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Anisong of the Day
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Y'all I know that when so-called AI generates ridiculous results it's hilarious and I find it as funny as the next guy but I NEED y'all to remember that every single time an AI answer is generated it uses 5x as much energy as a conventional websearch and burns through 10 ml of water. FOR EVERY ANSWER. Each big llm is equal to 300,000 kiligrams of carbon dioxide emissions.
LLMs are killing the environment, and when we generate answers for the lolz we're still contributing to it.
Stop using it. Stop using it for a.n.y.t.h.i.n.g. We need to kill it.
Sources:
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HIGH ON STANDARDS LOW ON SKILL. CREATIVE PROCESS MAKE YOU ILL
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shoutout to the slow artists. the artists with hardly any time for art. the artists who reach the end of the day with no energy for art. you got this i believe in you and you are no less valued than anyone else
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i think theres this idea in the general public that the "best" fanfic gets turned into real books like 50 shades of grey. but the truth is that the best fanfic can never be published as an actual book because its intricately woven into the canon material so its inseparable even if you change the names
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doodles as i relive my spideyman phase from eighth grade
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Thinking about Bruce after the Wayne murder. The Wayne murder? His parents’ murder. His mama’s murder, his daddy’s murder. How it divided both Kane and Wayne clans.
Can you imagine that? You bury your parents when you’re 8 years old. You’re survived by a man who loves you so much. That man doesn’t know what to do with you.
The funeral is angry and quiet, and no one fights for you. No one wants to keep you. You’re too much your mother, and too much your father. They can’t bear it.
Your uncle Philip— and you love your uncle Philip, even if you have no idea who he is, — cries to your father butler. “Sometimes I just wish it was him. She’d be here. I can’t take him Alfred, I can’t.”
Your uncle Jacob is winter embodied. He doesn’t take you either. You can be a son, but you can’t be a soldier. He tells you to come to him when you’re ready for blood, and you know you’ll accept.
Thinking about Bruce, who doesn’t lose as Batman, but loses as a father. Bruce, who loses child after child, alive or not, and keeps opening his heart anyway. Even if he knows it’s a losing game for all of them.
Primarily, thinking about Waynes, their one golden rule. That you can hurt and destroy and fight eachother, but you’ll never walk away.
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You should only write in present tense with extreme caution.
not because it's bad or anything but because if you do it even once you're going to be editing the bits where you shifted tenses out of your writing for the rest of your life
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Okay. But when Bruce discovers Talia knew Jason was alive? That she knew his child was the man under the red hood. His boy.
Oh.
Jason’s met and memorized every facet of Bruce Wayne. He knows Bruce by the way his eyes melt when he looks at him, to the hard lines of his cowl. He knows where Bruce starts and Batman ends.
When Bruce rips off his cowl to give her the deepest glare Jason’s ever seen, he’s reminded there’s no difference. Fear hits his stomach when he swallows,
“Hey, old man, don’t fucking blame HER. She has NO obligation to you—“
Bruce’s eyes are unblinking, wide, jumping from her frozen form to him. And Jason’s suddenly 10 again, running from hungry stray dogs cornering him in a place with no exit.
Bruce’s voice is shadow and whisper, “Quiet.”
“…Okay.”
“Damian,” he rasps, pointing at the small figure with dark hair and green eyes, who looks at neither of them. He looks at Talia. Jason thinks it’s fair. He’s never seen her scared, either. “Car. Cave. Stay. “
There’s something incredibly bitter in Jason when he just does. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t rebel. He wants to, with every fiber and matter and crumb in his body. And his body says no.
He grabs Damian like he’s an angry cat, not the small assassin he knew since he was born. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t want to, he realizes.
“Did you know?” Bruce asks, such a deadly calm to him, too calm for the winter in his eyes. Talia would’ve preferred a blade to the neck.
She can’t meet his eye. Almost like if she doesn’t face his hatred, his disapproval, his disappointment, it doesn’t count. “I did. “
“…Whatever you do,” she’d take it as pity if he didn’t sound repulsed , “you’re still his daughter.”
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