#but it was taking too long to dry

[lordgeneralsix]

does anyone know what this game is about

[anghraine]

Speaking of the social context of P&P and Austen in general, and also just literature of that era, I'm always interested in how things like precisely formulated hierarchies of precedence and tables of ranked social classes interact with the more complex and nuanced details of class-based status and consequence on a pragmatic day-to-day level. I remembered reading a social historian discussing the pragmatics of class wrt eighteenth-century English life many years ago and finally tracked down the source:

"In spite of the number of people who got their living from manufacture or trade, fundamentally it was a society in which the ownership of land alone conveyed social prestige and full political rights. ... The apex of this society was the nobility. In the eyes of the Law only members of the House of Lords, the peerage in the strictest use of the word, were a class apart, enjoying special privileges and composing one of the estates of the realm. Their families were commoners: even the eldest sons of peers could sit in the House of Commons. It was therefore in the social rather than in the legal sense of the word that English society was a class society. Before the law all English people except the peers were in theory equal. Legal concept and social practice were, however, very different. When men spoke of the nobility, they meant the sons and daughters, the brothers and sisters, the uncles and aunts and cousins of the peers. They were an extremely influential and wealthy group.

"The peers and their near relations almost monopolized high political office. From these great families came the wealthiest Church dignitaries, the higher ranks in the army and navy. Many of them found a career in law; some even did not disdain the money to be made in trade. What gave this class its particular importance in the political life of the day was the way in which it was organized on a basis of family and connection ... in eighteenth-century politics men rarely acted as isolated individuals. A man came into Parliament supported by his friends and relations who expected, in return for this support, that he would further their interests to the extent of his parliamentary influence.

"Next in both political and social importance came the gentry. Again it is not easy to define exactly who were covered by this term. The Law knew nothing of gentle birth but Society recognized it. Like the nobility this group too was as a class closely connected with land. Indeed, the border line between the two classes is at times almost impossible to define ... Often these men are described as the squirearchy, this term being used to cover the major landowning families in every county who were not connected by birth with the aristocracy. Between them and the local nobility there was often considerable jealousy. The country gentleman considered himself well qualified to manage the affairs of his county without aristocratic interference.

"...The next great layer in society is perhaps best described the contemporary term 'the Middling Sort'. As with all eighteenth-century groups it is difficult to draw a clear line of demarcation between them and their social superiors and inferiors. No economic line is possible, for a man with no pretensions to gentility might well be more prosperous than many a small squire. There was even on the fringe between the two classes some overlapping of activities ... The ambitious upstart who bought an estate and spent his income as a gentleman, might be either cold-shouldered by his better-born neighbours or treated by them with a certain contemptuous politeness. If however his daughters were presentable and well dowered, and if his sons received the education considered suitable for gentlemen, the next generation would see the obliteration of whatever distinction still remained. The solid mass of the middling sort had however no such aspirations, or considered them beyond their reach.

"...This term [the poor] was widely used to designate the great mass of the manual workers. Within their ranks differences of income and of outlook were as varied as those that characterized the middle class. Once again the line of demarcation is hard to draw..."

—Dorothy Marshall, Eighteenth Century England (29-34)

(There's plenty more interesting information in the full chapter, especially regarding "the poor," and the chapter itself is contracted from a lengthier version published earlier.)

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

oh we back in business folks

[kicks0u]

does anyone know if i can just blast my t gel with a hairdryer

[too-many-rooks]

I’ve got a new blorbo and I want to give him like ten father figures. (I’m predictable, sue me.)

But since I’m such a sucker for unlikely parental figure trope… The Devil’s Pack coming across an attacked wagon; a blacksmith and his wife, on his way to or from market, left slaughtered on the road, most of the goods stolen by bandits. But Zizka and Hynek still order the men to search their things for any leftover goods; times are tough, after all, and they will take all the supplies they can get.

There’s nothing really worth claiming, except the blood-covered 12 year old clutching a sword longer than he is tall, who can barely hold it up but still manages to slice Zizka’s face open with it, thinking he’s the bandit who murdered his parents.

Eventually someone’s restrains this feral little child, and well, it’s not like anyone really wants to kill him - he’s just a kid, even if he did do some damage. Zizka, with a hand over his eye to keep it from falling out and blood streaming down his wrists, forces Henry to look at him and tells him he and his band had nothing to do with any of this, and Henry realises it’s true - because he remembers the bastards who did it, because he’s going to kill them all one day.

And this is, a bit tragic, mostly quite funny, because he’s tiny, and shivering like a kitten, but there’s a determined look in his eye…

And eventually Henry tells the pack that he’s got no other family, and he’s a long way from home, and anyone who knows him, and Hynek just wants to dump him at the nearest village but Zizka is weirdly attached to this kinda intense kid who nearly took his eye out, and by the time they reach the village, everyone else is a bit attached too, like they’ve got a puppy or a mascot or something.

Zizka comes back from ‘negotiating’ with the villagers to find a place for Henry and he’s just like. Nope! Didn’t want him. Wouldn’t work. Oh well! Guess we’ll just have to keep him!

And then yeah, Henry raised primarily by Zizka and Hynek, being a bandits squire, trained to do all kinds of nefarious shit, leaning into his more morally grey/absolute menace/lies through his teeth every five seconds/could convince the pope to lend him his hat, side when he’s younger..

(And then of course inevitably growing up and bumping into a certain blonde noble brat in a… even more antagonistic and disrespectful way.)

[astrum99]

Do you think bugs fall in love?

Their small bodies host even tinier brains. Built to crawl through soil and rocks bigger than itself. Running on a simple software bouncing between eat, sleep, fight, flight, and copulate.

V1 is smarter than a bug. It must be. It’s a war machine, so it must be. Its programming is complex enough to fry several motherboards; the internals are heated from constant, unrelenting processing needs. If it updates its optical data intake to any greater degree than these rough, messy polygons, it’d surely perish from the overwhelming information.

V1 is built to kill first, survive second. To be fair, survival would ensure more killing, so it’d be more effective. Moving through the battlefield, culling lives, drawing blood. Perfectly aligned with its programmed objectives, then.

Gabriel is smarter than a bug. He must be. He’s an angel, so he must be. He’s one of the best soldiers in the heavenly realm. Armour and swords glistened with pride and justice. He sees all. He judges all. His loyalty and perfect track record have earned him a high rank within the order. Leaving behind the creaturely "it". His light burns hot and bright within his constitution.

Gabriel is built as a messenger of the Father, then a judge of Hell. To be fair, the role of a judge was assigned to him by the council, so he supposes that his placement can be summed up as the bearer of the divine authority to bring right to all other creatures. Perfectly aligned, then.

Bugs… Well, they’re the same. I suppose. Small beings. Running pre-programmed orders derived from centuries of evolution: eat, sleep, fight, flight, and copulate. No role. No responsibilities.

Bugs are built naturally and fully, unlike humankind; but formed and ready to go within seconds from their births, like machines and angels.

So. Do they live?

When the machine and the angel escape their chains, do they see themselves in bugs?

Bugs are born to live, temporarily, fleetingly, yet live nonetheless. Do they, then, deserve to live, freeing and meaninglessly. No role. No responsibilities.

So. Do bugs love?

Do they learn that they can go beyond their basic structures? Do they see their own reflection in each other’s compound eyes? Do they recognize each other’s bodies, scents, heat? Do they feel the desire for closeness?

To flutter wings like a dance of waltz. To brush antennae like butterfly kisses. To greet and caress and lie next to each other near their death.

To move through the sky in battle, in passion. To clash swords and fists and bullets. To greet and caress and lie next to each other near their death.

The same cells in the same blood coursing beneath the same suit of exoskeletons.

Machine, angel, bug. Boiled down to the barest essence of existence; crisp simplicity.

To live, to love.

[robyn-goodfellowe]

i think the severe rise of spam bots within the last few months of 2024 singlehandedly killed whatever remained of ask culture on this site. we will not survive the winter

[novadragoness]

A builder who totally understands where X is coming from, collecting all those shinies for Coco, because she also likes shiny things, and has been secretly leaving pretty rocks on Unsuur's porch for weeks now.

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Anyone else have near-perfect executive function at work; but at home, have literally no energy or motivation to do anything except lie in a dark room, with something in or on your ears for several hours?

[bubacorn]

.

[lokh]

surprise injuries are always. well. a surprise

[password-door-lock]

“Boss,” you stammer, slamming the door to the intelligence room behind you. “Bossbossbossbossboss.” It comes out sounding like one very, very long word as you practically catapult yourself into Unknown's arms.

He didn't ask you to do that, but he doesn't particularly mind— it seems like you know your place at Magenta: on his lap, where he can keep an eye on you and stop you from wreaking whatever havoc you've got your heart set on at the moment. “What is it?” He asks, expecting more of the same nonsense that you always try to serve him in moments such as this one.

“Okay, so, as you know, you told me to go find something useful to do and leave you alone,” you recount, “Presumably because you're doing something so horrible that you don't even want me to see it, which says an awful lot, considering all the shit you've let me see already.” You're not entirely wrong there, but Unknown doesn't bother letting you know. You can press as much as you want, but he's never going to give you any more information than he sees fit.

“Yes,” Unknown agrees instead, nebulously allowing you to fill in the blanks for yourself. A month ago, he would have been certain that you'd make up some nonsense and be wrong about it, but he has learned that it's better not to underestimate you. His assistant is many things, but stupid is not one of them. Unobservant, perhaps. Dependent, of course. Annoying, even— but never stupid.

“Right,” you shake your head, before promptly nestling into his embrace as if you're seeking comfort. You're wildly misguided if you think you're going to get it from him— but, then, Unknown doesn't need to tell you that. “Well, anyway. So I thought, why don't I clean the water heater?”

“What water heater?” Unknown has never seen anything like that during his time at Magenta, and he's spent quite a while here.

“It's in the basement,” you wave him off, like it means nothing that you went down there without his permission. “There's this little door, and it's blocked with this cart thing, so I unblocked it, and then there's this tiny room with just this water heater that's like, well, you know, it heats water— anyway, it takes up half the room, and—”

“Did I tell you to go down there?” Unknown tightens his grip on you. If you'd been in the basement at the wrong time, you could have seen something much worse than what would have been on his screen had you stayed by his side. And the fact that you knew enough about the water heater to think of cleaning it suggests that you’ve been down there before and seen it already— he isn’t pleased with this development. Does he really have to keep an eye on you all the time to stop you from causing trouble?

“You said to be useful,” you counter, “And I was being useful.”

Unknown groans. “Then what's the matter?” He has no idea what you saw or who you ran into. The basement is not a pretty place, after all, and you’re quite timid, all things considered. If he wanted you to go down there, then he would have sent you himself. 

“I saw a bug!” You squeal, dramatic as always. “And it was terrifying. Comfort me.” 

It irks him that you think you get to give him orders, but nevertheless, Unknown heaves a sigh of relief. He can't believe he was ever actually that worried over his assistant— as if anyone in paradise would be enough of a fool to lay a hand on you. With the exception of the Savior, nobody around here would even think of trying something like that. And you wouldn't have stalled so long if anything had happened, anyway... you'd have called him to the scene immediately, and Unknown would have dealt with it on the spot. “That's it? You see bugs every day, prince(ss). I’m not going to coddle you every time.” 

“Yes, but this one was technically in my home,” you protest with a shudder, “So it’s at least five times scarier. And it was huge— I think it was some kind of cockroach or something.” 

“Hm.” Unknown considers this information. He doesn’t really follow, but he also doesn’t want to prolong this bug discussion any longer than he has to. It’s better if you just drop it and let him get back to work. 

“Anyway, it ran in front of the water heater as soon as I opened the door,” you complain, “I don’t know how the hell it got in there, or if there’s others, or anything like that—  I just slammed the door and blocked it again, and then ran back here as fast as I could to tell you that there's a bug by the water heater, which I did not clean. For your information.”

Unknown huffs. Honestly, he should have known better than to turn you loose in the first place. Even if he had explicitly told you to avoid the basement, you would have found a way down there anyway. You may be more clever than he originally gave you credit for, but that doesn’t seem to have much bearing on your listening skills, which have proven to be severely lacking.

“That's why we don't go sticking our nose where it doesn't belong,” he purrs, enjoying the way that you retreat entirely into his embrace, pressing your face against his chest. Yes, that's how it should be... you should depend on him, rely on him, revel in the feeling of his attention, his fingers in your hair or his lips against your ear. You should be his, wholly and completely, bending to his whims and changing your shape to fit inside of his grasp. That's the only way. “Just stay with me, assistant. I'll look after you, since you can't figure out how to do it yourself.” If your reaction to a single cockroach was so passionate, he can’t imagine what you would have done if you’d actually encountered something scary— but if he keeps you here, then neither one of you will ever have to find out. 

“Sure,” your soft concession feels like a victory. Unknown just hums in response, returning to his work as you continue to cling to him. He won’t comfort you, of course, but he will allow himself to give you this.

[byanyan]

oh the repeated sensory hell of bleaching and dying your hair at home vs the sheer desperate determination of a guy who needs a fun change to make life feel worth living

[narcopathyfiles]

tweaking over cushion foundation right now we really are in difficult times

[n3ongold3n]

I feel like adhd is a bit like an very beautiful wool garment - intricate and finely made. But it has moth holes. Some are visible and some are hidden, only to present themselves when that part of the fabric is strained.

[bucephaly]

My old boss wants me to have a little art show thing for an unveiling event at the museum. I really need to figure out how I'm gunna prioritize stuff... she wants me to bring clay beads and sculpts, and prints... I could just print blocks I have but I'd love to carve a new block or two. And anything that doesn't sell at the event could go in the gift shop too... hmm