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With everything going around these days about generative AI (such as c.ai in fan settings, and chatgpt for everything else) I've decided to put together some banners for creators to put with their works if they like. Here are the ones I have so far:

(LET THE MACHINE STARVE - DO NOT FEED AI MY WORKS)

(KEEP ART HUMAN - DEATH TO AI)

(THIS WAS MADE BY A HUMAN - KEEP IT THAT WAY)

(NEURONS NOT WIRES - DEATH TO AI)

(HUMAN MADE HUMAN LOVED - DEATH TO AI)

(SAY NO TO GENERATIVE AI - DEATH TO CONSUMERISM)

(NEW THOUGHTS ARE HUMAN MADE - DEATH TO GENERATIVE AI)

(MADE WITH HEART NOT A CPU - DEATH TO AI)

Feel free to use these! I just ask that you reblog this post if you do, and tag me for credit somewhere on your blog (:

I've tried to pick a color that looked legible on both light and dark backgrounds, but feel free to ask for other colors (via askbox) if you're needing something else and I'll try to get to it!

edit: some other versions i had made as well but wasn't sure how easier they were to see, so I put them beneath the larger versions!

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Flying is effortless, landing can be a little bit harder, Cornell Lab / DoC (northern royal albatross) (part 1)

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Doing this "Filipino Literature in exchange for donations to Palestinian families" project during the start of the ao3 donation drive and only getting a grand total of one (1) proof of donation submitted while the fanfiction slop website gets over $200,000 and counting really brings home, above all, the fucked up priorities of all of you fAnDom-FaNdoM people during a literal genocide but also how juvenile your tastes in reading material is and how much you all lack commitment to actually seeking out so-called "marginalized voices" in art and literature.

I could not be more digusted, but I'm gonna keep going. Helping get aid to families in Gaza is what matters.

Hello, I am reading Filipino short stories, and in exchange for a minimum £5 donation to the fundraisers below, you can listen to me read it:

Karam's fundraiser, last donation 7 days ago:

Ismail's fundraiser, only 2 donations in the last 12 hours:

Rewaa and @mohamedmoner1994 's fundraiser, last donation 3 hours ago:

@yousefmoner's fundraiser, last donation 2 hours ago:

I will be reading another, different short story this week. Please look out for the posts I will make about it in the following days.

Please let this incentivize you into donating to Mohamed and Yousef's families above, but if you really have no interest in what I'm doing and would still rather read your fanfiction, at the very least be motivated by compassion for these families, and don't give any more money to the already $200,000-rich fanfic site.

Below is an audio excerpt of my recording for the story last week. I sent a full copy to the one user who submitted proof of donation, but you can still listen to the whole thing if you want. Just donate, send an ask with the screenshot, and indicate you would like to receive THIS particular story:

Content Warnings:

A slur for Romani people is used once to refer to one of the characters

Use of an exclamation with racially-charged undertones

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌙🌟🌟🌟🌟

MAY DAY EVE

The old people had ordered that the dancing should stop at ten o’clock but it was almost midnight before the carriages came filing up to the front door, the servants running to and fro with torches to light the departing guests, while the girls who were staying were promptly herded upstairs to the bedrooms, the young men gathering around to wish them a good night and lamenting their ascent with mock sighs and moanings, proclaiming themselves disconsolate but straightway going off to finish the punch and the brandy though they were quite drunk already and simply bursting with wild spirits, merriment, arrogance, and audacity, for they were young bucks newly arrived from Europe; the ball had been in their honor; and they had waltzed and polka-ed and bragged and swaggered and flirted all night and were in no mood to sleep yet—no, caramba, not on this moist tropic eve! Not on this mystic May eve!—with the night still young and so seductive that it was madness not to go out, not to go forth—and serenade the neighbors! cried one; and swim in the Pasig! cried another; and gather fireflies! cried a third—whereupon there arose a great clamor for coats and capes, for hats and canes and they were presently stumbling out among the medieval shadows of the foul street where a couple of street lamps flickered and a last carriage rattled away upon the cobbles while the blind black houses muttered hush-hush, their tiled roofs looming like sinister chessboards against a wild sky murky with clouds, save where an evil young moon prowled about in a corner or where a murderous wind whirled, whistling and whining, smelling now of the sea and now of the summer orchards and wafting unbearable childhood fragrances of ripe guavas to the young men trooping so uproariously down the street that the girls who were disrobing upstairs in the bedrooms scattered screaming to the windows, crowded giggling at the windows, but were soon sighing amorously over those young men bawling below; over those wicked young men and their handsome apparel, their proud flashing eyes, and their elegant mustaches so black and vivid in the moonlight that the girls were quite ravished with love, and began crying to one another how carefree were men but how awful to be a girl and what a horrid, horrid world it was, till old Anastasia plucked them off by the ear or the pigtail and chased them off to bed—while from up the street came the clackety-clack of the watchman’s boots on the cobbles, and the clang-clang of his lantern against his knee, and the mighty roll of his great voice booming through the night: “Guardia sereno-o-o! A las doce han dado-o-o!”

And it was May again, said the old Anastasia. It was the first day of May and witches were abroad in the night, she said—for it was a night of divination, a night of lovers, and those who cared might peer in a mirror and would there behold the face of whoever it was they were fated to marry, said the old Anastasia as she hobbled about picking up the piled crinolines and folding up shawls and raking slippers to a corner while the girls climbing into the four great poster beds that overwhelmed the room began shrieking with terror, scrambling over each other and imploring the old woman not to frighten them.

“Enough, enough, Anastasia! We want to sleep!”

“Go scare the boys instead, you old witch!”

“She is not a witch, she is a maga. She was born on Christmas Eve!”

“St. Anastasia, virgin and martyr.”

“Huh? Impossible! She has conquered seven husbands! Are you a virgin, Anastasia?”

“No, but I am seven times a martyr because of you girls!”

“Let her prophesy, let her prophesy! Whom will I marry, old gypsy? Come, tell me.”

“You may learn in a mirror if you are not afraid.”

“I am not afraid, I will go!” cried the young cousin Agueda, jumping up in bed.

“Girls, girls—we are making too much noise! My mother will hear and will come and pinch us all. Agueda, lie down! And you, Anastasia, I command you to shut your mouth and go away!”

“Your mother told me to stay here all night, my grand lady!”

“And I will not lie down!” cried the rebellious Agueda, leaping to the floor. “Stay, old woman. Tell me what I have to do.”

“Tell her! Tell her!” chimed the other girls.

The old woman dropped the clothes she had gathered and approached and fixed her eyes on the girl. “You must take a candle,” she instructed, “and go into a room that is dark and that has a mirror in it and you must be alone in the room. Go up to the mirror and close your eyes and say:

Mirror, mirror,

show to me

him whose woman

I will be.

If all goes right, just above your left shoulder will appear the face of the man you will marry.”

A silence. Then: “And what if all does not go right?” asked Agueda.

“Ah, then the Lord have mercy on you!”

“Why?”

“Because you may see—the Devil!”

The girls screamed and clutched one another, shivering.

“But what nonsense!” cried Agueda. “This is the year 1847. There are no devils anymore!” Nevertheless she had turned pale. “But where could I go, huh? Yes, I know! Down to the sala. It has that big mirror and no one is there now.”

“No, Agueda, no! It is a mortal sin! You will see the devil!”

“I do not care! I am not afraid! I will go!”

“Oh, you wicked girl! Oh, you mad girl!”

“If you do not come back to bed, Agueda, I will call my mother.”

“And if you do I will tell her who came to visit you at the convent last March. Come, old woman—give me that candle. I go.”

“Oh, girls—come and stop her! Take hold of her! Block the door!”

But Agueda had already slipped outside; was already tip-toeing across the hall; her feet bare and her dark hair falling down her shoulders and streaming in the wind as she fled down the stairs, the lighted candle sputtering in one hand while with the other she pulled up her white gown from her ankles.

She paused breathless in the doorway to the sala and her heart failed her. She tried to imagine the room filled again with lights, laughter, whirling couples, and the jolly jerky music of the fiddlers. But, oh, it was a dark den, a weird cavern, for the windows had been closed and the furniture stacked up against the walls. She crossed herself and stepped inside.

The mirror hung on the wall before her; a big antique mirror with a gold frame carved into leaves and flowers and mysterious curlicues. She saw herself approaching fearfully in it: a small white ghost that the darkness bodied forth—but not willingly, not completely, for her eyes and hair were so dark that the face approaching in the mirror seemed only a mask that floated forward; a bright mask with two holes gaping in it, blown forward by the white cloud of her gown. But when she stood before the mirror she lifted the candle level with her chin and the dead mask bloomed into her living face.

She closed her eyes and whispered the incantation. When she had finished such a terror took hold of her that she felt unable to move, unable to open her eyes, and thought she would stand there forever, enchanted. But she heard a step behind her, and a smothered giggle, and instantly opened her eyes.

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You Can Save Mena's Dream to Become a Nurse 🍉

VETTED BY ASSOCIATION: Mena is Hammad's sister, who was referred to me through Safaa and her campaign (vetted by @90-ghost)

Mena is a college student living in Gaza studying to become a nurse.

Imagine your life as Mena's. Faced with horrors we cannot even begin to realize; so close to the dream that she has held tightly in her heart since childhood, with a simple desire to help the people around her in any which way she can, and right when she is so close to realizing her dream, to turning it into her life and her reality, her dream is shattered - slipping through her fingers as she desperately tries to hold onto it: her dreams, her inspiration, her motivations, even her friends and teachers, some of whom were killed during the war.

All she has left is her dream, striving to fulfill it.

Even during the war, with the education she had received before the war flipped her life upside-down, she put that knowledge to work, standing alongside nurses and doctors in the field and tending to horrible wounds with limited access to medical tools and resources - helping anyone she could, while hungry, thirsty, with nowhere but a flimsy tent to lay her head down at night, exposed to the harsh elements.

Mena's whole life has been dedicated to helping the people around her. It is now our turn to show Mena the unconditional love and support that she has shown to anybody lucky enough to cross her path. ❤️

The university contacted her a couple days ago, letting her know that she will have to pay the fees she's incurred for the online courses she's dedicated herself to during the war; studying as her childhood home was shelled and destroyed along with all of her and her family's things and lifetime of saved funds, memorizing her work as bombs dropped on her university, crumpling it to stone and dust.

You can show her the love and support that she deserves. You can help her dream become a reality.

Your contributions to keeping hope and dreams alive in Mena's heart are invaluable. Donate today.

Chuffed has a waiting period for processing and transferring funds. If you want your donation to IMMEDIATELY be sent to Mena, paypal is linked below.

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Anti-mask bills in #Texas are being heard Monday April 14th.

These include: Texas Senate Bill (SB) 2876-- increases criminal penalty for participating in a riot while wearing a mask or other face covering. A “riot” is defined as a group of 7 or more people.

Clear The Air ATX requests that you email Texas senators ASAP and if you're in #Austin you can go to the Capitol 9AM Monday to give testimony or drop a card.

Their post: https://www.instagram.com/p/DIW4KmaJTsU/

Email script: https://docs.google.com/document/d/15Acy-dKr2vgbP3ABEkRuAwhCaCsjRAruTvJmzI9t8_A/edit?tab=t.0

What is dropping a card: https://www.texasappleseed.org/legislative-advocacy-drop-card-texas-capitol (Register 'against' SB2595 and SB2876)

If you give live testimony: - DO NOT SAY things like "we're not like the protestors!" Respectability politics doesn't work, and you'll just be showing your ass. - DO NOT get aggro. Do not threaten, criticize, belittle etc committee members. - Practice reading your testimony at home, you will have 2 minutes, firm.

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Literal human trafficking

Trump meets with Bukele: The Trump administration and El Salvador’s President Nayib Bukele made clear during an Oval Office meeting today that the Maryland man who was wrongly deported to El Salvador won’t be brought back to the US. White House officials have argued it’s up to El Salvador whether to do so, despite a Supreme Court ruling that the US must “facilitate” his return.

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Just an extremely Normal thing to say

Reminder they want to increase the budget for ICE from 3.5 to 45 billion dollars.

Reminder the majority of that will be for building new detention centers.

Reminder ICE are *currently* detaining tourists who can pay for a plane ticket home and people with visa issues that were already resolved, because they have to make quota so Trump can brag about the numbers going up.

Reminder most of these people were already in the immigration system - that's why they were easy to detain.

Reminder this is all at taxpayer expense.

Reminder these are people.

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(1000 ppm is the maximum acceptable CO2 level in the countries that legislate such levels. If you're not masking, you're not helping *and* you're putting yourself at major risk. Indoor CO2 directly correlates to exhaled breath: about 5% of the air in that room has recently been inside someone.)

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Wilmer Gutiérrez still doesn’t understand how his son ended up in the most notorious prison in the world. While scrolling through photos on his phone, he revisits snapshots of him and his son in the Colombian jungle, crossing the border, working together. There are other moments where they’re both surrounded by family back home in Venezuela. Now, inside the six-bedroom apartment in the Bronx that he shares with 12 other people, Wilmer looks at the photos with nostalgia and sorrow.

On March 15, U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) detained his 19-year-old son, Merwil Gutiérrez, and another 237 Venezuelans. He had no criminal record, neither in Venezuela nor the U.S., nor did he have any tattoos — one of the features that the U.S. police used to link them to the Tren de Aragua gang. But none of that stopped him from being arrested.

“I feel like my son was kidnapped,” said Gutiérrez in Spanish. “I’ve spent countless hours searching for him, going from one precinct to another, speaking with numerous people who kept referring me elsewhere. Yet, after all this, no one has given me any information or provided a single document about his case.”

[…]

Wilmer only found out his son had been detained after receiving a phone call on March 15 from his nephew, Luis, who lives with them. That morning was their last time together; they had gone around the corner to do their laundry. Later that day, Wilmer said that his son met with a friend to get help with some errands at the American Red Cross. He learned this from Luis, who looked at the situation from inside the apartment: When his son was on his way back, just steps from his home when ICE agents stopped him. “The officers grabbed him and two other boys right at the entrance to our building. One said, ‘No, he’s not the one,’ like they were looking for someone else. But the other said, ‘Take him anyway.'”

That moment marked the beginning of Wilmer’s search for answers — answers he’s still waiting for.

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I’ll never forget how Democrats genuinely believed that brat summer would make Kamala appealing enough to win the election

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