#Ibuprofen Industry

[thatonecrustysock]

[cw! eyestrain, gore, drug ref]

where my fellow femtanyl fans at ^_^

before editing vs after editing

[intertexts]

getting more consistent ab writing fic for the first time in years & years has been so funny.... staring at the emergent patterns like ok! love what this says about me <3

[isaacsapphire]

The UK sounds like a hellscape.

Idk if there are new regs but I feel like UK pharmacies have really stepped up their invasive questioning of people tryna buy OTC medication.

And I get that it probably made a lot of sense to someone to decide they should do that; health illiteracy is a problem, but goddamn

Like aside from anything I am headphones up minimal verbal exchange when I'm shopping because everywhere is Loud and so anything else would be exhausting for me; I have not budgeted the energy for a prolonged back-and-forth and you have not crafted the auditory environment for it

But also I feel like the next time I try to buy some goddamn ibuprofen and the cashier is all "Are you on any other medication?" I will be like "Oh, are you the pharmacist?" bc 'if they're now requiring some kind of consultation to sell this medicine', they can give me a pharmacist and a private room, but I do not consent to discuss my medical history in public with a sales assistant and let's see what fucking happens I guess

[sunshinehaze1]

About Last Night…

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Summary: You met The Dieter Bravo last night, but does he remember meeting you?

Warnings: 18+, MDNI. smut, handjob, f!oral, unprotected PiV, mentions of drug use, reader has hair long enough to tug, smoking

a/n: This was written for @jolapeno Dear-uary Challenge and I received this prompt. Thank you to @peepawispunk & @80ssong for their beta reads! 😘 I hope you enjoy!

word count: 1,744

ao3 | ml

Dieter groans, turns onto his side, and opens his eyelids to find two ibuprofen tablets and a glass of water on his bedside table. He's unsure how he even managed to get to his bed. He can't remember much of last night; as usual, he drank too much, smoked too much, and snorted too much. He knows he needs to get his partying under control; he's not keen on another stint in rehab or being the subject of more tabloid fodder. His team would be grateful, too. But he enjoys it too much. He loves hosting parties at his house and having access to beautiful men and women who want to shower him with adoration and attention. Aspiring actors, writers, and producers all want a piece of him. It's not easy to give those perks up—one of the benefits of being an actor in high demand.

The tablets are sitting atop a slip of paper. He picks them up and throws them back, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows, emptying the glass of water in a couple of gulps. He picks up the slip of paper, his thick thumb and index finger grip the note, and he admires the neat handwriting as he reads:

image text: D- you may not remember much, so let me refresh your memory. This may be where I left you, but we’ll start where we first met. Even with the stroke of a hand and gripping conversation, this place is the pits.

Dieter, confused, rereads the note. Who did he meet last night that would have left this note? As usual, his house was overflowing with people. Most were friends or people he'd worked with in the industry; surely, it wasn't one of them. His friends tend to bring along their friends, and those friends bring their friends, and soon, his Hollywood Hills home is overrun with strangers.

He pulls on his green robe and exits the bedroom, traipsing over the remnants of the night before. Dodging obstacles of empty glasses, discarded clothing, ashtrays filled with cigarette butts and roaches, coffee tables dusted in white powder, and rolled up hundred dollar bills. A record spins around the player, scratching and skipping with each rotation. People in various states of undress are scattered across the floor and couches.

He finally reaches the conversation pit—avocado green cushions accented with cream and mustard yellow pillows. He descends the carpeted stairs, still unsure what kind of wild goose chase he's being led on. As he straightens the pillows, a slip of paper dances through the air when he moves them around. Dieter bends down to pick it up after it floats to the ground. Suddenly, a flash of recollection races across his mind.

A vision of you and him, bodies close together, barely any space between you two. Your arm draped over his shoulders, and your hand in his lap gripped tightly around his cock. Your hands make languid strokes along his length as you purr into his ear, teasing him. He's impossibly hard, and his eyes scan the party to see if anyone has noticed his precarious situation. A rush of heat skates up his chest to his neck as the risk of getting caught arouses him. You coo, "Baby, you're so hard, I can barely wrap my hand around you."

A moan falls out of Dieter's mouth, his gaze occupied by your grasp on his length. He watches as you continue your lazy strokes, the waistband of his pants resting just below his balls. Your movements are hidden by his fluffy teddy bear coat that he has positioned over his lap but not shielded from his view. He's mesmerized by the lacquer on your nails and the reflection of light that bounces off them with each pass along his cock. He feels arousal roil in his belly, and his balls begin to tighten.

Breathily, he spits out, "I'm going to cum."

Squeezing him tighter before you quickly release him, "Not yet, you aren't." You lean in and kiss him on the cheek, "I need a smoke." you giggle as you tuck his still painfully hard dick back into his pants and pull away.

He hears that sweet sound in his mind, and his cock twitches at the memory. Eager to find out what's next on this salacious tour, he reads the note:

image text: orange and bright, this is the perfect place to get a light.

Dieter was drawn to this home because of the mid-century modern architecture, and he leaned into the aesthetic. Much of the decor is original to the house, including the burnt orange malm fireplace on his back patio.

He heads outside. The sun is now high in the sky, having slept the morning away. Dieter squints to avoid the torture of the sun's rays on his brutal hangover. As he approaches the seating area around the fireplace, he spots a slip of notebook paper under an ashtray littered with discarded butts and blunts on the table.

It prompts his memory. After you left him with blue balls in the conversation pit, you dragged him outside for a smoke. He walked closely behind you with his hands on your hips to conceal his erection as you navigated through the party crowd. His dick was aching, desperate for release. But his curiosity to know more about you was enough of a distraction for now.

He observes you taking a drag from the cigarette between your soft lips. "How long have you lived here?" you inquire as you purse your lips to exhale the smoke up and to the side, away from his face.

"Um, a few years now. I bought it after Cliffs Beasts 6." His eyes rake up and down your body, taking in your curves and the disarming smile that spreads across your face.

"I liked that movie."

Dieter scoffs, unbelieving someone like you would enjoy the movie, let alone see it. It was a flop, an example of a studio trying to milk everything out of a franchise at any expense. There is no way you actually liked the movie.

"No, really, I did." There's that smile again; he knew then that he was done for, his body warmed by the sincerity in your eyes.

Chuckling to himself at the memory, he looks down at the slip of paper, which reads:

image text: I cried out, with your tongue inside, while the Kid sang about Nikki.

Dieter enters his music room, eyeing the wall of his record collection. His fingers dance along the spines of the album covers until he finds Purple Rain. Carefully, he pulls the record out of its sleeve and watches as another slip of paper falls to the ground. He replaces the spinning record and gently places the needle onto the vinyl, A-side up.

The castle started spinning

Or maybe it was my brain

I can't tell you what she did to me

But my body will never be the same

The images of last night in this room flood his mind. You, on your back, laid across the faux fur rug. It was as vivid as if you were there with him right now. Your shapely legs stretched out in front of you, with your perfect pussy glistening in the dim lamplight. His body prone with his face between your thighs, inhaling your scent. He laps into your sweet heat, his tongue teasing through your folds and flicking over your clit. His forearms wrapped around your thighs to hold you in place when you begin to writhe, pushing your core into his face, chasing your orgasm.

Oh, her lovin' will kick your behind

Oh, she'll show you no mercy

But she'll sure enough, sure enough

Show you how to grind

He laps at your release while you cry out his name, unable to control the rutting of his hips against the rug, searching for relief from his aching, throbbing cock. He's been on edge for the last couple of hours, patiently waiting for his release.

At the memory, he realizes he can still taste you on his lips. It's faint, but it's enough to make his cock move. Having sobered up a bit more, he's intrigued to find out where he'll be led next and picks up the piece of paper:

image text: you’ll find this journey come to a close in the place where you like to powder your nose…

Dieter walks down the hall to his bathroom. Vintage aqua blue tiles cover the floor, shower, and halfway up the wall, trimmed in navy blue tiles. The mirror above the matching pedestal sink is covered in writing—a phone number in red lipstick with handwriting that matches the notes—your phone number. Thanks to you and this little scavenger hunt you sent him on, he's slowly pieced together his night with you. He may not remember it all, but his senses help, recalling the feel of your soft, silken skin, your floral perfume, and the way you taste. And he's transported back.

He pictures you bent over the sink as he slides down your panties. Tugging your hair as he slides his cock inside you from behind. Remembering the gasps and moans, you couldn't help but release as he thrust into your warm, wet heat. Rubbing your swollen clit as you approach your second climax, nibbling on your ear, which finally sends you over the edge. Your walls fluttered around him, squeezing his cock so tight he had to pull out quickly to paint his spend across your bare ass. His sweaty brow meets yours, the both of you gasping to catch your breath as he leaves a chaste kiss on the tip of your nose.

His dick was now half hard at the memory.

He pulls his phone out of his robe pocket and opens the camera app. He points it toward the mirror as he takes in his disheveled state: hair tousled and astray, light brown curls pointing in every direction. He notices a stain down the front of his grey tunic and his striped pants slung low on his hips. He does little to improve his appearance before he snaps a picture, tongue wagging, eyes wide, making sure his semi-hard cock is captured in the frame.

He types the number you left on the mirror and attaches the photo.

"I found you."

A couple of minutes later, his phone pings, "It's about damn time; I've been waiting all morning for you. 😉"

Thank you so much for reading! I’d love to know what you think. Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. 🫶🏼

tagging a few folks who may be interested in reading: @baronessvonglitter @almostempty @ak-vintage @kilamonster (lemme know if you prefer I not clog your notifs)

[screamting]

Once again trapped in trying to figure out what Wayne Industries actually Does. "Everything!" yeah sure but they had to get there somehow. Amazon was an online bookstore at first there was a lot of very rapid growth between then and now.

Usually I hear that they started as a shipping business which makes sense when Gotham is 90% waterfront, but at some point they had to transition from just shipping other people's things to shipping things they made as well. I suppose if they started making their own transports for shipping (starting with their own steamboats and later trains and cars) that would make sense. Maybe in the industrial revolution they even bought their own steel mill upon getting tired of having fluctuating prices or a steel shortage and just deciding they were going to get their own damn steel and sell the extra instead. If they chose to manufacture higher quality steel instead of cheapest possible steel that's also laying the groundwork for them to be well liked by their customers. Not railroad barons but making the steel to lay the railroad and build the trains. It's the 1800s so they have a couple patented medicines by then as well that are.... not really medicine but no one has officially noticed yet. They ship their own chemicals out west for a good time.

In 1880s Alan Wayne makes the building that becomes Wayne Tower?? Which I think is much too early, but apparently we were building sky scrapers in 1888 so business must have been booming I fucking guess. This is also the man that has them go corporate.

Of course the railroads start to fall out with the growth of cars and car lobbying. They are still used along with boats for transport but with railroads not being built as much and not being maintained and the union wars, Wayne Industries has to make a pivot somewhere to stay in the race. The family can have a lot of personal money but the business itself is still going strong in Gotham even before Bruce takes over.

I guess if they're already in shipping, they're probably importing as well by then. They may have started with steamboats but then in WWI and WWII all steel factories started producing things for the war efforts, surely they made a couple big ships by then capable of crossing the Atlantic, if they weren't already in oceanic shipping by then. It lets them ride out the great depression because of government maritime subsidies that were a little out of control until the new deal kicked in. That would've also presumably kept WI employees working in the depression and cemented them harder in the city as smaller businesses closed around them.

The patented medicine starts shifting to actual generics that are a little less Heroic post 1918.

Maybe at around that point was when WI started manufacturing... sort of everything. You get your ships, and all the things on board that you need to run a ship. You get your ovens and stoves and big pots and your radar and hell your sailors can even buy their boots and uniforms from us.

When WWII ends they shift back to transporting other people's goods but also maybe more luxury vehicles as well. Cruise services. Some nicer kitchen installations. Kitchens on land even. Get a nice WI electric mixer. Get your waterfront boots. Get your generic ibuprofen.

At that point we're closer to Martha and Thomas' era and they're just... Along for the ride I guess. Thomas is a figurehead CEO. He's off doing medical school and mostly just shows up for formalities, while Martha works in the Wayne Foundation (either the only thing Thomas really made or opened in the 60s to try and get Gotham really booming) as a charity liason. They're still not really celebrities as much as a charismatic couple in high circles. WI doesn't need them to function. It's basically just funding them as they do their own things.

And then the murders happen

And then Bruce, over eighteen, shows up having inherited the figurehead CEO title and his entire family's controlling stock in WI, and announces they're going to be doing things his way now.

The CEO/Board of directors is supposed to do things in the best interest of their stock holders.

If Bruce is the controlling stock holder, they do what he says his best interest is.

[alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody]

kinktober #1

Transformation 🔀 / Farmer's Market 🌽

Ethan jolts awake on the couch in his apartment with no memory of returning. For a single, perfect second, nothing hurts, and then his human sensations rush back one by one: his back is killing him. There’s an awful crick in his neck on the right side. His head pounds, and his throbbing stomach churns like a washing machine. He stifles a belch and carefully lays back for a few moments longer. Fuck. What did he eat last night?

There’s not even the barest hint of warmth to the sky through the window. He gingerly swivels his neck until he can catch the microwave’s green LED display: 4:27 am. His alarm is going to go off just minutes from now, but he’s not sure he’ll be able to even haul himself upright for another hour at least. All of his systems have diverted power to his throbbing stomach, and he needs those systems to get the cafe up and running.

Except his alarm is across the room at his bedside, and when it shrieks to herald the morning he curses his past self for not being able to collapse like ten feet to the right. Can’t trust anyone these days, not even your own subconscious.

He stumbles across the room and smacks the snooze button, lies down carefully on his back with a pillow behind his neck and sleeps for nine more halcyon minutes before he has to get up for real.

He sits up slow, stifling a gag and then a series of progressively uncomfortable belches that make even him, a connoisseur of all things supernaturally gross, wince with disgust. The old ladies in town are always asking how a nice boy like him hasn’t settled down with anyone. He belches again, a deep rumble that makes him groan and press an arm to his stomach. Yeah, he’s a prize, all right. 

He showers with the lights off, and even if he can’t see the water turn rusty as it streams down his distended midsection, he sure can smell the sting of iron rising with the steam. Never thought he’d be at a point in his life where he could not only recognize the scent of his own blood, but also associate it with relief. 

The hot water soothes some of the aches in his protesting body, but his center of gravity is weighed down with what-the-fuck-ever he gorged on last night, and he’s so stuffed that he can’t draw a full breath. Jesus. Sad state of affairs when a man can’t take a shower without getting winded.

After almost forty years of this, Ethan’s at least amassed a fair amount of clothes that look professional enough without also exacerbating his various aches, pains, and post-shift bulges, not to mention the few — okay, twenty — pounds he’s put on lately. He throws on a loose t-shirt and a looser flannel over it, unbuttoned, and the biggest pair of jeans he owns, also unbuttoned. It takes him longer to put on socks and boots than it did to shower, and afterward he has to sit there panting for a few minutes with his head as between his knees as he can get it.

He ties up his damp hair, throws back half a dozen ibuprofen and chases it with a palmful of antacids, then eases down the stairs to the cafe. Out of habit he checks the mirror at the base of the stairs for any rogue smears of blood or viscera on his face and immediately he wishes he hadn’t. Oh, he’s clean, all right, but he looks like something the dog dragged in. 

He gets the coffee going, starts his prep routine, and sticks a slice of each of yesterday’s cakes onto the warmer for Vanessa. After five minutes on his feet, he has to take a breather against the industrial fridge. Great. This is gonna be a long one.

When the coffee’s done, he rips open two ginger tea bags and pours his coffee in over them. Not exactly a winning combination but it’s the most efficient if he wants to feel both awake and functional. He gulps it down as fast as he can, takes exactly three minutes to sit on the floor in the deep freezer and try to marshal himself into some kind of order, and then hobbles to the front door to turn the OPEN sign around at six on the nose. 

And predictably, at six-fifteen, Vanessa appears on one of the front bar stools like a specter in layers upon layers of draping black, her familiar cloud of ozone and plum wafting back to him in the kitchen like some ancient pagan essence. Her slim black bicycle is looped to the rack outside the window, secure under a deceptively robust lock that no teen yahoo has yet managed to crack. He asked her how she managed that once, years ago, and she just smiled and said it was a very old spell. He didn’t believe her then, but he does now. 

“Good morning,” she calls, and Ethan catches a belch in his fist and pokes his head out to say hello.

Her eyes widen slightly when she sees him, and he half-heartedly tells himself that it’s probably not personal. Anyone would react that way to seeing the bags he’s packing under his eyes.

“Morning,” he says gruffly, sweeping his flyaways back from his face. “Your cake’s coming in a second. Moving a little slow this morning.”

“I can see that,” says Vanessa, ever tactful. “Rough night with your dog?”

He scowls at her, and she smiles beatifically. He’s hated the euphemism since he was growing up; it’s one thing for everyone to talk around it the way they do, but he’d rather they’d just say it outright than dress it up in cutesy language. Vanessa, on the other hand, finds it charming.

“Just for that, you’re getting coconut,” he says, turning back to the kitchen and pressing a hand to his gut when he’s sure he’s out of her sight line. Vanessa doesn’t protest, because she can see the future and knows he’ll give her devil’s food anyway.

Other early-morning regulars trickle in, and Ethan slogs through rote orders while Vanessa sips her first mug of coffee, black except for a touch of cream. He already has a to-go cup set out for the latte she’ll order before she leaves for the morgue. 

He slugs another mug of ginger coffee, though it does little to help the glut in his stomach. It used to baffle him, how Vanessa kept that little figure when all she eats is cake and coffee with cream. Now he thinks maybe it’s not so much what he’s eating as it is that he’s running around the neighborhood stuffing himself multiple nights a month and stretching out his appetite for the rest of it.

Christ. At least it’s getting a little easier to breathe. 

His headache has subsided a bit by the time Vanessa finishes her cake, though his bloat hasn’t. His stomach is still roiling unhappily, and each time he bumps it against the counter, he swallows down a groan. It’s barely been an hour, and all he can think about is how much he wants to lie down. Cesar will be in at eleven; maybe he’ll let him handle things for a while and take an hour for himself.

“Do me a favor and eat some damn vegetables for lunch,” he says as he switches out Vanessa’s plate and fork for the check. “Or I’m gonna resort to hiding them in the cake so I don’t have to drive you to the hospital for scurvy.”

It’s an old threat, but the morning wouldn’t feel complete without it. Vanessa dabs at her lips with a napkin, her eyes bright with mischief. “Your concern moves me deeply, Mr Chandler.”

“Latte’ll be — urrp — right out,” he manages, and he immediately goes red when he fails to stifle the belch that spills out of him. 

For her part, Vanessa goes red too. The mischief in her eyes gets crowded out as her pupils dilate. 

“’Scuse me,” he mumbles, and he ducks back into the kitchen before he can do any more damage. He makes her latte with his pulse flooding his ears, embarrassment worming through his already overstuffed stomach, and under the grumble of the espresso maker and the scream of the steamer, he tries to prod out any remaining belches with his free hand before he has to face her again. 

He tries not to look her in the eye when he goes back out with her latte, but of course Vanessa is staring right at him, her half-distant gaze beveled to too fine a point. He grimaces and slides the latte toward her, mumbling something about how he’d said it was a rough night, and he’s about to sidle around her to check on someone else and make his escape when she grabs his forearm.

Her hand is cold against his bare skin, her round black nails sharp, and he blinks at her, uncomfortably aware that he must look like a wild animal caught in headlights. Vanessa’s pale eyes blink back, her wide pupils making her look even more like a creature from beyond the veil. 

“I have something that could help,” she says, her grip relaxing infinitesimally. “A tincture. Not with me, but I could come back on my lunch hour.”

“Oh,” he says, squirming, “no, that’s all right, don’t go out of your way. I’ll be fine. Just overdid it last night.” He palms his stomach sheepishly, and Vanessa’s nails flash against the skin of his wrist as her grasp tightens again. “Really, Vanessa. I’ll live, I swear.”

“Well, that may be,” she intones, retracting her hand and tucking it primly into her lap. “But you don’t have to suffer.”

He scuffs out a laugh. “You tell that to the universe, Miss Ives, or to God or whatever deity you’ve got on the horn this week. Doesn’t make much difference to me who it is, but I’ve got a bone to pick with them.”

She watches him for a long, pointed moment before gathering her things and wrapping her hands around her latte instead of his tender flesh. “I’ll let them know,” she says dryly, and then she’s gone, bicycle lock coming apart easily under her black manicure.

He holds out until Cesar shows up, a little earlier than scheduled because he’s still trying to impress Ethan, and then he begs off for an early lunch and goes upstairs to nap. He dreams fitfully of Vanessa’s black nails, of the rich blackness of overturned earth and of fresh blood singing across his tongue. When he wakes up, he doesn’t feel sick so much as just heavy.

There’s a plastic takeout bag looped around his doorknob when he steps out to head back downstairs, supplementary doses of ibuprofen and antacids coursing through his system, and for a moment his gag reflex kicks. Did he order food in his sleep? He’s probably beyond help if he’s gotten to that point, good Christ. 

But no. Inside there’s a little tub like Vaseline or hair pomade comes in, nondescript black, no label. There’s a note taped to it, handwritten in long, spindly letters that adjoin and stumble against each other:

Cesar let me up. He is quite susceptible to psychic threats. Apply a teaspoon or two to each wrist before you go to sleep tonight. You can add some on the back of your neck as well to mitigate nausea. Repeat in the morning if necessary. It does contain turmeric so it will likely stain any fabric it touches. Use with care.

Feel better. No one else will remind me to eat vegetables.

V.

P.S. I did not threaten Cesar. I simply asked if he would like to see what his future held if he didn’t let me up to your door. He declined. 

And then Ethan’s laughing to himself on the tiny landing between his apartment and the diner, long past caring if the sound filters downstairs for anyone else to hear. He unscrews the cap and brings the tub to his nose: that’s turmeric, all right, and alcohol, aniseed, and something with a sweet burnt-sugar note he can’t quite place. He opens his door and tosses the bag onto his bed, then heads downstairs, shaking his head. Vanessa’s getting that cake for free tomorrow, that’s for sure.

[keldae]

Update: did you know that, if you tell your doctor that your injury was at work, WCB pays for your medical note for light/modified duties? (At least in Alberta)

Also, I am absolutely useless at work now. Can't go up the ladders, can't pull boot boxes from overhead, can't lift anything over 5 lbs (which means I can't do stock, and even some pairs of work boots I can't pick up without going "Ow")... I've put Newbie to work today like "Hey, this boot in this size from here - fetch!"

So starts two weeks of officially being a cripple. Ugh.

Protip: you may be tempted to walk across the pile of broken-down cardboard at work. You think that it'll be fiiiiiine.

Don't do this. You WILL slip, and you WILL slip again whilst trying to get back up.

Cardboard: 1

Jawa's Back: 0

[fashion4ducks]

Translation: Houston is fucking wak.

Re zoning regulation reform: could you go into detail as what that would look like in terms of wiping the slate clean. I feel like it would be better to go the houston route and just be zoning free

You do not want to go the Houston route.

Houston may claim to be "zoning-free" - and to be fair, it doesn't have some of the more common regulations on land use, or density, or height restrictions (more on this in a minute) - but the reality is far more complicated and the status quo is not one that's friendly to the interests of working-class and poor residents, or to the possibility of sustainable urbanism.

The answer to NIMBYism isn't to abolish all regulations and let the free market rip, it's to surgically target zoning, planning, and litigation that is used against affordable housing, public/social housing, mass transit, clean energy, and walkable neighborhoods, and to replace it with new forms of regulation that encourage these forms of development.

So let's take take these categories in order.

Zoning

As I tell my Urban Studies students, zoning is both one of the most subtle and yet comprehensive ways in which the state shapes the urban environment - but historically it has been used almost exclusively in the interests of racism and classism. Reforming zoning requires going over the code with a fine-toothed comb to single out all the many ways in which zoning is used to make affordable housing impossible:

The most important one to tackle first is density zoning and building heights limitations. The former directly limits how many buildings you can have per unit of land (usually per acre), while the latter limits how big the buildings can be (expressed either as the number of stories or the number of feet, or as both). Closely associated with these zoning regulations are minimum lot size regulations (which regulate how much land each individual parcel of real estate has to cover, and thus how many how many housing units can be built in a given area), and lot coverage, setbacks, and minimum yard requirements (which limit how much square footage of a lot can be built on, and what kinds of structures you can build).

the other big one is use zoning. To begin with, we need to phase out "single use" zoning that designates certain areas as exclusively residential or commercial or industrial (a major factor that drives car-centric development, makes walkable neighborhoods impossible, and discourages the "insula" style apartment building that has been the core of urbanism since Ancient Rome) in favor of "mixed use" zoning that allows for neighborhoods that combine residential and commercial uses. Equally importantly, we need to eliminate single-family zoning and adopt zoning rules that allow for a mix of different kinds of housing (ADUs, duplexes and triplexes, rowhouses/terraced houses, apartment buildings).

finally, the most insidious zoning requirements are seemingly incidental regulations. For example, mandatory parking minimums not only prioitize car-dependent versus transit-oriented development but also eat up huge amounts of space per lot. The most nakedly classist is "unrelated persons" zoning, which is used to prevent poorer people from subdividing houses into apartments, which zaps young people who are looking to be roommates and older people looking to finance their retirements by running boarding houses or taking in lodgers, as well as landlords looking to convert houses from owner-occupied to rental properties.

So I would argue that the goal of reform should be not to eliminate zoning, but rather to establish model zoning codes that have been stripped of the historical legacies of racism and classism.

Planning

Similar to how zoning shouldn't be abolished but reformed, the correct approach to planning isn't to abolish planning departments wholesale, but to streamline the planning process - because the problem is that right now the planning process is too slow, which raises the costs of all kinds of development (we're focusing on housing right now, but the same holds true for clean energy projects), and it allows NIMBY groups to abuse the public hearings and environmental review process to block projects that are good for the environment and working-class and poor people but bad for affluent homeowners.

As those Ezra Klein interviews indicate, this is beginning to change due to a combination of reforms at both the state and federal level to speed up the CEQA and EPA environmental review process in a number of ways. For example, one change that's being made is to require planning agencies and environmental agencies to report on the environmental impact of not doing a project as well, to shift the discussion away from petty complaints about noise and traffic and "neighborhood character" (i.e, coded racism and classism) and towards real discussions of social and environmental justice.

At the same time, more is needed - especially to reform the public hearing process. While originally intended by Jane Jacobs and other activists in the 1970s as a democratic reform that would give local communities a voice in the planning process, "participatory planning" has become a way for special interests to exercise an unaccountable veto power over development. Because younger, poorer and more working class, and communities of color often don't have time to attend public hearing sessions during the workday, these meetings become dominated by older, whiter, and richer residents who claim to speak for the whole of the community.

Moreover, because community boards are appointed rather than elected and public hearings operate on a first-come-first-serve basis, an unrepresentative minority can create a false impression of community opposition by "stacking the mike" and dialing up their level of militancy and aggression in the face of elected officials and civil servants who want to avoid controversy. (It's a classic case of diffuse versus concentrated interests, something that I spend a lot of classroom time making sure that my students learn.)

Again, the point shouldn't be to eliminate public hearings and other forms of participatory planning, but to reform them so that they're more representative (shifting public hearings to weekends and allowing people to comment via Zoom and other online forums, conducting surveys of community opinion, using a progressive stack and requiring equal time between pro and anti speakers, etc.) and to streamline the review process for model projects in categories like affordable housing, clean energy, mass transit, etc.

Litigation

Alongside the main planning process, there is also a need to reform the litigation process around development. In addition to traditional tort lawsuits from property owners claiming damage to their property from development, a lot of planning and environemntal legislation allows for private groups to sue over a host of issues - whether the agency followed the correct procedures, whether it took into account concerns about this impact or that impact, and so forth.

As we saw with the case of Berkeley NIMBYs who used CEQA to block student housing projects over environmental impacts around "noise," this process can be used to either block projects outright, or even if the NIMBYs eventually lose in court, to draw out the process until projects fall apart due to lack of funding or the proponents simply lose their patience and give up.

This is why we're starting to see significant reforms to both state and federal legislation to streamline the litigation process. The categorical exemptions from review that I discussed above also have implications for litigation - you can't sue over reviews that didn't happen - but there are also efforts to speed up the litigation process through reducing what counts as "administrative record" or by putting a nine-month cap on court proceedings.

Again, this is an area where you have to be very surgical in your changes. Especially when the politics of the issue divide environmental groups and create odd coalitions between labor, business, climate change activists, and anti-regulation conservatives, you have to be careful that the changes you are making benefit affordable housing, clean energy, mass transit and the like, not oil pipelines and suburban sprawl.

[betweenthings2]

omg the setting prompts are so good….how about 10) a dingy truck stop after ten hours on the road or 13) a police station in a foreign country 😊

Thank you so much for the ask!! The ask list is here if anyone else wants to see it =)

Setting prompts 10- a dingy truck stop after ten hours on the road (I've taken slight liberties with the band's actual tour schedule and the number of hours to base this on a truck stop I've driven by many, many times) and 13- a police station in a foreign country (remember that cops can and will lie to you and this probably isn't how it would go in real life).

Matty stumbles off the bus, ridiculously grateful to have stopped, even for just a little while. He lost track of the hours a some point around the state line after traffic and an vacant construction zone meant it took ages to get out of Boise. If he's never back in Boise, it'll be too soon, and now he's at a rest stop somewhere along Interstate 84. He's not sure how much further it is to Portland.

He wanders away from the pumps to the edge of the pavement and lights a cigarette then looks around. There's the freeway and on the other side of it, a river, wide and deep blue and calm, interrupted only by a barge pushed by a tugboat. Matty remembers hearing about salmon runs and dams in this river years ago when he was different, when he didn't just want to go home, but he can't for the life of him remember the river's name. The bluffs on the far side of the river and a dull brown and when Matty surveys the land on this side of the river, then this side of the freeway, he finds it a similar dull color, sagebrush and juniper all dormant for the winter and the grass dead. The sky is the same color as his cigarette smoke. It's kind of miserable, he thinks, and he feels unsettled.

Matty takes another drag from his cigarette and glances back toward the bus and the truck stop. He doesn't really want to go in--more than anything, he'd like some quiet time to himself--but he's almost out of cigarettes and he's kind of hungry, so he finishes his cigarette, stubs it out, and heads towards the door. Inside is a little bit dingy and outdated, like it hasn't been undated since the early 2000s and since then, nothing but motor oil and dirt has been tracked across the floor.

It's kind of sad, Matty thinks, this dingy place in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a bleak landscape. There's nothing but industrial sites and farms and feedlots for miles and miles and miles, and there'd been a billboard advertising religion along they exit. It all makes Matty feel tired. He is tired. He's so tired and he doesn't handle tired with much grace. He gets clingy and whiny and his temper gets a little bit shorter.

Lost in his thoughts, Matty walks right into another person as he wanders through the aisles. He starts apologizing the second he does, but when he looks up to see George, he cuts his apology off with, "Oh, hi."

"Hey," George responds. "Bit distracted are you?"

Matty sighs. "I'm tired. My knee hurts. I wanna sleep next to you."

"We have a hotel tonight," George offers, resting a hand on Matty's hip.

Matty's instinct is to step away from George's hand and maybe put some space between them because every time he's looked out for the past couple hundred miles, the billboards have been about life beginning at conception and how god is the answer and he's pretty sure this is not a place that would welcome casual, fond touches and love between two men, but he doesn't. He just appreciates the weight and warmth of George's hand and says, "I wanna sleep in our bed. I wanna roll over and see that painting we picked out when we lived in that little flat with all the fairy lights. I want that stupid blanket that you bought me when I was ill last winter."

"Soon," George promises. "We'll be home soon, and until then, there's ibuprofen in my bag and I grabbed you some crisps. You want anything else?"

Matty sighs. "Came in for a pack of cigs," he says. "And my lighter's almost dead. Why are my lighters always dead?"

"'cause your lighters are always lighters you took from me," George responds, easy, like it's obvious. 

Matty sighs. "I'm tired," he repeats, following George to the counter. His gait is uneven as he goes, a product of the ache in his knee that's gotten worse lately. He doesn't remember ever hurting it, but there's a lot of his life he doesn't remember, so he's long since let it go.

At the counter, George sets the snacks he'd selected on the counter, asks the cashier for two packs of cigarettes, and adds a lighter from the display before Matty can say a word. He does accept Matty's cash, crumpled from being shoved into his pocket the last time he bought cigarettes at a truck stop, but only when Matty insists, saying he's trying to spend all the American cash he has before they leave the country. The cashier returns the change to George and they head outside, George passing the lighter and one of the packs of cigarettes to Matty as they go.

"Thanks," Matty mumbles, pushing the door open. It's still gloomy outside. He wants to linger, wants to be still for just a few moments, even if only in the lot of a truck stop, but George's hand on his back keeps him moving. He still feels unsettled when they get on the bus, even though it's supposed to be their home away from home. Something is pulling at him, unraveling him. He won't settle until he can wind himself back up, take the strings of himself that are being unwound and tie them back up. Soon, he thinks, remembering George's words, they'll be home soon.

----

Matty doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know what time it is, doesn't know when or how he left the hotel room he and George were sharing, doesn't know where his phone or wallet is. He barely even knows his own name. What he does know is that he's sober. There's no haze in his head, his limbs aren't heavy, and, when he pushes up his sleeve to look at the crook of his elbow, there's nothing but smoother skin, only marked by fading scars from over a year ago. He'd had a couple glasses of wine at dinner and a cigarette on the balcony with George before bed, but he wasn't drunk or high or stoned, so how did he get to be wandering the streets of an unfamiliar city in the snow wearing nothing but a long-sleeve shirt, sweats, and socks that feel morse like George's good wool socks that anything Matty owns?

Matty keeps walking, hoping he can find some sort of landmark and orient himself, hoping that he can remember something, hoping that he can get himself back to the hotel. He doesn't have his room key, but just having somewhere to go would be a good start. He feels like he's going crazy, or maybe that he's past going crazy and he's properly gone crazy. Matty Healy, finally fully mental, just like so many people have thought he was for most of his life.

Matty's not sure how long he walks before the street is suddenly bathed in blue and red light. He keeps walking until a car pulls up alongside him and he glances over to see the word 'police' and his instinct is to run or hide, somehow get out of here because he's heard American cops are more than happy to arrest people on minor drug charges, but he's sober, he knows his is, and his feet hurt, so he stops and looks at the car, blinking at the light. The car stops when Matty does and a few moments later, a young woman walks around the front of the car. She has one hand on the holster on her hip and asks something that Matty doesn't really catch. He's distracted by the lights and the realization that he's cold and the way his feet hurt.

"What?" Matty asks.

The woman, the officer, drops her hand from her holster, evidently deciding that Matty isn't a threat and apparently repeats, "Are you alright? This is a dangerous neighborhood."

Matty sniffs and shakes his head.

"Are you running from something?" she asks, looking down to Matty's feet. "Are you hurt?"

Again, Matty shakes his head. He's pretty sure he doesn't have anything to run from, only things to run towards.

"How 'bout home, then?" she asks. "You're liable to be mugged or attacked alone at night here--I can help you get home if you'd like."

"'m not from here," Matty admits.

"Where are you staying?"

"Erm, I don't know. I need to call George."

"Ok," the officer agrees. "Do you know his number?"

Matty shakes his head again.

"Alright. How 'bout we go back to the station and we'll find George together, ok?"

Matty wants to agree, if no other reason than to maybe be warm for a few moments, but he also doesn't want to be arrested and he still has the paranoia of an addict, so he hesitates.

The officer sees his hesitation and comes around to the side of the car and opens the passenger door, saying, "You haven't done anything wrong. My job is to keep my community safe and you're clearly not safe. We're gonna get you some help, ok?"

Matty hesitates again. The last time anyone said anything about getting him help, he was sent to Barbados alone for seven weeks. "I don't wanna go to a hospital," he says.

"If you're not sick or hurt, you don't have to."

"I'm not," Matty says.

"Just to the station, then," the officer says. "We'll find George and get you back to where you belong."

Matty lets out a breath, then agrees, "Ok," and climbs into the passenger seat. The car is warm and it's nice to be off his feet, even if he's still a little bit anxious about being there and upset about the gap in his memory.

The officer closes the door after he gets in and goes around to get into the driver's seat. Once she closes the door, she fiddles with the temperature controls for a moment, then says, "I've turned the heat up, but you can change it if you like. It's just a few minutes back to the station, ok?"

Matty nods.

The officer nods and puts the car into drive, then turns to check her blind spot and pulls away from the curb. "I'm Officer Harding," she says. "What's your name?"

"Matty."

"I have a cousin we call Matty," Officer Harding says, in a clear attempt to be friendly and make Matty a little bit more comfortable.

Matty doesn't say anything, just looks down at his feet. George's wool socks are ruined.

Officer Harding doesn't say anything else as she drives. True to her word, she pulls into the lot behind the police station after just a few minutes of driving. Once she's parked, she comes around and opens Matty's door, offering a hand to help him out of the car. He doesn't take it, but he lets himself be led into the station, his head down and shoulders hunched.

Officer Harding directs him to a chair next to a desk with a nameplate that reads 'O. HARDING' and asks, "Can I get you a blanket or something to drink?"

Matty sniffs and nods, saying, "A blanket, please?"

Officer Harding offers a smile and goes, coming back a few moments later with a folded blanket that she shakes out and drapes over Matty's shoulders. "Alright," she says, sitting in her own chair, "what's your last name, Matty? I'm going to check the missing person's database and see if someone is already looking for you."

"Healy," Matty says obediently. "An' 's not really Matty, 's Matthew."

Officer Harding nods and types Matty's name in, then makes a few clicks before saying, "Alright, no missing persons report. What about George? Do you know where he lives or is staying?"

"He's staying wherever I'm staying," Matty mumbles.

Officer Harding sighs. "Have you wandered off like this before? Experienced memory loss like this before? Do have any way of contacting anyone? Does anyone have any way of knowing where you are?"

"I’m not a dog," Matty says, looking up. "I don't have a microchip or a fucking GPS tag." Then he ducks his head again to focus on George's ruined socks and says, "Sorry."

"That's alright," Officer Harding says. "I've heard much worse."

"Sorry," Matty repeats.

"What's George's last name? I'm going to see if he's made any calls or reports."

"Daniel."

"Alright," Officer Harding says. She types George's name into a search field and makes a few clicks, then does the same a few moments later. "No calls and I can't look up a phone number. Are you sure you don't know where he's staying or what his number is?"

"I know his number," Matty clarifies, "but we got new SIM cards here and I don't know that number."

"How 'bout the number you do know?"

Matty gives a nod and recites George's number. He knows it by heart and has since George got it. He still knows the number to the landline George had when they were kids. He knows how to find George. He could be dropped in the middle of London blindfolded and get home to George with love alone guiding him, but love doesn't know this city. Love has failed him here, rendered blind, deaf, and dumb. All he can think is that he misses George and he wants to go home. He wants to know he could get home, not be reliant on the pity of another. He wants to not be pitiful anymore.

When Matty glances up, Officer Harding is on the phone. She's quiet while it rings, then introducing herself and says, "I’m looking George Daniel." There's a beat of quiet, then, "Great. I'm here with Matthew Healy, he asked that I call you-"

George is going to be livid, Matty thinks. They're supposed to be through this. He's not supposed to have to worry about where Matty has disappeared to, not supposed to worry if he's gone and gotten himself hurt or killed or arrested, not supposed to feel more like a babysitter than a partner. This is going to put them right back to where they were two years ago when Matty tattooed his passport number or his wrist because no one trusted that he wouldn't do something like try to drain his bank accounts or swap his passport for drugs or simply get it stolen because the only thing he cared about was getting high. This going to make things bad again, and on top of that, Matty has ruined George's socks.

"Matty?" Officer Harding asks, putting a gentle hand on his arm.

Her hand is warm Matty thinks as he glances up. He doesn't want her to move it.

"I got ahold of George. He'll be here in about twenty minutes."

"George is coming?" Matty asks, more shocked than anything else. "Is he upset?"

Officer Harding frowns at that, but says, "He didn't sound upset. He sounded grateful that I called. He asked if you were safe and where you were."

"And he's really coming?"

"I think so."

George is coming, Matty thinks. George is coming and everything will be ok and Matty will be safe, but oh, god, he doesn't know what happened or where he is or how he got there and he's ruined George's socks and he's a liability again and Matty is about to be sick. He looks around frantically and reaches for the little trash can by the desk just into to vomit into it, rather than on the floor.

Officer Harding waits for Matty to be done and set the trash can back on the floor, then rolls her chair a little bit closer and carefully asks, "Are you safe with George?"

Matty can't help but let our a laugh at that. It sounds foreign to his own ears and he says, "Yeah. I'm safe with George. George is safe. He's, I'm, he loves me. We're just supposed to be past this."

"Past this?"

Matty nods. "Past me being a liability."

"One night doesn't make you a liability," Officer Harding tires.

Matty scoffs. "There have been a lot of nights. And mornings and nights and days."

"So you have experienced an episode like this before?"

Matty shakes his head. "Didn't say that, said this is the first time this has happened."

"I can try to connect you to some community resources," Officer Harding offers.

Matty just shakes his head and pulls his knees up to his chest, heels resting on the edge of the chair. If he can make himself smaller, maybe this can get smaller, too.

Officer Harding lets it go after that, just turns back to her desk. Another ten or so minutes pass before Matty hears a ding and he twists around to see George following the desk sergeant off the elevator. Matty feels like he can breathe again and he gets up to quickly cross the open room and fling himself into George's arms, not minding that they're in the middle of a foreign police station. George accepts him, he always does, with arms wrapped tight around Matty holding him close.

"Hey," George murmurs, rubbing Matty's back gently.

Matty clings. George is warm and he smells good and he's safe and solid. "'m sorry," he chokes out. "I didn't take anything. I'm sober. I'm sober, George, I promise."

"I got you," George murmurs. "I'm right here. I've got you."

"I don't know what happened," Matty continues, on the edge of tears. "I don't know why I left or where I went, I just, I don't know."

"Shh, 's ok," George says. "We'll sort it out, whatever it is."

"I'm sorry," Matty repeats.

"No need to apologize," George says. "There's nothing for you to apologize for."

"There is," Matty insists. "I ruined your socks, the good wool ones you like that you give me sometimes when I get cold and now you're never going to give me your socks anymore 'cause I ruined them and-"

"Matty, love," George interrupts, "I don't care about that, I care that you're ok."

"Am I ok?" Matty asks. He has to. He doesn't know the answer.

"You will be," George promises. "We'll go back to the hotel and get a little more sleep, 'cause you look exhausted and it's three in the morning, and when we wake up, we'll figure out whatever this is."

"Really?"

George nods. "You and me," he says. "We can figure anything out, even you."

Matty laughs at that, a little bit wet from tears, but George is right. They've figured him out once before, they can probably do it again. "Love you," Matty murmurs. "Thank you.

[chronicbitchsyndrome]

would you be willing to talk about your surgery & recovery experience with tonsilectomy? i know i probably need mine taken out lol but the surgeon who told me that also said that it would be very painful and so now im scared. but ive had lots of surgery so i would like to know if other disabled ppl with lots of pain experience also rate it

YES hello i am VERY happy to talk about this because i had the slickest recovery known to man due to how i took IMPECCABLE care of myself and had a great surgeon who actually follows best practices for recovery instead of throwing ibuprofen at you and telling you to start eating again the same day (true story from the trenches).

so the surgery itself was extremely simple, it's outpatient, you go in, it takes a couple hours, you wake up completely out of it from the anesthesia and awkwardly attempt to drink water while feeling approximately like you just did four shots of vodka and then somehow you end up in your ride's car and go home. honestly the surgery itself was a blip in my day.

the recovery itself is pretty painful, i'm not going to lie. i was prescribed almost two weeks' worth of oxycodone in addition to NSAIDs, acetaminophen, and a healing mouth rinse. this is because, again, i had a competent and compassionate surgeon, which is at a premium in the health care industry. many surgeons will not prescribe opioids whatsoever because of anti-addict bias and severe ingrained ableism. i am not going to lie, i do not think i would have managed without the oxy, and i don't regret using every single dose of it. i also overloaded on THC every night during recovery, it helped significantly with the inflammation.

the pain itself doesn't feel worse than a bad case of strep throat, and if you're getting regular severe tonsillitis, you'll be used to the level of pain this is. i hovered between a 5 and a 7 on the pain scale for the vast majority of the recovery, which was pretty typical for my tonsillitis episodes as well, and the oxy turned that pretty much entirely manageable.

PRO GAMER TIPS THAT MADE MY RECOVERY SO SMOOTH:

bed rest. one week minimum. do not lift anything heavy or strain your muscles significantly (i.e. working out, cardio). two weeks minimum. you do NOT want to pop a scab early. you will bleed into your throat and it will be miserable and scary and you will have to go to the ER. take the post-surgical rest period seriously.

get a humifidier, put that thang right beside your bed, run it full blast. you want to keep your scabs as moist as possible. yes i know that's gross. no you don't want dry crunchy scabs in your THROAT.

drink as much water as you possibly can, even if it hurts; this is what i attribute most of my quick and easy recovery to. i was sipping on that shit 24/7. if you don't let your scabs dry out to begin with, this is much easier because you don't go through a period of it feeling like literally swallowing broken glass, although it hurts to swallow no matter what.

meal replacement drinks are a lifesaver! i got soylent. i could start eating soft solid foods again after the first couple of days, but i still relied heavily on soylent for a lot of my calories until halfway through the second week.

until you're able to eat mostly normally, DO NOT eat or drink anything: acidic, carbonated, spicy, or overly salty. please trust me. please. you don't want to. i prommy.

you don't have to be on a liquid-only diet for long, but soft foods are necessary until your scabs heal enough that swallowing isn't overly painful. cold is going to feel a lot better than hot. apart from soylent, i relied on mashed potatoes, jello, popsicles, ice cream, and soft pastas. once i got past the first couple days, i added soft well-chewed quesadillas, burritos, lasagna, that kind of thing. a lot of people can get away with going back to solids very quickly as long as they don't eat anything crunchy/sharp and chew their food VERY, STUPIDLY thoroughly.

finally, i would also recommend checking out the r/tonsillectomy subreddit. their resources and anecdotes were lifesavers and got into way more granular detail than i ever could hope to cover in a tumblr post.

i also got a fungal infection in my mouth right after the end of my recovery period, which wasn't either my or my surgeon's fault but it WAS the worst pain i had ever felt in my life. watch out for post-surgical infections; the antibiotics they put you on make you more susceptible to fungal infections in particular in the following weeks. if something seems off, DO NOT wait or put it off, contact your surgical team as soon as you possibly can and honestly if it's off in a pain-or-bleeding way just preemptively head to the ER as soon as you can (most surgical teams give you an option to contact them if you do this, so you can call ahead and someone on the actual team can see you there instead of an ER nurse).

finally, i just want to say: this surgery was 100% worth it. i have been sick exactly once since surgery five months ago, and it was a mild cold that only lasted two days and didn't present with throat pain whatsoever. i can breathe, i don't snore, i don't have panic attacks because i feel like my throat is closing up. you have no idea how absolutely unreachable and unrealistic this all seemed last year; i thought i straight up just couldn't ever go to a party or have a hookup again without being bedbound for a week and a half afterwards. and now i... can? i feel so much better and i would unequivocally recommend the two weeks of drugged-out malaise and mashed potatoes and pain in exchange for a lifetime of eased agonies. and again--the pain was extremely comparable to a pre-op episode of tonsillitis for me.

this was sort of all over the place because you asked a very general question, but please feel free to ask any follow-ups you want! if you'd like to chat one-on-one i can give ya my main URL, too (i share this blog with someone so there's no DMs here, sorry)

[voidscarredadjudicator]

Hey y'all, sorry for the silence - as you can imagine by the last post, things have been a little stressful. The short version is that it's worse than what we thought, and I'm gonna need surgery - but I will recover! All I need (other than surgery) is physical therapy, time, and ibuprofen. And whatever industrial strength painkillers they give me, because holy fuck the procedure will leave me sore. Despite this news, I'm staying pretty positive about things, so don't fret for me. If you're interested in the finer details of the nuclear bomb that exploded in my knee, I'll elaborate past the keep reading thingy - but if you're not interested in or unsettled by descriptions of injuries or surgical procedures, I'll simply tell you that this is an injury common among football players, and the procedure I will undergo is what they give to said football players with the intention of getting them back to the sport that caused the injury to begin with. Frankly, my doctor might be overqualified for me.

And for those of you who aren't so squeamish, I've got a combination of a complete ACL tear, meniscus tears, and a fractured tibia. The way I fell not only twisted my leg to tear a ligament cleanly in half, but my femur jutted down into my lower leg bone hard enough to crack it - which is actually why I feel so much pain when attempting to put weight on it. Initially, I was a little panicked, because the folks at the clinic I went to said I could put "weight as I could bear" on the leg, but the amount of weight I could bear at the time was a fat zero, and continued to be as such for weeks. Didn't help that initial X-Ray didn't show anything wrong, so I had no idea my bone was even in that shape until just a few days ago. On the bright side, the fracture itself doesn't require any surgery - it'll heal naturally over about 2 months (which one month has passed already since the injury so we're halfway there). No, the elephant in the room is the torn ACL.

It's fucked beyond repair. In the picture of the MRI scan I got, it visibly just. Ends. The ACL, or 𝓐𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓸𝓻 𝓒𝓻𝓾𝓬𝓲𝓪𝓽𝓮 𝓛𝓲𝓰𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽 is one of two ligaments (the other one being the PCL, or 𝓟𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓸𝓻 𝓒𝓻𝓾𝓬𝓲𝓪𝓽𝓮 𝓛𝓲𝓰𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽, of which mine is completely fine) that basically stabilize the knee. Keeps the bones from moving too far apart from each other, basically. So, pretty important! Right now, my physical therapy is just trying to get my leg to move how it did before the injury again in preparation for the surgery, with the logic being that doing so will both speed up recovery post operation and minimize potential for complications.

What they're gonna do is take a piece of one of my tendons, drill a hole through my femur and tibia, stretch the piece of tendon through the holes where my ACL was at, and secure it in place with bone screws, where that bit of tendon will become my new ACL. As far as the torn meniscus, they'll take care of that during the ACL surgery as well - depending on how it's torn, it'll either need stitched up or the torn bits removed. They have no way of knowing until they're in there. After that, it's more PT to keep it in working order. For sports folks, it takes about 6 to 12 months to get back to playing. My hobbies aren't really active though, so that'll be a breeze for me.

So uhh yeah. Ao3 writer's curse is real. But I'll be fine. Sore, but fine.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

some big brother Alfred comforting sad little brother. i imagine there's a great difference between how Alfred would comfort Matthew in colonial times vs the present. 'what's wrong? is there anything i can do? please don't be sad! I love you! do you need me to talk to Lord Father?' vs 'you look like shit. go take a fucking a shower while I make you some pancakes and then you're taking a fucking nap you dickhead. i love you. and comb your fucking hair'

When Matt's young, absolutely. Alfred is very sympathetic to his half-mad baby brother; his personality flaws are understandable and forgivable given that he was a castaway marooned from the French Empire and landed suddenly into Britishness. A lot of genuine distress on Alfred's part about the fact Matt's seeing shit and is often too anxious to eat. He puts Matt on his shoulder when the snow gets too deep and nudges him to eat more and spend more time closer to the fire. It's also pre-industrialization when Americans, as individualistic as they were back then, had a communalist streak. The mad and the various other types of issues are taken care of at home. A burden shared is a burden halved. It's nice to have a baby brother eager to snuggle and read, too, even if he is a little off his rocker from those dark things men do in the dark of the Northwoods.

Older... Older is a little different. It's not cute or sympathetic when Matt occasionally falls off the bandwagon when they're adults. He's peaceful; he's got no real issues by Alfred's metric. He's literally not doing anything useful most of the time, either. He won't meet NATO spending, can't get Quebec under control, and falls apart economically if the US so much looks at the border. There's no 'reason' Alfred can see to excuse Matt's unshowered, unfed, unrested state when he's in a funk. Society has changed, too. What was a healthy respect for individual responsibility is now the only metric by which one's merit is judged. A lot of "well, I don't get to go feral in the woods, or there are actually consequences. Get your shit together." He parrots a lot of bootstrap rhetoric. "Get it together, you have nothing to be upset about." "I'm the superpower, and I live my entire life on an acutely observed high wire act, and I handle that better than you handle having literally no responsibility." But then, when it's obvious, when he can see Matt's made an effort at least, or there's a 'reason' he's downright tender. Kind of goes back to that Calvinist thing of the "deserving needy."

But if Matt or anyone else ever pointed any of this out, Alfred would insist none was happening. Of course they love each other, of course Matt is the exception to his grumbling and that should be obvious. But all too often, unless Alfred is put directly in the path of apparent suffering in a way that doesn't feel burdensome, it can feel like just another task between him and the bottom of his to-do list. One that Matt is supposed to take care of himself because that's their deal. Sometimes it's a reset, though. Like, oh, Matt accidentally drove himself into the ground to keep up with Alfred's batshit lifestyle? That's a bit endearing, and making breakfast, tossing him some ibuprofen, and taking a day are spiritually human things Alfred needs as much as Matt does the physical rest.

[collectorcookie]

I AM HOME AGAIN. Ok so part two of trickstar dynamics: anzu edition. I already kinda made one but it was more about anzu's past sooo it doesn't count.

Anzu and subaru: THE BESTIEEESSS I LOVE THEM SO MUCH THEY ARE SO CUTE. When trickstar was still a very new unit subaru was like "man i wish we had our own uniforms. Wouldn't that be cool" (because at yumenosaki academy having your own uniforms instead of the standard ones provided by the academy meant that 1. you're hot shit aka important and popular enough to have a specific image and 2. you're hot shit enough aka rich enough to be able to afford your own costume). And then anzu is just like "My boy? Wants something?? My bestie? Wishes for uniforms??" And then she SINGLEHANDEDLY learns sewing from kuro in like a week and makes the trickstar uniforms. And subaru could cry from joy.

And much later subaru got some job where he has to wear a suit but he's never worn suits so he asks super model sena for help, and sena is like "well what kind of suit do you wanna wear" and after a long time of thinking, the only thing he came up with was a suit made specifically by anzu for him. That's all he wanted agshetekwhdghr. But anzu was pretty busy so he settled for a suit that was approved by her.

And when they ended up in the industry anzu made him the super sparkly outfit and i KNOW everyone hates that card because of the missions BUT that card has a special place in my heart because even after their early high school days, even after subaru won the ss and trickstar became super popular and anzu became a very important producer in ES (going as far as being a part of P. Association), subaru still adores and appreciates outfits made by her specifically asdffkslagdkfjw.

Also Pretty sure that anzu was one of the few characters where subaru dropped his happy-ultra-cheerful persona to open up to her, being all like "You know anzu, sometimes i feel like half of my emotions are straight up missing". Ouch. He doesn't do that often! If at all!! He trusts her enough to do that!!!!

There's more to say but there's already another post that goes into more details about this (i will reblog it after this but how on earth can you link someone else's post on here)

Anzu and mao: you may have seen or noticed how mao is always like "omg no don't touch anzu that's sexual harrassment" to completely normal affection between friends and thought to yourself "The hell is wrong with this dude". And like, i can only speculate why he's like this but it's probably due to anzu's first experiences at yumenosaki. Poor girl got transferred into a school of boys committing crimes against each other, got kicked in the face (with koga's full body weight), fainted, got a concussion, went to the infirmary, got sexually harrassed by one of the teachers (seriuosly what the hell jin), then got followed around and pressured by a playboy (past kaoru was uhhh...something). Rei ended up finding her and just...hiding her in a cupboard. And later on rei finds mao and is like "hey you. I hid your girl in the cupboards" and mao's bewildered at this statement. And rei continues with "yeah you should probs go pick her up or something". Mao then goes and to his surprise, he actually finds her in the cupboards, terrified and exhausted.This is the context to this very lovely mao illustration:

(Mao's first 5* is literally "let's take ibuprofen together, producer" heeelllpp)

Mao ends up always walking her home after this by the way, to the point where he sometimes eats lunch with her family. (Sometimes the other trickstar memebrs walk her too but most often it's Mao) So yeah, that could be the reason why he's so sensitive anytime someone gets close to anzu. He's just really overprotective of her.

(I will entirely ignore all the more fanservicey stuff that occasionally happens between anzu and mao in the early stories because...it just...feels so ooc for mao. And completely unnecessary in general) however anzu is also very fond of mao, as we see in !-era ss, where anzu notices that mao is beating himself up for not being enough for trickstar and so she goes to his room to specifically cheer him up and reassure him when he wakes up

Anzu and hokuto: ooohhh my gooood, the scene where he goes to visit anzu in the infirmary after she got hurt and fainted and he. He just. He just feels so bad for her getting hurt and then starts this whole ass monologue about why he dragged her into this. This huge monologue where he just lets out all his anger at yumenosaki's state and hopes and dreams for the future and how she gave him hope but he burdened and expected too much of her right at the beginning. AND SHE WAS AWAKE THE WHOLE TIME WITHOUT HIM KNOWING. And his speech just motivates her to actually ally herself with trickstar because she wants things to change for the better too.

And then waaay later she faints again from exhausting herself too much and hokuto notices how much she has been doing, not just for trickstar but as a producer in general. And so to lighten her burdens and to prove to her that they have grown as a unit and do not need to rely on her the whole time, he revokes his rights to participate in the SS. Listen to me. I want you to understand that as a unit, trickstar established itself to prove that change is possible. The entire main storyline in ! is about them beating eichi's ass in DDD. And DDD is such a huge deal because it determines which unit is allowed to participate in SS as a representative. And SS is a huuuuge national tournament for idols sorta thing. So when hokuto goes to eichi being all like "hey mr. president, i revoke my rights to participate in the SS", eichi (who has been supporting trickstar ever since they beat him in DDD because SS is far more important than DDD) straight up grabs hokuto and screams at him something along the lines of "HOKUTO ARE YOU /SRS OR /J???? YOUR GIRL FAINTS ONCE AND THIS IS HOW YOU BEHAVE???!!! SHE'S NOT WITH YOU FOR ONE TIME AND YOU STEP DOWN, YOU FREAKING COWARD?? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW IMPORTANT OF AN EVENT SS IS". And hokuto, still very straight faced and expressionless, simply states "oh i'm not stepping down. I want trickstar to fight more live battles to rewin our rights to represent yumenosaki in SS. Both to prove to everyone that trickstar really is suited for this, and to prove for anzu that she doesn't need to always worry about us anymore." Do you have any idea how much i wanted to howl at the moon after reading that.

By the way this is also the context for this one wataru illustration who was also in the council room at the time:

(When you watch your boyfriend grab your bestie by the neck and your bestie says the most jawdropping shit you've ever heard)

Anzu and Makoto: this is actually a lot more of a relaxed and chill dynamic than i expected. Most of their early interactions are just makoto being "oh my god i'm so afraid of girls i have never talked to a girl in my entire life what even are girls" and then anzu would be like "but i am one?" and makoto's just "HOLY SHIT YOU'RE RIGHT". Anyways after makoto builds a little self esteem it looks like him and anzu just start sharing a braincell sometimes. Like that one moment in finder girl event story where mao is super worried that no one will help him, and the makoto anzu duo don't even talk to each other, they just exchange looks and think to themselves "this guy has no idea that everyone in yumenosaki would help him huh". Fun times.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

Tim Richmond

Timothy Lee Richmond (June 7, 1955 – August 13, 1989) was an American race car driver from Ashland, Ohio. He competed in IndyCar racing before transferring to NASCAR's Winston Cup Series. Richmond was one of the first drivers to change from open wheel racing to NASCAR stock cars full-time, which later became an industry trend. He won the 1980 Indianapolis 500 Rookie of the Year award and had 13 victories during eight NASCAR seasons.

Richmond achieved his top NASCAR season in 1986 when he finished third in points. He won seven races that season, more than any other driver on the tour. When he missed the season-opening Daytona 500 in February 1987, media reported that he had pneumonia. The infection most likely resulted from his compromised immune system, which was weakened by AIDS. Despite the state of his health, Richmond competed in eight races in 1987, winning two events and one pole position before his final race in August of that year. He attempted a comeback in 1988 before NASCAR banned him for testing positive for excessive over-the-counter drugs, ibuprofen and pseudoephedrine; NASCAR later announced it gave Richmond a new test and tested negative. Richmond filed a lawsuit against NASCAR after the organization insisted it wanted access to his entire medical record before it would reinstate him. After losing the lawsuit, Richmond withdrew from racing. NASCAR later stated its original test was a "bad test."

Richmond grew up in a wealthy family and lived a freewheeling lifestyle, earning him the nickname "Hollywood". In describing Richmond's influence in racing, Charlotte Motor Speedway president Humpy Wheeler said, "We've never had a race driver like Tim in stock car racing. He was almost a James Dean-like character." When Richmond was cast for a bit part in the 1983 movie Stroker Ace,[6]"He fell right in with the group working on the film," said director Hal Needham. Cole Trickle, the main character in the movie Days of Thunder, played by Tom Cruise, was loosely based on Richmond and his interaction with Harry Hyde and Rick Hendrick.

[sapphire-heart-tippy]

Hrrrghh- feeling FEELINGS

So... Every now and then, I'll get fictional baby fever, and recently I've been wanting to have a baby with Wamuu

So I was thinking about making another other alternate universe.

This au will be similar to Pillars of Darkness, only... It's not the main Sapphire Heartverse. It's an alternate universe where the pillarmen are the focal point

Much like how The Bellflower is a slice of life au where Bel and I met in college, lived in an apartment together for a while, then moved into a house and got married, and it's just me and Bel.

So THIS au will be about how I meet the pillarmen and they take me in and train me as part of the family, Wamuu and I fall in love, and eventually we have a baby together (I'm just a guy with a uterus. Plus in my headcanon, pillarmen can change their sex at will and Wamuu was born female, then he just decided, "actually I wanna be a dude", and Kars and Esidisi were like, "alright, cool. Now, WAMUU! KILL THIS MAN! /ytp reference")

So this au will be called, "Warrior of the Blizzard" or WOTB

(because I get ice powers in both aus!)

But ANYWAY. I... Keep wanting to have a baby with Wamuu 😭

I already have a son with Vanilla, our precious Ramón 🥹

But I would like another fankid, but this time I want to be taken care of and pampered by Wamuu while I'm carrying our baby 🥺 I just think that would be very romantic. He would be so protective and loving...

Oh, my sweet Wamuu *swoons and screams into a pillow*

(I *can't and don't want to get pregnant irl, but in the fictional world it's different!)

I've just been so hyperfixated on the pillarmen, is it obvious? /joke

ADHD hyperexplaining upcoming:

(*physically can't because endometriosis, I had an operation where they had to remove both of my fallopian tubes, and I have an IUD to ease the pain of menstruation due to endometriosis. The IUD insertion was the worst pain I've ever felt in my life, no ibuprofens beforehand didn't help. Yeah, the medical industry really doesn't care all that much about those with uteruses... However, it was very worth it!)

[aminocamino]

Day 15 24 April - Belgrado to Atapuerco 31km and 479m

Couple of things I should mention. I discovered these roast almond dispensing machines , 1 € for a handful and I introduced Carrie to them. They are addictive and every time we saw a machine we would dispense some. Stopped it now though as they can ruin your appetite.

In addition yesterday Carrie developed a sharp hip pain - worrying obviously. When she took her pack off to suss it out and put ibuprofen gel on it she discovered the rucksack was sitting on the toggle of her top. So no major injury but we both have the ABA (all body ache).

This morning it must have been -1/1deg. There was frost on the ground and it didn’t begin to melt till 10am.

This is the old bridge going out of Belorado, a reminder of its past.

It was a beautiful cold morning - passed this marker on the way. Still a long long way to go! And the ruin is all thats left of the Monastery of Sant Felix de Oca.

The path out of Villafranca Montes de Oca was steep, very surprisingly. And the path then wound through lovely forestry track. Saw a man selling scallop shells he had painted himself and a very odd wood sculpture park. Some of the carvings were abit macabre…

The monument is Monumento de los Carlos and marks the shallow grave of 300 people who were executed in 1936. Very moving marker in a remote place.

The forestry track to San Juan de Ortega was beautiful to start but after 7km of the same scenery it was painful. We arrived at San Juan de Ortega - a stunning village with two cafes. We stopped for a drink at the first one - and to our delight we bumped into Nathan/Abi and 8 month old Fred. Hugs all round. Its good to meet up with your Camino family. They told us they had a bad experience with an Albergue owner in Belorado who was so mean they would not put the heating on. It was 1 degree last night. Poor Fred! Think they eventually forced him/her to turn it on.

Carrie and I loved San Juan de Ortega - definitely a place to stay overnight at.

The church of San Nicolas de Bari and the buildings attaching to it as well as the courtyard are stunning. Especially on a beautiful sunny day such as this one.

After San Juan it was another slog to get to Ages. We loved this village. It had a beautiful high street and some very old buildings - it wasn’t spoilt by industrial buildings. Definitely another one to stay in.

The 2km to Atapuerco felt like 15. We walked over 19 miles (not the 18 per the Camino planner I am using!) today and we felt it. Our Albergue was an interesting experience. Not our favourite - just felt grubby. And the showers were so tight! When I was hanging clothes out - I noticed a pair of bright red orange underpants… they followed me around because in the morning they were on the radiator right next to my jacket 😲. And a bloke keeps wondering around in his grey green underpants… reminds me and Carrie of hairy man!

Carrie took this one of me in front of my bed. We were both in top bunks unfortunately. Not sure why I am smiling as the place didn’t feel clean.

The one restaurant in the village was closed. But the bar was serving pizza, Carrie offered to share but I was starving. We had 19 miles to feed. Afterwards we sat in the sun in the middle of the village and chatted to Rebecca and Debbie - both lovely Canadian women we got on with really well.