#Apt 412

[survivalxofxthexfittest]

He laughed softly at the tease as he sat up and leaned back against the headboard, giving Devan the space they seemed to need. A low hum in agreement and raise of his brow was the only response when he mentioned his leaving. Which they had in fact done. Devestatingly so. Without notice. They'd just ripped themselves from John-Paul's life with seeming ease. Not even so much as a goodbye or a note ala Roman Drake. The time period following immediately after wasn't one JP cared to reminisce about too often. If at all - Mal being the only other sould who knew how hard Devan leaving had been for him. And it certainly wasn't something he'd expected to be talking about so soon after their unexpected reunion.

Yet here they were.

He dropped his gaze momentarily as Devan spoke, the difficulty of their words filling the space between them. His fingers fidgeted with each other anxiously, his mind already preparing itself for another round of rejection. This time however, where would Devan go? JP would be forced to see what he'd lost every single day and he had no idea how he could possibly handle that.

But when his eyes found Devan again, John-Paul caught the apprenhension in their face. He shifted to face him fully, watching in silence as they seeming searched for the right words. His hand instinctively found its way to theirs and squeezed it gently in assurance. A soft huff escaped him with a shake of his head and a slight purse of his lips, dismissing his confession JP hadn't been the reason he was there.

The thought that Devan had come to the Wexley for him never crossed his mind. It wasn't even remotely a possibility. Not unless Devan developed some sort of psychic powers since they'd last seen each other. JP hadn't so much as mentioned where he lived before, let alone shown him. Although surprising, he'd assumed they'd been looking for the same as any of the others when they stumbled upon the Wexely - shelter and safety.

As Devan started to backtrack, JP scooted closer, unable to fight the tug of a smile or the soft huff of a chuckle when he admited being fucked up over him. That was a first, but so was how fucked up he was over Dev. Of course he's never spent more than a few nights, maybe a week tops, with someone. John-Paul was never looking for anyone to become a permanent fixture in his life - no matter how lonely he felt at times. He wasn't ever keen on letting anyone in far enough to really know him, firmly believing that once they did, they would leave just like his mother. So he never gave anyone the chance to feel anything other than lust for him. That was until Devan. And they still ended up leaving which made him realize it hadn't mattered if people saw him or not, and that he'd wasted a lot of opportunities being so afraid.

"Guess I should cancel the caterer then huh?" he joked if for nothing else then to break the growing tension. He held onto Devan, his fingers dancing through his hair as they came to rest at the nape of his neck. His eyes locked onto theirs affectionately.

"Dev, I hate to break it to you but that means we are something," he told him honestly. "And what that might mean scares the shit out of me, so I'm in no rush to find out," he admitted openly with a soft, nervous laugh. "But whatever we're meant to be, I'm here for it. I'm not going anywhere," he continued in promise with a small shrug, his grip gently tightening in added confirmation before pressing a kiss to their lips.

His focus broke when Devan finally broke the silence, shaking his head gently. John-Paul's embarrassment over this still being such a big deal flared up. He shouldn't have said anything. He shouldn't have said anything. He fucked up. Already. He knew it. How could he have thought someone as open as Devan would be okay hiding? He continued to silently chastise himself for the assumed failure, slowly blocking out everything around him.

But then Dev was making his presence known and John-Paul's worry began to slowly dissipate. His hands easily found themselves resting at their hip and sliding along their arm to hold onto their wrist. "Don't. It's not the same with them," he said of his siblings, shaking off their perceived ignorance of his 'love' life. "I know they wouldn't care. It's just never come up, so I never said anything," he explained it away. "It's everyone else that worries me. Not to mention there's alot of baggage behind why I've kept it to myself."

John-Paul's brow furrowed in worry when they admitted it was going to be a problem, he really didn't want that, but his expression turned to one of confusion as he went on. The knit in his brow softened as they continued, realizing they weren't leaving. That they were choosing to stay. Each kiss sent a chill up his spine. Each compliment stole his breath away. Self doubt clenched at his chest. He feared he wouldn't be able to live up to the image Devan had of him - his talent to screw up even the surest of shots undeniable.

It was Devan's value of him that nearly sent him over the edge. He had to squeeze his eyes shut to avoid the tears now threatening to dampen his eyes. He didn't know how to handle all the praise. All of Devan's wanting of him. That they were on his side. Other than his siblings, who he still sometimes believed felt more obligation by blood to be there, no one willingly made his protection a priority. And not his physical protection, he could handle himself without a doubt, it was his emotional insecurities that need the helping hand. But it was overwhelming to actually find it (in the apocalypse no less) and his words refused to form. He leaned them up just enough to press a kiss to their lips after the promise to defend his honor.

"I don't think you'll need to do that. At least not yet," he finally managed to choke out, swallowing back the lump forming in his throat with a small, nervous, short chuckle - joking in the face of seriousness his usual coping mechanism to break the weight of his anxiety. "Just give me a little more time, okay?" he asked genuinely, a thumb caressing their cheek. "That's all I need. And I promise it won't be long. It's hard to hide how much I like you," he admitted with gentle teasing in his voice before pressing another kiss to his lips.

[byenycfm]

Devan McCahill || 31 || Apt# 412 || Avan Jogia || Closed

Personality:

Devan is a man of charisma and audacity, the kind of individual who you either immediately take to or absolutely don't. He's devious, quick-witted, and smart — both academically and street-wise, a quite deadly combination, both in the old world and especially this new one. The duality of this man is shown quite clearly in how he has a worn, cracked-spine paperback book of the Aeneid tucked in one back pocket of his jeans and a handgun in the other, perhaps equally well used, especially in this present day. From the moment they were born, they had it hammered into them that their soul was damned for the greater good, and that does something to a young boy’s mind. After all, if you’re already going to hell, what would or should stop you from doing what needs to be done? Devan is a rule breaker, a troublemaker, a firestarter, but with enough moral fibre to not be a bad guy, per se. In every stage of his life, every aspect of his being, “do what needs to be done to make the world a better place, even if you gotta do some really bad shit to get from here to there,” has been an overarching theme. To Devan, judging every detail for good or evil will not change anything for the better, it will just stagnate progress; it’s about the bigger picture, the long term future type shit, that’s where you gotta look. You can’t win a fight weighing every stone in your hand; you find the biggest rock you can and just make sure you toss it at the right target.

Biography:

Devan was born to a young Indian-Irish woman in Swords, Ireland, and never really knew his biological father, who’d already been in prison for battery of his mother by the time he was born. It was her new boyfriend, a rough but kind bloke from Ballymun, who stepped in to take over the father role, and although it had still been a relatively new relationship by the time he was thrust into this world, the man took to it readily. Perhaps that was for the best, because even from a very young age, it was clear that Devan would be at least three-and-a-half hands full to handle.

To call them a precocious child would be the understatement of the century. By the time they were two years old, they were already reading their own books, and their mother and her boyfriend were frequent visitors to the local library just to keep them sated; if there wasn’t a book in the young boy’s hand, they'd find their entertainment elsewhere, usually in ways that ended up with something breaking. This is a trend that carried over well into adulthood – a lot of Devan's life choices can be summarised to, “just trying to stave off boredom.”

Things took a turn for the worst just after he started primary school at 3 years old. Due to his mother's work and his school being incompatible on some days, there was an arrangement made with her boyfriend's parents – who already saw the two as their own family – that he would stay the night with them so she wouldn't have to worry about anything. Her boyfriend brought him home at noon, after school, somewhere in the middle of the school year, and they had found her dead in the apartment she shared with her son, her throat slit. While the police and ambulance would be called immediately, they'd later determine that she was murdered in the middle of the night, and the main suspect was Devan's recently released biological father.

From there on, his life changed significantly. As an adult, they don't really remember their mother or exactly what happened to her, perhaps a cognitive response to protect themself from what they'd witnessed. His mother's boyfriend's parents immediately put an adoption into motion so he would still have family and he wouldn't be lost in the foster system, and so he immediately went to live with them – at first, the only thing that really changed for him was that he didn't get to see his mother anymore, his last name changed, and he had to see a lady for a whole year who wanted to talk to him about how he felt and what he was thinking about.

The next twelve years were spent being trained in parkour, hand-to-hand combat, endurance training, and indoctrinated into a mindset that his soul was to be damned for the sake of others. Alongside their cousins, who received the same training, just like the previous generation had been, they were made to patrol Dublin City, and protect anyone who needed it. Growing up, Devan slowly became aware that their family had a reputation, not only in the city or even the county, but in Leinster as a whole, and the family-owned pub – which would serve as a gathering place for the majority of his family and their family friends – was considered a place that if you were in trouble, someone made you feel unsafe and the Gardaí couldn't or wouldn't do anything with it, you could find help there. If you crossed a certain line and you had been put on that family's radar, justice would be swift and brutal. If you were lucky, you'd end up in a hospital, and if you weren't, you'd see an early grave.

Devan was already very used to the feeling of soft tissue splitting under his knuckles and bones breaking under the weight of his tire iron by the time he was fifteen. And when they were sixteen, they got their tattoo, a Celtic cross with the top right cut out so the circle formed a G, so styled for ‘Gaffney’, their adoptive grandmother's maiden name. Every child who had proven their skill and loyalty to the family would be offered to receive the tattoo at sixteen years old, and few – very few – would reject it and be disowned from the entire family. To Devan, rejection with such a steep price wasn't an option. They'd continue to do what their great uncle and his eldest son told them and their cousins to do, the years of violence and looming post-death doom already numbing their young minds to the brutality of what they did for ‘the sake of the greater good'.

Regardless of his home life and his family's brand of ‘chores’, Devan found his peace in books – any book – and language as a whole. If he had free time, he'd spend it in second-hand bookstores or learning new languages, something he took to like a piranha to bloodied water; rabidly and single-mindedly. The fact that they didn't care what they read rather than that they had something to read gave them access to an incredibly broad range of knowledge; not always very deep, but enough to make them tiresome to debate with. And debate he did, to the frustration of many of his teachers and even his classmates. He got his leaving certificate when he'd just turned fifteen, having skipped his transition year, and after a little bit of debate between his adoptive father and his father's cousin, Devan was allowed to pursue a further academic career so long as it wouldn't get in the way of his duties towards his family.

By the time he was twenty-two, he held an MA in Art History and a BA in Archaeology, but more importantly, a better perspective of his family, since he had enough time and experience away from them for the majority of his academic career after secondary school. Although they were indoctrinated to believe that what they did was a good thing, Devan saw their family for what they actually were: a gang. Not even ‘a gang but with good intentions,’ because the fact was that just about every gang started with good intentions and trying to fill a need their community had. But beyond that, it became even clear that he and his cousins, just like his father and his cousins, were nothing more than a means to an end. They weren't unloved or even unwanted, but at the end of the day, they were trained from a young age to be a blunt weapon to throw onto the streets of County Dublin. This became especially clear to Devan when he expressed a wish to see the world to his father, who wholeheartedly supported him in it, but his father's cousin, his great uncle's appointed commander, did not.

Months of arguing later, the topic was deemed settled by said commander, and Devan's chances of actually doing something they wanted to do with their life – even if it wasn't exactly clear to them what they wanted to do with their life – seemed grim, condemned to the fate of an early grave or otherwise inevitable prison time. It was their father who, one night, came by their apartment, gave them access to the money he'd saved up over the years, a plane ticket to mainland Europe, and his blessing. Devan never looked back, and hasn't returned since, knowing there are consequences waiting for him.

Between his degrees, his training, and his inability to stay put, Devan fell into the world of art and antiquity theft, first on commission from people who had money to spare and didn't trust law enforcement to actually care – art theft was and still is, after all, one of the most tolerated crimes, and lucrative to boot, given the article is genuine. He made his name getting the job done, with his occasional collaboration with the likes of Interpol and the USA's FBI solidifying this reputation. Regardless of his intermittent work with law enforcement, Devan found most of his contacts to be more criminally inclined – after all, the echelons in which he did his work, business was business, and being able to hold his own helped that a lot.

They'd been in New York City for a meeting with one Sada Vang, their cab had almost made it to the Holland Tunnel on Jersey City's side when their driver was told it was blocked off, and would possibly be reopened the morning after; they had no choice but to redirect to a hotel nearby and wait until such a time came. It never did. That evening's news said Manhattan was under quarantine due to some unknown virus and by the morning, not only had the Tunnel not been reopened, shit had hit the fan in a significant way. The first time he actually saw what people would later come to know as 'chompers', it didn't really register in Devan's mind that that was what it was, but, as used to violence as he was, he did note that that particular violence was less human, more animal.

The following months, Devan would frequently find themself in the company of other survivors – initially scared people who would prove to not be cut out for the end of the old world, and they quickly learned that trying to save those who couldn't or wouldn't save themselves would lead them into an early and absolutely unwanted grave. Or worse. It was a few weeks before proper snowfall that he'd find the people he would spend the winter with, who knew what it took to survive, most whom didn't need any babysitting at all. Unfortunately, Demeter's wrath brought with it its own difficulties, lack of supplies, lack of food, lack of a lot of things that they had to send people out for to find, at any cost. And those who returned spoke of an apartment building of survivors, the name of which sounded very familiar to him.

So once the snow had melted, they decided that maybe it was time to go to a meeting, hoping that being months late wouldn't be held against them.

Pre Outbreak Occupation: Private Detective Previous Zombie Experience: His very first was seeing a woman eviscerated by a few. Over these past months he's been forced to kill his fair share of them. Marital Status: Single Children: N/A Residence: Apt. #412 Years residing at The Wexley: Post Outbreak New Arrival Connections:

Sada Vang - Business Associate

[agentmarcuspike]

5 <3

for the ask game thing, from my liked songs

oh fuck so the song i got was a saami song called "mihá" (performed by mari boine) which means "pride", and it's about being a woman and surviving violence, and i've tried translating a few lines so you can get what it reminds me of

"there are colors behind black. some punches hit deeper than hard. stripped away from hope and faith; this is where i had to live. and shouts for help guided the pack, brought the animal home for eating. was burnt alive in a fire. so for life: hear, cheer.

but i'm breathing and the heart is beating. i have been pushed down into darkness but i'm standing. i can look into his eyes this fucking time. yes i'm living and i'm proud. mihá."

wc: 412

it wasn't supposed to happen like this. this part of her had been for someone else. ellie had barely had time to think about how she wanted it to be. not even with riley, as their time together had been cut so short, too short, and had always been reserved for laughing and shrieking with joy together.

after riley, the thought of being with someone hadn't crossed her mind. the thought of being close to someone, and it meaning something. she had closed that part of her heart off completely, hoping to one day meet someone who could help her open it again. someone who could stand apt, hands at the ready, and catch anything and everything spilling out after being kept in the enclosed space of her heart for so long, no matter how foul or horrid. and hopefully that person would love her still.

and yet, here comes this man. this obnoxious full-grown man, telling her truths about herself, that her heart is gross and violent, confirming her suspicions that her fate is to leave bruises and claw marks on everything she touches, and that everyone will leave her in the end. that she is like him.

that night, when he pins her down and threatens her, the walls of the room they find themselves in are not the only ones burning to the ground. ellie can feel her facade crack, the anger from everyone and everything being taken away from her, seeping out, before fully erupting out of her with her screams.

when the cleaver meets his face, guided by her hands, she hits him once for herself. for everything she's been put through in this evil vicious world. the first hit is for her. the second is for riley, for the time they didn't get to live together. then she swings at him for tess, for the things she could have taught her, the life she sacrificed so that ellie could keep living hers.

she chops this man up, piece by piece, for all the girls and women in her life, and the ones she hasn't met yet, so that they may live their lives without the horrors ellie has faced in her 14 short years, even if deep down she knows they'll have nightmares of their own.

but at least they won't be at the hands of this monster of a man.

ellie is almost surprised to find that he, just like her, bleeds red.

[entomoblog]

« Le darwinisme ne fait nullement l’apologie de la performance »

See on Scoop.it - EntomoScience

La nature ne tolère pas que les plus aptes et la théorie moderne de l’évolution a intégré l’existence de l’inutile depuis longtemps, rappelle Guillaume Lecointre. Le zoologiste reproche à Daniel Milo de s’en prendre à un darwinisme imaginaire.

  Guillaume Lecointre

Zoologiste, professeur du Muséum national d'histoire naturelle

  Publié le 9 mai 2024 à 14h00

En accès libre

  "... Laissons la science tranquille, et attaquons-nous au capitalisme dans le champ des valeurs, plutôt que de prendre les faits en hold-up. Le sous-titre du livre est d’autant plus désastreux que l’amalgame entre darwinisme et capitalisme est un vieux poncif dont on est certains qu’il rencontrera un écho dans toute une sphère idéologique, ce qui aura pour conséquence le refus pour des motifs qui n’ont rien de scientifique, par une partie de nos concitoyens, d’une théorie scientifique féconde, qui doit encore beaucoup à Darwin sous bien des aspects."

(...)

  ------

NDÉ

via Espèces_revue sur X, 13.05.2024

  "Enfin la presse laisse une place à Guillaume Lecointre pour une critique raisonnée du livre du sociologue Daniel Milo qu’elle a abondamment encensé. Encore une fois on y véhicule la vision utilitariste, simpliste et politisée de la sélection naturelle"

https://twitter.com/Especes_revue/status/1789976646264504583

    Référence de l'ouvrage :

  « La Survie des médiocres. Critique du darwinisme et du capitalisme », de Daniel S. Milo, Gallimard, « Bibliothèque des sciences humaines », 412 p.

[ti-female]

10/5/23 #targeted with #frequencies from Apt 412 or 312? #ti #tifemale youtu.be/7YwwI8nX_Eg?si… via @youtube

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Right-Clicker-Mentality

Having coined a few terms in my day, I revel in new coinages that capture something really gnarly and interesting.

Take “bezzle” — JK Galbraith’s term for “the magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it.” So much of our contemporary economy is captured by that delicious term!

https://pluralistic.net/tag/bezzles/

Recently, I happened on another coinage that is marvellously apt for our current moment: “right-clicker mentality.”

https://www.vice.com/en/article/5dgzed/what-the-hell-is-right-clicker-mentality

The term comes to us from the world of NFTs, which have blown up into a massive, fraud-ridden speculative bubble that is blazing through whole rain-forests’ worth of carbon while transfering billions from suckers to con-artists. A bezzle, in other words.

The creators of NFTs envisioned them as a kind of bragging right that described the relationship between a creator and a member of their audience. When you paid for an NFT, you recorded the fact that you had made a donation to the artist that was inspired by a specific work. That fact was indelibly recorded in a public ledger — the blockchain — so everyone could see it.

Instantly, the idea of supporting artists with NFTs was converted into a financial bubble. The point of an NFT wasn’t to support an artist — it was to acquire a tradeable asset that would go up in value because the buyer thought they could unload it for even more.

In this age of stock markets that boom in response to mass unemployment, supply-chain collapse, monopoly and runaway climate emergencies, NFTs aren’t really that weird. They represent the dream of “retail investors” to participate in the rigged lottery that minted 412 new billionaires during the covid lockdown.

In the NFT bezzle, NFT “owners” deliberately blur the distinction between owning the right to say you helped an artist and the right to say you own their work. They treat the NFT as equivalent to the image it refers to, rather than a bit of metadata that relates to that image. That’s not surprising, as speculators are far more interested in inflating, tradeable assets than in arts patronage!

In response, NFT skeptics are wont to troll speculators by right-clicking the NFT image, choosing “Save As…” and making a copy of the image. Then they taunt NFT bros with the copy, driving home the point that their speculative bubble is trading in something even more abstract than a digital image.

On Oct 26, an NFT bro calling himself Midwit Milhouse coined the term “right-clicker mentality” to refer to these spoilsports who insist on pointing out the inconvenient truth of his white-hot ponzi scheme.

Milhouse used the term to disparage an amateur chef who made his own version of a $2,000 “Salt Bae” steak for $90. Salt Bae is a trendy London chef who charges tens of thousands for gold-leaf-covered steaks that he showers with salt in a kind of tableside piece of performance art.

Milhouse called this person “a great example of right-clicker mentality,” whose homemade steak didn’t deliver “the satisfaction, flex, clout that comes from having eaten at Salt Bae’s restaurant.”

https://twitter.com/kenlowery/status/1455662848345055232

Milhouse went on: “The value is not in the cost of the steak. Go ahead, make yourself a gold-coated steak at home. Post a picture of it on Instagram. See how much clout it gets you.”

And then, displaying galactic-scale lack-of-self-awareness, “Salt Bae’s dish costs around 1500GBP because people want to pay 1500 GBP to show off that they can afford to pay that much. It’s all about the flex.”

You really couldn’t ask for a better encapsulation of the NFT bezzle: buy an NFT to “flex” and “show off you can afford to pay that much.” Ignore the intrinsic value or satisfaction of the underlying work. You’re doing this for “clout.”

Right-clicker-mentality is a value we should all aspire to. As Matthew Gault wrote on Motherboard: “Sometimes a word or phrase comes along that’s so perfect it almost makes you angry.”

“To right-click is one thing, but to have a right-clicker mentality implies an ontological break between crypto-fans and critics. Indeed, it implies the person saving the JPEG to their hard drive isn’t just wrong, they’re broken in some way.”

Image: Nenad Stojkovic https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hand_on_the_computer_mouse_-_50202556601.jpg

CC BY: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[ahb-writes]

Book Review: ‘Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine’

Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman My rating: 4 of 5 stars The quiet, honeyed brilliance of Eleanor Oliphant is completely lost to the world. Or, in the least, lost to those nearest to her orbit of social discomfiture. Her coworkers are vapid and unintuitive. The state social workers who visit her are inattentive. And everyone else just stares (at her burn scars), murmurs (in suspicion of her diligence), or mocks (at the behest family dynamics gone horribly wrong). Eleanor Oliphant is fine insofar as she does not require the approval of the outside world to function. Eleanor Oliphant is not fine insofar as the interior world on which she thrives is apt to feed on this growing absence of empathy. What for the twenty-first century's obsessive and compulsive affectation for hyperconnectivity, ELEANOR OLIPHANT IS COMPLETELY FINE is a marvelous declaration on the sustainability of self. Eleanor is a skilled accountant, a whiz at crossword puzzles, and a generally, phenomenally perceptive individual. Whatever artifice others see about the 30-year-old woman is of their own making: Eleanor is awkward, true, but she is also kind. Alas, she has made the most of her aloneness. The caveat, however, is that Eleanor's social isolation is a wayward fractal of discontent ardently scuttling just beneath the surface. Childhood trauma. Violent interpersonal relationships. A somewhat comically heroic alcohol addiction. Eleanor doesn't understand texting and memes. Eleanor has never eaten fast food. Eleanor doesn't quite grasp the inerrant necessities wrought by clingy friends and chatty neighbors. She does, however, understand the grace afforded the less fortunate. Or the value of mediating the noise of fashion, finance, and a steady diet. She doesn't always get the balance right (e.g., waxing her genitals on a whim or attending a party on time when everyone else is late), but she tries. She survives. She exists. ELEANOR OLIPHANT IS COMPLETELY FINE treats Eleanor as both the string of pearls as well as the swine: a sharp woman is besieged by insulating forces from her violent past to box her into place, whether to keep her there forever, clever and slow to evolve, or to snuff her out for good. There are few good options for hardline pragmatists like her. And so readers must query whether the woman's blunt, emotionally dull approach to the world is a survival instinct (that is, a defense mechanism) or whether her deliberate mismanagement of personal grief is an act of cowardice sure to consumer her in due time. One uneven peculiarity of this novel is that Eleanor's fearless endurance of her aloneness is as much what defines her as what corrupts her. The woman's patient attenuation of her surroundings crackles with humor (e.g., she refuses gifted toffee, because it was warmed by resting on somebody's lap), nervous spite (e.g., "The goal, ultimately, was successful camouflage as a human woman," p. 47), pity (e.g., she gets wasted at the funeral of a relative stranger), and tragedy (e.g., she permits a rogue infatuation with a local musician to blindly metastasize). The equal measures of the scars on Eleanor's heart pulse with uncertainty. This uncertainty grows more apparent as the novel, and Eleanor's personal history, unfold. Eleanor is a brilliant woman, but the novel treats her lack of social grace and currency as a pendulum of sentimentality (or lack thereof) whose influence shifts with each passing page. For example, she does not require affection to get through the day ("Human mating rituals are unbelievably tedious to observe," p. 108), and yet she later finds superficial gestures of warmth, such as hand-holding or a squeeze of the shoulder, to be "surprisingly pleasant" (page 412). Perhaps this artificial character growth is a manifestation of wishing to save a person who would otherwise self-destruct on her own? Regardless, to the author's credit, Eleanor's inability to process the weight of her constant losing out to the hierarchy of loss, sorrow, and emotional catastrophe does call forth a clever, cynical burning question: "How desperately, on how many levels, does a person have to wish to die before it's actually allowed to happen?" p. 377). ELEANOR OLIPHANT IS COMPLETELY FINE harbors surprisingly few rhetorical questions in its quest to validate the chrysalis-shattering gusto of one woman's journey toward psychological safety. Aloneness is both a shield and a weapon, but why does it's excessive use blind one to the emotional detritus underfoot? Guilt is a terrifying motivator, as well as tending to be genuinely terrifying on its own, but how does one mitigate the intensity and rapidity of the change it thunders into place? How does one solve "the puzzle of me," as Eleanor says.

Book Reviews || ahb writes on Good Reads

[para-droid]

Apt. 412 - Airbender Temple - Downtown Campus by pjacubinas 

[annecumberbatch]

Writer’s Tag

Thank you @simplyclockwork​ for the tag! 

Ao3 name: AnneCumberbatch

Fandoms: While I love many series, I only write for the BBC Sherlock fandom. 

Number of Fics: Technically 29, since one of my postings is cover art. 

Fic I spent the most time on:  Unfinished, it’s definitely For John with Love which I started in 2016. Technically also unfinished, Bee Socks is taking a while, but that fic also currently does not have an end date. I think my series I Saw London Without You will take up a significant part of my future writing efforts. Other then that, most of my published fics took a few hours. 

Fic I spent the least amount of time on: Grey probably took me the least amount of time. It was written in poem form, so it’s more abstract than the rest. I think I wrote it in ten minutes or so. 

Shortest fic: Aforementioned Grey is my shortest fic at 362 words. 

Most hits/ Most kudos/ Most comment threads/ Most Bookmarks/ Highest total word count:  - most hits: For John with Love with 6458 hits -  Most kudos: Also For John with Love at 412 kudos - Most Comment Threads: All we do is hide away with 181 comment threads (!!) - Most bookmarks: Also For John with Love at 102 bookmarks - Highest total word count: For John with Love at 9147 words. Bee Socks will be sure to surpass it, though because it’s currently at 8372 words and has many many more chapters to go while FJWL only has 5 more chapters to be written. 

Favourite Fic I wrote: I have trouble picking a favourite because I love all of them. I have a few favourites for different reasons: All we do is hide away and it’s subsequent sequels because I connected very strongly to John through that fic. And I received such a strong reaction from readers - it was the first time I felt really involved in the fandom and like an actual author. I love Negative Two Degrees because I think it’s funny and fluffy. I love Pulse because it’s really sad. I love Open Your Eyes because I felt like that was my first fic that was decently successful quickly. And I have a special weakness for Too Close to Touch, which was actually based on real life friendships and actually uncovered a real-life affair between my two friends that, at the time, I wasn’t aware of. They’re getting married now. So.. that one’s just sentiment. 

Fic I want to re-write/expand on: I feel like I could do something with Oblivion. It’s an unfinished WIP that I started years ago and lost inspiration for. 

Share a bit of a wip or story idea you’re working on: This is from something I haven’t really shared at all. It would be from, not the sequel to All we do is hide away, but a companion piece entitled Breathe Again, to be enclosed within the series. Sherlock writes letters to John from his time away. Ideally, it would be in a similar monologue-ish form paralleling John. Something I’m tossing around. 

Day 10

Dear John, What a ridiculous way to open a letter. How equally ridiculous that it would suit your name so well. An apt descriptor for you, John. Dear John. For you are dear, not just to me, I am sure, but to many. How you could not be is unthinkable. You shall never read this letter, of this I am more than certain. First and foremost being because as soon as I’ve finished writing it, I will destroy it. Second reason being, it would destroy our friendship if you read the words I’m about to write. If we still even have a friendship upon my return. If I return. There is no guarantee I shall even make it out of here alive. Although, in this mission, my life is not the life we are trying to save. So it hardly matters.

Tagging: Anyone who writes fanfiction and sees this! 

[concretecontractorpitcairn]

SBN Concrete Contractor of Pitcairn

SBN Concrete Contractor of Pitcairn is a local concrete company serving the area of Pitcairn, PA. Call us for any concrete driveway, concrete walkways, concrete patio, concrete retaining walls, concrete repair, retaining walls, concrete sidewalks, polished concrete, concrete paths, concrete steps, concrete foundation and slab, stained concrete, decorative concrete, concrete paths and any concrete solutions other concrete services.

Our staff of qualified concrete contractors is up for the task of getting your project completed on time and on budget. Contact us today for a FREE estimate!

Website Url: https://concretecontractorpittsburgh.net/pitcairn-pa/

Contact info: Address: 201 Brinton ave apt# 3, Pitcairn, PA, 15140 United States Phone: (412) 981-2686

[isolaradiale]

sadly i think i need to do some blog cleanup, so for now i'll be dropping assassin (consort yu, fate, condo 412), caster (prototype merlin, fate, townhouse 223), and rosa (tears of themis, apt 306). thank you, and hopefully i'll bring them back sometime!

They’ll be dropped for you!

-- Mod Caelum

[byenycfm]

UTP || 24+ || #412 || UTP || OPEN

Personality:

Stubborn

Methodical

Optimistic

Loyal

Presumptuous

Biography:

You've never expected any handouts from life. When you decided to get serious and follow your athletic calling, you knew it wasn't going to be easy.

Every Chad and Dick thinks they're going to be the next NFL pick or heavy weight champ, but you had the talent and drive to back up your ambition.

The Wexley was far from home, and your family questioned your decision to move so far from everything you ever knew, but it was where you needed to be to take the next steps towards your aspiring career.

You're keeping your mind and body in shape and steadily proving to those around you that you might actually have a shot at being the next big thing.

Pre Outbreak Occupation: Aspiring Athlete Previous Zombie Experience: UTP Martial Status: UTP Children: UTP Residence: Apt. #412 Years residing at The Wexley: 2 months Connections: UTP

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“A. E. TUTTE IS GIVEN 2-YEAR TERM IN PEN,” Winnipeg Tribune.  July 13, 1921. Page 6. ---- Confessed Burglar Blames Florida Water For Crimes ---- Two years in Stony Mountain penitentiary was given Albert E. Tutte, who confessed to burglarizing five Strathcona st. homes, when he appeared before Magistrate Macdonald in police court today. 

"I was drinking Florida water earlier in the evening," Tutte told the court. 

"There is too much burglary going on," the magistrate said. 

Intoxicated Pays $106 James Kirkpatrick was fined $53 for driving an auto while under the influence of liquor three weeks ago. David Kirkpatrick, a brother, was fined $53 for obstructing a police officer from doing his duty. Other charges were withdrawn. Their auto having been in the police garage since they were arrested, it was not ordered impounded.

Committed for Trial On two charges of bicycle theft, Archie McKenzie was committed for trial at the assizes. A witness against McKenzie was Harry Saunderson., 412 Assiniboine ave., a former alderman and police commissioner. He alleged McKenzie stole his son’s machine. 

Jail for Cycle Theft For stealing a bicycle and attempting to sell it at Bergen, Man., Terry Mapstead was sent to jail for two months. 

Asked for Money Fred Ryan, charged with vagrancy, said he was asking a friend for money.

The friend was the cause or Ryan's arrest, police say. Both sides of the story will be presented Friday. 

Sentence Thursday Sentence on H. Gordon Thomas, who pleaded guilty today to stealing Canadian Express company money order book and to forging an order for $50, will be passed by Magistrate Macdonald on Thursday.

Speeders Pay $184 Speeders fined today were: H. Bowen, 417 Victor St.; William Smith, 176 McFarlane st.; Matheson Kiermack, Machray apts.; Henry Borger, 425 McGregor St.; Charles Lennan, 326 Oxford st.; Louis Bouchet, 369 St. Jean Baptiste st.; John Linklater, 385 Aikins St., and Gordon Baldwin. 12 Dundern place. They paid a total of $184 in fines. 

Car Is Impounded Despite a damaged carburetor, which William Smith. 176 McFarlane st., said he had on his auto, he was fined $23, and his car will be impounded for 14 days in the police garage. He was charged with speeding at miles an hour. 

Getting Old ‘It’s the old excuse again,’ said R. B. Graham, crown prosecutor, when Morris Tolb, 517 1/2 Osborne St., was charged with selling groceries on Sunday.

‘They were ordered Saturday night,’ Tolb said. He was fined $15.

[paintingcontractorsorlando5]

Painting Contractors Orlando

At Painting Contractors Orlando Co. we are a professional painting company that services all of Orlando Florida. We offer cabinet painting, exterior house painting and professional interior painting. If you need an experienced Orlando Painter with quality service and top notch customer satisfaction that is what we provide.

Painting Contractors Orlando Co. 7521 solstice cir, apt 412, Orlando FL 32821 (321) 233 2923

https://paintingcontractorsorlando.com/

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[ti-female]

7/22/23 Getting #targeted from direction of apartments 412/410 with #frequencies #ti https://youtube.com/shorts/rSas4URkTgI?feature=share via @youtube

[rickalanp]

Who is Rick Alan Putman?

RICK ALAN PUTMAN along with Whitney Wyatt is the mastermind of this ongoing scam wherein they recruit more innocent people to participate and earn in this scam. Rick Alan Putman has already filed bankruptcy and hence cannot open a new business on his name that is one more reason for recruiting other people. He has been searching for these people online through advertising. Rick Alan Putman has been scamming people with the help of some his friends and associates, whose details are also mentioned. They open the company and bank accounts under the company name, sign up for a P O Box address where the checks from scamming innocent people come and then they deposit the checks and then they distribute the money among themselves. This scam has been running since 2017 and numerous victims have been scammed. Moreover some of his associates are already facing Legal troubles because of the federal action. I would be detailing out some of those companies who are involved in this along with their owners information.

RICK ALAN PUTMAN known companies owned by him are DOLPHIN TECHNOLOGIES, LLC (Incorp Date 5 Dec 2017)(Comp No.: 138492392), LOGIC TECHNOLOGIES, LLC, Dynamic Solutions, LLC

known phone numbers are 309-647-8885, 727-441-8459, 440-749-1005, 727-851-8160, 727-231-1718, 727-736-7708

known family members and business assiciates are Todd Putman, Suzanne Elizabeth Putman, Stacee Putman, Whitney Wyatt, Jerarim Love, Gabriel Love, Barry A Newston, Marian Laura Bello

known addresses and P.O. Box numbers are (1)1800 Copper Kettle Ln Dunedin, FL 34698, (2)871 Ibis Walk Pl N Unit 1405 Saint Petersburg, FL 33716, (3)16158 NW Canton St Portland, OR 97229, (4)16147 NW Canton St Apt 303 Portland, OR 97229-1262, (5)791 Hammock Ln Okeechobee, FL 34974-2751, (6)5250 Roosevelt Blvd Clearwater, FL 33760-3451, (7)825 W Locust St Canton, IL 61520-8433, (8)16158 NW Canton St Apt 204 Portland, OR 97229, (9)16201 NW Fescue Ct Portland, OR 97229, (10)1021 Fairburn Ave Clearwater, FL 33755, (11)848 E Elm St Canton, IL 61520, (12)1000 SE 160th Ave Apt HH275 Vancouver, WA 98683

JEAN KELLEY MCKENZIE RIVERMARK SOLUTIONS, LLC ANGULAR INFOTECH, LLC

ED TSUJI 187 E WARM SPRINGS RD STE B, LAS VEGAS, NV, 89119-4112, UNITED STATES 9006 NE 15TH AVE UNIT 307 VANCOUVER WA 98665 14915 NE RANCHO DR VANCOUVER 98682 WA 4505 PACIFIC HWY E STE C-2 FIFE WA 98424

HERNANDEZ RIOS registry number is #145908992 512-247-7390 713-224-5978 512-431-5753 512-740-0963 512-243-6161 Valentin Rios Jeremiah Rios Sanjuanita H Rios Candice Rios Guadalupe Leon Sanchez 6158 Nw Canton St # 204 Portland OR 97229 5305 North River Road Suite B1 Keizer OR 97303 5180 Highway 71 E Apt C Del Valle, TX 78617 8988 Elroy Rd Del Valle, TX 78617 8988 Elroy Rd Apt 1 Del Valle, TX 78617 5002 SE 70th Ave Apt 14 Portland, OR 97206 456 Brown St Portsmouth, OH 45662 PO Box 24 Del Valle, TX 78617 1916 Everett St Houston, TX 77009 PO Box 17973 Austin, TX 78760 PO Box 343 Newark, TX 76071

Valentin Rios 512-897-9796 512-822-2382 512-897-9612 737-703-9267 737-262-6035 512-243-6161 Jeremiah Rios Sanjuanita H Rios Candice Rios Concepcion Rios Minnie D Haws Stephen Longoria Violet May Hanus Nancy Woodhanus Joseph Jeremiah Hanus PO Box 943 Blanco, TX 78606 4320 S Congress Ave Apt 7211 Austin, TX 78745 4714 Harmon Ave Austin, TX 78751 5402 William Holland Ave Austin, TX 78756-2033 1600 Wickersham Ln Apt 2037 Austin, TX 78741-3133 13005 Heinemann Dr Ofc Austin, TX 78727-6982 8988 Elroy Rd Apt 1 Del Valle, TX 78617-4814 5405 Wellington Dr Austin, TX 78723 5180 Highway 71 E Del Valle, TX 78617 8806 FM 812 # 9 Austin, TX 78719 602 9th St Blanco, TX 78606 317 Bernard St Denton, TX 76201 2073 Sheffield Mnr E Carson City, NV 89701

Jeremiah Rios 512-247-7391 512-247-7882 512-448-9694 512-247-7390 512-897-9796 512-902-8316 512-897-9612 512-431-5736 512-524-2009 HERNANDEZ RIOS Valentin Rios Sanjuanita H Rios Candice Rios Pauline Shinn Howard Ralph Rich Stephen Kelley 212 Northfork Rd San Marcos, TX 78666 412 Lookout Ridge Loop San Marcos, TX 78666 5402 William Holland Ave Apt 206 Austin, TX 78756 5404 Ponciana Dr Apt A Austin, TX 78744-2839 904 W 7th St Georgetown, TX 78626-5447 8988 Elroy Rd Apt 1 Del Valle, TX 78617-4814 721 Lamar Pl Apt 207 Austin, TX 78752 PO Box 24 Del Valle, TX 78617 8502 Woodstone Dr Apt A Austin, TX 78757 4714 Harmon Ave Austin, TX 78751 5402 William Holland Ave Apt 206 Austin, TX 78756 1817 E Oltorf St Austin, TX 78741 1817 E Oltorf St Apt 2043 Austin, TX 78741 5180 Highway 71 E Apt C Del Valle, TX 78617