#соберись

[vval-ru]

Такой вопрос, смотрели ли вы сериал "Настя, соберись"?

Если нет, то сейчас немного инфы про него кину, а потом там такое расскажу)

Этот сериал был создан в 2021 году, в России. Он про личности внутри человека, очень классный.Некоторые сравнивают его с головоломкой, но там как минимум всё по другому в голове работает, а также такого рода продукты были и в 50-ые .

В Общем, к чему я это.

В этом сериале упоминаются геи и лесби)

Второе я вам не скажу где, так как это спойлер. Но первое я обязана рассказать.

В 6 серии, когда Настя ехала на такси, водитель сказал:"Гриш, я работаю, пока, зай".Настя вопросительно смотрит на него, он отвечает-"Я 20 лет думал, что люблю женщин, других обмануть легко, а себя-нет"

Я после этого была в афиге.... ТО ЕСТЬ У НАС ТОЖЕ ЕСТЬ ГЕИ!!!!!И тем более актёр красивый кста)

На всякий, это не про лгбт сериал, но упоминание есть(в 2 сериях)

↑, песни из сериала, мне нравятся)

[ggondae99]

- раньше, когда кто-то видел, что я стрессую, то слышала лишь советы типа "соберись"

- можно обоссу лицо этим людям

НУ ОН. НУ ИКОНА 🥹🥹🥹

[eyeseyesclowneyes]

он пел спасибо господь что я такой ожуенный а вы даже не знаете нго имени

бакалавриат п***идорских наук или кто он

это ужасно поств про этого чудика а могли быть с самоласками или юлиевами вы представляете

[borderpoint]

Почему именно сейчас? Они почти у цели. Не осталось места сомнениям. Почему же так пусто на душе? Все выходные Малькольм пытался найти ответ на этот вопрос. Родители уже немолоды, сам Малькольм давно не ребёнок, но всё ещё нуждается в их одобрении. Или внимании. В чём угодно, кроме безразличия.

Но не забывай, что ты не один. Соберись. Пройди уготованный тебе путь.

[aczamaz]

из этой же серий: "что ты как тряпка", "соберись тряпка", "не ной", "не возражай", "мужчина должен"

[antisocialxconstruct]

Okay "I'll wait until saturday" was a lie. "I'll post it tuesday"....... also a lie. But here we are, at probably the worst possible time and day for visibility :)

word count: 3,400 (total 9,000)

[ch1]

Ghost City

Chapter 2

Maksim winced as the clock in the corner of his laptop’s screen ticked over another minute. It had done that quite a few times now while he sat and watched, and he had not yet been stricken with any miraculous clarity or inspiration on what to do next.

He had gotten as far as hitchhiking to Denver. Two weeks of meandering travel and fifteen hundred kilometers seemed like a good buffer between him and his tail, and he needed to be here anyway, but he had another few weeks to kill while he waited for an appointment. It had occurred to him that he might have better luck being “on the run” if he knew exactly who he was running from and why, and he had very confidently settled down at the dining table in his musty hostel and opened his laptop and then remembered that he did not know how to do this kind of research. He didn’t handle contracts and he didn’t handle data, those had been the jobs of Avaricia and Strikeout respectively. Contacting the former was out of the question, and the latter…

As if to encourage him, the computer screen finally flicked to power-saving black, and he dragged his gaze away from it to stare instead at the phone abandoned with the other contents of his pockets on the opposite end of the table. He did not doubt for a second that Strikeout would help him. He leaned over, grabbed the phone and dragged it closer, lined it up neatly alongside the laptop and thumbed on the screen, opened up the contact list. And stared at it a little longer.

Strikeout would help him. Ze would be happy to, eager even. Which was precisely the problem.

Maksim groaned and slouched in his seat. He rubbed his eyes and then stared vacantly up at the ceiling as he tried to fight off the dread slowly tightening its grip around his ribs. He didn’t want zir help. He didn’t need it, he just needed to… ask questions. The right questions, to the right people. At length he hauled himself upright again. He woke the laptop to pull up a browser window, and the open-endedness of the unremarkable search engine landing page that greeted him was almost enough to stall him out once again. With a sharp intake of breath he muttered “соберись,” typed nyc cat warehouse murder, and hit ENTER.

–###–

Silence had settled thick over the modest office where Ilya now sat, staring across the desk at the person who was meant to find them work. They had the impression that this was an intentional little power play, a lull in conversation left to stretch until they started to squirm. But Violet underestimated how comfortably Ilya could settle into an uncomfortable silence. They slouched deeper into their chair and stretched their legs out in front of them, ankles crossed casually, and let idle curiosity carry their gaze throughout the office–from the window off to the left with the shades half-drawn, to the long fluorescent strip-lights lining the ceiling overhead, over the assortment of books and notes on the desk, the files in chunky binders on the shelves over Violet’s shoulder… lots of physical media, which was interesting. It could have easily passed for the office of a tax consultant, maybe a travel agent if there were more posters of exotic islands tossed in. Nothing about any of it broadcast a business in corporate espionage.

With a light click of their tongue, as if finally coming to an internal conclusion, Violet said, “I admit it is an impressive display,” bringing Ilya’s attention back over to settle on em. Eir own gaze was still focused on the screen atop the desk that separated the two of them, where ey had ostensibly just been going over reports, or notes, or the earlier versions of the worm Ilya had provided to prove it was their work. “Stock fell almost twenty percent overnight, internal reports suggest at least three years of research lost, there will undoubtedly be layoffs to offset the loss in revenue… I still think it’s a shame none of that data was extracted…”

“Well if you wanted it that badly you could have done the hack yourself,” Ilya fired back.

Violet finally sat back, pressing a button that lowered the screen into a slot in the desk so ey could meet Ilya’s eye. “That attitude won’t serve you well when you’re doing this for other people,” ey said, with an impassivity that made it feel less like a warning or admonishment, and more like a simple observation. “As I was saying, it’s a shame none of that data was extracted, but this is all I need to see to be confident I can place you. Although…” here ey paused, tilting eir head slightly to give Ilya a brief, assessing once-over. “I did put out some initial feelers, to see if anyone was already looking for a tech specialist… you haven’t exactly been making friends in San Mena, have you?”

That was a remarkably charitable way to characterize the way Ilya socialized. They tried for a disarming smile and felt like they landed much closer to a grimace. “Do I need friends?”

“It helps,” Violet replied. Ilya managed to bite back their impulse to challenge that assertion, but they were still fishing for a decent, less revealing response than not in my experience when Violet curtly appended “give me another week” and called up the screen again, leaving them with the distinct impression that the conversation was over. They hesitated for a beat, pulled their legs back in and sat forward, preparing to excuse themself, then stopped.

“You know if you really want NervAMP company secrets,” they said, “why don’t you just wait to find out who gets laid off and talk to them? At least some of them are going to be bitter.”

Violet tipped eir head again to see Ilya around the side of eir screen, and in the thoughtful look ey gave them Ilya was sure they could see the calculations being run behind eir eyes. The slightest hint of what Ilya chose to interpret as an approving smile lifted the corners of their lips, but all ey said was, “I’ll be in touch soon, Naspok.”

–###–

The waiting room of a back alley surgeon was rarely what one might call luxurious. Or even particularly hospitable. By now Maksim had sat in enough of them to know this was one of the better ones–it was well lit, clean, and at least a few square feet bigger than a walk-in closet. In total it was a far cry from the dingy vermin-infested storage unit he’d stumbled into the last time he’d needed maintenance, after a blow to the head had left him with the vision in his eye implant tearing and an ice pick migraine a cocktail of alcohol and narcotics hadn’t been able to curb. In retrospect it was a wonder he hadn’t walked out of there even worse, or that he walked out of there at all.

It was really just the waiting that was getting to him. This situation was far less dire, but to Maksim’s sensibilities at least, no less urgent. This was the last modification he had planned, and it had been the hardest to lock down but it was the one that would finally tie everything else together. Bioware was finicky, expensive, and hard to source without being traced and probably shot dead by some repo man because most of it still wasn’t consumer tech. Maksim had needed to find someone who could not only get their hands on it, but could be trusted to install it without shorting out some other essential part of his suite. Or his brain. Clark had come as highly recommended as he could have hoped for–sharpest eyes and steadiest hands anywhere outside the west coast, and discreet on top of it. With a price tag to match, unfortunately, but he had stopped allowing himself to think about debts pretty early on.

So he waited.

When his left leg began to bounce restlessly he willed it back into stillness, dropped his head back against the wall and tried to channel the impatient energy instead into his hands laying palm-up on his thighs. Controlled, intentional fidgeting. The short blades were sheathed cat claw-like in the artificial third digits of each finger, protracted by the minute flexing of thin tendons that had been painstakingly restrung and retrained to the purpose. It was second nature by now, a full decade on from when they had first been installed, but it still served as a good grounding exercise to focus in on the process. Slowly, deliberately, he touched the point of each blade to the soft pads of his thumbs, the only digits left unaltered (no telling when he might need a fingerprint), until another twinge of pain shot up through his left arm and he flinched, nicked the tip of his thumb and grit his teeth to swallow back a curse. It was an unnecessary confirmation of his reason for being there–an imperfection in the careful web of cybernetic control he had spent the last two months weaving over his own reflexes. It needed to be absolute. The pain, he could tolerate. The reaction, the body moving without his will or input, was a reminder he could not allow.

He fixed his eyes on the stippled off-white ceiling overhead and traced the irregular edges of water stains, knowing that if he closed his eyes now there would be memories waiting for him in the dark, blood and terror-wide eyes and the wet heat of fresh viscera, the fear, the sensation of being caged.

It was easier to think about what came after. This process had begun a week later, with a fiber optic muscle replacement knitted into his left arm, intended to correct the nerve damage Strikeout had done with a 9mm round lodged in his shoulder. The discovery that the mesh had granted him a steadier pistol aim than he’d ever had before “the incident” had eased some of the lingering trauma he carried out of it. But not enough. So he’d had the claws refitted for even finer motor control, the eye replaced with a newer model designed for minute motion tracking. A lighter muscle augment had gone into his right arm to synchronize his articulation, adrenal amps installed to increase his situational awareness and response times. The flexwires had gone into his arms on top of the muscle weaves, winding around just below the skin like careful geometric scarification and smoothing his hastened movements into precise, razor-sharp reflexes. The most invasive augmentation so far had been the spinal implant that nestled along the ridge of his back like some segmented mechanical insect, chaining the muscle augments, the adrenal amps, and the eye implant to a neural chip that could accelerate his processing of visual and auditory input, as well as dampen the full effects of the suite in everyday situations, when he didn’t need to be constantly barraged with sensory data.

There was a secondary effect, something he had been warned of back when he was first signing himself away to the Russian army in exchange for a purged arrest record and a functional left eye. The human brain was incredibly delicate, and his uniquely so. In a vanishingly small number of cases, the variant mutation manifested not only in physical quirks, but in certain advanced mental abilities. In his case, it had granted him the capacity to not only pick up the conscious thoughts and feelings of those around him, but to broadcast his own back out to a limited degree, like a short-range radio that only worked on human brain waves. Despite such genes being disseminated into the human population several generations ago, they were still not well understood, and Maksim’s superiors feared that placing too much additional processing burden on his brain via cybernetics might dampen his telepathic ability–the only thing they actually wanted. He hadn’t noticed any material difference after that first operation or in the decade that followed.

Now, he had the very real sense of a door almost fully closed, of the signals tapering off unless he really strained, and it was an indescribable relief. Whatever had happened in New York, it would not, could not, happen again.

Unfortunately that “processing burden” was affecting him in other, more immediate ways as well. He could feel his body protesting under the strain of the augments, without enough time to fully adjust to each introduction of heightened senses and tightened reflexes. And after living with an ability that had manifested when he was six years old, at 32 he could not seem to break himself of the habit of mental tampering no matter how many migraines he had to nurse in exchange. But a bit of research had presented him with a solution: an inhibitor could omit the pain response from the equation, allow him to bear the pain without distraction while his body did the work of adjusting quietly, in the background.

Then maybe he would finally feel like he was in control again.

A soft buzzing against his ribs startled him out of his musings. He lifted his head away from the wall and reached into the inner pocket of his coat to pull out his cellphone, then fumbled with the screen for a moment as he tried to check the caller ID, and only realized that he had instead blindly answered the call when he heard Strikeout’s voice filter through the tinny speaker. “Avos! Hey, I- shit I really didn’t think you were going to pick up.”

Maksim scoffed and let his head knock back against the wall. “I didn’t mean to,” he stated, and Strikeout chuckled as if it had been a joke. “This isn’t a good time,” he pressed on. “I’m waiting to meet with someone.”

“Ah…” Strikeout hesitated for a moment, the silence punctuated by some kind of indeterminate rustling on zir end. “With a loan shark?”

Maksim grit his teeth at the boldness of the assumption, even if it was frankly even odds at this point. This had been an expensive process, and his savings had only gotten him about halfway through it before he had started having to beg and borrow for the rest. “A surgeon,” he said pointedly, just because in that moment he wanted Strikeout to be wrong.

“Where are you now?”

“I’m not telling you that,” Maksim volleyed back, rolling his eyes up toward the ceiling. “But it’s far enough, you can tell Reece I understood her message clearly.”

“That’s not why I’m asking, I-” Maksim’s focus immediately disengaged from the call when a door opened at the far end of the room. The person in the doorway had a tall and willowy stature with angular features, but Maksim couldn’t immediately tell if those were variant features. They beckoned him in with a smile, and he returned it as he stood and quickly pulled on a more sociable persona.

“Hey listen, I’m glad you called but I’ll have to connect with you later,” he said brightly into the phone, then ended the call and tucked it back into his coat without waiting for Strikeout’s reaction.

“I hope you’re not nervous,” Clark said softly as he followed them into the next room.

“Not at all,” he insisted, his tone bright and conversational–a carefully modulated performance, and this was one he had had years to perfect. Another necessary form of control. “I’ve only heard good things.”

-

All told it was an unremarkable procedure, at least from Maksim’s perspective. Clark supervised him for a day and a half, then asked if there was anyone available to help him with basic tasks for a week or so while he recovered. He assured them that there was, and then went back to the hostel alone.

He could take care of himself. He’d been taking care of himself for a long time, and by now he’d recovered from enough surgeries to know he could do that by himself too. Still, this had been a particularly strange and disorienting one. Everything still hurt–there was a tension all through his upper body, like a chord strung from his temples down through his neck and into his shoulders had been pulled impossibly, dangerously taut. Sunlight burned the back of his eyes. So did screens. The light brace on his neck, to stop him moving enough to pop any stitches, left him feeling not unlike a dog in a cone. And yet, all of it receded to the back of his mind the instant he shifted his focus to anything else. It was easy to ignore, leaving him free to go about his day as he normally would, only to be hit by a fresh wave of soreness and exhaustion every time he settled down enough to let his mind empty. This, he assumed, was why Clark had strongly advised him not to do much for at least two weeks, not to be too active, or in any unpredictable situations, not until his mind and body had time to calibrate the new signals being sent back and forth.

He had been filling most of his time with cooking, carefully avoiding the hostel’s handful of other tenants, and trawling forums he had only barely remembered how to access thanks to Strikeout’s instructions almost a year ago. “Unindexed,” whatever that meant. He had surreptitiously put out inquiries about the warehouse run, hoping to tease out someone who seemed like they might know more than just sensationalized rumors or the same talking points that had already been in the news. It hadn’t amounted to much except the name Alabast–a low level crime syndicate in the New England area, and apparently the people who had hired his team for the job.

His phone screen lit up beside him, the vibration loud and obnoxious against the table’s surface, and he grit his teeth. He had also been ignoring a lot of calls from Strikeout. That particular pastime was rapidly becoming unsustainable, especially when ze had gradually increased zir attempted contacts from one every day or two to one every few hours. In a burst of frustration Maksim finally grabbed the phone and answered it, barking out an unfriendly “what?”

“Thank fucking god,” Strikeout breathed. “Avos are you in Denver?”

Maksim flinched. How did ze know that? “I told you, I’m not-”

Strikeout swore under zir breath. “Have you been posting about the run on Arsenal?”

The abrupt subject change left Maksim scrambling to catch up for a moment. “I thought… if I could find out-”

“From your personal computer?”

He opened his mouth. Didn’t actually say anything. The laptop sat open in front of him and he shot it a sidelong glance, feeling suddenly threatened by its presence. He had the distinct impression that if he told Strikeout the truth, it would also be the wrong answer. All he managed to offer was “это…“

Another frazzled, desperate string of curses from Strikeout, then, “you need to get out of there.”

“Out of… this building?” Maksim asked cautiously. Optimistically.

“Out of the state,” Strikeout insisted.

The deep, steadying breath Maksim tried to take caught in his lungs, as the tingling numbness of panic began to creep up through his extremities. “Why…?”

“Because if I know exactly where you are who else do you think has that information?”

“Oh.”

Who indeed. Why did they even want him? Would Alabast hunt him this far just for a botched robbery? It wasn’t like he owed them money, no one had gotten paid. Maybe it really was a friend of one of the others, not content with simply running him out of town. Strikeout was still talking on the other end but he was barely listening. “… just give me a little time I can set up a secure line for us, if I find out anything I can-” he ended the call.

Okay. No. It was fine. He didn’t have a lot to pack. He’d spent a lot of money on the inhibitor and this hostel but he could afford a bus ticket to… somewhere. Further west than Colorado. He still had options, and he was probably in good enough condition to travel. As soon as he felt like he could breathe again.

[mersonwi]

[jerrykosblog]

В конце декабря - самый тяжёлый кризис за всю историю наблюдений моих состояний. На полпути на Гоа, в приступе бессонницы я всерьез раздумывал вскрыться в туалете номера узбекской гостиницы. Надо было только все правильно распланировать. Найти инструмент и сделать все так, чтобы жена не проснулась. Когда я подошёл к этой черте, то началась борьба за жизнь. Понимая, что это болезнь, я начал отчаянно искать выход из петли, пытаясь убедить себя в нереальности происходящего. Мало кто может понять и вряд ли я смогу кому-либо объяснить чего мне стоило отвести себя от пропасти. Я всю ночь боролся за свое выживание, решив, что жить мне всё-таки нужно (но зачем так и не стало ясно). Обессиленный, я на пару часов провалился в сон. Вероятно, для этого нужна психотерапия, чтобы изучать какие-то специфические приемы саморегуляции для достойного противостояния с самим собой. В общем-то, чем старше я становлюсь, тем сложнее мне с этим идиотом в зеркале. Мне все больше становится стыдно, что я такой. Иногда думаю - еб твою мать, тебе 37 лет. Соберись уже и начни решать хоть часть своих проблем. Бери ответственность за свою и чужую жизнь. Но это вообще не помогает. Мне все больше хочется общаться с людьми, но я все время торможу себя, потому что не знаю, что мои внутренности выкинут в следующий раз, а нормальным людям с этим всем не надо общаться. В том числе и J, за которую уже много лет решаю, что нам надо разойтись, так будет легче ей. На самом деле мне. И вряд ли будет легче, но больное сознание все чаще диктует тотальный исход из нормальной жизни.

[simlika]

Лили немного опоздала на занятия и теперь это может плохо отразиться на конечном балле, а я со своей ШИЗОЙ хочу чтобы всё было на 5+.

Надо узнать у преподавателей как обстоят дела с оценками на текущий момент.

Ну не очень пока. Надо ещё больше уделять время учёбе.

Опять занятия не очень хорошо прошли.

-Лили, соберись уже! Что с тобой? У неё в закреплённых висит желание завести ребёнка с Юджином. Не рановато ли? Ты не о том думаешь!

Юджин на днях одолжил знакомой 1000 и тут она позвонила и сообщила, что дело выгорело и её бизнес пошёл в гору.

Она нам 25000 перевела. ОФИГЕТЬ! Мы богаты! Юджин скрыл эту информацию от Лили, деньги ему понадобятся для свадьбы. У него уже давно висит в закреплённых желание устроить помолвку.

А ещё он активно углубился в историю оборотней для того чтобы больше понять свою сущность и научиться управлять ею.

В этом ему помогают дневники и книги, которые он находит во время своих раскопок.

_____________________________________________________________

Последний экзамен для Юджина. Надо ещё раз повторить материал.

Блин, как же задолбали эти бессовестные студенты. Они постоянно тырят нашу еду из холодильника. Я специально ставлю туда порции приготовленной еды, чтобы не кормить моих ребят фигнёй и не терять много времени на разогрев в микроволновке. А эти ....всё сжирают. Только и бегают к нам в комнату.

Лили это очень сильно злит. Сколько можно? В общаге еда на вес золота.

О нет! Мой малыш заболел. И чем же мне его лечить? Апельсинового сока нет в студенческом холодильнике и салатов тоже. Мод на медицину я удалила, что-то он мне сильно игру ломал.

[ggondae99]

когда я говорю, что я не могу просто взять и что-то сделать, мне не нужны советы, мне не нужна поддержка, мне не нужны фразы "просто возьми и сделай". мне нужно, чтобы кто-то мне поверил. мне нужен хотя бы один человек, который поверит в то, что я не вру, когда я говорю, что я не могу что-то сделать из-за своего больного мозга. больше "никаких просто соберись", "возьми себя в руки", " не ленись", "все могут и ты можешь", потому что я абсолютно уверена, что я блин не могу. никто не понимает меня, когда я говорю, что буквы рассыпаются у меня в разные стороны перед глазами, когда я пытаюсь что-то написать, никто не понимает, когда я долго сижу на одном месте и не могу даже пошевелиться, никто не понимает, когда я ощущаю тяжесть от большого количества информации, никто не понимает, когда за весь день у меня не хватает даже сил налить себе чаю, но мне не нужно понимание. мне нужно, чтобы мне поверили. хоть раз

[acerbicginger]

"Как хорошо было бы

Если б мир не сводил с ума

Этот день захотел тебя выебать —

Так выеби его сама"

На протяжении всей недели - эта песня была моей мантрой.

[gantergg]

Первый осенний дождик окропляет пылищу, которая осталась от августа. Какой же приятный запах, какая же сонная атмосфера. Пьем с мамой кофеек, планируем наварить креветок и посидеть под фильмец или сериал покушать🤗

Строим планы на аквапарк. По поездке в Краснодар пока что нам не ответили.

А в моей голове запутанность. По полочкам все ещё не разлаживается. Соберись, Аня!

[alicalesovskaya]

могут призрак и зомби быть из одного и того же человека? меня так развлекает идея, как призрак в ужасе смотрит, как их зомбифицированное тело бродит туда-сюда: «МОЗГИИИИИИИ» и призрак такой: это так позорно, пожалуйста, Фил, соберись, мы были юристом, ради всего святого

[serenasims]

Ну чтоб точно заметила ;) давай уже, гулена, соберись! хочу смотреть смешные посты с Винсом с его приключениями)))

гулена обещает собраться и взяться за посты )))

[helaenatargarye]

Зачем я все это делаю? Для чего пишу все это? Что я хочу? Чтобы меня пожалели или поняли и приняли, поддержали? Наверное, первое. Это куда более отвратительно, чем второе.

Тебе 29 лет! Соберись. Тебе не 5 лет, чтобы искать в ком то или чем то помощи и поддержки. Ты сама себе должна быть и помощью и поддержкой

P.s. Фото с пинтерест, не мое

[girlsinner666]

Флешер в деле

Как только парни оказались дома, им сразу захотелось принять ванну, чтобы смыть с себя не только запахи лаборатории, но и то ощущение липкого страха, что все еще присутствовало у обоих. Уже сидя в воде, Дастин поделился с Таем своими ощущениями - и про то, как ему было жутко, и уже про то, что чувствует себя в данным момент он как то странно...

Тайризу хотелось бы успокоить любимого, но и он не мог отрицать того факта, что словно бы что-то неуловимо изменилось в Дасти. Как-будто на уровне феромонов... Тай одновременно и боялся того, что они сотворили, но в то же время очень хотел проверить - действительно ли эксперимент прошел удачно, как сообщил дроид.

Остаток ночи прошел просто отлично кто бы сомневался , и безумно влюбленные друг в друга мальчики думать забыли о поездке в Стренжервилль... до тех пор, пока однажды утром Дастин не проснулся со странным недомоганием. Он конечно надеялся, что это просто последствия ночной объедаловки шоколадным тортом, но все таки решился на одну глупую проверку:

Ему бы и хотелось верить, что все получилось в ту ночь, когда они с Таем забылись и просто на удачу не воспользовались защитой. Он сидел и смотрел на этот злополучный тест, но тень разочарования уже тихо по��кралась и скреблась где-то глубоко внутри...

Оууу... как просто оказывается "делаются" дети! Одного раза оказалось вполне достаточно... Дасти, не забудь потом ребенку объяснить как важно не забывать о контрацепции!

Окрыленный новостью об удачном зачатии, Брок поспешил к Тайризу. Весело сверкая перед его носом двумя полосками, Дастин ждал хоть какой-то реакции от любимого...

Тай, ты же рад, правда? Это та цель, к которой ты так стремился! Что за удивление на твоем лице, скажи пожалуйста? Ты же лучший ученик школы, закончил универ с отличием... неужели не знаешь начальный курс биологии? СОБЕРИСЬ, ТРЯПКА!

Кажется, первый шок прошел. Да ребята, у ВАС будет "дитеныш". Не знаю, можно ли такое чудо назвать полноценным симом, ведь все таки он появился благодаря весьма странным манипуляциям... Однако факт остается фактом - вы скоро станете родителями.

Пора принимать поздравления!