#and no one likes their work ID photos

[tacosaysroar]

I made the decision to update my headshots for work today, and that was a mistake. I like them even less than the originals. But there’s no do over. It’ll be on my badge and in the online network, including what pops up on Meet whenever my camera isn’t on. And that sucks. But I guess people can be pleasantly surprised that I look better in person. Everyone will live. Including me.

[theposhperyton]

All evidence suggests yes

[coconutcows]

Heeeere’s my latest creation, a fully Knitted Mothman Plushie!!!!!!

He isn’t 100% done quite yet, I’d like to add some wire to his wings so they aren’t quite so floppy but he came out excellent so I’m excited to share him with everyone!!!

He’s very huggable and I hope to make more to put in my shop once I get it up and running, I’ll probably work on a smaller version too :>

[aliusfrater]

if you had the opportunity to personally ask jared one question what would it be?

i'm gonna assume you mean like at a solo panel or something—if you were to write a comic book run for supernatural what would the plot be and what kind of internal conflict would you want to explore for sam? is there a specific artist that you'd want to employ for it? and what would you be excited about that a comic book could explore that a tv show cannot?

[moeblob]

Karen and her oldest brother Warren.

I didn't really plan to draw OCs today but someone told me a story about this really nice and cool encounter that she had today with a woman named Karen and how when she heard the woman's name she immediately thought of my Karen. So. I was very happy to hear there was a really cool lady in Walmart wearing a cowboy hat named Karen.

Warren is the oldest but only a year older than Ross aaaaaand while Warren is very quick to dote on his siblings and be very nice (unlike Ross' foul mouth) he's still a brother and has to antagonize his siblings SOMETIMES. Warren's also the first to lecture Ross for his language vs Karen who straight up punches Ross for his language.

[gloriousmonsters]

sometimes i'm like. am i actually a narcissist? just for a moment. then i remember that from the ages of like 12-19 i eschewed all other photographs or more normal forms of decoration to keep a framed photo of myself on either my desk or my bedside table where i could look at it constantly. cuz i thought i looked cute and confident and no it did not occur to me i might like to have a photo of like, a family member or some cool trees or something i just took like 7 years to go huh wait other people don't keep a photograph of themselves on their desks? what do you do when you want to look at yourself go all the way to a mirror??? anyway it wasn't realizing this was unusual that made me stop the photo just got water damage

[doctorbrown]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 ⸺ 「 24 / 31 * OUT IN THE DESERT 」

January—March 1943

From the moment he’d been visited at the university by Oppenheimer with Groves in tow, the latter a looming, intimidating presence towering over him in his uniform compared to the amicable and even friendly disposition of Oppenheimer, he’d felt the cold bite of the Sword of Damocles pressed against his neck, digging deeper and deeper with each day he’d been left in purgatory, waiting.

He feared he’d lose his head before ever hearing the official outcome of his new employment.

When one of his colleagues had approached him about a week and a half after their departure, informing him that he’d received a call from the FBI asking some questions about him, Emmett’s heart stopped then and there and he was absolutely positive he’d seen the moment his head was severed from his neck, rolling down the hallway.

Twenty long seconds later, when his senses had returned to him, he learned that the sensation was just dizziness and he was still firmly intact.

Three weeks later, the hell had ended. To say his official acceptance onto the project was a weight off his shoulders would be an understatement. Emmett breathed a long sigh of relief, nearly giddy with the excitement that he’d come through the process relatively unscathed; his frayed nerves were the only real casualty of his stint in purgatory.

Why the outcome should have been anything other than this, he couldn’t say, but that didn’t stop his mind, already having latched onto the mystery and thrilling scientific intrigue that Oppenheimer had offered, from conjuring up the what-if possibilities while unseen hands manipulated the course of his life. He’d never been in legal trouble, no criminal record, his father was an incredibly prominent and well-respected, if feared and disliked, member of the community, and his academic achievements had been exceptional.

But now it was official and the part that should have been the most daunting brought him the most joy. Two months was more than enough time to wrap up his affairs in California nicely.

His courses at the university would be discontinued and his students would be disseminated out into the other professors’ courses. The small home he’d been provided here would go back to the university and whatever he deemed unimportant to take with him to New Mexico would be discarded. The head of the department wished him well, and after a brief exchange steeped in rumour and hearsay, he’d left, returning home to pack up the last of his things.

How fascinating that an entire life could be stuffed in a couple travel bags.

—

When Emmett returns to Hill Valley, tugging the last twenty-three years of his life up the pathway to the mansion he hadn’t seen in almost five years, it is his mother’s joyful cries that greet him, her hands that all but pull him through the door, and her voice that fills the living room as she sits down, harmonising with the song of time played by his favourite Grandfather Clock.

Emmett, the doctor. Emmett, the scientist. Emmett, her son, doing his part for his country, whatever that meant, because it was secret, secret, secret—all so very secret all he could say was “I can’t talk about it but I have to travel to get there”—and while she looked ten years younger, radiant with motherly pride, his father scoffed and harrumphed, making his opinion known in no uncertain terms.

You would’ve done better for the war as a soldier, not some damned-fool scientist.

‘But at least maybe you’ll have a chance to be useful. Do something good.’

This time, his father’s barbs do not sting. They strike at him from all angles, jabbing at his skin but never piercing, and he lets them fall to the ground at his feet, unwilling to have this argument again, as they did for so many long nights in his youth. With the prospect of unforetold scientific progress right there at his fingertips, he could find it in himself to forgive his father without a fight. He didn’t understand. He wouldn’t let him spoil this.

Science—science was the future. And they would see.

His departure comes as quick as his arrival, his mother asking when he thinks he’ll be back in California.

“Soon,” he says, unable to give her any definite number, pulling at the hope this project is supposed to bring. “When we’ve won the war.”

Alone, he arranges to have himself and his entire life brought to San Francisco, where he’ll meet the train that carries him to the future.

—

San Francisco to Santa Fe.

Emmett spends most of his time in comfortable silence, watching the touches of humanity upon the land slowly and slowly being stripped away. Pavement gives way to dirt and grass and unsullied earth and the towering buildings of the cities sprout leaves and stretch up to the heavens, basking in the afternoon sunlight.

He remembers the itinerary—cryptic instructions written on a packet of papers shoved into his hands and the explicit instructions to allow nobody else to see the contents of this folder. Emmett doesn’t think he could forget it if he tries, burning a hole in the inner pocket of his overcoat, searing his chest even through his clothes.

More often than not, he tries to imagine the stage that will hold what is supposed to be the greatest scientific advancements of the last three centuries—what we’ll be doing here will be the culmination of the last three centuries of physics. Don’t you want to be a part of that?—I want to take on this challenge—only to imagine something even more fantastical than its predecessor every time he tries.

A fully functioning laboratory and city do not just spring up overnight in the middle of the desert, but Oppenheimer had said it would be ready in time, and Emmett found himself almost immediately assured by that, half-convinced that Nature itself would bend to that man’s charm.

Perhaps, Emmett thinks, a flutter in his stomach equal parts dread and excitement, it just might.

What else would require some of the greatest scientific minds to gather in one remote location under the strictest security imaginable?

The possibilities lull him into a dream-filled sleep.

—

They’re waiting for him there, just as they said. Two large uniformed escorts that Emmett easily has several inches on tower over him, usher him into an ordinary old car—grey, unassuming, rather mundane, actually, but when discretion is key—and expertly fit an entire life into the boot.

As if they’ve done this before.

Clement and Rosario, Lieutenant-Commander and Lieutenant, respectively, as he’s come to learn from the intermittent conversation, were the ones assigned to bring him to the site, get him through security, and make sure everything went off without a hitch.

Emmett watches, his face all but pressed against the window in the back as the landscape overrides the thoughts about this project that have been playing on a loop since he first alighted the train back in California. The desert is beautiful, nothing like the views in the city, and maybe he views the wide open area through the tinted lenses of lingering boyish romanticism for such an environment, but there is a rough, rugged beauty to it all in reality that Emmett is pleased to know for himself is not just a result of the films.

He must have said that out loud, because the younger of the two—or the one Emmett assumes is younger, given the softness still present on his face that looks out of place with the gun strapped to his hip—Rosario, says, “Yeah, isn’t it? Beautiful place out here. Shame we went and ruined it.” Before Emmett can ask what that means, he just says, “You’ll see.”

He does see, almost immediately.

This complex—‘Welcome home, Doc,’ Clement jokes in that gruff voice of his—looks more like a prison dropped in the most remote location they could think of, where they’ll work and torture them until they get what they want or die trying. That fence must be ten feet high, topped with barbed wire, and Emmett wonders how many scientists they know of that are athletic enough to even attempt scaling a wall like that.

They preferred to scale theoretical hurdles, not physical.

The cold feeling of dread slithers up his spine. He dismisses it the moment they reach the security checkpoint, telling himself he’s being foolish—the military is involved; everything with them is cloak-and-dagger.

Processing takes an eternity, and Emmett feels a rush of dizziness he can’t quite explain when a thick set of papers are pressed into his hand, followed by a white identification badge that has immortalised his awkwardness in a frozen snapshot of time.

“Housing information’s on the first page. You’ll get used to the layout. Keep that badge with you at all times, Doctor Brown.”

[jrueships]

the little jrue is Traumatized by the Horrors of working fast food

[marsixm]

so uh shout out to that post earlier about phone batteries swelling bc uhhhhhhhhhhhhh i think that might have been happening to my phone for the past month? and i didnt! realize! thats what was happening! and now im scared! but i got my wisdom tooth taken out like. at 10:30 am this morning and had to be at work at 3 (really 3:30 im always late) and read that post at 2:30 while butt ass naked and very not ready for work yet. also yes i am at work right now having had a wisdom tooth extraction this morning after getting not enough sleep after having one of the most stressful work days in a long time because i am the resident good decision maker. anyway i feel extremely normal right now and definitely not replaying every time ive dropped my phone for the last month in my head in horror

[berryblu-soda]

Anyways update i just didnt bother to post earlier:

fr God is good and the whole car crash my parents got into last week was so incredibly mild in terms of injuries!!!! worst was a bruised knee im pretty sure

ALSO-

*taps mic* HUG YOUR FREAKING LOVED ONES OR SO HELP ME!!!!!!!

[kulapti]

Cover construction for The silent isle imbowers, July-Aug 2023.

Finished binding here.

Materials shown: metallic gold and matte black heat transfer vinyl with cricut-cut designs, cricut-cut paper stencil, acrylic paint, bookcloth made of cotton + drawing paper backing + Lineco PVA glue. Calligraphy by quillingwords, flower art and cover construction by me.

————-General tips on how to make smth like this:

Steps in order were (1) have bookcloth, (2) cut and paint stencil, (3) cut and weed both HTV layers, (4) apply black HTV, (5) apply gold HTV, (6) add paint detail with paintbrush over the vinyl, (7) apply bookcloth to cover board.

This is not a beginner-friendly design LOL. Be like me and try most of the steps by themselves on other projects first.

I drew this design knowing how the sections would be layered, and which materials (and therefore colors) would go with each layer. Achieving a similar result with a premade design will likely require editing in a digital art program.

Test how your materials will layer before committing to a complex design. In this case I discovered that the type of bookcloth I made actually helps conceal the adhesive spread under the black HTV.

Layering HTV over small sections of acrylic paint works! Cannot confirm the result if you were to use large painted sections.

PSA This black layer with many very small pointy bits is at the extreme limit of what I think is possible to weed from machine-cut HTV. A different material might work better, and I got a lot faster at weeding the second copy than the first one, but some of this is just a technical limit. The gold section worked great but I would not recommend this for the black.

Layering HTV is much easier to do uniformly with a heat press! Check if your local library or maybe an art class studio has one you can use before doing smth like this with your iron.

Paper stencils are easy to make with the cricut but don’t try to use them for anything with small details. The above example is pushing it despite being very simple shapes. Stick-on stencils are better.

Tiny HTV design tip: designs with jagged sections and very thin lines are hardest to weed successfully. Smooth curves are much easier.

Scale all pieces of a stacked design on the same drawing program and within the same canvas in cricut so they layer precisely.

Cut tiny HTV designs with the washi paper setting on a cricut. I did not find this out myself but I can confirm the results! Using the HTV setting will cause the blade to catch on and pull up small sections of the design while cutting, ruining parts of the design.

—————-Tiny HTV design weeding tips:

For the love of cheese do not try anything this complicated the first time you use a cricut. or the second. you will cry

Seriously consider trying both HTV and cricut stencils before doing anything complicated like this. I wish I had at least attempted the black layer as a stick-on stencil.

This isn't a weeding tip but again you better cut this with a washi setting.

Use a very sharp weeding tool, good lighting, and consider a magnifying glass

Be prepared for this to take several hours, especially if you have never done a tiny piece before.

Important! The cricut does not perfectly cut out designs, leaving very small connected sections around the design at various locations. This is almost unnoticeable on large designs but can ruin tiny designs very easily. Be prepared to hold down the “keep” sections of the design with tweezers or a fingertip while pulling or trimming off some of the “remove” negative space.

Do NOT attempt to pull off all the negative space in a single piece. Either add dividing lines to your design for the machine to cut, or use a sharp tool to scrape them yourself. You are much less likely to accidentally remove part of your design if you weed the design in distinct sections.

[nostalgia-tblr]

started another fic D: didn't mean to, but i went to bed and then had to get up and write 1000 words (!!) of a sylki alternate s2 fic. i shall put the plot/idea below to ENTICE and so I don't forget it myself.

it's not a fix-it as such i just kept the S2 look and locations and characters (OB!!!) and there is a different stupid scifi thing that needs fixed (and also no sad ending because fuck that).

instead of time-slipping loki was sent back the TVA at the right time and he's trying to fit in there and thinks sylvie will be mad at him and besides how would he even find her in such a huge expanding multiverse? oh no! he daydreams a lot and has some odd moments like forgetting how he takes his coffee, and seems to in some be mentally connected to sylvie in a weird scifi way.

obviously he doesn't do anything sensible like tell mobius, so he sneaks off to ask OB who knows all about Variant Entanglement, which is like quantum entanglement but with less science and more selfcest. OB explains that ALAS loki and sylvie are currently entangled variants, which is rare and OB is very excited to get to see it happen but also he's annoyed that apparently nobody told loki not to touch himself if he met himself. (...not in a euphemistic way, this time, just you shouldn't touch your own variants or this might happen.)

it's gone a bit comedy which i think would be a nice change from writing ANGST all the time (and i need to switch modes for the Con Artists AU anyway), though there is a bit of angst (Sylvie does not like the TVA, of course, and some kind of shipping angst will happen as well) and i think i will add some weird pornographic shared sex dream thing just for the hell of it. not sure how that will work, probably involves what i like to refer to as "a confusion of pronouns."

i think OB fancies Casey in this, so there's a 'subplot' for you i suppose. i don't know how long this fic would be but the roughly 1200 words i somehow have so far (this includes some dialogues that need to be not just dialogue though) have not yet got to the point of sylvie showing up aside from in the opening scene which is a flash-forward because... eh, it is just is. but it won't be that long, surely? (this is what i said about the 8800 word sifki fic too.)

ANYWAY LOOK, here is a snippet for some idea of the general tone, in which Loki meets OB but in a different way from in S2 (ooh!):

“Ouroboros.” The man on the other side of the desk looks up from his work. “Oh hey, a visitor!” “I’m told you’re the man to see if I have a technical problem,” says Loki. “Who told you that?” “Casey.” Ouroboros looks pleased. “Casey remembers me?”  “Apparently so.” Loki drops the document he brought with him onto the desk. “You wrote ‘Towards a New Theory of Variant Entanglement’, considered by many to be the seminal work on the phenomenon.” When Ouroboros opens his mouth to ask the obvious question, Loki cuts him off by answering; “According to Casey.” “Wow, he really does remember me!“ “Why wouldn’t he?” asks Loki.  “That’s what I always ask myself!” Determined not to be put off by the oddness of his potential saviour, Loki tries to push the conversation in his desired direction. “I need to ask you some questions about this paper,” he says. “Sure! Ask away!” After an awkward pause, Loki admits, “I didn’t understand a word of it.” Ouroboros’s excitement deflates a little. “Oh.”  “But Casey - yes, he does remember you, I think he might be a bit of a fan, actually -” “Oh, wow! That’s -” “- says that the answer I need is in here.” Loki taps his fingers on the work in question. “So I was hoping you could translate this for an interested but woefully underqualified layman. Please.”

[beansnpeets]

It truly is god awful to have a new friend message you and ask how much you charge to shoot an event, like a baby shower, and then have to gently tell her you're not that kind of photographer.

[plusultrachaos]

worked a post-modern jukebox concert tonight. i forgot how much i loved their stuff.

[cloutchaserkineme]

fail, girl!

5:49 p.m. Friday, on a straw mat, with peel-off lipstick on

When we were in a journalism competition, a newspaper columnist came and held a small workshop for us small budding high school students. She was one of those old-Martial Law era types, the ones who got the grit and experience necessary to survive being a journalist here in the Philippines, a dragon with callused wings swanning into a place full of ickle baby lizards with fresh bits of slick membrane still clinging to our scaly lids.

She asked who among those of us competing for the copyreading category in the room wanted to become a journalist. I was the only one who tentatively raised a hand.

She was confused, and a bit disappointed that none of these little reptiles who managed to clear the first two rounds of the competitions wanted to pursue fact-checking and editing and newswriting in totality. I thought she was just reacting as an animal bred for her field- her life was words, and she couldn't fathom anyone else trying so hard to succeed in a field they weren't going to nurture and continue in any way.

At least, that's what I thought she thought then. Now I know she was probably just confused. No other deeper meaning to it.

Like I am right now. I have not been a law student in two to three weeks, just simply going to events and covering them and interviewing clients and transcribing quotes and attempting and failing to write the articles I need to write from them.

I feel impotent and stupid and just plain useless. Those kids who didn't raise their hands... they were smart. They were onto something. They knew that this wasn't a field to pursue if you wanted to be successful in the long term. These smart kids, achievers and top ten placers in their school with their latinate appellations a soft launch for their three-to-four letter profession markers in their certificates.

They were just there because the journalism competition held a lot of points in class and school rankings, not because asking people and getting answers and writing those down and spreading them out was fun and nice to do. They were smart, playing the game like that. I just played with whatever they gave me and never thought to do anything that required higher thinking skills with it.

They gave me a pencil, then a pen, pointed me to people and events and ideas- and I wrote. I didn't think anything beyond that.

Now I type, heavily and with such excess. I don't like what I type, and I think I hate typing...even writing this update is very tiring for me. I don't like it anymore. I don't like the updates getting from my bosses and coworkers, I don't like being jealous and envious of my coworkers having their ducks in their row and effortlessly slaying this industry I thought I was a good fit for. I don't like working for people who use money to do fucking shit in my place, I don't like platforming [type of company redacted for anonymity purposes] on our articles, and I fucking hate talking to people in a large crowd.

A few days ago I met a journalist who never asked questions (fully online desk reporter, though she worked in local print media like I did) and was more anxious than me and I felt a kinship with her and she was nice. Until I saw a friend of mine during the same event, and she congratulated me for getting into law school, and that my cousin from my father's side who failed the bar exam thrice but was married to an attorney he met in law school was surprised that I was still there and why I haven't quit the silly little news writing thing I was doing. And this journalist congratulated me for doing such a good job. I felt like a fraud, like I have inadvertently put her under the same illusion I somehow cast over everyone else- the spell of "oooh look at her she is a competent person who has her ducks in a row".

She has expectations of me that I don't know how to meet!

And I was stressed but I wasn't as stressed as my friends who were also working in offices with solid hours and good career prospects and great work-life-school balance and they had three midterm exams back-to-back.

You know what I did with those same hours? Nothing. Just daydreaming and sleeping thinking about fictional characters being loved and nothing else and I have put off so much. The gig I took, the articles I am three to four days late in passing, the fucking law school!

Killing myself isn't even going to cut it anymore, the phrase has been slicing over so many thoughts in my head for nine months now that the edge of it has dulled and it can't pierce through the brain fog right now.

I want to have my cake and eat it too, like the greedy Jupiter-Venus person that I am (but the Mercury-ruled detriment of both these planets is literally knowing that this isn't practical or realistic or rooted in explainable and measurable actions). So yeah... we go fucking on? I don't know. I don't have much faith in myself any more.

Do I learn how to say no? Or how to stop saying yes?

(30) 6:34 p.m.

[carcarrot]

so was no one going to tell me about russells silly voice in that video announcement about a steady drip drip drip or did i just have to find that out for myself going through the band's instagram