#doctors in erode

[digimgl]

[howthebestwaslost-blog]

The Doctor: Rogue, have you thought about this? Properly? I mean, this is serious! What the hell are we going to do?

Rogue: Oh, I thought July.

[camellcat]

WTFFF I thought thirteen would be my new girl crush love of my life heart eyes wife you-came-after-twelve-you-must-be-better-than-they're-all-saying bbygirl and then I had to sit down and watch as she told a man who (if he were not a murderer, of course) literally every regeneration before her would've LOVED and FULLY SUPPORTED that "the systems aren't the problem. how people use and exploit the system, that's the problem. people like you" </33333 !?!?

[theweeviler]

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[cottoncandysecretlair]

I'm very firm on separation of state and religion but like...

Am I being oversensitive or is this an INSANE comparison to make to the other two examples??? Advertising holiday ice skating is the same as forcing doctors to let women die and censoring what children are allowed to learn...

Source here

[myownwholewildworld]

a man called joel (part 1)

↪ a "a man called otto" inspired fic ― jackson!joel miller x f!reader

series masterlist | AO3 summary: joel has lost everyone he held dear: sarah, tess, ellie. he's truly had enough of this life, given up to the point where he's decided to end his own suffering. that is until you move in next door and slowly worm your way into his life... author's note: where do i even start... this mini-series is gonna be angsty, guys. please heed the tags/warnings below as we are diving into the mentality of a man who's done with life. if this is triggering for you, please don't read and take care of yourself. if you like what you read, please consider interacting with this post! love you all <3 tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. your daily dose of angst as prescribed by the doctors. topics of death/murder and losing a child. suicide attempt. dual pov. reader is female, has hair. no use of y/n. joel is in his late fifties and reader in her 40s. wordcount: ~4.4k. divider by @\saradika-graphics

Joel thought he knew loneliness.

After losing Sarah, he defeatedly greeted it.

When Tommy disappeared from Boston, he reluctantly welcomed it.

With the loss of Tess, he wholly surrendered to it.

And when Ellie turned away from him, it completely wrecked him.

It didn’t matter how many times Tommy reassured him that everything was going to be okay. That Ellie would only need time to understand, time to accept.

But time was a weird thing. It stretched like an elastic band, dragging out for what seemed to be an eternity, only to snap back to its original resting position. It was like all the time had passed and none had at once.

Time wasn’t going to fix this. Time wasn’t going to bring back everyone he’d lost. All the reasons that kept him bound to this earthly plane.

While he still had Tommy, Maria and his nephew… it was a cruel reminder of the life he once had. One that seemed too far away―a previous lifetime. One that, for a split second, Joel thought could have again with Ellie, mend the mistakes of his past, have another chance at parenthood.

And then as soon as it came, it was gone.

The gaping hole in his chest had only gotten bigger, grown like a tumour that was only spreading to the confines of his mind. Solitude was a cancer, one that had stolen all joy away from living. It swallowed him whole, chewed him. It grinded on his bones, eroding them away, until his bare carcass was nothing more than a reminder of who he once was. Who he once had.

Sat on the bench of his lonely, frozen porch, Joel returned his attention to the yellowing pages of the book Maria had lent him.

“Alone, abandoned by his premonitions, fleeing the chill that was to accompany him until death, he sought a last refuge in Macondo in the warmth of his oldest memories.”

One Hundred Years of Solitude felt fitting. Like a silent joke thrown haphazardly his way. Joel wondered if the choice had been intentional, if his unconscious mind had seen the title and thought, “sounds ‘bout right.”

He often found himself seeking that same warmth in his memories of the past, just like Colonel Buendía. Only now they turned cold, hazy with mixed emotions, painful. They didn’t bring him joy anymore, a reminder of his failures as a father.

Twice, to add insult to injury.

Pouting, he looked up, just in time to see Tommy walking besides a woman he’d not seen before.

“It’s not much, I’m afraid, but it’s yours,” his brother said nonchalant, pointing to a house in blatant disrepair.

You looked… torn. Devastated. As if life’s weight was too big to bear. Too heavy to withstand. The tired frown pinching your brows emphasized your ethereal features, puffs of cold air clouding in front of your mouth.

You replied something he quite didn’t catch, watching from a distance.

Always from a distance, like the outsider he was, even after all these years. Joel felt like he didn’t belong, despite Tommy’s efforts. His brother had his own family to tend to, his own worries. His own dreams.

His? His were gone, buried with the love he didn’t know he had, didn’t know how to deal with.

There was really no point in this anymore. A nuance, that was what he had become. A reminder to his brother of their dark past, their dark actions―ones the younger Miller wanted to move on from. Ones the older one gripped too tight to his chest.

His inner light was slowly dwindling, dying out. And he had no more strength to keep it alive. No purpose either.

He’d end it tonight. Wouldn’t postpone it any longer.

“That’s my brother, Joel. He lives across the street, can help you with anything you need,” Tommy offered, waving a gloved hand at him.

Joel lifted his gaze off the book again, his heavy sight falling on your exhausted face.

A brief, fleeting smile curled your lips―so fast he thought he’d imagined it. A ray of sunshine in a downcast day. A torchlight in the darkest of nights. A tiny crack on the ceiling of a pitch black cave.

How weird.

“Hi, Joel,” you muttered, half shy, half wary, from behind the bulky scarf around your neck, a sheathed hand bashfully waving at him too.

He hmphed in reply, the words hitching in the back of his throat. You looked as out of place as he felt, and perhaps that was what drew his attention.

The way you held back, half hiding behind Tommy’s back, trying to make yourself as small as possible. As if your trust was first to be earned, not to be given out freely. The way your wavering smile crumbled off your lips when he didn’t return it.

Joel felt like a dickhead. But composing a smile was a herculean task―it drained him. It even hurt; the corners of his chapped, cold-bitten lips too tense to undo the flat line his mouth had fallen into for the past couple of years. Smiling felt like a mask toppling, cracks fragmenting his weathered skin. There was a time when it was easy, how a smirk would curve his lips, especially when he saw Sarah in the little things Ellie did.

But that was no more. Not when Ellie wouldn’t even look at him, talk to him nor acknowledge his presence in the same room. Not when he would see his brother looking at his son with adoration. His broken heart was slowly rotting away, festering, spreading to his other organs―decay taking over.

“Joel?” Tommy almost snarled at him, bringing him back to earth.

“Hm?”

“Move your ass over here right now. Introduce yourself properly!” his little brother scolded him, teeth gritting, and Joel couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

With a heavy sigh and cracking knees, Joel stood up, book tucked under his elbow as he came down the few steps of his porch. The white blanket covering the street was mostly undisturbed except for the few footprints Tommy and you had left behind. He liked the quietness of this road.

“Sorry,” he grumbled, extending his hand towards you. “Joel Miller.”

You looked up at him through your lush eyelashes, peeking through the thick wool of your scarf, and blinked.

“Oh. Nice to meet you, Joel,” you husked, offering him your name. He repeated it under his breath, testing how it rolled off his tongue.

Your gloved hand squeezed his gently, a soft, ephemeral caress that was gone before he could register it.

“Joel and I were construction workers prior to the outbreak. If you need help, bet Joel will be more than willing to lend a hand, right, brother?” Tommy palmed his shoulder in jest, an easy smile on his face.

“Oh, did you? Those are some helpful skills. I used to run the flower shop within my family’s garden center. Don’t think that will help much around here,” you joked, a low chuckle bubbling up your throat, softening your tired expression.

“All skills are useful,” Joel chipped in, talking before thinking. “Could do with bringing more life to the streets of Jackson during spring. ‘S depressing enough.”

Perhaps it was just how the light reflected off the snow, a myriad of sparkles dancing around in the air under the sunlight, but your eyes came alive, glistening under the bright rays.

“Oh, yeah. I’d love to help with that. We could start a seed bank, so we can plan ahead, decide what we want to grow,” you daydreamed out loud.

“Sounds great to me. Will speak to Maria, see if she likes the idea,” Tommy cheerfully added, walking towards the front porch of your new, dilapidated property. “Come, I’ll show you around.”

Joel grunted in goodbye, retracing the steps back to the bench while you and Tommy disappeared through the front door of the property opposite his.

Untucking the book, he searched for the dog-eared page and resumed his reading.

“[…] Colonel Aureliano Buendía scratched for many hours trying to break the hard shell of his solitude.”

Joel lost himself in the world Gabriel García Márquez had created. A world that profoundly resonated with him, with his experiences. Just like the Buendía family, he too felt doomed to spending the rest of his life in solitude. He’d already done it for the last twenty odd years, and it had been exhausting.

But soon he could finally rest.

“Gotta be nicer to newcomers, brother,” Tommy interrupted, startling Joel, walking up to him. “We have to make them feel part of the Jackson family. So I’d appreciate it if you were a bit more… don’t know, open to talk? Otherwise, you’re gonna scare them away.”

“Mhm. Yeah. ‘M trying, little brother,” Joel closed the book again, slightly frustrated with being interrupted.

Tommy sat down besides him, arms hugging the back of the bench. “Wouldn’t kill you if you made friends here, y’know? Open up a bit so you’re not so alone. How’s therapy going?”

Therapy wasn’t helping. At all. Seeing his mistakes in a different light had only made everything worse for him. Joel felt more broken than before he started going to these mandatory sessions Maria had ordered so “he would not be a danger to himself” ― her words, not his.

“‘S going,” was his succinct answer.

Tommy huffed and puffed, rolling his eyes and smacking his knees before getting up.

“You’re like a goddamn brick wall, Joel. One of these days you’re gonna have to open up or everything you’re holding too close to your chest will kill ya,” Tommy shook his head, putting on the hoodie of his winter jacket. “See you tonight at dinner. Be there at seven sharp, you know Maria hates it when you’re late.”

“Hmm. Sure. See ya,” Joel husked, watching his brother merge with the white veil falling from the sky.

Joel wanted to say something else; express his love, perhaps. But couldn’t, the words just got stuck to the back of his throat and wouldn’t come out. What a shitty farewell that was, considering it was the last time he would see Tommy. That Tommy would see him alive.

He’d hoped his little brother would forgive him. For everything.

In the raw solitude of his home, Joel got off the chair he was standing on, testing the tension of the raffia rope one last time. The hook he’d drilled to the ceiling seemed strong enough to hold his weight—at least for long enough.

He stared at it for an eternity. Not with doubt—he’d made up his mind—but with memories swarming his mind. The noose swayed gently in the air above his head, almost as if it was speaking to him, telling him to get it over with.

Joel was done. He felt like an empty carcass moved solely by muscle memory. Get up early, go on patrol, have some breakfast in the community hall. He’d find himself, more often than not, searching the room for Ellie. Not because he thought he could mend the mistakes that made them drift apart, but because he needed the reassurance that she was okay. Okay without him. Okay with the life she was living—the one he’d selfishly chosen for her.

It pained him. His heart would go rampant in his chest, only to quiet down to a wheezing murmur whenever Ellie would look his way with disdain. With a hate he could no longer bear. A hate, he first thought, he could embrace and live with.

And despite the outcome, he would not have made a different choice that day at the hospital. Because he would rather have her as a stranger in his life than surviving a world where he lost another child.

It wasn’t time that did it. He still abode by those words—would do to his dying breath, on his dying bed. Ellie had healed a wound that had been festering and bleeding for far too long, stitched it up with fragile sutures. An open wound he thought would remain with him for as long as he lived. An open wound that now was cracking again, seeping into his heart and poisoning his blood, his exhausted mind.

Like a disease it was consuming him, to the point Joel had convinced himself he wasn’t needed anymore. His job—whatever that had been—was done. Ellie was safe, her secret buried with the corpses he’d left behind in the Firefly’s medical compound. She wouldn’t miss him; he was as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow.

Ellie was better off without him. Without the constant reminder his presence would bring her.

He was dispensable now, his purpose fulfilled. Joel was adamant that the few people close to him—people he could count on one hand and would still have fingers to spare—would not suffer with his prompt, albeit thought-out, departure. This venomous thinking had him believe that, in any case, he would be doing them a favour. Who wanted to be around an old grumpy man that would darken the mood of a room with his mere presence?

Tommy would understand, he told himself countless of times. His brother was a happy family man, with a toddler and a loving woman by his side. The last thing he needed was to worry about the bastard who wrecked his own moral compass in the name of survival.

His brother would grieve him, sure, but he would eventually be glad to be rid of the dead weight of him. Tommy had a family to take care of, one Joel didn’t see himself a part of anymore. How the younger Miller had been able to turn his life around and find joy in this godforsaken planet was beyond Joel’s understanding.

Joel was happy for Tommy, he really was. But witnessing his brother’s joy while he spiralled down into his own personal hell was eating away at his corroded mind. Eating him alive.

Selfish bastard. He deserved what he got—or, rather, what he didn’t get. Only a monster would envy his own brother’s bliss. Only a lunatic would crave a fleeting memory like a thirsty man chasing after a mirage. Only a fool would seek unwarranted forgiveness.

And Joel Miller was no fool. He hadn’t asked for Ellie’s absolution not because he was proud, but because he knew himself unworthy of it. Kissed by Death herself, everything he touched surely died, like a corrupt Midas cradling his gold. He’d learnt the hard way now—wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Joel blinked, blurry vision slightly clearing as his eyes focused on the noose again.

This was the right choice. And it had been easier to make than what he expected. Once the idea of ending his own life wormed its way through his brain and took deep root, Joel even found it comforting. Knowing that he could finally rest—become one with the stardust bathing this decaying universe—was strangely soothing.

There was nothing nor no one left in this worldly plane for him. Joel had nothing else to give, nothing else to live for besides for himself. And that was not a good enough reason to keep him bound to the ground.

He was done. Tired and done.

Joel took one last look around, his misty eyes falling on the dresser by the window.

A picture of baby Sarah smiled back at him, her chubby hands raised in the air, searching for him while he crouched down in front of her. His own arms reaching out to grab her as Sarah took her first steps. Her curly hair framed her sweet little face, her orbs sparkling in the dim light of their Austin home. He could remember that exact moment in time as if it was yesterday.

A picture of Ellie and himself when they settled back in Jackson after the hospital fiasco. It was a candid photo where neither of them was aware of it being taken, one of the first times he attempted to show Ellie how to play guitar. Joel had an amused look in his eyes, while Ellie was visibly pouting, arms folded in frustration.

He shuffled the pictures, thumbs gently stroking the frames, and positioned them right in front of where he’d hang himself. Their faces the last thing he would see—fitting yet soul-crushing.

With a resolution he’d not felt in years, Joel turned on his heels and faced his demons.

Standing up on the chair, his fingertips traced the O-shaped rope one last time before threading his head through the hole. A weary sigh later, he booted the chair beneath his feet and his heavy weight pulled him downwards.

The rope tightened around his neck, tense like a coil ready to snap. His throat collapsed on itself, legs instinctually kicking, and Joel had to fight his own survival instinct to let nature take its course, surrender to it. But even then, his eyes were fixed on the picture frames on top of the dresser.

His mind slowly drifted away, eyes shutting, as he gasped for air that didn’t reach his lungs.

No. No, no, no.

Sh, shh. Sh… Okay. You’re okay, you’re okay. Move your hand, baby. Move your hand.

I know, baby. I know, I know, I know, I know. I know it hurts. Come on, baby.

You’re okay. You’re okay. I know, I know, I know, I know, baby, I know. I know. I know this hurts. You’re gonna be okay, alright?

Baby, baby. Baby, listen to me. I gotta get you up, okay? I gotta get you up, alright? Come on. You—Come on. I know, baby. I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know. I KNOW!

TOMMY, HELP ME!

“Sarah, no!” Joel choked and gagged, lips turning blue and tears streaming down the crows’ feet kissing the corner of his eyes.

His bloodshot eyes cracked open in a last attempt to focus on the pictures. But instead of the photographs he’d carefully arranged, Joel saw something else.

Kneeling in front of him was his daughter, touching the tip of his boot with trembling hands. As beautiful and young as the day she died—as if no time had passed. As if she had been with him all this time. Tears clouding her eyes, she mouthed a prayer for him to stop—one that didn’t quite leave her lips, but loud enough for Joel to hear.

It’s okay, baby girl. I’m finally coming with you. Can’t wait to see you again, he thought as the last remnants of his consciousness slipped away like a bird in flight.

His muscles stiffened, the jerking of his limbs slowly dying out. His eyes rolled back, mind numb and gone.

With his last breath, his face suddenly relaxed, mouth slightly agape as he welcomed Death like an equal.

You swore.

He was lost to the darkness, but there was no light to look for. Liars.

“[…] and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.”

His feet dangled gently in the void of his living room for a minute, the quietness of the space ethereal as Death claimed him for her ranks.

Suddenly, the hook to which the noose was tied dented the ceiling, the plasterboard giving way and the hook becoming loose, breaking off.

Joel fell to the floor like a dead weight, the tangled mess still hugging his neck.

And then, as if orchestrated by the universe, someone knocked at the door.

You’d lost your whole group, the ones you had stuck to for the last twenty-four years of the apocalypse. One by one, they’d left you. Some were gone to the virus, others at humanity’s cruel hands. Either way, you were alone. Stumbled across Jackson by sheer luck, exhausted and drained.

When Tommy and his group had approached you rather cautiously, you assumed the worst. But even that thought—that your life could come to an end, just like everybody else’s—was somehow a relief.

Instead, he greeted you, introduced himself and his companions. Offered water, a bite to eat. Tommy even asked if you were alone and when you shrugged in response, he invited you to join them.

At first, you had been wary, but the moment you crossed the gates of the palisade and saw the town brimming with life, the worry and doubt fell off your shoulders a bit.

And now here you were, inside a house that now was almost a home. It would need some repairs, probably a lick of paint if you could find any, but overall a sturdy ceiling above your head. You had seen other towns in the last two decades, but every oasis of civilisation you had found ended up crumbling under either the yoke of bad men or the infected.

You wondered how long it would take for this place to come to the same demise. Experience told you this would eventually fall, but it would do you no good to ruminate on the future. Whatever had to happen, simply would.

Despite the house being unoccupied, it had been used as storage. You had spent the last couple of hours sorting stuff into piles, deciding what would be useful and what could go to another home. By the end of it, you were sweating and in need of some cold air to clear your mind.

Walking outside with your coat on, you took a look at the weeds growing in the front yard, peeking through the blanket of snow. Perhaps you could start with your garden first, test out your rusty skills before you committed to something bigger.

You were crouching down by what you thought was a flowerbed when a brief motion caught your attention. Frowning, you looked up and across the street. Tommy’s brother’s house was right in front of yours, something swaying behind the drawn curtains of the living room.

Tilting your head, you paid more attention, stilling in place. You couldn’t make out what was happening behind closed quarters, but you thought it looked like the man called Joel was perched on a ladder. Perhaps changing a lightbulb?

You watched him from a distance, mind drifting back to when Tommy forced his brother to introduce himself. The brotherly bond had made you crack a smile—a memory coming back—Joel’s reluctance almost endearing. He’d not been rude with you, for you understood his uneasiness around strangers.

You were about to resume your inspection of the flowerbed, when you saw a commotion unravelling behind the curtains. It looked like Joel had suddenly fallen to the floor. Perhaps he’d lost his footing on the ladder?

Jumping to your feet, you wondered what to do. He was probably okay, maybe just a concussion and a scratch, but what if he wasn’t? Judging by his looks and grumpy demeanour, you hazarded Joel was in his late fifties. Although he seemed to be in good shape, a bad fall could render anyone unconscious.

Despite not knowing him, moved by your caring nature, you ran towards his house, your coat almost catching on the Miller mailbox. Climbed up the steps of his porch and banged the door.

“Joel?” you asked once you stopped, remaining quiet.

No answer. So you knocked again.

“Hey, Joel?” you insisted, ear flat against the door.

Nothing.

“Damn,” you uttered, walking to the living room’s window.

The curtains, although not opaque, didn’t let you see much through them. You could barely make out the body of a man curled on the floor.

Your heart began racing when you realised he wasn’t moving at all. Panicky, you tapped the window’s glass and shouted his name again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you chanted, running to the front door again in a frenzy. Tested the handle, but didn’t budge. “Joel!”

You tried for a few more minutes while you considered running back to the community hall for Tommy. Or maybe break the window yourself—get in and help him however you could.

Luckily, you didn’t need to. The door cracked open, and you caught Joel’s profile in the gloom of his home.

“What do you want?” he husked, voice gravelly, hoarse.

His blunt acrimony took you aback for an instant, but the look in his eyes, red and glassy even in the darkness, urged to check in on him.

“I— Well. Uhm,” you stuttered, gathering your thoughts. You didn’t want to come across as nosey, just a caring neighbour. “I was in my front yard and thought I saw you falling from a ladder or something… And when I came over and you didn’t open, I did peek through the window… And you were…” you trailed off, the man’s deep scowl frightening.

“I’m fine,” he replied succinctly before clearing his throat.

The door had swung open a bit more, Joel’s face becoming clearer now. He was all rugged and weathered, and you wondered if the apocalypse had taken a fatal toll on him. Joel Miller looked like a man tiptoeing on the edge of the world, tiredness smeared across his features, creasing the skin around his eyes.

Your gaze dropped, the scarlet skin on his neck distracting. The redness was mutating, changing colour ever so slightly—it was bruising.

Unwittingly, your hand reached up to his face. But before you could stop yourself from being awkward with a stranger, Joel took a step back. As if the thought of your touch repulsed him, as if he could not bear the thought of a friendly, caring caress.

A bit late you realised you’d been so out of line, your hand immediately dropping to your side.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to— Shit. I just… your neck. What happened to your neck?” you mumbled, breathless.

Although his expression didn’t falter, his eyes did for him. They were so expressive, windows to a broken soul. They carried a pain you quite didn’t understand, but it was palpable and profound. It leached through his eyes, and you wondered what had happened to him to be this shattered. To be this… alone.

“It’s none of your damn business,” he barked a low growl. “Leave me alone. I don’t need you snooping around my house like I’m some goddamn old man in need of a carer. I don’t need anyone. Get off my porch and fuck off.”

“But that’s not—”

Your retort died off in your mouth as Joel closed the door right in your face, rather dramatically.

While the exchange should have at least irritated you, you only felt worried.

Joel wasn’t okay. You just knew he wasn’t, and this instinct of yours had never failed you. He didn’t need anyone—he needed help.

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[contemplatingoutlander]

How Trump is reshaping reality by hiding data

Curating reality is an old political game, but Trump’s sweeping statistical purges are part of a broader attempt to reinvent “truth.”

Trump appears to be turning the federal government into its own 1984-style Ministry of Truth.

This is a gift 🎁 link so there is no paywall to read it. Below are some excerpts/highlights.

By Amanda Shendruk and Catherine Rampell | March 11, 2025 The Trump administration is deleting taxpayer-funded data — information that Americans use to make sense of the world. In its absence, the president can paint the world as he pleases. We don’t know the full universe of statistics that has gone missing, but the U.S. DOGE Service’s wrecking ball has already left behind a wasteland of 404 pages. All sorts of useful information has disappeared, including data on:

[...]

[See more under the cut.]

Three cases of legerdemath and other tricks up Trump’s sleeve

Deleting data isn’t the only way to manipulate official statistics. Trump and his allies have also misrepresented or altered data. Here are a few examples: 1. Incorrect data

Witness DOGE’s bogus statistics on its supposed government savings. The administration counts as “savings” some canceled contracts that had already been paid in full. Some canceled expenses were created out of whole cloth, such as $50 million supposedly spent on sending condoms to Gaza. 2. Misrepresented data

One of Trump’s favorite charts on immigration is riddled with errors. For one, it does not show the number of immigrants entering the United States illegally, as he claims, but the number of people stopped at the U.S. border. Similarly, when Commerce Secretary Howard Lutnick was recently asked how much DOGE funding cuts might reduce economic growth, he suggested that the agency might decide to change how economic growth is calculated so that the usual GDP report strips out government spending altogether. This would be an abrupt change to the standard GDP methodology that has been used around the world for nearly a century, but it would certainly make the DOGE cuts look less painful. 3. Altered data

When data doesn’t tell the story Trump wants, he fabricates it. In what became known as “Sharpiegate,” Trump notoriously altered a map of Hurricane Dorian’s path in 2019.

Likewise, before Jan. 30, a National Institutes of Health website documenting years of spending data included a category called “Workforce Diversity and Outreach.” That line item is now gone — even though the money was, indeed, spent.

Taking cues from authoritarian illusionists

Such actions are straight out of authoritarian leaders’ playbooks. Research suggests that less democratic countries have been more likely to inflate their GDP growth rates and manipulate their covid-19 numbers. Statistical manipulation is also more common in countries that shun economic openness and democracy. [...] To be clear, efforts to rewrite reality via statistical manipulation often don’t work. If anything, China’s data deletions reduced public confidence in the country’s economic stability. (No one hides good news, after all.) The Trump team’s efforts to suppress nettlesome numbers have similarly eroded trust in U.S. data. Only about one-third of Americans trust that most or all of the statistics Trump cites are “reliable and accurate.”

Meanwhile, missing or untrustworthy data lead to worse decisions: Auto companies, for example, draw on dozens of federally administered datasets when devising new car models, how to price them, where to stock and market them and other key choices. Retailers need detailed information about local demographics, weather and modes of transit when deciding where to locate stores. Doctors require up-to-date statistics about disease spread when diagnosing or treating patients. Families look at school test scores and local crime rates when deciding where to move. Politicians use census data when determining funding levels for important government programs.

And of course, voters need good data of all kinds when weighing whether to throw the bums out. Many of us take the existence of economic or public health stats for granted, without even thinking about who maintains them or what happens if they go away. Fortunately, some outside institutions have been saving and archiving endangered federal data. The Internet Archives’ Wayback Machine, for instance, crawls sites around the internet and has become an invaluable resource for seeing what federal websites used to contain. Other organizations are archiving topic-specific data and research, such as on the environment or reproductive health. These are critical but ultimately insufficient efforts. At best, they can preserve data already published. But they cannot update series already halted or purged.... Some private companies may step in to offer their own substitutes (on prices, for example), but private companies still rely on government statistics to calibrate their own numbers. Much of the most critical information about the state of our union can be collected only by the state itself. Americans might be stuck with whatever Trump chooses to share with us, or not.

[porcelain-feather]

Dolls are uniquely suited to working as medical assistants. Their strict adherence to protocol ensures that patients will receive proper treatment with consistency easily surpassing that provided by human staff. The Doll's affinity for cleaning ensures that their facilities maintain sterile conditions, and their ceramic hands are easy to sterilize before interacting with each patient, thus minimizing the risk of disease transmission (though only glazed porcelain may be used, as painted finishes will rapidly erode from regular applications of disinfectant and unglazed porcelain absorbs liquids). All Dolls are by nature of their construction immune to needle-stick injuries, cannot spread respiratory diseases, and never run the risk of contracting illness themselves.

Above all other reasons, though, Dolls in most regions are made with Service as their Purpose. Common custom among human doctors for centuries was to pledge themselves to the 'service of humanity' - and if such a thing is so inseparable from medical work, there are few jobs that will align with a Doll's Purpose better other than direct work with a Witch.

[drchucktingle]

POUNDED BY DR. GLOBUS

wanted to post today about recent health journey of chuck. ALL STARTED at texas show when i began to feel tightness in throat. i have learned this is called GLOBUS which is a tingler character name if ive ever heard one. got through appearance and had blast but felt terrible

plane journey home was even worse. first thought i strained my voice, then tested for covid (negative) and then figured it was just some kind of virus. had running nose and hoarse and extreme pain behind face and MOST of all this golf ball throat

figured i would get better as viruses tend to go but I DID NOT. after a few weeks went to way of urgent care and they took one look and said you have EXTREME FORM OF ACID REFLUX called laryngopharyngeal reflux (also great tingler character name)

basically this is when your stomach acid comes all the way back up into your throat and erodes it. they immediately put me on medications name of pepcid plus tums plus gaviscon and on and on. was inhaling a dang pharmacy every morning

problem is, NO CHANGE. in fact it started getting worse. in addition to previous symptoms i now couldnt keep any food down. upset stomach all the time. could barely sleep. plus it is scary to have a sickness that gets WORSE over time like this

more doctor talks. i up doses of medication to combat sickness but does not seem to work. one night wake up and think 'dang i need to go to er my stomach is going to just melt or something' (keep in mind because i cant keep food down i am always hungry too).

i go to hospital and they say 'WHOA we need to intervene right now we are doing some tests and putting you on SERIOUS LIFE CHANGING MEDICINE. but here is catch to do the tests we need you to stop all your medication for 48 hours and it will be HECK but you gotta do it bud'

so i stop all medication in preparation for new SICK LIFE and suddenly… i start feeling better. not just a little but after weeks of this awful way i wake up in ONE DAY and feel fully cured. now heres twist: at the same time this was happening I started taking allergy medicine

you may already know where i am going with so i will just hit you with it. my INITIAL SICKNESS was just extreme seasonal allergies that required nothing more than claritin and flonase. however i was misdiagnosed with ACID REFLUX and medication was making my stomach a wasteland

the second i stopped taking acid reflux meds and started on allergy trot i was better almost instantly. today i feel HECKIN GREAT. (SIDE NOTE: after 4 years of chronic pain i am so thankful to not have some OTHER long term health trot to deal with. DANG)

so what is lesson here? first of all please do not think this is in ANY WAY anti-doctor rant or anti-medicine. my doctors were trying their best and made a mistake, they are just people. ALSO while acid reflux medicine made me sick, allergy meds made me better. i am SO fortunate

but what is REALLY fortunate is that chuck is covered under SWEET BARBARAS HEALTH CARE (she gets very good coverage under the frozen lake). most artist buckaroos, even WILDLY successful ones, do not have health care which is huge issue that should be talked on more.

point is EVERYONE should have healthcare. this whole adventure was bad, but it also only cost me 50 dollars. hundreds of thousands of other buckaroos would have to deal with this PLUS it would completely upend their life to cover medical expenses because of a SIMPLE MISTAKE

so that is my story, usually there is more of a lesson to these rants but this one is really just ‘dang what a trip.’ so grateful for my health and my way and the fact i can get simple allergy medicine over the counter. most of all THANKFUL FOR MY BODY it is such a treat to exist

thank you for reading and remember to advocate for yourself and your feelings both BODY and MIND at the doctor. listen to your trot and do not forget that LOVING YOURSELF AND THE SYSTEMS OF YOUR BODY proves love just as much as loving others. trot on buckaroos

[digimgl]

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[goldyke]

LAP Bands should be illegal

This post is going to deal with medical fatphobia, weight loss surgery, coercion, emetophobia, food issues, disordered eating, and just all around bad shit. But it’s important.

Shortly after I reached adulthood, I was coerced into weight loss surgery. I weighed about 250 pounds and was considered morbidly obese.

The Lap Band is a disgrace to the medical profession and is just another example of how the medical profession does not care about the lives of fat people.

To preface this: the surgery works. I lost 70 pounds and people treated me differently and I hated them all for it.

The Lap Band made my life miserable. When it was filled, I could not eat until noon without getting stuck. Even then, getting stuck was always a risk. There was a strict diet to follow and you were supposed to be safe from that if you followed it. On top of that, there were rules for how you ate. One standard I saw was not to eat in bites larger than your fingernail. Can you see yourself doing that for a week, let alone years and years?

Getting stuck is a horror you can't imagine. The food lodges in the top of your stomach, blocking off your system. You continue to produce saliva and swallow it down. Slowly, the mucous in your saliva builds up. It feels like you're drowning. Eventually, you have to essentially throw it all up. A disgusting experience (and a mortifying one if you're in public.) The saliva is thick and ropy. This experience is often called "sliming" on the forums.

I became frightened of eating in public. In a way, I became frightened of food altogether. I knew something had to give the day I reacted to someone biting a hamburger in a tv show the way a regular person would react to a killer jumping out in a horror movie. I developed the disgusting and unhealthy habit of chewing and spitting out food. I completely lost my enjoyment of many foods I had previously enjoyed because of how problematic they were (I can no longer enjoy a chicken thigh for example.) I stopped eating meals and began grazing. I developed eating habits worse than the ones that "made me fat"

After 3 years, I had the band emptied of fluid, which significantly decreased, but did not stop, these problems. I regained the weight, and found it didn't bother me. (Along the way I discovered that my discomfort with my body had never been weight related)

I had my band removed after 6.5 years earlier this year. I am in a support group on facebook for victims of this malpractice. There are 5.6 thousand members, each with their own horror stories. Some of them cannot get the band removed because insurance will not cover the procedure, though they happily covered the band's placement. Some have tried to go through with removal but have had surgeons try to coerce them into getting a different weight-loss surgery instead of just removing it. Many have long-term damage from the band eroding the walls of their stomach or esophagus, or from the band adhering to multiple organs. Many of them had the band for 12-14 years, before removal because none of our doctors told us it needs to be removed within 10.

Many practices no longer perform Lap Band surgery and now believe it is unethical. The surgeon who removed my band still performs this surgery regularly.

A study performed in 2011 with 151 lap band patients, found that 22% of patients experienced minor complications and 39% experienced major complications. The person who coerced me into surgery actually experienced major complications and needed an emergency removal.

I experienced no serious complications. Everything I described above is considered normal. And It still drastically lowered my quality of life.

I don't know why I'm sharing this or who I'm sharing it for, but here I am. If you know anyone considering the lap band surgery, don't let them go through with it without knowing the truth. And please be kinder to your body than the medical profession wants you to be.

[demilypyro]

ok so there's an evil scientist named Doctor Neo Periwinkle Cortex, and together with his lab partner Doctor Nitrus Brio he hatches a plan to take over the world by mutating animals into super soldiers.

He purchases a set of islands off the coast of Australia and begins experimenting on the wildlife. He has some success, creating various sentient anthropomorphic animal mutants with superhuman abilities. Among the experiments is Crash Bandicoot, who is set to be Cortex's general. There's also Crash's girlfriend Tawna, and his sister Coco, who through the experiments becomes a super genius.

Cortex uses a mind control device called the Cortex Vortex to brainwash his minions, but something goes wrong when he tries to use it on Crash. Crash and Coco escape, and in a bid to save his girlfriend, Crash ends up demolishing Cortex's base and foiling his plan, nearly killing Cortex. All the other animals also escape in the chaos. From then on, Crash and Coco mostly just try to enjoy their lives, while going back into action whenever Cortex has a new scheme.

The whole franchise has a very 90s cartoon vibe, which I find very charming. The rogues gallery is quite extensive, and has a lot of fan favourite recurring characters, including other mutants like Dingodile and Tiny Tiger, other evil scientists like N. Gin and N. Tropy, the alien Nitrous Oxide, and Nina, Cortex's niece. The games are largely a metaphor for pollution, with Cortex's influence symbolizing the waste and corruption brought by industry as it erodes nature. As you progress through the games, the levels often transition from lush jungles to harsh industrial environments as you venture deeper into Cortex's territory.

The series has changed hands many times over its existence, originally developed by Naughty Dog and published by Universal Interactive, who held the rights. Universal Interactive merged with Vivendi, which was then purchased by Activision, which then merged with Blizzard, and was then purchased by Microsoft. Other developers who left a lasting impression on the Crash franchise include Traveler's Tales, Toys for Bob, Vicarious Visions, and Beenox.

[vaamins]

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃 satoru gojo for as long as you had known him. you had been enamoured by his very presence from when you first met him back in your teen years at jujutsu tech.

had you known you would fall such head over heels for him, you would’ve transferred to the sister school in kyoto but you were already in far too deep for your own good so you stayed.

stayed and watched as the days went by and the seasons changed and yet still, your feelings remained unchanged, unmoved. not even having eroded with the passage of time. you deemed yourself love sick for a man who did not, could not, love you.

satoru gojo had eyes on none but his best friend. be it platonically you r romantically, you didn’t know, but everyone knew they were inseparable. like yin and yang. one could not exist without eachother.

when the first petals fell from your mouth after a coughing fit, you shrugged it off as an after effect of fighting a peculiar curse. it was impossible to ignore them there on.

you were coughing wherever, whenever. petals of all colours escaping the crevices of your throat. after the fourth coughing attack, you’d went to the doctors and they’d diagnosed you with hanahaki.

there regrettable looks and pity glances has been too much and that night you’d went and searched it up. oh, how you regretted that now.

coughing over the toilet seat, you could feel something sharp scrape along the inside flesh of your throat sending a stabbing pain down and into your chest. you gagged on something you did not know, a few bloodied petals escaped your mouth throughout the long minutes you lay clutching the toilet.

after what felt like eternity, whatever had been clogging your throat passed through—

a flower.

not just petals. but stem and all.

it was covered in thorns that were covered in blood.

later that night, you coughed some more and the next day, you refused to get out of bed. refused to see any of your friends faces, nonetheless, satoru’s, for fear they would read everything on your face.

days, you stayed in your room. coughing up petals and flowers alike. you started to think you’d grown an entire garden in your stomach. you laughed at the thought as you lay on the cold ground of your room. a thin trail of blood trickled down your mouth and ironically all you could to think about was satoru.

of his white hair and his blue eyes. you twirled the freshest flower you coughed up. it’s bud was still unopened, but you could see through the blood that stained it that the petals were white as snow.

how funny. the one who would kill you was the one you loved the most. a tear fell down your cheek. you didn’t want to die. no, you couldn’t die. you still had so much to do, so much to live for, so much to achieve, to see, to meet. to love.

but you couldn’t stop your eyes from slowly falling closed or even the darkness that crept in through your peripherals but you swore you could hear the sounds of multiple feet running down the hallway. you would be gone before they ever got there.

© VAAMINS 24 do not copy, repost or plagiarise my work.

[ladykailitha]

Steve is powered AU.

It's after Vecna and the Upside Down collapsing on itself before anyone finds out.

When Steve was seven, his mother had a psychotic break, saying that Steve was a changeling and tried to drown him the large bath tub in his parents' bathroom.

It was during this time she was admitted to Pennhurst.

They're cleaning up the Harrington Estate when his mother comes home and just starts screaming about the mess. Steve finally gets her calm down and tells Eddie that she didn't always used to be that way, she used to be a sweet and loving mother.

That's when Stella Harrington comes screaming back in that she didn't change. He did. He was the imposter. She knows her son and this creature before her isn't him.

But she won't explain how she knows.

Then a couple days later Nancy was talking to Robin about how someone should go back to Pennhurst to tell Victor Creel, that his son survived and is the cause of the all the destruction.

Robin is against it, because his mind was already shattered and that might destroy it. Nancy thinks he would want to know that he wasn't crazy.

When the name finally pinged in Steve's head. When they were trying to figure out who Vecna was, the name kept ringing a bell in his head. And just then it hit him.

His mother had been admitted there when he was younger.

But he keeps it to himself, because the last person he wants to know his mother was/is crazy is Nancy.

So he calls up the Hospital and requests her file and finds out that someone else recently accessed her file. Her doctor, Martin Brenner, had called just two weeks before the events that would lead to his death.

The receptionist asks if the address in Reno, Nevada is still good.

Steve's blood turns to ice in his veins.

Holy shit.

He corrects the address to Hawkins, Indiana and she brightens. Tells him that it's nice she's home again.

Steve needs to talk to El and he needs to do it away from Hopper. Because Hopper can't know about this. No one can.

Only Eddie starts noticing how withdrawn and twitchy Steve has become lately and manages to show up at the house when Steve gets his mother's medical files.

They learn that only reason Stella survived the Nina Project massacre was because she was on her to another facility for testing.

When Steve was seven his powers manifested so strongly, that his mother who was an empath, tried to suppress it so that Dr. Brenner wouldn't get his hands on Steve and it broke her mind. But Dr. Brenner didn't want Steve. Incorrectly assuming that she had succeeded, he wanted to harness her ability to break other's powers. Because if she could break Steve's, maybe she could break Henry's.

It was that research that led the device that controlled Henry's powers.

But Dr. Brenner realized that Stella didn't suppress Steve's powers. Steve did.

But his exposure to the Upside Down had eroded the block and that's why Steve was able to sense what was wrong with Nancy, knew that Max was in trouble.

He could sense it.

Dr. Owens tries to be respectful when asking Steve if they could run tests on him.

Everyone shouts NO at the same time.

But now everyone knows that Steve is powered, too, and El helps him learn to control it and take the break off completely. The first time they tried Steve got so overwhelmed with Eddie's love and affection for him that he passed out.

They were both pretty embarrassed that that was the way they got together. But Eddie liked to joke that his charm literally knocked Steve over.

Over the years it gets more fine-tuned. He knows Eddie is going propose before he does.

Knows when Max is pregnant with her first. Lucas couldn't keep his emotions down for shit.

Knows when Mike and El finally break up and realize they're better as friends. Their emotions are very angry for awhile before they mellow out.

Knows about Will and Mike's first kiss. Will is practically bursting with it.

[galaxy-stardust]

Simon Ghost Riley x you

Part 2

"Name's Ghost"

I barely slept that night. Every time I closed my eyes, those piercing blue ones burned into the back of my mind. The mask, the way he moved, the suffocating energy he exuded—it all haunted me in the most intoxicating way.

The next morning at work, I tried to shake it off, burying myself in emails and reports. But my concentration was nonexistent. My friend, ever perceptive, noticed as she dropped by my desk around mid-morning.

“You’re distracted,” she said, crossing her arms and leaning against my cubicle.

“No, I’m not,” I lied, my cheeks flushing.

“Uh-huh,” she smirked. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain masked man in the ER last night, would it?”

“Shut it!” I hissed, glancing around to make sure no one else heard.

“What? It’s obvious. You were staring at him like he was a forbidden snack, and he looked at you like he wanted to devour you.”

I groaned, covering my face with my hands. “He did not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“He did. And it’s the most excitement I’ve seen you have in… well, years.”

Her words hit harder than I expected because they were true. My marriage had long since lost its spark, the daily routine of life eroding what little passion remained.

But this? One look from that man had ignited something inside me, something I thought I’d buried.

My friend's voice softened. “I’m just saying, maybe it’s time you let yourself feel something again. Even if it’s just a fantasy.”

I waved her off, trying to refocus on my work. But deep down, I couldn’t ignore the tiny seed of temptation her words had planted.

It wasn’t long before I saw him again.

A few days later, I was dropping off some paperwork in the ER when I spotted him. He was standing by the nurses’ station, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he spoke to one of the doctors.

My heart jumped into my throat.

I told myself to keep walking, to drop off the forms and leave, but my feet refused to listen. Before I knew it, I was lingering nearby, pretending to scan a bulletin board on the wall.

He must have sensed me, because he turned abruptly, his eyes locking onto mine.

It was just like before—electric, intense, like he was stripping me bare with nothing but a look.

This time, he moved.

I barely had time to react before he was standing in front of me, his sheer presence making me feel small despite my own curves. Up close, I could see the faint lines of a scar peeking out from under the edge of his mask, disappearing into his hairline.

“You work here?” he asked, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down my spine.

I nodded, my mouth suddenly dry. “In administration. I was just… dropping off paperwork.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve. “You were in here the other night.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I… yeah,” I stammered. “I was meeting a friend.”

He didn’t respond immediately, his eyes dragging over me in a way that made my skin heat. Finally, he spoke again. “Name’s Ghost.”

“Ghost?”

He shrugged, as if daring me to ask for more.

I didn’t.

Instead, I offered my name, my voice trembling slightly. His eyes narrowed, like he was committing it to memory.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, though the way he said it felt anything but casual.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there like a complete idiot.

For the rest of the day, I was useless. My thoughts kept returning to him—his voice, the way he looked at me, the way he filled the entire room with his presence.

That night, as I sat on the couch next to my husband, pretending to watch TV, I couldn’t stop thinking about Ghost.

And for the first time in years, I felt alive.

Part 3