A Fairy-Bro Parent

Chapter One: The Fairy and His Bruh-dian

With his bride lost, his foe victorious and the stab in the back turned out to be counter-productive, Gaston the hunter was now Gaston the fallen. As he plummeted to the earth, his gratuitous amount of muscles sending him like a bullet through the mile-upon-mile long drop from the Beast’s castle, he watched helplessly as the ground came closer and closer to meet him. His body paralyzed from fear and his throat hoarse from screaming, all he could do was watch in horror for the crash.

But when he braced himself to be liquefied, he felt the wind passing through him stop. He felt his body grow numb. Was he dead?

He looked to the ground to see he had stopped falling.


“Sup bro,” He heard a manly male voice speak up. Gaston lifted his head to see a man almost equal in size and muscle floating before him, his tiny wings flapping casually behind him. “How’s it going?”

Gaston stared at the magical fellow with disbelief. He was golden tan with luminously white teeth and recently cut brown hair. My god, he’s gorgeous, Gaston thought to himself.

“Thanks bro, really appreciate it.” The floating man said as he shot him a finger gun blast of gratitude.

Gaston gasped. “You read my thoughts?”

“Well, yeah. I can read your thoughts, I have all your memories, I even know how many girls you’ve given the old pickle tickle to.” The man replied, trying to sound casual but with his douchebag voice it only came out as arrogant. Not that Gaston minded. He responded well with other douchebags. “I’m your Fairy Bro-Parent…bro.”

Alarmed and confused by his frequent use of the term ‘bro’, Gaston asked,

“What the hell are you going on man?”

“What? You thought only ladies got their own fairy god parents? See that used to be the way of the world but then feminism was starting to get around and that put a bunch of man fairies, such as myself, out of business. So we got the union to back us up and now—ta da—the fairy bro parent was created.”

“Feminism?” Gaston echoed blankly. Then a thought came to his head and he said, understandingly, “Oh…I get it. See where I’m from, we just call that prostitution.”

“No bro, feminism is the belief that women should be given all the same rights that men would get and be seen as equals.”

“Who would ever think a thing like that?”

“Well. I think that way.” His Fairy Bro-Parent said matter-of-factly.

“YOU?” Gaston cried out, dismayed. “But you’re—you’re—so manly!”

“True dat my bro-son. But you know what some of the manliest men that ever manned the dawn of man were huge feminists.” The Fairy insisted.

Gaston was intrigued. “The manliest?”

The Fairy Bro-Parent gave him a wink, going on to say, “Yes bro. And that’s what I am here to do for you. We are going to turn back time, teach you how to respect women and in that process getting Belle to respect you and eventually want to marry you.”

While the prospect of not dying and getting to finally achieve his goal of plowing Belle like freshly fallen February snow every day for the rest of their married lives was tempting, Gaston couldn’t help be apprehensive.

“Why are you doing this for me?”

The Fairy Bro-Parent pushed his wings forward, gliding over to Gaston. Putting his arm on his shoulder, he said,

“For three reasons. One, I love your style.” (At this the two muscle men, made a Grecian-like pose to flex their muscles in solidarity) “Two, I know you’re not a bad guy. I mean, you do some bad guy things don’t get me wrong but you’re mostly just an ignorant, ignorant man. And while evil can’t be redeemed, ignorance can be taught.”

Gaston beamed proudly, misconstruing the word as a compliment.

“And three, there is nothing nobler than the pursuit for getting your dick wet.”

With that they high-fived and from the clap of their palms, a white flash of light produced, sending the two men far from the beast’s castle.



Chapter Two: Women’s Studies 101

When Gaston was finally aware of himself, he looked around to see that he was no longer falling—but instead in his own home.

“We’re—where—what…” He stammered, struggling to comprehend.

“We’re back in time, bro. This is exactly the day that you decided to marry Belle, therefore instituting the major flow of pig shit that followed that decision.” His Fairy explained with a sandwich in his hand.

“Oh perfect!” Gaston exclaimed as he headed towards the door. “I can start all over! I’ll do everything right this time! I know why she said no—the wedding procession wasn’t enough! If I can—”

Gaston was already at the front door, when his Fairy took one gigantic hand and slammed the door tight.

“No bro, no.” His Fairy commanded, as he coaxingly pushed him back into the living room.


“Bro, calm your beautifully sculpted tits and sit down.” His Fairy commanded as he pushed him into a chair and walked in front of him, beside a chalk board that he had conjured up. Taking a bite of his steak sandwich, he began, “The reason Belle turned you down flatter than a stepped on pancake was because you did the douchiest thing a man can do and—” (taking a piece of chalk and scribbling on the board behind him, he wrote out one big word ‘ASSUMED’)

“Ass-umed?!” Gaston read incorrectly. “I never once tried putting my man hood in her…!”

“No! No! Assumed!” The Fairy interrupted, stressing the word. “You ASSUMED that she was already madly in love with you, you assumed she would be happier than all to be the mother of your brolic boys, you ASSUMED you would want to be married within seconds of being engaged and without her family present, without time to get excited. YOU ASSUMED BRO. AND ASSUMING is a no go.”

“Why would any of that be a bad thing to assume though?” Gaston inquired blankly. “That’s how my parents got married!”

“Yeah but your mom also lived with an abusive alcoholic father and it wasn’t your dad who said ‘hey let’s get married in two point five seconds’. Your mom made that decision!”

“My mom made a decision before?” Gaston nearly cried out, incredulously. “I never knew my mom could think.”

“Well, she didn’t do much of that after your folks got married but Belle isn’t like your mom. She’s not going to stop thinking once you two get married.”

“She’ll stop thinking once we get to the wedding night.” Gaston jested suggestively.

The Fairy paused before joining in on the creepy laughter and even went over to high-five Gaston again. But this time, when Gaston raised his hand, the Fairy didn’t make contact with his palm—he just smacked him upside the head.

“Lesson number two: Don’t make sexual advances without the women’s consent.” The Fairy declared as he scribbling the litany on the board. “That means: ‘no leering’ ‘no sex jokes, puns or innuendos’ unless it turns out she has that kind of sense of humor and isn’t offended by them, ‘no unwanted touching’ and, this is crucial, ‘NO MORE FORCING HER TO MARRY YOU’.”

Raising his hand, Gaston asked, “What does ‘consent’ mean?”

“Consent means she’s making it clear that she wants to have sex to you. And no, to answer your next question, you can’t just assume she’s making it clear. She has to either say it or make clear advances in getting your pants to be down.”

Raising his hand again, Gaston asked a more horrifying question: “Why?”

“Because doing what you keep trying to do, is BAD!” The Fairy Bro-Parent said, underlying that word intensely. “Very, very bad. In the future, they call what you do ‘attempted rape’.”

“And this ‘rape’ is…also bad?” Gaston asked, struggling.

“Very bad, bro. Very, very bad.” His Guy Guardian implored before an idea formed and he instructed his student, “Okay, I’ll give you an example why. Imagine the meanest, most violent man you’ve ever known.”

Sadly enough Gaston thought of his father.

“Okay, now imagine the guy walks into your bar one day and starts calling you out. He’s saying all these horrible things about your muscles not being muscular enough. He’s calling you a wimp. He’s just being a real asshole to you.”

Gaston gasped, clutching his triceps protectively. He then remembered who he was and began, “No one tells Gaston—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He interrupted him, not about to listening to a grown man talk about himself in the third person. “No one tells Gaston—but this dude just did. And you know what, not only is this dude doing all that, he just so happens to fight dirty. So next thing you know, he’s overpowered you, you’re on the ground and you’re hurt but he doesn’t care—and you know what that psycho does next?”

Hanging onto the story as still as a dead dog, Gaston shook his head.

“He takes a nasty, smelly finger and shoves it up your butt hole.”

Immediately, Gaston felt a ghost pain shoot through his backside. He even flinched.

“I bet you’d feel pretty violated. Even humiliated.” The Fairy went on.

Gaston nodded his head fearfully.

“Well that happened to a women somewhere in the world—every day.” The Fairy said somberly. “And they don’t get one little finger and what they get is far, far more painful to deal with.”

“I would never humiliate Belle like that.” Gaston declared, his voice soft from genuineness. “The only thing I wanted to shove into her would make her happy.”

“Well, back when you were letting your downstairs private take command of your upstairs captain, that’s what you would have done to Belle if your plan had worked and she married you to save her father.” His Bruh-dian informed, his profound words lost in a gross sea of him eating with his mouth open.

Gaston, his taunt jaw slack, sat back bewildered but now aware. “Wow. Fairy Bro-Parent you just gave me a lot to think about.”

“Excellent my bro-son excellent. But I am afraid we have a lot more to cover and a lot more for you to think about if you are ever going to truly respect women.”

“How much more?” Gaston groaned.

“Well…We still got to discuss…” The Fairy Bro-Parent began mysteriously as he used his body to block what he was not writing on the board. Once he was done, he turned around and said dramatically, “‘The menstrual cycle’.”

“Oh I know about this already.” Gaston dismissed cockily. “You just don’t let them near bears and make sure you have more than one bed sheets.”

With that he was given a swift punch in the tricep as a response.


“Shut up and start taking some notes.” His Fairy Parent instructed as he took a huge bite out of his steak and egg sandwich.

“Can I have some of that?”

“Not until you can tell me where a woman belongs…AND DON’T SAY THE KITCHEN.”

“Um…the bedroom?” (This was received by two punches) “Ow!”

“Get a pen and some paper. We’re going to be here a while.”


Chapter Three: Enlightenment and Ignorance

After six hours of lecture, four hours of study, three hours of cry therapy with an hour for lunch and two hours for emergency exercising (Gaston feared he heard one of his muscles going into atrophy from learning so much), the Fairy Bro-Parent went onto the finally drill with his student on women:

“What is the most important thing a woman can ever hope to be?”

“Happy and healthy.” Gaston answered.

“How can we, as manly man, hope to help women obtain equality?”

“By giving them jobs, teaching the younger generations how to be self-sufficient and not objectifying them as sex objects and future mothers.”

The Fairy Bro-Parent poured a hard, determined look into his bruh-dian’s blue eyes. He got into the man’s face and demanded to know:

“If Belle bore you a daughter, what would you do?”

Nervous sweat began to pore from the man’s even skin as he practically shook in his seat, trying to think. Finally, he shouted out confidently:


The Fairy Bro-Parent nodded his head in approval as he backed away from the man’s personal space. “Congratulations bro. You’ve passed the class.”

Gaston made a shrill, effeminate gasp of excitement before he leapt to his fee and proceeded to wrestle his Fairy Bro-Parent in a celebratory fashion. While he was trying to put him in a full-nelson, his Fairy Bro-Parent warned him,

“Bro, don’t get too excited. You passed the class but you still gotta pass the exam.”

“Exam?” Gaston cried out in alarm, leaving him vulnerable enough for his Bruh-dian to subdue him into an anaconda vice.

“Yeah! Now that you have all the ideas down, you gotta put them into practice.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Gaston made out through strained grunts as blood rushed to his head and made him dizzy.

Relenting on his choke hold, his Fairy stuck his head in his face and said with a smile,

“By talking to Belle of course.”

Stepping outside for the first time in over a day, Gaston was immediately hit with the powerful yet nauseating sight of natural sunlight.

“Ah! It’s horrible!” Gaston cried out as he shielded his eyes.

“Yeah, being enlightened does that to you.” An invisible voice said with a laugh as they made their way out of his house and towards town. “Now, when we get to town, it’s very important that you remember I am an invisible spirit. You can’t talk to me or else people will think you’re crazy and, trust me, the ladies do not want to be dealing with crazy.”

“Makes sense. But what if I need help?”

“Bro, I’d never leave a fellow bro hanging like that. I’ll totally give you some whisper advice but I’m not gonna be telling you how to talk or act. That’s all on you.”

With that in mind, Gaston made it into town prepared to show off his new found mental awakening. Just as he arrived, the town was making their daily rounds. Stands were set up, products were presented for sale, parents were walking their children to school and the town was making their usual calumnious remarks about other people.

“Did you hear about Gaston?”

“Yes! I heard he hasn’t left his house in an entire day!”

“I wonder if it’s because that little fat kid that keeps following him is trying to turn him into a Sodomite.”

“I bet that’s the exact reason why—oh bonjour Gaston!”

Unaware of his sexuality being threatened, Gaston gave the townspeople a broad grin, feeling confident as ever that today would be the day that Belle would finally return his love. Or at least he was—


“Oh God.” Gaston moaned to himself as he watched his fat, stumpy sidekick LeFou charge after him like a dimwitted dog that smelled food being dropped on the ground.

“Hey bro. Not cool. That man worships you and he’s always there to lend a helping hand. The least you can do is be nice to him.” His Fairy Bro-Parent lectured sternly.

Seeing his point, Gaston swallowed the disgusting lump that LeFou usually caused his throat to make and gave him a warm welcome.

“Good morning LeFou.”

“Gaston!” LeFou said in-between pants. “Where have you been? It’s been almost a whole day since you’ve been at the Bar!” Taking him by the wrist he started pulling him along, urgently saying, “Come on we need some beer in you!”

“Calm down LeFou. I’m fine without beer.” Gaston said, yanking his arm back as he tried to ignore the shakes.

“Well, where have you been?” LeFou asked.

“Learn-ding LeFou. I have been learn-ding.” Gaston said with pride.

LeFou, a few eavesdropping townsfolk and even the stalking triplets all made a collective gasp.

“Wow, I didn’t think that many people listened to me when I spoke…” Gaston said, surprised.

“Gaston, th-that can’t be true! Say it isn’t so!” His pudgy friend nearly wailed, his body swaying to and fro as if he were to faint.

“LeFou don’t start doing that. People will think you have Yellow Fever…” Gaston warned quietly, looking around to make sure no glib gossipers were around, but as he was looking he spotted the one person who he’s been dying to talk to.

Even with all the knowledge of what had happened to him for pursuing her previously and the image of him hurtling to his splat-filled death fresh in his head, the feeling that bloomed inside him whenever he saw Belle hadn’t changed. He wanted nothing more than to be with her.

Leaving LeFou as if he were in a trance, Gaston walked up to the distracted Belle, greeting her, “Hello Belle.”

“Bonjour Gaston,” He heard her voice say politely as she continued to walk around him. But he stopped her by doing as he did before and taking her book from her.

“Gaston, can I have my book back?” She asked, slighted but still refined.

“Ask her what’s she’s reading?” The Bro Fairy whispered.

“What are you reading?” Gaston asked, examining the book.

This took Belle back for a second. “…It’s the Grimm’s Brothers Tales.”

“Is it good?”

“Is it good?”

Her two hazel eyes fluttered. “It’s the best. I’ve read it twice.”

“Wow.” He said, handing her back the book in the condition she had it before. “Twice? I can’t read a book once.”

A surprised chuckle sprang from Belle’s mouth which left them both surprised. Gaston had to stifle himself from thanking the Bro-Parent when he heard him whisper in his ear, “Good job bro.”

“You’d figure being a hunter you would be patient enough to read.” Belle surmised.

“Yes but usually you have bros or beers to keep you from getting bored out there.”

“Bros?” Belle echoed, blankly. “What’s a bro?”

“Um…um…” He started to panic. He just used a word he had no idea what the definition was.

“Bro is short for brother.” His Fairy explained quietly.

“Oh, bro is just short for brother. Yes, brother. Friends. Companions. Guys who aren’t really related to you.” Gaston rambled on nervously.

Belle furrowed her eyebrows. “You alright Gaston? You aren’t as…confident as you usually are.”

Gaston wanted to lie, (“What? No one’s more confident than Gaston!”) but his Bro-Parent sensed that coming and scolded him (“Bro, females are masters of emotions and you’re gonna try and lie to one about that?”)

So he finally admitted, “It has been a weird day for me…”

Bursting into the conversation, LeFou was quick to point out with a disparaging laugh,

“Yeah. He’s been “learning” lately.”

Feeling his bad temper start to boil inside him, Gaston was ready to raise one gigantic hand to cobbler the French out of LeFou when Belle’s magisterial voice rang up spritely,

“I thought you banned yourself from education.”

Stopping himself short in shock, Gaston looked up to see Belle’s face was filled with bemusement but curiosity. Regaining himself, Gaston replied,

“Well, you can’t be the same forever I guess now can we?”

Belle’s entire forehead wrinkled suspiciously at that answer. Already she distrusted his cocky attitude.

“What are you trying to be less ignorant about then, Gaston?” She said folding her arms across her chest.

“Um….” Gaston didn’t need to turn around to know the whole town was now focused on this conversation and were even holding their collective breaths in anticipation of the response. They all wanted a manly answer of learning how to wrestle a bear or 101 ways to blast your quads. But, the Bro-Fairy saw the desire to lie raising in his throat and he told Gaston,

“Bro, bro! Are you for real thinking about blowing all our hours of cry therapy to impress these assholes?! That is so UN-manly!”

It would be the beauty in Belle’s waiting face that made the impulse to lie lessen and while it didn’t take away the embarrassment, Gaston would regardless swallow down the falsehood and with a loud voice was able to say truthfully:

“I’ve taken up an interest in learning how to be an Equality Man.”

“Meaning what exactly?” Belle pressed on, unconvinced.

“Meaning—I support the idea that women are people too.”

Everyone went quiet having heard Gaston announce that. Then swiftly the townspeople gave their response to such a concept:


“Oh great,” A man spoke to his friend loudly, “Another ‘Enlightenment Thinker’. And we just drove that Rousseau character out of town too.”

“YOU USED TO BE FUN GASTON!” Dick bellowed out.

“NO ONE SUCKS MORE THAN GASTON!” Stanley joined in.

The townsfolk started walking away from the pair, as if they’re higher thinking was transmittable.

“Ugh, where’s that Yellow Fever when you need it.” Sneered one of the interchangeable Silly Girls as they walked past Gaston with their noses in the air.

“Wow, you think the French would be more open-minded given the fact they legalized marrying a dead person.” The Fairy Bro-Parent remarked quietly (look it up readers!).

Belle, of course, would not succumb to irrationality but it did not mean what Gaston had said didn’t shock her any less. She stood in front of him, giving him the strangest look. He waited for her to speak like a farmer waits for cleansing spring rain. But her thoughts were cut short by the sound of an explosion going off in the near distance.

Without turning around, she knew it could only be her father and she was right. She spun around in a dash, ignoring the various voices of laughter coming from the relieved French people.

“Oh thank God! The world makes sense again!” They would cry.

As the town was able to regress back to their equilibrium, Gaston heard the Bro-Fairy say, “Congrats bro-sapien. You just made excellent process!”

“Process!” Gaston couldn’t help from blurt out. But once he heard his own voice, he looked around to see if anyone had noticed he was talking to himself. No one did. They were too busy pulling the baker out of his suicide oven (“DON’T DO IT JACQOUS!” “NO-O! THE WORLD’S NOT SAFE ANYMORE AND MY BREAD ISN’T THAWING!).

Softly he murmured, “You consider that process? What kind of fairy are you? I wanted her to be mine three hours ago.”

“Bro, last week if someone told her to have a two minute conversation with you, she would’ve choose staring at a solar eclipse, against all primal instincts telling her not to.” His Bro-Fairy explained. “Trust me, you’re doing way better than you did the first time.”

“But at this rate, it’ll take years for her to marry me. And I’m already 25. I only have ten more years.” Gaston mumbled, keeping an eye out for anybody who would gossip his way into an insane asylum (that’s how it worked back then people). “I mean, how can you be sure this will work?”

“Because I’m magic motherfucker, that’s why. Now either listen to my advice or I’m sending your ignorant ass back to free-falling.” The Fairy said impatiently.

Gaston gasped, offended. “You—you really need to stop cursing so much. And speaking in idioms.”

“Sorry Bro, out of line, I know. But here’s the deal. Wait about an hour, then go to Belle’s house and ask to borrow a dictionary.”

“A dicto-what?” His bro-son asked, alarmed.

“Wow you’re ignorant. Just did it okay?”




Chapter four: Entering the Old Regime

Doing as he was told, Gaston waited exactly an hour before trekking up to Belle’s house. Walking up to the well-sized home, he walked past her father’s horse, thinking nothing of the fact that he was set-up for riding.

He knocked on the door one and a half times before Belle flung the door open. She was wearing a hooded cape and looked distressed.

“Hello Belle,” Gaston said oblivious to her feelings. “Can I borrow your—” (looks at smudged writing on palm) “a ‘dick to Mary’ book? Apparently the word of the day is ‘ignorant’ and now I have to know what that means.”

“Gaston I don’t have time for this right now!” Belle said hurriedly as she made a dash down her front steps, straddling herself onto Philippe. “My father left earlier today and now—now his horse is here and I think he might be hurt!”

“Wait—wait—you’re going to go to the forest?!” Gaston shouted, jumping in front of the horse so she couldn’t leave.

“I never said he was in the forest…” Belle said, giving him a wary look.

“Well, obviously that’s where your horse lead him, if there’s twigs and mud stuck in his hooves.” Gaston recovered quickly, pointing to the evidence.

Looking down Belle saw he was right. But that didn’t matter. “Gaston get out of my way. I have to find him!” She pulled the reigns to veer left but he blocked that as well.

“You can’t go in there alone!”

“Why not?” Belle demanded, reproachfully. “Because I’m a female?”

“Well yes because you’re a female!” Gaston aver. “You’re a hundred pound female with no tracking skills, no weapons and no way to defend yourself! Let me come with you! I’ll grab my gun and we’ll be on our way in minutes.”

Belle’s face hardened. “No. You’re going to want to ride with me and that’ll be too much weight for Phillippe to carry when we find my papa.”

“I have my own horse, Belle.” Gaston retorted.

It was clear Belle was fighting internally at the idea, but her distrust of him was outweighed by her concern for her father. Finally, she sighed, commanding,

“Fine. Get your gun but hurry. I don’t know what happened but if he’s injur—”

She didn’t have time to finish, Gaston was already running at full speed back to his home.

His Bro-Parent, still invisible but present as ever, spoke in his ear smugly,

“Never doubt the power of a bro trying to help another bro get his lady-bro.”

Within minutes as he promised, Gaston returned with his jet black mustang, his musket slung over one shoulder and a bow and arrow of the other. Belle stared at the many weapons with mild terror.

“Do you really need all those?” Belle asked contemptuously.

Gaston grimaced. “Yes because a pack of wolves won’t think twice about turning you into dog food. So neither am I.”

While Belle would’ve loved to have said a smart comment about how he doesn’t think once let alone twice, she knew he was right. So she gave him the silent treatment instead as she veered Phillippe onto the trail path towards the woods. Gaston followed, enjoying the fact that he was behind her.

Neither of them spoke for miles as they followed Phillippe’s retracing. The night had already leaned in on the forest and gloom was settling down on them. Whenever Gaston was able to catch glimpses of Belle’s face he saw the gloom settled down on her fair features.

Finally they approached the gates to the Beast’s castle. Getting down from their horses, Belle tried to open the gates Gaston looked up at the mighty structure and the thought of what happen been buffeted his heart into palpitations.

Belle saw this tacit fear and, while she wanted to tease him for it, instead said,

“It’s probably abandoned.”

He knew otherwise but said nothing. Feeling his manhood at stake, he used his musket to push the gates open and lead the way. They kept a steady pace as they went up the bedaubed stairs and into the front entrance. Inside, Belle called out every few feet,

“Papa? Papa? Is anyone there?”

Trying to keep his fears in check, despite the certain tiny movements of the demon furniture that he was sure were leering over them, he focused on not puking and not losing his footing. Seeing a hallway that looked creepier than the rest of the hallways, he jerked his head in that direction. Belle nodded and they made their way down the stairs into a barely lit, stoned constructed stair well.

At last, they heard coughing that no doubt came from a sick gentile.


“Belle?” A feeble voice croaked.

“Papa!” Belle cried out, making a dash from behind Gaston and over to the dungeon cell where she knew his voice came from. Gaston watched as she dropped to her knees and clutched for a pale hand covered in white hair tenderly.

“How did you find me?” Maurice asked fearfully, his eyes darting around the blackened room.

“Oh your hands are like ice! We have to get you out of here!”

“Belle you have to leave—” Maurice began but fell to a fit of coughs.

Feeling his skin itch from fear, Gaston went over to the dungeon cell and began trying to push and pull the cell open.

“Gaston?” Maurice called out in surprise. “Oh thank god! Someone with a gun! There’s a horrible monstrous—”

His words were cut off though by a low but murderous sounding growl. In an instant Gaston wiped around, his musket in hand, pointing straight into the darkness. The beast’s figure remained in the insensible shades, panting and snarling.

“What are you doing here?” It demanded, menacingly.

“Who’s there? Who are you?” Belle called out looking around for the monster.

“The master of this castle.” The beast answered, its footsteps heard moving from one corner to the next, still concealed by nothingness.

“Then you can give us the master key to release her father.” Gaston said heatedly, gripping his gun hard from tension.

“I will do no such thing. The man’s my prisoner.”

“Sir, sir, please, can’t you see he’s old and sick?” Belle pleaded.

“Then he shouldn’t have come here!” The Beast roared.

“What good it is to you if my father dies here?” Belle begged, her voice quaking from fear.

“Free meal for me.” The beast commented casually.

Making an audible gasp of disgust and fear, something in Belle snapped after that. She pushed Gaston with adrenaline strength and stole his weapon from him. Before he could even react she was able to take the gun, make her aim and send the trigger backwards. An ear-splitting BOOM came, signaling the cannon sized bullet had been shot. Milliseconds later, a dog-like squeal was heard. A low thud came out from the shades and they all knew that Belle had just killed the beast.

Never in his life had Gaston been both so horny and so scared.

“Belle…Was that your first time shooting a gun?” Maurice’s voice asked slowly, clearly reeling from shock.

She nodded mutely, disturbed by her own actions. Feeling the heaviest of the musket for the first time, she strained to hand the weapon back to Gaston. She avoided his gaze. Instead, she flung backwards and downward to her father’s level, holding his hands for comfort.

Unlike his daughter, Maurice was excited by the whole situation. “My daughter! Makes her first shot in the dark on a moving target with a gun that weighs forty pounds more than her! Ha ha! To this day Belle you are still my greatest invention!”

The sentimental father-daughter reunion was interrupted by a blinding light that came from where the Beast’s body surely laid. It came from nothing and only grow more illuminous. Within seconds it could have been brighter than a star. The three of them watched in horror as the bright light revealed the beast was none other than a buffalo, beast, cape-wearing-son-of-a bitch and they watched as that son of a bitch transformed in a bloodied, but oddly attractive corpse. During this transformation, the dark and dismal dungeons grew bright and comforting, turning the chains on the walls into decorations and the cell blocks dematerialized.

“What the—” Maurice began, as he regained his freedom but his daughter cut him off.

“And you wonder why I want to get the hell out of France.” Belle remarked as she helped her father to his feet.

“I thought you liked castles and slaying monsters and all that magical junk?” Gaston said teasingly as they made their way up the now marbleized and white stairwell.

“I wonder how good my aim is on two-hundred pound muscle heads who don’t know when to shut up?” Belle pondered aloud, causing Gaston quiet the hell up fast.

As they made their way upstairs, there was a great ruckus of sounds that were the undeniable hooting and hollering of the happy. Once they reached the first floor, they were nearly ambushed by a stampede of cheering men and women. Dressed in tailored clothes of various uniforms they were no doubt servants of this place. When they saw the three of them, all those who passed by would pat them on the back, thanking them profusely. One of portly man with brown curled hair and a pocket watch hanging from him, gave Gaston two big wet kisses on both cheeks.

“What’s going on?” Gaston demanded, pushing the man off of him.

“We’re free that’s what happened!” A man with sandy blonde hair carrying a scantily clad chambermaid who doused him with kisses in his arms informed with a promiscuous rumble in his throat. Before he ran out the front door, he turned to the trio and exclaimed, “Take whatever booty you can find! The Beast is finite!”


Chapter Five: Leaving the Old Regime


None of them took anything from the castle. The prospect of monetary gain didn’t appeal to any of them. The knowledge that there was a magical entity possessing the place just killed the appeal to taking crap from a castle. Plus, it kind of felt like adding insult to injury taking stuff from a guy they fired a giant bagel out of.

So the three of them saddled up, Belle and Maurice sharing Phillippe and Gaston riding alone and started back home. For a while there was only silence. But Maurice would be the first one to break the silence. Talking to Gaston he jested,

“And they say guns never solve anything.” (Take that liberal media)

Gaston and Maurice shared a small laugh.

“Seriously. Your daughter was the one who almost wouldn’t let me go because she didn’t see the need for guns. Yet little Belle with a Body Count got over that idea quick.” Gaston remarked.

At first Belle took that offensively (because Gaston’s douchebaggery could not be completely concealed to her sensibilities), but then she thought over what very well could have happened if she were to have gone alone and defenseless (if only she knew there was an entire movie on that very ‘what if’). With a sigh she confessed,

“I don’t know what happened back there. I…I just snapped. The idea that I could have lost you papa…it just made me—me-”

“Desperate?” Gaston estimated, reflecting on his own pseudo-memories.

She glanced over to him whose head was in a downcast pose from, what she had no idea to be, remorse and found herself touched by his empathy.

“Wow, first Belle becomes the hunter and Gaston becomes the thinker?” Maurice mused, good-naturedly. “You two must have gotten into some of that castle’s enchanted dust.”

(Phillippe, making an annoyed snort, says to Gaston’s horse: “God that was a terrible joke.” Gaston’s horse: “What do you expect? Humans would never be able to master the art of comedy like us equestrians.” Phillippe: “Ha ha ha, true dat do.” Gaston’s horse: “Ha ha ha…I’m still in love with you Phillippe.” Phillippe: “Oh crap not this again…” Gaston’s horse: “YES THIS CRAP AGAIN PHILLIPPE. I GAVE UP COMPETING IN THE KENTUCKY DERBY FOR YOU.” Phillippe: “I NEVER ASKED YOU TO DO THAT FOR ME, SUGAR CUBE!”)

Aware of how bad that joke was, Gaston chuckled politely anyway, thinking to himself, Wow Belle’s father isn’t crazy. He’s just old and bad at jokes. Just like my dad! Only not dead and not old and never happy with anything I’ve ever done ever.

Sandwiching his daughter’s hand in-between his own, Maurice gazed affectionately into Belle’s face and said gratefully,

“I want to say thank you for coming along to save me now Gaston.”

Gaston smiled. “You’re welcome.”

“Before Shooting Sally over here takes your position of best hunter in town and you regret ever doing such a noble thing.” Maurice added.

“Oh dear god no,” Belle implored vehemently. “I don’t like the way I feel after a shoot another creature. I’m never picking up a gun ever again.”

“Yeah, some people feel bad in the beginning when they start hunting…” Gaston said understandably.

“Bad? No, it was worse than that! I didn’t feel bad at all! I felt—I felt—strong.” Belle compelled, her voice distraught yet oddly satisfied. “Good god, I do think I got a little blood lusty back there.”

“Belle, sweetheart, you did the right thing. You were presented with a clear and present danger and you have the right to defend yourself when such an event occurs.” Maurice said with reason and reassurance. “There’s nothing wrong with you did. Right Gaston?”

Gaston was unable to answer that question right away from the fact that he was trying not to focus on the fact that he was sitting on top of his horse with a raging erection (Gaston’s Horse: “—AND ANOTHER THING PHILLIPPE! YOU PROMISED ME PARIS!” Phillippe: “WELL OBVIOUSLY THAT WAS A GODDAMN LIE IF I’M A HORSE SUGAR CUBE!” Gaston’s Horse: “WELL IF YOU KNOW IT’S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN THAN WHY LIE ABOUT IT PHIL—EEP!” Phillippe: “What’s wrong Sugar Cube?” Gaston’s Horse: “THE GIANT ROCK MAN’S GOT A BONER AND I CAN FEEL IT RESTING ON MY BACK AND IT’S SO GROSS!” Phillippe: “HA HA HA HA HA!” Gaston’s Horse: “GO TO HELL PHILLIPPE!”)

“Um…yeah. Right. Of course.” Gaston said awkwardly, silently thanking the fact that it was dark out and street lights hadn’t been invented yet.

Thankfully, they were not five minutes away from the countryside which Belle and Maurice’s home was located so there was no need for more conversations for him to get unexpectedly aroused from. Once they arrived and he was safe to be seen, Gaston and Belle lifted the frail Maurice to the ground. Despite Belle’s slim figure, she was strong enough to support her father back into the home. Jogging ahead of them, Gaston reached the front door to open it for them.

When he was far enough, Maurice whispered to her daughter,

“You know, you never thanked him.”

“Well…I figured from you it would mean a lot more.” She lied without ease.

“Belle, you and I both know he didn’t do what he did for the sole purpose of being a good person. The very least you owe him a thank you.” Maurice murmured. Belle let out an irritated groan to which her father scolded in secret, “Hey your mother may have taught you how to read and how to write and how to cook and how to pay the tax collector but if it’s one thing that I’m pretty sure I’ve taught you it’s manners, young lady!”

“Fine, fine, fine.” She said in a hush as they approached the front steps.

They made their way inside the home to which Belle lead her father up more steps to the second floor.

“Do you need help?” Gaston asked from the front door.

“No, thank you.” Belle grunted as she and Maurice made it up one step at a time.

“That doesn’t count…” He heard Maurice’s voice whisper.

“Papa, please!” She demanded with frustration as she strained herself in struggle.

“Yes she would like your help Gaston!” Maurice said from over the railing.

“No I do not!” Belle denied but it was too late. Gaston was already up the stairs and had took Maurice from Belle, flinging him over his shoulder as if a sack of potatoes and sprinted up the steps with ease, leaving an exhausted Belle in the dust.

Grumbling to herself irritably, “If he thinks he’s getting a bed time story tonight…” Belle marched back downstairs and went into the kitchen to make herself some tea. She poured water into the kettle and lit the wooden stove. By the time she turned around to get her cup ready, Gaston was standing in the threshold. He was so wide he had to turn sideways to get in.

“Your father’s all set. He was barely able to keep his eyes open when he told me you didn’t have to read to him tonight.” He informed as he scuttled into the kitchen.

“Well, good.” Belle said turning her attention to the cupboards.

“Then…I…I’ll be on my way.” Gaston’s voice trailed off. “Good night Belle.”

Belle heard the affirmed sounds of his heavy footsteps leading towards the door. She bit her bottom lip before spinning around and following him.

“Thank you!” She blurted out in one breath forcing him to stop. Gaston turned around to see her lips were part to say, “Thank you. It’s a good thing you came tonight. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t.”

Actually he and a whole bunch of other people knew but that was beside the point. Gaston’s manly heart did kart wheels (manly kart wheels) at the fact that she wasn’t repulsed by him.

“Of course Belle,” Gaston replied in a tender tone. Taking a few steps forward, he took the tips of her first four fingers (because in his testosterone-fueled nightmare for hands he could have very well scattered her bones in trying to place them on top of her hand like what Maurice did) into his palm and said, “I know I am not your favorite person.” (Belle opened her mouth to protest but then she remembered how bad she was at lying and decided against it) “And why would I be? I’ve been an ass. A pig-headed ass who talks about himself in the third person too much. But I swear, I may not win you today or tomorrow, but I am never going to stop trying.”

At first, she thought how this couldn’t be genuine. That that speech was too smooth to have been from his own heart. Then she remembered how earlier he thought a dictionary was a book on being a dick to some lady named Mary and the impulse to reject him faded away. Looking up into his sky blue eyes, she saw effort staring back at her. It made her resting bitch face soften.

“Gaston, that’s probably the nicest thing anyone as ever said to me.” Belle said her voice heavy with awe. “I accept your challenge.”


“Meaning so long as you try and so long as you don’t show up here one day with a wedding secession outside under the assumption I’ll marry you in an instant, I will give you the chance to win my love.”

“Ha, ha, ha, what kind of jerk would do such a thing like that…?” Gaston said, beginning to sweat nervously. “Ha…”

Belle gave him an enduring smile before she stood on her tiptoes and planted a chaste kiss on his muscular cheek. Gaston’s whole face glowed in warmth from such a kiss to the point where a huge cheesy grin spread across his face. It would have been a cherished moment—had Gaston not taken her entire body in his arms and pressed himself against her trying to steal more kisses.

Belle punched him in the chest, crying, “NO GASTON!”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” He said sheepishly as he put her back on the ground. “Sorry.”

“Damnit Gaston, that wasn’t three seconds!” Belle nearly shouted.

“I’m sorry! It’s just—you’re so beautiful and, god, today when you were talking about killing…” Gaston let out a lustful growl.

Belle let out an exasperated groan before marching to the door, opening it and with a wave of her hand commanding, “Leave.”

Defeated, Gaston left the residence humped over and disappointed. His back was barely out the door when Belle slammed it closed. Gaston made a heavy sigh as he plodded his way to his horse who was still quarreling with her ex-lover (Gaston’s horse: “I HOPE YOUR MANE FALLS OUT!” Phillippe: “YOU TAKE THAT BACK!”).

Back inside, Belle was standing around fuming when from the stairs she heard her father cry,

“What the hell Belle?”

She looked up to see him out of behind, standing over the railing, looking miffed.

“How long have you been…?”

“It doesn’t matter! You’ve been talking for years on how you want ‘adventure in the great wide somewhere’ and how you ‘want it more than you can tell’ but you just turned down the advances of the only guy in France who could very well do that for you!”

Belle baulked. “That man? That man isn’t otherworldly! He hasn’t experienced other cultures!”

“Are you kidding me?! Have you seen his tavern! He made an armchair out of a bison, which is native of the Americas. He has raccoons for slippers, which are native of the France/ German border AND he had an elephant tusk as a back scratcher which I’m sure you can guess where that was from! Face it Belle, you want adventure? You’re not going to get adventure married to some prince in some castle somewhere because he’s going to be too busy swearing off other principalities and assassination attempts to go anywhere. You’re going to have to marry money bags monsieur. ”

“Papa! That is the most superficial thing I’ve ever heard you said! What about marrying for love?” Belle argued, appalled.

“Oh Belle let’s face it. You’re an inventor’s daughter. If you marry for love, you’ll just be pigeonholing yourself to a life of borderline peasantry. You’ll never be able to travel because you’ll be too busy starving and toiling and you have an opportunity to not succumb to that life, Belle.” Seeing her face still stubbornly hard, he added, “Would it really be that terrible to be married to a man who can provide and at least tries to be the man of your dreams? Plus, let’s face it. He’s the only guy in town with all his teeth and cares about his hygiene. You could do a lot worse.”

Belle stood by vacillating, knowing that he was right but still stubbornly trying to stand by her convictions. After much mulling, she protested,

“No, no. I can’t. As much as I would kill to travel, if me and Gaston got married he’s going to want to—practice conception. And if I get pregnant than well, those dreams are pretty much dead.”

Maurice shook his head in laughter. Oh what a naïve child, he thought as he walked downstairs and over to his daughter.

“Belle, you’re going to be really grossed out hearing this from your elderly father but…let’s just say there’s a reason your mother and I only had one child…”

Back outside, Gaston hadn’t moved far. In fact, he walked over to his horse and fell listlessly face first into the ground, his massive body sending tiny tremors into the ground around him. He was depressed.

“Oh…No one fucks up like Gaston…” He moaned pitifully into the grass.

He hadn’t planned on moving for the rest of his life. In fact he planned on just lying there waiting until his body would be converted into the grass after a few minutes of self-loathing he heard a voice call out from behind him,


Recognizing that sweet voice anywhere, he pretended that he was merely doing push-ups, “One million and one, one million and two, one million and seventeen…” until the tiny sounds of footsteps coming out him made him “stop” and he pushed himself up so hard he landed on his feet perfectly.

“Oh hi there Belle—I was just—” But she ran right up to him, confronting him directly and demanded,

“Have you ever been to other countries?”

“What? Um, yes, yes I have.”

“How many?”

“Um…” He had to count. “Four, maybe?”

Belle blinked. “Four? Okay, here’s the deal. I’ll give you another chance—if and this is a big if—you take me with you somewhere.”

“Of course! Anywhere! Just pick a place and we’ll go there tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow?” She repeated, her voice soft with delight but then she shook her head remembering the business at hand and said, “Not so fast, we have to get to know each other if we’re going to be spending weeks on end traveling together.”

Oh crap, another drill exam, he thought to himself apprehensively.

“One, why exactly do you love me so much?”

That was easy. “Because you’re the most beautiful—”

“I know that Gaston. I know you think I’m beautiful and I know you find me attractive but people, men, don’t go around learning about feminism and fend off beasts to rescue their fathers and tell them they’ll never stop trying just because they-they want to…mate with them!” (Oh Belle, you’re so naïve) “So I need to know—why?”

“Because…” He began, feeling vulnerable and sappy and as unmanly as can be for even saying it, “I’m a hunter and I like things that keep me going. You keep me moving. You keep me on my toes. You challenge me Belle. And I love that about you.”

Belle felt like her soul was an oven after that minor speech. In less than an hour she heard two of the most profound and genuinely composed sentiments, far superior than anything Shakespeare or Spencer had created, and they were both from Gaston. Despite his flaws, how can you not be swooned?

With a coo, she went up to Gaston’s horse, who at this point was still berating her ex-lover (Gaston’s horse: “I HOPE YOUR MANE FALLS OUT!” Phillippe: “*Gasps* TAKE THAT BACK RIGHT NOW!”), lifted herself upon his steed, she looked down at him with a lopsided grin and asked,

“Wanna join me and go ask each other some more questions, Gaston?”

Gaston smiled, giving her a firm nod. He then pulled himself onto the same horse, wrapping his arms around her tiny waist and said,

“Of course.”

With that being said, Belle pulled on his horse’s reigns and they ran off into one of many nights that they would share together.

“Well…my work here is done.” The Fairy Bro-Parent determined as he watched the pair galloped away with a satisfied nod. Turning to no one in particular he made this decree: “And I hope all who have seen this tale unfold learn from Gaston. No lady-bro should ever settle for a bro who doesn’t try and who doesn’t respect her. But any bro who goes through life with understanding and with the effort to change, he will always be welcomed into the woman’s heart and, equally if not more importantly, her downstairs pleasure factory.”

So is the tale of how Gaston learned to be a feminist.

Hell V. Hades (A Poem)

Hell V. Hades



Blacker hearts

Spread philosophies

And nestle like maggots

Into corpses of inconstant souls



Piddle up


And knell

Before Eternity




Turn stale

Make deals

(Soul Search)



Ghosts don’t know the future

Something Hades (and Charon) both envy

“Better to be fabled knights of feigned wars past”

(Charon’s blunter: “Nobility blows.”)

Lack of Purpose (Makes A Girl Nervous)

It was with devastating clarity that I realized there is no way I’m getting my job back.

It happened yesterday. I was talking to D—, this guy at my old job I really respected, who was asking me if I was applying anywhere. He asked me what I’d like to do, what field I wanted to work in. I wanted to cry. There. I wanted to work there, with the refugees. But it was then and there that I knew that wasn’t going to be.

After I was laid-off, I was replaced by a series of interns and volunteers. All those territorial thoughts I had about them usurping my role and me being a merely notch below unpaid labor turned out to be true. My position had become redundant.

Knowing that solidified another heartbreaking fact—that despite all the love I had for the refugee center and everyone there—it wasn’t enough. Compassion and care is nice when it’s backed up with resources and skills and I had neither: I can’t speak another language (todavìa). I’m not qualified to be a case worker, grant writer or resettlement agent. I’m not even a foreigner. I’m simply just another dumb, monolingual American.

Going home after volunteering all day and feeling like I could be a part of the RC, I skid right back into grieving. Only instead of going through to anger or acceptance, my despair exacerbated my depression (big shocker right? A depressed, unemployed writer) and last night I came the closest I’ve ever been to attempting suicide.

A lot of people might find it stupid and short-sighted to try and kill yourself over a job you only had for 11 months but the pain wasn’t caused by unemployment or financial stress. Relationships mean a lot to me. Every job I’ve ever had I’ve gotten extremely close to at least one person. This was different. I got ridiculously close to a lot of people. To me, I didn’t lose a job. I lost an entire extended family.

And on the day you’re supposed to feel the most loved, I felt way too much. So much that it overstepped the love and affection that I was supposed to be showering the actual love of my life, my boyfriend of 4 years who did his absolute best to support me through this loss. It wasn’t enough though. After 12 days of alternating from sobbing to sleeping to smoking, I decided on Valentine’s Day my heart couldn’t bare it anymore.

I asked my boyfriend to make me some tea. When he left I locked the bedroom door, wrote what I wanted to ne my suicide note, I went to my window opened it up and got my desk.

I lived on the second floor, which even in my dumbass distress knew wouldn’t kill me, so I decided blunt force trauma was going to do. I was going to fall head first and either crack my skull or break my neck.

I was bent over my window sill when the cold air made me want to pee. Seeing I didn’t want to die pissing myself, I got off my desk and went to the bathroom.

That short walk to the bathroom changed everything.

I stayed.

The rest of the night I went to crying and complaining and to going back to crying, though I did end up showing Sal how good empanadas are (what’s not to love about essentially a deep-fried taco?).

It was easily our least romantic (but probably more historically accurate) Valentine’s Day. (St. Valentine was beheaded for his beliefs in noble love).

I really don’t have a point to this story. I’m still lost and jobless. I’m volunteering back at the center, which I know sounds a lot like getting dumped and going back to your ex just to be your booty call, but I still believe in the cause.

I’m applying for jobs and I’m writing.

I’m still not all the way better but I didn’t cry today so that’s already better than yesterday. Hopefully I’ll find a new purpose in life. Until then, I’m just going to stay put and keep my window closed.

This is what UTICA looks like

Beloved strangers and spambots,

Just in case any of you are wondering how Utica is reacting to the Muslim Ban/ Trump’s executive orders against refugee resettlement:

(I’d add more but I didn’t actually take any pictures. These one and the one above were taken by my sister’s friend Josselyn A’s snapchat which i stole but she hasn’t called me out for it so we should be good.)

I won’t say much about my experience. I just want to say two things: 1) not only did my boyfriend and two of my closest friends attend the rally with me but so did my mother, my sister and my 13-old-brother who stood with me in the freezing cold for two hours without complaining. Even more proud to say he was talking shit about the people driving by who didn’t honk or wave at the rallyers in a celebratory manner (his joke: “you can tell they voted for Trump. They’re looking away.”)

2) The fact remains that I am not always proud to be an American, but I am ALWAYS proud to be a Utican.

–“El pueblo unido jamas sera vencido”!!!


Help The Helpless: Support Refugee Resettlement NOW

Dear Beloved Subscribers, Random Visitors, and Possible Government Workers,
I know I haven’t done so but I’d like to thank each and everyone of you for subscribing to my blog. For whatever reason you chose to waste valuable time reading my crap and I can’t thank you enough for it. 
            Unfortunately, I came to you for another reason: As many of you might be aware, Trump’s stance and rhetoric on refugees and immigration in the United States is one of unfounded, selective cruelty. His “travel ban” and his executive order on which countries he deems “a threat” has put a lot of Refugee Centers throughout the country at high-risk: So far, budgets have been slashed and jobs have been lost. Including my own.
            As heartbreaking as that is for me, it’s devastation does not compare to how it impacts the refugees both in this country and outside of the country desperate to breathe free (but rebuked by the Trump administration to “suck it up and buy a snorkeler”). 
            Which is why I come to you guys, the gentle internet users of the world (?): At the end of the 120 day ban, refugees from countries not banned already by the Trump Administration will be allowed to come back into the countries. They are going to need resources and people who know how to facilitate those resources. They cannot be cast aside just because our “Business Savvy” President erased everyone’s jobs. This cannot happen to our communities, especially the city where I come from, whose entire economy was rejuvenated by the refugees and the center that abled them to become productive members of society. I’m asking you to donate, if you can, to 
           We only have less than 4 months before the ban is lifted and my goal is to raise at least $10,000 AND, as incentive, I am offering prizes to those with proof of donations:
  •    Those who donate $20 will receive a random book from my own stash. If you’re like me and will literally read anything, you’ll love this: Maybe you’ll get Han Kang’s “The Vegetarian”. Maybe you’ll get Eminem’s autobiography “The Way I Am”. Maybe you’ll get my 10th grade European History Textbook I never gave back! Hell, maybe you’ll get that copy of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban that I drunkenly wrote “Taylor Swift sucks” into the columns of the book. IT’S JUST THAT RANDOM.
  • Those who donate $35 will receive TWO random books and I will crank call anybody of your choice and harass them in Spanish. Laugh until you pee as I call your bewildered grandfather “una pendejo de burro”.
  • Those who donate $50 I personally write you a short story of your own design: Want me to write a 10 page story of you fighting off 10-foot tall Zombie-Vampires while Maggie Smith narrates the entire scene? I can do it. Want a hardcore erotic-fanfiction of you getting fucked by your celebrity/ fictional crush? I can do it. Hell, for the lazy students, want me to write that paper on the influences of secret police organizations during the Decline of Stalin? SEND ME YOUR EMAIL KID AND I CAN FUCKING DO IT.
  • Those who donate $75 AND have a book they desperately need reviewed: Not only will you get two random books, I’ll read your book, PRAISE THE SHIT OUT OF IT ON MY BLOG (even if it’s bad) and on every social media platform I have, I WILL ALSO personally critique your next novel idea and give you my honest-to-Jebus opinion on it.
  • Those who donate $100, I will send everything above PLUS an obscure band-tee. Be the hipstery-hipster this side of the Mississippi with a band-tee from a small upstate New York town that nobody will EVER hear of.

So please. Do what you can! If you can’t donate, I get it but still do your civic duty: Call your representatives. Express your outrage. Have your voice be heard! We can’t let this presidency determine the fate of our friends, neighbors and community. We only have so much time before who knows what will happen.Thank you!!  



Utica: The City That Needs Refugees (A Part of a “Fuck Trump” Series)

Yesterday, we had an all-staff meeting and the director was straight-forward: Trump, who is currently executive-ordering his cheddary balls off, wants to effectively shut down the refugee program in America. If he gets his way, there will be a 120-day blackout barring any and all refugees and immigrants from coming into the country. There will also be a slash at the number of those who will be allowed to come into the United States (from 110,000 to a jarring 50,000, which, if you put into perspective the fact we’ve already resettled 36,000 is heart-stopping). Refugees from countries such as Syria, Yemen, Sudan, Iraq, Somalia (basically anywhere with a Muslim majority or a big-enough Muslim populous) will be banned from entering. AND, to top off the Islamophobia-Wet-Dream-Cum-Splooge, WHEN refugees ARE allowed to be resettled there will be given preferential treatment to those of a religious minority (GUESS WHO’S A RELIGIOUS MINORITY NOW? YEP. CHRISTIANS).

If President Shit-Cock gets his infantile way, refugee centers across the nation will succumb to drastic budget cuts and lay-offs. People’s lives who couldn’t get any shittier will be jeopardized EXPONENTIALLY. Those who’ve been desperate to breathe freely might as well get a scuba suit or some shit because guess what? Our President and his Death-Eater staff have no love for your situation. No love.

Which is ridiculous in the sense of if Trump was HALF the savvy business man he tricked millions of people into thinking he is, he’d see the economic gain there is to letting refugees into the country. After spending 5+ years living in plastic tents eating the same bag of rice and shit, alternating from extreme distress and extreme boredom all day, you know who’s eager as a motherfucker to work? REFUGEES.

The city I’m from, when I was growing up, was poor as fuck because during the 80’s all the factories left and a lot of jobs were gone. A lot of people left for bigger cities and the ones who stayed behind were either the poverty-stricken, the stubborn or some immigrants (there was a joke bumper sticker that you’d see everywhere: Last One To Leave, Turn Off The Lights. It’s not that funny honestly but neither is the economic decline of an entire city).

Then, the refugees came. The Bosnians came and all those houses that were once boarded up and dilapidated were converted and rebuilt into Slavic-inspired PENTHOUSES. Vietnamese came and suddenly there’s restaurants everywhere again and THEY’VE GOT EGGROLLS THAT I’D SHOOT MY MOTHER FOR (sorry mom). Then the Cambodian and the Russian and all the other Slavs and Puerto-Ricans and Dominicans and soon this city, that was once only known for our beer, our Halfmoons and our drugs, we’re known for something much more profound: our diversity.

It took a while, but a city that was once made fun of for being the armpit of Central New York, and suddenly we’re famous for our compassion. We’re literally known as “the City Who Loves Refugees” “The Second Chance City”. But honestly, we’re not the city who loves refugees. We’re the city that NEEDS refugees. Without them we would have been on our way to just being another Sin City; another wasteland of good food and a lot of drugs. (We have a huuuuuge drug problem in Utica. I’m not even saying that to be funny. I’m saying that because it’s an issue that needs to be addressed: In the 90’s it was crack, in 2012-2013 there was an international drug prevention seminar held in Utica because of our Bath Salts Dilemma, and now we’re just like everyone else in the nation and have a heroin problem. But you know, you brag about the good you gotta own up to the bad)

It’s fair to say that America is way past due having this unnatural hatred towards refugees and immigrants. But then again, when you have a leader with orange skin, Thumbelina hands and enough neck fat to yank down and make a poncho out of, everything’s just the wrong amount of backwards right now.

Anaranjado Pendejo

Anaranjado Pendejo (A Promise To The President)


Like flowers filled with smoke

Like a horse split to the bone

Like an inaugurated fear

Like a fire coming from an asunder roof that flattened me just as I thought I survived the hurricane

I am overwhelmed.

But I am with reckless fear

Because there are promises being oppressed and truths being squelched

And to bear witness without doing shit is like getting shot in the goddamn eye.

For those promises were not necessary

But they were sold like they were

And those promises were not exclusionary (you cannot pick who will and will not collect take up Your offers)

You cannot use them like fishing lures

And hook them into our cheeks until they tear and impale us onto a spear before you toss our worthless bones into the water

Keep goading us with the half you slain and blow the shavings of the ones you erased into our eyes

Watch—watch——as the Debt Collector comes—For they will—(Oh, they’ll come)—

Out of the very fucking Earth

And devour the gunpowder from the fire

And the bones from the blood

And your lies from your promises

And we the people with the will to be will see which of us will last

And which of us will melt like dirty March snow off of a sun-burnt cliff

The Way She Goes: Diatribe of An Upset White Girl


I’m not going to lie to you: I’ve been writing since I was 7 or 8. I’ve written 13 full length novels, 5 or 6 novellas, hundreds of short stories, and possibly thousands of poems/ diary entries. This doesn’t even count all the half-drafts (incompletes) that I’ve either tossed or abandoned over the years and let me tell you– I really fucking hate being a writer. I’d honestly rather aspire to be anything else in this world, ANYTHING ELSE, than be a writer. I’d rather set myself on fire. I’d rather develop a harrowing drug addiction. I’d rather shoot myself in the goddamn face and live forever being shunned from society as a scary Hole-Face Monster–then be a goddamn writer.

It fucking sucks having a deep sense of self-loathing towards anything creative you try to do. It’s fucking DREADFUL having your self-worth be so intrinsically intertwined with something that is SO heavily based upon other people’s approval. Do you even know how many days I’ve had that were in all other facets absolutely perfect but the fact that I didn’t write more than 50 words made it “miserable”? Last Wednesday I got my car back after getting into a car accident from three weeks prior, I got paid thanks to accounting error at work 2 days earlier than expected, I had Subway for lunch thanks to an intern, AND my mechanic knocked 500 bucks off of my deductible for me. ALL ON THE SAME DAY. But did that matter? Nope. Because I didn’t write that day, it automatically made it an “average” day.

What kind of brooding, moody, spoiled-white-girl-living-in-a-first-world-country kind of bullshit IS THAT?

My most memorable, fantastical, euphoric days are usually the days that either: a) the day I finished writing a novel or b) the day I spent writing with the adage of other external greatness happening as well (“wow today was so great! It was Halloween, I got to meet the queen, oh AND I didn’t delete 500 words after painstakingly typing out 15,000 words beforehand.”) Which, in itself, is a whole other level of utter CRAP because my writing should give me ADDED joy not be contingent on ALL my happiness in life.

Sadly, this is how it is. As Ray from “Trailer Park Boys” says, “That’s the way she goes. That’s the way she fucking goes.”

Well I’m over “She” and How “She Fucking Goes” because I’m over having my emotional well-being be twisted and mangled just because the book I spent 9 months writing my ass off on (current book is titled “Lack of Purpose Makes A Girl Nervous” if anybody cares D:) get rejected for the 40th time. I’m sick of . I’m tired of seeing every quote upon quote upon quote from famous writers telling me that unless I write every day and unless I just deal with the crippling self-doubt and just write and write and write hard enough, eventually somebody will validate me. My soul is exhausted from all this self-doubt and external antipathy but that’s just an average day in the life of a writer, which can I also add is just zenith level donkey excrement.

Because that’s all writing is: Wanting others to see what you have done and say to you, “Yes. This is good. This is worth all the time and crying and self-castigation. This is good and so is you.”

I guess what I’m saying is: All of this is just a long, unnecessary diatribe and I’ll probably go back to my self-destructive habits tomorrow. But for now, I’m just letting others out there know: Writing is hard but, hey, that’s the way she goes.

S/O To Things That Made Me Cry: This Week Ahmed Danny Ramadan

Shout Out To Things That Made Me Cry is a brand new segment that I want to do where I basically talk about articles, essays and editorial pieces that made me cry.

This week, the thing that made me cry was Ahmed Danny Ramadan’s essay titled “Searching For A Home: One Man’s Story of Survival in the Syrian Civil War” (linked here for any of y’all who likes to hurting your own feelings).

How can you not feel for Ahmed, a dude whose homeland is furrowed beneath the weight of the Arab Spring, who not only has to deal with the theatres of war and military infiltration but has to lead this double life as a gay man in a thoroughly anti-gay environment? See in Syria people don’t judge you for being gay. They don’t make snide comments about your sex life or get uncomfortable around you; they take your job, they take your house, shit they’ll arrest your ass and nobody’s going to come to your defense because being gay is just another societal deviance that only prison can cure.

But he does a much better job of explaining all that in the essay.

I have nothing new to add. For I am probably the exact opposite of this guy: I’m not gay, I’m not a refugee (can’t say though that the looming prospect of Trump Rule doesn’t me wonder if I’ll be able to say that in years to come) and I’m not Arabic. But you don’t have to be for your heart to break for him and wonder if how many lifetimes is Ahmed and his fellow LGBTQ community away from the love and acceptance that is still hard to come by even in progressive countries such as mine.

But like all written works of tragedy and human suffering, this essay has an element of hope at the end. “As a former refugee, I feel responsible to be a successful citizen here [in Canada]; not just for me but also for all other Syrian refugees, and all the LGBT refugees will come after me. I want to show Canadians and westerners that LGBT refugees, with the right support, can and will embrace their new home. I want to show that LGBT refugees can give back to the community that opens its arms for them. To do this, I need to be resilient. I need to be strong.”



Rasputin: A Review and Reflection

Rasputin: A Review and Reflection of Douglas Smith’s “Rasputin: Faith, Power and the Twilight of the Romanovs”

I come from a long line of obsessers: ranging from sports and work fanatics to actual addicts. I myself am a fangirl. I’ve always obsessed with something: From 4th grade me who was obsessed with knowing everything there is to know about the Sinking of the Titanic to Adult Me who recently got a Screamapillar tattooed on her leg to solidify my 20 yearlong love affair with the Simpsons. The list ranges on: From the IRA, Alan Rickman, Perfume: The Story of a Murderer, Biggie Smalls, Emilie Autumn, the Columbian telenovela Las Mucheñas de la Mafia, the Hunchback of Norte Dame soundtrack (played all day every day the entire summer of 2015) and, my earliest and deadliest fixation, writing.

Of course none of those compare to my most bewildering preoccupation which is, my boy, notorious mad monk extraordinaire, Grigory Yefimovich Ra-Ra-Rasputin.

I honestly can’t give you one solid explanation for this fixation like I could with the others (even fourth grade me got a huge kick out of éclat of Irony that is the “Unsinkable Ship” Sinking). I can’t even remember when it all started but for whatever reason my nerd idiosyncrasies has always held a soft spot for both Russian History so when, at whatever age, I found out about Rasputin I was hooked.

And why wouldn’t I be? Douglas Smith, author of Rasputin: Faith, Power and the Twilight of the Romanov Dynasty, said it best: “The Life of Rasputin is one of the most remarkable in modern history. It reads like a dark fairy tale.” Out of all the biographies, documentaries, historical narratives and that one movie Rasputin: the Dark Servant of Destiny that I watched half of (not gonna lie I lost respect for the movie’s historical credibility once Snape started dicking the Tsarist) pertaining to Rasputin, this is the only one that felt like it was giving him a fair and balanced rendering of his life. Personally speaking, almost everything I’ve ever read of the guy gave off two clear and present biases: Either he was a pussy-obsessed peasant or a dirty-ass villain. That’s it.

Smith, on the other hand, does something most Rasputin historians haven’t bother to do and that was make him human. It’s easy to forget that at one point Rasputin Mad Monk began as Rasputin, Family Man but Smith does. In fact his approach is both shocking and charming: He went to archives and pulled out unrefuted documents about the guy. He brings up letters, diaries, correspondences, police reports. Hell, he even uses some of Rasputin’s own writings, something I have never seen in a biography about him before since everyone loves to dismiss him as an illiterate. One of the recurring themes I was damn-well shocked to discover from his writings was the overall message of love:

“Love does not allow you to see people’s weaknesses.” “Love is great suffering, it won’t let you eat, it doesn’t let you sleep. It is mixed with sin. Still is better to love.”

Who would’ve thought? Not me. I only knew what I read about him from Wikipedia or that one documentary that tried telling me he was going around sexing up prostitutes in his home village at the age of 9 (linked here if you wanna watch historian say with a straight face “Rasputin was promiscuous by the age of 10”).

That is not to say his life isn’t shrouded in mystery or that his actions were always scrupulous. The biography delves in his straight forward lechery. He used his influence to his advantages. He drank a lot, partied too much and made a fool out of himself. He loved other women even with his wife, Praskovia, back home taking care of his many female followers that wouldn’t leave his home. He loved prostitutes too. He even loved his Tsarist and her family, who returned his affections but of course in an un-fleshly manner. What really intrigued me about the book was how Smith described Rasputin and Tsarist Alexandra’s bond, something history liked to blur or fabricate with raunchy tales of adultery, sex-slavery, mind-control and/ or religious manipulation.

It turns out he, lowly Serbian generational farmer, and she, classy maiden of English and German royalty, had some things in common. Religious, family-orientated, stricken repeatedly with tragedy and surrounded by enemies, they were, as it seemed at times, of like mind: “She [Alexandra] viewed the world much as he did and one can see how Rasputin’s worlds would have been welcomed by her and how they helped create a bond between them.”

I won’t spoil the ending for you (that was a joke. Seriously if you don’t know what happens to Rasputin and the Romanovs, go Google it or forever be ignorant). I’m just going to end with Smith’s choice of proem a poem written by random German Heinrich Heine:

“It is also said that these fools/ Upon reaching the ocean-shore/ And having seen how the sky/ Was reflected in the blue tide below/ Believed that the sea/ Must be Heaven, and in they plunged/ With Faith in God/ And all were drowned.”

The book is 600+ pages long, it’s got way too many names to remember and there’s a lot of parts where you’re going to have to decide for yourself what to believe but that’s the best part about history: In the end, it’s all just about story-telling.

I was born on an ancient indian meth lab

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