Friendship
Word of the Day: 捜す
So, my computer was hacked again and now they are wanting me to edit wikipedia articles for some reason, referencing bank trans actions and such, which I found highly disturbing. Also they tried to get me to agree with completely bullshit things. Since I can't really see since I don't have glasses, I would never agree to anything I can't see.
By Kayla McIntosh9 months ago in Confessions
The universe connects.
My life has settled down into a quiet, simple, mundane routine of household chores and yard work that comes from living alone on a hobby farm in a rural community deep in the mountains with no close by neighbors. And I’m okay with that, I suppose. I’ve lived a good life, full of excitement and danger, good stress, intellectual stimulus, world travel, all that interesting kind of life you read about in novels. I’ve lived that life. But now it’s over. I’m older, content to slow down. But maybe it’s because I’m alone, no companion to share adventures with, I don’t know. I’m not actively looking for anyone. I’m content on growing my fruit tree orchard on my patch of land and raising my flock of chickens and ducks. My chocolate lab keeps me company when I watch tv at night, and goes on long walks with me around the farm roads and down to the creek that runs past my land in the pine and redwood forest nearby. It’s beautiful here. No noise, or people, or crime, or graffiti. Just birds, frogs and other bigger wildlife. My slice of paradise. But actually, it would be nice to share it with someone. And that’s where the universe comes in. Let me tell how.
By Guy lynn9 months ago in Confessions
The Girl Who Knocked on My Window. Content Warning.
PART ONE The Girl Who Knocked on My Window There are people you meet when you’re young who don’t just change your life — they quietly endanger it. You don’t recognize it as danger at the time. You call it friendship. You call it fun. You call it freedom. I was a Black girl growing up in a house where the porch light meant something. When that light came on, it meant come home. It meant you were expected. It meant somebody noticed if you didn’t walk back through the door. I was the youngest of five. By the time I came along, my mother trusted me. I wasn’t sneaking boys into the house. I wasn’t doing drugs. I wasn’t out here wilding. Most days, if I wanted to go somewhere, she let me. She only ever asked me one thing when I walked out the door: “Do you have your house keys?” And every night, no matter how late I came back, she’d be sitting on the couch. Waiting. As soon as I walked in, she’d go to bed. Ashley didn’t have that. Ashley was white, reckless, and free in the way only girls without supervision ever are. Her mother drank. Men came and went. Nobody checked in. Nobody waited up. Nobody noticed when Ashley didn’t come home. Which is how she ended up at my window. She’d knock softly at first, then harder, then impatiently, like she knew I’d come. And most nights, I did. I’d slide the window open, whisper her name, already halfway out of my own damn house. Ashley was always into older men. Way older. Men who had money, cars, stories, and no business talking to girls our age. She treated it like a badge of honor. Like proof she was grown. One of those men — I’ll call him Rick — was someone I’d met before. Late twenties, maybe older. Too comfortable around teenage girls. Always smiling. Always watching. He had a friend named Carl. I never met Carl. Carl was in his thirties. Grown-grown. The kind of man you don’t accidentally end up around. The kind of man you notice after something goes wrong. At the time, all I knew was that Ashley talked about him. The way people talk about someone who exists just offstage. That Saturday, a woman was killed. She wasn’t from here. She flew in on business. Checked into a hotel. Had meetings on her calendar. A life waiting somewhere else. In this story, her name is Claire Monroe. We didn’t know that yet. On Sunday — the very next day — Ashley called me. Her voice was excited. Too excited. She told me Rick and Carl were going out on a boat. Said it would be fun. Said we deserved it. Said I was always too cautious. She asked if I wanted to go. Something in my body went cold. I remember standing in my bedroom with the phone pressed to my ear, staring at the window she used to knock on. I didn’t have facts. I didn’t have proof. I just had a feeling — the kind that doesn’t explain itself. I told her I had to ask my mom. Ashley laughed. “You don’t ever ask your mom,” she said. “You don’t have to.” And she was right. Normally, I didn’t. But that day was different. I walked into the living room and asked anyway. My mother didn’t hesitate. “Fuck no,” she said. “We Black. Black people don’t go to the lake.” She said it like a joke. But it wasn’t one. I went back to my room and told Ashley my mom said no. She was irritated. Confused. Almost offended. “You never ask your mom,” she said again. “I did this time,” I told her. “And she said no.” So Ashley went without me. Later, she told me about that boat ride. She said Rick stayed close to her the whole time. Too close. Like he was guarding her. Like he didn’t want Carl looking at her. She said they joked about choking. About control. About things that weren’t funny. She laughed when she told it — but her laugh was off. Tight. Forced. I didn’t like any of it. On Monday, everything broke open. The news hit. Names were named. Photos were shown. Ashley turned white. She started shaking. Crying. Saying the same thing over and over: “I was just with him.” They didn’t get caught because they were smart. They got caught because they were arrogant. They called their boss. Trusted him. Confessed too much. And their boss turned them in. Ashley had to go to court. She was a witness. She’d seen them the day after. She’d been on that boat. I sat next to her, listening to details nobody should hear at our age. And all I could think about was the porch light. About my mother on the couch. About that one time I asked permission when I didn’t have to. About how close a no came to being a yes. I didn’t stop being friends with Ashley immediately. That kind of break takes time. But something shifted that Monday. Because once you realize how close you came to disappearing, you never unsee it. And once you understand how often danger shows up disguised as fun, you start paying attention to the knock. What haunted me most wasn’t the murder itself. It was the timing. The way life had casually placed me one decision away from becoming a headline. The way nobody warns you that danger doesn’t always announce itself as evil — sometimes it shows up as an invite. A boat ride. A phone call. A laugh that comes half a second too late. I started replaying every night Ashley knocked on my window. Every time I followed her into the dark without telling anyone where I was going. Every moment I trusted her instincts instead of my own. I thought about how easily my mother could’ve said yes. How easily I could’ve skipped asking her altogether. How easily the porch light could’ve meant nothing that night. Ashley didn’t stop sneaking out after that. Recklessness doesn’t disappear just because it brushes up against consequences. But I did. I started hesitating. Listening longer. Questioning invitations that sounded too good. I noticed how Rick had always been watching — not just Ashley, but everyone. How he smiled without warmth. How he stood too close, spoke too softly, lingered too long. At the time, I didn’t have the language for grooming, coercion, or predatory behavior. I just knew something felt wrong. And now I know this: The body knows first. It knows before facts. Before evidence. Before the news breaks. It knows when something isn’t safe, even if your mouth doesn’t have the courage to say it yet. Ashley carried guilt for years after that. Survivor’s guilt. The kind that doesn’t make sense logically but refuses to loosen its grip. She wondered why she lived. Why she was spared. Why she was held close instead of harmed. I wondered why I listened to my fear when I usually didn’t. That question followed me into adulthood. Because that moment wasn’t about luck. It was about listening. And once you realize the difference, you don’t forget it. Part One ends here — not with answers, but with awareness. Because this story isn’t just about a murder. It’s about all the moments before one. And how sometimes, survival looks like asking permission when you don’t have to.
By Dakota Denise 9 months ago in Confessions
How Healthy Conflict Resolution Improves Relationships And Mental Health Outcomes
The presence of conflict is a natural aspect of a close relationship since people do not have the same needs, views and emotional experiences. Conflicts are not bad; however, the difference in conflict management is the one that defines its effect. When conflict is not addressed or handled in a bad way, then it may cause emotional distance, resentment, and chronic stress. In the long run, the unresolved tension has adverse effects on the relationship satisfaction and mental health with regard to anxiety and emotional exhaustion.
By Robert Smith9 months ago in Confessions
The Version of Me That Almost Was
I found the old notebook while cleaning, tucked behind things I no longer used but hadn’t thrown away. The cover was bent, the pages yellowed, the spine fragile from years of neglect. Inside was a version of me that felt both familiar and distant, like meeting an old friend whose face you recognize but whose life you no longer understand.
By Salman Writes9 months ago in Confessions
How Communication In Relationships Protects Mental Health And Emotional Balance
Valuable human interaction is built on open and sincere communication. When people communicate openly, it is done in a way that would allow sharing of thoughts, emotions, and concerns without fear. Such transparency promotes sincerity wherein individuals express themselves as they are but not cloak themselves with assumptions or silence. Being frank gives way to feeling through the air which is bound to cause miscommunication and stress. Being able to describe their needs and feelings, people feel relieved and clear emotionally and build their psychological safety in relations and contribute to the psychological wellbeing, in general.
By Robert Smith9 months ago in Confessions
The Day I Stopped Refreshing the Page
The Day I Stopped Refreshing the Page For a long time, my mornings started the same way. Not with breakfast. Not with stretching or deep breaths or gratitude, like people on the internet suggest. My mornings started with refreshing a page.
By Salman Writes9 months ago in Confessions
The Kind of Tired Sleep Can’t Fix
I’m not tired in the way sleep can fix. I’ve tried that. Early nights. Late mornings. Power naps that turn into guilt. None of it touches this kind of exhaustion. It lives deeper, somewhere behind the eyes and under the ribs, where rest doesn’t reach. It’s not the kind of tired that fades with eight hours under a blanket—it’s the kind that lingers even after the alarm clock says I’ve had enough.
By Salman Writes9 months ago in Confessions
The Rhetoric of Cinema: Seeing with the Eye of the Heart
Art of Watching Films and Avoiding Love If you want to avoid life and being human, just pretend you are a filmmaker. Study to art of filmmaking, so you do not craft of how be interconnect with humans.
By SAMURAI SAM: Wild Wayne9 months ago in Confessions
