Is Stay Close Based On A True Story?

If you want to light up a room or blast out of a long drive with everyone singing at the top of their lungs, drop 'Should I Stay or Should I Go' right when people need a jolt. I use it as an opener or a bridge in party playlists because its call-and-response chant is pure crowd fuel — people know the chorus and can’t help but shout along. For road trips it’s perfect after a mellow stretch of songs; that crunchy riff and stomping beat wake everyone back up and reset the energy. It’s versatile: throw the original Clash cut into a punk-rock block with 'London Calling' for an adrenaline surge, or sandwich a modern cover to show contrast and get people talking about versions. On the flip side, I love sneaking it into break-up or indecision-themed playlists where lyrics matter more than volume. Placing it near acoustic confessionals or yearning pop tracks gives that line “should I stay or should I go” weight — it becomes the moment of decision, not just background noise. I also experiment with tempo transitions: an extended intro from a softer track can let the Clash drop feel huge, whereas fading it in after a high-energy EDM tune softens its punk bite and makes it feel wilder. Covers and remixes are great for mood shifts too; an acoustic cover can make the same lyric feel fragile, while a remix amps it into a gym-ready banger. I still grin every time that riff hits, it’s a dependable mood-changer in my mixes.

Lately I’ve been obsessing over the tiny decisions that decide whether a print lives for a week or a century, and that curiosity led me to a rather nerdy breakdown of prints in darkrooms. If a print is properly developed, fixed, washed, and dried, and you then tuck it away in true darkness, it can last decades or even over a century depending on materials. Silver-gelatin fiber prints that were well processed and optionally toned (selenium, gold) are famously durable. Color prints are a different beast — they’re much more sensitive and won’t tolerate the same long-term treatment. In an active darkroom under safelight, though, the story changes: safelights (red/amber) are designed to let you work without fogging paper, but papers have different safelight ratings. Resin-coated (RC) papers tolerate safelight exposure longer than some fiber papers, but I wouldn’t leave a print sitting under a safelight for hours; fogging can creep in. Practically, I avoid leaving important prints exposed to any safelight for more than the short time needed to handle them; for overnight storage in trays I put them in envelopes or cover them. If you’re storing prints long-term, use archival, acid-free sleeves, stable cool temperatures, and low humidity. I’ve rescued prints that were decades old and still gorgeous because someone cared about processing and storage—proof that darkrooms can be safe havens if you respect chemistry and climate.

I get swept up in anime marathons the way some people chase the perfect coffee — with a little ritual and a lot of stubborn focus. I start by planning the session like it’s a small event: decide on a finish point (three episodes, a two-hour block, or a whole season if I’m brave), queue the episodes, turn on full-screen, and make sure the streaming app is set to stop autoplay so I’m not yanked into an accidental six-hour run. For longer shows like 'One Piece' I chop the evening into realistic chunks; for dense, plot-heavy series like 'Attack on Titan' I give myself a short debrief after two to three episodes to absorb what's happened. Physical prep is huge for me. I clear a small table with water, a snack that doesn’t require attention (fruit or pre-cut veggies), a comfy throw, and a mute phone in another room or on Do Not Disturb. I set a timer for a five-minute stretch every 90 minutes — it sounds silly but it kills the itch to check my phone and keeps me from turning into a couch potato. I also close tabs and mute social feeds; spoilers are distracting and can ruin immersion. Finally, I treat binge-watching like a ceremony: dim lights, good speakers or headphones, and a mindset that this time is for pure enjoyment. When a show is extra tempting I’ll even write a tiny checklist of plot points I want to watch for so my brain stays engaged rather than scrolling. It helps me savor the ride instead of getting fragmented by everything else in life, and I always finish feeling more satisfied than frazzled.

Sunrise light hitting the pines here always makes me want to lace up my boots and go explore, and around Jordan Pines Campground there’s plenty to keep a curious person busy. Within a short drive I usually find a handful of great trailheads for everything from mellow family hikes to steeper ridge scrambles — perfect for day trips and for chasing viewpoints at golden hour. There’s often a river or reservoir nearby that’s great for fishing, tossing a canoe in, or just sitting on the bank with a sandwich and a good book; I’ve caught more than one lazy afternoon slipping away while watching waterfowl and trout rise. Beyond the obvious outdoor stuff, I like seeking out small local museums and historical markers near campgrounds like this. They give a neat context to the landscape — old mining cabins, early settler homesteads, or interpretive signs about the indigenous plants and wildlife. Local towns nearby usually have a handful of charming cafes, hardware stores with last-minute camping supplies, and a seasonal farmers’ market that’s worth a morning stroll. In colder months, some of the higher roads turn into quiet cross-country ski loops or snowshoe routes, so I pack a different set of gear and enjoy the hush of snowy pines. If you’re into stargazing, the night sky here can be spectacular when the campground is quiet: bring a blanket, download a star chart app, and get lost identifying constellations. Personally, I love mixing a long day hike with a slow evening around the fire — simple, satisfying, and a great way to disconnect for a couple of days.

Thinking about booking a wild getaway to Hedonism II? Let me give you the dirt from my spreadsheets, receipts, and the embarrassment of wearing a neon sarong into the wrong bar. Prices fluctuate a lot depending on season, room type, and whether you book an air-inclusive package. Generally you'll see per-person, per-night rates that start around $120–$200 in the low season (mid-spring through fall) for basic rooms when splitting a double, and climb into the $250–$600+ range per person per night during high season, holidays, or spring break for nicer rooms and suites. If you factor a typical 3–7 night package, that translates to roughly $400–$1,500 per person for a short break and $900–$3,500+ for a full week in upgraded accommodations. On top of the headline price, expect taxes, port or departure fees, and sometimes mandatory gratuities to add another 10–20% to the total. Airport transfers, spa treatments, scuba excursions, private dining, and premium beverage upgrades are extras. If you're booking through a travel site, watch for bundled airfare deals — they can swing the price dramatically, but read cancellation terms. Peak dates (Christmas/New Year, Presidents' Day, spring break) nearly always spike prices. I recommend subscribing to the resort's email list and following a few travel deal accounts; last-minute deals and flash sales pop up often, especially in shoulder season. My practical tip: pick your vibe first — are you after the party rooms or a quieter suite? That choice changes the budget more than you’d think. I once turned a pricey-sounding week into a manageable splurge by flying midweek and taking a transfer shuttle rather than a private car. Totally worth it for the sunsets and the weirdly soothing conga lines — I still grin thinking about that first night.

Bright blue icing always gets me giddy, especially when it's shaped exactly like 'Doraemon'. I usually break this down by decoration type because that’s what actually decides how long the cake will stay lovely. If the cake is covered in fondant (that smooth, sculpted look), the fondant helps keep moisture in and you can safely leave it at cool room temperature for about 1–2 days in a clean, dry place. Buttercream-covered cakes do fine out of the fridge for a day if your room isn’t hot, but I still prefer to chill them overnight—they taste fresher that way. If your 'Doraemon' cake has whipped cream, fresh fruit, custard, or other dairy fillings, treat it like fragile treasure: refrigerate immediately and plan to eat within 24–48 hours. For longer storage I freeze slices (wrapped tightly in plastic and then foil) and they keep great for up to 2–3 months; thaw in the fridge overnight to avoid sogginess. Also, when you pull a chilled cake out to serve, let it sit 20–30 minutes so flavors open and you don’t get that cold, clumpy mouthfeel. I always stash a slice in the freezer for emergency late-night nostalgia—works every time.

Bright colors aside, for me the practical truth is simple: rainbow milk made from regular pasteurized cow's milk and food coloring behaves just like plain milk. If it's a store-bought carton, follow the printed date and once opened I try to finish it within 5–7 days. I’ve found that after about a week the flavor dulls and the chances of souring climb, even if the color still looks cheerful. If I make rainbow milk at home—just milk plus a few drops of food dye or some flavored syrups—I treat it the same way. Keep it in a sealed glass jar or bottle, stash it toward the coldest part of the fridge (not the door), and label it with the date. If you add things like fruit, whipped cream, or ice cream, I wouldn’t keep it more than 24–48 hours because extra ingredients bring extra bacteria. Smell, texture and taste are your best quick checks: sour smell, lumps, or a slimy film means toss it. Personally, I like to make just enough for a couple of days so it stays bright and fun—and I don’t end up with a science-project bottle in the back of the fridge.

Some novels hit so close to home that they stop being entertainment and start feeling like a personal reckoning. I’ve found that books where the central conflict is domestic guilt, buried trauma, or a single moral choice spiraling outward tend to ache the most. Titles that sit heavy with that kind of intimacy include 'We Need to Talk About Kevin' — where parental responsibility and the possibility of monstrous things growing inside a child is the engine — and 'Beloved', which forces families to face the living echoes of slavery and a past that refuses to stay buried. 'Atonement' is basically a meditation on a single falsehood shattering lives; the conflict isn’t some distant battle, it’s the narrator’s own conscience. Similarly, 'Everything I Never Told You' and 'Little Fires Everywhere' put family expectations and secrets front and center, revealing how small cruelties morph into life-defining tragedies. 'Room' turns captivity and motherhood into an unbearably personal crisis, and 'A Little Life' drags you through long-term abuse and friendship in a way that makes it feel impossible to remain detached. Reading these, I often found myself checking my own decisions and how they ripple; once I finished 'We Need to Talk About Kevin' I sat in silence for a long time thinking about fear, responsibility, and the stories we tell ourselves about who we failed. They’re not always comfortable, but they’re the books that stick to your ribs and make you examine the parts of life you usually tuck away. I walked away from each of them changed, quieter, and oddly grateful for the honesty they demanded of me.