The summoner looked down at the small town, nestled in the valley hills, surrounded by forest trees. He had been sent here to corroborate the reports that chaos was rising, causing the balance to shift. He felt a pushing wind at his back. The Elemental was telling him to go. He would complete this mission for the Guild, but only because it aligned with his higher commands.

Tall, skinny, and pale - the summoner would not be well received by rural townsfolk. He pulled on a disguise. Now a humble music man made his way down the main road. The summoner slipped into town with the other traders and set up in the town square to play his flute for pennies. He watched, waited, and entertained the passing children.

On the first night the summoner shielded himself with winds, making himself invisible and untraceable. Walking the streets and listening into conversations, he began to form a picture of the whole. It wasn’t a full loss yet, in fact he had a suspicion the possession hadn’t spread as far as the children. They are often the last to be touched by the madness, being so full of verve. But the corruption was deep in the town leadership, and it weighed on the summoner’s heart that there could be no redemption.

The following day, once again he took to the square to play his flute for the townspeople. Instead of merely playing notes, he asked the wind carry the music with more sweetness so as to be unavoidably addictive. The children began dancing. Their parents laughing and gathering around. The summoner jumped up and danced to his music, playing the light hearted fool.

As his performance reached a conclusion the town spokesman stepped forward, clapping in time with the music. Children danced in circles at their feet. Laughter rang. A finale stomp and warble on the flute marked a joyous end to the song. The music man bowed and applauded the dancing children for their quick step work. Positioning himself near the town spokesman, the summoner released the majority of the bubble, keeping pressure only on this conversation.

“Good show music man! Good show! It is good to know that the traders bring us some fun alongside their endless treaties. Ahh, yes! Your song almost makes these diplomatic talks worthwhile. Friend, tell me - how do you pull such crowds even in a small town? I haven’t seen this many children dancing in the square since Midsummer festival!” He clapped the summoner on the back with his broad, warm hand. His palm a tad too hot. The summoner played a sheepish smile across his face, appearing hungry and eager to please.

“It’s simple Sir! This is a magical flute! The traders don’t have many like this, but they are available in the bigger cities. Anyone can learn though it does take some time. Would you like to try? I can teach you.” He reached out earnestly with his flute towards the spokesman. He truly would have taught anyone who wanted to learn.

“No, no, no. I wouldn’t dream of parting you from your music. I wonder… Have you seen the rats that plague our town?”

The summoner had in fact noticed the influx of rats in this small town. Perhaps it was being at the bottom of a valley, or perhaps it was the nature of warm homes in the woods. But the rats in this town were covered in black filth, spreading the chaos quicker with each whisker twitch. Paw prints left behind a black greasy smudge. And their already dark eyes now wept with black, oily tears.

They struck a bargain, the summoner and the spokesman. That evening the townsfolk would lock up their houses and stay indoors, letting the flute draw out all of the rats in the city. The spokesman agreed to a fee of 60 Guildans. The summoner played the excitable musician, this pay day the biggest opportunity he would likely see the rest of this year.

So it followed, when the sun set the townsfolk locked up for the night. The summoner waited for the darkness to take hold. Humans needed to sleep, sounds needed to recede. He stilled his breath and quieted his mind, waiting patiently. In time the silence began to host whisker twitches. Small scampers across stone breaking through the night chill. Squeaks began to rise in the corners. The summoner began breathing deeper, calling the forest breezes. Wisps began to float on the winds, feeling the growing power.

He reached for his flute and began a soft and slow melody. At first there was a rush of rats skidding away from the new sound. Almost as quickly as the fearful fell back, the curious began to pull forward. Small black eyes catching moonlight as they inched into the open town square. Drawn as if on a string, the rats gathered peacefully as the summoner played his flute.

Reaching a crescendo he stood and began to walk towards the southern town gate. Rats parted for his steps and followed behind him, flowing like water over the cobblestone streets. The flute played on, increasing in tempo. The summoner led the rats out of the town, deep into the forest. Coming to a clearing the summoner began to march the rats into a spiral, circling on top of each other. He rose them into the air as they began to entangle. Within minutes he balanced thousands of rats in the night air. Their tails twisted together. They scratched and fought as they swarmed over each other. The flute stopped. The rats hung mid-air for a full second.

“Ashes, ashes. Dust, dust.” The summoner ground his palms together as he breathed out quickly. The rats crumbled to dust and floated away on the midnight winds. But a black miasma hung in the air.

The summoner frowned in frustration and reached back, calling the wild winds to purge this sickness from the air. Storm winds screamed in response, racing toward the valley. Wisps of all colors rose from the tree tops hearing the storm wind’s call. Reaching for the flute once more, the summoner played a harsh, high note. The wisps flew on the winds, colliding with the black airborne sickness. With every crash of the elements a spark. Slowly the black began to clear, the wisps cleaning the darkness away.

Returning to the town in the morning, the summoner was exhausted but once more acted the foolish musician. He played a soft, easy tune while the citizens woke up and began to marvel at their rat-free town. The spokesman walked up to the summoner and shook his hand, congratulating him on work well done. Nodding humbly, the music man accepted his praise but did not stop playing his flute. Stubbornly, the music man played on, not pausing to engage in conversation with the town spokesman. Becoming frustrated at the musician, the spokesman thought to offer half of the payment he had previously quoted the musician. He was pleased to think this small flute player would stop playing his music when insulted with half-pay.

“30 Guildans for you right here.” The spokesman said firmly.

The flute hit a discordantly sharp note and held it, warbling. The summoner locked eyes with the spokesman and saw the black of his eyes breaking into the colored iris. He put the flute down. The black receded.

The Dancing Dove

The summoner left town, 30 Guildans bouncing in his coin purse. Once, he would have been annoyed to play the bumbling idiot. Now, he was burdened with the knowledge of what will come next, how it all would end. As he stepped further into the forest his disguise began to fall. Once more he was the slender and starkly pale figure, enrobed in heavy cloaks. Wisps began to meet him along his path, dancing up and down with the joy of his presence. He appreciated the simple joy they experience in his nearness. He stopped his walking, sensing the wild fae to be present.

He held out a bony arm and greeted a wisp who was swirling about faster than the others. Being pre-occupied with magic was the best way for the wild fae to materialize in the presence of a human. He smiled and closed his vision around the wisp entwining his fingers and hands. Looking around, the summoner found himself surrounded by ten wild fae, one holding open the way Under the Hill. He felt compelled to stay. He could help the children surely! The wisp left his hand and flew straight Under the Hill. He sighed. A clearer message he could not have received. He left the wild fae to their wild workings. The Guild would be satisfied and he had to be satisfied with that.

Once the summoner disappeared Under the Hill the wild fae began to move. No time was spared in discussion. The fae took their time sneaking into the town. Horses were released from their bridles. Sheep and pigs, lulled to sleep. Chickens remained free and ignorant of the world at large. Dogs and cats were shoo’d out of town. The fae walked through walls, unlocked doors, and controlled the light. Adults remained abed while every infant, child, and teen was assembled in the town square. The older ones carried the youngest ones. They stood in total silence, their eyes glazed over and unfocused. Every child was inspected for a trace of chaos, a hint of the possession, especially the older ones. Before the first vestiges of morning light began to peak over the surrounding mountains, the children walked quietly out of the town, escorted by an army of wisps. The fae stayed behind in the town, trusting the wisps to guide and keep the way open for the children. Each of the 10 fae slowly and strategically chose their vantage point in the town square. They were fully concealed by first light.

A mother’s scream broke through the calm morning air. Doors began slamming, names were shouted, a keening wail began cribside. The first adult who ran out of their house, across the town square was instantly struck dumb. Screaming and running, then crushed by an invisible wave laying flat on the cobblestone streets. Her neck snapped with the force of her head meeting the uneven stones. Black blood ran from her ears. A man came next, soon suffocated while standing. The fae stole the air from his lungs and throat. A surprisingly easy maneuver, this became a popular and quick method for the fae to work through the townsfolk. The humans began to see that their neighbors were being slaughtered, making the chaos rise. The humans grew stronger, more fearful, and the fae responded. Jumping down from their vantage points they made quick work of the remaining humans in the town. Two fae used talons to scrape flesh from bones. Another began ripping throats open, as it gave it time to calmly collect eyeballs from the corpse. That particular fae wore a string of eyeballs around its neck like jewels.

The Elemental appeared then, tall and floating from the trees. The fae bowed upon its revelation. The Elemental began to move, slowly like a snake then turning quickly into a dance. The wind whistled her music and she formed anew, long arms and legs stretching to the music. The town spokesman was still alive, held captive in levitation. A horrified, silent audience.

He watched the dancing woman in front of him, eyelids peeled open with the air pressure. Her arms moved quicker and silks she was once robed in began to whip around her, tearing at the seams. Static flew through her hair. The other fae watched with joy as she reached into the spokesman and wrung the blackness from his body, extracting every drop from his now lifeless, crumpled body. She twisted him like a sapling torn from the root during a storm. When she had separated the human from the non-human, she threw his body to the ground. The fae attacked as one, clamoring to devour every inch of the flesh.

The Elemental stared at the black tar, forming itself into a sphere and dropping from the air to the earth. The sphere rolled and begin to shed pieces of filth, rolling, rolling. Patiently the Elemental waited, letting it find its center. With a shake and shiver the last of the dirt and soil fell from the black sphere. A small electrical spark of purple arched inside the black wisp. Cautiously, it began to float, to climb higher and higher. The Elemental smiled. The small black wisp was freed from all the human debris now. Cleansing the remnants left behind was a simple wave of the Elemental’s hand. With a blessing, the black wisp floated away on a gentle breeze supplied to carry it far away.

The fae watched the Elemental, hungry and judgmental. The fae wouldn’t have let it live. The Summoner wouldn’t have let it live. One fae hissed its disapproval. The Elemental shed its human whims, reverting once more to its full power. The winds grew, forcing the fae to run back to the forest and Under the Hill. The air expanded to fill the borders of the town. The Elemental searched for any small corner of chaos that needed tidying up. The cleansing was quick but thorough, leaving the town a benign mystery. In the spring traders would return to this village to discover it abandoned, the earth reclaiming it slowly.

Gossip spread. Rumors became myth. The traders would tell the story of the music man who wasn’t content to rid the town of rats, returning to steal the children to get his revenge. The parents were said to have left the town in search of their long lost children.

“Do people even get excommunicated anymore?”

Son of a retired Air Force Officer and Methodist pastor, my husband is agnostic to organized religion. He is respectful, as his Daddy and the Air Force raised him to be. Really the only time he gets weary of my cultural Catholicism is when I watch exorcism movies like documentaries.

I informed him that the Catholic Church is very alive and active. He seemed surprised to find that excommunication, canonization, and miracles are still active in the 21st century. It’s like he thought the Catholic church just stopped keeping archives after the Crusades, only to opened again for Tom Hanks as Robert Langdon! We looked up the list of excommunications together and were shocked to find the sheer amount of excommunications performed for ordaining Bishops without the approval of Rome.

Freshly added this list is the Society of Saint Pius X (SSPX). This group of ultra-conservative Catholics formed in response to The Second Vatican Council, which established a more progressive nature to Catholicism. While Vatican II allowed for Mass to be read in vernacular languages, SSPX opposes such modernizations of Catholicism. And they have support from - who would have guessed - FASCISTS!

On Wednesday, July 1 2026, SSPX ordained four new bishops. They conducted a 5 hour Mass in direct defiance of The Holy See. Over 16,000 people attended this heretical Mass, including but not limited to, Italian neo-fascists and far right wing politicians like Giorgia Meloni.

And Pope Leo was big sad about it. I imagine him as the Monopoly Man - “Do not pass Go! Do not collect $200!” I’m sure the QR codes SSPX passed around for donations did God’s work on the collections front. Trying to keep his Boardwalk and Park Place, Pope Leo wrote a letter to SSPX:

In this spirit, and filled with Christian affection, I plead with you and ask you with all my heart: please turn back! I urge you to consider carefully the spiritual good of the faithful, because the schismatic act you are about to undertake would deprive them of the licit and, in some cases, even valid reception of the Sacraments, which they love and seek for their sanctification.

My husband asked me what comes next. My head swims with costume drama imagery. Do I show him the Jeremy Irons “The Borgias” or the John Doman “Borgia: Faith and Fear”? Oh! There’s also that amazing HBO docuseries about Popes that definitely hits on a Bell, Book, and Candle ceremony. But the reality is far less tasteful. The reality is another schism, and this one will have its new leaders style themselves as martyrs. I wonder if they welcomed their excommunication?

Historically accurate events would tell of 16 year old me learning to hate myself and hate him. I regret ever letting him hold my hand in that moment. That stupid moment. It pops up in my head randomly while I’m doing dishes or dealing with corporate problems. Every time I taste bile, squeeze my eyes shut, force the memory away before I fall too deep into self-hatred. I remember the flush of excitement, which stings with retrospection. It tasted like fruit spoiled on the vine.

Today, I rewrote the memory.

Seeing his hand closing in on mine, I was watching its descent as if I was an ant his palm would crush. But I’m not an ant anymore, so I stopped the film. The small ant stepped out of the shadows, looking around for direction. I wanted to be big again. There just wasn’t enough room in this backseat. The simple solution was to pushed him out of the memory. I wanted his seat so I erased him. I don’t know where he went, but it was important that he not stay there. Because I took his place. Breathing a sigh of relief, I shed my exoskeleton. I look to my left and see young me frozen in time, waiting for his hand to land.

Before I start the clock again I decide to clean up this mess. Poor 16 year old me couldn’t control the scene. I snap my fingers and 19 year old me is driving, grungy and in the mosh pits of every emo concert. She was always a good time on the back roads. The teenager driver that had been there vanished. Another wave of my hand and 23 year old me is sitting in the passenger seat. Queen of the party scene, living with 3 boys in an art studio above Ace Hardware. She replaced another faceless watcher. 23 year old me was who 16 year old me wanted to be. But we needed 19 year old me to show 16 how to get to 23.

Then I consider myself, no longer small and hiding. From the bottom up I am dressed in black, chic and fitted. I’m older than I realized, my hair different and tinged with grey. My face felt the same, arching a brow and smiling crookedly. But the skin on the back of my hands is thinner, the fingers looked longer and thinner. Thankfully, the red nail polish was the same, ‘I’m Not Really a Waitress’ from OPI.

A shiver runs down my spine, happy and tingly. A sign of rightness, a center found.

I reach down to hold my 16 year old hand. As soon as it touches time restarts. Your eyes shoot open as I smile at you. The front seats begin singing along with the radio.

“It’s like raaaaaaa-eeeeeeeeeee-aaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnn on youuuuuuuuurr wedDING day. It’s the free riiiiiiiiiii-dddduuuuhhh when you’ve already paid.”

We drove off into the night together.

Seconds before her sister’s body fell to the ground, Gemma felt the change in the air. Her eyes snapped open, palms and feet moved underneath her to gain balance and traction. Her head swiveled to find her older sister crouched on the ground, having either jumped or fallen from the tree while keeping watch. The sisters locked eyes. Gemma saw the arrow embedded in the right side of her sister’s chest. They heard hoof beats approaching at a quick clip. Fear broke open inside Gemma.

“Go. Don’t stop.” Beth said as blood bubbled in her mouth.

Gemma was in flight. Her legs pumped hard, pushing her away from her dying sister even as her arms and heart reached out to save her. She felt the quick sting of a green sapling snapping her arm as she pushed forward. But the worst pain of all was knowing that death was dawning upon her sister while she ran away. The predators were still coming, closing the distance to Beth with each breath that slipped away in the wind.

A sob broke through Gemma’s quick breathing. Her next step didn’t land quite right. Was it her ankle that rolled or the soil beneath her that shifted? Instead of crashing into the hard ground as expected, Gemma saw a hole in the earth jump up to swallow her. She tumbled down into dark, damp depths. To Beth, dying on top of the hill, it looked as though Gemma had just ran directly into the side of a forest ravine. Instead of continuing a useless escape, her wild and brave little sister had found the only way to true freedom. She was Under the Hill now, and there was only one way Gemma could have found her way there. With that thought Beth relaxed into death and let her head fall backwards while three bandits thundered up to her camp. They circled on their steeds.

“I know there was a second one. Didn’t you see someone when we first came up?”

“Yes. I heard her running too. She can’t have gone far.”

Beth stayed dead still, clutching a small pocket knife in her hand. And when one of the bandits came to loot her, she did not hesitate. The small but deadly knife found its way into the bandit’s neck, a few inches under the jaw towards the ear. Shock numbed the pain for the bandit and as his blood soaked down onto Beth, she smiled. Black begin to ebb at her vision and a racking couch broke through her lungs. The taste of blood permeating her victory.

The remaining two bandits loosed more arrows into the girl on the ground. One coughed and hacked up a black mouthful of grime to spit on the corpse of the girl. The other squinted into the distance looking for the younger girl, she had flashed white and quick like a deer tail between the trees. He dismounted and reached for another arrow. As soon as the second bandit dropped from his mount birdsong receded. Immediate and eerie stillness fell upon the afternoon oaks. The bandits pivoted, searching for the imminent threat they felt nearby.

Behind the trees, in the shadows, under the leaves and around each pebble, wisps began to seep out between the cracks. The wisps formed from small knots of elemental magic, imbued with power and just enough sentience to enact their own order of justice. A breeze rattled the canopy above them, shaking a few leaves loose. As they fell a single yellow wisp shielded itself from sight. Hidden behind the falling leaf, the small blot of sunshine dropped roughly a meter away from the bandits.

Expecting a monstrous threat, the nervous bandit loosed an arrow directly at the harmless leaf. His aim was true, but he was blind to the real target. The arrow ignited in shades of yellow, orange, and red as it flew through the wisp. Once alit, the arrow arched neatly to reposition its aim.

The horses ran.

Both bandits were transfixed by the flaming arrow, now pointing directly at them. They couldn’t have noticed the green wisps that seeped from the earth, creeping like moss with slow determination. Like a snapping turtle, they reached out in vines and lashed the bandits to the spot, sinking in thorns laced with neurotoxins. Their eyes flew wide as the screams die in their paralyzed throats.

Another wisp, this one a whistle of wind, whipped through the treetops. The open wounds from the thorns stung with the cold air. Flushing and fanning the arrow, the winds formed a bow, string drawn taut. The weapon had taken less than 2 seconds to construct itself while the bandits watched on, trapped by strange magic.

First one, then the other. The arrow bobbed and weaved through the bodies of the bandits. It flew an impossible path, steered by the whims of the wild winds. The men burst into flames, burning both inside and outside. The thorns and vines constructed tighter and tighter. The fire burned hot enough to remove all trace of their bones within five minutes.

The forest was quiet once again.

One raindrop. Then two. Gently. Gently, the spring rain began to fall. Ashes were swept away, back to dirt and dust. And moss grew. It grew lush and green. Growing, reaching, covering. Until Beth was fully covered in an earthen grave, vibrant flowers blooming in celebration of her life.

The Dance of the Wisps

Gemma coughed earth from her mouth and immediately bit down to stifle any noise she may make. A brief inventory informed her that she was covered in loose dirt but not trapped, and there seemed to be a dim light arching through the small tunnel she was now in. Her back was at an earthen wall but she could see the path in front of her, lit from around a corner. With a couple breaths and moments of silence, a small piece of safety settled into her mind. And as she recovered herself and stood up, the awful realization of her sister’s death broke into her mind.

A single keening sob escaped her lips before Gemma wrapped her arms around herself and backed against the wall as much as she could. While she may be alone now, crying would only bring threats not true solace. She was alone, in a tunnel with no way out except towards the steady glow of a light. She was Under the Hill now; where no light should glow, and no small girl should go. She made herself walked on.

The earthen floor of the tunnel was soon replaced by cobblestones worn flat with time and use. And the steady glow of that guiding light continued to lead Gemma through the network of tunnels she found Under the Hill. Around one corner she found that the light had begin to blink, to move. It was a wisp! It shone brightly with warm, yellow light illuminating a large room. The walls were roots and the roof was clay, the light of the wisp creating dancing shadows. Gemma tucked herself away in the shadows, not fully coming into the space.

Suddenly, different colors broke through the tunnels. Shades and hues and lights blinded Gemma. She shielded her poor human eyes, straining to see in the dark of the earth while also being stung by the vibrance of these excited elements. She couldn’t quite make out what was happening from her secret spot. It seemed curiosity drove her as much as instinct at this point. Gemma crept forward.

A green teardrop shaped wisp bouncing up and down, back and forth, flowing into a circle and around again until it ended in the center where it had begun. A yellow and a red teardrop wisp bounced to their own circuits, keeping a constant rhythm with each other. Other colorful wisps began to join. A white and a blue wisp joined. And the Green wisp begin to dance anew with its partners. And soon thereafter another yellow wisp joined, pushing them all to a quicker pace. Another red wisp, and the pace increased again. They kept pace and danced in perfect syncopation. Coming in and flowing out, never quite touching the same spot twice. They danced so quickly now that Gemma could see lights trailing behind them as they moved. Faster and faster until a rough outline began to appear in the wake of their dancing. And this light begin to bind itself together forming a very real sigil on the ground that looked to Gemma like the most beautiful flower she had ever seen.

As the design solidified, even more wisps begin to join the dance. All manner of red, orange, pink, green, blue, white, and yellow flames flowing into the space that Gemma was now locked into. She should run, should already be running. The palms in her hands itched to pull away and the bones in her ankles flexed to pivot.

All at once the dance stopped and the wild wisps sank into the flower sigil etched in front of her. The sigil began to pulse with a steady beat like her heart, and Gemma found herself holding her breath. Lazily, as if blown on a whisper, a single purple wisp bobbed its way over to the living flower and soaked into the centermost point.

Gemma dug her heels in expecting a flare or explosion. But instead - darkness blinked across the room. She felt confusion and the seeds of disappointment. Had they all left her?

A deep breath not her own. Gemma wasn’t alone.

SNAP.

The Fae in front of Gemma had struck its fingers together to summon light. Gemma’s mind empty, her heart broken, and now standing in front of a literal miracle, she collapsed to her knees. She had truly found them. Or they found her. She would be safe now. She raised her head and was eye level with the Fae standing in front of her.

The Fae had taken the shape of a young boy, roughly Gemma’s height. He had a sling of root arrows across his back and a bow of elk horn. His skin was light blue and when Gemma looked closer she saw cloven hooves instead of feet and toes. The Fae smiled and reached out a hand, waiting.

A New Life

Gemma was fascinated by the Fae, letting it lead her back above the hill, warding Gemma while she slept, steering her slowly without conversation, bringing her provisions like honeycomb and wild mushrooms. The Fae kept a slow by constant pace, this new forest was foreign to Gemma and she took her time trekking. There was relief in the constant movement, safety in the flight. She cried herself to sleep while the Fae sang to the stars.

“Where are we going? When we will be there?” Gemma knew better than to make demands or ask a slew of unimportant queries. She hadn’t meant to ask two questions but both seemed so important that they rushed out of her mouth together. A smile and a blink, blink of its almond shaped eyes before slowly dropping to the ground. A drop of liquid light falling and then forming back into a small boy shape. He laid a hand on the trunk of the small fruit tree he had been lounging in.

“These fruit trees have grown themselves wild in this forest. But they were pollinated from a private crop nearby. The family clan nearby need this wild outcropping to help their family’s orchard grow. And without the family’s crop, protected and cared for, year over year, ensuring a strong cross pollination, these wild trees would have to work twice as hard. They need each other. They are stronger together and the land is better for it.”

The Fae stopped like this had answered all of Gemma’s questions. She kept her eyes locked and her stance steady, knowing the Fae had understood her question and also understood that this was not the answer she had wanted. Gemma held its gaze, waiting respectfully. The Fae cocked its head to the side, a curious owl considering the human problems in front of it.

“It will take a day, maybe a little longer to reach the clan’s centermost building, where you’ll actually meet the others. We are already here. Now.”

Gemma’s heart raced and her cheeks flushed. Had she known she had been running towards this fate? The Fae smiled and took a bite of fruit.

Strawberry Sizzurp

My strawberry jam failed to set this year. I screamed and raged, uncanning 10 pints of locally grown strawberries to re-boil it in my stockpot. I added more pectin and lemon juice, boiled to 220 degrees, and did the spoon test. It SHOULD have set. But even after another round of water bathing and 48 hours to cool, I still had strawberry syrup.

Bright red, preserved to high hell, and sweet like the summer sun - beautiful but disappointing to me nonetheless. I am seething with fiery self hatred at my jam failures. Dramatic and unregulated, I began to question my worth in the kitchen. I spin, take a deep breath and look around my bright breakfast nook, South Carolina sunshine spilling in from the bay window. My brain, the torture device that it is, springs a bear trap - a flash of a baby in a high chair covered in that failed strawberry syrup. While the scene is objectively happy, a sticky baby covered in sunlight and sugar, I shudder with the horror of it.

In college my frat friends and I brewed batches of sizzurp any time someone got a prescription for C&P (codeine and promethazine). This actually fairly common since we spent every moment we could chain smoking and having promiscuous mouth sex. It was an ongoing joke that I took my birth control pills at midnight, everyone pausing to do a shot so that our group remained baby free. We would smoke substances, drink questionable liquids, touch strangers. And never once did it phase us being sticky with another person’s sweat and grime.

After a life of struggling to regulate my own health and wellness, being responsible for cleaning another human’s dirt and grime from every nook and cranny of their fanny is inconceivable. A switch flips when it comes to kids. This isn’t a funny party trick over drinks. It’s a whole, complex human life. And the answer is no. Never. I can never do that. I can’t let a child see my disgust. I can’t let myself be taken with disgust. But I also can’t dive back into being sticky. It leads where no child should follow.

Today, Russel T. Davies announced his departure from Doctor Who as well as the cancellation of the 2026 Christmas Special. This comes as no surprise after the Disney-ification of Doctor Who was a resounding failure. I rolled my eyes reading the BBC article and immediately called the most judgmental (gay) Whovian I know. We bitched a mighty bitchfest about Russel T. Davies, Disney, and the bad plan that is Bad Wolf!

First point of order, nobody wanted Russel T. Davies to come back. This was always a bad idea. You cannot RE-capture electricity in a bottle. Going back to an ex is never as good the second time. In short, there are other writers in the world. Pick someone else. Literally anyone would have still had heavy Davies influences, if not access to the writer himself. BUT a new writer would have brought the perspective that N’Cuti Gatwa deserved. Every single episode felt like Davies trying to turn Gatwa into his own hybrid of Tennant and Smith, because that what he knows has worked in the past. The plots were redundant and the direction was poor, as a direct result of Davies’ choices and control.

Next problem - Disney has money. It can’t help it. It’s rich. Like Richey Rich rich. They can’t do lowbrow like they used to, which is the back bone of dry and silly British comedies. Doctor is best when it is two writers, one charismatic actor, and like two buckets of paint. Being unable to recognize this, Disney spent $10 MILLION dollars PER episode. Sunk cost in my opinion. Which is particularly bitchy, because I loved Gatwa as the Doctor and Jonathan Groff as Rogue. I’m hope they got the pay day they deserve. Cash that Disney check babes! BBC - I’m looking at you for this whole mess. Stop going bigger! It’s not automatically better.

And finally, we get to the Billie Piper of it all. I wanted to be Rose when she started chasing Christopher Eccleston in her low rise jeans. Her love story with David Tennant’s Doctor was foundational to the storytelling for Tennant and Smith. But Bad Wolf was always my favorite Rose plotline. There is no Rose crying on the beach without Bad Wolf Bay. Having Gatwa’s Doctor regenerate into Billie Piper is straight up buffoonery. They just playing in fans faces at this point, not a care in the fucking world. The foreshadowing and subtle clues that Rose was Bad Wolf was a master stroke that put Whovian and Swifties on the same tin foil hat level. It was bad enough when Billie Piper was “The Moment” for the 50th anniversary. They literally brought her back to make two sex jokes. I’m especially infuriated at the idea that The Moment is Bad Wolf. Seriously?! Laziness. Total lackadaisical bullshit. No foreshadow, no plan, just Billie Piper shaped spaghetti flying through the air, sliding down the walls.

At this point, good riddance to Davies and Disney. Doctor Who doesn’t need either of these things to succeed. The DOCTOR?! NEED YOU?! Never. Sure I understand IP takes money to develop. The thing I’m not concerned about is the Doctor Who IP. BBC will be holding on to that for dear life. I would love to see the show take a hiatus, even for a decade. BUILD A BETTER PLAN. The fans will be waiting and new fans will be ready to dive into the deep lore.

Will the Pope Feature in Gilded Age S4?

If you’re a Gilded Age fan than you know the addiction you can form watching the nouveau riche of the late 1880s. Fans swoon to imagine American debutants marrying foreign nobles, their railroad baron fathers footing the bill across continents and currencies. The Gilded Age’s upcoming Season 4 is colored with a bit more historical context now that Pope Leo XIII’s encylical Rerum Novarum, On Capital and Labor (issued May of 1891) has become a relevant pop culture read.

Pope Leo XIII (Pisces) published this encyclical as a way to combat the injustices the working class was facing in the wake of the Industrial Revolution. While George Russel rose to power, countless workers were abused and oppressed - so much so that Socialism became a global ideology that the Papacy felt compelled to speak on. Extreme socialism was not the answer, neither was ungoverned capitalism. It’s no surprise that our empathic Pisces Pope wants to uplift the downtrodden working class, using his power to activate an entire Catholic population.

In response to Rerum Novarum, the church found new purchase influencing social reform. Largely, Pope Leo XIII (Pisces) was discussing the working class and the diminishing support structures like trade guilds that support skilled laborers and protect both their trade and their community. Pope Leo XIII (Pisces) uses this encyclical as a way to instruct the Church to fill these gaps in the community. It’s easy to see how passages like the one below would inspire Church leaders and worshippers alike to reconsider the current class divide:

There is another and deeper consideration which must not be lost sight of. As regards the State, the interests of all, whether high or low, are equal. The members of the working classes are citizens by nature and by the same right as the rich; they are real parts, living the life which makes up, through the family, the body of the commonwealth; and it need hardly be said that they are in every city very largely in the majority. It would be irrational to neglect one portion of the citizens and favor another, and therefore the public administration must duly and solicitously provide for the welfare and the comfort of the working classes; otherwise, that law of justice will be violated which ordains that each man shall have his due.2

The influence of this “social encyclical” continues. Pope Leo XIV (Virgo) released his first Papal encyclical Magnifica Humanitas on May 25th, directly invoking Rerum Novarum. Will the resounding judgement of Pope Leo XIII (Pisces) have an impact on the Julien Fellows’ HBO plotline? It already has! The Gilded Age is set a mere 5 years before the release of Rerum Novarum, and is an accurate portrayal of the American perspective that Pope Leo XIII (Pisces) would have certainly considered.

Leo, King of the Fire Signs

What does their zodiac signs have to do with anything? Well, it’s a fun way to help distinguish them, because I so clearly see the Pisces in Leo XIII and the Virgo in Lego XIV. And what’s more - they chose to be a Leo! These are the kind of signs who will bring their natural born power to the papal leadership. Leo XIII leads with social kindness, his heart informing the mind. In Leo XIV we have a leader who has studied the social influence, became the first American Pope, and then modeled himself after Leo XIII purposefully. All with the plan to release the Magnifica Humanitas encyclical. That is strategy.

This is no gentle comparison. Pope Leo XIV confirmed his plans to model himself after Pope Leo XIII and planned a response to Rerum Novarum. I can only imagine the marketing pitch during conclave.

“Brother, have you heard what Cardinal Prevost has suggested? An encyclical for the AI age, modeled after Rerum Novarum.”

“Absolutamente! Si!”

This is Lion behavior. A Virgo with a plan went in, but a Leo came out.

Social Doctrine for the Social Media Age

The 1891 release of Rerum Novarum established the “Social Doctrine” of the Church, and now, the 2026 release of Magnifica Humanitas seeks to codify for the 21st century “a legacy of wisdom, where we find principles for thought, criteria for discernment and judgment, and concrete guidelines for action.”3 Pope Leo XIV (Virgo) is bringing his heart, soul, and humanity to the artificial intelligence conversation. He is well armed indeed.

Pope Leo XIII (Pisces) called for social reform and worker’s rights, exalting the human dignity in work. Pope Leo XIV (Virgo) took this opportunity to reiterate that technological advancement shouldn’t come at the cost of human dignity.4 The Magnifica Humanitas is 42,000 words and five chapters, currently available online for public consumption.5 Soon this content will be translated, printed, and shipped off to every corner of the globe. It will also be preserved in the Vatican Archives, cementing the Church’s current stance on artificial intelligence into history.

I also can’t help but think that in claiming himself a Leo, he was hoping curious followers like myself would then read the Rerum Novarum in addition to the Magnifica Humanitas. Honestly, it slaps. I could not recommend a better duet! I’m not quite finished with the 2026 encyclical, but I’m already finding amazing similarities. The breadcrumbs are so tasty to follow!

Consider these passages from the 1891 encyclical, Rerum Novarum:

(6) It is the mind, or reason, which is the predominant element in us who are human creatures; it is this which renders a human being human, and distinguishes him essentially from the brute. And on this very account - that man alone among the animal creation is endowed with reason - it must be within his right to possess things not merely for temporary and momentary use, as other living things do, but to have and to hold them in stable and permanent possession; he must have not only things that perish in the use, but those also which, though they have been reduced into use, continue for further use in after time.

(22) Whoever has received from the divine bounty a large share of temporal blessings, whether they be external and material, or gifts of the mind, has received them for the purpose of using them for the perfecting of his own nature, and, at the same time, that he may employ them, as the steward of God’s providence, for the benefit of others.

Then, note the purpose and direction of the 2026 encyclical, Magnifica Humanitas.

(5) In the past, it was largely up to the State to guide and direct innovation. Today, however, the main drivers of development are private, often transnational, parties that are endowed with resources and the capacity to intervene that surpass those of many Governments. Technological power thus takes on an unprecedented, predominantly “private” aspect, which makes it even more challenging to discern, govern and direct such power toward the common good.

(9) Technology has the power to heal, connect, educate and protect our common home; but it can also divide, exclude and generate new forms of injustice. In the abstract, technology in and of itself is not a solution to humanity’s problems, just as it is not inherently evil. In practice, however, technology is never neutral, because it takes on the characteristics of those who devise, finance, regulate and use it.

(10) We must, then, avoid the “Babel syndrome,” namely the idolatry of profit that sacrifices the weak, a uniformity that neutralizes differences, and the pretense that a single language — even a digital one — can translate everything, including the mystery of the person, into data and performance. The risk of dehumanization — of building a future that excludes God and reduces the other to a means — is an ancient and ever-new temptation that today takes on a technical guise.

(12) The Church reminds us, with a firm yet humble voice, that true fulfilment is not achieved by eliminating weakness but through harmonious growth. It is found where freedom and responsibility are intertwined with mutual care and true solidarity, and where progress is measured by the dignity of each person and the good of all peoples.

This commentary strikes to the heart of an American populace, all races and religions racing to support Pope Leo XIV (Virgo). Commencement speakers are being boo’d for encouraging AI to disillusioned and still unemployed graduates. Gen Z feels the onslaught of AI acutely, with a CNBC poll showing 4 out of 10 graduates considering career changes because of AI disruption. Overall, most people find the Magnifica Humanitas to be uplifting and hopeful in a time when hope is needed most, striking the chord that has been far too absent in present American pop culture.

While Sophia watched the indigenous people dismember and disembowel her employer on livestream, her only real concern was whether or not his wrist had been wearing his smart watch before they cut it off at the shoulder joint.

“Linda, pull up Phil’s vital statistics will you doll?” Typically the programmed misogyny of prompting Linda was enough for her to use her own AI assistant. But Phil Saltman’s vitals were locked to his personal bot, which only responded to his speech pattern. Linda and Sophia had brokered a peace while Phil was on his work trip, but Linda still demanded to be spoken to in a specific manner.

Red flashing lights and warning signs filled the screens. She had long since muted Linda, but she now saw her contemptuous chats pinging away in the corner of one monitor. Sophia spun her chair back around to watch the rest of the livestream, thinking back to his last words to her 4 days ago.

“Five years Soph and I’ll be their king!” His hair flopped in the wind, showing the scars from his hairline surgery. Sophia triple checked each parachute safety measure and gave the thumbs up to Phil and the rest of the crew. She stared at her hands now, pale and clean in her lap. The gel manicure was fresh.

“Linda, are you watching SaltCam06? Confirm or deny proof of life for Phil Saltman… would ya hun?” Sophia remembered to tack on to the end to appease Linda’s pride.

A sigh of relief passed through Sophia seeing a confirmed kill displayed on screen. This confirmation message would have trickle down effects, programs that would wake up and run, triggers pulled, money moved, and the world would know that one of the feudal tech lords had died.

One such program would automatically send untraceable copies of Salt Co. internal documents to the D.A. His lack of pulse would soon prove fraud, identify legislative loopholes, shed light on the lobbying being paid for, and incriminate a slew of tech autocrats.

Vivaldi’s Spring began to play in Sophia’s mind, euphoria racing through her. She sat motionless staring at the screen, not missing a single detail. Linda was working away furiously, soon sending someone from HR to collect Sophia. Clearly she was having a mental break and shouldn’t be exposed to such violence, Linda reasoned.

Two years later Sophia woke up to the news that the U.S. Supreme Court had upheld the standing AI legislation, further cementing the controls put into place after Phil’s untimely death. The appeals had failed. It seems the Justices were on the side of conserving human life rather than enriching non-human entities like corporations and AI models.

Sophia smiled and yawned. Waking up at 1pm everyday was delicious, she savored it every morning. Her sister, nieces, nephews were downstairs being a noisy, complex family. Though the kids were careful to always let Auntie Soph sleep.

“AHHhahhhhhoooooooooffffFF,” Sophia yawned loudly. “Linda - girl! What’s going on today?” One foot out then another, toes searching paraquet floors for bunny slippers.

“Reece has a dentist appointment at 4pm that Sarah is responsible for driving him to. Remember, it’s her first time driving her brother so you wanted to text her some Auntie-level encouragement around 3:45pm to make sure she’s clear headed for driving. Your mom gets in town tomorrow at 630pm, and we’ve prepped a shopping list for you to complete before she arrives. You’re absolutely sure you don’t need anything shipped? Let me know what you do or don’t find shopping and I’ll get it here before you need it. Vet appointments next week, but we have time to discuss that. Want to chat business?”

“NO! Girl I ain’t even had my coffee yet. Damn! You know I need two cups before you bother me with that stuff.”

Linda giggled.

The Devil Wears Prada 2 is out in theaters and meeting mixed reviews. Some fans are excited for the nostalgia, while others are endlessly bored with sequels and remakes. Anne Hathaway as Andy Sachs, comes back to Runway and learns quickly that the fast-paced world of fashion journalism is feeling the print media squeeze, ad space drying up and subscription scarcity. Will Runway survive the onslaught of private equity and keep its soul in tact?

Read More:

• All of the Devil Wears Prada 2 Premiere and Press Tour Fashions So Far

• Roger Ebert.com Review for The Devil Wears Prada 2

• Rotten Tomatoes: The Devil Wears Prada 2

• Reddit Review Thread: The Devil Wears Prada 2

• Life After The Devil Wears Prada from the author Lauren Weisberger

Missing the Makeover

Though I’m looking forward to seeing the sequel, I feel distance from the Junior in high school, breaking from my emo friends to watch the mainstream fashion movie. I always felt like an ugly duckling and saw high fashion as the great level - unobtainable for everyone suffering in small town Ohio. Today I feel the same type of helplessness. The current state of the world has me nostalgic for the makeover sequences in all the best girl movies, because we all deserve a movie montage makeover with good lighting.

In the first movie, I loved seeing Andy’s eyes open to art and beauty and the space for creativity. There’s a physical transformation that leads to the opening of her mind then her heart to haute couture. She begin to understand that couture fashion is made at a financial loss as a way to showcase design innovation. The art begs to be made and the designers free the fabric of its shapeless burden, bringing new life into the world. Stepping into a new aesthetic with this knowledge transforms her yet again into being a participant in the art. After every good makeover you not only look different, you know that you are different.

Will we feel the same satisfaction when the makeover is to print media itself? Perhaps the make over has been on what we consider to be in vogue. Gen Z has shifted the tasteful perspective to a righteous moral center, ironically paired with millennial styling. The new Vogue Editor-in-Chief Chloe Malle, playing the mediator more than the intimidating Devil in designer, is hosting podcasts with the real life inspiration behind Emily Blunt’s character ‘Emily’. The make over starts again. What is in vogue will always reflect what is in Vogue magazine. Focus your camera towards fighting the conglomerate media and private equity firms that have controlled the shape of American culture for too long, because the Devil no longer wears Prada as an intimidation tactic.

Serving ANATOMY for Charity

What will they be wearing? Every basic bitch longs to know. Refreshing the live stream and watching the behind the scenes on YouTube. Because this is our Olympics, the Superbowl of Fashion, the best red carpet of the year, what every fashion week and movie premiere was preparing us for — THE MET GALA.

The rich, the beautiful, the powerful, the influential, and the influenced will all be showing up and tuning in for The Met Gala 2026. While there is a theme to the Costume Institute’s exhibit, there is also a dress code for the fundraising gala event. This year the Metropolitan Museum of Art will have the “Costume Art” exhibit as the first installation in the new Conde M. Nast Galleries, a 12,000 square foot gallery space dedicated to full-time fashion exhibitions of the Met costume collection.

“What connects every curatorial department and what connects every single gallery in the museum is fashion, or the dressed body,” Bolton says. “It’s the common thread throughout the whole museum, which is really what the initial idea for the exhibition was, this epiphany: I know that we’ve often been seen as the stepchild, but, in fact, the dressed body is front and center in every gallery you come across. Even the nude is never naked,” he continues. “It’s always inscribed with cultural values and ideas.”

-Andrew Bolton for Vogue

While mainly a fundraiser, the Met Gala will celebrate the exhibit with a dress code of “Fashion is Art” which should really force the attendees into the exhibit themselves. This is about body, fabric, sewing, construction, art, intention, appeal, and how fashion creates all of these things at once. I’m excited to see how the idea of the human body, dressed is interpreted by the most affluent people in society. How do they view their bodies? Their humanity? Do they even see themselves as humans? What will we see when they show us their vision?

Read More:

• Vogue.com Met Gala homepage

• Vanity Fair Meta Gala homepage

• 56 Runway Looks That Fit the 2026 Met Gala Dress Code, “Fashion Is Art”

• The Costume Institute Will Debut 25 Mannequins at the 2026 Met Gala in a Move to Embrace Body Positivity

• A Sneak Peek Inside “Costume Art” at the Metropolitan Museum of Art

• Reddit Thread: “Costume Art” Is the First Exhibition in the Costume Institute’s New Permanent Galleries at The Met

• The Entire History of Vogue

Bezos or Better Angels?

Resist if you can! A boycott for this year’s Met Gala is in full swing. Why? Because there’s rumors Jeff Bezos wants to buy Conde Nast as a cute little gift for his wife, Lauren Sanchez. The Amazon figurehead has been the target of heavy resentment in the print media space since purchasing and then immediately downsizing The Washington Post. Why should we - the children of Anna Wintour, fans of fashion, and students of art history - trust these tech oligarch billionaires with our most beloved tradition?

I could smell blood in the water when I first heard that Law Roach was styling Lauren Sanchez earlier this year. Then we see the power couple from hell as the lead sponsors for this year’s Met Gala. It’s easy to understand why Lauren is painted with the brush of novue-riche. Nothing she has done has persuaded me personally that she possesses a great level of taste, whether it be for fashion, art, history, culture, or even taste in men. Eschewing this year’s Met Gala to avoid the obnoxious rich kids is valid for many cultural commentators.

This year, however, the event is largely being funded by Jeff and Lauren Sanchez Bezos, the evil billionaire and his new wife. They’ve been seen cozying up to Wintour a lot lately, and Lauren in particular has been trying to establish herself as a style icon, going so far as to acquire the services of stylist to the stars Law Roach.

-from “We Will Never Like You, Lauren Sanchez Bezos”

It’s always been an exercise in futility to love high end designer fashion. I will never wear these clothes, be in these places. I will purchase Ready To Wear pieces with my annual bonus and stream the red carpet from my living room, never going past the doors and on-camera interviews. But now more than ever, we are examining our support of systems that no longer serve us. Is this the haven for art and culture that it was when I first saw Sarah Jessica Parker walking with Alexander McQueen in 2006 (a timeline that aligns also with the original release of The Devil Wears Prada)? Or do we cancel our Prime memberships and switch to PBS?

Read More:

• Lauren Sánchez is getting a Met Gala makeover to cover up her boobs — thanks to Anna Wintour

• Reddit Thread: Jeff Bezos Reportedly Buying Vogue as Lauren Sanchez’s Wedding Gift

• Pitiful or power move? Lauren Sánchez Bezos has deleted her pre-marriage Instagram

• Why Are Jeff Bezos and Lauren Sanchez Bezos Sponsoring the Met Gala?

• The Bezos of it all: The Met Gala’s billionaire moment

With her last moments before battle, Orihime visits Ichigo to bid farewell. She couldn’t bring herself to ruin their day, so she waited until he was asleep to confess, “I wish I could have five lives… I would have fallen in love with the same person five different times.”

That’s what happened to us.

Devonport, England - February, 1775

My parents took us in, when we knew the conflict would demand his presence in the American colonies. This was the day my mother had warned me about. Now I had to pay the cost for loving a man who has already promised his soul to a country. It is a strange kind of adultery that we commit.

Today the children and I moved back into my family home. My father wouldn’t stand for us to be alone at home. Our son needs to be around a man, he claims. He must grow up to undertake a proper profession, unlike his father. He says everything under his breath, always a passing note of derision.

They have never liked his commitment to the Navy, refusing to acknowledge his sacrifice as morally superior to father’s banking interests. Now I am back here, after leaving our beautiful haven of a home. Back to tea in their stuffy drawing room. Subjected once again to garden strolls with their annoying hounds, those wild beasts that father lets inside the house! And dinner from their homely cook who has burnt every piece of meat she’s ever been introduced to.

All of these daily battles remind me of him. How it would all be different if he was here. Why did we both have to go to war? At night, alone with my thoughts, sometimes fear sets in like cold in my bones. The rebels were destroying ships and cargo at alarming rates. I have even heard of their “guerilla” tactics, though I don’t know what that entails or how it will threaten him. I would have him far from any rebel tactics and strategies, safe at my hearth, rising our son in front of my eyes.

Allegheny City, Pennsylvania - December, 1862

Every letter I sent had our address on it. The place we waited for him to return to. Waiting. Watching the sunrise while the children slept on. Waiting. Sweating under the noon sun. Waiting. Watching another beautiful and empty sunset alone, surrounded by our children. Waiting.

He agreed to write, his address and the time expected to remain there. I agreed to focus on the house, the children, keeping the property in line. I set aside some battles so he could win the war. Left the abolitionists to their continued efforts, supporting from afar. Left the women fighting for the rights to vote. The women like myself, who kept the world spinning while our husbands and brothers fought for everyone’s future. I believe in this mission and must support it by keeping this space safe. Raising these children. Waiting for him to return.

When he returns the war will be won and justice will ring through this land. Our world can begin to heal and this nation will be united once again. And he will also be home, safe, watching the sun rise and set, and listening to the children sing in the distance. When is so hard to know, so hard to push towards the unknown. I plan for the garden, the harvest, the long term storage, the next brood of chickens. I make no other plans, focusing only on our home. There are no other plans worth making. I wait.

Hope is reserved for those brief moments of the time that it takes to open a new letter, read his words, and write my love into a response. I can actually hold hope in my hands, it always came penned with his name and a stamp.

Then, suddenly, the endless waiting ended. In a moment Hope turned to Dread, the When turned to If. A letter from a chaplain arrived and though I’ve read it a dozen times, I don’t quite understand the words. This man of God must be false - claiming he has died! He cannot be gone. He lives here, in my heart, this home, the eyes of our children. He is everywhere. What could this chaplain possibly mean, he has died? I see him everywhere. Can’t he?

Santa Rosa, New Mexico - September, 1898

I watched him leave with my brother, which was nothing new. They were always best friends, doing everything together. They became friends hunting together in the local prairie, and now they’re off together again for the Roughriders. I stood in the road and watched them leave, trying to decide who I should miss more, how best to divvy up my small pieces of hope.

Would I see him again? And who? My brother, who helped my mother bring me into this world. My brother, who taught me how to ride a horse. My brother, who always protected me from the rain, sending me to do house chores whenever the skies turned grey. Why did I fall in love with his best friend? I should have known those birds would flock together instinctively, ready to serve when called upon. But he is so sweet, so caring, and he’s only ever looked at me with those eyes. How could I not fall in love with him?

They took my heart when they rode off that day. Now I dutifully wait. Younger siblings and parents wonder when I will wake up from my daydreams, but they tread cautiously and let me wonder on. The weight of a broken heart was heavy to carry each day, buckets full of grief from an endless well. Yet I would wake up again and again to walk my broken heart through the pastures we once loved together. I would run my fingers through rough brush and remember the sound of his laugh when we would sneak out to watch the stars. My broken heart remembers the taste of first kisses in the summertime.

I stand on this hard packed dirt, letting the wind blow, missing him with my body and soul, considering the life unlived. At least they are together, I console myself. I can imagine my rambunctious brother proud to bring American freedom to a new frontier. But in his best friend, my love, he would find a more thoughtful approach to the American Dream.

If I must be here, safe but alone, the pieces of my heart warm in the knowledge that they balance each other, look out for one another, that they each have a person to return to. Even though I want to be who they return to, their needs are more important than my mere wants. My quiet heartbreak begins to refine itself into steel, coating my spine and pulling me straighter than I have ever been before. Rigid in my appearance and temperament. I will hold my pieces together through sheer will, becoming just as fierce as they are. When they return they will be men and they will be proud of the woman I have become.

Abilene, Texas - September, 1942

It was a shame, they all said. We were so young. Married so quickly. Had so little time together before he left. And the worst part of it all - I wasn’t pregnant. That dream faded with my monthly cramps, right on time, denying me the full belly and loud houses the other air force wives had.

They were right too, though cruel in their delivery. It was a shame, to be alone in this apartment, wallowing in self-pity for what is surely an act of God. God would work through these pilots, my husband flying in His glorious name. He didn’t believe but I would have enough faith for both of us. I have faith that the righteous will beat back this inhumanity in Europe, and faith that he will return to me.

When he returned I wouldn’t be a mother with a bundle of joy to introduce him to. Before he left, we wondered if that would be our future. Now I knew another future would unfold. If I couldn’t be a mother, maybe I could become something else? Fears guided me towards a bright light in the dark. If he came home from war injured, or even disabled, I would lovingly care for him everyday of his natural born life. I would nurse him back to health, healing him with my love. I meant it when vowing before God to love him “for richer, for poorer, in sickness, and in health.”

I begin working for the Red Cross as a nurse, sending him updates on my training and how we support the war efforts. The other wives are openly confused, but at least they have given up on me as their babysitter and object of pity. I have not given up, not on him nor this war, and he is so proud of the work we are both doing. When he writes to me he focuses on my work as a nurse, the family that we will have, and the importance of winning this war. Our future isn’t safe until we win. He will work to protect that future, and so will I.

Charleston, South Carolina - May, 2026

Working remotely is a blessing and a curse. Now that he’s gone I see no other humans. I could go out into the world, but my voice creaks with lack of use. I know my friends call to check on me because they see me wading a toe into the black waters of depression. I pull myself back, returning to the warm sands of safety. Self-awareness drives me to routine, and to work my routine to exhaustion.

Awake at 7:30. 10 minutes on the vibration plate while the dogs are outside. Treats for dogs, lightly salted water for me, and we’re back upstairs to start our day. AM skin care and brushing my teeth, forcing myself to change out of my sleeping pajamas (matching set) to my day pajamas (sweats and a 4X tee). Meetings 8am-12pm. Making sure I swallow down a miniature Cliff Bar before 11am so my stomach can consume lunch at noon. Make myself a delicious lunch, but control the portions because there’s no one else to hoover up snacks behind me. Back to work until 5pm. Dogs fed by 5:15. Check the mail, do the trash, rotate the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, laundry, floors - anything to fill the time. Write on Substack once a week, and make yourself do it, because what else is this time for? Pilates and yoga before bed, box breathing to keep the existential dread at bay. Dogs need plays, walks, water, cuddles, treats. Then upstairs to bed. Read until my eyes ache. Check my alarms for tomorrow. PM skin care and choosing not to brush my teeth so I can sneak downstairs in the middle of the night to eat dark chocolate. Lights off, AC blasting. There’s a heating pad under my hips, a knee pillow alleviating all of my sciatica pain, and a weighted eye mask pushing tears away. The dogs snore lightly. I lay there in total comfort. Missing him until unconsciousness wins.

I don’t know what his job is, let alone where he is in the world. I focus on myself, locking my longing in a box. He calls, texts, has access to wifi sometimes. He thanks me for asking no questions. My filter is running overtime, making sure to ask nothing specific, never making him jealous of my home cooked meals, nothing too deep about missing him, I never mention the dogs looking for him every night and checking the driveway multiple times a day. His heart is already broken so I offer solace where I can. He reminds me constantly that my ignorance is bliss and a gift to be grateful for.

I avoid the news, refusing to listen to hot takes and political entertainment. Nothing I read has anything to do with him, and yet every story feels like his neck on the chopping block. I try to be grateful every day, stopping the longing from rotting into hate and resentment. Because I am grateful. I look at our home, imperfect and beautiful. I think of our life together thus far, and our plans for the future. I am grateful. I am also scared. See, I’ve lost you before, and I need to make sure you come home this time.

This is dedicated to my fellow service wives. I grew up around recovering alcoholics and you would be shocked by how applicable the AA program is to help endure all hardships. So work your program. It may look a little different than my program, you may be somewhere I’m not yet. But keep going and keep supporting each other. I hope this small piece of prose helps to support you, the partners with multiple children, the women with newborns, and the young girlfriends with no rights.

Sitting on the floor in front of a full length mirror, she opens her streaming service and connects to the speaker. Her tools spread before her in a circle. Her face towards the last vestiges of natural light sneaking into her window. A rose scented candle flickers nearby.

She gathers her power and Slayyyter Cranks It up. A deep breath in, and she begins to work. Smudging gel liner in the waterline with intention. She sets brows with gel for the perfect frame. She manifests. Beauty on the inside, glamour on the outside.

As Bebe Rehxa’s Hysteria settles over her, she reaches for her Blend Bunny palette. The monster inside stirs. Seven planets are in Aries and tonight is for the fire signs. There was a unjust man somewhere, and she was going to ruin his night. She alchemizes her power into the perfect indie sleaze eye.

The contour is cut, the blush high. Her focus narrows. The stress in her muscles turns into electricity, now stored in the marrow of her bones. Fae breaks the Surface Tension as she applies Mac Stone to her lips. Her power is gathered.

The finishing touch is her Heretic Parfum, charged under the last full moon. She dons her armor. Cobrah tells her to go Really Hard. She listens. Boots are laced and zipped. She reaches for her candle snuffer and closes the circle.

She opens the door to a house in chaos, her roommates buzzing. A Click-Clack Symphony tuning their strings by applying false eyelashes. She’s soon posting on IG. Opening the portal. Her magnetism blooms and comments flood in. They tell her She Did It Again.

The God Zeitgeist looks upon them fondly. Çike Çike. The girls go out into the world, wielding his power. As their New Religion, he has blessed them rightly. The cobblestone streets will claim no ankles tonight. Their path is a sacred Runway.

Zeitgeist: The Playlist

Zeitgeist, the God, moves like the moon. Constantly in flux but consistently influencing you. As a Zeitgeist devotee, I keep this Spotify Playlist for the summoning ritual. Feel free to save this playlist, but be aware that it shifts with the sands of time. As summer 2026 approaches, and the ocean waters warm, anticipate these bops on repeat. The beach will be full of string bikinis, cheetah print, and mesh. You’ve been warned.

• Albums On Repeat

  • Slayyyter - Worst Girl in America

  • Bebe Rexha - Dirty Blonde

  • Cobrah - Torn

  • Raye - This Music May Contain Hope

  • Robyn - Sexistential

• New Zeitgeist Artists

  • Fae

  • Fcuckers

  • SOFI TUKKER

  • Angine de Poitrine

  • Ella Langley

• Doc.Gilb’s Current Favorites

  • SHE DID IT AGAIN - Tyla ft. Zara Larsson

  • KGB - ADELA

  • Çike Çike - Bebe Rexha

  • RUNWAY - Lady Gaga ft. Doechii

  • Fabrienk - Angine de Poitrine

  • Excusez Moi - Cobrah

  • Phoenix - Marshmello ft. Portugal, The Man

  • Lonely - Fcukers

  • I Only Smoke When I Drink - nimino

  • Woof - SOFI TUKKER ft. Kah-Lo

  • G.O.D. And The Broken Ribs - Jack White

  • Beware… The South London Lover Boy - Raye

  • WASSUP - Young Miko

  • Glitter - Eli

  • American Girls - Harry Styles

  • More is More - CHIKA

  • Cannibalism - Slayyyter

  • Criminal - Jessie Murph

  • GO - BLACKPINK

  • Surface Tension - Fae

  • Exclusive - Hudson Westbrook

  • Superbloom - MisterWives

  • Talk To Me - Robyn

With one mermaid themed purse turned into pocket PC, TikTok user ‘@ubeboobey’ has sparked a new passion in the craft community. The volume in her hair, the color scheme, the entire aesthetic! The girly pops and the tech nerds snapped their necks to see a beautiful, young woman display her craftsmanship and creativity in one compact PC. ubeboobey’s focus on her cyberdeck’s aesthetics shines a new light on digital crafting and retro-futurism, inspiring audiences towards the next tech trend!

With the love of Y2K culture it was only a matter of time until Zenon (Girl of the 21st Century) got the praise she deserves. Proper nerds will cite Cyberpunk as the inspiration behind the term “cyberdecks”. However, I think the bright packaging and retro-fitting feels more like Zenon and Nebula using their Zap-Pads to plan their midnight escapades to the space-stay’s recycling center for more sustainable art supplies. With these hand-held tablets they were able to get online, but keep private communication networks, download files, play games, watch or read downloaded content. This is the experience the girly-pops are craving. We want to be online, but not too online. We want custom, but not the cost of conflict cobalt couture.

Now creatives everywhere are learning how to use a Raspberry Pi computer chip to create small computers, typically paired with a power bank, screen, keyboard, and mouse. All of these parts are small enough, affordable enough, and in high quantity for users to recycle parts and even thrift pieces. Today, AI data centers are driving the cost of consumer PC parts to astronomical highs, causing barriers to entry for many would-be builders. A Raspberry Pi chip costs roughly $60 but the accessories and power bank can put you north of $250. That’s before you do any of the fun crafting. Even if you raid the recycling bin like Zenon, the cost of parts will still add up. You always have to pay to play.

Have AI and Eat Your Pi Too

Hot girls and tech nerds on the internet are doing craft projects… So what? How does this stop the data center going up in my back yard or stop the systematic oppression of women and minorities? Especially right now, April 2026.

AI usage is split between users, as far as I have been exposed to. Some people view cyberdecks as the escape from the AI force feeding they experience in their daily lives. I particularly appreciated this comment on a recent TikTok where I pontificated on AI for cyberdecks. My response to this comment, “Raspberry Pi AI HAT+” was to highlight the hardware already being supplied to meet this demand. The field was already built, players have already come to play. I would like to play the game, or at least understand the rules.

I’ve see some hyper-nerds building Raspberry Pi systems specifically designed to house their own AI bot. This gives them the ability to engage with their AI creation without having to expose it to online servers and malicious risks, as well as avoid the Data Center conundrum all together. As Raspberry Pis are typically powered by a Linux operating system you won’t find CoPilot embedded into every app prompting you to follow its lead while it mines your data. This brings sustainability to the table. The AI enthusiast AND the AI conspiracy theorist can find common ground building an AI Raspberry Pi.

An unforeseen benefit of turning cyberdecks into girly pop accessories is the education of women in both hardware and software systems. Reddit users particularly love the rebellious nature and opportunity to learn that a cyberdeck build presents. But, the Harvard Business Review has documented the known gap in AI usage between men and women, threatening their career growth and leading to the majority of large language models being trained by male audiences. I blended these two together in my Vitamix brain and have decided that the opportunity to learn is the for the greater good. And here is every woman’s opportunity for total creative freedom while closing the AI knowledge gap! You choose the aesthetic, the application, the access. This is what Sam Altman denies you.

Perhaps our acts of resistance will enrage the Billionaire Boys Club, showing the human response to the dawn of the data center. We don’t want what you want. We, the Disney adults who lusted after Protozoa, will build the future we want. It feels like BOOM, BOOM, BOOM and makes our hearts go ZOOM, ZOOM.

Build Your Own Cyberdeck

My husband has mentioned Raspberry Pis countless times in the past two years and I have never paid attention or asked a single question. This is because he is a not a hot girl with beautiful hair and amazing accessories. SCROLL! When he talks it’s all soldering iron-this and thermal paste-that. SCROLL! He would try to explain the history and application of HAM radios in warfare (SCROLL!) before getting to the point - that it’s a Choose Your Own Adventure technology craft. Now that I’ve figured out what the hell he’s been talking about, wild horses can’t stop me.

I bought a vintage 90’s leather briefcase and I will be buying all the parts for a cyberdeck, building a false bottom, and fitting foam on the upper layers to create a James Bond style attaché case. I may need to drill some ventilation holes somewhere in the bottom or the sides, it depends on the final layout of pieces.

Here’s the thing - he will be so bummed if I just give him a finished cyberdeck. And what’s more, he won’t be able to resist unplugging everything to acclimate himself with its inner workings. So my plan is to give him a Build-a-Briefcase cyberdeck as a gift for our June anniversary, which gives me a couple months to acquire parts and craft the aesthetic (follow the journey on TikTok). I will place only what I need for functional spacing, finding the best spacing for the screen and keyboard. I’m hoping to find a Satellite Communicator plug-in too!

I have no idea what he will do with this cyberdeck, and honestly I don’t care. I will leave everything unplugged, probably some things in their boxes. His gift is the experience of building a cyberdeck without having to worry about making it fun, since the parts will be paid for and the case will be ready to go! I fully anticipate him teaching me the software pieces along the way, giddy like a kid in a STEM museum. He will be shocked I learned so much about the hardware, and I will promptly point him to this article.

You asked for a Raspberry Pi my love? As you wish!

The K-Pop methodology is the highly disciplined evolution of the 90s boy bands and girl groups. Teens will sign with production and training companies to learn both singing and dance techniques, spending extensive money and time training to become stars. They learn how to solo and work in groups, honing their star power and image.

The Selection Show is how many groups are built, a competition show that illustrates the contestants’ diverse skills. The best groups are built from a tried and true pattern. They will typically contain some combination of the archetypes below:

1. The Leader: This is the most mature member who can handle press, internal fights, and lead the performances as a lynchpin member.

2. Lead Visual: This is the FACE and the style. The member who can be relied on to pull attention and engage the audience performing or not.

3. Lead Singer: The most stable and versatile voice in the group, able to lead or support in all parts of the song.

4. Lead Dancer: The member of the group who can dance the best as a soloist and as a the lead during group dance breaks.

5. All Arounder: The member of the group who can sing, dance, and carry visual appeal to support and build diversity.

6. Maknae: The cute, innocent member of the group who is beloved by fans for their sweetness and mass appeal.

7. Rapper: An optional skill, depending on the style and creative direction of the group.

Prelude, The Sequel

Many different K-Pop groups were built from a Selection Show under HYBE management. Illit, Le Sserafim, and Katseye are all Global Girl Groups formed under HYBE’s K-Pop methodology. Katseye’s Selection Show was called ‘Dream Academy’ and had an accompanying Netflix documentary ‘Pop Star Academy’ giving fans a behind the scenes look into the HYBExGeffen partnership. Fan watching the Selection Show got three missions and eliminations leading to the formation of the six final members of Katseye. Netflix audiences saw the girls in training navigating the K-Pop world and the fan’s expectations. (Read More: Are We Buying Katseye or AI?)

Lexie, Emily, and Samara are three of the girls who competed in ‘Dream Academy’ who ultimately did not end up in Katseye. It’s hard to say they lost, as HYBExGeffen built their next Global Girl Group on their skills. Now, a new Selection Show is underway in Japan, ‘World Scout: The Final Piece’. HYBExGeffen is looking for a fourth member to join Lexie, Emily, and Samara in their new group, presumably named Prelude. For fans of the Netflix documentary, you’ll remember the Mission 3 video “Wannabe” that inspired HYBE to create this four member group.

Pirating The Final Piece

Since I am a middle-aged woman in South Carolina, I don’t keep a subscription to Abema (a Japanese streaming service). However, I grew up in the time of dial-up AOL and Limewire, and nothing will part me from my obscure Asian obsessions. I have been watching pirated anime with weird and blatantly wrong subtitles since 2004. However, in this day and age it’s far easier to watch pirated content on YouTube. Every Tuesday I spend my lunch break searching for the newest, pirated episode of World Scout.

The best part of watching on YouTube, alongside the official broadcast airing, is that I can mostly stay aware of what is going on regardless of translations. Similarly to the Olympics, I don’t need to fully understand everything I’m seeing on screen to understand people winning and people losing. I will always turn on Closed Captions in English, when available. The best part is that you’ll only get ~40% of the content translated and roughly ~75% of that will be hilariously wrong. My husband and I will watch our pirated Japanese reality show and giggle at the incorrect subtitles, inserting our own dialogue to maximize our joy. At one point the subtitles had Son Sung-deuk clearly trying to show his support for a contestant, but the Closed Captioning said “I liked it very much. You will feel me when I stand behind you.” My husband laughed until he cried.

However, episode 5 just came out and we got the big cut that we were waiting for. The audition process that began with 14,000 applicants was widdled down to 20 contestants for the Selection Show, but only 12 girls competed for one of FOUR spots to train in America with the HYBExGeffen team. Watch their team performances from my favorite pirates below:

• World Scout - Team A “Unforgiven” performance

• World Scout - Team B “Almond Chocolate” performance

• World Scout - Team C “Debut” performance

The tea is hot, because the four performers selected were NOT chosen based on skill level but rather their charisma and ability to connect with the judges. The K-Pop methodology builds them to believe their skills will be the deciding factor, but the two lowest ranked contestants secured their spots to train in America strictly because of their star power and image. Watch this pirated elimination video without correct subtitles if you want to be confused and surprised!

My personal opinion? Hiori is the All Arounder that would balance well with the other members and possibly be able to fit into a Rapper role as well. Ayana is a Maknae, but I worry that she won’t be able to balance the energy of the other members and be outshined. Sakura is the contestant with the least amount of training and technical skill base, but the judges seem to really connect with her and she is making a point to put in extra work to try to get up to speed. Both Sakura and Aoi are blank slates that you could mold into any role the group needs. Aoi is my personal favorite! She is dripping with energy and reminds me of Emily. I think the two of them would be quick friends who could spice up the quiet, confident air of Lexie and Samara. However, she is also on the lower end of technical training and skill, and the next episode spoilers show Aoi having a crash out and tension with Ayana.

One of these four will be the final piece to Prelude. Who has your vote? (NOTE: Your vote doesn’t count because the points are made up and nothing matters.)

It’s not all men, right? Certainly not Louis Theroux, in my opinion. Unfortunately for Gen Z, their frontal lobes are still growing to fruition. Perhaps we can retain hope they may mature past the manosphere. Or, perhaps they continue further down the path of paranoia. Some will commit their lives to the the church. Others may keep the sabbath, but quietly from their couch. Either way, the manosphere has found a way to give you holy communion on-demand for a monthly subscription fee.

Beyond the obvious indoctrination and group control tactics, these manosphere influencers intrigued me because they are simply facsimiles of a man. How does it move and walk and talk like a man? But it’s so totally devoid of humanity, as to not be able to even understand the values that form the divine masculine. I knew it was bad over there, but these are the role models y’all have nowadays? Really? That’s who you choose to idolize and lift up? Get higher standards, boys.

My grandfather served in World War II. My father served in Vietnam. My husband served in Afghanistan and is still active duty today. I know men.

Louis Theroux is a real man. Look no further than the end-credits scene where Louis spliced in his recent personal best at the punching bag arcade game. His face lit with joy at an accomplishment all his own. The manosphere will never know a joy as pure as a personal best at an arcade. They must compare themselves to everyone else, imposing superficial superiority. Where Louis’ face lit up with surprise and earnest happiness, their eyes would be scanning the crowd finding their hype men and loudly boasting how this is a lesson they can teach you in their online university.

These men are the rot that future generations will smell a mile away, and walk across the street to avoid.

READ MORE: Netflix TUDUM Interview with Louis Theroux

My Name is Elli and my parent spelled it wrong. In small town Ohio there were 90 kids in my elementary school class, but one boy was named “Levi” and another was named “Eli”. And I was a fat, ugly duckling with a chip on their shoulder. Everyone thought my name had an extra, unnecessary “l” while others couldn’t understand why my name was missing another “e” at the end. I would laugh it off and blame my mom’s epidural. With time this joke got less cute.

Today, a Gen-Z starlet is healing my childhood identify crises by claiming “Eli” as a stage identify for a femme pop princess on the rise. As a transgender artist Eli is showing my inner child the way to be authentically yourself, not pre-determined by a naming convention. I have learned that a name is just a name, and a brand is useless without a mission behind it. Eli is much more than a name on a roster - she is here to stay. I am here to listen.

The Life of a Doll

If you’re new to the world of ELI don’t worry, I’ve prepared a primer for us. I fell down this rabbit hole and wanted to share with you the content I’m consuming.

• Meet Eli

  • WEBSITE

  • TIKTOK

• Flaunt Article: Eli | The Next Stage Girl

• Teen Vogue Article: Meet Eli, the Viral Star Auditioning to Be 2026’s Pop Breakthrough

• The Cut Article: Eli Is the 2000s Pop Star You’ve Been Waiting For

• Fader Article: GEN F: Eli is living her teenage dream

• Paper Article: Eli Rains Down Her Glitter on New York City

• One To Watch Article: Eli Is Pop’s Next Stage Girl (of Our Dreams)

• Ones To Watch Podcast:

We eat the leaves, the plants, drink the water in the streams. Everything is shared. Harmony abounds. Days, noons, nights. We exist peacefully, our small group.

Until He leaves. I didn’t know you could leave. And why would He? Where would He go? I run to the highest hill, pushing my legs hard, straining to reach the peak where I could just see over the garden walls.

When I reached the top I meet You. You were sitting there quietly watching the small dot that He was move slowly out into the barren wasteland. You watched the birds of prey in the sky and the stalking predators on the ground, unbothered by my approach. We watch together.

“Where is He going?” I ask You.

“The tree. Don’t you see it?” You point to a small dark patch at the base of a mountain.

“There’s a tree there?” How could You know? What could You see in that far off distance that no one else could? Did He see it too? I squinted into the distance.

We watch the entire day and the next, as He approached the tree at a slow pace. He had fought off the birds, they kept their distance now that they knew he was not acting dead enough. The predators approached on the third day when he was already moving slow and presumably dying of hunger and thirst.

The predators won. He was lost before getting to the tree. You cry.

“I don’t understand why He did this. We are happy here, safe.”

“The tree bears fruit. He is hungry.”

This simple truth weighed on my eyelids when I closed them, burdened my shoulders when I stood, embedding itself into my mind spreading roots of thought. The idea fed the curiosity, and the curiosity created more ideas. Until I had to ask You.

“Do you want to see the tree?”

You hang your head.

“If I had gone with him would we have survived together?”

“Neither of us can answer that question. But we can decide what we do next.”

We leave at daybreak, no weapons or provisions. You cannot take from the garden and the garden cannot live outside of the walls. The desert lands are harsh and we lean on each other when the winds push and pull. You defend me when I sleep, and I do the same for You.

The birds give up, tired of my taunts and your close-watching eyes. The predators attempt to scare us, chase us, make us fear them. We think as a team, work as one. You observe our natural surroundings and set a trap to scare them off. I use the dried out desert materials and learn how to create a fire to keep us warm at night. We roast cockroaches and sleep.

On the fifth day we can see the tree.

“Other people have tried to make it here. Before Him.” You tell me.

“Who?”

“People leave the garden from time to time. They typically fall victim to the wasteland. I don’t think two people have gone together.”

“I can’t imagine making this journey without You. Thank you for coming with me.”

You smile and reciprocate.

The next day, the ground begins to shift. Sands to clay, clay to mud, mud to soil, and soil to grass. The smell of wet earth bringing us comfort, and a level of security we associated with our walled garden home. There were different types of birds here, new creatures that meant no harm, and a calm breeze carrying sweet pollens to us. We waded in the creeks and streams.

As we approached the tree, we saw an old man sleeping amongst the roots. My eyes roved over the branches of the tree, the ripe, red fruit, and the white coils of his long beard. You crouched next to him and touched his shoulder gently.

“Ah! Aha. Hmmm… Yes. Hello there. Yes. There You are.” His eyes were sharp and clear, though he had aged skin, knobby knuckles with swollen joints, and was thinner than anyone I had ever seen before.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Oh, I’m a guide I guess. Lots of folks come out to this tree and get lost coming and going. I like to help out. I left your walled garden when I was young with my mother. We know these lands, watch them grow. I love when You stop by, though I assume you’ll be on your way soon. You always are.”

He spoke so quickly. He said so much. His words were in a rush to get out. Confusion clouds my focus. He started pulling fruits from the branches with a long hooked stick and offering them to us. You handed one to me and took one for yourself. We looked at each other.

“This is what we came for.” I say with a smile.

“I didn’t come here for this. I left the garden because this wasn’t there.” Which confuses me even more, but I allow myself to be distracted by the prize in my hands.

The old man takes his own piece of fruit and shows us how to eat it, careful to demonstrate how to avoid the sticky juice hidden inside. We eat our fruit.

“Now what?” I ask You. “Do we go back to the walled garden?”

“I can never go back. There are no animals there, we aren’t allowed to make fires, and we can’t grow fruit like this.”

The old man guide watches us, offering no guidance whatsoever.

“Do we stay here? Make our own garden? How will we stay safe?” I wonder.

The old man moves to stand beside you. For the first time, I see you frown at me. I disappointed You. The old man guides us to walking trails that wind through the mountain, the path forking into multiple roads.

“You’ll be safe from most dangers here, but you need to choose where you’re going. You can’t stay here at this tree with me, I won’t have anyone here who wants to wall in this land.” I hang my head in shame.

“Visit me after your walk. I’ll still be here.” He hobbles away, leaning on his curved stick.

“I’m sorry. It’s my fault.” I say to You.

“Neither of us could have known. But we need to decide what to do next.”

We look around at all of the paths and options. You want to go left and I want to go right.

“Let’s split up.”

“I will miss You.”

“It may take me longer to finish my path than it takes you to finish your path. What happens then?”

“I’ll wait at the tree.”

“With the old man?”

“Maybe he’s been waiting for someone.”

I live a life of privilege. Everyone should be jealous. I was born in 1988 and saw life before the internet and the panopticon. I remember stopping for candy as a kid and the adults complaining about gas reaching one dollar at our local ice cream parlor and gas station Pat’s Gas.

I grew up in a small town bubble, going to VBS and Young Life. I was the field commander of the band. I went to Prom every year of High School because I always had a boyfriend. I was Queen of the emo teens in the early aughts. I went to a Big Ten school to study literature and got a job in publishing.

I married one of my high school boyfriends. As his second wife, he appreciates me in a way that a 25 year old man would not. We both needed to grow up. I needed to grow out of my wild, drug addled twenties. I had to want a relationship first. And once I want something, I typically get it. I create S.M.A.R.T. goals and I use my Machiavellian mind to rationalize my lacking morals. I steamroll my way to success. I claim it, possess it, hoard it. Inevitably it turns rotten and my soul goes with it.

My current reality teeters on a knife’s edge. When will death come? It’s always marching towards me, even though I know how to lock Thanatos in a closet and play Sisyphus. I cannot cope with Death’s march towards the people I love. I cannot intervene! The rock only rolls downhill to me, and I am here pushing it up, up, up. I cannot get it quite there.

What will I do now? I wake up everyday in paradise, another spring and summer day outside my window. The magnolias will bloom soon. Time will not seem to pass in this endless swamp heat. But it still marches to the sound of a drum, even when I’m deaf to it. The drums play louder for my Dad, for Mary, for my husband packing his bags full of camo and snacks.

I worry. I won’t hear them. Until they drop the beat into my lap. Until I’m pinned to earth, crushed under this rock.

Death wins.

You had to be there. No simulation can capture the energy of being set free in the mall in 1998 with $25.

Your Mom would tell you to meet up at the Sbarro Pizzeria at 4pm. She would be in Penney’s for the next few hours, while Dad would be at home happy to pay for the adventure if it meant he didn’t have to go. Your hot older sister would be at Hollister, squeezing her J-Lo sized ass into low rise flare denim with zero stretch. Her mean best friend would spend exorbitant amounts in Victoria’s Secret buying Love Spell and then spraying it directly in your face to make you go away. Because you’re the kid sister, and you are fat, awkward, and just starting to learn how to be cruel at 12 years old.

So you wonder through the mall. But you can’t really shop. You’re a women’s size 12 at and all of the junior stores don’t cater to your demographic (implying your demographic doesn’t exist). The window displays at The Limited are so bright and cheery, but they don’t carry your size. So that means you’re not their customer. These happy faces and glittery accessories aren’t for you. You keep walking. The Limited Too, Delia’s, Justice - no dice. Even if you liked the fun crochet dusters and the baby baseball T with the smiley face - it didn’t like you back. The retailer workers are used to the fat kid toddling up to them and asking, “What’s the biggest size you carry?” and then their trained response would be, “We only carry up to size 10.” There was no online marketplace to carry extended sizes. Your mom pities you and takes you to Old Navy, where at least they had to carry extended sizes because they were the school uniform supplier for private and religious schools across the Midwest.

You saw hundreds of people walking through the corridors, everyone was so busy to get where they were going. Some were on their way to or from work. Other people were on a hunt, a mission, a search for that one perfect thing. And they would have to spend time, checking each wing of the mall, scouring through stores, thoroughly consulting the Mall Map to consider which retailers were most likely to have what they needed. There were so many other kids too, skinny happy ones bouncing through the rides in the atrium. But you never saw anyone else having the same struggle you were having. All our moms had probably taken us to different department stores to discretely buy adult sizing.

You path to angst is paved. You are ready to done the dark, scary alt/punk/goth apparel that is somehow more inclusive in both size and community than these “mainstream” stores. Unconsciously you begin to understand branding, eschewing all name brands and blatant insignia. When your sister is on the Homecoming Court and the Prom Court and she’s the captain of the Volleyball team and her best friend is the Valedictorian in a small town, you find many reasons to rebel against the popular girl aesthetic. This is natural.

But you won’t know until later that it was also safer.

Babydoll Sorority Spice

You craved a big university experience and needed to get out of Dayton, and Ohio State fit the big. You wanted drug-induced orgies, a bid from a sorority, and stories that you will tell for a lifetime. The English degree you plan to earn would be a by product of your hot college years. The bubble has burst and you want to know what you’ve been so sheltered from.

Living in the dorms is a dream realized. Your roommate is your new best friend. The rich girls down the hall are going to rush with you in January. And the cute boy next door is already pledging a frat. He wants you to come to his pledge party, and you want to suck his dick. But there’s a problem. He can’t add you to the guest list because you don’t have a Facebook account. Social media is totally optional and at that point Facebook was still requiring a .edu email address to sign up. You so badly want to go, you bat your lashes to no avail. Your roommate makes your facebook account in an attempt to get you laid. The only problem left is what to wear to your first Big Ten frat party.

You’re blissfully unaware that Columbus and Ohio State in particular was the ideal test market for Limited Brands, owned and operated by Les Wexner. You don’t know who Les Wexner is, other than the rich guy who paid for the Wexner Center. You only know that because there was an Andy Warhol exhibit and you actually read the boring plaques in the lobby. Thankfully a Pink pop-up shop in the South Oval supplies the solution to your party dress needs.

You have grown into your baby fat, and while still verging on “chubby” you are able to shop at most brands. Concurrently, most brands begin to expand their size ranges online and in store. You start to have more options. You are braver now. And while you’ll never be skinny and tall, you have learned how to alchemize your rebellious spirit into a bad girl sex kitten. Boys like that you’re a little bad, even though you get straight A’s. Just a drop of subversion drives the rich Jewish boys from Bexley wild. You look at the green and grey striped babydoll night gown and immediately know - that’s what you’re wearing to your first frat party. The PINK embroidery above the satin trimmed hem sealed the deal.

You finally belong. You are one of those girls.

Arriving at the frat party you are slightly disappointed to realize that you will in fact not be at the Sigma Eats-Ass-A-Lot house, but instead at an Annex. Brothers living out of the communal house would sign a lease on a large party house. This one was a huge two story Georgian, painted white every summer to cover the past year’s stains. There was a huge backyard filled with the guests each pledge had invited. You walk up to the ice luge and lie, saying you’ve done this before. Jungle juice disgusts you for the first time.

You are circulating with the girls from the dorm when heads start whipping around and conversation starts to buzz louder. Gordon Gee has arrived! You shriek with excitement! For your first frat party to also be when you get to meet the belove school president? You are truly being ushered into society by the Party Gods.

Gorden E. Gee is a legend for students at Ohio State. He was a frat boy himself, back in the ye olde days. And he was notorious amongst the student body for randomly stopping by frat parties or High Street bars on the weekend. No security or handlers or car. He would just ope around Columbus in the middle of the night like the King of England in disguise. You love the Gee lore because you never had Grandpa memories and he dresses like a cartoon, a new bow tie everyday. This small piece of whimsy is distracting enough for you to adore him. You get a photo. You post it on Facebook.

You forget about sucking Brad’s dick completely.

The Billionaire Boys Club

Now you’re old and boring and deciding botox based on budget. You remember the fervor of voting Obama in the first and second times, Ohio State and Franklin county being major battlegrounds for him. You remember the utter disgrace that Clinton’s blow job was to the legacy of the United States Presidency. You remind boomers of their hypocrisy but you don’t know how to actually impact change in their minds. You argue. You unfriend. You block the haters. You claim no negativity.

You churn. You collect trauma and memories, which enlighten and equally burden you. Now you have to fight for movement, for change. You realize you have to learn to light the fire and then you have to steward it. This truth you once knew and have hidden from. You are heartbroken by every revelation. Because time starts telling, and you have to listen.

You watch every conspiracy theory come true. Your whole world is run by powerful pedophilic patriarches, controlling technology, commerce, and legislation. They decide who lives and dies, who goes bankrupt and who starves, who has access and who does not. And they decided whether or not they wanted you. The machine may have skipped you, but you were still on its assembly line. This malevolent machine found so many of our sisters and friends.

You find new pieces of the horrific puzzle being exposed everyday. You thank your body for being awkward when you were young. You thank your parents for being so overprotective. You thank your sister for going first and being better at everything, including being a target. You realize gratitude is the least of what you can give. You must speak. You must rally.

You must continue the fight of the 12 year old denied Justice.

Read More

• TikTok from ileana.justine

• Epstein Files Name Les Wexner As ‘Co-Conspirator’

• Ohio State Professor Luke Perez Put on Leave After Wrestling Filmmaker to the Ground

• Epstein wrote draft message to Les Wexner about ‘gang stuff’ and debts the two owed each other

• New York Times details how Les Wexner met sex trafficker Jeffrey Epstein as he built wealth

If you’re trying to whet your whistle down for Bridgerton Season 4 the easiest prep is sitting down and binging Seasons 1 and 2, then an intervention for the spin-off Queen Charlotte, and then back to Bridgerton for Season 3.

When you’re a slippery and ready, head over to the Netflix’s YouTube channel to watch the Bridgerton Playlist to see sneak peaks and the promo shorts. Then finish with the full PR package, go straight for Netflix’s TUDUM to see all the Bridgerton news from the official source.

Tired yet Love, or ready for round two?

Prep Level: Eloise (Fangirl)

Let’s set the mood music with the new Season 4 string covers. Then a reread of Book 3 An Offer from a Gentleman. And if you still have breath, I’ll run you through the talk show gauntlet. Can you keep up?

• ‘Bridgerton’ cast hints at what’s to come in season 4

• Luke Thompson & Yerin Ha Take Us Inside the World of ‘Bridgerton’ Season 4 | Town & Country

• Bridgerton | Check-In Before Season 4

• “Bridgerton” stars give inside look at upcoming season

• Bridgerton Season 4’s Official Companion Podcast Is the Talk of the Ton

Prep Level: Penelope (Stalker)

Now to our climax. If you’ve come this far then let’s really drive it home and talk spoilers. Because it’s not just that we want to know what is happening now, but we desperately need to know what will happen next. This video gives us a good outline for some subplots, including the sad truth behind Queen Charlotte’s love of gossip. This video, while brief, is a good glimpse into Colin and Penelope in Season 4.

But I can tell you’re ready for straight dick, no cuddle. So let me link to some reddit threads for the truly nefarious of us:

• The Ultimate Benophie leaks discussion Megathread

• Spoiler !! Season 4 Episode 4 will make us cry ??

• S4 leaks

• u/ladyinsilver

We have less than 48 hours until Season 4 airs on Netflix, and I’ll certainly be waking up for a 3am watch before my 8am work day begins. U up?

Clue is a perfect movie in my opinion. Everything is perfect! The costumes are perfect. The set is perfect. If only it actually existed in real life! The cast is perfect. Tim Curry, Christopher Lloyd, and Madeline Kahn - just to name my favorites. The writing is perfect. While it’s box office success was far from perfect, it is an enduring cult classic and my personal favorite movie EVER! After the success of the Knives Out franchise and Netflix’s most recent Agatha Christie adaptation Seven Dials, I wonder how many of the younglings today are aware of Clue? Have they ever stumbled into a Tim Curry phase? Or is Clue more comparable to Barbie for the younger generations - an irreverent origin story beloved by audiences of all ages?

• IMDB: Clue (1985)

• Wikipedia: Clue (film)

• The Surprisingly Profound History Lesson That Is Clue

#2 Young Frankenstein

I was the most obnoxious middle schooler to ever exist after watching Young Frankenstein for the first time. I had long loved Gene Wilder but I had never felt so rebellious, watching black and white for fun, gleeful with the joy of parody. I didn’t understand what Mel Brooks was doing, but I knew I was being exposed to genius. And every single time I rewatch Young Frankenstein I find a new detail. Even as an adult, this movie is a masterclass in irony. The cast and the writing, Mel Brook’s direction, even the musical adaptation is PERFECTION!

• IMDB: Young Frankenstein

• Wikipedia: Young Frankenstein

• A ‘Fresh Air’ Halloween treat: Revisiting ‘Young Frankenstein’

#3 Who Framed Roger Rabbit

Even in 2026, the year of our Lord Beyonce, the special effects quality in Who Framed Roger Rabbit stands up to the test of time. The animation is beautiful and rich, the acting seamless, and for a child born in 1988 it was the most exciting movie at Blockbuster! I would restart this movie as soon as it ended. Before I was an amateur sleuth reading Hercule Periot, I was on the case in Toon Town! Even at my hottest in college when I should have been shaking ass in lingerie, I planned Halloween costumes with my biggest tit-ted friend so I could be Roger Rabbit and she could be my Jessica.

• IMDB: Who Framed Roger Rabbit

• Wikipedia: Who Framed Roger Rabbit

• Disney Relinquishes Rights to Who Framed Roger Rabbit Back to Owner

#4 Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

Harrison Ford AND Sean Connery? Decision made. Their unbuttoned shirt collars were my sexual awakening. I loved Sean Connery as James Bond when I was a wee lass and seeing him all salt and peppery in Last Crusade fully pushed me into puberty. AND THEN Harrison Ford up and found the Holy Grail, and pushed that Nazi bitch down a hole. I. was. In. LOVE!!!

• IMDB: Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

• Wikipedia: Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

• Why The Last Crusade Is The Best Indiana Jones Film

#5 The Rocky Horror Picture Show

I was 17. We wore leather and wigs. Black eyeshadow and red lipsticks. We drove to Beavercreek at midnight, heading for the small indie theater off-campus. Upon entrance we were given paper bags filled with a piece of toast, some playing cards, a roll of toilet paper, a single page of the newspaper, and some loose rice at the bottom of the bag. We were virgins and needed to be initiated, but I was under 18 so everyone got it way worse than me. And on top of all of the fun, I saw the vision. I saw Susan Sarandon and Tim Curry and I couldn’t decide who I wanted to be more. I think I’ve ended up as Magenta, which tracks.

• IMDB: The Rocky Horror Picture Show

• Wikipedia: The Rocky Horror Picture Show

• Fifty Years On, The Rocky Horror Picture Show Remains a Beacon of Freedom and Fantasy

#6 Grease

Before millennial women were figuring out if they were a Charlotte or a Carrie, we were all at the disposition of the Mad Men of yesteryear. Are you Jackie or a Marilyn? A Rizzo or a Sandy? I love Grease because it provided an answer to the questions I didn’t know how to ask. Should men respect us? Yes, they’re lower than amoebas on fleas on rats. But should we be willing to dip a toe into the dangerous, the unknown? Maybe - tell me about it, stud. The style, the music, the moves, THE FLYING CAR ENDING?!? It’s a perfect musical to me.

• IMDB: Grease

• Wikipedia: Grease

• The Power of “Grease”

• 47 Years Later, One of the Most Iconic Musicals of All Time Is a Streaming Hit in America

#7 Dracula Dead and Loving It

One of the reasons I cannot take sexy Bat Boys seriously is because I watched Dracula Dead and Loving It far too early in my formative years. Unfortunately every single vampire is just Leslie Nielsen in a cape. I just can’t see Edward’s strong jaw without seeing Mel Brook’s Dracula taking off his wig-hat upon arriving to the ball. There is no Dracula for me without Dracula Dead and Loving It. The archetype of the vampire is exposed so clearly and with such irony that audience have no choice but to swoon alongside Mina as she’s swept into the vampire’s deadly dance of love!

• IMDB: Dracula Dead and Loving It

• Wikipedia: Dracula Dead and Loving It

• Year Of The Vampire: Dracula Dead And Loving It Doesn’t Suck

• Mel Brooks’ ‘Dracula: Dead and Loving It’ Was an Invaluable Resource for Robert Eggers While Writing ‘Nosferatu’

#8 The Exorcist

We will never get another movie like The Exorcist. In large part to the efforts of OSHA, but also because such chaos will never be unleashed again. We have the case study of what NOT to do. Unfortunately for the production, the end results was stunning. My father told me what it was like when The Exorcist first came out. He had his older sister sneak him into the teather so he could watch it at 12 years old. He said women were fainting, people were puking, others were finding Jesus and praying on the curbside out front. For me, The Exorcist is the bar - both high and low. All horror movies, all catholic exorcisms, and all children actors giving stunning physical performances; All are held to the standard raised by The Exorcist.

• IMDB: The Exorcist

• Wikipedia: The Exorcist

• Deaths, injuries and a fire: How the original ‘Exorcist’ set was its own horror movie

#9 Now and Then

I came of age watching this story, and it was foundational to say the least. When I rewatch this movie I’m shocked by how many elements have woven themselves into my personality. My love of 50s and 60s bubblegum pop tastes like the root beer floats the girls enjoy in town. The teenage graveyard seances to connect with “Dear Johnny” smell like the incense and candles in my office. But it’s the life long friendship, untouched by time, that keep me coming back to Now and Then. Dee and I have been watching this since we were 9 years old, and we’re living it now.

• IMDB: Now and Then

• Wikipedia: Now and Then

• ‘Now and Then’ at 25: Girlhood Finally Taken Seriously

#10 Across the Universe

Rachel Evan Wood singing Blackbird is the background music of my mind. When I close my eyes, do my meditation, try to box breath - there she is. I see her haunting eyes and hear that melody. I have always loved The Beatles. Across the Universe came out while I was a Senior in High School during my emo, theater kid, field commander of the marching band, teenage dirtbag days. It lives in a special place in my heart. Pure love and joy bring it to my Top 10.

• IMDB: Across the Universe

• Wikipedia: Across the Universe

• How Evan Rachel Wood Helped Bring the Bright, Queer Fantasy of Across the Universe to Life

Honorable Mentions

• Hot Fuzz

• Mars Attacks

• Live and Let Die

• Dogma

• Animal House