No amount of forewarning could have prepared Dream for the startling array of feelings that would assault him upon stepping into the New Inn and being confronted by the sight of Hob cradling a newborn in his arms, head bent toward a young woman the two of them cooing quietly over the baby. Perhaps it makes no difference that he had none at all.
Hob would have mentioned a wife, surely. A partner. Whatever his relationship is. He would have.
Except that Dream had reacted badly the last time he had mentioned wife and child, and Hob is not expecting this visit, and perhaps he ought to—
“Hello, stranger,” Hob greets cheerfully, his attention diverted from the babe in his arms to Dream. He has a name, by which to call him. A choice of names, and he has chosen Dream, and Dream feels an array of ways about this as well but the strongest of them is a deep, resounding pleasure that with a selection of Dream’s many names laid out before him, Hob has chosen the truest of them.
“Come and meet my granddaughter,” Hob adds.
Granddaughter. Granddaughter?
The young woman who seems to be just a few years younger than Hob himself appears is his child?
It is perfectly possible, of course, but the risk Hob takes. And an adult child he has failed to mention?
The surprise is enough to render Dream mute.
Instead of inquiring further, he moves to sit on Hob’s other side, pulling a chair up so he may look over Hob’s shoulder at the tiny baby. Hob’s tiny baby. His grandchild.
“Her name is Willow,” Hob enthuses, as though this is the most wonderful name any child has ever been given.
“She’s…” Dream begins. She is many things. Tiny. Mortal. Beloved. An accomplished dreamer with a wonderful imagination despite the scant week she has been in the world.
“Beautiful.”
This, Dream thinks, most of all.
“Melanie,” the child’s presumable mother offers her hand across Hob, who is too preoccupied with his precious burden to bother with the social niceties of introduction.
“Is it all right if I tell her your name?” Hob asks. “She knows about me, obviously.”
“Will you not be jealous if your daughter gains knowledge of a name after three minutes which you yourself did not have the use of for six hundred years?” Dream asks.
Melanie’s mouth falls open, her eyes suddenly alight.
She looks absolutely nothing like Hob, except that her smile is as bright and freely offered, and her eyes twinkle in much the same way.
“Oh, I know exactly who you are,” she says. “The mysterious stranger.”
Dream blinks.
“Practically the first thing Hob told me when we met was about you—” Melanie begins, only to purse her lips at a look from Hob, a grin threatening to break through.
Met. Met?
“Met?” Dream asks.
“When I was fifteen and my parents kicked me out,” Melanie says, the barest catch in her voice.
She has a nightmare of this incident, now that Dream looks. A rainy evening. A tearful call to a friend. The feeling of being all alone in the world. Abandonment. Fear. Monstrousness.
But then there is another dream. A smiling face, the warmth of which is familiar to the Lord of Dreams himself. Kindness. An umbrella in the rain, a hand outstretched. Hot chocolate. Safety.
Hob. The dream is of Hob.
Willow makes a sound of displeasure, possibly at being ignored.
“Shh, darling. You’re still the most interesting thing in the room,” he says. “I’ve known him six hundred years, but I’ve only known you half an hour. I’ve got so much to show you.”
Hob’s voice, thick with emotion, makes something inside Dream ache.
“Do you want to hold her?” Hob asks. “Can he hold her?”
Melanie nods. “Do you know how to hold a baby?” she asks.
“It has been some time,” Dream admits. This, Hob does not yet know. “But I do not believe it is something one forgets.”
Hob hands her over expertly, and Willow falls immediately asleep in Dream’s arms.
Melanie’s mouth falls open again. “How did you do that?” she asks.
Hob chuckles. “Of course she’ll sleep for you,” he says. “Careful, or you’ll end up splitting the babysitting with me.”
“I would consider it an honour to be charged with the care of your grandchild, Hob Gadling,” Dream murmurs, settling Willow’s tiny, warm weight a touch closer to his body, offering her human warmth in exchange.
It takes him a moment to realise Hob is staring openly at him.
“Have I said…?”
Hob breaks into a soft, warm smile. “It was just very sweet.”
Dream smiles back, without wholly intending it. “Perhaps there is something to the idea that it is possible to have a sweet dream,” he says.
Hob laughs. “Oh, I have no doubt that under all this you’re soft as marshmallow.”
Melanie excuses herself a moment, and leaves the two of them alone.
“You are a symbol of safety to her,” Dream says. “In her dreams. When she runs from the worst of her nightmares, it is to you she runs.”
Hob bites his lip. “Are you trying to make me cry in public?” he asks.
“You took her in when she had nowhere else to go. I am simply marvelling at how you always seem to have come further, in your humanity, each time we meet.”
Hob snorts. “All your fault, you know,” he says. “Started back when… do you remember Louise Baldwin?”
Dream nods.
“Aye, well, she had a couple of kids, turned out. Older. One of them already married with kids of their own. Absolutely useless husband who, I will add, copped his share of black eyes from me and eventually learned to stay away. Anyway. I married her, you know, for the look of the thing, so she’d have someone who could decently take care of her. Moved to the country for the fresh air and space and so no one’d know who we were. Had a little family again. She didn’t last long, but I set the kids up as well as I could. Took care of them until they were ready to fly the nest.”
Now it is Dream’s turn to stare.
“Then it just. Sort’ve became a habit,” he says. “Fought in the Great War. Couldn’t do it again when the next one came around. Let the greys show through, carried a cane around and let myself limp a bit more than I would’ve. Bought a big place in the country, took in kids from London during the Blitz. That was… obviously there was a war on, but it wasn’t so bad, having a house full of them. Running around the place.”
Dream pauses to picture Hob surrounded by children, being dragged into games and endlessly harassed and smiling all through it, as he is now upon recalling it.
“I’ll be the first to admit that the sixties, seventies, and half the eighties are a bit of a blur,” Hob says, grinning. “Got to fall off the wagon occasionally, keep things interesting, and I hadn’t had a really good messy phase in a century. Pulled myself together for you, of course,” he adds, this last part gently. Hob knows why Dream was not in attendance at their last scheduled meeting, and in any case had blamed himself the entire time, and harbours no ill-will.”
“Anyway. Somewhere along the line I became the go-to contact for kids that needed a place to stay and a safe adult to be around for a while, but who couldn’t have any paperwork involved because they’d just be sent back. I suppose you know the kind of kids I mean.”
“I understand,” Dream confirms.
“Some of them only needed a couple of nights, a week or two, maybe a few months to get themselves sorted. I see most of them occasionally. Keep in touch.”
“But Melanie is different,” Dream says.
“A few of them were,” Hob says. “Melanie got herself caught in a dress and lippy when she was fourteen,” he adds softly. “Her dad didn’t take well to it. Her mum was a bit better but couldn’t stand up to him. So. We just. Fell in with each other for a while. I gave her away at her wedding,” he finishes, beaming proudly. “With any luck, this one’ll let me do the same. If she ever gets married.”
“Are you marrying my daughter off already?” Melanie asks, returning to her seat beside Hob.
“Mm,” Hob teases. “This one here’s in the habit of cradle robbing for his brides. Fairies, can’t trust ‘em.”
Dream wrinkles his nose. “I am no mere fairy.”
Hob chuckles beside him. “No, but you are ridiculously easy to get a rise out of,” he says, warmly. “I think you have to give her back now.”
Dream blinks. He had all but forgotten about the child in his arms.
Once she is handed back to her mother—she will be fast asleep for some time yet, a gift to both of them—Dream misses the weight, and the warmth, and the soft wash of simple dreams filled with new wonder.
Hob says his goodbyes, and returns with a happy sigh and a wistful look in his eyes.
“Would you ever have another?” Dream asks, suddenly curious. “Your own flesh and blood?”
“Not yet, anyway,” Hob says. He pauses a moment, looking carefully at Dream. “You?”
Dream’s eyes widen. “How did you—?”
“I’m not going to pry,” Hob says. “You’re welcome to tell me on your own time. Just. Couldn’t miss it. One dad to another.”
“I would like to share those memories with you,” Dream says. “One day.”
“I’ll look forward to it. In the meantime,” Hob adds. “I was serious about that babysitting. Drop in for baby cuddles anytime I’ve got her.”
“I will endeavour to make myself available,” Dream says, already fashioning in his mind a host of suitable infant dreams, just for his newest friend.
Reblogging again because I took a screenshot of the side effects...
“Side effects may include: stuttering, stammering, blushing, kissing, hugging, hissing, going too fast, wall slamming, drunken confessions, crying to Hozier, being the little spoon, banter, involuntary snake transformations, and marriage.
Please call your doctor if snake transformation lasts longer than 24 hours
Medication for demonic use only. Use on humans without adequate millennia of preparation may induce seizures, coma, religious conversion, hallucinations, and hiccups”
About Hob, Husband to the Endless - Desire snatching him off the street for Nefarious Reasons the first time and Hob Being Hob at them until they're like "Wait, no, Stop. What are you doing with your face?" Dream storms in for a rescue and finds them snuggled up on a couch heckling a reality tv show. Hob has the smuggest smile, Desire is a disgruntled cat (side-eying this odd human of Dream's) while Dream is baffled. When Desire needs cuddles after this they "kidnap" Hob who is *shrug* about it.
"Hob Gadling?"
Hob turns to see a stunningly pretty blond showing somewhat more skin than he's used to seeing on a weekday afternoon in London, cherry red lips parted in an unpleasant smile that shows slightly too many teeth.
The next thing he knows, he's back in his own flat.
The blond stalks a circle around him, sizing him up not unlike a particularly savvy horse trader. Hob half expects to have his teeth inspected.
"I don't get it," the blond says.
"Uh." Hob offers his hand. "Hob Gadling. Who might you be?"
The blond's eyes narrow, a suspicious glance at Hob's hand and then his face, but they ultimately take the hand, glossy red claws just barely pricking the skin as they shake.
"You can call me Desire," they say, and all the pieces fall into place.
"Oh," Hob enthuses, lighting up into a bright smile. "You're his... sibling," he decides. "Then? Dream's, I mean? Didn't take nearly as much to get a name out of you. I must be getting good at this Endless business."
Desire's lips part in what Hob thinks is probably surprise.
"Well, lovely to meet you," he adds. "Can I do something for you?"
Desire purses their lips, peering narrowly at him again. "I'm dangerous."
"Oh, I know," Hob says. "People do terrible things for sheer want. You're worse than His Nibs, I'll bet. Nightmares can't usually follow you into the real world, but you can. Don't tell him I said that, he likes to think he's scary. Anyway. You can't do anything to me that I haven't done to myself. We both know that."
There's a pause while Desire blinks at him, draws their brows together, and then reaches out to run a claw along Hob's jawline, threatening to break the skin but not quite doing it.
Hob smiles as softly as he can at them. "I bet no one ever asks you what you want, though," he says. "I bet you're as tired as he is. You haven't even got..." Hob gestures at the room they're in. "Hundreds of imaginary friends to keep you company. Just people always wanting things, in your head, all the time. Must be exhausting."
At this, Desire's mouth falls open. They really are very pretty.
"Do you want a cuppa?" Hob offers. "We could talk about it. I think it helps your brother more than he likes me to know. And I think maybe you're a little more emotionally intelligent than he is."
"I..."
Hob brushes past them to head for the kitchen. "Milk?" he asks. "Sugar? There's honey if you'd rather. Could do you a hot chocolate if you prefer."
Twenty minutes later he's sitting on the sofa, Desire curled up beside him, both hands wrapped around his arm and their head resting on his shoulder while they watch Love Island.
"Those two are faking it for the cameras," Desire says, disgust in their voice. "She wants the redhead. And Mr. Fake Tan wishes he'd kissed his best friend before he went on this show because he's just now realising they've been in love since they were twelve."
"That's quite sweet. I hope he plucks up the courage when he gets home."
"I could make him," Desire suggests. "If you want."
Hob chuckles, letting his head rest against theirs. "I'm sure you've got enough on your plate, darling. You've got to deal with all this all the bloody time, don't you?"
"I do like it," Desire says.
"I like chocolate, but if I had to eat it all day, every day, I'd go mad," Hob says in response. "You have to take breaks, even from the things you love. Even from your purpose. So you're coming over to watch this with me every week, all right? Because it's loads more fun with you around."
"You know," Desire speaks up after a prolonged silence, sipping their tea. "I think I get what he sees in you."
"Who?" Hob asks.
"Desire," a familiar voice thunders, the lights in the flat flickering as Dream appears by the coffee table, eyes black and form wreathed in shadows, teeth bared. "How dare—"
"Hello, love," Hob interrupts, beaming up at Dream. "I'm just getting to know your sibling."
"They are—"
"Dangerous?" Hob asks.
Desire's grip on his arm tightens just enough for Hob to feel the pinch of claws.
"Very," Dream answers.
"Yes, well. We're watching Love Island. You're welcome to join us. I'll get you a cuppa," he adds, gently disentangling himself from Desire's hold to only a small sound of protest.
He watches from the kitchen as Dream and Desire eye each other up like street cats, hackles raised.
Dream startles when Hob hands him a hot mug of tea, eyes snapping to blue as he blinks, looking at first Hob and then the mug in his hands.
"Join us," Hob says softly.
Desire grabs his arm again as soon as he sits down, snuggling closer. That's not a surprise.
The surprise is Dream, draining his entire scalding mug of tea in one draught and then sitting on the sofa, throwing his long legs over the arm of it, and laying his head on Hob's lap. It's exactly the way a cat would lay claim in the face of an interloper, but it is, also, extremely sweet.
Hob strokes his hair as they fall into watching the proceedings on the telly.
"Human mating rituals are very strange," Dream speaks up after a few minutes.
Desire snorts.
"Be nice to your brother," Hob says gently. "They are very strange, but in fairness to humanity we're not usually like... that," he says, removing his hand from Dream's hair and earning himself a sound of protest for the trouble.
He thinks, maybe, that Dream purrs when he puts his hand back.
"Hob says I'm scarier than you," Desire pipes up.
"I did ask you not to tell him I said that," Hob points out.
"Hob is fearless," Dream says, turning his face to look up at him instead of the TV. "And as such cannot be trusted to judge."
Hob chuckles. "Insulted in my own home," he says. "Just for that, both of you have to stay for dinner."
Okay but AFTER Dream dramatically storms into Desire's realm yelling "WTF did you do to Hob" I can't imagine Desire just...ignored that. They 100% had to go check out this human and see what is so interesting that Dream is all twisted up in knots over him. Can very much picture Desire swanning into the New Inn in their craziest Lady Gaga outfit already drinking a cosmopolitan and introducing themselves to Hob. Because Desire realises that rather than plotting Dream's downfall they can fuck with Dream INFINITELY more by bothering his immortal crush. It's the sibling instinct.
oh. they DEFINITELY will. and like. eventually dream explains his whole thought process, and the fact that desire has fucked with him in the past (hob: dear god why is your family so fucked up), and dream is basically like: DO NOT. ENGAGE WITH DESIRE. IF THEY TRY TO TALK TO YOU. just call me (he still does not have a phone so unclear how this will work) and i'll kick their ass.
critical point: dream did not in any way tell hob how to IDENTIFY DESIRE.
---
The person who struts -- it's really the only word Hob can think of -- over to the bar at the New Inn makes him uneasy, though he can't say why. Hob is not made uncomfortable easily, he's lived too long and been in too many scrapes to feel intimidated in his own pub, of all places.
But something about them makes his hackles rise. The eyes, maybe. They're too cunning.
But he's not in the habit of throwing people out on looks so he just offers a tight smile and says, "Get you something?"
He's tending bar himself, today. Gives him something to do between terms. And he finds himself strangely grateful to have the bar between him and his strange customer as they slide onto one of the bar stools.
"Cosmo, please," they say, voice like sugar halfway to caramelizing, a bit of pop and smoke in the smooth glide.
This is a bit of an odd drink selection for eleven in the morning, but Hob has, at various points in his life though thankfully no longer, done lines of cocaine before even having breakfast, so he really has no pedestal from which to judge.
"Coming right up."
The bar at the New Inn is well-stocked nowadays. Used to be, they served mainly beer and wine, nothing fancy. Then Hob made the horrible mistake of promising his students an end of term cocktail-making class if they came to all the exam review sessions -- because he does actually know how to make drinks, he's been alive for six centuries, thanks very much -- and now it's become a thing and he's stuck doing it forever.
Then Dream took to his drinks, and alcohol is no substitute for food but getting Dream to eat or drink anything is a bloody miracle, so if that anything is the bougiest mixture of alcohols Hob can come up with, well--
Actually. Actually that might be worse than nothing at all.
Makes Dream happy though, so what is Hob to do? Keep ordering luxardo cherries and elderflower liqueur until he outlives them, that's what.
He finishes shaking the drink under the heavy gaze of his guest and pours, sliding it across the table to them.
Hob feels like he's being sized up by a predator as they take a long, delicate sip. The color of the drink matches the pink of their blazer. Hob is struggling to recall if said blazer was actually pink when they arrived.
"Ah. You mix a good drink, Hob Gadling," they say, propping their head on their hand, looking a him from under their lashes, and, ah, so that's what this is.
Hob leans on the bar. "What sort of... entity are you, then?"
Their whole face brightens in what Hob thinks is delight. "Oh! So you are a perceptive one. Get a lot of entities in here, do you, Robert?"
"'Bout as many as can be expected. That's not an answer."
They pout. "Neither is yours. And can't a being just pop by the local speakeasy for a drink without being interrogated?"
"Seems a little unfair that you know my name, and I don't know yours," Hob points out. "Names have power, and so on, isn't that the thing?"
His guest studies him. "You are both far more normal and far less normal than I'd been expecting. Fascinating."
Um.
Before Hob is forced to respond to that, the door swings open to reveal Dream, shrouded in darkness and nighttime and vibrating with electrical fury. Shadows crawl up the windows. All the lights in the inn flicker out.
Oh boy.
"I," Dream says, each word a thunderclap, shining gaze fixed on Hob's guest at the bar, "Explicitly. Forbade. You. From. Interfering."
"What are you going to do, hit me?" taunts the other entity, leaning back on their stool, drink balanced in one hand.
Hob looks back and forth between them, wondering if he should fetch a weapon. He keeps a cricket bat here somewhere, surely...
"Dream, love," he says, once he's decided it's better to try to deescalate the situation rather than introducing further weaponry, "your usual?"
Dream nods, stalking over to the bar. His gaze flits briefly to Hob, softening, before snapping right back to the other being.
"I see you remain incapable of heeding a warning," he says, all ice.
"It's not really part of my nature," they say. "I see it, I like it... well, you get it."
Oh. Oh no.
Cautiously, Hob slides his drink over to Dream. Without breaking eye contact with... Desire? it must be, and thanks, Dream, for the complete lack of description, Dream picks up his drink and downs the whole thing in one long swallow.
Ooooooh boy.
"Desire," Hob says, and they perk up at his realization of their name, looking over at him, "might be better if you were going now."
Desire lets out a frustrated huff. "Ugh, of course. I certainly don't want to upset 'ole Nightmare here."
"You certainly don't want my fist in your jaw," Hob says, more audible threat in it than he intends -- but he remembers Dream's halting confession, about how often love had turned out to be manipulation, and he thinks he should be congratulated on his restraint, actually.
Desire just laughs, and-- ah, Hob is starting to see that there's no winning with this one. Even and especially when you haven't agreed to the game.
"I suppose I'll be going then, before the fists start flying." They slide out of their seat and glide towards the door, waving. "Nice meeting you, Robert! I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again, soon."
I don't doubt it, Hob thinks.
They take their drink with them. Hob's not feeling particularly inclined to chase down that glass.
Dream still hasn't moved. He stares after Desire, empty glass about to crack in his grip.
"Dream?"
"I said that you should call for me," Dream says, the ghost of words.
With what means, exactly? Hob thinks. Damned enigmatic shadow of a man. "You didn't tell me who to look out for."
"Oh." Dream finally snaps out of his daze. "Yes. I apologize."
"Come sit down."
Hob fetches a glass of water and drags Dream over to their usual booth, pushing the water into his hands. "Drink that."
Dream stares down at it. "Why?"
"Because you just chugged a drink you usually sip for hours. Drink."
"I will not get drunk unless I choose to," Dream says.
"Have you tested that?" Hob asks.
Dream's brows furrow. "...No."
"Then let's not do that now. Drink. Come on."
Dream sips at the water. "I am sorry," he says, slowly, "about Desire."
"And I'm sorry I didn't actually punch them," Hob says, making Dream look up at him in surprise. "Well. Sort of. Wouldn't want to make it worse."
A smile tugs at Dream's lips. "You would... defend my honor?"
"Always," Hob vows. "I'd defend you. Don't care if the devil himself has it out for you."
"That may well happen," Dream says.
Hob stares at Dream. Dream stares back.
"Oh," Hob says, or maybe just hopes, "you're making a joke."
"No," says Dream. "Lucifer and I are on poor terms at the moment. She may seek revenge."
Hob keeps staring at him. Dream meets his gaze evenly.
Hob scrubs his hands through his hair. "Lucifer and you..."
Why was it always like this?
When he looks up again, Dream is smirking at him. "You're a menace," Hob tells him. "One day, you're going to give me the full rundown of everyone who has beef with you so I can be prepared."
"That will be a long list," Dream says.
"Of course it is," Hob sighs.
Dream takes his hand as if he can comfort Hob through all of the insane interactions he's sure to have with strange beings in the near future. The worst thing is, it works. Hob squeezes his hand and immediately remembers why he's willing to do anything for him.
"I'd go to Hell for you," he says. "I'd prefer not to, though, if it's all the same."
"That is my preference as well," says Dream.
There's a lot Hob would do for Dream. It's probably unhealthy. But what's the point of living six hundred years if you're going to spend it all being healthy, anyway.
"Why do so many people have problems with you, anyway?" Hob asks.
Hob knows. Hob fucking knows why.
Dream pouts. "Matthew tells me my social skills are 'less than adequate.'"
That's one way to phrase 'you act like an arrogant dick 85% of the time.' Matthew should receive a medal for his tact.
Hob loves that arrogant dick, though, God fucking damn him.
"All the more reason to get me that list, then," Hob says. "Maybe we can prevent you from creating an interdimensional incident."
"Will you accomplish this by threatening to punch them in the face?" Dream asks, completely neutral.
"Okay, you know what? Fair," Hob admits, and Dream chuckles. "Perhaps neither of us is cut out for diplomacy. The point, though, is: of course I'd defend you. I love you."
Dream kisses the back of his hand. As if he's only just now realized what he's done to Hob's pub, the lights all flicker back on.
"Thank Christ, I thought I was going to have to replace all those bulbs."
"Do you think I would do that to you?" Dream says with a tiny smile, Hob's hand still pressed to his lips.
You've done worse than that to me, Hob thinks. Better, too. So much better.
“We all like looking sexy but it doesn’t mean we want to fuck you, Bring it on, ladies. Break it wide open. I think you’re all extraordinary.” - Cate Blanchett, InStyle (Style Icon) Awardee
The scene in Ocean’s 8 where Helena Bonham Carter’s character sits on the floor crying and eating Nutela straight out of the jar, while dressed all in black, because people reacted negatively to her work is such a mood.
“well, that’s not ideal” whenever something is going wrong
“we are in the timeline that god abandoned” whenever i’m mildly inconvenienced
“can’t you see that your fighting is tearing this family apart?” whenever two or more coworkers are arguing
referring to taking medication as “eating medicine”
“time to go back to prison!” when putting animals back in their cages
referring to inanimate objects as (s)he, particularly when i break something and say “oh no, he’s dead.” this concerns them especially when i follow it up with “that’s not ideal”
I work in a blood bank, and constantly refer to blood types as flavors, such as “Oh, you need two units? What flavor is he?” And my older coworkers just look at me confused but my coworker that’s my age doesn’t miss a beat and responds “A Pos”
I wonder if one of the causes of animosity towards “entitled millennials” is that many millennials are poor people who look rich. There’s this growing class of people who wear nice clothes, have fancy new electronic gadgets, go out to eat nice food… and will never own a home or have a retirement fund or put a child through college.
It’s so easy to say “if you cut down on the avocado toast maybe you could save up”, and so hard to accept that a house these days is fifty thousand avocado toasts, and that’s why so many of us have just given up. We don’t treat ourselves because we think the world will take care of us when we get older; we treat ourselves because we know it won’t. Might as well feel and look good on the way down.
I think you’re absolutely right. And what compounds this image is the fact that fancy new gadgets and nice looking clothes and elevated toast ARE all relatively cheap compared to how they look. The cost of things has gone way down while the price of property has skyrocketed. I can buy a full outfit, a phone case with an external charger embedded, and lunch at a local business for under $50 total, but then I’ll walk home to my apartment because I can’t afford a car payment or a mortgage.
Older, better off people also have difficulty understanding the cell phone thing because they remember cell phones being a luxury for thousands of dollars practically yesterday in their personal timeline of the world. They often have sincerely no idea you can get at least a flip phone for $10 and pay as you go.
And foods that used to be “exotic dining” in America like sushi and pho and curry have normalized enough, especially in cities, to be as inexpensive as a typical quick lunch.
Yep. There’s an aspect of frugality to turning your buying choices to what gets you the most bang for your buck, and now that you can have sushi for the price of McDonald’s, buy a suit from the thrift store and have it tailored to you for less than the price of a new pair of jeans, and find smartphones for under a hundred dollars or even free with data plan, that is the sort of thing that people buy.
also like, half of the stuff is not only nolonger a luxery but its an actual necessity, if you dont have a computer it just became so much harder to apply for jobs, if you dont have a phone how are they going to contact you for the interview?
A low-end laptop is currently cheaper than unsplit rent anywhere other than long-held rent control apartments or public housing, period. Cheaper than split rent a lot of the time, too. And that laptop is better than what you could buy at any price just 15 years ago, by any spec you can look at.
We pay $250 or less per year for my cell phone, including all data, pay-as-you-go. Data is non-optional because of the transit app. The transit app is how we don’t lose perishables in the heat on summer grocery runs or risk health leaving before necessary when it’s freezing out, among other things. When I didn’t need the transit app, I got by on $80 in coverage purchases one year, and that only to buy service time while the minutes kept accumulating.
This is all true, and I can’t help thinking that we really get it from three sides. First, there’s the obvious one, with people looking down on anyone with less money or status. Then, there’s the (understandable but not helpful) resentment towards anyone who appears to have it better than you do. And then there’s the very specific image of tastes above your status. For centuries, this has spoken in the public mind of a “suspicious character”, whether actually criminal or merely bohemian. And we fall right into it, just by doing what makes sense….
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