all, they took me back to a cell. This is where I sat for another 7 hours waiting for anything from them. Now I have been in their custody for more than 16 hours.
That’s when they took me from my cell, returned all my belongings, then I was escorted back to the interrogation room this time without cuffs, the detective came back in and he placed a picture in front of me, asked if I knew this person. I did, he was a kid from down the street, I had caught him siphoning gas from one of my cars a few months ago. They told me they found him hiding behind a trash bin close to the accident, he had a broken collar bone and a couple broken ribs. This was the person who stole my car and crashed it into the other car while on a joy ride. They basically told me I was free to go, no apology, no shaking of my hand, just a cold uncaring sense as to what they had just done to me over the past 18 hours of my life. They walked me to the jail gate, and said here’s the case number, I asked If they were going to drive me back home, they said no, it was up to me to find my own transportation. Luckily my car was still at the bar I was at the night before, it was only about a mile away, so I walked, got my car and drove home. I called the insurance company, gave them all the information as well as the case number and I went to sleep. I know there will be more but that is as far as everything stands as of right now.

Dad:
Born in the 50s to a government school teacher. Had 6 siblings which is very typical of his generation. Manages to get a B.Tech Chemical Engineering seat in Andhra University with full scholarship. Their family was so poor, they couldn't even buy him shoes to send him off to college. Gets into college. Gets bullied for being poor. Some rich kids fuck up his titration in a lab and nearly get him failed which would have costed him his scholarship.
Dates someone during his M.Tech in AU. Gets married. Drops out of M.Tech. Has an ugly fight with his wife. He beats her. She divorces him and reports him to the police. My dad at that time had a job offer in the gulf in one of those petrol refining plants. Because of his police case his Visa or Passport is cancelled. He loses custody of his child.
Mom:
Born to a CA. Surprisingly had just 1 sister. His dad was dirt poor initially. He starts helping some of the most prominent builders get away without paying taxes. He would literally hold their money in his house when they were about to get audited. If you don't know, being a CA in the 50s or 60s in India is essentially like being a Machine learning scientist with a Ph.D. in 2023. Leaves his kids property worth 15 crores. My mom gets a B.Com from Reddy college in Narayanaguda. Gets married off to an asshole. He beats her a lot. Abuses her. She divorces him. The society back then was ridiculously conservative. She gets bullied a fuck of a lot because of her divorce.
She still finds the courage to go to Maharashtra to do a LL.B. Drops off in the second year and marries my dad because her father is very sick.
The quintessential 90s marriage:
My dad has a lot of unresolved emotional issues. He brought his mom to live with them. He accuses my mom of not taking good care of her. They fight a lot. I was born. My dad loses job several times. My mom sells her jewellery to finance my schooling. In my 10th, her sister passes away. She sells of a land that her dad left her. Takes me to Hyderabad to get me IIT coaching. I experience freedom for the first time in my life. My dad is no longer there to control me. I buy expensive computer parts and phones. I stopped attending school. Somehow managed to get my 10th and 12th diplomas anyways. Get into a shitty college in Vizag for B.Tech. Labor through it. Get a Masters from a prominent college in America. Get some really nice paying jobs.
Now my mom is still living with my dad. I caught him hitting my mom last year when I was in India. I gave him two slaps and pinned him to the ground. Threaten to call the police on him. He starts crying and shit. In the past he forced my mom to give one of the houses my grand father left her for rent. The tenant is refusing to vacate. We have essentially lost that property. My asshole father refuses to help with that situation in any way. He straight up went to the tenant and asked him to buy the house. He is using that as a leverage to fight with us every time we ask him to vacate the house.
My mom gives another land she owns to development. That builder is trying to get her to sell all her shares of apartments for a lot of Black money. I am fighting with her like crazy. She is like my father is a CA I know how to adjust black money :
I am fed up of my life. Fed up of this shitty family politics.

23M. Basically I grew up dirt poor. I attended a Cal State near me and achieved both a BS and MBA. I graduated with 0 debt. Right now, I am a biz ops manager managing 4 offices making close to 6 figures. It is a stressful, but well-paying job.
I have high ambitions. My dream is to start a successful business, not sure what industry and I'm still learning and trying to figure it out. The only reason I even went to college was to have a safety net in case my ventures fail, which will happen since entrepreneurship consists of trial & error. If I fail, at least I can land back on a comfy corporate 9-5 job instead of slaving in retail for pennies. I have already made a commitment not to have a wife and kids until I accomplish my dream (not like women are knocking at my door anyway). I'm doing this because having a family will conflict with my ability to take risks and will tie me down to one geographical location.
Lately I have been doing research on millionaires and billionaires. I tend to find a good amount of them, not all, tend to have some fancy ivy league education. There are all kinds of schools represented and a few of them did not go to school at all. There are a few at my school who went on to start large F500 companies (2 to 3) and a few others that have gone on to be major execs. There seems to be a bit of an elitist glass ceiling and these opportunities are typically presented to the already wealthy. Can someone like me with a poor background and no fancy degree break into this "class"? I don't want a billion dollars, but I am not going to lie, I am aiming for 10 million. Or the amount that I can f off to South America and never be seen again. It sounds ambitious but I am willing to do whatever it takes to get there. Any advice or thoughts would be appreciated.

Need help with the rest of rent had to replace all my belongings due to catching bedbugs from our new to us bed and now I'm short on rent can repay $200 for the $150 needed by 06/10 for sure just wasn't expecting this added expense and can't afford to lose the only apartment my kids have

Calling all SaaS founders! I am the owner of a boutique firm focused solely on providing customer support and back-office services to SaaS companies. With over 7 years of industry experience and a proven track record, I have made the decision to establish a company rather than continue offering these services as a freelancer. My goal is to assist SaaS founders with the main challenges I encountered while building my own startups: churn, customer retention, customer support, and manual onboarding. Here's the deal: I'm offering one of the following services for free for one (1) month. All I ask in return is a case study and testimonial to showcase the effectiveness of our services, so I can generate social proof. - Omnichannel Customer Support We will help you build a Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ) page to provide answers to every existing user and potential user regarding their inquiries. Additionally, we will assist you in closing more sales and retaining existing customers through various social channels such as email, WhatsApp, Instagram, and Facebook. We can also provide support through voice calls, website live chat widgets, and other means. - Back-Office Support Whether it's data entry, invoice processing, or everyday administrative tasks, we can efficiently handle every repetitive task with precision and timeliness. - Manual Onboarding One of the pain points for SaaS owners is the manual onboarding of each user and we understand that. With mutual collaboration, we can provide assistance by creating the necessary processes, strategies, and operational support to maximize efficiency in this area. P.S.: I'm a native Spanish and English speaker, so we can explore new markets for your SaaS, like Latin America. Disclaimer: I am more than open to signing an NDA to protect your business and internal processes, as well as for every staff member who will be working on your project. All intellectual property, such as FAQs or SOPs, will belong solely to you. We simply need great feedback/testimonial/case study/reviews from real people who can help us generate social proof. Let me know if this is something you're interested in!

TW: I will be talking about suicide and mental illness
For context, this all happened 16 years ago. At the time, I (28F) was 12 and he was 17 years old.
I have carried my brother's picture with me for 16 years-since the day we found him. I never want to remember my brother as an angry or troubled kid, but I have been weighed down with this feeling for so long.
My brother struggled with mental illness for 9 years. Formally, he was diagnosed with Tourette Syndrome and BPD, but my mom and I agree that there was definitely more there. He had reported to his psychiatrist that he had been experiencing auditory hallucinations. My mom also confided in me that she had witnessed him kill multiple animals. He was in and out of inpatient facilities for years--once for threatening to kill our family by stabbing us in the middle of the night. I had seen him sell almost everything his room during a manic episode where he was trying to get rich. To be frank, he was seriously plagued by his mental health.
I try to remember my brother as the person he was during our good family memories. When he was lucid, he was a protective brother, a wonderful guitarist who wrote a few songs, and my gaming buddy.
However, the day that he committed suicide I just cannot shake this feeling that he had much more planned. I do not remember what we were coming home from, but I came in through the front door (family just behind me) and, for some reason, looked around the corner to the left of the entranceway. There he stood. I will forever have the look he gave me etched in my memories. Pure anger, looking straight through me. As a naïve kid, all I said was "Oh, hey (brother)! What are you doing over there?"
It took a few moments, but he looked at me. He didn't answer me, but instead silently walked up to his room. Not even an hour later, I recall hearing the shot from his room.
In looking through his belongings, we found quite a bit of dark things. Pictures he drew of people being shot or stabbed, etc. Literally notebooks filled with these drawings. One of his closest friends had disclosed to my mom that he had once asked him, "What do you think it'd be like to kill somebody?"
I wonder what may have happened had I not looked around that corner and addressed him. It was a tucked away corner of the dining room, one that I believe he did not expect any of us to look around when coming home. I suppose I do not really want an answer to this question, because I would never want to completely ruin the image of him that I have: my big brother. He's the reason I went on to earn my degree in Psychology.
Finally, I just want to say, severe mental illness is no joke. It can be absolutely debilitating to families and individuals. I had to watch my brother be forced inpatient multiple times, crying for my mother despite nearly breaking her leg the day before. I was there when my family found him and, as a young teen, I had images of that moment replayed in my mind for years. My mother thought she was a terrible mother despite providing my brother with as much medical care and help that she could possibly receive for him.
Sometimes, I just wonder...

Calling all SaaS founders! I am the owner of a boutique firm focused solely on providing customer support and back-office services to SaaS companies. With over 7 years of industry experience and a proven track record, I have made the decision to establish a company rather than continue offering these services as a freelancer. My goal is to assist SaaS founders with the main challenges I encountered while building my own startups: churn, customer retention, customer support, and manual onboarding. Here's the deal: I'm offering one of the following services for free for one (1) month. All I ask in return is a case study and testimonial to showcase the effectiveness of our services, so I can generate social proof. - Omnichannel Customer Support We will help you build a Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ) page to provide answers to every existing user and potential user regarding their inquiries. Additionally, we will assist you in closing more sales and retaining existing customers through various social channels such as email, WhatsApp, Instagram, and Facebook. We can also provide support through voice calls, website live chat widgets, and other means. - Back-Office Support Whether it's data entry, invoice processing, or everyday administrative tasks, we can efficiently handle every repetitive task with precision and timeliness. - Manual Onboarding One of the pain points for SaaS owners is the manual onboarding of each user and we understand that. With mutual collaboration, we can provide assistance by creating the necessary processes, strategies, and operational support to maximize efficiency in this area. P.S.: I'm a native Spanish and English speaker, so we can explore new markets for your SaaS, like Latin America. Disclaimer: I am more than open to signing an NDA to protect your business and internal processes, as well as for every staff member who will be working on your project. All intellectual property, such as FAQs or SOPs, will belong solely to you. We simply need great feedback/testimonial/case study/reviews from real people who can help us generate social proof. Let me know if this is something you're interested in!

( Written on the forums but sharing this story here as well. I've been dwelling a while and wanted to tell it. )
​
It's the early 90s.
​
Its labor day weekend on a cool night. I'm waiting to go see the fireworks at the labor day fair grounds but it was too early to leave yet. I curled up on the couch, watching my Mom with SNES controller in hand and playing Final Fantasy II(IV). She managed to reach the end of the game, having gone through many obstacles and acting out all the scenes just for me.
​
I listened to the theme of Final Fantasy IV plays out of the TV. I stare in wonder as every hero gets back up with encouragement against this angry blue ball that was in the way of the happily ever after. The crystal of light is used by Cecil against the creature and it changes into Zeromus.
​
I don't know why I remember it so vividly, years from now. The protuding ribs, the boney fingers, the putried muscle and the first four notes of the final boss music. My stomach sank and pure fear overcame me. To say I was scared was an understatement. It became my boogeyman as this... thing, this horrible creature wiped the entire team and Mom decided it was time to take a break and go see the labor day fireworks.
​
It stuck with me for days.
​
I was so scared of that thing, I ran into my bedroom even as the notes of the music could be heard through the door. I'd go to bed, dreaming of myself in a deep black void and that thing came out of the dark. I was so scared and those boney fingers grabbed me, pulled me into the dark with it. I had a hard enough time sleeping alone in my bedroom as it is and this was not helping.
​
Somewhere in my kid logic, I decided enough was enough. With permission from my Mom, I picked up her save file and I decided to face it myself. I memorized every powerful spell I knew she used from watching her play and I went up against the terror of my dreams. I was scared, really scared, but I forced myself on that couch and did what I had to do.
​
I was going to overcome that pile of self-proclaimed hatred... and I did it.
​
I finished where my Mom started. We got to see the happily ever after together. After that? It was a journey of playing video games together! From Final Fantasy III(VI), laughing the first time we heard Kefka's voice track, Earthbound and many more! I wasn't very good at the Mario games so I always watched Mom beat those with ease. Some weekends we'd get to see my aunt who was also a gamer in her own right.
​
I'd watch them play as they'd discuss their favorite games over coffee and ciggerates(This was the 90s, keep in mind). We'd borrow each other's cartridges. It was one of the small lights in my childhood that brought me happiness. Every time I see these games, I am reminded of my mom but Final Fantasy IV is what makes me think of my Mom most of all.
​
Age wasn't kind to her. She couldn't keep playing when she reached her 60s so I'd show her what I was doing from time to time. When I got into Final Fantasy XIV, I'd show her some of the throwbacks and how some things came out in 3D. MMOs confused her but she knew what Final Fantasy meant.
​
Then, in July 2020, she was gone; taken by leukemia. Even now, the pain of the loss stings since because of the pandemic, I don't have a grave to go to. There was no funeral, no memorial and no place to really go to mourn. Her ashes are there but there wasn't a real place for me to go to. I thought about not playing 5.3 since I didn't know if I could handle experiencing more loss if anything happened to G'raha Tia. I decided to wing it. Elidibus' last line hit after the battle hit the hardest in 5.3.
​
So, after that, I decided to go with it and reach to the end; to Endwalker.
​
Final Fantasy IV was everywhere in this expansion pack and the themes hit particularly close to home. Moenbryda's parents with Urianger hit me harder than anything could have in this game. I felt as if my Mom was with me; the town theme on the moon bringing me to tears and brought me back to when she was alive.
​
Then, 6.4 drops and I'm enjoying beating up Golbez in a weird reunion all the while reminiscing of my childhood. I am ready to reach the end when he decides to sacrifice Adjaza into the pit... and I hear him call that name. I scream. I stare as the pit goes from red to blue and that face.
​
That face appears in the pit.
​
Zeromus.
​
And I am now that child all over again, sitting on the couch on labor day weekend. It's just the angry blue ball but now in HD. I know what's coming but this time, Mom isn't here anymore. I'm the adult now. I'm not sure how it'll look in 3D or how Soken is going to remix the final boss theme; will I even be able to tank it with the emotional roller coaster going through me? Yet the most ironic part of all is that the estimation of the next patch is September; maybe even around Labor Day in America. No one could plan these series of coincidences even if they tried.
​
It feels like I've done nothing but find bits of closure through Endwalker. I got to relive the moments of Mom being alive from childhood to adulthood. I've been able to mourn and let myself process these feelings where a pandemic robbed me of that. Don't get me wrong; it stings still and her third year anniversary is coming up. I plan to find somewhere to go to sit quietly and contemplate on that day.
​
But Endwalker and beyond gave me this sense of closure and I feel like at the end of the road, in striking Zeromus one more time, I can close the door just so I can open a new one. She was my warrior of light, my my friend, my companion in every Final Fantasy.
​
The rains have ceased and we have been graced with another beautiful day.
​
But you are not here to see it.
​
Thank you.

[Narration by Home Studio Horror]
*
I spend all of my daylight hours scared and alone in this musty old cellar.
It’s woeful, and I bet it smelled this bad even before everything around here turned to crap. Great. My second sentence and I’ve already resorted to swearing. When I decided I’d start this diary (five minutes ago when I got a tiny sliver of signal) I thought it would be my poetic and deeply-moving goodbye to the world. Maybe I’d write about love and loss, or maybe the splendour of nature. Then, when all is done and dusted, I’d have left something to be remembered by. As well as my corpse, of course.
This was a bad idea.
*
Okay, I’m an idiot. There’s nothing else I can do down here. I’ve rooted through every cardboard box a hundred times, organised and reorganised my supplies, I’ve even built a fort. So, I’m back. Hello. Again. God, this diary is going badly.
But there’s just enough light coming through the boards I nailed over the cellar’s tiny window to type by. So I may as well type. Stops me staring up at the window just waiting for a shadow to pass by.
Maybe I'll just write and not hit Submit. Right, where to start? Well, my name is – actually, I think I’m going to refer to myself as ‘X’. That sounds mysterious. If you’re reading this and want to know my real name, I still carry my purse. My railcard is in there and, if you really want to know who I am, go find me and fish it out. I won’t bite...
So, my name is X. I live in a little English village in the middle of nowhere. Before all this happened, I had a mum, a dad, a sister and there was a boy I liked, his name was Jonah.
*
I couldn’t think of anything else to write so I waited until I came back from my rounds. That’s the stupid name I have for when I go outside at night scrounging for stuff. Drinks are the hardest. I only trust bottles or cans, or did, and I was running out of places to search for them. But I guess that doesn’t matter now.
My leg is doing alright actually; didn’t hold me up at all. I saw Jonah too. He’s looked better, I have to say. It’s strange because this is only the second time I’ve seen him since we came here. Maybe his ears were burning.
Anyway, I found some tinned pineapple in a creepy old caravan I hadn’t searched yet. Had to bust the door open with Old Trusty – which I thought might attract some unwanted attention – but it was fine. I’m actually eating the pineapple right now, tastes good. I also found a radio in there. I already have three down here, but none of them work. Not that the caravan radio works either, all you get is static. It’s just nice to collect something. You know, to have a hobby.
*
I can tell the sun is rising. I managed to sleep for a couple of hours, but I woke up after a bad dream. I know some people can remember their dreams, but I never do. I wake up and grasp at them, but I never manage a hold before they fade away. It’s like trying to pinch the corner of a wisp of smoke; the harder you try, the quicker it fades to nothing. I’m just left with a sensation, a kind of imprint which sums up the most intense part of the dream.
And a cold sweat. That’s new.
*
I’ve been through the box of photo albums I found at the back of the cellar again. I’ve looked through them a few times now, but I always notice something new.
There’s a photo of this little girl playing with a pretend guitar. I can tell it’s pretend because it doesn’t have strings, only brightly-coloured plastic dials. Kind of like My First Guitar Hero or something. The girl has dark hair and she looks a tiny bit like my sister did a million years ago. I don’t have a picture of my sister. I suppose I could go and get one from my old house, but it’s right in the middle of the village. I’m lucky I wasn’t torn to shreds the last time I went back. So, what I’ve done is put this girl’s photo in my back pocket as a substitute.
I guess I should probably write something about my real sister now. But I don’t think that’s a good idea just yet.
*
Daylight is starting to fade and I’m getting ready to go out on my rounds. I always take my satchel with me, packed with useful objects. I have Old Trusty (a crowbar) which sticks out of the top for easy access, a small toolbox, a pair of heavy-duty gloves (there’s a good story about how I got those, I might write that one down later) and a hammer. I carry a penknife I found down here in my pocket, my purse and phone, and a torch in my hand.
I don’t like to use the torch because its battery is running out and there’s always the chance it might attract them. I probably shouldn’t have used it last night when I got back. Maybe I’m starting to enjoy this writing malarkey? I need to be careful with luxuries.
*
Okay, that could have gone better.
Picture the scene: I’m using Old Trusty to try and lever a kitchen window open, when one of them just walks right through the garden hedge. Seriously, straight through it. It’s not the mightiest of hedges but, still, it just appeared like it was walking through one of those Japanese paper walls. My satchel was on the ground, but I legged it anyway. I’m not stupid. I know I can go back for it tomorrow. I felt strangely naked without it on the way back here though.
Like I said before, I need to be careful with the torch so I think I’ll try and get some sleep now.
*
I slept pretty well last night; no nightmares or cold sweats. Maybe a midnight chase was just what I needed to blow away the cobwebs.
I actually woke up wondering about you. If you’re reading this, who are you? If you’re like me, living through this village nightmare, how have you managed to go this long without being killed or whatever? Maybe you’re Army or some such. Maybe you’re just some kid who’s played so many videogames that surviving all of this was already second nature to you. Or maybe you’re like me; living on borrowed time and searching for a good place to die. Maybe Future Me was brave enough to tap Submit on my diary and you're currently reading this on your phone or computer.
Here’s an idea. Maybe you can carry on this diary from wherever I left it at. God, I really hope this isn’t my last entry, although I suppose any entry might be. If you do carry the diary forwards, and I'm a corpse, maybe it will become cursed. Spooky.
*
I’ve been preparing for my next excursion.
If I know I’m going somewhere I’ll likely run into an ugly, I like to take extra precautions. And I want my satchel back. It was a present from my dad, and I know it cost him a lot of money.
So, I’m taking a pair of shears from the shelf of old tools down here. That way, if I lose Old Trusty, I’ll have a backup weapon.
If you are local, I wonder how you like to kill them? Pretty morbid question I know, but everyone around here seems to have their preferred method. The last villager I saw alive carried a pair of mini cricket bats and seemed to have bludgeoning down to an art form. He never saw me though, I was watching from a grove of trees as he killed his way along the main road near the village.
That was before I decided to stay inside during the daylight hours. We can at least see a little bit at night; ambient light and everything. They can’t though. I’ve seen them, they bump into things. It’s pretty funny to be honest. If they hear a noise, they walk in the direction of the sound, never trying to avoid any object in their path. They either bash said object out of the way, or, like that hedge, blunder right through it. Obviously bigger things stop them dead (ha!) though. If that happens, they sort of shuffle backwards and then try again a few times. Eventually – and I’ve seen this too – they just give up and stand there, waiting for something else to attract their attention.
That’s not how it works in the daytime though.
*
I think it’s about an hour before the sun sets so it’s nearly time to head out. I’m going to change my bandage. One minute.
Okay, it didn’t look that bad really. The original scratch wasn’t too deep and now the wound seems to be doing that scabbing thing I remember from normal injuries. It just doesn’t smell very good. A bit like when you walk past a bin that needs emptying.
Anyway, I’ve applied more antiseptic and redressed it. Time to go.
*
That was fun. I’m glad I had those shears with me.
I got my satchel back you’ll be happy to know. And I got inside that house I’d been trying to break into as well. More through necessity than choice in the end, but I’m pleased I did. I found more batteries! That means I can justify writing at night a bit more. In fact, the people who used to live there (I think the husband owned the local garage) were pretty well kitted out. There were a lot of tins in their cupboards, and they’d even left a shotgun. It wasn’t loaded though.
Not that I need a shotgun. I didn’t tell you this before, but I have my grandpa’s old service revolver. He always told me and my sister that it was decommissioned, but my dad apparently knew otherwise. I keep it tucked into the back of my jeans at all times. It had three bullets, one of them is gone, so only two left.
I’ll only be needing the one of course.
*
Morning. I’m feeling pretty low today. I think concentrating on getting my satchel back took my mind off things, but now I feel pretty deflated.
Surely that’s understandable? The village I knew and loved has been replaced with this sodding hell. I miss my family, my friends, TV and hot dinners and Instagram. Before all of this I was a pretty positive person. Sure, I had a bit of trouble getting up in the morning, but, once I was up, that was it. I’d meet the day’s challenges head on, try to enjoy myself as much as I could. Not today though.
Maybe if I write about Jonah I’ll cheer up. Not Jonah as he is now of course, Jonah when he was all smooth-skinned, curly-haired and bright-eyed. Now he’s like the anti-Jonah or something. His face looks like it lost a fight with an angry lobster. No, wait, I’m supposed to be writing about Jonah version one here.
He’s one of those people that I can’t remember meeting. My family has always lived around here and so there are lots of people who have just always been, if you get me. I always thought we would drunkenly get it together at a party – that’s what I’d usually do if there was a boy I liked. Classy.
*
I’ve perked up a bit. Out of sheer frustration I went upstairs (naughty, I know) and looked out of a window. Sure, I saw an ugly, wandering aimlessly as they always do, but I saw that the trees are starting to turn too. That means it’s nearly autumn, and I love autumn!
My sister and I always used to go out and kick leaves at each other in the autumn. I don’t know if it was because of her low centre of gravity, but my sister was amazing at it. She could somehow whip up a blazing whirlwind of golden-yellow and fire-red, surrounding us both in a leaf storm that I couldn’t help but flail my arms madly at. Then we’d both fall backwards into the leaves laughing, me wondering how on earth what had happened was possible. She was that good.
God, I let her down in the end.
*
I think I’ll stay away from the house with the shotgun tonight. It usually takes a day or two for a group of uglies to disperse once they’re all riled up. I could use the rest of that tinned food I suppose, but I’ve got plenty to be getting on with for now.
Instead, I think I’ll swing by another farmhouse I was scoping out before I decided to turn nocturnal. I never met the people who used to live there, but I remember Mum telling me they liked their privacy. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind me visiting now though.
Also, there’s a woodland between here and there and I might be able to find some leaves to kick about a bit. I think that would make me feel close to my sister again.
I’ll check back in later.
*
I’m still alive, but only just.
I made it through the woods just fine (only the odd leaf on the forest floor at the moment though, sadly), the trouble started at the farmhouse. I couldn’t get in – the doors and windows were barricaded – so I tried one of the outbuildings. Locked. It had a cat flap though.
My first instinct was to leave it, but then I wondered if there might be something useful inside. Lord knows what thinking about it now. I lifted the cat flap with one hand and shone the torch beam through with my other. That’s when an ugly dived at my pinkies. Luckily, it misjudged its leap and got a mouthful of plastic cat flap instead. As for me, I fell backwards onto my bum.
Next, the damn thing started bashing on the door from the inside. I don’t think it could ever have got out, but the noise attracted more uglies from out of nowhere. I only just managed to outmanoeuvre them and hightail it back into the woods.
That’s not the worst of it though. On the way back my leg started to hurt. A lot.
*
I woke up this morning and I’m walking with a limp. It’s funny, Dad had a limp when he and Mum died. He was nailing planks of wood across our windows and doors because there was no signal (as per bloody usual) and we thought that what was happening here was probably happening everywhere. It's only recently that I realised this was an isolated, local outbreak. Anyway, Dad dropped the hammer onto his toe, he always was useless at DIY. I think it was only a couple of hours after that when he and Mum were taken.
It was like a wave of death. No, not like, that’s exactly what it was. A hoard of uglies swept through the village, probably originating from the secret research facility in the woods we're not supposed to know about. My sister and I wouldn’t have had a prayer if Mum and Dad hadn’t charged down the first few that got into our house. They gave us just enough time to escape, to run away and leave them to die. My sister was screaming all the way and I had to drag her like she was four again.
She wouldn’t speak to me for a few days after that. I didn’t blame her, I hated myself too. But I would have hated myself even more if I hadn’t done what I did next. On my own, I snuck back into our house with the crowbar I found here. Then I dispatched my parents. I can’t bring myself to type it any other way. It wasn’t like in the movies, I didn’t pound their skulls into mush whilst sobbing, ‘Why?’ over and over again. I just found them, or what was left of them, forced the crowbar through each of their eye sockets, and came straight back here.
Then came the crying.
*
I haven’t told you about the heavy-duty gloves yet, have I?
After I got back from our old house, my sister started speaking to me again. A shared, day-long cry will do that for sisters. Once we felt up to it, we decided to explore the parts of the farmhouse we hadn’t searched yet. All the bedrooms were empty, only a few belongings flung about the place (I suspect the previous tenants left in a hurry). The problem came when we investigated the attic. Once we’d opened the ceiling panel in the upstairs hallway, once we’d pulled the compact staircase down, I went up. My sister stood at the top of the hatchway shining the torch beam over my shoulder. And that’s when it touched me. Terrified, I fell to my left, screaming as the thing came crashing down on top of me. I was yelling things like, ‘Shoot it!’ and, ‘Run!’ but my sister was just laughing her head off. I soon realised that my attacker was in fact a shop-window mannequin.
I think the people who previously lived here must have been arty (or into some seriously freaky stuff) because the mannequin was dressed in scarves, bandannas, ties, watches – loads of things. The rest of the attic was pretty empty but at least we got the mannequin’s gloves.
*
I’m not feeling good at the moment. I’ve got a sore throat and I’ve coughed up blood a couple of times. My leg pain is getting worse too.
I don’t think I’ll go out tonight. I have enough tins left and one of them is a Full English In A Can. Sounds pretty disgusting, but intriguing at the same time. I’ve been saving it for near the end. A sort of consolation prize.
*
There are two mattresses down here. Obviously one is mine, and the other one was my sister’s. After she died, I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it. I don’t have a photo of her, only Guitar Girl’s. Her bed is the only thing of hers I have left. And she didn’t even sleep in it that many times.
*
The tinned Full English was vile! You’ve got to laugh though, what else can you do?
*
I’m crying as I write this. Tears of sorrow, shame and regret.
It happened as we were searching a cottage just off of the main road. We’d used Old Trusty to get inside, and I’d rushed straight into the kitchen to find the food. We’d run out more than a day before and I was famished. My sister followed me into the kitchen, a wide grin on her pretty little face because I was sitting there with an open can of beans. Then one of them came at her from behind. I must have walked right past it on my stupid way to the cupboards. It bit into her neck and blood gushed over the tiles in a torrent. As she yelled out in agony, I leapt up and implanted the crowbar right into the thing’s skull. It crumpled to the floor, but the damage was done.
‘Don’t let me lose myself.’ That was the last thing my sister whispered to me before she passed out. Her wound was much more severe than mine is, and much closer to the brain. That seems to make it quicker. I took grandpa’s revolver from behind my back and blew her brains out.
I buried her in the back garden.
*
After my sister died I went kind of crazy. I took Old Trusty out across the fields and pulverised every ugly I could find. I don’t even remember it that well, it was just, find, kill, find, kill…
We’d only been going out in daylight before then but, in my anger, I carried on through the nights. That’s how I learned about their inability to evade in darkness. Eventually, though, one got me. I found three munching on a dead cow and ran straight at them. Took out the first two easily enough, but the third managed to scratch my leg with a bloody fingernail just before I clobbered it into oblivion. Once I realised its nail had broken the skin, it was like a switch had been flicked inside me. That’s it, I’m dead too. I lost my bloodlust and came back here.
*
If none of this had happened, I think my sister would have eventually gone into medicine. I was doing okay at College but she was top of her class at school. And she had a really kind nature too. She’d never squish any bugs that got trapped in our house; she’d get a glass, scoop the little critter up and seal it inside with a book. Then she’d take it outside and release it, even if it was a wasp.
*
I’ve decided that here’s not the place. I'll hit Submit and then I’m going to do it in those woods I wrote about; consider this diary as my Note. I’ll be able to find a nice spot to sit and look at the trees, some place that's calm and peaceful. I’m going to leave the picture of Guitar Girl in this cellar, she belongs in this house. The tree leaves will remind me of my sister more than any photo ever could anyway.
I guess all that’s left to say is thank you for listening.
I know it’s possible that no one will ever read this, but that’s not really the point is it?
Love,
X

I'm from Latin America and something I've noticed is that in many Latin American countries people try to imitate what they see in the West.
What I'm talking about is that all those movements you see in the West such as the LGTB movement, modern feminism, abortion, being vegan, being trans, "saving" the planet like Greta says, becoming irreligious, having less kids, etc, all those things end up in happening in many Latin American countries.
Now what you also need to take into account is that in Latin America it's closely related to your social class. Poor people in Latin America don't waste their time with those things because they need to care about their needs but in the middle class+ you start seeing those things in several countries of Latin America and the higher the social class is the more common it is. In countries like Argentina, Chile, Brazil, Uruguay, Mexico, Paraguay, Puerto Rico, Colombia, Costa Rica it's not uncommon to see those things and in other Latin American countries you can also see those movements but it might be less common.
From my perspective MENA countries don't waste their time with those movements. I wonder why MENA countries don't fall into that trap. Maybe it's related to religion? Maybe it's related to many Latin Americans wishing they were Europeans?
I'm not asking this in bad faith, I honestly think it's a good thing that MENA countries have stuck to their conservative and traditional values unlike the West where now people can't even define what's a woman.