Oh! I thought this was going to release one chapter at a time! Excited to read everything!
Thanks. Yeah, I, uh…my head’s a mess and I just couldn’t stand to look at it anymore. So I’ve yeeted the whole thing out into the universe and resolved never to think about it again.
I probably sound crazy. But somehow I’ve convinced myself this is the worst thing I’ve ever written and I should quit writing forever. Watching it come out chapter by chapter was like getting punched in the face every day. All I could see were the things I didn’t like. I wanted so bad to pull the plug on it…but I figured it was better to just publish it in one go and wash my hands of the whole thing.
My mountain of rejection letters isn’t helping. With the novel done, I buckled down and started applying to jobs again…and for all my efforts, I got back a whole lotta “Thank you for applying! Unfortunately we have already selected a candidate” or “Unfortunately, we don’t think you’re the best fit for the position” or worse…no response at all.
I’ll be honest. I’m spiraling. Writing used to bring me so much joy and satisfaction, and I thought I was pretty dang good at it. Now I’m not so sure. I went and re-read my poetry journals, and realized a lot of it was trite and melodramatic and generally lousy. I pulled up my old profile and read back all the ChommSec Daily articles I wrote when I worked there—I barely could, with all the ads that kept popping up—but those weren’t much better. Man…all the hours I spent polishing those pieces for Friday deadlines, just for them to sit buried under ads for deodorant and hair loss remedies…
That stupid novel was the last nail in the coffin.
Whenever I wrote, I thought I was creating things that meant something. But everything I’ve ever written was either overdone sentimental drivel, or fuel for the capitalist machine. I’m starting to wonder why I spent two years of my life in college for this, and wasted even more of my parents’ money on my education than they’d spent on my medical bills.
I told my mom I might actually be willing to become her office secretary at this point, given I’ve lost faith in the one thing I thought I was actually good at. I didn’t really mean it. It was a desperate cry for help. Maybe it was my fault for dropping that on her in the middle of the workday while she was elbows-deep in legislation…but I don’t think she even heard the second part. “Oh, honey, that’s great news! You’d be such a good fit here, blah blah blah…”
…Somehow, hearing I’d be a “good fit” for clerical work hurt even more than hearing I wasn’t a good fit for the fifteen thousand writing jobs I’ve applied to.
I miss Fan. She always knew how to talk some sense into me. It’s only a couple more months till I see her again…but who knows what’ll come of that. Wait till she finds out how much more of a loser I am. True, I’m not a liar anymore—I guess that’s pretty important—but I don’t think it’s very sexy of me to be jobless and living at home and having weekly panic attacks about my future.
At least it’s tank top season again. My only solace right now is chugging protein shakes, lifting heavy, and keeping my arms huge. Hey, if I’m gonna fail at life, I may as well look good doing it. With any luck, she’ll be too blinded by my stunning physique to see I have absolutely no career prospects whatsoever—she clearly has some capacity to overlook a guy’s flaws, given she ever liked me at all.
they never did explain why Kylo was shirtless did they. I mean of course the dude might occasionally be in states of undress but what was he just lounging around with no shirt on but couldn’t bother to change into some basketball shorts like
what's the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to you?
02.06.30 - you've heard of “egg on my face,” now get ready for...
This ask has been in my inbox for many years.
I now have a worthy response.
…Buckle in.
So…I hit a new personal record on deadlift at the gym the other day. I was super jazzed about it. I had tried that weight a couple of times before and failed, but training was going really great that day, and I decided to give it another go.
Everyone stopped what they were doing to cheer me on. That’s something I like about RepCity Strength, as opposed to the UNaboo gymnasium: people here are friendly (even if they don’t look like it on the outside), and really support each other.
“You got this, Ben.”
“C’mon, buddy, let’s go!”
“Kill it, Solo!”
“You can do it, Ben!”
I looked up as I was securing my lifting belt—the last person to cheer was that short little Rodian girl with the built calves and the sparkly eyes. We made eye contact, and she gave me a huge smile and a big thumbs up.
I kinda liked hearing her say my name like that.
I had mentioned this girl to Amalia before. “So…she’s just another short girl with green skin,” she had said. “Geez. It’s as if you and Fannie only ever fall in love with people who resemble each other.”
“Wh—what do you mean?” I’d blurted. “Is…Fannie…with someone already?”
“Chill out,” Amalia sniffed. “I was talking about her ex. Well—her other ex. The one who isn’t you.”
“Oh,” I said, relieved.
With that crisis averted, I’d then directed my energy toward protesting that I wasn’t in love with the Rodian girl from the gym, and how could I be when I didn’t even know her name. I’m almost beginning to think words just mean different things to different people. I don’t see how you could have a legitimate interest in anyone without knowing a single thing about them—but, I guess, some people do, which is weird to me.
Still…the girl with the starry eyes looked like someone I wouldn’t mind getting to know, I supposed, and I thought she had a nice smile.
I re-tied my hair to get it out of my face, and went over to the chalk bowl, and chalked up my hands extra good.
Lifter’s chalk comes in these solid white blocks about the size of your palm. You use it to dry out your hands: to get them less slippery, so you can hold onto things better. Rock climbers use it too. It can also come in a tube, as a viscous white liquid, which you squirt all over your hands and rub till dry. (Naturally, liquid chalk is a good candidate for that genre of humor I struggle to relate to.)
I positioned myself behind the barbell and found my footing, bending over and placing my hands on the bar—one hand over, one hand under. You can do double overhand, but once the bar starts gettin’ heavy, you have to use a mixed grip to keep the bar from rolling out of your fingers.
Now that I was getting set up and everyone was watching me, I began to doubt myself a little. But, I pushed those thoughts away, and told myself to focus.
I tensed up my shoulders and my glutes, and I took in a deep breath, and braced against my belt and got everything all tight. And then I thought to myself: Alright, buddy—legs legs legs!
And then—I stood up with the bar, pressing into the ground with my feet, pushing my hips forward, telling myself to keep going and finish it out even though it felt hard. It was slow, and a little ugly, since it was the heaviest I’d done before. But, I got it up, and locked it out at the top—regaining awareness to the world just in time to hear everyone cheering for me.
Yes!
I dropped the barbell back down to the ground and shouted and raised my fist in the air and felt absolutely fantastic as everyone congratulated me and clapped me on the back.
“Let’s gooo, Ben!”
“Easy weight, Quadinaros!”
“Great job, Solo!”
And I laughed and wiped my forehead with the back of my chalky hand and bowed with a flourish.
I still had more left in my workout to do after that, and so did everyone else. So, we all went back to whatever we were doing.
But, while I was doing my overhead pressing, I noticed something: the Rodian girl with the sparkly eyes, and her friend that she was training with, kept on looking at me.
Looking at me. And whispering to one another. And giggling.
My heart started to race, and I went and hid behind the barbell rack a little bit.
I tried to figure out how it made me feel. It made me feel a mix of things—a little shy, and a little freaked out, but…also kind of excited, and more than a little flattered.
I used to hate the idea of girls liking me. It just felt…super uncomfortable. Like…hello? Who said you were allowed to think of me like that? Did I consent to that? Am I just supposed to be okay with any random stranger looking at me however they want to, and thinking whatever they want to think?
Maybe some of it has to do with the fact that I grew up so in the spotlight. It’s not great, you know, seeing yourself on the cover of teen girl holozines from the time you’re fourteen. You’d think it would boost a guy’s ego, but…it always made me feel so mortified and violated.
Still…this felt a little different. I don’t know why—maybe I’m just not handling my breakup as well as I thought I was. But: it felt good to think I was attractive; it felt good to know I was desirable; it felt good to imagine that there was something about me worthy of extra attention. I still don’t fully understand the concept of “sexy,” even though I use that word a lot to be funny—but I do kind of get it, and I get that people mean it as a compliment, and I get that it’s a positive thing to be.
And how did I know those girls were looking at me because they thought I was sexy, you may ask?
Thanks for asking! Because: I distinctly saw the Rodian girl point at my butt when she thought I wasn’t looking.
Well, I was looking. And I turned, kind of in shock, and she withdrew her hand immediately, laughing and blushing and ducking behind her friend.
I felt my face go hot. But…it wasn’t a completely bad feeling. I didn’t find myself looking at other people that way…but I guessed I didn’t really mind being looked at that way.
I mean…hell! I’d worked my ass off for this ass. I didn’t do it because I wanted to be noticed, just ‘cause I liked how it felt to be strong, but—you know what? Kriff it! Why shouldn’t someone notice?
Fannie had never looked at me like that. Or…if she had, she had never let me see her do it—which, of course, sounds exactly like her.
I grinned to myself a little bit in secret—I’ll admit it went to my head. I caught my own eye in the wall mirror and flexed my biceps and studied my thighs and thought: Huh! I am kinda good-lookin’, aren’t I?
I quickly got high off my own hubris. I found myself exaggerating my movements, posturing in ways I wouldn’t normally, becoming oddly performative—adding a little more swagger into my walk as I sauntered across the gym to refill my water, flexing my arms high above my head as if to stretch but actually trying to get the overhead lighting to accentuate my delts, striking wide stances and kind of glancing backward to see if the girls were still looking at me. I imagined I was the cool guy in a holofilm—a Han Solo type of guy, suave and debonair, without a kriff to give—the type of guy everyone thinks Han Solo is, because Han Solo isn’t their dad.
Well, Ben Solo had never been that type of guy. Ben Solo had always been kind of a nerd and sort of a weirdo and definitely a loser. But—who ever said he had to stay that way? People change! People grow up. People glow up.
And oh, baby, I glew.
Vrek Lawsnik, the gym owner—this big old Trandoshan guy—was working at his desk near the warehouse door. He looked up every now and again, and smirked at me with what I figured was kind of an “ah, youth” sort of smirk. He was probably noticing how sexy and cool I was, and wishing he was twenty-four again. I mean, I almost felt bad about it—being so damn young and hot, and probably making him writhe with jealousy that he was so tragically past his prime.
I was drinking from my water bottle majestically and letting a few droplets run down my chin for dramatic effect and imagining myself in, like, a cologne commercial or something, when I overheard the following:
“Oh, c’mon, Maezee, you should just tell him. I can’t take it anymore.”
Maezee! What a cute name.
“Oh my Force, Deborah, I can’t tell him something like that!”
Tell me what? Something like what?
“Fine—if you don’t tell him, I will!”
Oh my gosh. I was getting asked out today. I hoped I didn’t smell too bad.
And I heard Maezee coming over, and I tried not to panic, and also to pretend like I hadn’t just heard them talking. I went to put my foot up on the spotter arm in the barbell rack, missed the first time, succeeded the second time, and bent down to fake-tie my shoe just as Maezee walked up.
“Um…hi. Ben, right?”
I looked up—and there was Maezee.
She actually was kind of cute, I thought. Her skin was the color of limefruit, and she had a poofy little shock of lavender hair on the top of her head, and she was very skinny (which, to clarify, I state as a fact and not any sort of positive or negative judgment), except for her big freaking monster calves (which, to clarify, I absolutely mean as a compliment). She wore big hoop earrings, and her lips were painted pink, and she had false eyelashes on—I don’t think Rodians actually have them. And of course, her eyes, which looked like starlight, were mesmerizing.
Now that she was standing in front of me, she looked maybe even a little shorter than Fannie—I hadn’t even known that was possible. Not beating the allegations that I like short girls, I guess…or, Auntie Malla’s non-politically-correct suggestion that I’m into “alien girls.” (Still can’t believe she said that.)
But, then again…maybe it wasn’t those traits about her that I liked. Maybe it was just Fannie that I liked, and anything at all that happened to remind me of her.
“Hi!” I said, sounding kind of squeaky. I cleared my throat and tried to make my voice deeper. “Uh. I mean…hi. Yeah. That’s me. Ben.”
“I’m Maezee. Nice to meet you,” said Maezee. “Well—not meet you. I’ve seen you around. But, it’s nice to be formally introduced.”
“Yeah!” I said.
And merely that, with every ounce of wit and eloquence I had in me.
Speech 100.
“Uh, Ben, I just came over to tell you that…well, see, I couldn’t help but notice…er, I’m sorry, I wish I’d told you a lot sooner, but…”
My heart was pounding. “Y…yeah?”
Maezee laughed awkwardly, and pointed to the general region of my hips.
“…you’ve got chalk on your butt.”
I heard the words. They did not register.
Dial tone.
“I…what?”
“Your shorts,” Maezee repeated, still pointing. “You’ve got chalk on the back. Turn around and look.”
I stared at her.
Then I turned and looked over my shoulder and kind of chased myself in a circle like a lothcat, before finally gaining sense enough to check in one of the wall mirrors, and—KRIFF—sure enough, there they were—
TWO—
PERFECT—
BIG
WHITE
HANDPRINTS,
one placed squarely on each of the two beautiful butt cheeks my mama gave me.
And I was wearing compression shorts, mind you. Not the loose kind of shorts you wear for hoopball. No, baby—my curves were hugged, and those handprints were convex.
KRIFF.
ME.
I must’ve wiped my chalk-covered hands on my pants at some point after my lift, I realized. And now I looked as if I’d gotten freaky with a poltergeist.
I screamed internally and took about fifty thousand points of psychic damage.
“Th…thanks for letting me know,” I uttered weakly, as my ears burned and my soul left my body.
Maezee’s friend was watching from across the gym, snickering.
Oh, Force. I wanted to die so bad.
I scurried over to the edge of the gym near Vrek’s desk with my back against the wall and tried discreetly to swipe the chalk off my butt, while Maezee ran back to her friend, giggling.
Vrek was laughing at me, too, and I looked at him.
“You saw I had chalk on my ass the whole time, didn’t you?” I asked, almost a little hurt. “Why didn’t you say somethin’?”
Vrek chuckled. “I also saw how you were peacocking around like an idiot, trying to get those ladies to look at you. I’m running a gym here, Solo, not a catwalk. Figured you could stand to be taken down a peg.”
I blushed, and I thought for a second I was maybe about to cry.
Vrek placed one of his four hands on my arm and softened his tone a little, sounding a little like how he did when I heard him speak to his own kids.
“It’s okay, Ben,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I was in my twenties, too, a long time ago.”
He winked at me.
I took a deep breath, and wiped my nose a little, and managed to laugh.
01.13.30 - repcity strength, vrek lawsnik, and one super-strong rodian girl
I work out three times a week at a gym called Republic City Strength. It’s a warehouse gym, which is pretty much what it sounds like: a privately-owned gym in a warehouse space, as opposed to the university-funded gym I went to in Theed, or the galacticorp commercial gyms you see around.
The gym owner’s a solid dude. His name is Vrek Lawsnik, and he’s a retired competitive bodybuilder. He’s also a Besalisk. His pride and joy is his custom bench rack for four-armed sentients.
His two kids, whose names I don’t remember, are often running around underfoot when I go on Saturdays. Vrek tries to keep them contained…but kids will be kids, and I have almost dropped weights on them a couple of times.
There are fewer girls than guys there, which is pretty typical of fitness spaces, even though it shouldn’t be. But there is one girl I see a lot, this tiny Rodian girl, who performs really impressive lifts relative to her body size. I watched her deadlift 325 pounds last week—and I know I exaggerate a lot, but I really mean 325 pounds—I counted the weight on the plates. I wonder how much she weighs?
I’m also trying to figure out how old she is. She kinda looks like she’s my age…but she’s so little, I’m not entirely convinced she isn’t a teenager. If she is a teenager, well—I have no interest in being friends with teenage girls who aren’t my sister. But…if she isn’t…
…I wonder if she’d wanna be friends with me.
Not sure how to initiate, though. ‘Cause I’m pretty sure going up to a random girl at the gym all sweaty and gross and asking how old she is and how much she weighs is a great way to get pepper-sprayed.
When you think of lifting, you usually think of barbell racks and standard loadable plates at galacticorp gyms. Well—they don’t have those out here on Kashyyyk. So I went outside and lifted some rocks (but, not in the way Uncle Luke does it).
Stone lifting actually has a historical place in many cultures, including for Wookiees. It makes sense—Wookiees pride themselves on their physical strength. Now, I can’t lift as big a rock as Uncle Chewie can, of course…but, I’m pretty satisfied with what I did today.
Disclaimer: this is not the best I’ve ever looked shirtless. I’ve eaten about five thousand Life Day cookies, plus seconds and thirds of Auntie Malla’s bantha rump roast, plus leftovers over the entirety of the past week. But, hey: ain’t that what Life Day’s all about? (Besides the whole celebration of life thing, of course.)
