finnikinz wake

TED DANSON FEET

Hello baby girl how are you today yasssss i love being alive hashta feminism hashytagh 

It was a cold night in 2006, and frigid breezes threatened constantly to penetrate the thin walls of the Boise, Idaho house. (haha, penetrate. Hashtag fanservice.) it was holiday break in December, and many children mulled about inside their heated houses in the lull time between Christmas and new years eve, a collection of forgettable days during which nothing substantial ever really happened. One such day was December twenty-eighth.

Dwayne, webkin's eldest brother, sat alone atop the roof, smoking cirgarettes and flicking them onto the lawn, much to the dismay of matriarch Joan, staring listlessly at the scene – Parliaments fizzling out on the spiky, frozen grass – as she stared at most devilish scenes of Dwayne's making. Some in this family rebelled louder than others, though rebellion was never entirely absent. For webkin it was simply more subtle, more quiet. Webkin was alone in their room whilst joan finally found exactly the words she wanted to chew out her disobedient son with, listening to the exasperated cries of a tired mother who had to pretend to be happy for the benefit of expectant in-laws and three children who had no idea their father had gambled away half of the present budget during his business trip to Atlantic city.

Webkin could picture her baring a spatula like some sort of persian knife, though Dwayne would not see it from his falcon perch on the red shingles. She would say "Stop that shit, Dwayne, I know you're just trying to get a rise of out me." And she would be right, in some way, at least. Dwayne would respond, as if an actor in a play written and re-written so many times: "Stop what?" They had heard nothing so far but could predict how it would unfold, could tell when everything would happen, and in fact it did.

They knew the exact moment their mother lost control of her temper– just a little bit, but enough to lead to a more shrill demand to "Come back down here, for the love of fuck. Your father is inside reheating dinner and– don't roll your eyes at me. I didn't put you on this Earth for you to treat me like a nuisance." Webkin could tell their mother was being unreasonably loud and their neighbors could most likely hear their family drama on full display on the front lawn. Still, they tried to ignore this fight and treat it for what it was–ambient white noise they had become accustomed to.

Webkin tapped their fingertips on the keys for a few seconds before actually pressing them, a nervous habit. They were also prone to hanging their head in their lap, sort of, face down, refusing to make eye contact with the page in moments of writers' block. No matter how bleak those moments of anti-inspiration felt, however, the story would never fail to eventually take form in the bright white lathe of Webkin's quickly-growing wattpad page. They blocked out all noise, a mental block between Dwayne, their mother, the rest of their neighborhood and the act of writing. This was a state of creative bliss.

Entirely engrossed in their writing, Webkin detailed the goings-on in the fan-crafted of the characters from their parents most despised show. The heartbreaks, emotional hardships, and dry comedy all birthed from the mind of Webkin, a product of their creativity. Their beautiful brain-child was in fact a twenty-four chapter masterpiece detailing the life of frasier crane after the series finale of the self-titled 90's sitcom frasier, that for some ungodly reason, their parents hated. This was their quiet rebellion, the source of a feeling of home in this strange and alienating thirteen-year-old existence.

"You don't give a fuck about me or Webkin, mom. You never did shit for me and you just expect me to blindly respect you, for what? For fucking invading my privacy?"

It was difficult, sometimes, to keep distractions out–keep up the mental wall–but Webkin persisted, and hammered away sentence after sentence, digging deeper into their most recent foray, a nearly four-chapter arc centered around a wedding taking place at a Denny's fast-food restaurant (a crossover arc, in fact: a lovely ceremony marrying frasier crane and Ted Danson's Sam Malone from cheers). It was turning out brilliantly, webkin thought, almost too brilliant. Their dream was for the series to be picked up by nbc as a spinoff show. The chapter had just been given a beautiful title: TED DANSON FEET.

They were in the middle of a scene, mainly dedicated to the fanservice given to their eclectic reader base of around thirty dedicated "frasier-stans", in which sam malone explores frasier's body for the first time. How they managed to write a shower scene discreetly whilst in the same house in which their father was condemning written porn on some internet forum for christians (which was quite hypocritical, considering he had just looked up "hot blonde banging step-uncle" and then promptly deleting his history after he had finished his business with a box of tissues), was a mystery.

Their ceilings were thin, and the distinctive sound, a sound they had heard thousands of times before (at the time, they did not realize this time would be the last), the sound of Dwayne standing up and pacing as he argued with their mother. The yelling became louder, too, and webkin began to block out the words. An odd auditory skill, yes, but one which tends to develop when living with people like this, the ability to turn the language of shouting into nothing such that it ceases to have meaning. Background noise, webkin would say to themselves, repeatedly, a mantra. Background noise. They continued to write, eyes glued to the screen in concentration: it all became fuel for this creation, everything, the background noise and the conscious effort to ignore it. Webkin was writing what felt like a million words a minute about the specific arc of ted danson's left buttcheek.

"I don't know where you learned these things–I certainly didn't raise you like this."

Background noise. Ted danson had very strong glutes.

"Mom if you even gave one fuck about this family, you would just realize that we're our own people. And you suffocate us! How the hell am I supposed to be myself when you–"

Background noise. Frasier grabbed ted's–rather–sam's hips.

"God, fuck." A dry laugh. "Be yourself? What, is this some saturday morning special, dwayne? I raised you to be a functioning human being who can fucking support himself, and instead you lounge around eating my food and wasting my fucking time."

Ted, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. T-e-d: the tip of my tongue taking a trip of one step (only one)...

"I fucking hate living here. I can't stand you people."

He was Ted, plain Ted, in the morning, standing six foot one in one sock. He was Ted in slacks. He was Ted at school. He was Theodore on the dotted line. But in my arms he was always Ted.

"You're so ungrateful. Everything we do for you, and you just waste away up there, you–"

Being-towards-death is the anticipations of a potentiality-for-being of that entity whose kind of being is anticipation itself. In the anticipatory revealing of this potentiality-for-being, dasein discloses itself to itself as regards its uttermost possibility. But to project itself on its ownmost potentiality-for-being means to be able to understand itself in the being of the entity so revealed–namely, to exist.

"You think I'm a waste of your time? How the hell am I supposed to feel loved in this fucking foresaken family?"

"When you act like this, you're not!"

"Sometimes, I swear, I wish I was never born. Happy fucking holidays, mom."

Ted died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don't know. I got a telegram from the home: "Ted deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours." That doesn't mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday.

"It's merry christmas!"

"What does it fucking matter–"

A thud. An ear-piercing scream. Somehow, it was no longer background noise. Somehow, Webkin's skill failed them and they were damned to hear the feral cries of their own mother as she ran over to Dwayne, a pile of a person on the ground. Webkin didn't hear Dwayne slip on the ice, nor did they hear his last words. They only heard Joan's animalistic yelling as she tried to wake up her only son from a sleep she inadvertently caused and condemned him to be in for the rest of time. Webkin's brother Dwayne was dead. Webkin's mother Joan was a husk of the woman she was before december of 2006. Webkin's dad was upstairs focused only on a cheap orgasm and his online betting game. And chapter twenty-five was finished.