Mens fleece pajama pants

I travel a lot for work and cannot afford to lose a checked bag, so I only do carry-on. This means I need to pack both casual and business attire, which can be challenging. It has taken some practice and watching a lot of Youtube videos on packing, but I am getting close to what works for me. I'd appreciate any advice you have. The bag is a bit on the heavy side but still within the airline’s limits and I’m able to lift it into the overhead bins on my own. Below is what I packed for a 10-day trip.
THE BAGS:
Carry-on luggage by Sigg – it is a discontinued brand but I love it. The 2-wheeled bag is a super tough (ballistic nylon) exterior with a compression zipper, telescoping handle, and a zipped water bottle holder on the outside. Normally, I’m a spinner luggage kind-of-gal, but the 2 wheels on this bag can be pushed somewhat like a spinner rather than dragged like most 2-wheeled bags. It also has a couple outer zipped areas for a laptop, pens, thin papers, etc). On the inside it is split in two major compartments, with the base fully lined with waterproof nylon that opens with zipper (I keep my garment bag under the liner just in case there are any spills in or around my bag), built-in compression straps, a mesh center divider for underclothes, and one side with elastic shoe sleeve pockets. There are a couple smaller pockets along the edges of the bag interior, including one thin waterproof one.
Personal Item by BagSmart (a Nomadlane dupe), fits under the seat in front of you and opens up fully like a suitcase. 2 main compartments and two additional exterior pockets which is handy but there are features of this bag I don’t like, such as the trolley sleeve and waterbottle sleeve—both are too tight to be useful. But it is a fraction of the cost of the Nomadlane bag, so it will work for now.
2 generic medium sized packing cubes / 1 medium toiletries bag / 1 jewelry case / 1 clear quart liquids bag with a zipper / 2 smaller sorting bags (reusing free business class toiletry bags) / 1 laundry bag / 1 ziploc bag / 1 thin cloth folding garment bag (feels like reusable grocery bag material) / 1 purse
​
THE STRATEGY:
Maintain normal business appearance but minimize by wearing neutrals and all within the same color palette. Buy travel sizes of almost everything, organize by dividing items into smaller containers by type and time of usage (on the plane vs in the hotel room vs at work vs out touring); Economize space by bringing fewer bulky items by using the hotel’s hairdryer, steaming my business clothes in the bathroom while I shower or use the hotel’s iron, have shoes and clothes that are versatile for several outfits but also reuse/wash (in the sink) clothes as necessary. Try to get a workout in when possible.
​
CLOTHES: (folded in Marie Kondo style or hung in the garment bag, which is folded in half)
In the packing cubes:
2 cardigans
3 t-shirts (one worn on the plane)
1 pair of yoga pants
2 jeans (one worn on the plane)
2 slip skirts
1 pair of capri pants
1 pair of silk pajamas
1 casual dress (with folded items in packing cube)
​
In the compartments built into the suitcase:
2 sports bras
11 pairs of underwear
1 pair of wool socks
2 pair of sport socks
1 full-body Spanx
1 slimming camisole
1 one-piece swimsuit
1 pantyhose
3 underwire bras (one worn on the plane)
3 pairs of shoes—sandals, flats and one pair of sneakers worn on the plane
​
In the garment bag:
6 thin blouses (includes 1 button down)
1 black suit with 1 blazer, 2 pants and 1 skirt
1 khaki dress pants
​
In the personal item:
1 R1 Patagonia full zip hoodie (worn on the plane)
1 Longchamp foldable Le Pliage Shopping purse – serves as my work laptop bag and my purse
1 pair of compression socks
​
TOILETRIES AND MAKEUP
I divide these into two major categories – on the plane and at the hotel. For on the plane, I use 2 small bags which are kept in my personal item-- one for liquids and another for anything else I need without needing to get into my carry-on suitcase.
1 pack of gum
1 face mist
2 lip balms
4+ lipsticks and glosses
1 Tyme hair iron
1 eyeshadow palette
1 bareminerals foundation powder
Powder, eyebrow, eyeshadow, lip and blush brushes
Several pairs of contact lenses and carrying case with solution
2 Razor
1 Foot callus file
2 Fingernail file
2-3 Eyeliners
2 Lip Liners
2 Pencil Sharpeners
1 Deodorant
1 Lint Roller
Sample creams
Tretinoin in 2 strengths (face and neck)
Vaseline (so versatile – takes off makeup, moisturizes, slugs)
Ibuprofen, Benadryl, Bandaids, Neosporin, sleep aid for the plane
Toothbrush, floss, plackers/picks, mouthwash and toothpaste
Cerave AM and Under Eye Cream
1 Dermaplaner
2 Hair clips and bands, shower cap (from the hotel)
Lactic Acid exfoliator for face
Hair Bun Maker
Deep Conditioner and Shampoo
Travel Hairspray
Bobby Pins
Visine
QTips
Hand Lotion
Facial Cleanser
Laundry Sheets
Facial Primer
Cough Drops
Arnica Tablets
Tums
Teeth Whitening Strips
Tide Pen
Tweezers
Nail Clippers
2 Combs
Mascara
Tampons and a few pantyliners
Brassy Hair treatment
Small Canister of Nivea Cream
2 Makeup Sponges/Blenders
Eyebrow Pen and Powder
Sample Size Perfumes
2 Concealers
Bronzer, Blush and Highlighter Palette
Contour and Corrector
JVN Shine Drops for Hair
Hand Sanitizer
Antibacterial wipes
Face Wipes
Dayquil and NyQuil
Immodium / Kaeopectate
Afrin
​
PERSONAL ITEMS AND ACCESSORIES Global Entry Card, credit cards, ATM card, Priority Pass Card, Covid Vaccination card, a few business cards and cash
1 jewelry case (3 necklaces, 4 sets of earrings, 1 bracelet)
Several sets of noise canceling ear plugs (Mack’s silicone and the foam ones)
Several face masks
3 scarves (especially useful when in the Middle East)
1 pair of sunglasses
2 pairs of eyeglasses (worn 1 on the plane)
Supplements case
Water bottle
1 umbrella
1 travel wallet
1 belt that reverses black and brown
1 journal
1 work notebook and pens
1 yoga strap
1 resistance band
1 rolly ball for my feet
1 add-a-lock
Bag of tea, coffee, and hot cocoa
Tiny salt & pepper
10 Protein bars
1 travel sewing kit
1 folding plastic bag (waste bin size)
10-15 cotton face pads
1 bag strap (helps stack the bags – I don’t like the trolley loop on the BagSmart bag)
1 book
​
ELECTRONICS
All are kept in a bag inside my personal item:
1 laptop computer, mouse, and charger
1 cell phone and charger
1 pair of bluetooth earbuds
1 fitbit and charger
1 international power converter and adapter
(sometimes I will bring a hotspot or a power bank, but not this trip)

​
Yisheng Sweater Factory
https://yisweater.com
email: [[email protected]](mailto:[email protected])
Whatsapp/WeChat:86-13929261978
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Hello /lgbt - maybe this isn't the right place to ask, but I'll try.
Ever since I accidentally tried on a pair of women's jeans at Levi's a few years ago, I've been looking for some pants which would have a similar look and feel, but accomodate male genitalia. The ones I've tried on fit really well in the rear and I felt like I could be comfortable wearing them more than men's jeans, but I had a bit of a problem in the front. Does anyone know where I might find something like this?
Requirements: - jeans - form-fitting - low cut - enough space in the front
Thank you and happy Pride Month!

Diary 6/5/2023
I remember the day before court, I attempted suicide by smoking a lot of Fentanyl, I had never done that shxt in my life. I went up to a homeless person, and asked him if he could give me help with buying it.
He said “Sure. You’re gonna bless me?” I said yeah and gave him 40-50 dollars, it was from the last bit of money that I had from my paycheck.
I hung out with him and his friends for 3-4 hours, they taught me how to smoke Fentanyl, forming a pen that you can smoke out of. They got me the powder. It was raining heavy that day.
They were also smoking meth. They asked me why I was suicidal, that I had a job, and seemed to have a whole life ahead of me. His other friend, convinced me not to commit suicide.
This was like 20 days before court, I attempted it twice before court, but was having a lot of internal fighting to do it.
My apartment was a fucking mess. I used to have my apartment all cleaned up, and organized, and now, it looked worse than the apartment that the two homeless men, and me took refuge when it was raining.
It was one of their friends apartment. They offered me “white,” coke, etc. I declined. I just kept holding on to my foil of Fentanyl.
I was telling my mom and brother that I was about to kill myself because I had just gotten fired from my job, and my mom was going crazy.
My dad called afterwards too. All worried. Him dismissing me all his life, had finally caught up with him.
Fast forward, The day before court, I smoked as much Fentanyl as I could. I planned to not wake up the next day. It was about 12:30 PM, I had wrote several suicide notes, that were severely incoherent due to my lack of sleep, the stress that had came from dealing with my cousin and her husband, my neighbors being slimy, the situation I was in.
I was already sleepy but I smoked as much as I could, and I fell asleep.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough and I woke up at 4 AM, with a severe need to throw up. I was crying profusely, loud as fuck, in my apartment alone, I wondered if I would awake the neighbor that lived under me. My neighbor besides me.
I threw up all over my toilet. I had been eating canned beans because it was the only food I had, and could afford, the shxt was a fucking mess. My room looked like a crack den.
I threw up like 7 times, the throw up was just coming out of me unwantedly. Fast as fuck. I was thinking the whole time how me throwing up would wake the neighbors because I was loud as fuck.
Afterwards, I slept for a little bit, only to be at court the same day.
The Fentanyl had made me start scratching profusely, and I left marks all over my body.
I hadn’t washed my clothes in days. I put on my coat, no shirt, pants, the most comfortable outfit I could find, which wasn’t cleaned, and was prepared to be arrested.
Court went fine, and I wasn’t arrested as I thought, but it still messed with my confidence.
In The following days, my dad had scheduled me a flight to Arizona. I was for three weeks in my apartment, afraid to come out in fear of police, and overall was just afraid of people.
I was going through Fentanyl withdrawals which I wouldn’t wish on anyone. My arm would randomly start spazzing, and hurting in specific areas of my bones. I was also throwing up occasionally. Luckily, I didn’t feen for the drug, but for like a week, I was dealing with like random exploding shocks, that would like make my arm move by itself, and I couldn’t sleep because my arm wouldn’t be still, and I could feel like a surge of electricity that was severely uncomfortable with pain.

Are there any places you guys know of in Patan area of clothing stores for men? Looking for good quality over quantity kinda places like oversized T-shirts and cotton pants kinda. Also would be helpful if you know any places I can buy decent and nice quality shoes as well 🤝. Do dm/ drop the location so that my forgetful brain can remember 😭✨

Buying men's medical uniform pants that look great and are also comfortable has always been a matter of concern. However, Body Moves has solved this problem with its outstanding collection of men's quality medical uniform pants that offer great design and comfort as well.

In Canada, Body Moves is a company of the Sarnia community that offers exceptional medical scrubs, fashionable nurse uniforms, and other various unique pieces for both men and women, including tops, pants, scrub pants, etc., which provide superior quality along with durability and comfort.

My first deployment was in Serbia, protecting Belgarad. I spent most of it sitting in various trenches, trying to keep my pants unshat. Or listening to speeches about bravery.
“Nothing is hard to conquer,” Our captain told us, one day. “If you keep your head about you.”
He was lying.
He’s dead now.
Like most of my command that Spring, he had a lethal case of having his head up his ass. No one then quite comprehended why we were there, waiting in those blasted hills, and they thought, foolishly, that what we were fighting was like any other enemy.
But we weren’t fighting men.
We were fighting a Slith. And the locals told us that meant death.
Our first engagement was near Vrsac. An ambush. We lost half our platoon, including my friend, Andi, in the middle of the night, when the guy on sentry—a dipshit private called Kiersten—went for a piss. I was asleep in a lucky foxhole.
So I didn’t actually fight one for another two weeks.
To describe facing a Slith is to misrepresent the experience.
There’s a reason all our photos are aerial.
When I looked over my trench that fateful day, I saw human bodies squirming and writhing atop a great ball of flesh, stilted on spidery legs. Some of them were intact. Others were not. But they moved anyway, the nerve core at the center of that thing contracting their dead muscles.
I froze.
Our artillery hit the Slith’s center.
Have you ever seen a video of a spider sac bursting?
That thing exploded in a rain of meat and blood, and it did not die. Hundreds of smaller creatures flew off it like fuzz on a dandelion. Soon they would reform, carrying our death bodies with them. And the Slith would grow, eat, excrete waste.
But now they hunted us.
I shouldered my rifle and aimed for one of the larger masses. Kiersten banged into me.
“My gun! My gun!” He screamed. He’d lost his.
I hardly noticed. The torso of a man sprinted toward me, a fox's head grafted onto his chest, and those distinctive curling tendrils running out his back. He was decayed, rotting. I cut him in half with bullets.
Then over the hills, a familiar head, atop a spidery body of limbs.
Andi. My friend.
She descended on our position.
I wasn’t even surprised when she started talking. Kiersten was trying to grab my gun. Panicking.
“Watson.” She said, frantically. “You have to listen, we’re alive in there. We’re just hungry. I can make it painless.”
“Andi.” I said. I was crying.
Then I turned and shot Kiersten in the face.
Andi stared at me. Then she smiled gently. Her slithian chest unfolded like a paper fortune teller.
She never broke eye contact while she ate him.
And laying at the bottom of that trench, I lived.
So I’ve learned.
The trick to surviving isn’t keeping your own head.
It’s keeping someone else's.

Clearly a lot of folks in this forum are queer, and this post is largely not for them, though I (bi- cis woman) will specifically talk about my experience as a bi-woman. Most of the folks in the forum who aren’t queer, though, generally support Pride. A number of people in this forum have talked about not feeling entirely comfortable attending Pride for various reasons, some of which come down to understanding what it means to be an ally. The linked article also has some really good advice.
1) Know why you’re there. The reason to attend an event like Pride as an ally is to show your support for the LGBTIQ+ community. To support that community means showing solidarity - like really, just pumping up the numbers can help make politicians a little more concerned when they want to use a sub-group in the LGBTIQ+ community as a punching bag to rally their allies. Spending a little money or volunteering or otherwise demonstrating support can also benefit the community. Something that really doesn’t help? Critiquing the community, or nit picking. I don’t care if you don’t like leather daddies, or drag queens, or trans people who don’t “pass”, this is their event, so put on your big adult pants and cope.
2) Sometimes it’s OK to be uncomfortable. Any time one is a member of the generally dominant group and one finds oneself in a situation where one is in a group where that dominance is not given the usual preference, it can be uncomfortable. As a white person, the first time I went to a civil rights rally was a huge eye opening experience. Everything around me growing up gave preference to white people - until that event. And then there I was, a teenage white girl in a place where I was a small racial minority, and Black people were being very explicitly being given the prominent positions - as they should given their role in the event and their far greater expertise in the subject matter. But did that make me feel comfortable? No. I was rewiring my brain to deal with a whole bunch of internalised racism and there was a lot of it. And holy kittens I learned a lot that day. The same is going to be true for a lot of straight folks.
3) Don’t make yourself someone else’s problem. It’s fine to be uncomfortable, but you need to deal with that yourself. It’s fine to not want to date someone of your sex, but it’s not OK to treat every gay person like they are going to force themselves on you because they’re not.
4) Other occasions also matter. For any number of reasons, Pride is not going to be the perfect event for everyone. Some folks don’t like crowds or noise. Some have other fears that may make the event more difficult. And, just showing up at pride doesn’t mean you’ve done your official “not a homo/trans phobe annual duty” so you don’t have to pay attention when people say or do awful things. You still need to speak up when people are shitty. And for some of you that speaking up might be a more comfortable way to show your support. And of course there is also voting.
And now the bi-part
This bit is more personal and very much does not reflect every bi-person’s experience. I easily pass as a cis straight woman. My first visits to Pride, I felt like such a poser, because I was dealing with the reality of not fully accepting my sexuality at an event where everyone around me was celebrating theirs. I felt like a poser because… I was a poser. That wasn’t anyone doing anything to me to make me feel uncomfortable, it was me making me feel uncomfortable. Recognising who to blame was key for me to feel a whole lot safer. And attending while I was coming to terms with what being bi- meant to me? That really helped me define it without hurting anyone else.
Now I’m a lot more comfortable, and… I also know that if my bi- boyfriend and I go to Pride this year, we’re going to look like a straight couple. And that is going to effect how other people see us. In the past when I’ve attended with a male partner, my partner and I have had straights tell us how awful various queer people and events are because they think we will be the right audience for that. I’ve also seen any number of straight people be openly rude to queer people at Pride. I’ve witnessed anti-Pride protesters at Pride events. And I’ve witnessed more than one bashing.
Because of that, I know that the vague mistrust some folks view me at pride has some justification. It’s not about me - it’s about the reality of being an obviously queer person in a world that isn’t set up to support queer people. Trust is earned. Demanding trust without earning it is not allyship. And not every straight presenting bi-person is actually an ally, much less queer. And yeah, some bi-people hide behind the hetero- part of their sexuality for cover. I know I did for a while…
And I suspect, all of that, and more, plays a role in how bi-people experience Pride. But that doesn’t mean bi-people aren’t welcome at Pride anymore than it means any other queer person who sometimes feels awkward- like some of the older gay men I know feel judged by young hot men during Pride - isn’t welcome at Pride. It just means the dynamics can play out differently for each individual person.
Now I gotta go get me another shadowy rainbow trinket from a queer run business, damnit.
https://thebodyisnotanapology.com/magazine/ally-etiquette-101/

Is it normal for pockets to open up like that for men’s pants or does it mean it’s too small on the waist?
https://imgur.com/a/OlqgMH7
Pic is size medium and I am about a 34/35 waist.
I like the fit throughout the seam and is nicely tapered all the way down. I tried large and it’s a lot more loose/baggy which is not what I like. I like my pants tapered like slim/skinny jeans.

I park my car in the incredibly nice upper-middle class Huntington Beach neighborhood, just down the street from the ‘New Reality’ (editor's note: fake name) sober living I got kicked out of. I take a second to pull myself together while in the darkness. I’m starting to feel very weak, very frazzled. I’ve been awake for at least 60 hours straight now, and I’m well aware of that. It is 1AM. I can’t decide if I should get a hotel or not.
I am so weak. I need to eat. I need water. I need to sleep. My mouth tastes TERRIBLE – like I am decaying from the inside out. I need to shower. I am aware that I have many physical needs that go beyond my need for more drugs.
See how you feel after the next shot, Lonnie.
I text Kace:
Here
I pat my pockets, making sure I have two separate bags: a bag in my left pocket, which has my furanylfentanyl and clean syringes in it, and a bag in my right pocket, which has both their meth and their dilaudid pills in it. I do not want to sell them furanylfentanyl because I don’t want them to die in the sober living house that has already seen 2 overdoses because of it.
I get out of my car and lock it. I walk through the sprawling, meticulous Huntington Beach neighborhood full of spacious and decorous houses, heading towards the sober living, though I stay on the other side of the street. I walk past several houses, with perfect green lawns and perfect landscapes, walking past the sober living. I walk a few houses past it, and then cross the street. When I arrive on the other side of the street, I glance all around me, checking for surveillance.
I double back, heading towards the sober living. I cut into the side yard, heading for the side door that leads into the garage. It is already cracked open, just as we planned. I open the door just enough so that I am able to slide through. I see two phone lights on in the far corner of the big 3-car garage.
“Yo,” I whisper-yell in the direction of the phone lights. One of the lights starts moving in a circular motion, beckoning me closer. I walk up, moving as quietly as I can. It would be terrible if the house manager, Jack, came in here right now.
I pull out their bag of dilaudid and meth. I see a hand with money in it being held out in my direction. I take the money and replace it with their bag of drugs.
“Nice, thanks,” Kace whispers, as I count the money. It's right on. The phone lights move closer to the ground, so I move with them. I see 3 fresh bottles of water on the ground, just like I asked for. I pull out the bag of needles and hand each of them 2 clean needles, putting one on the ground for myself.
“You got the Q-tips,” I whisper, looking towards Kace. His hand is already outstretched, a Q tip in it. I open the water bottle and put the bottle cap on the floor, beginning to prepare my shot of furanylfentanyl as quietly as I can, while they break up their dilaudids. The phones are propped up on the floor, giving me an eerie feeling. I have seen this before.
Déjà vu hits, and something inside me works to flash me back to my horrible half-ounce psilocybin trip. I suppress the embodied, hellish memories and the feelings of absolute terror, doom, and panic by preparing the shot as fast as I can.
“Where are you going after this?” Kace whispers to me, while we all work. I don’t even know the third boy, I only know that his name is Shane, he is white, he came here from the east coast, he’s in his 20s, and that he came to the wrong place if he wants to survive and recover from his addiction.
“I might go get a hotel, depends on how I feel,” I whisper back.
“Well, take a piece of this, mix it in there, that’ll help,” Kace whispers, his hand outstretched with a shard of meth in it. Meth is Kace’s panacea. I hesitate for a second, only because I know that this meth came from Sloan, which means it came from Lucky, which means it is very clean and very, very strong.
A small amount added to my shot of furry would ensure that I could stay awake for a little while longer. Now that I am coming down from the 2-day cocaine binge and haven’t yet slept, I run the risk of passing out at any moment.
“Maybe I should, just to be on the safe side,” I whisper, before involuntarily watching my hand take the small shard of meth and add it to the bottle cap. I take pleasure in the fact that this is fresh water from a clean water bottle, a fresh cotton, a clean bottle cap, and drugs that I sourced myself and am familiar with.
Listen to you, Lonnie. This is your third day in a row, and now that you don’t have cocaine, you’re doing meth? You were chugging cough syrup, you went on a cocaine binge, now you’re doing some goddamn meth? The dirtiest, most disgusting drug on the planet? And you’re selling it to these poor kids, at their sober living? Shame on you.
I shake my head slightly, hoping to shut it up.
I push the limits in my preparation of the dose: adding meth to this shot enables me to add more furanylfentanyl than I normally would, since the meth will keep me awake and therefore alive. I look up from the phone light when I am done, and I am surprised to see somebody else is done prepping and has completed their injection before me.
“Whoa, god damn,” Shane whispers. I chuckle.
“He’s never done a dilaudid before,” Kace whispers. I can hear the smile on Kace’s face, even in the darkness. I don’t smile, for something terrible has happened on this night. Shane’s soul has been infected by another parasite, and I will burn in the deepest level of Hell for being the one that brought it to him.
“Can you light me up?” I ask. One of the phone lights turns towards me. I find a vein quickly and easily, though I am having to rotate injection sites constantly. I cap the needle when it’s done and lean back, putting my hands on the concrete floor of the garage behind me. I count mentally, and barely make it past 3.
Every cell that I consist of alights with the jolting electric euphoria of meth. My chest tightens with power and ecstasy. I feel electric light waves of raw energy emanating from my heart as my heart rate dramatically increases with feelings of excited arousal.
All weakness and negativity have disappeared from my body. I could fight a tiger right now. I should go play basketball right now. I’d be unstoppable. I’d win every game. Nobody else would even have a chance.
“Fuck, I hate meth,” I whisper, overly alert, my heart racing in my ears. Now it feels like the house manager will open the door any second. Police are certainly watching us. My heart races in nonstop anticipation; I can feel my heartbeat in my trembling hands. Only the massive shot of furry I did can prevent the paranoia from causing me to panic. I take solace in the sensations of peace and relaxation that underlie the meth high. My lady, the Opioid - even though She is the cold, robotic Miss Furryfent, She is with me. I have nothing to fear.
“Nobody hates meth,” Kace whispers.
“It’s too good. It makes me feel too powerful. It makes me feel crazy,” I say.
“Yeah, it’s awesome,” Shane whispers, as we watch Kace inject himself. There are a few seconds of silence, all of us waiting for Kace to get his rush.
“Shit, that dilaudid gives you a good rush. I forgot how good it is,” Kace whispers.
“I know,” I whisper back, before standing up. I walk to the exit, loath to be physically alone again, even though I feel lonely all the time. I wish I didn’t have to leave, but I know that this is another place that I am not welcome. The world is shrinking around me by the day. I am wearing out my welcome at the few places I am still allowed to go.
I need to go back to another treatment center, but life feels hopeless. More talk therapy, more 12-step meetings, more jail-rehabs, more vacation-rehabs – none of it has worked for me, and more of the same thing won’t help me. I am so hooked on these drugs; the drugs are a torrent, and every method of treatment is like a two-by-four piece of wood laying in the way. These drugs have my soul. Death is closing in on me.
“Thanks for coming out here. Be safe, brother,” Kace whispers, before closing the door behind me. I hear it lock, which hurts my feelings, even though I don’t blame him for locking me out. I’d lock me out, too.
I step out into a warm summer California night – back into a world that I don’t belong in; back into a world that doesn't want me.
Where are you going to go, Lonnie?
Not here. Anywhere but here. I start walking, and then start jogging across the street. Surprisingly, I feel no pain in my ankles at all. Jogging feels good. I make it across the street, and then keep jogging.
I jog up to my car. I open the door and get in it. I sit for a second. I check in on my body.
I feel amazing. I could run 3 miles right now. I feel great. I should keep moving.
I check in with my stomach. Although I couldn’t be less hungry, I know I need to consume some nutrients, even if they’re just liquid. I've been injecting cocaine continuously; I haven’t eaten a solid meal or slept in days.
I know what to do. I put my drugs and paraphernalia in the center console of my car. I get out of the car with only my phone, wallet, and keys in my pockets. I lock the car, checking it twice so it registers in my meth-addled brain, which is often riddled with unreasonable paranoia, that it is locked, and nobody can steal my drugs.
I start to walk away from my car, then stop mid-step. What if Kace or one of those guys comes looking for my car, knowing that it is full of drugs?
I am frozen with indecision. I notice I am licking my lips with overstimulation and force myself to stop my tongue. My heart is racing. I’m shaking with excitation. My brain is screaming at my body to do something, but I don't know what to do. They will certainly come looking for my car, hungry for more drugs.
You're being ridiculous, Lonnie. Nobody is going to steal your drugs.
I tell my feet to move. They won't move. I feel the urge to scream. I have to get away from here, I have to do something.
I start to jog again. I can get a quick workout in and get my brain to shut up at the same time. I start to jog, doing the old breathing trick I did when I was a kid trying to run the fastest 1-mile time in gym class.
I focus on my breath, to which I apply a specific breathing pattern. In, in, out. I jog, and I breathe. I jog, and then I jog faster, and my breathing sharpens – and then I jog even faster. I jog out of the neighborhood and onto the main road that connects these huge, gorgeous housing developments in Huntington Beach. I jog in the direction of a gas station that I know is just down the street from me.
I jog, and my mind turns to college basketball. I visualize myself playing in my mind, shooting 3-pointers and knowing that they’re in the hoop as soon as they leave my hand. I shoot a few more 3-pointers in my mind before losing myself completely.
The big, bright, lights, the smell of the hardwood, the sound of the ball bouncing on the floor and echoing off of every wall. The sound of solitude, and hard work, and everything that is good in life. The sound of the ball hitting nothing but net. Watching the net flip up after a perfect swish. I take myself back to some of my favorite moments playing basketball: back to Frederick, Maryland, where I scored 16 points on an overseas professional in a competitive men’s league game.
Back to West Palm Beach, Florida, where I got invited to try out for the semi-pro ABA team, the Miami Storm.
Back to Atlanta, GA, where I got made fun for doing ball handling drills with a tennis ball and then picked last, only to lead my team to victory several times in a row, scoring almost all of our points, winning in silence.
Showing up day in and day out, scoring and shooting and winning. Even when I was losing, I was getting better, so I was winning.
I press onward, jogging harder. I am going to play college basketball. Nothing is going to stop me. I notice that my shirt, which is drenched in sweat, is sticking to my skin. I peel my shirt off, barely slowing my pace. I glance up and to my right. There is a brown apartment complex. I throw my shirt in one of the bushes, making a mental note to get it out of the bush on my way back, certain that I’ll remember exactly how it landed in the bushes and precisely where it is.
I start to jog again, pretending that I have a basketball. I cross the invisible ball back and forth on the sidewalk, going out of my way to cross bushes up, crossing the imaginary ball hard and then going straight into a spin move. I lose myself in the movements. Thoughts cease, and there is nothing but my instinct telling me which dribble move to pantomime next against invisible defenders.
I stop. Why am I even going to the gas station? I should just get my car, go to 24-hour fitness, and play basketball for real. I turn around and start the journey back the way I came. I continue to run and do fake basketball moves on the shadow people. Finally, I find myself back in the residential neighborhood of Huntington Beach that my car is in.
I look around again. Is this the right neighborhood? Where am I? I walk around, looking for a landmark or something that I recognize.
There was something I was supposed to remember.
That’s right, I have to get to work. I need to find my car.
A white truck pulls up in the street next to me and stops.
That’s right, there’s a white truck coming to pick me up and take me to work! I walk up to the white truck, which has stopped in the middle of the road. Though the windows are tinted, I know that Todd is in this truck, and that he is here to pick me up to take me to Cinepolis for work. I pull on the passenger side door handle of the truck, so I can get in and go to work. The handle slips out of my hand when the door doesn’t pop open. The truck starts to drive away.
Why would Todd do that to me?! I look up at the sky. The sun is coming up? Shit, I’m going to be late for work now! I jog away from the truck. I need to go back to Todd’s house. I jog up to Todd’s house, which is the brown house right down the street. I walk up to the door and twist the doorknob. It doesn’t open.
Of course, it didn’t open, dumbass. Todd went to work.
I jog away. How am I going to get to work? I jog some more and start to feel sick.
Where am I?
“HEY! You left your stuff, like, way back there!” a random lady yells at me. I look at her, and then around at my surroundings. I don’t know where I am.
“What?” I yell back at her.
“You took your shorts off and left your stuff, like, way back there. I’ve been watching you. I think you should go home!” she yells, from across the street. I reach for my pockets.
I look down at my lower half. I have no shorts on. I am wearing nothing but black Nike compression underpants and basketball shoes. Realization strikes me like a thunderbolt: I have been running around in a state of meth-induced delusion for the entire night, playing with an invisible basketball.
I jog across the street, over to the lady.
“I’m sorry. I had a little too much to drink last night. Do you mind showing me where I left my stuff?” I ask, evaluating the woman. She is in her 40’s or 50’s, with long dark hair and a kind face. She has a small dog with her. He looks like a mutt.
“I figured. I was walking my dog, and saw you take your shorts off. I wanted to stop you when you tried to get in the truck, but I thought maybe you knew them. Then you tried to get in that house. You seemed very confused and out of it. Your pants are back this way,” she says, walking her dog down the sidewalk, back the way I came.
“Thanks,” I say, too embarrassed and ashamed to say much else. The sun is up. I try to walk naturally, like I am wearing pants instead of not wearing pants, which is a difficult thing to do. She leads me several minutes down the sidewalk, to somebody’s front yard. I see my shorts sitting in the grass in somebody’s yard, right by the sidewalk. I grab my shorts and put them on. My wallet and my phone are still in the pockets.
My keys. Shit, where are my keys?
“Do you know where my keys are?” I ask the woman, too embarrassed to look her in the eyes.
“No. I saw you take off your shorts here. I’ve been watching you, and I’m sure I’m not the only one. I wouldn’t be surprised if police are on their way,” she says, her eyebrows raised at me knowingly.
“Ok. Well, thanks for your help. I’m going to go. My house is in the neighborhood over there,” I lie, pointing further away from her and walking away. The word “police” forces me into action. I powerwalk until she is out of sight, and then I start to jog again.
Jog faster, Lonnie. Train harder.
No. I have to slow down. I’m becoming psychotic from overexertion, lack of nutrition, sleep deprivation, and methamphetamine. I have no drugs on me. I can slow down.
I force myself to start walking. I become aware, again, of my racing heart. It has been beating like this for days on end. It could easily explode and kill me at any second. Wait, when was the last time I did any opioids? The furanylfentanyl has been making me dopesick within 6 hours. I search my body for opioid effects. There are none.
I’m in the no man’s land between the opioid high and the withdrawal where I actually feel normal. The more I binge, the shorter the breaks become, and I’ve been binging, hard. If I feel normal now, that means I’ll be dopesick any second. I whine out loud. I want to scream up at the sky. My stomach starts to hurt terribly – it feels like it is bleeding.
I am dying.
I open my phone’s GPS and set it to my old sober living.
Shit, I don’t have a car key. I can’t get into my car! I call a locksmith, and then I start to run back towards the ironically named ‘sober living.’
I attempt to cling to reality.
My name is Lonnie. I am in Huntington Beach. I am going to Jack’s sober living, so I can do some fentanyl, so I don’t get dopesick. I did some meth, and I haven’t slept or ate in days, so I might hallucinate. Hallucinations aren’t real.
My name is Lonnie. I am in Huntington beach. I went to Florida for rehab for sniffing oxy, and I started to shoot dope. I came to California to stop shooting dope and picked up a meth habit.
STOP!
My name is Lonnie. The world would be better off if I were dead.
I start to walk. I can’t take this. I need some music. No, playing music would be suspicious. I start to jog again, trying not to think about my racing heart. I should focus on my breathing.
No, I can’t do that. That’s what made me go psychotic.
My name is Lonnie. I am going back to Jack’s sober living…

Multiple times recently I have gone to a restaurant and out of the corner of my eye I spot a young couple on a date. The young lady is like very dressed up, make up, hair done, cute outfit, purse, the whole works. She’s sitting upright, attentive, smiling, engaged. The young man is in like a T-shirt, baggy pants, baseball cap on backwards, or hair a mess, slouching in his chair not making eye contact. This has happened enough that I don’t think it’s just a coincidence. Are young men now not expected to dress nicely for a date? Is it not disrespectful to the young lady to look like you rolled out of bed or just came from a skateboarding event? Just curious if anyone else is experiencing or noticing this.

Hi everyone,
I live in Montreal, Canada and needing help with finding store recommendation or tips on how to find yard sales as I love finding simple and sharp style clothing but don't want to pay an arm and leg.
My current hunt is for: Gurkha pants Monk strap shoes Boat shoes or other unique shoes for shorts Mao neck style clothing Tailoring places around Rosemont or nearby area for repairing buttons, fixing length of pants etc, shoe repairs. Korean/Japanese style (not overpriced) Easier ways to find yard/outdoor private sales / Facebook group or page for yard sales
My contribution: www.rw-co.com - Nice clothe but prices have gone up over the last year but can still find some nice pieces for okay prices in the sale section. www.simons.ca - Expensive store but the occasional sale will see some great pieces go for decent prices https://www.decathlon.ca/en/ - Check the Tennis & Golf sections, shorts and polo's are very well prices compared to nearby clothing stores but look just as nice! (2nd floor - Montreal Eaton)
Uniqlo, Muji etc. - Great fit, plenty of colour options and the clothe is my preferred style of simple but sharp/stylish. Outdoor yard sales - (check parks on the weekends or drive around area where posters may be placed) Mont Royal Street, Jeanne-Mance, Jarry Park, Sir Wilfrid Laurier.
#Montreal #MensFashion #MTL

I get that this isn't just a Comox Valley thing but I live here and it happens to me here and I want to talk about it to people that live here. Idk. Need community. But I made a throwaway account because I'm also uncomfortable, so, what can ya do.
I was in a store today trying to buy some supplies and this older man asked me what I was looking for. He was friendly, I thought he worked there at first, I answered, we chatted about the type of things I was buying. Fine. I don't always mind talking to strangers. He offers to help me find things in the store, I'm already realizing this guy doesn't work here but I'm too polite to say no thanks and so I'm following him around the store, thinking how do I get out of this conversation because I know where this is headed because it almost always does.
He asks me what do I do, gets more personal, I avoid it cause I don't like giving out information and I mention my partner because it was relevant. Men seem to get weird around this point in these sorts of convos and can't keep it in their fucking pants. Dude says "if you ever break up with him, call me" and I said "I think I'm a little too young for that". Dude is old enough to be my grandfather. He doesn't acknowledge I said I'm too young. I literally look like a 14 year old today, no makeup, acne, I have baby face. I am actually young though, but the fact I look even younger and he still said that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
He literally hands me his business card, I take it, politely, because I'm too fucking polite in these situations because I've been hurt before and the way I avoid getting hurt is by first acting nice and trying to find a polite way out. It's exhausting.
So right after he says if my boyfriend breaks up with me, call him, hands me a card with his legal name and workplace on it. The fact dudes can think they're in the right to do this so much that they aren't afraid to give out their info is sickening to me.
Recently I deleted my Facebook after a moderator of a very large group on there for my hometown and another man came out and made really fucked up comments about wanting to be told when teenagers are skinny dipping so they can "go watch" and "join them" and they dug their heels in and made all these disgusting comments publicly. One of them was a council candidate in Qualicum Beach, the other is the moderator of their biggest group.
I'm so tired of old men thinking it's okay to go after people who could be their grandkids. Even just "call me if your boyfriend breaks up with you" is far over the line. Like great, now I can't live in blissful ignorance that you're thinking of me as a fucking sexual candidate.
I hate it here. And anywhere. I wish I could say our area was better for this than the city where I live half the year but it's really not. I just want to be able to go out and enjoy my day and not have to brace myself for these sorts of interactions.
If you see someone bothering someone else, go ahead and say something. This case was a bit more subtle and I don't think anyone could have done much in the moment, especially since he mostly acted friendly until he got overtly weird, but sometimes it's more obvious and you can keep an eye on the situation at least. I don't know. I don't have the answers, sorry that this is primarily a vent. I hope that's fine. I want someone to be mad on my behalf because it's something that feels isolating.
Also like I said this isn't the first time this happened here, I've been followed, yelled at/cat called, asked out on dates by dudes decades older than me when I'm just trying to run errands, had my braids tugged on and followed by an older dude at work, and propositioned by a guy on the beach who wouldn't leave me alone and started following me to my car. I've also been sexually assaulted by three men on the island.
I'm not even out there dressing "a certain way" and besides, victim blaming is stupid. I'm dress like an old man. Nothing works to stop this unwanted attention. Even looking moderately pissed off and walking with headphones in hasn't stopped it.
This is all over the place but yeah idk guys it sucks and I'm sorry to anyone else who goes through it. I'm tempted to post this dude's business card since he did give it to me willingly but I'm not even sure if it does anything. Bah.
Also thanks to the cashier at that store who let me vent and was emphatically supportive and pissed off with me, as we should be. It helps.