Passing the Torch and Dimming the Lights on the Way Out

Or to put it another way: All good things…

You've probably noticed that I haven't said much lately. The blog has been quiet for a good, long time now. There are reasons as to why and I'm about to get into them. So sit down and buckle up. It's gonna get bumpy here.

When I started this blog, it was meant to be a place where I vented, where I could bitch and moan and whine and complain about the random acts of idiocy I encountered on a daily basis at my place of employment, which was Wal-Mart. That's the reason I chose the name, really. I dealt with so many idiots and what rhymes with idiot? Not a lot, except maybe Wal-Mart and the various idiots who happen to be managers at Wal-Mart.

Yeah, about that. Those were the reasons I started blogging and those reasons are gone. Back in August of 2014, Wal-Mart terminated me. I was the first of five (or was it six…?) cashiers who were fired. It was the usual housecleaning crap, when you get right down to it. It was the usual crap from the usual crappy people. What should I have expected, really? Wal-Mart does this shit constantly. They don't like having professional cashiers or professional anything else, for that matter. Because that costs the Waltons money.

Yes, I know: I should have made a post that very day. I didn't because I was in crisis mode. I had no job and there was no way in hell that Prime and I could live on one paycheck, so I had to find something, anything. A week later, I was a cashier again, hired by a mall Target. I thought all my problems were over.

They weren't. I was actually a seasonal hire and I was out the door on the first of January, 2015. I was not fucking happy.

Again, I should have said something, should have tapped out a quickie post here on my blog but again, I was in crisis mode. I had to get something and something fast. It took three weeks, but I got hired at a mall Subway. Yes, it was in the same mall as the fucking Target. Yes, it was an absolute shit job. Holy fucking shit, was it a shit job: I was making fifty cents over the minimum wage, my hours were shit and I was one of the few people in that place that actually did any fucking work. Did I get any real appreciation? Only by our district manager and that was few and far between. Most of the time, I was told to work faster and harder.

I was about to hit midlife. There is no way in hell I am going to speed up. As you age, you slow the fuck down. But I fucking digress over here.

Yes, that was where I was working during BotCon 2015. I don't know how, but I was able to swing getting that time off and damn, was I ever glad, even if it was unpaid. I kept that job until September of that year. This time, I left of my own accord; the Fox Valley area of Wisconsin was finally getting a Costco. Ground was broken in June of that year. I kept a watch on the Costco website, waiting for any jobs to be posted for that upcoming warehouse. In July, the applications for employment for the Fox Valley Costco went live and I applied.

A week later, they called. I scheduled an interview. I went to the temporary office and gave my first interview, which was followed by a second. Then, I was called back to the office area where I gave my third and final interview. The assistant manager--his name was Bobby--hired me on the spot. I went from making shit ass wages at a shit ass job to being paid $11.50 an hour.

I've been there for two years now. I have every intention of staying there, although I wasn't certain I would when the warehouse first opened. I was in the Food Court, which was damn hard. The turnover rate in there was insane. There were some other hiccups as well--decently-sized ones, honestly--but now I'm in a place and in a position that I actually enjoy. I don't dread going to work every day. Hell, most of the time, I'm smiling as I walk in the doors! I make a damn good wage, management can't shit me out the door when they damn well feel like it, the breakroom is filled with people talking about good things or making jokes or other things like that. We even have a TV in there and sometimes, I'm able to catch a movie, some Star Trek, part of a Brewers game, or whatever before I clock in for the day. When people say that the culture at Costco is different, they are not kidding.

So yeah, like I said, the main reason I started this blog is gone. If I have to deal with any real stupidity, it's from scheduling eff-ups and those aren't so awful. Management can usually straighten them out and me, I laugh 'em off. Like I've said, different culture. My stress level--when it comes to my employment--has dropped to near nothing. I don't have migraines anymore. GERD seems to be a thing of the past. Most surprisingly, I can tolerate children now; they don't piss me off like they did at Wal-Mart. Costco doesn't have a dedicated toy section or impulse buys at the front lanes; there aren't as many kids throwing tantrums or having meltdowns because they can't get a toy, or M&Ms or whatever. Now, I'm far more inclined to crack a joke with them while I'm drawing a smiley face on their mother's receipt. And if one is crying? I try to make them smile.

Total sea change. Wal-Mart pitching me out on my ass was the best thing they've ever done for me. For that, I say: 

Go fuck yourself, Wal-Mart.

No, I am not bitter. Far from it. They did me a giant favor, when you get right down to it. But I have heard how shitty things are getting--even more than when I was employed there--at my store and throughout the damned company. The home delivery shit that they were trying earlier? Yes, they were forcing associates who had clocked out to take those packages. As for compensation, management wouldn't say. More and more associates are being forced into the "Customer First" scheduling, which means they'll only get around 20 hours a week, if they are lucky. The attendance policy is utter garbage. Then there's the new, absolutely creepy idea of having Wal-Mart make deliveries to your home and PUT EVERYTHING AWAY. Yeah, that is totally not asking for someone to get robbed or assaulted. If you're a cashier and you want to change your job code, like you're coded to work the tobacco bullpen or you drop from full time to part time, you have to go through a shit-ton of CBLs, called "Pathways", that teach you things you already know. There's 18 or so hours of this crap and you have 90 days to get it all done or you will be written up or terminated.

My old store no longer has the original manager; he's now stinking up the New London Wal-Mart. According to him, this was part of his retirement but no one believes him. Why? Well, it took three days and the fucking District Manager, along with a shitload of other higher ups, to get his ass out the door. Something tells me there's more to the goddamn story but ten to one, I'll never hear it. (Not that I fucking care and I think the fact that we have an Aldi in town now that is kicking ass and taking names had something to do with it but still…!)

**EDIT** So finally, I did find out why my former manager ended up at New London. I ran into a former coworker and he let me in on everything. It seems that he and the AP associate at my old store had been terminating associates without properly vetting it through the home office in Bentonville. When Bentonville caught on, they were not happy. That was when the slag hit the fan and the manager was given two choices: take early retirement and stink up the New London store or try and fight this and get fired.

Needless to say, he took option number one. Seems the AP associate was given a similar pair of choices. He's now at the Darboy store. I have no idea if he's still Asset Protection or not. Ten to one, he isn't. But those two are no longer at my old store and I will never have to see either one of those fuckwits ever again. But I fucking digress here.

I'm so glad that I am out of that fetid shithole. Fuck them and fuck the Waltons.

Now, my employment might have changed for the better but other things took a very quick turn south. It all started because of a friend of mine. His name was Puffy and we met through Dairycon and BotCon. He was a friend of Shawn and Stogie, was also a Wal-Mart employee and an all around nice guy.

One day, he wasn't feeling the greatest, so he went to see his doctor. The diagnosis he got? Stage four pancreatic cancer. The doctor looked him dead in the face and told him to get his estate in order, he would not survive this. This was in June of 2015.

He died in September of 2015, about three months after the diagnosis. Prime and I have some of his toys; Prime has some of his Rodimus figures and I have a few Bumblebees.

For Prime, this was a wakeup call of massive proportions. We now have a family-practice doctor and we're doing yearly visits. On my first visit in January of last year, I had a mammogram.

There were spots in the left breast that needed to be examined. Calcifications were found, which meant a stereotactic biopsy. The results? It wasn't cancer yet but if the cells divided, it would be. So on March 1st, 2016, a small part of my left breast was removed. The surgery went well and I had a micro-vacation from work. I've also got a small scar, in case you were wondering.

My specialist and I are doing active surveillance on this. I'm on tamoxifen, to block the estrogen in my breasts and I've already had two MRIs and two ultrasounds. There's a small spot in the right breast that bears watching but it shows no signs of growth as of right now, so I'm okay.

Yes, I know: I should have said something, made a quickie post. Trust me when I say, I was not in my right mind to do anything of that sort. Hell, I damn near went offline for a month and a half before the surgery. I just couldn't deal. With hardly anything. I barely made any posts on my favorite Pokemon forums, could barely concentrate on anything. I mostly kept listening to podcasts--the sound of human voices would keep me calm--and watched YouTube videos or clicked on GPX+. I just shut down mentally. Being told that a body part wants you dead does that to you. Again I digress.

So here I am now, with the original purpose to this blog gone and my life taking more turns than a rollercoaster. Yes, things get stupid but it's a very different stupid. Yes, we're being led by a fucking Ferengi who doesn't know his fucking lobes from a hole in the goddamn ground and will probably get us nuked in a fucking war. Yes, I still have to deal with idiots but they are different idiots. Yes, work can suck some days--like the day I found out I didn't get the full time position I wanted--but it's nothing like Wal-Mart. Sure, I could turn this into "Weasel Bitches about Her Stupid Defective Boobs: Film at 11" but that would get boring fast. So I had to make a decision.

I'm handing this blog over to Prime. He's going to do something with it. As to what, neither one of us know. But he'll be taking over. I won't be contributing anymore. If I do, it will be very rare and very brief. So consider this my final post.

No, this wasn't the easiest decision to make. I loved this blog. I loved bitching and complaining about the stupid shit that happened to me. I loved talking about the geeky things and complaining about politics and everything else. I loved making posts about BotCon and Dairycon and all that. I had a voice and it was fun trying it out. It was time well wasted, if you will.

Like I said, this was a hard decision. But I feel that it's the right one. The original purpose for this blog has long since disappeared. That garbage pile job is history, fading into the background of my subconscious like a nightmare. The few times I've walked into that store, I feel like a gaijin. I don't recognize most of the people who work there, at least one has gone back to the Oshkosh store and several have switched to overnights because it's a lot less stressful. One is seeking a transfer to another store, closer to her home. Out of the dozens of cashiers I knew, only two or three still remain. I can recognize one or two of the CSMs and one of them has been busted back down to cashier through no fault of her own, but she richly deserved it. (She's the one who asked a cashier "What do you want me to do about it?" when a Lawn and Garden Associate nearly let a customer have an entire cart of items that had been paid for and left by the original owner and the same CSM who forced me to take $18 worth of coupons for free luncheon meat on cheese. Like I said, it's not right, it's not fair but this was completely justified and I am damn glad to hear it happened.)

It also doesn't help that Blogger isn't easy on my eyes. I get eyestrain just trying to read the font on this blog, bad enough to give me a headache. My new glasses help but it's still a bit rough. The eyes are aging, just like the rest of me. I'm not getting a slagging bit younger, you know.

For those of you who read my posts, thanks. I'm glad you enjoyed them. It was fun knowing that I had an audience. Hell, this entire experience--with some minor exceptions--was a blast. I'm glad I got to share it with you. I can only wish you well in whatever endeavor you may attempt. Maybe if we're lucky, our paths will cross again. But until then, this has been yours truly,

--the Weasel, signing off.

Memory Rosary

"When you're up high, all the stuff that looks confusing and messed up... suddenly becomes crystal clear."--Senna
Bleach: Memories of Nobody

It has been said that if you write, your characters will "speak" to you.

Whoever said that I'd like to punch in the face. Trust me, your characters don't just speak to you, they show nearly every detail of their lives. Some things are beautiful, other things are terrifying. It's like having four different people tell you about their childhoods, their hopes and dreams, their worst fears and all of their personal preferences at the exact same time. But they don't simply tell you about it. They show you everything. You can see inside their homes, what clothes they are wearing and how they had styled their hair when something, good or bad, happened to them.

It's like having multiple personalities shouting for your attention all at once. And trust me, they don't like taking no for an answer.

So I keep a pair of notebooks in my knapsack at all times. Anything that they tell me, I write down when I have a chance. It could be anything from what someone's favorite food could be or as to why they fear the dark. But if it's relevant to a character, I scrawl a few sentences about it.

Ever since I started writing, I began to grasp some of the things Senna went through. It's like being a memory rosary: I'm seeing memories that don't belong to me. They're so tangible, so realistic but I know that they, and the "people" who experienced them, don't really exist. But everything I see in my mind looks very real. I can see the sunlight bouncing off the flat roof of a building. I can hear the wind rustling through the trees. I can hear people chattering and laughing as they walk to their destinations. It's wonderful, it's eerie and I really don't want it to end.

For a few moments, I can walk away from this world and slip into another. It's a nice feeling. It isn't a perfect world, but it is a nice escape. It's certainly more pleasant than standing behind a cash register and prattling on about Brad and Angelina or Brett Favre while I total up someone's order of seven different pizzas, a box of cereal and a tube of KY Warming jelly.

I could get used to this. I just hope I can get lucky enough to get paid to do wander though such memories and places for a living.

...and nothing of value was lost...

Today was not a good day.

To be perfectly blunt, I should be writing a five page rant here, screaming and yelling about just how screwed up my job really is and just how much I fucking hate it.

But I won't. I feel absolutely no need.

So what happened today? Oh, nothing much--I found out that I had inadvertently taken several fraudulent coupons. (What should have pissed me off about that? They all scanned and it has been drilled into our heads that if they scan, we can take them. Guess not.) On top of that, one of the heads proceeded to bitch me out because she swore that I came back from my last break late. (Why should that have pissed me off? I got to the break room at three minutes past four. I got back to the front at 4:19. That's 16 minutes, not twenty-two. Somebody fails at math. Hard.)

Three days ago, I'd be pissed off beyond all words in the known English language. But as I type this right now, I feel nothing. No anger, no frustration, no nothing. Why? Because I figure it doesn't really matter anymore. I can't force myself to give a royal shit about that job. It's nothing. All it does is provide a paycheck that helps pay my bills. It is nothing to me. It holds no meaning, save for the money.

What I truly live for, what I truly do, what actually holds meaning to me, I do at home.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to put on some mood music (Joe Hisaishi, natch) and add a few more words to that story of mine. Even if all I do is a quick edit, I'll actually accomplish something worthwhile today... unlike the eight hours I spent behind a register doing absolutely nothing of consequence.

--Weasel, "I've gone from hating my job to total apathy. I don't know if that's awesome or not."

Taking Risks

"Risk"
And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to blossom.
-Anias Nin

I have never been the type to take risks. One of the biggest risks I have ever taken was going out with my ex-boyfriend.

I spent well over five years with him. It didn't end well.

After that, I pretty much swore off taking anymore risks. It wasn't worth it. I decided that I should stick with the safest path possible. Nothing bad would happen to me if I did.

Then came July 1999. I decided to take another risk. This was a huge one. I hopped on a plane and went to St Paul, Minnesota to attend BotCon and meet Prime. I wasn't sure how this would turn out; I had played it safe for two years. I wasn't sure if I was truly ready for another risky undertaking. I had no idea how this would turn out.

A week later, I told Prime I loved him.

It was a risk well worth taking--Prime and I have been together for over a decade. He's the light of my life and pain in my ass and life couldn't be better.

Now I'm taking another risk of sorts. I'm writing. I have no idea how this risk will pan out, whether or not it will be successful but by Primus I'm doing it.

Because not doing it would be too painful. And I'm sick of living a normal, safe life. I just want to take the plunge for once and see how things go.

Hopefully, everything will go well. But even if they don't I'll know that I tried.

100 Words

Yesterday had to be one of the stupidest days I have ever suffered through. I won't go into details about, for if I did this post would crack 10,000 words easily. Most of those words would be expletives. Suffice to say, it was a miserable day.

Things changed a bit when I got home.

Prime let me hop on Alexa for a bit. I spent a few minutes rifling through various and sundry sites that would put me in a slightly better mood, hit my YouTube account, picked some really good music and began to spot edit my project.

I spent about 45 minutes on it. I added a grand total of one hundred words. My current count is well over 17,000. One hundred words is a mere nothing.

It was only 45 minutes and a hundred words. Compare that to the eight hours I spent in hell. Again, what I did was a trifle.

But in that 45 minutes I actually felt like I accomplished something. It felt worthwhile.

I never have that feeling when I'm at my "work". All I feel while I'm on the clock at my job is a sense of frustration. I feel as if I'm wasting time, like I'm doing nothing.

I never feel that way when I write. When I write, I feel like I've actually done something. I enjoy that.

It's a good feeling. It's one that I could certainly get used to.

The Bullshit Report

I've been meaning to make a post about this, but I haven't had the time or energy until today.

My current locale is becoming exactly like the old hellhole. Even down to the backstabbing and lying.

We've had at least four people fired in the last couple of weeks. One was the lone overnight cashier who was supposed to be terminated at the beginning of her shift, but management waited until she was nearly done for the night to finally walk her out the store. (The truly idiotic thing? They waited for her to say something they didn't like so they could let her go for that. I just love working around spies and backstabbers, don't you?) One of the cashiers who works around the same hours I do has a second job. He's told people he has a second job. Three days ago he was marched into the office by management and chewed out for "trying to recruit people to his new job". No, that wasn't the case but management doesn't give a flying fuck. As for myself, I've somehow injured my left foot so walking is complete torture for me. I don't know exactly what I've done, but the area near my heel is swollen. I've been using a myriad of different muscle rubs and pain relievers to help take the edge off but to no avail. There have been days that I've left the building about to cry, the pain is so bad.

There's really nothing I can do about it. I have to hope to Primus it heals on its own.

I'm just a cog in the machine, easy to replace.

Like I said, my job is little more than a time waster. I want to write. I don't want to stand behind a goddamn cash register and stare at the unwashed masses all day. Every second I'm at that hellhole is one less second I can write. And it frustrates me to no end.

The one thing that keeps me from losing my mind? The fact that I can come home to Prime and hop on Alexa for even a few moments. When my fingers touch the keyboard, I become so relaxed and...dare I say it? I'm happy. Listening to some really good music helps, too.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some more writing to do. I have to make the best of my days off, you know.

Downward Spiral

I'm frustrated, tired and fed the hell up.

Work has gotten worse. A helluva lot worse. It's getting to the point that I don't even want to walk into the goddamn building. (Technically in my case, it's more like limp into the building but I digress.) There's been a shitload more backstabbing and bullshit than I want to go into.

I'm fucking tired of it.

I don't want to be there anymore. I don't even want to walk into the building. I just want to stay home and write. That's all I want to do. I can't help it--if I'm not writing, I feel like I'm wasting my time. And that job is the biggest time waster of all.

I really don't know if I can make it to June at this rate. Primus knows, I'm burned out as it is.

--Weasel, "I'm gonna go scream now."

IT'S OVER 9000!

(Don't get the joke? Click the title.)

Been writing a lot lately. I've already passed 9,000 words and I'm closing in on 10,000. And I don't want to stop, not until I'm done. I've had the idea in my head since 2007; I want to tell the tale, however long it takes. (I'm thinking it's going to end up being a novel. And possibly part of a small series. Quite possibly a trilogy.)

Oh and Prime? You doing a bit of clean-up here and there? Cause I've noticed little changes. They're helping the flow a bit. Keep it up. Just don't let me catch you at it, 'kay? ;)

--Weasel, "May Primus bless me on this venture. I'm gonna need it."

White Christmas

It was twenty years ago when I experienced my first white Christmas.

I was living in North Carolina, right along the coast. The coast of NC rarely gets snow, if at all. Our winters were simply too warm. Any and all precipitation we would receive was in the form of rain. If we ever got any frozen forms, they were sleet or the ubiquitous freezing rain.

None of those are fun if you're a kid. When you're young, you want snow. That's just how it is. Especially around Christmas.

So in 1989, the Christmas week weather forecast called for rain with cold temps. But don't worry, the meteorologists all reassured, there was simply no way we would get snow. It was impossible.

But the impossible happened.

Saturday night, I was holed up in my bedroom, blaring Solid Gold Saturday Night from my stereo. Out of the blue, my dad called for me. So I trotted down the hallway and into the living room.

Dad had the curtains open and the floodlights on. There was something swirling in front of the bulbs. It didn't look like rain. Because it wasn't.

It was snow. We were getting snow. The impossible had happened.

The next day I awoke to a land covered in white and still more was falling. I was dressed and out the door before my parents could even blink.

I spent the better part of the day in the snow, cavorting like there was no tomorrow. I had never had such fun; we rarely got snow in that area of the country. But all good things must come to an end--eventually, the flakes stopped falling. But by that time (mid-afternoon), the ground was covered in a thick blanket. We had gotten eighteen inches.

The snow lasted for a week. The entire city was practically shut down, since most southerners had no idea how to drive in the frozen stuff. For weeks after the event we had letter after letter in the local paper complaining about it.

But for me, it was perfect. And it was the best Christmas present I could receive as a young teen--a once-in-a-lifetime event that I will never forget.

The Worst Christmas Ever

Once upon a time, back in the 1990s I dated a jackass. I do not kid about this fact.

It was around Christmas time, many years ago when said jackass wanted to know what I'd like. I told him--G2 Dreadwing. This was the only item I wanted for Christmas that year: I didn't want jewelry, I didn't want clothes, I just wanted that Transformer.

The days passed. I bought my gifts for my jackass boyfiend and my other friends. Then one day, the jackass tells me that he's done his shopping and he got an extra special, completely awesome gift for me. He swears I'll love it.

My heart jumps. Oh God, I think. He got me Dreadwing! I can barely wait until I get my gift.

When we have our party, I'm practically dancing with delight. I can barely wait to rip the wrapping paper off my brand new TF.

We go through the usual stuff, we trade gifts, rip them open, thank each other. I'm impatiently waiting to get my "special" gift; the jackass has been swearing for days that I will absolutely adore it.

Then the moment comes. My jackass boyfiend and one of my other friends comes out, dragging a large box. They then launch into a song: "The 12 Days of Yaksmas".

A Ren and Stimpy song.

Did I mention that I hated Ren and Stimpy? And that my jackass bf loved to exploit that?

The special gift was little more than a damned joke. I was pissed.

I spent the rest of the party outside, so pissed I couldn't see straight. It was not a good night.

Thankfully, the jackass wised up a little and realized that he had hurt my feelings. So to smooth things over, he bought Dreadwing for me that night. At least that didn't suck.

As for the crap in the giant box--most of it got pitched. The only thing I kept were the socks.

They lasted longer than my ex. They also were a lot more useful.

To "(1)"

Twelve years ago, you broke my heart, turned all of my former friends against me and turned my entire life into a living hell.

I have rarely spoken of what you did, rarely been able to tell any of my former friends what truly happened between us, rarely had the chance to defend myself. I would do so, but there is no point: My former friends have already made up their minds. It would make no difference if I spoke my piece to them. I would simply be wasting words.

But it was hell--you literally put me through hell. There is no other way of describing what you did to me then. The pain, the loneliness, it was hellish. It literally hurt for me to breathe. I spent days crying over what you had done. I spent weeks, completely and utterly alone.

I spent a year like this. It was one of the longest years of my life.

I would wish such a thing on no one. The pain, the depression, the bitterness--they were almost too much to handle. I'm still not entirely sure how I survived.

Well, that's not entirely true: the CybCon and its members helped pull me away from the brink. A little stingray named Depth Charge helped, too. Then there was Prime and my Action Master Bumblebee...

But for all you have done, I thank you. My life is so much better because of everything. I just wish you had done it all sooner. If you had, it would have spared us both a lot of pain.

May you find some happiness in the life you now live.

Montage

Step one you say, "We need to talk."
He walks, you say, "Sit down, it’s just a talk."
He smiles politely back at you,
You stare politely right on through,

October 30, 1997

I am sitting in (1)'s car, staring at him. He has just told me that he has slept with "L", (4)'s sister. It feels as if I have been kicked in the gut. I can barely breathe; how could this have happened? Wasn't I good enough for him? Didn't I love him enough? "You lied to me!" I scream.

He begs for forgiveness. Even though I am hurt and angry, I relent.

"We'll try and work this out," I say hopefully.

Some sort of window to your right.
As he goes left and you stay right,
Between the lines of fear and blame,
You begin to wonder why you came.

Three Weeks Later

I am on the college campus, sitting in (1)'s car. We have just argued; as to what it was about, I cannot remember. I only know that (1) is angry, so I try to calm him down. I begin to stroke his face with my free hand; (1) begins to growl like a wild animal. My thumb brushes close to his lips. Before I can react, he clamps his teeth around my thumb and bites down. Hard. I am too shocked to say anything or to even scream. When he lets me go he sneers, "It's not that bad. I didn't even break the skin."

For three days, a circlet of angry red marks surround my thumb. It takes a full week for them to finally fade.

Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend,
Somewhere along in the bitterness.
And I would have stayed up with you all night,
Had I known how to save a life.

December 1997

I am at (3)'s Christmas party. "L" is there. She apologizes to me but I am forced to wonder if she truly means it. Things are very awkward between us.

I don't want to look at her and I have to fight the urge to slap her.

Let him know that you know best,
'Cause after all you do know best.
Try to slip past his defense,
Without granting innocence.

January and February 1998

I can only remember rain, flood warnings and fighting. Every time I try and speak to (1), he begins to argue with me. Worse still, he is angry at (4) for some reason; he never tells me why. He only says that (4) is an asshole. "He treats me a helluva lot better than you do," I shoot back.

Only much later I would learn the truth: (4) got a promotion over (1) at the quick serve restaurant they both worked. Since I didn't automatically coddle (1) and say he deserved that spot (which he really didn't), then I was just as much an "enemy" as (4).

It would not be the last time (1) would behave like this.

Lay down a list of what is wrong.
The things you’ve told him all along.
Pray to god he hears you.
And I pray to god he hears you and,

March 21, 1998

I am at the Raleigh NC Fairgrounds. It is 45 degrees and drizzling rain. I have been waiting for (1) for almost three hours. He is supposed to be there by ten o'clock to pick me up; we are to attend an anime convention together. It is quarter to eleven and I fear I will have to leave before he finally shows. I am getting very concerned. Even though I'm freezing, I don't want to go into any of the nearby buildings, lest I miss him.

I am frustrated and near tears. Please don't make me leave yet, I think. He'll be here, I'm sure!

Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend,
Somewhere along in the bitterness.
And I would have stayed up with you all night,
Had I known how to save a life.

Later That Day

It's now 11:05 and I am in my mother's car. We are leaving. (1) has never arrived.

I spent most of the trip out of the Raleigh/Durham area in tears. The rest of the way home, I manage to take a few fitful naps.

As he begins to raise his voice,
You lower yours and grant him one last choice.
"Drive until you lose the road,
Or break with the ones you’ve followed."

March 23, 1998

(1) stops by my house. He is bringing me my souvenirs from the convention. He says he missed me, but does not act sorry at all. Oh and by the way, (2) had invited herself along. He had forgotten to tell me about that.

He gives me the pins he has bought for me with my money, then tells me he used a hundred dollars of my cash to buy himself a VHS box set. But don't worry, he assures me, he'll pay me back.

He drives away.
I never see (1) again.

He will do one of two things.
He will admit to everything,
Or he’ll say he’s just not the same,
And you’ll begin to wonder why you came.

Early June, 1998

I'm trying to call (4); his mother answers. As I try to politely pull myself away from her, she suddenly blurts out an apology. I'm not the only victim of "L".

It seems she has thrown herself at every one of (4)'s guy friends, save for (3). And she's broken up more than one couple. (4)'s mother is distraught and upset. "I'm so sorry she did this to you and (1)," she says. I accept her apology, but I am numb.

(1) was little more than a notch on "L"'s belt.

Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend,
Somewhere along in the bitterness.
And I would have stayed up with you all night,
Had I known how to save a life.

My Birthday

I call (1) and ask brightly, "Ready to go?" My plans have been in place for over a month--(1), (4) and I would go to a local pizza place and have lunch. It would be like old times.

"No," he says coldly.

"Why the hell not?!" I demand.

"Because (4) is going and he's an asshole," is the reply.

I say to hell with it all and go out by myself. When I get home, I call (1); he's eating dinner. I leave a message for him to call me at 8 o'clock. When he does, I lay down the law: Pay me back the one hundred dollars that he owes me by the first of August.

"Don't call me, I'll call you," I say sharply before ending the conversation.

For once, I refuse to cry. I realize he isn't worth my tears.

Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend,
Somewhere along in the bitterness.
And I would have stayed up with you all night,
Had I known how to save a life.
How to save a life.
How to save a life.

August 1998

I am at work. (3) drops by to visit. He is upset and confused; (1) is no longer talking to him. I call (1) and ask why only to hear the same tired answer: "Because he's an asshole."

I already know where this is going.
The bottom falls out of my world.

Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend,
Somewhere along in the bitterness.

September 8, 1998

I am out cashing my check. I meet a friend of mine named "B" and we begin to talk. It seems that (1) is crushing on (3)'s girlfriend; he even proceeded to throw a massive tantrum when she said hello to him. (1) also acted like a spoiled brat while in Raleigh, throwing screaming fits when things didn't go his way.

I am actually thankful that (1) stood me up.
I would never have been able to stand (1) or his behavior.

And I would have stayed up with you all night,
Had I known how to save a life.

November 1998

I am about to have all four of my wisdom teeth pulled. The phone rings at 10:30 that morning; I don't answer. Instead, I call (1) and ask if he had called. He says no.

We talk for a half an hour. In the end, we are both crying.
It is the last time I ever speak to (1).

Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend,
Somewhere along in the bitterness.
And I would have stayed up with you all night,
Had I known how to save a life.

A Few Years Later

It is October, a month that I loathe. The only thing that the changing leaves remind me of is how my life fell apart so long ago. Why does it hurt so much? Why did I fail? Why couldn't I save him?

Then it hits me--I did save someone. I saved myself.
And I am suddenly very grateful for all I have been through.

How to save a life.
How to save a life.



As you can imagine, this has been one of the most difficult things for me to write. To say it was painful would be putting it gently; I had to go through some of the worst times of my life in order to put this post together. So why in the hell would I do this? Because I am damned sick of bottling this up. I've never had the chance to actually tell my tale so I am doing it now. It's not an easy thing to read, I know, but I thank everyone for sticking with this.

It may be agonizing, but I feel so unburdened now. And trust me, after so many years of bullshit that is a great feeling indeed.

The "Burning" Question

A few days ago, I dug up my old high school yearbooks. Got a pretty big chuckle out of reading some of the shit I had written in them... until I got to my junior year.

Buried in the pages of my eleventh grade yearbook were several notes and a rough draft of a story. All of them were from my ex.

So here's the question: Do I keep the blasted things or should I just burn them?They're not taking up too much space; there's only like five of the damned things. And yes, they are an interesting look back on my high school years. But part of me just wants the blasted things gone. All those written words from him just sound so damned hollow.

So I'm forced to ask myself--should I just burn the damn things and get it over with? Or should I keep them as a reminder to myself? It's so damn hard to decide.

--Weasel, not as nostalgic now as she was a few days ago.

Better Left Unsaid

It was September of 1997 and (1) was visiting (2) at her place of employment: a pizza place. (1) began to make idle chitchat with the pizza maker; it seems they got along rather well. As a joke (1) said, "So when's our first date?"

She took him seriously. So did (2).

What happened next makes me very glad that I was not in attendance: (2) unleashed a torrent of abusive language directed at me. It seems she thought I was nothing more than a controlling, domineering bitch that only used (1) for my own selfish purposes. According to her, (1) and I needed to break up immediately because he would be better off without me.

(1) was shocked and confused. When he told me, I could barely keep my jaw off the floor. I didn't know what to say or how to feel.

Three weeks later, (1) decided to stray. My life began to implode shortly thereafter.

I have often wondered if what (2) had said may have encouraged (1) to cheat. He admitted his confusion at her outburst; perhaps he may have believed that what he was doing was actually a good idea and he was just spreading his wings, so to speak. Maybe her words meant nothing to him. In either case, I'll never really know.

But what really hurt was (2)'s characterizations of me. I was the bitch. I was using (1). I was the problem.

First off, (1) was the user. (More on that on a later date.) Secondly, (2) had little room to talk--she was with a guy simply because she could use him as a way to move out of my parents house. She had already dated two different guys (the first of them she went back to twice) and dumped them soundly before suddenly throwing herself at a third man that she barely knew.

Yet I was the user. I was the problem. I was the one who needed to go away.

(2) got her wish: once (1) cheated it was the beginning of the end of our relationship. After weathering through "The Year of Hell", I eventually was able to pick myself off the floor and take a chance on love. Eventually I moved out on my own and lost contact with my friends in NC. Then out of the blue, (2) contacted me. We emailed each other a few times. Things seemed to be okay. Then (1) was mentioned.

In her email (2) said that he barely spoke to anyone, whether online or in person. She said she didn't know what I had done to him, but he just wasn't the same. But I wasn't totally to blame--I had met someone else and moved on with my life.

Again, it's my fault. (1) escapes the blame and I'm left holding the bag. It didn't matter that (1) cheated on me, that (1) began to turn his back on me, that (1) slowly began to turn all of my friends against me, it's all still my fault.

I'm fucking sick of being blamed for something that I did not do.

I haven't emailed (2) in a very long time. I honestly don't know if I want to; I'm sick and damned tired of trying to defend myself when I have done nothing wrong. It would be wonderful if my old friends would at least try to understand that.

Heaven only knows if that will ever happen, though.
I'm not holding my breath.

Because I Owe Him This Much

Eleven years ago, someone saved my life. And he wasn't a human. He was a Maximal.

His name was Depth Charge. And this is our story.

Back in late August of 1998, I saw my friend (3) for the last time. At the time, I had no idea that I would never see him again. If I had known, I would have done things quite differently. But that is beside the point.

(3) visited me at the doughnut shop where I worked. He told me something extremely distressing: (1), my then paramour, was no longer speaking to him. This was right after we had been hit by Hurricane Bonnie.

(3) had no idea what was going on. Neither did I.

I was confused, to put it mildly. (1) and (3) had been friends for nearly a decade; why would anyone want to throw that sort of friendship away? It made no sense to me. My curiosity got the better of me and the next day I called (1) under the guise of my usual post-hurricane check up. I asked him how things were going and if he was okay. He said yes, but curtly. I asked if he had spoken to (3) and he replied no. I asked why. The answer shocked me.

"Because he's an asshole."

My heart dropped to my knees. The last time I had heard (1) utter this sentence, he had been referring to (4) and they had stopped speaking months ago.

I knew exactly where this was going--I already knew the next act in this hideous play. (1) would begin to blame (3) for all of his problems then shut him out of his life, all the while complaining how (3) was alienating him. It was a sick, twisted fantasy that I had dealt with for over ten months: I myself had been blamed by (1) for his failings. What made that worse was the fact that most of my former friends had taken (1)'s side. It seemed as though (4) were the only human being who gave a damn about me.

Most of my former friends didn't like (4), for whatever reason. At that point, I was past caring what they thought. They didn't seem to care about me anyway.

My life had been spiralling out of control since the end of October '97 and this was the final blow. I had been fighting depression for many weeks but on that day, I laid down arms. The depression won. I had no desire to go on with my pathetic excuse for a life.

I no longer lived, I merely existed. My life had fallen into a pathetic routine of eating, sleeping and working. I cared about nothing and truly believed that no one cared about me. I was worthless, the scum of the earth--how could I not be? I had driven the one boy who cared about me into the arms of another girl. Of course, I had never forced him to cheat but it was my fault all the same. I was little more than a waste of flesh. How dare I draw breath?

I spent a number of nights lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, fighting the tears. I was not worth shedding tears over. I was nothing. I was scum. I deserved no one's pity, especially not my own.

I hated myself.

The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months. Autumn came and the threat of hurricanes faded. One bright fall day, I decided I needed to get out of the house for a few hours so I went for a ride. I hit my local Toys R Us, KMart, Target. Then I headed to Wal-Mart.

I spotted him, sitting on one of the shelves in toys: Depth Charge. He was gorgeous. Since I had just been paid, I bought him. Satisfied, I took him home.

For two weeks, he sat in my bedroom, unopened. I have no idea why I didn't open him immediately; I only know I just didn't. But one crisp October evening, I decided to take him out of his box. Grabbing a pair of scissors from my kitchen, I began to slice into the tape.

"Let's get you out of this little prison," I said softly.

One moment later, I froze.

I was just as much a prisoner as Depth Charge, only I had locked myself into a prison of my own making. But unlike Depth Charge, no one was going to come around and let me out. I had to do it on my own.

It was enough of a jolt to find urge me into action.

I actually began to go out again. Instead of sitting at home brooding, I went out and tried to live--I went out looking for new Transformers again. Since I had no way of getting on the internet at home, I asked my parents for a computer for Christmas. In other words, I started to reclaim my life.

It wasn't easy. It took many months and quite a few "baby steps" to actually get back to a semi-normal life. But I owe everything to a Transformer. If it weren't for Depth Charge and one simple, throw away comment I may have never gotten over those feelings of worthlessness.

Being a Transformer geek saved my life. Having this hobby helped me to get over one of the worst times in my life. And I've never been happier.

Sometimes, This Whole "Horoscope" Thing Scares the Hell Out of Me

Yesterday at work, I was reading a crappy magazine in our crappy break room, just to pass the time. It was one of those cheap "women's" type mags--the type that have 500 different uses for leftover hairspray and 20 different meatloaf recipes. Yeah, that kind.

I was just paging idly through it, not really paying attention to any of the articles (they're usually crap anyway) until I hit the horoscopes page.

Now, I haven't read my horoscope in months. I quit paying attention to that sort of thing a long time ago. But I did a double take when I read this thing.

It basically said that in order for my astrological sign to have a brighter future, those born under my sign would have to make peace with the past.

I damn near fell out of my chair. It made perfect sense.

Every blasted autumn, I fall into a funk. It always starts in October and comes to a head near the end of the month. And it has everything to do with my past. There are a lot of regrets and no real closure.

I'm dead sick of feeling like shit every fall. I want it to stop. I was just never sure what to do about it.

Talk about a slap upside the head which was sorely needed. Wow.

--Weasel, "Time to clear the junk out of the 'attic', so to speak."

Happy Sucktober

(Got some suitably depressing music playing in the background; I can't tell if it's making my mood better or worse.)

So it begins in earnest. I can't say I'm too surprised. It is October, after all.

Head cashier Chris is in fact gone; the front end is falling apart. The new heads are completely useless and my new schedule....

In two weeks I'm pulling a 12:30 to 9. I haven't had one of those since I left the old hellhole. To say I was pissed off beyond words is putting it in the mildest terms possible. I'm glad that it's a Saturday shift, but it's still irritating as hell. But for once, I actually got off my ass and did something about it. I grabbed an availability form and changed my hours; I'm now open from 8AM to 8PM. It's a reduction of an hour, but it should prevent another noon to nine shift from ever happening.

In even worse news, I went to my local Blockbuster to ask if I could possibly have the ROTF DVD poster they have in the window once they're done with it. I was told no. By a manager. Normally, I'd be slightly pissed but I'd let it go. Not this time.

It's a Bumblebee poster. So yes, I'd give him a great home, but I can't thanks to that bitchy woman manager. He's basically going to sit out there and get weathered, then get tossed into a fucking Dumpster. And there's not a goddamn thing I can do about that. I feel as if I've been kicked in the fucking throat. And I get that same feeling every damned morning and evening when Prime and I drive past him. Prime, as usual, tried to calm me down when I told him what I got for an answer--really, I should have realized myself that the answer was to 'go hit all the other stores in the area'...they're not necessarily all run by the same manager. If it's become a chainwide policy since we acquired the HUGE four-panel DVD poster from that same store after the first movie's DVD release, I guess I'll be reduced to watching eBay now and again. There's always SOMEone who manages to grab the ungrabbable, after all...

I hate October. I really do.

When I lived in NC, one of my friends complained about November and just how much it sucked. He did have a point--he got suspended from high school almost every November. But for me, it's October. And it's been that way for damn near 12 years. This was the month that my friends and I would plan our trips to Raleigh, where we'd spend a weekend hitting places like Foundation's Edge, Buy Rite Video Games (long since out of business) and the Raleigh Flea Market Mall. It was a chance for us to spend a few hours in a hotel room, watch anime, eat pizza and act like total idiots.

They were also some of the best times of my young life.
And they'll never happen again.

October was the month my then boyfriend (Or should I say boyfiend?) decided that the "grass was greener", so to speak. Ever since then, October has sucked out loud. Nothing good has ever happened to me during this damned month. It's always been nothing but bad luck. The changing leaves and cooler nights do nothing but remind me that this bullshit is coming.

I'll be the first to admit I've never been big on fall. I prefer summer. But October... Ugh. I'd love nothing more than to skip it.

Can we please just fast forward to next year and BotCon? Please? I don't think I can deal with this shit anymore.

--Weasel, "I got tired of it twelve years ago."

It Needed to be Said...

I got inspired by this thread, which I read some time ago. Rather than reply to that particular blog, I'll say my piece here. For me, this blog truly is my safe zone.

And trust me, these are things that I have needed to say. It's been a long time coming.

To (1):
Why? Why in the hell did you do it? It's been nearly 12 years and I still don't understand why in the hell you thought it was a good idea to sleep with her. I told you and told you and told you it was a bad idea, but you refused to listen. And rather than growing a pair, I didn't forbid you from seeing her. No, instead I told you to be careful. Why? Because I didn't want to be the controlling, bitchy girlfriend.

Yeah, we see where that got me.

You were one lucky bastard, when you think about it. She was a liar, manipulator and a thief: if she had been any younger you could have been picked up for statutory. You are damned lucky that she did not try and press charges against you. You know good and damned well that she tried to get one of her former "boyfriends" pitched in jail for a made-up assault and she tried like hell to defraud an insurance company.

She was crazy. She was trouble. And she fucking used you. You probably know that now. But you had to take it out on me. It was somehow my fault. Like I held a gun to your head and forced you to sleep with her. You have no one to blame but yourself.

The problem is you know this. You can't escape that fact. You're in a hell of your own creation and the only way to dull the pain is to try and bury it.

The more I think about it, the more I pity you. You truly are a sad human being.

To (2):
I was never the bitch you made me out to be. Never. You honestly believed that I was a controlling, domineering bitch but it was never true. You took his side; you never cared about all the bullshit I had gone through.

I'm still pretty pissed at you. I'll never forget one of the emails you sent me--the one that said I had "met someone and moved on". That couldn't be further from the truth. (1) cheated on me. I spent more nights than I can count crying over him. He put me through a year of complete and utter hell. But I tried my damnedest to stay by him, to try and forgive him. Yet somehow, in your mind, it's all my fault. It never mattered that (1) screwed me over, it was still all my fault.

As if that wasn't bad enough, you want to know what in the hell I did to him?! Oh, it's just so sad--he barely talks to anyone while he's online and it's all totally my fault!

Bullshit.

If you had any idea of what he put me through, you'd never want to hear his "side" of things. He repeatedly threatened suicide to keep me in order, he verbally tore apart the only friend who was standing by my side, he was claiming that I was the cause of all his problems even though he was the one who slept around. Worse, he didn't even have the balls to talk to me--he let his goddamned mother rip me a new one! The sorry coward hid behind his mother rather than face me when he ruined the plans I made for my birthday.

That was a phone call I will never forget, no matter how hard I have tried.

Yet the whole thing was my fault. I was the evil bitch. If you had lived through half the shit I did, you'd be utterly ashamed that those thoughts had ever popped into your head.

To (3):
If I had known that night at the doughnut shop would have been the last time I would ever see you, I would have told my lazy-ass coworkers to get off their fucking asses and take care of some shit while I spoke to you. I was just as surprised as you were when I found out that (1) had stopped speaking to you; I wish I could have told you why.

You would have thought it was completely stupid, just as I did. Maybe we would have had a nice long laugh over it, but who knows.

It was because you fell in love. You fell in love with the same girl that (1) had a huge boner for. Apparently, (1) was dumber than I thought: how could he get pissed off at something that really wasn't your fault? You didn't cast a love spell on her. You never tricked her into loving you. It just happened.

Try telling that to (1). You see, it was the fault of everyone else, not him. You, just like everyone else, got tangled up in his idiocy. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. But we were the ones who had to dig ourselves out of the shit pile.

I miss you. I actually miss you. I never thought I would say that. Your hyperactivity, your insane jokes, your god-awful sense of direction, I miss all that. I just hope that you are doing well, wherever you are.

To (4):
Thanks for putting up with me and my bullshit. I appreciate that.

--Weasel, hoping time really will heal these wounds.

Once Upon A Time...

...I worked with a young woman named Tracey.

Tracey was a new hire to the sub shop, but she walked in as if she owned the place. She was bossy and annoying; if she wasn't trying to order me around, she was constantly trying to stick her nose where it wasn't wanted or needed.

It hardly seemed fair: I had been working at this place for nearly a year, yet she was acting as if she were my supervisor. I knew better what needed to be done and how to do it, but she still acted as if she were my superior.

Even worse, she never wanted to work.

She was constantly calling me in because she was going to be late or she would be working at the convenience store or she had stubbed her little toe or something to that effect. In fact, she called me into work early on the day my great-grandmother died then acted surprised when I got upset.

When she finally started working on the convenience store side permanently, I heaved a sigh of relief. Tracey would finally be out of my hair! Or so I thought.

Instead, she would trot over to the sub shop and continually order me around and tie up our phone line. To say she was frustrating would be putting it in the nicest of terms.

But I had no idea just how vicious she could be, until one lonely Saturday night.

It was a very slow late summer Saturday night. I was working a closing shift while Tracey was working at the convenience store. I had just finished wiping down the meat slicer when out of the blue Tracey and one of our former hires asked me a question. It was one that raised my hackles immediately.

"Hey (Weasel), would you ever kiss a girl?"

My eyes narrowed. I already didn't like where this was going. "Um, how?" I asked, feeling my anger rise.

"You know, french kiss." She was giggling.

I shut my eyes and rolled them backwards in the sockets. "Um, no." I refused to play along with their game. My time was much more valuable than that.

Now, usually this would be a conversation ender. Not with Tracey. Instead she prattled on about how the "dyke" in question was absolutely in love with me, how she was drop dead gorgeous and had posed for Playboy, how she would pay me $600 just to go on a date with her. With every passing second, it got more and more outlandish. Me, I just kept shaking my head and continued with the cleaning. I had better things to do, like completing my work. But she and David* thought this was the funniest thing in the universe and continued.

When I had slipped to the backroom and started filling one of the sinks with clean dishwater, I heard a sharp squeal. "Oh my God, there she is!" Tracey shrieked, as someone walked inside.

It was Allan, one of my regular customers.

Allan and I got along wonderfully. We talked about movies, current events, life, you name it.

It was also believed that Allan was gay. To everyone else, this was an issue. To me, it was a mere trifle. Allan was a friend. That was all I needed to know.

Tracey's decision of making him the butt of an extremely idiotic joke did not go over well with me. I had to fight the urge to backhand her.

When Allan left David practically screamed, "God, what a fag!" I wasn't able to tamp down my anger by this point; the rage was clearly visible on my face. Tracey, still thinking she was being cute, chirped out mockingly, "Don't say that. That's her friend."

David, a simpering smile on his face lisped, "I'm sorry I insulted your friend." Glowering, I turned on my heels and marched to the back. I refused to even look at them.

Two days later, I reported their behavior to the manager of the convenience store. To say she was not pleased was an understatement.

David never returned to the store. I believe he was banned outright, not only for this incident but for a myriad of other stupid things that he had done. It only took four months, but Tracey was finally fired. I had and still have no idea why, but I honestly could not care. I no longer had to deal with her for the rest of my stay at the shop.

About 14 months later, I was at a new job; this time I was working in a doughnut shop. I was on the drive-thru, completing orders when a customer cruised up to the window. Immediately I flinched. It was none other than Tracey.

I hastily cashed out her order and handed her both the change and pastries. I wanted her to leave. Immediately. But she didn't. Instead, she stared at me for a moment. "Do I know you from somewhere?" she asked. I furrowed my brow in feigned confusion and mutely shook my head. She shrugged, revved her car's engine and sped off, out of my life forever.

*Not his real name.

Part One Part Two

Once Upon A Time...

...I worked with a woman named Ronda.

Ronda was the assistant manager at the sub shop where I was employed. She was a large woman, very intimidating with brownish curly hair and a thickly built frame.

She was also drunk on power and loved to throw her status around. She did this on more than one occasion. As if she wasn't threatening enough, she would threaten to let her husband deal with people she didn't like. Her husband was 6'3" and weighed over 300 lbs, as she liked to say.

She swore that she was like a cobra, coiled and ready to strike. The woman frightened me; something about her was very "wrong". Needless to say, I did not want to tangle with her or her husband; I gave them both a very wide berth.

Usually, I was spared her petty and pathetic displays of power. Until one day...

One year, I asked for Valentine's Day off. I had made plans for the day. I put in for the day weeks in advance; I was told that it had been okayed and I would have it. And have it I did, for all of one hour.

Ronda tore up the schedule and completely re-did it. She gave herself Valentine's Day off and stuck me with a closing shift for the night.

I had no idea that Ronda had been the one to do this: I had thought that it had been the manager herself. One of my co-workers told me what happened. She also said she was utterly appalled by Ronda's behavior.

I was livid.

I had to deal with this unpleasant and very overbearing woman for several more months, then she quit without notice. It seems she had come into a rather large inheritance of $30,000. When she received the money, she promptly lost her mind; she refused to come into work that day and laughed in the manager's face when she called to ask if she had quit.

I learned a valuable lesson that day: Trust your instincts. If you think someone is insane, you are probably right.

Part One

Author's note: I was inspired by these two pieces. However, they were in the "Mens are evil!!!11!" vein. What I am trying to do is counter-balance this inequity, along with healing a few old wounds. Trust me, this has been very cathartic.