RISE ABOVE.

KASPER OTTENHEIMER; 21 YRS OLD. BIOENGINEERING, DRAG-RACING SKATEBOARDING. we're just tamer animals.

[kas-ottenheimer]

@elainespaulding

He didn’t linger long after arriving at 20 East 78th Street. Zofia had been there, of course, informing him of his mother’s whereabouts in her toneless Eastern European accent while inspecting the fifty-piece Haviland china (and the alternate Wedgwood set) for any minute imperfections. He’d found Andrew on the couch, sullen and sleep-deprived and no doubt still hungover, after a week of end-of-finals festivities at Taft. There were shadows beneath his brother’s eyes like three-day-old bruises. Kas had given him a congenial smack on the head in passing— reciprocated with a scowl and a protest he didn’t wait around to hear— then left his bags still packed in his room and went back the way he’d came through the foyer. There, he shrugged on a winter coat that lived permanently at this address, pocketed some gloves, and soon disappeared through the front door with a vague promise to be back in time for dinner— though it didn’t seem like anyone would hold him accountable if he wasn’t.

It was the kind of cold, stillborn day most often found at the tail-end of December. Massive clouds took up all the space in the sky; glass high-rises stood dull and dark beneath them, occasionally brightened when the morning sun burst through. Piles of snow leftover from earlier in the week had already developed a gray crust from the exhaust of passing cars. Even so, he felt oddly nostalgic walking through this part of the city, looking up to where cranes bisected the sky in Midtown, passing through warm gusts of air rising from a subway grate. He took notice of the things that had changed, and the things that had stayed the same. Taking a town car would’ve been quicker and warmer, but the walking felt necessary. No part of him had thought he might actually miss it here. Yesterday, in LA, the weather had been a balmy sixty-two degrees. He’d sat in the first class lounge, watching an invisible breeze stir the palm trees around LAX, and realized— he was getting tired of it there. Things stayed too much the same. There was no change of seasons, only the wet half of the year and the dry one. He was still surfing every morning, still skating at the bowl in Venice Beach. Still wearing T-shirts in December. But here, when the temperature dropped into the low thirties and the wind howled through the canyon streets, there was no mistaking a New York winter for exactly what it was. At a crosswalk, Kas pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt and searched his pockets for the gloves, their role as an afterthought now becoming a necessity. He didn’t mind the cold— but like a change of timezone, it did take some getting used to.

Beyond the revolving doors of the Plaza Hotel was a very different world from the one outside. A temperate jungle, with glittering crystal chandeliers and marble columns and huge, exotic plants fanning out over white-cloth tabletops. Light filtered down from a stained-glass skylight, shaded by a partial canopy of four potted palms. His gaze searched the room until he found Elaine, seated at the bar in a tall wicker chair, one leg crossed over the other. She looked like she belonged here, perfectly at home amidst this old-world elegance. 

The hostess let him through sans-reservation— his mother had hosted her fair share of events at the Plaza, so a last name was all it took— but still, Kas felt the need to push down his hood, aware that a sweatshirt (no matter how expensive) was still a sweatshirt, and this place most definitely had a dress code. “Hey! Sorry, didn’t mean to keep you waiting, but I didn’t want to take a car, so…” He raked a hand through partially-squashed curls. A small smile took shape. “It’s good to see you. Happy holidays.” As she stood, Kas angled to give her a one-armed hug. It was a greeting he was used to giving without much thought. But the thought did occur to him— a second too late— that maybe he shouldn’t, maybe Elaine would prefer that he didn’t. By then, he could only make up for it by pulling away, quickly, and returning his hands to the pockets of his coat. His gaze lifted to the menu with a great deal of interest. “So, coffee first?”

The bar was equipped with elegant chrome machinery and a single, highly-competent barista, There was a special holiday menu: coffee, cocktails, coffee-cocktails, some garnished with sticks of cinnamon or delicate spirals of crystallized ginger. He ordered a flat white, nothing out of the ordinary. As Elaine placed her own order, he looked around at how they’d decorated the Palm Court for the season. Tasteful, but… a little weird, seeing hints of Christmas cheer in this luxurious tropical grove. There was a wreath above the entrance smothered in gold foil and silver baubles, and a giant Nutcracker stationed in the far corner which looked like it should be holding a machete, not a bayonet, to slash through all this vegetation. The clouds shifted; morning light poured down, dappling the mosaic floor with an array of colors. Though it was warm in here, and the ambiance complete with a piano rendition of Santa Baby floating in from the lobby, he was still thinking about the rest of the city outside. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen what Fifth looked like during Christmastime. Glancing at Elaine, the thought passed over his expression almost visibly; Kas waited till she’d been given her coffee before he gestured towards the lobby by lifting his own. “Actually, do you mind if we take these to go? I think I’ve finally been away long enough to get sentimental.” His smile twisted, a bit sheepish, but he went on. “The walk here was nice and— the sun’s out, so maybe we can... walk?”

[kas-ottenheimer]

elainespaulding‌:

At first, Elaine had dismissed the first few booths at the art fair as kitschy and mawkish. She spent five minutes eyeing various wooden statues reportedly carved via chainsaw before another small, white-tented set up caught her attention. Stacked, laid out across a long plastic table, and neatly organized in crates and bins, were records. She would never claim herself as some real vinylhead by any means, but her mouth twitched into a small smile at the sight. The person manning it looked the part: long hair, grey beard, black-framed glasses. He could’ve been the twin brother of the owner of the record store by her apartment in New Haven, a man with a heavy marijuana smell permanently stuck to himself and whose name she never really got around to asking. The records themselves were ordered by genre, and then alphabetically, which was a fact that smoothed something ruffled in her chest alone. Her hands immediately fluttered toward the tab labeled ‘SOUL’ in blocky handwriting. She flipped through the expected Anita Baker’s and Al Green’s, when something in the B’s took her aback. Elaine pulled out the 45 carefully, her eyebrows poised upward as she looked over the water-damaged sleeve, humming in quiet consideration, when she heard Kas’ voice. And it was odd, for that thought to flit into her head so—thoughtlessly. The past few times they had seen one another, she required a full moment of shock, of processing, but this time the fact folded itself into reality quite neatly, if not with a little aggravation. But still, in an act of self-betrayal, her heart kicked up a notch.

Elaine’s eyes widened as she looked up, less so at Kas’ appearance but at the dog that quickly followed at his heels. Her shoulders tightened, half-expecting the animal to jump up at her, but Kas quickly interceded, neatly scooping up the dog before it covered much ground. Elaine liked dogs just fine. She just wasn’t entirely used to them, or their smell, or their drool. Her stomach clenched uncomfortably remembering when she pet one of her sorority sister’s dogs and she literally had to wash the visible dander off. She then also took a shower when the general, phantom itching feeling wouldn’t go away afterward. “Why—because I’m predictable?” She replied, mostly to give him a hard time, and then regretted it. Though she didn’t have much a mind to be overly kind to him right then, she hardly wanted him to return to his friends with the news of what a bitch she was. At his question, Elaine looked back down at the 45 in her hand. It was Baby Washington’s single ‘Leave Me Alone.’ Far too on-the-nose for her liking, and incredibly undervalued with a $5 price tag. With a slight roll of her eyes, she turned it over for him to see for himself. “This is actually worth something more like forty or fifty dollars, if I had to guess,” she said, then flipped it back as she straightened on her feet. She wasted a moment just looking at it, wondering if the water damage messed with the record itself, then sighed quietly as she turned back to a bin up on the table. The tabs inside were labeled ‘HARD ROCK’ and ‘HEAVY METAL’, an album entitled ‘The Nature of the Beast’ looked back at her, and she tried to feign interest even as her nose wrinkled. Two teenagers puttered by, a Cranberries’ record in hand. She heard the dog panting and didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound mean or dismissive, though she very much wanted to be. “Is he yours?” Elaine asked instead, looking over her shoulder to catch eyes with the dog. It’s tail wagged, her lips tightened. “Or she.”

Why, because I’m predictable? He took a second to study her expression, trying to read what he could see there, then countered with a one-shouldered shrug. A small smile floated to the surface of his face. “Because you’ve got good taste.” It was a relief that she didn’t seem too put-off by his presence— probably a testament to her trained politeness, rather than a sign she’d chosen to forget and forgive his behavior from the party. But still, it was a better start than he’d been expecting; Kas felt reassured enough to step behind her and frown down at the record in her hands. Dark curls fell into his eyes. One eyebrow rose higher than the other as he read the unfamiliar track title. “Sounds like a bargain. Though I’d ask Burning Man Dan,” His eyes lifted, finding the bespectacled, scraggly-haired hippie manning the record tent, “to play it through for you first, since it’s.... not exactly mint condition.” 

As Elaine eyed Chowder the way one might eye an approaching toddler with sticky, outstretched hands, Kas shifted the small dog in his arms. “Nah, my sister’s.” Chowder had already enjoyed his fair share of celebrity at this market. Now, he was more preoccupied with chewing on his own foot; Kas let slip another half of a smile. “She’s away at camp, and my mom has about four years of backlogged guilt to use on me, so... this is Chowder. Chowder, Elaine, Elaine, Chowder.” He hoisted the puppy a little higher so she could give him a pet too, if she wanted— but sensed that maybe wouldn’t be the case. He’d somewhat come to understand how things worked with Elaine. The carefulness with which she held herself, sometimes just shy of visible flinching. The precaution. It had been observed, but never remarked on— like a number of other things. Kas scratched the dog’s stomach until Chowder’s back leg started pedaling the air, an adorable, puppyish gesture he hoped would put her at ease. “He’s a friendly guy. Won’t bite unless you’re a pair of this season’s Off-Whites.” 

People moved past them, slow and squinting in the sun. He trailed behind her as she began to browse another set of bins, and in the three, four, five seconds that passed without either of them speaking, the many ways the conversation could unfold came and went like a time-lapse of flowers blooming and dying. Did he owe her an apology? Did she want him to apologize? He wasn’t sure which part of their last encounter evoked a harder wince: the fact that he’d put her on the spot by demanding answers to questions which had gone unspokenly avoided for so long, or the fact that he’d tipped so much of his own hand by doing so. It was painfully obvious that something from the past still bothered him; something that went beyond idle curiosity, which was the excuse he’d been relying on since their first uncomfortable encounter on the boat. Kas looked at her sideways. Strange, the way that things could be over in real-time but just beginning to take shape in your mind. Also strange, the way he was becoming an expert in betraying his own trust this summer: If he wasn’t making an ass out of himself on Zoe’s voicemail, he was overstepping boundaries with Elaine. He started flipping through records to give himself something to do, noting the Misfits album he’d put back earlier, and the only thing he could think of to say next was also the simplest. “So, what’ve you been up to?”

[kas-ottenheimer]

It’s becoming clear to me I am different people in different company No two versions the same So when I’m all alone I don’t know what to say

[summersblood]

STEAMY TWEETS EP 4 | Diving Deep | Hello everybody, welcome back to The Bone Zone. 

[kas-ottenheimer]

We talk a lot but we don't ever say shit Sayin something that we truly feel But that's just not in the conversation

[kas-ottenheimer]

@elainespaulding

In the few weeks since their party, life in the Hamptons had become something close to routine. Long, warm days with nothing on the agenda, nothing that needed doing— a surplus of time and not very many ways to spend it. They crisped on the beach, drank beers by the pool. Trev began experimenting with a hit-or-miss recipe for Tabasco Bloody Mary’s. Ari prowled around in his usual way, rarely spending time at the house, and when he did stick around, he was aloof and abrasive towards them, more difficult to understand than ever. For his part, Kas stubbornly found ways to keep busy. He surfed, swam, skated. Finished his research proposal for next semester. Watched six seasons of Homeland. Smoked a steady amount of pot and cigarettes, though he was flirting again with the idea of quitting just to give himself a project. Only through doing things did he know how to keep his thoughts in check; only with distraction could he prevent them from straying where he didn’t want them to go.

Today, in another attempt to stave off monotony, he and Lee had ambivalently decided on taking Chowder to the town park where an art fair was being held, the kind of scene where local vendors brought out their wind chimes and decorative pottery and watercolor sunsets in order to make the most of the summer tourism. Lee was checking out a table full of silver jewelry, so Kas had wandered off towards the record bins. Mostly it was Joni Mitchell and Fleetwood Mac LP’s, but a single “HARD ROCK/PUNK” crate turned up a dusty Misfits album which he flipped over in his hands, mildly interested, as Chowder made soft scuffling noises in the grass. When he looked over to make sure the dog wasn’t eating something that might kill him, he saw a familiar figure stooped over one of the other crates. Elaine— her blonde hair tucked behind one ear, sweeping down like a curtain on the other side. He hadn’t seen or spoken to her since the party. Their last conversation was one he purposefully kept from revisiting, and the consequence of that night was that he’d decided, once and for all, to leave well enough alone. As he probably should’ve from the start. Kas hesitated for a moment, his brow minutely lining. Then— as a surprise even to himself— he walked over to her, feeling suddenly resolute in this decision, as Chowder lifted his nose from the dirt and scampered after him. He wanted to keep things simple— but that didn’t have to mean complete avoidance. “Hey. Shoulda known I might see you here,” he said, anticipating the clipped smile he’d get once she looked up. Or maybe things had gotten to the point where there’d be no smile at all, which was fair. He already had a considerable history of mistakes with her. Chowder came barreling forward, but Kas scooped him up before he could make impact, then regarded the crate she’d been browsing with a tilt of his head. “Find anything good?” Some of the record sleeves in there were so weathered, they looked on the verge of disintegrating. “I think I had a great aunt with this exact collection.”

[linoleumceiling]

Visit Original Link

Rise above, we’re gonna rise above We are tired of your abuse Try to stop us, it’s no use

[kas-ottenheimer]

trevhanson‌:

leeelander‌:

ari-cowen‌:

Ari was late, but expectedly so (he never sped out of urgency, only for the thrill), and he coasted through the abandoned back roads of the Hampton’s, cursing at his GPS periodically as if that small act of hostility would keep it in line. He’d come straight from the bed of a trust fund girl in a stupidly large colonial house, muttering something about an appointment before he pulled out of the drive, leaving dark tire tracks in his wake. He’d forget the details about her as he drove until she was nothing more than a vacant thought washing away in the pool of yellow light thrown out by the headlights. The Hellcat was aggressive, it snarled with each rev of the engine and bit at the miles, swallowing the road with a hunger that made Ari grin with unabashed delight. He loved this fucking car, from the heavy blunt design, to the smooth leather seats and the flat black finish. Like any wicked cat, it bit the hand of anyone who couldn’t tame it. He drove it instinctually now, his foot always heavy on the gas and the music cranked up— he couldn’t imagine himself behind the wheel of something sleeker or shinier— this was a bit of him.

The others were already there as he pulled forward, revving the engine once more for good measure and flashing the headlights. He knew Trev liked to race with his music absolutely maxed, but Ari had his running softer— a backing track to the feedback the Hellcat delivered, adrenaline pumping with each whine of the engine. He rolled his windows down as he let the car creep just before where the other two were parked, silencing the engine and climbing out. Peeking into Trev’s car he waved at Lee first, who was already busying herself with whatever treats Kas had brought along for her. He nodded towards both the drivers, his face lit with joy he reserved just for racing. “Got your pussies strapped on?“

Hissing out a curse Lee threw her hand on the volume knob, the pounding bass having cut straight through her eardrums, “Fuck dude, save it for when the wind is roaring through the car.” Her dirty look was instantly mollified when Trev reached over to hand her the sickeningly neon red slushie. “Thanks babe,” she called out happily to Kas, her grin widening when a bag of her favorite snacks came sailing through the car into her lap. Lee had only raced once in her car once alongside them, and she came to the conclusion afterwards that she was far happier riding shotgun in the passenger seat than hurtling her baby around sharp corners at violent speeds. 

Slouching down in the leather seat, she sipped on the slushie happily, biting down on the straw with a cutting smile when their final missing piece rolled up next to them. “Late as always,” she called out the window without malice, giving Ari a playful upturn of her chin in response to his wave. Got your pussies strapped on? 

With a dramatic eye roll she slid her drink into the cupholder, slapping the dashboard with her now free hand. “As the only member of the crew with their pussy permanently ready to rock, I would like to uphold the tradition of me waving the metaphorical racing flag. Objections to this will be over ruled.”

Trev’s nose wrinkled, had he been more immature he’d of stuck out his tongue in Kas’ direction— (he was in truth, childish enough, but the action was halted by the bag of Funyons being tossed at his face). He reached to give Lee her slushie and treats, muttering something about trying to not get the gross dust all over the interior. All of their heads turned when the Hellcat’s high beams blinded in every reflective surface of the two vehicles, a groan was matched by an impish smile. Everyone was here now, it meant that the night was surely about to begin. This was what he lived for; even despite Kas’ teasing, it wasn’t winning— it was the itch that rolled through them as they idled on a starting line, the sing of his blood as the Merc chewed up a tight turn. They all drove wicked machines, there was joy in simply competing, but it seemed to help that this mindset was paired with the fact that he was the least sore loser in the bunch.

He reached over, putting the music up one more notch before looking through the windows at the neat line up that they had created. Their silhouettes in the dim glow of the streetlights was almost menacing. Kas’ straight nose and flippant smirk and Ari’s scowl were dark marks against the asphalt behind them, both of them had their fingers curled tight around their steering wheels. He nodded before tipping his head back to grin at Lee. “Give us a countdown then, babe.”

When he and Trev had scouted out this local road, they’d eyeballed the width and decided that it was equal to three cars side-by-side. This proved to be true— just barely. No one could’ve opened a door all the way, and the Merc’s passenger-side tires were probably edging off of the road. By comparison, they’d been spoiled by those luxurious six-lane Pacific Coast highways wide enough to land a Boeing on, street lamps blazing like stage lights on either side, all but abandoned in the dead of night. But the proximity here did have its own kind of thrill; he could hear the muffled thump of music confined to each cabin, and beneath it, a rippling current of tension as side by side, the cars vibrated the air, awake and alive, engines straining.

Once his friends disappeared behind the tinted windows of their cars, that was who they became: the lurid green of the compact Merc mirroring Trev’s flashy grins, the brutish, muscular Hellcat indistinguishable from its driver. The M5's presence was the most understated of the three, but it was a weapons-grade car, a powerful piece of German artillery. In the yellow aura of street lamps, it gleamed as if oiled. 

Kas answered the conference call as soon as it came through, hearing Lee snap something unintelligible to Trev before music was turned down. Then her voice cleared itself over the speaker-phone. Give us a countdown, babe. The BMW was soundlessly accumulating power as he pressed the clutch to the floor. He saw the Merc kicking up loose gravel, rear tires spinning in frenzy and clouding the air, as the Hellcat’s engine revved once, twice, crackling exhaust bouncing off the trees like semi-automatic gunfire. With his windows firmly shut, he finally turned up the volume on his own music; somewhere in 1981, an ancient PA system woke in a screech of feedback. A snare accompanied Lee’s voice as she began to count down. THREE, she yelled over the driving bass line. TWO, as the guitars began to chop. -ONE! He released the clutch, sunk his foot down on the gas. The BMW surged. 

It tore through the smoke, zero to sixty in a matter of seconds. On either side, he could feel the neck-in-neck closeness of the other two, but his eyes were fixed only on the disappearing road, working the gear shift from second right into third, needle leaning towards eighty. Trees whipped past. Black Flag exploded into a harsh vocal assault. Above the music, he could hear the engine climbing to a high-pitched whine, could feel it bringing his own heart closer to the surface. The road swung out and he accelerated into the turn; the BMW obeyed intuitively. For something this large, with these sightlines, this much weight, it could take corners with incredible precision. Not a single second lost on the bend. The road straightened, unfurling like a black ribbon, and he pushed all the way to sixth gear, letting the six-hundred-horsepower engine finally run loose.

[kas-ottenheimer]

trevhanson‌:

B U R N   R U B B E R  🚗💨

@leeelander @kas-ottenheimer @ari-cowen

As per usual, the other boys were late. Trev had dropped the pin with their location about twenty minutes ago, and with two matching read symbols cropping up underneath the image, he had expected them to show up at least five minutes before Lee grew bored with the audio features on the Merc and started reclining the bucket seat back and forth in a desperate attempt to find amusement. A ding on his phone made them both crane their heads, with an image of the six pack of Heinekens belted into the BMW’s passenger seat indicating that at the very least, Kas was on his way. 

Another five minutes stretched between Lee and Trev before headlights flooded the stretch of road that the AMG idled on the side of. The shape and glow was unmistakable and Trev grinned widely. “Game’s on, baby,” he crooned, turning the dial to crank up the music before rolling his windows down to wave over the M5 and it’s driver. “Get in line, Ottenheimer.”

He loved driving the most at night. Out here, there was a stillness that you never got in the city, an eerie suburban hush that silenced things in a way that he found deeply satisfying. He was careful to keep his music low until the residential houses of the Hamptons began to disappear, one by one, and all that was left was a looping footage of shadowy trees on either side of the road, occasionally parting to reveal glimpses of low, crouched hills and sleeping vineyards. In this dark slipstream, the BMW and its driver moved with quiet confidence. The M5 on cruise control could basically pilot itself, with its interior display aglow and its 600 horsepower engine running soundlessly, so Kas kept one hand at the top of the wheel and steered with slight movements as he navigated the car along the winding back road that he and Trev had scouted all those weeks ago. Six glass bottles of Heineken clinked occasionally from the passenger seat. They, like everything else about tonight, were part of the bigger ritual by now. 

Seeing the AMG, its green paint rendered inoffensive in the darkness, Kas rolled to a slow stop. The crook of his elbow hung out the open window. “You warm her up, Hanson? Get her limber? Give yourself a pep talk about how winning isn’t everything?” Trev’s trap-house rap was blasting, and his subsequent reply was half-lost in it; Kas lifted Lee’s requested cherry-flavored Slushie from his cupholder and held it out window for Trev to reach. “Here, Slenderman, pass this along.” The bag of Funyuns, he tossed like a Frisbee; it sailed successfully through the Merc’s open window, narrowly missing the driver’s face. He caught the Hellcat’s yellow eyes appearing in the rearview mirror. A familiar, guttural roar charged the air. Kas directed his gaze back to the other two, knowing smirk taking shape. “He’s always gotta make an entrance.”

[kas-ottenheimer]

♫, ❤️, ∞

First already answered!

❤: what my muse looks for in a person they like

Independence, intelligence, and self-confidence is the trifecta.

∞: if my muse believe in ghosts, aliens, etc.

Firm no on ghosts. Believes in the statistical probability that there’s life elsewhere in the universe, but is highly skeptical of any “proof” and thinks Area 51 just a dusty desert airbase where the government reverse-engineers foreign military tech, which is much shadier than hiding E.T., honestly.

[kas-ottenheimer]

☠♫ ✗

☠: my muse’s biggest fear

Not getting to live the life that he actually wants. And less selfishly, anything happening to his mom or siblings, or his friends.

♫: my muse’s favorite song, band, and/or music genre

His favorite genre is punk, specifically American hardcore in its 80′s heyday: Black Flag, Minor Threat, Bad Brains, The Dead Kennedys, etc. Also listens to rap (will mildly participate in debates about East Coast vs. West Coast, and ultimately side with Tupac as being the GOAT), occasional indie rock, and instrumental hip-hop beats while studying. 

✗: something my muse hates or gets angry about

People who act entitled, people who treat others as lesser-than (being nasty to waitstaff? you’re trash), people who talk a lot when they’ve got nothing of substance to say, having his hair tousled (except for a very short list of allowable offenders). 

[kas-ottenheimer]

☮✧✎✉

First two already answered!

✎: what my muse’s best subject in school is/was

Science was always the subject area that interested him the most, particularly natural sciences like Biology and Organic Chem, though Kas also excelled in math (& shows it off now by doing that impressive thing where he calculates tips in his head).  

✉: the last person my muse texted and what the text said

→ Trev

[ 8:52 a.m. ] wake up your model friends and find out whose ugly Mitsubishi Evo is blocking my car[ 8:53 a.m. ] 10 minutes or I’m calling a tow[ 9:05 a.m. ] i want my fucking bagel trevor

[kas-ottenheimer]

op's last name is literally open hymen but go off i guess

[kas-ottenheimer]

op literally got dumped a month ago and won't open his eyes but go off i guess

[kas-ottenheimer]

op literally hasn't brushed his hair since the gala but go off i guess

[kas-ottenheimer]

☮ ☂ ✧ ✺

☮: when my muse feels the most at ease

His go-to place of escape has always been skate parks (or really any space not overcrowded with pedestrians, the world is just one big skate park innit); the rinse-and-repeat nature of skating around and honing tricks for hours is probably his equivalent of meditation. He’s at ease around people he knows well, and who know him well, rather than in large groups of strangers he couldn’t care less about. He’s also at ease (and likely the most relaxed he ever feels) after smoking a bowl, but that goes without saying!

☂: my muse’s favorite season or time of year

Kas is probably one of those people who say they don’t have a favorite season because there’s pros and cons to each, but on the East Coast it’s summer, specifically late summer, when the weather coasts along at a sunny 70 degrees so you can still wear T-shirts but there’s always a crisp breeze to keep the heat off; luckily California supplies that kind of weather for most months out of the year, so that’s a point for the West Coast’s scoreboard. 

✧: what my muse’s netflix queue looks like

Recently finished Mindhunter Season 2, keeps meaning to go back to Dark, binged Ozark and Broadchurch during finals, keeps up with Peaky Blinders, House of Cards, Black Mirror. The theme here is true crime, fictionalized crime, sci-fi shit, and occasionally, niche political and historical documentaries that he watches at 2 am when he can’t sleep. Will probably watch that docu-series about Bill Gates’ brain; would never admit to it, but has seen two full seasons of the Great British Baking Show. Outside of Netflix (bc lbr who only has one streaming subscription these days?), he’s watched/been watching Succession, The Boys, Chernobyl, and old seasons of Archer. 

✺: something my muse loves and never gets tired of

The satisfaction of beating Ari in a race :)

[kas-ottenheimer]

op literally gave away his best friend's designer goods and slept like a baby but go off i guess