#highly uncharitable

[iteratedextras]

The "revenge immigration" model, the looking the other way on internal ethnic conflict because of the previous history of colonialism, is degrading to everyone involved.

Immigrants who are allowed to commit crimes with weak or no sentencing do not actually improve as people and do not become peers worthy of respect.

High-level left/cultural-liberal leaders abandon their duty to protect and nurture the weak members of their own society.

Lower-ranking members of left/cultural-liberal coalition bend themselves into rationalizing the wasteful suffering of weak natives, the act of which makes them worse as people.

Weak natives get the shit beat out of them but aren't even able to fight back, and are forced to eat their rage.

Without a firm, philosophically-liberal leadership to oppose the practice, less intellectually powerful natives may resort to racism to try to protect themselves... which degrades them by turning them against innocent people.

This is obviously disordered and it needs to end.

If there is no other model, then a new model for immigration and addressing former colonialism must be devised.

[iteratedextras]

This is going to be a quick and rough post...

They're still trying to exploit this for leverage against men, and for some reason, for leverage on race. "Look at how sucky and oppressive they are!"

Briefly, people who post that stuff may think that they're socially adept, but what it usually means is that they don't understand men, and thereby how to inspire them, lead them, and convince them to invest in personal growth and development.

It's basically nagging, and in general, men want to avoid nagging.

Sometimes the nagging gets very extreme, such as "kill all incels" or whatever, but no amount of nagging will actually convince men that it's worth the effort of becoming attractive, or tell them how to become attractive.

It's important to realize that nagging in this context does not represent social skill and understanding, but rather a lack of social skill and understanding. It's possible to use inspirational charm, and it's also possible to use inviting and disarming charm, but this nagging is neither.

Nagging's method of action (again, very rough and quick post) is being annoying, and then gaining leverage by implicitly promising to take that annoyance away in exchange for compliance. Thus nagging is only well-positioned to work on someone who is already close in the social graph. If someone is not on the social graph, then they'll just avoid or rebuke nagging people.

From what I've seen, men tend to seek higher-risk professions with more hours, while women tend to seek lower-risk professions with more work-life balance. This is not because either men or women are evil, or suck, or whatever. Each has practical reasons why their approach makes sense. ...and this is a generalization. Individuals vary.

I believe this is another case of the empty space at work.

It isn't that they're deliberately not being charming. They don't know how. It isn't that they're deliberately performing actions that make it less likely for men to try to become someone they want. They don't realize that's what they're doing.

Many straight men and women both take a customer rather than a creator/cultivator perspective towards the opposite sex. Someone else was supposed to produce a desirable partner and they're very mad that this mysterious manufacturer has not been putting the right product out on the market!

This lack of understanding offers a potential opportunity for someone who can teach charm and inspire others.

As for the universities, if male enrollment is collapsing, that's not a good sign for them.

For the record, if I heard a woman was a veterinarian, I'd have more respect for her than I would for a GP. Vets know all sorts of things, and they do surgery (I think)! However, I think that a lot of men think that if they're in the same career as a woman, and earn less or hold a less prestigious position, the woman will not respect them and will resent them. (That's not "being intimidated," that's "not wanting to deal with the risk of." Usually, "being intimidated" is just a "men suck" framing.)

Why aren't we talking about the real reason male college enrollment is dropping? (Celeste Davis, Oct 6 2024)

"White flight is a term that describes how white people move out of neighborhoods when more people of color move in.

White flight is especially common when minority populations become the majority. That neighborhood then declines in value.

Male flight describes a similar phenomenon when large numbers of females enter a profession, group, hobby or industry—the men leave. That industry is then devalued.

Take veterinary school for example:

In 1969 almost all veterinary students were male at 89%.

By 1987, male enrollment was equal to female at 50%.

By 2009, male enrollment in veterinary schools had plummeted to 22.4%

A sociologist studying gender in veterinary schools, Dr. Anne Lincoln says that in an attempt to describe this drastic drop in male enrollment, many keep pointing to financial reasons like the debt-to-income ratio or the high cost of schooling.

But Lincoln’s research found that “men and women are equally affected by tuition and salaries.”

Her research shows that the reason fewer men are enrolling in veterinary school boils down to one factor: the number of women in the classroom.

For every 1% increase in the proportion of women in the student body, 1.7 fewer men applied.

One more woman applying was a greater deterrent than $1000 in extra tuition! (…)

Since males had dominated these professions for centuries, you would think they would leave slowly, hesitantly or maybe linger at 40%, 35%, 30%, but that’s not what happens.

Once the tipping point reaches majority female- the men flee. And boy do they flee!

It’s a slippery slope. When the number of women hits 60% the men who are there make a swift exit and other men stop joining.

Morty Schapiro, economist and former president of Northwestern University has noticed this trend when studying college enrollment numbers across universities:

“There’s a cliff you fall off once you become 60/40 female/male. It then becomes exponentially more difficult to recruit men.”

Now we’ve reached that 60% point of no return for colleges.

As we’ve seen with teachers, nurses and interior design, once an institution is majority female, the public perception of its value plummets.

Scanning through Reddit and Quora threads, many men seem to be in agreement - college is stupid and unnecessary.

A waste of time and money. You’re much better off going into the trades, a tech boot camp or becoming an entrepreneur. No need for college. (…)

When mostly men went to college? Prestigious. Aspirational. Important.

Now that mostly women go to college? Unnecessary. De-valued. A bad choice. (…)

School is now feminine. College is feminine. And rule #1 if you want to safely navigate this world as a man? Avoid the feminine.

But we don’t seem to want to talk about that."

[jjsanguine]

That Tamtawan thought (thinks?) Padthapi liked him mainly because Tamtawan helped him a lot might be another reason why Tamtawan didn't think leaving would affect Padthapi that much.

The first interview Padthapi did without Tamtawan launched him into fame, and before the coffee incident as far as anyone who didn't work directly with him knew Padthapi was a sunny guy who probably had a vibrant social life.

Tamtawan also knew that Padthapi has his mother and childhood home to fall back on if the pressure of the public eye got too much. So he was probably like "at this stage of his life, Padthapi surely doesn't *need* me."

Padthapi can be a bit self centred and Mr self-esteemless isn't going bring up any problem going on in his own life (seriously did our man just spawn in university? We don't know anything about him) unless directly prompted. Maybe. So there wouldn't be much opportunity or cause for Padthapi to reciprocate with attending to Tamtawan's needs.

So I'm wondering if Tamtawan was like, me leaving the country and our relationship with not much more than the clothes on my back is rude, but I can kind of cash in all the times I needed help and couldn't ask.

Also makes sense why he thought they could just kind of pick up where they left on the physical intimacy side. If Tamtawan sees himself as basically Padthapi's favourite PA/rebound with benefits, and Padthapi is currently single... why not.

[boatemlag]

"all mental illness is equally stigmatized" i know you want to feel special for having mental illness but im gonna be honest i want to rip you apart like some sort of wild gibbon

[mitigatedchaos]

-> @gamingavickreyauction

I understand that the view from the left is that the DE&I statements are, at most, "just a little racism, so what?"

My view is... how should I explain this...

What are the core components of Neo-Nazism? At abstract level, what, if you take it away, results in it not being Neo-Nazism anymore? (I can't say with certainty that it describes the original Nazi ideology, although I've read that Hitler was a believer in Malthusian total war.)

From the outside, the core loop appears to be:

They blame their suffering on the actions of a particular race.

They refuse to disaggregate, to treat people as individuals.

They refuse to accept evidence against #1.

Take away any of the three components, and the risk of harm declines significantly.

The reconnection of the causation of all suffering from all other sources in life to the target group turns it into an emotional political engine, and makes it feel like overcoming the target group is more important (#1). Prohibiting evidence that reconnects the causation to its natural sources keeps the pressure up - since the interventions to reduce suffering by attacking the target group are not empirically grounded, they can only succeed by accident, so the claim against them is not reduced (#3). This produces political action against the target group, made cheaper and easier by treating all members as equally to blame (#2).

Greedy or petty individuals who don't necessarily agree with the theory of causation may still go along with it - to follow through on personal grudges, or get the belongings of innocent neighbors.

I understand that I'm an unusual person. When I was a child, I rejected Christianity because it contained a closed ideological loop: you have to have faith to see evidence. You have to believe to believe.

With Social Justice, I see the following:

Take as an axiom that all human beings are perfectly equal in all the ways that matter by default.

Reject culture as a potential source of group differences.

Reject choice as a potential source of group differences.

Reject all non-oppression options as potential sources of group differences.

Refuse to disaggregate and treat people as individuals.

Refuse to limit yourself to only interventions with established efficacy.

Demand group outcomes be made identical.

While you might disagree with my conclusions about the level of risk, I don't think you can really dispute that Social Justice supports all of the seven rules I just listed. Start taking them away, and you become just a liberal (#5, #6) - or even a conservative (#7).

The chief problem is that rule #1 is a category error. It's like expecting a group of raccoons that show up at your doorstep to all weigh the same within ±10 grams. Who is supposed to be enforcing that? Where is the factory that's quality testing raccoons for compliance with ISO-LOTOR-1758 before dumping them in the forest?

They're wild animals. Natural things differ due to the particular context they developed in. But also, sexual reproduction is significantly about creating a range of variation. This makes a population more adaptable to diverse environmental hazards.

Like our previous example, these rules also form a political engine with a runaway claim against a target group. Like our previous example, these rules are also absurd.

This is a totalitarian ideology, because every aspect of human life is a potential source of human difference. I think the left/lib dismissal of that is based on, "Don't be ridiculous. Of course we would stop before it got too bad. We're the good people."

So, from 2017-2024, I went around asking people to either bound the moral liability of the target group (to commit to what counts as "too bad"), or to agree to give up one of the other rules.

The answer was always either, "it's not happening" or "no."

Progressives were in a position of institutional authority. They didn't have to listen to criticism, and so they refused to do so. It follows, logically, that to get them to listen to criticism requires removing them from positions of institutional authority.

I would be even more cynical, but around 2023-2024, I saw young people on Tumblr focusing on nuance in discourse, or sincerely asking for clarification about posts and listening to the responses. It's difficult to describe my relief at seeing that.

It was sometime around then, I think, that I theorized that there was no mechanism within the Democratic formation to convert the threats that were being made by the right into a change in policy.

I then noticed the incredible rigidity of the Democratic formation, and its inability to respond to inputs. This indicated a lack of leadership and agency. Likewise, "It's not happening, and also it's good that it's happening" was explained - the feedback mechanism from tribal line-fighters was broken, so they weren't able to update to more defensible positioning.

I was also able to identify a lack of personal development as a problem. Thus, the promotion of the mutual cultivation of strength, as opposed to the oppressor/oppressed framework of Social Justice.

The imperative in my long essay title comes from this rigidity: MELT.

I simultaneously think that 2010s political correctness went too far and also that it was necessary as a step in the dialectic to improve the previously existing culture. Like, pendulum swings one way, pendulum swings the other, but each swing leaves its mark. I genuinely believe that (Anglophone) society is less misogynistic and racist now than it was 10 or 15 years ago, and that's thanks in no small part to all the social justice warrior shit, and that's a good thing, and also a bunch of basically innocent people were caught in the blast radius and got fired from their jobs for problematic tweets or whatever and this is pretty bad. Unfortunately this is just how change works, nothing happens cleanly. I'm not making an "ends justify the means" argument so much as a "well all said and done I think the moral calculus has come out in the black, whether or not there might have been a better way to achieve that".

[iteratedextras]

[ right-wing anon ]

[...] But they're not based, they're just evil; they aren't enacting a considered plan to conquer an enemy civilization and advance their own culture's values, they're just flailing around lacking both moral scruples and impulse control. God, I wish we had noble barbarians at the gate instead of these low-IQ lowlives.

"At least Genghis Khan actually knew what the fuck he was doing," writes far-right anon.

Occasionally we get people arguing that the people of Britain or France or what-have-you deserve to suffer through terrorist attacks "as repayment for colonialism." Usually this is phrased as a negation - someone will assert that France has a right to enforce its borders after a terrorist attack, and then someone will say, "How dare you say that after the evils of colonialism the French perpetrated. 😠"

Okay, so you've touched on what's actually an important point here, which is that the revenge model of immigration is just...

It doesn't fucking work.

I suspect what bothers people about colonialism over the longer term is not actually the deaths, but a feeling of humiliation. I suspect that there's this feeling of a loss of dignity and respect, a feeling of a loss of control, of not measuring up, and a kind of resentment or envy...

And, well... the leadership of a developed country allowing harms to come to the powerless members of their own country, either less severe such as increased competition for wages (which may be temporary) and a changing cultural environment, or much more severe...

If you're allowed to commit random crimes, people might fear you, but it's not really the same thing as being worthy of respect, is it?

Like if five men all get together to beat up on a teenage girl, that's not really impressive to anyone, is it? There's a temporary thrill of power, perhaps, but could someone who does that really gain more respect for himself from that act? Does it involve overcoming a challenge in a way that shows that he's actually capable?

In Rotherham, the police apparently actively prevented fathers from intervening. Thus someone involved in such acts was allowed to commit a crime, and a rather depraved one at that... as some sort of twisted act of charity.

"Sure, I may have achieved complete domination of the Earth, but I'll allow you to torture my neighbor's cat (that I don't even like)."

If you torture the cat, are you actually going to become a better person, or in the long-run, is it even more humiliating?

So the revenge model of immigration is absolute garbage. Torturing random rednecks will never in a thousand years make descendants of victims of colonialism more worthy of respect, and on some level, they must know this.

Any immigrant with a scrap of self-worth would spit on the idea as disgusting and humiliating. Presented with the opportunity to do something degrading by your former oppressor or master or his descendant, like torturing his neighbor's cat, you retain your dignity and show your superiority by refusing to do so.

So the whole revenge model of immigration needs to be melted down for scrap.

If the goal is to "heal the wounds of colonialism," then the approach needs to be finding ways to improve the strength and independence of "victims of colonialism," so that they are able to feel pride based on legitimate accomplishments.

Even with just a minute of thought, global commerce, international trade, and foreign direct investment are all better choices. If you work at a garment factory owned by foreigners making socks every day, sure the factory may be foreign-owned, but at least you can say that it's honest work, and it's likely that the native-owned capital front will expand over time.

[david-talks-sw]

Note: The meta below wasn't written by me, it was sent to me as an Ask by an anonymous user. It was so good that sharing it without adding some images I had lying around and extra formatting (boldening/italics) to it would've been criminal, so that's my only contributions. Thank you anon, and enjoy the read folks :)

What more could the Jedi have done?

I think a lot of the discourse about the "Jedi being slavers" comes from a deliberately uncharitable and bad faith reading of them.

I agree with you that TCW raises these questions and chooses not to go through with addressing them because it is ultimately a kids show that isn't trying to tell a story about the clones' situation but about [the Clone War itself].

But whenever I see people choose to go into these deeper ethical debates, they almost always assign an unfairly disproportionate amount of blame onto the Jedi who are, for the most part, in the same boat as the clones. Even the clones themselves seem to understand the nuance of the situation and most are grateful to the Jedi for coming in and leading them.

Although, yes, the clones do have it much, much worse, the Jedi are still there, fighting, protecting and dying right alongside them.

The Jedi are blamed for being part of the Republic in spite of all its issues, far more than the Senate is for being the Republic, even though the Senate is the one with all the power.

I wonder what it is people wanted the Jedi to even do for the clones...

OPTION 1: Leave the Republic?

And let the Separatists (whose originally legitimate grievances have been hijacked by the Sith) freely commit mass atrocities and enslave other planets with their humongous droid army?

OPTION 2: Overthrow the Republic?

And then what?

Take control of the Senate and become literal dictators and the very things they sought to destroy?

And during this whole takeover process, does the Separatist army just magically pause committing its mass atrocities?

So in the middle of a galactic war, the Jedi, with their limited numbers and resources, decide to start another one against the Republic to free the clones and ignore all the other planets getting destroyed and enslaved, and then...? [Also] the Republic citizens were largely unwilling to fight their own battles and preferred to leave all the fighting to the Jedi and the clones. So, now:

Do [the Jedi] force their new "Republic" to make its own army to fight the Separatists? Do they enforce a draft on the "natborns"?

All of this ⬆️ is premised on the Jedi even being willing to throw away their democratic values, and on the clones even WANTING THEM TO DO SO. Yes the clones are in a terrible situation, but the harsh truth is that, canonically, they do share the same values as the Jedi.

People can argue that they're brainwashed into this, and I would even agree. But that doesn't make it any less true that these are still their values. Most of them want to fight for the Republic.

They should have the choice available to pursue another path if they wanted, but the show - and thus the clones and the Jedi - barely have the time to consider all these issues because they are in the middle of a war.

In the show, [the clones] are the conveniently available highly-trained army that the Republic was going to use with or without the Jedi because it was all a trap set by a Sith Lord.

The Jedi, who were supposed to be some hybrid of social workers, peace-keepers and diplomats, were drafted into a war they did not want, and did not fight [the draft] because they had made an oath to the Republic, and because the alternative was letting billions get killed.

They were between a rock and a hard place and chose to prioritize trying to end the immediate war first before fighting for the rights of the clone army (which - again - is not even their job! Padme, Mon Mothma and Bail and all the other politicians are RIGHT THERE!)

The Jedi were a minority religious order whose own situation in the Republic was precarious, as evidenced by the fact that the citizens were willing to cheerlead their genocide just a couple of years in and gleefully bought into anti-Jedi propaganda en masse.

A more charitable reading of the Jedi would take all this ⬆️ context into account before declaring them slavers/slavery-enablers and surmise that... no, they did not agree with how the Republic was treating the clone army.

They were most likely hoping the Senate would enact a democratic solution to this after the war, so they tried to end the war as quickly as they could.

And no, they didn't "selfishly decide to overthrow/kill Palps just because they found out the Chancellor was their religious enemy when they were unwilling to do so for the clones."

It was because they realised that - all this time - they had all been under the control of a Sith Lord who had orchestrated a sham war to destroy them and take power for himself.

[deadsetobsessions]

The first person who asked me to put my writing on AO3, thank you for your appreciation and I'm honored to have a piece of my work considered so highly... but also count your days bc I genuinely believe my life spiraled after posting that first chapter. The curse is real, and that website is like moldavite istg.

----

Tim made a miscalculation.

He wasn’t aware of the true nature of Deathstroke’s tension with his older brother until he witnessed it first hand.

Creep. He thought uncharitably, nay, spitefully.

No. Absolutely the fuck not.

He ruined Catalina’s life. Considering Deathstroke had no life, Tim will just have to go the extra step to end it. So what if the man was Ra’s former student and one of the best assassins around? Tim used to foil League plots for shits and giggles. Maybe the 8 year old Tim of old would never have considered going against a big baddie, but 24 year old Tim ran circles around bigger fish.

Tim scowled, stowing away his binoculars before shimmying down the fire escape. He counted at least three propositions! In the five minutes they were duking it out! His big brother was too bright for those losers! Maybe he could get Sandra Wu-San to do something about her fellow student? Or Tim could hit two assassins with one Robin and get David Cain to murder Deathstroke while nabbing Cass?

Ooo, he likes that idea. Maybe he'll get lucky and they'll kill each other while fighting and then Tim won't have to worry about how to keep Cain away from Tim's sister.

Bruce would have been disappointed about how cavalier his approach was in terms of preservation of life, but Tim had always thought that ideology applied to his days as a Bat-affiliated vigilante. And since Tim was an itty bitty civilian instead of an (older, taller) ass kicking vigilante, Tim has concluded that Bruce's mildly irritating morality didn't apply to him in his current state. Besides, it wasn't like he was an angel during his tenure as Robin anyways.

"Guess I gotta embezzle some more money." Tim grimly put his backpack to his front and ran to catch the first bus home. Too bad. Deathstroke had proven useful.

————

David Cain leaned against a transport cargo box, breathing heavily from wounds. His commission was done, and the amount promised would allow him to buy an island and then some. His fellow student laid at his feet. His bank account was fuller than Ra's, he was sure.

He never sees the tranquilizer dart coming.

And really, Tim’s had enough experience to hide the mark from the dart and more than enough to murder the man and make it seem like he bled out.

——

“Odd.”

“Tell me about it.” Nightwing crouched, his sparkly costume hidden partially in the shadows. “Why’d they have to duke it out here?” He whined. Honestly, he’s been down in the dumps with what happened to Jason but having Deathstroke dead and gone for good was a balm to his soul.

“Hn.” It’s true. Bruce knew that it was weird Ra’s al Ghul’s students would murder each other like this. He searched the bodies, lifting up a burner phone and a bunch of weapons.

“Can’t you say something other than monosyllabic grunts, B?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to?”

“…No.” Bruce made a funny and seemed rather proud of himself.

Duck stared at him. He lifted a hand, watching Bruce’s face fall into dread.

Dick pulled the zipper down on the top of his costume down to his navel, flaring the collar and exposing his mesh covered chest.

“No.”

“Fuck you.” Dick flips away, leaving a despondent Batman behind with two dead bodies.

In the distance, the girl who would be come Cassandra Cain took the hands of a boy who would become here brother.

Tim Drake grinned, like an adorable, blood frenzied baby shark.

[mitigatedchaos]

Thanks for providing an example of the problem.

The policies are only racially discriminatory if they make it even worse for minorities, which they were not going to do,

In other words, you can hurt "whites" as much as you want, on the basis that they are "white," with absolutely no evidence that this will close long-term racial outcome gaps whatsoever, and this is somehow miraculously "not racist."

No termination conditions. No measurements. No possible chain of evidence that would convince you to stop. Nothing.

You're just going to discriminate against them, blindly, based on a bunch of numbers that you made up, for the rest of their lives.

When I and other high-IQ liberals pre-2014 supported non-racism and individualism, we didn't do this to "hide white privilege." After all, there are other racial or ethnic groups in the US that earn more money or live longer on average. We did this because we didn't think either you or the right-wingers could handle it, intellectually, and, well... re-read what you just posted.

Power is not held by races collectively as monolithic groups. A racial group is a statistical abstraction, and any individual can be utterly destroyed by racialized violence even if the group's average risk for victimization by racialized violence is lower.

Elon Musk having lots of money doesn't magically protect a poor white kid from doing drugs and dying of an overdose. Elon Musk, being healthy, smart, and wealthy, is also much better positioned to deflect the effects of any "corrective" racial discrimination against "whites" than a poor white kid is.

When you were told, "It's impossible to be racist to white people, because white people hold power," you should have immediately questioned this. Declaring that specifically racial harms against one race "don't count" was an obvious warning sign.

Observing that huge amounts of the population are apparently either unwilling or unable to learn a meta-level rule, like "don't demonize people for their race in general," was a real eye-opener for me.

I'll be honest; it was a bit of a black pill.

There's currently a debate among people capable of meta-level reasoning on what to do about this. Most of the meta-level people on Tumblr don't like your racism, but are convinced that it's basically just a meaningless fad, and are voting for Kamala in order to preserve social programs or due to concerns about the questioning of the democratic process. Most of the meta-level people on Twitter are convinced low-quality racism like yours is the new long-term strategy of the Democrats (unless it is stopped) and are voting for Trump in order to weaken the racial organizing power of the Democratic party. Some of them have also moved to the far right, although I believe that this is short-sighted given the trajectory of present technological advances.

For my part, I don't see how this gets fixed without Democrats taking electoral and institutional losses, but I'm willing to gamble that your racism is shallow, and once we turn off all funding sources in favor of it, you'll forget it in favor of whatever the new organizing basis of the Democratic coalition is.

I think you'll block for this response, because I don't think you're capable of understanding "don't be racist" as something more than 'selfish enemy propaganda.'

Since you're not self-reflective about how you decide on your political positions, you may end up adopting some pretty nasty political positions down the road as technology advances.

They know they're authoritarian, and they're proud.

[whencyclopedia]

Grigori Rasputin

Grigori Rasputin (1869-1916) was a self-styled holy man and faith healer from Siberia who ingratiated himself with the family of Tsar Nicholas II (reign 1894-1917). Rasputin was particularly valued by the empress Alexandra Feodorovna (1872-1918) because it seemed he could help her son and heir to the throne, Alexei, who suffered from haemophilia. Rumours of Rasputin's loose living and concerns over just how much influence he had in the halls of power eventually led to his assassination by a group seeking to protect the already waning prestige of the autocratic Romanov dynasty.

Early Life & Appearance

Grigori Efimovich Rasputin was born in Pokrovskoe, a village in Siberia, in 1869. The name Rasputin was later identified with the Russian word for 'libertine', but this was part of the mythology that surrounded this controversial figure, since Rasputin was his father's name and not chosen by him, as some have reported. Born into the peasant class, Grigori stole horses according to legend (although no police records exist to that effect) before settling down to marry a local peasant girl, Praskovia Dubrovina, with whom he had several children.

Rasputin became a starets, that is, a sort of wandering, unordained holy man and faith healer. He embarked on several pilgrimages but did not adhere to an ascetic lifestyle like most starets. As the historian A. Wood summarises: "Rasputin was not, as he is often described, a 'mad monk' but a member of an extreme religious sect of sexually promiscuous flagellants in Siberia known as khlysty." (37). This membership is, in fact, also disputed. As the historian S. S. Montefiore states, "he was not a member of the sect and denied any connection" (535), a position repeated by D. Smith in his biography of Rasputin. More certain is that during his travels, Rasputin became highly skilled at reading people psychologically and offering them suitable advice, usually couched in a vague quasi-religious speech sprinkled abundantly with biblical quotes and folk proverbs.

Rasputin was a physically striking person, tall and with long hair and a long beard, usually neatly trimmed and well-combed. He had deep-set grey-green eyes and a penetrating, mystical gaze. One of Rasputin's friends (and many others, both men and women) recorded the striking effect of the Siberian's eyes: "The charm of this man lies in his eyes. There is something in them that draws you in and forces you to submit to his will. There is something psychologically inexplicable in all this" (Smith, 105). Some women said that Rasputin's stare seemed all-knowing or even made them want to scream.

Rasputin's voice was ordinary enough, but his odd words were usually accompanied by equally odd or esoteric gestures and a constant movement of the fingers. He was extremely tactile, often touching people's hands and kissing women. Unlike the uncharitable press reports, Rasputin was clean and trim in appearance, points noted by many of those who actually met him.

Read More

⇒ Grigori Rasputin

[velveetacrackncheese]

I know it's been like forever, but are you still a fan of Viv and her work

Honestly when it comes to her, no. Even if there's some things I've learned to appreciate in some of her more recent stuff (Except Hazbin S1, I thought it was genuinely awful and the more I think about it the more disappointed I truly am with it.) my main gripe is that it seems that Viv still treats people like crap. My opinion of her has continuously waned over the years from someone who was obsessed and having had a parasocial relationship with her and her work, to the point where I felt obligated to defend her for the sake of the "fandom" back then. Pretty wack behavior coming from myself honestly, and like I said I was a prick! I treated naysayers and critics of ZP like garbage, and while there was venom being flung towards me and other fans as well, some of it also being cruel and uncharitable, I can't pretend I didn't contribute to the toxic culture emanating from her fanbase. It's very interesting to see that the more modern incarnation of Viv's fanbase is arguably still just as toxic, but on a bigger scale. People no matter where you go, and regardless of when in time, seems to have a strong opinion of her. Either love her to death or hate her to the point where that becomes its own obsession. Well, unless you've actually had a connection with her, it seems like you're either one of her favorites, or someone who she burnt bridges with.

There's of course the genuine non-drama stuff, like ohhhh fuck dude, she drew some weirdo shit which I could honestly care less about. There's reasons to not like her, and it isn't that. It's not even really her work period, but more so allegations regarding how she's difficult to work with, cruel to certain past associates to an almost comical degree, and is still pretty uncharitable to even her most charitable critics. The stuff with KenDraws kinda was the nail in the coffin for me, transphobia is not going to get a pass from me, sorry! I don't know how true this is in particular, but how The Hunicast was treated after the Hazbin pilot also left me with a pretty real sense of disgust. It's wild seeing a show like Hazbin Hotel flourish through A24 and Amazon, all the while trying its damn hardest to cleanse itself of its indie roots. Apparently donations to the Hunicast was used to fund the pilot, and after the pilot it kinda seemed like Viv just didn't really appreciate how much they contributed to that project. Honestly, I don't think Hazbin would be what it is today without The Hunicast.

That, and of course there being all the dollcreep stuff, the way that the fandom at the time wrongfully demonized dollcreep and took Viv for her word to the T, following what was a highly uncharitable read from fans which led to harassment despite the drama between the two being personal, and that being made into a public concern when it reallllllllllly should not have been. Transphobia also being an abundant issue in this regard. JoJo as a character was created as an extremely petty way to bash Jo and in hindsight, is incredibly revolting, and ohhhhh also transphobic. The Erin Frost situation, in which of course featured Viv devotees to also take her testimony as uncharitable and lies despite having never worked with Viv herself. Employees being paid like... what, $35.00 per second of animation which is crazy. So not only a toxic work environment, that toxicity just festering cuz Viv herself is toxic. Her tendency to seemingly just bully the people she surrounds herself with, hell even getting people blacklisted apparently? I'm sure there's a lot more I can get into in all honesty, and what's being mentioned here is barely scratching the surface! There was a point in time where I had agreements with what were, back then, blogs dedicated to critiquing Zoophobia and in hindsight, yes, there was a lot to rightfully criticize. Lot of stuff in that webcomic was genuinely not great and despite the immature attachments that I had back then, there were points I'd openly conceded to. Which led to Viv blocking me, and that led to me being pretty sad! Honestly thought I'd did something wrong or that I like... "Betrayed" her which is fucking insane. It was something I ruminated on for literal weeks. I look at my older posts on here and it's so fuckin clear that I was not mentally stable, at least to me, and that was reflected in the wild ass shit I was saying. I'm glad I've changed but dear god I was such an asshole, and it's crazy to think that I was some kind of figurehead in the fandom at that time. Nobody should've been looking up to me, cuz holy shit I was a stupid teenager.

Also, generally speaking, this doesn't have much to do with Viv as a person as much as the early fan community surrounding her work that existed from like 2015 into 2018, particularly on tumblr, but I'd developed relationships with other people in the fandom that led to some pretty traumatizing experiences for myself and for others that I knew personally. I won't get into details about that, but the culture for the fandom at the time housed some SERIOUSLY sketchy people, and there were people who were just open and active groomers. Zero accountability for any of that btw, yeah awesome fucking community, guys. "Like and Reblog if you're a true fan." jfc.

So uh, yeah. Naw I can't say I'm much of a fan, and I'm not convinced that she's actually some nice, pleasurable person, who conveniently stumbles into situations where her alleged good nature is CONSTANTLY put into question due to actions that are pretty well documented and accounted for. I've still watched Helluva Boss episodes, although at this point it feels like I'm beating myself because I've progressively grown more disenchanted with it as time has passed on. Despite that, it's still Spindlehorse's best stuff. I say Spindlehorse in particular because while I don't really respect Vivienne, I respect the crew who are the backbone of those episodes. Hazbin has some narrative themes that I'm not particularly fond of, the pacing is a mess, and the character writing is not good. Characters have entire musical numbers dedicated to them despite either serving a very minor role in the story or just being absent for the entirety of the season. I'd go on and list my gripes with ZP, but it feels weird to bash something that is nearly a decade old now. Probably doesn't represent Vivienne's current capacity for craftsmanship, visually speaking, and in regards to the writing; Were I to go back and review what those old critique blogs had to say, I'd probably add onto them instead of being as dismissive as I was.

Also, something I can attest to personally, and you'll have to take me for my word on this, but I used to be a $50 patron to her Patreon. One of the benefits was that you got to be a part of her discord server where she'd chat with fans once a month and I got to be in a few of those vc chats. I recall her being petty even then, and if my memory doesn't fail me, there was a time where she like... called someone's older brother a f*ggot because he insulted Kesha and her general preferences in music lmfao. She genuinely got upset and all teary over that confrontation and ended the call early, and the other people in the vc were tryna comfort her. Looking back that now, feels so.... weird. Shit, I mean charging people so they have the chance to just talk to you, monetizing that feels weird, and kinda gross. Wish I could have my money back for that, ngl. No Bueno.

[kaftan]

not to get lost in the amy dallon racial coding sauce again but I keep thinking about her hair being specifically described as “frizzy;” I highly doubt much consideration went into that word choice (if I was being uncharitable I’d say I think maybe the wrong kind of consideration went into it) but it immediately strikes me as a signifier of another site of alienation for her: of course the lily-white dallons had no idea what to do with her curly hair, of course carol in particular never bothered to learn how to style it, and amy probably grew up doing the same things to it that victoria did and wondering why it worked so awfully on her. frizz being what happens when you neglect curly hair or treat it like straight hair. nothing like a physical reminder that you Will Never Belong

[occatorcreator]

Second Chances

Links - 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

2 - Lonely Purpose

Purple seeks out a new purpose in the wake of his mother's passing and makes a new life in the world of Minecraft. Through it, he ends up crossing paths with a group of stick figures in need. Content Warnings: Character death, grieving, canon typical violence

Purple returned to the city to bury Orchid. There was no body to bury, but a grave was something Orchid requested in her end-of-life plan, and Purple would honor her last requests. 

It didn’t change the hollow feeling he had standing before her grave. He had cried all of yesterday, and his eyes felt raw and painful, but he couldn’t summon any more tears. So he simply stewed in his emptiness.

He was the only one there for her funeral. 

I mean, of course he wouldn’t show up, Purple thought. I should be glad to not see him… it would just be awkward. As if he cares that his ex-spouse is gone.

The lawyer reached out to Navy regarding the death. Navy should have learned of Orchid’s passing and Purple’s destitution. But of course how could one reach someone who left without any contact for over a year? Purple would be a fool to hope to see him here.

So, why was he so upset that Navy failed to show?

I can’t be here, Purple turned away, the numbness turning into an unexpectedly painful vise in his chest. He left his mother’s grave and the cemetery behind as quickly as he could, bolting down the sidewalk until he had no energy left to run.

He leaned against a wall, watching as stick figures passed by with faded interest. He stood as still as a statue, watching passerbys go into the stores. There were parents holding little kids by their hands, groups of friends chatting close to each other, lovers holding hands and laughing...

Everyone was lively and moving around like usual. The day was bright and sunny, birds were chirping. As if this wasn’t the worst day of Purple’s life. 

A group of teenagers passed by him. When Purple watched them, he recognized all of them as old friends from school. All but one. A tall, lanky orange hollow head towered over them and chatted with arms waving animatedly. Their eyes briefly met Purple’s and for a split, terrifying second, Purple thought they were going to try to rope him into small talk.

But they didn’t, they just waved and continued walking with their group. A couple of others looked back at Purple, and Purple tried not to notice their confused and judging gazes. The teens turned a corner, but Purple caught his name whispered among them.

���Hold on, was that Purple back there?” 

With heavy limbs, Purple followed behind them. He moved silently, trying to be discreet in the fact he was following them.

It has been five months since I dropped out, Purple realized. It had to be summer break now.

“Do you know them, Peri?” The orange hollow head asked.

“Yeah, he disappeared before you transferred in, Second,” the stick figure Purple knew as Periwinkle said. “He was in my financial elective...”

“And he was a total scumbag,” a dark violet stick figure jumped in.

“Saffron,” Periwinkle admonished.

“What? It’s true!” The oddly named Saffron said. Purple recalled her brazenness. She was Periwinkle’s annoying younger sister and highly protective of her softhearted brother. Any slight against him, no matter how small, earned her ire.

“What did Purple do?” Second asked.

“Ah, Purple is someone you wouldn’t want to get close to,” added a brown stick figure beside them. “He acts friendly at first, gives gifts to buy your affection. But he’s highly controlling. The moment you don’t do what he wants or if you inconvenience him, he dumps you and goes after the next sucker.”

Chestnut… Purple grimaced at his ex-friend’s bitterness. He lagged behind, increasing the distance between them.

“I think that’s being a little bit uncharitable,” Periwinkle added, “I think he really admired you, Chestnut.”

“Ugh, don’t even joke about that, Peri?” Chestnut said, punching Periwinkle in the arm. Her disgust was hard not to hear from this distance.

“Why are you even defending him? Do I need to remind you how Purple borrowed your prized umbrella?” Saffron said, “and you never got it back even after asking about it?”

“I never forgot that…” Periwinkle nodded, and Purple saw his shoulders slump. “Gosh, it still hurts to think about it. I spent so much money getting that, it was one of a kind.”

“Exactly! And now it’s gone because of him! You’re being too nice!”

Second, sensing that their friend group was getting agitated, coughed in their hands.

“Anyways, I asked Mango this morning, and he said I can go to the arcade with you all!”

Saffron pumped her hands in the air while Periwinkle clapped. “Awesome!”

“Yeah, enough about Purple,” Chestnut said, not leaving much alone, slinging her arm around Second’s shoulders. “Be grateful you never met him. He’d be horrible to you too.”

“Chestnut,” Second scolded.

“Sorry, I’ll stop,” Chestnut finished.

Then they chatted about arcade games. Purple didn’t catch anything else as he stopped in his tracks, watching as the group retreated. He couldn't stand to listen anymore as he felt like he was close to decking one of them.

Why… was the whole school glad I was gone for months? Purple thought,  clenching his fists. Was I really that awful to you?

He and Chestnut certainly had a falling out, but he swore his attempts at being her friend were genuine. Complimenting and giving gifts- how else was he supposed to make friends? It wasn’t his fault they had incompatible personalities! Not everyone can be so blaisé about everything! Was it a crime to expand his social circle?

Not like those sticks liked me for long… Purple thought, recalling how he fell out of that clique faster than he did with Chestnut.

Periwinkle was nice; Purple did intend to only borrow the umbrella since he had none that rainy day. But of course, with his horrid luck, he ended up breaking it on the way home and feared how Periwinkle would react. How was he supposed to know that it was a special one of a kind?

Stupid idiot’s too obsessive over umbrellas, Purple grinded his teeth. If he and his sister blow a gasket over a lost umbrella of all things, then no sane person should deal with them!

He felt raw and scratched, scoured by their claws. How he hated them. Truly hated them all. Especially that Second kid- what a stupid name. While he didn’t know anything about them, he hated how the three people who he couldn’t befriend clung to them so easily. He hated how Second had to only look at him to ruin his horrible day even further. He hated that they had some parent to come home to after fun at the arcade with friends while Purple was all alone.

I hate you! Purple thought with bared teeth. I hope you all suffer like I did! Hope your days are as rotten and horrid as mine!

I hate all of you!

=

Alana reminded Purple that he could stay on the desktop for as long as he liked. That arrangement worked out for Purple because he had no reason to leave the computer. He didn’t want to return to school, and he had no desire to find a job and be a cog in some miserable system in the city. On the desktop, he had more freedom to do what he wanted.

And he just wanted to lie in his bed and wallow in his sadness.

He let the grief drape over him. It made his limbs heavy as lead and turned his mind to static. Food and activities were bland; he had no desire to do much of anything. Aside from Alana, there wasn’t anyone checking on him. He had no idea where the villager caretaker went or if they were somehow deleted, but he couldn’t even begin to care. 

How odd it felt to be purposeless. How the drive and desperation to find a cure for his mother vanished with her body, leaving behind exhaustion and nothingness.

The only time he felt anything other than despair was when he dreamed. The dreams were both cruel and relieving. He dreamt of being a prince in a grand castle. His mother and friends were there in that castle to greet him and go on fun adventures. Waking was painful, as it brought those sweet dreams to an end and dumped him back to the cold, lonely reality. The more he slept, the longer the dreams went and more intense the pain of waking became.

I wish I could stay in my dreams…

But then one night, they changed. Instead of continuing the fantasy, he dreamt he was in a void. A light shone above, with pink petals floating down around him.

Orchid petals? Purple thought, holding a hand out to catch a petal. Mom?

Instinctively he looked around, trying to find Orchid in the pitch dark, only to flinch when he saw Navy standing before him in the gloom. 

“Why are you here?” Purple raised hands up defensively. He had not dreamt of his father once in his fantasy world. It was as if he was banished from his dreams.

Yet Navy stood before him, staring. The stare was all too familiar, that cold, guarded stare before he walked out of Orchid and Purple’s life.

“What?” Purple demanded, “what do you want? What right do you have to judge me?”

Navy said nothing. He should have said something by now. 

“Be gone with you!” Purple waved, “Do what you always do and just leave me already!”

To that, Navy’s gave a disappointed sigh.

“You can’t even keep your promises,” he said, “that’s it, I guess. I’m leaving.”

He turned and walked away into the void.

“What?” Purple never recalled him saying that before. He didn’t understand. “Wait!” Purple took a step forward. “What do you mean by that? Answer me!”

Navy kept walking; Purple couldn’t catch up. Despite telling him to leave, he still chased after his father.

What promise am I breaking?

When Purple awoke, he remembered his mother’s dying breath: she’d asked for Purple to take care of himself.

Sleeping in bed, shutting myself from the world, Purple’s heart hammered. I’m not keeping to that promise.

And he loathed that a dream version of Navy could be right! 

For the first time since he left his mother’s grave, the drive fueled him. He thought he lost it to grief. That dream, his father’s words criticizing his ineptitude, gave him something for his churning anger to sharpen itself against.

I’ll take care of myself, he thought, no, I’ll do better, I will thrive. He’d prove his father, those teens, and everyone who ever doubted and looked down on little Purple wrong!

He would be great.

Purple crawled out of bed. His muscles protested at the exertion he was unused to after months of laying around. He forced himself to hold his head high.

“How about…” Purple said as he spotted the remains of his and Orchid’s castle. “I finish that castle of mine.”

=

Purple wanted to play Minecraft legitimately. No cheats, no spawning things. He was going in to play like any other player. He had a new goal for his playthrough. He aimed to become a true king of Minecraft.

He started with only the essentials and got to mining. He had his basic goals set for making his kingdom: get enough cobblestone and wood to build his castle and starting houses, locate some villagers, and… well he hadn’t figured out step three yet, but the first two were going to be huge.

There were enemies. Fighting them wasn’t as bad as Purple initially feared. If anything, felling the zombies, creepers, and skeletons, then the tougher ghasts, endermen, and wither skeletons, made Purple feel powerful.  All those rusted fighting skills he neglected were sharpening and, for once, he enjoyed the combat. With the right equipment and enchantments, enemy encounters hardly concerned him.

He found some zombie villagers too and, desiring to build a village the proper way, successfully escorted and cured those zombie villagers. And, oh, how he was praised for his heroics! The cured villagers bowed to him as their savior, Lord Purple!

Not the pathetic Purple I was before now, huh? Purple thought, puffing his chest in pride.

But the joy never lasted. The glory he got from fighting turned dull as the enemies were no match for his sword. The villagers had children. Seeing happy little kids running around while their happy parents watched, filled Purple’s hollow heart with venom. Their praise towards his greatness suddenly felt shallow and fake, especially knowing how much he loathed to see them prosper when he still felt horrible.

It didn’t help that the next day, all those kids grew into adults. The very sight of this rapid aging caused Purple to retreat into his castle and remain there for three days. He glared at the wall, unable to sleep and failing to calm himself down. Once again, all the motivation deserted him, and a part of him wanted to burn this fake village and false castle to the ground.

“Why?” He asked a portrait of a bizarre wither skull formation, “why is it that I’ve accomplished so much more than I did in school, and I still feel this way?”

The skull painting did not answer, but Purple suspected it knew fully well why. 

Purple imagined his mother telling him that he was pushing himself too hard, but the thoughts of her words just made him curl further in a miserable ball. How could he enjoy even the false, temporary victories of a game when she wasn't there to see them?

Only Navy’s words spurred Purple out of his funk on the third day when he fell asleep. You can’t even keep your promises... 

“Right. Castle and village is done. I need a new goal,” he said and eyed the skull painting. It was such a peculiar piece that he wondered if it was a hint that if he made something like that he’d summon something like an iron golem. Something evil.

If so, if I make this and defend the village from this beast, Purple thought, then I’d be a legend to them!

Plus, he’d like a challenging fight for once. Time to visit the nether and grab some skulls.

=

“Ugh, finally!” Purple said as he successfully pried the third wither skeleton’s skull off and it didn’t disintegrate to ash. “I swear, hunting for skulls is such a pain.”

But he finally got three skulls and the soul sand. He was done with his nether trip. Time to head back and figure out what he’d summon-

Bang! Bang!

The nether caverns echoed with the sound of rhythmic thumping. Purple felt the walls around him tremble as the thumping grew louder and louder. He looked around, clutching the wither skull to his chest, as he tried to find the source of the noise.

“The hell is going on?” Purple gasped.

Suddenly, there was a scream. Purple only had a split second to turn towards that scream before a stick figure dressed in armor landed right on top of him and knocked him to the ground.

“Yeouch!” Purple wheezed. His health went down to half from the impact, and he shoved the stick figure off of him. Before he could get a good look at them, more screams were heard, and additional stick figures landed next to him, narrowly missing his battered body.

Why is it raining stick figures?! Purple looked bewildered between the group of stick figures. The green, blue, and yellow stick figures lay on the ground, their health at half a heart. The blue and yellow sticks were dazed, diamond armor shattered to pieces around them, while the green stick figure only had a cracked diamond helmet left.

The green one was moving, able to rise up because his fall was cushioned by landing right on Purple. He coughed, pushing himself on shaky arms and legs.

“Yellow? Blue? You-” he paused when his gaze met Purple’s. “-alive?”

Purple stared back and, unable to think of a better response, waved.

The stick figure, he presumed named Green given the naming convention, waved back. “Um, hi?”

Bang! Bang!

Purple and Green looked up at the ceiling where the noise came from. In the gloom, Purple could make out the stick figure shaped holes they fell through. A fine layer of dust fell from above.

“I take it you didn’t mine straight down,” Purple mumbled.

“Oh no!” Green forced himself up and ran to shake Blue and Yellow violently. “We don’t have time! Come on, get up!”

“What’s going on?” Purple asked, shouting over the thumping.

“Um, it’s a bit of a long story!” Green yelled back as he lifted Blue to her feet. She was waking, as was Yellow, but neither of them were in any good condition to stand for long.

“Condense it then!” Purple pulled out a potion of healing and threw it on them. The cloud restored their health to full instantly. The three stick figures leapt up, looking at their now healed bodies in shock.

“Woah! How did you do that?” Blue asked.

“Not now,” Purple waved his hands and pointed at the continuous banging above. “What is going on?”

“Ok! We found this game icon on our desktop!” Green explained, pulling out a sword. The tip cracked apart and caused him to pause as he tried to fix it.

“And we were building things with the stuff that came out,” Yellow picked up. They pulled their ax out, only to despair as it crumbled apart too, “taking turns and all that.”

“But when we gave the game icon to Red,” Blue said, staring ruefully at the busted bow in her hands. “She attacked us.”

“Attacked you?” Purple asked.

“Yeah, she wasn’t acting like herself!” Green rushed, “She just went wall eyed and hoarded the icon. We tried to stop her but…”

Bang! Purple heard blocks from above fall to the lava.

“She’s now piloting a giant block stick figure and ended up shoving us down here.” Yellow finished. 

“I don’t think we have much time before she follows us here,” Blue added, clutching her head. “Oh, what are we going to do?”

Yeah, that seems like your problem, Purple thought, heart hammering wildly. He wanted a fight earlier, but given the sounds of what was coming, he opted to flee. He turned about to run before Green snatched his arm.

“Let go of me!”

“Please! You don’t have to fight for us, but we don’t have weapons or armor!” Green said. He clasped his hands together. “Please, can you lend anything?”

“I don’t have any extra swords!” Purple exclaimed. “I barely have enough potions after all the fighting I did!”

Bang! The other stick figures looked nervously at each other, rifling desperately through their belongings and finding little to help, fishing rods, crafting tables, jungle trees…

Yeah, they’re screwed, Purple thought, looking for his way back to the desktop.

 “Look, I'm just going to head to the portal,” Purple said, “and if you guys have any sense, you’ll join me! Hopefully, Red will be too big to enter!”

The others looked at each other with mixed expressions, confusion, nervousness, and disdain.

“We can’t do that,” Green said, “she would be stuck here if we did that!”

“And how do you know she couldn’t smash her way through?” Yellow added.

Purple stared at Yellow and found himself glaring when he realized it made too much sense.

Ah! What do I do then? Purple thought, looking down at his wither skull helplessly. But as he stared at the empty eye sockets, Purple found an answer in them.

“Hold on,” he said, “I think I have an idea to help you with your problem.”

=

The plan was half baked given that they only had seconds to execute it. Yellow and Green set it up so they were ready to lure Red to the nether fortress while Purple and Blue made the wither skull statue.

Red came down from above and the very sight of the behemoth in obsidian blocks was almost enough for Purple to return to his “let’s flee to my village” idea.

“So, you are sure this thing we're summoning will be enough against her?” Blue asked.

Purple nodded even though he hadn’t a clue if the summoning would even work. “When we see their signal, just put down the last wither skull.”

Blue bit her lip, glancing from the obsidian stick figure chasing down Green, back to Purple.

“Is there a risk it would kill her?”

Purple blinked. “Aren't you trying to fight her?”

“Fight her, yes, not kill her!” Purple could see a glossy sheen form in Blue’s eyes. “I don’t know what will happen if she dies here.”

“She’ll respawn at her last checkpoint,” Purple said, but his stomach clenched. Assuming you have a respawn point set to begin with.

That didn’t give her any relief. Blue wordlessly sniffed and wiped her eyes.

In the distance, Purple saw the fishing rods fly and snag the head of the obsidian tower. “Ok, now!”

Blue placed the last head down. Upon doing so the statue turned into a three headed skeleton that let out a horrific howl. It glowed blue and was blinking rapidly.

Oh no…

“Uh, what do we do now?” Blue asked.

“Run!” Purple yelled, grabbing Blue by the hand and running away from the fortress. He cupped his hands and shouted at Yellow and Green. “Run!”

They could hardly react to the warning before a thunderous kaboom sounded behind Blue and Purple. The Wither was airborne, screeching and hurling hissing skulls right at them with wild abandon.

This is dumb! This is so dumb! Purple thought as he and the others scattered to dodge the projectiles. Why did I think summoning a giant enemy to fight another giant enemy was a good idea?!

The Wither did not discriminate. It targeted the stick figures as well as the obsidian figure. Its skulls landed right on the head and exploded it to bits. The explosion sent the red stick figure inside flying across the Nether.

Ah, I’m glad I didn’t summon that thing by my village! Purple thought. That thing is tearing through obsidian like tissue paper! 

Blue raced down the walkway and held out her arms to catch Red before she landed. Yellow jumped from a ledge above to snatch the Minecraft icon that was knocked out of Red’s hands. 

Despite receiving a skull missile to the face, Red was alive and kicking. She wasted no time in kicking Blue’s hold off of her and tearing after Yellow. Her expression was flat, yet her movements feral. She twitched and then lunged at Yellow, clasping at their leg. They fell to the ground with a thud and tossed the Minecraft icon further down the path.

“Oh, come on!” Purple lunged down and snatched the icon. Turning around, he saw the Wither gaining, and, in panic, he held the Minecraft icon. He visualized something stronger than obsidian, and, out from the icon, he blocked the attack with a wall of bedrock. 

He protected the group of wrestling stick figures from the impact, yet his action only earned Red’s attention. Locking her fixed expression on him, she let go of Yellow and charged at Purple.

“Ah! Green, catch!” Purple tossed it just as Red pounced on his back. “Get to the portal!”

Green caught it, and started running, using his fishing rod to move across the Nether’s gaps with ease. Red, no longer interested in Purple, raced after Green. She nearly closed the gap between them with her inhumane speed, only for her to be hit down by a skull volley from the Wither above.

“Red!” Yellow and Blue exclaimed, racing to her pick her up. Even injured critically, she continued to wrestle against them, eyes locked solely on Green and the Minecraft icon.

How is she not even down? Purple thought,  smacking the Wither’s volleys back as Blue and Yellow dithered.

“Come on! Leave her and get out of here!” Purple yelled.

“But-“

“No buts!” Purple turned and shoved the three over, pinning Red down to the ground. “To the portal now!”

It took a stern look and the Wither’s fast approach to cause the two to run off. Not like Purple could hold Red down long enough, as she shucked Purple off and raced after them. 

I can’t let her attack my village! He thought as he ran in pursuit. He lunged his sword at her, narrowly missing her back.

“Stop! Don't kill her!” Green shouted.

Of course that idiot waited by the portal! Stunned by his stupidity, Purple wasn’t ready for Red’s quick roundhouse kick to the hand. His enchanted sword clattered far away from him, and Red ran towards the stick figures just waiting by the portal.

“No! Stop!” Purple abandoned his sword, equally as stupid as Green. “Get in the portal! Hurry!”

So many things occurred at once- Red collided into her friends, knocking them into the portal frame; Purple bowled into her back, which shoved the group through it; and as they entered, the Wither hit the portal, closing it completely behind them.

The group fell sprawling on the desktop, gasping and grunting. Purple clutched his head, wincing at the sharp pain of hitting the ground. Before him, Green, Blue, and Yellow were slowly getting up. Green held the icon. It was shuddering in his hands, glowing a bright white before suddenly fading, as if the portal did something to it.

Red lay limp on the ground. Then suddenly she jerked and writhed. A translucent outline of a Steve player avatar leapt out of her repeatedly before finally falling to the ground. As it let out a dying breath, Purple caught sight of its dead, white eyes before it poofed away. 

Red was limp once more.The other three looked at her, expecting her to get up, but she remained still on the ground. They dropped the items they carried and crowded around her. Blue lifted her head up.

“Red? Red!” Blue jostled the stick figure.

“Come on, speak to us!” Green begged. Purple felt something form in his throat at the familiarity of his desperation.

“What’s happening to her health?” Yellow gasped as they held her hand. 

Indeed, all the hearts of Red’s health turned black and were ticking down. An effect called “withering” was applied on her.

It’s going to kill her! Purple realized and whistled loudly. The sound spooked the three grieving stick figures, but not as much as the sudden crowd of villagers appearing out of nearby houses did.

“Lord Purple? You’re back?”

“I need a bucket of milk, stat!” Purple hollered and clapped. “Don’t waste time! A stick’s dying here!”

And no time was wasted. The villagers were quick to mobilize and toss a milk bucket to Purple. He snatched it and quickly tossed it to Blue.

“Feed it to her!” Purple quickly exclaimed, “It’ll cure her ailment.”

Confusion gone, Blue brought the bucket to Red’s lips. Indeed, the milk stopped Red’s decaying heart meter just in the nick of time. With only half a heart left, the withering effect faded, and Red let out a shuddering cough.

“G-guys?” She croaked out.

“Red? Is it really you?” Yellow asked.

“Um, yeah,” Red looked around, dazed and then pained, “I’m so sorry for what I did…”

“Shh, no, no,” Blue hushed before pulling her into a hug. Green and Yellow also wrapped their arms around the two.

“I thought we’d lose you…” Green said, muffled.

Purple watched from the sidelines as the four hugged each other. He watched until his heart couldn’t bear the sight of it.

How lucky they are.

“You’ll have to share how you saved these folks,” a villager said as they stood next to him. 

“Yeah…” Purple couldn’t meet their eyes, “maybe later.”

He did a good deed, a brave one even! And yet he still felt horrid.

If only milk could cure a heartache too.

[calebwittebane]

i had a dream id gotten conned into becoming a god and proceeded to try and design a world without suffering or pain. i really really struggled with this one. no matter what i did, it seemed like bouncing between endless suffering and highly sheltered sensory deprivation state with all functions for every person reduced to a minimum. eventually the author--it turned out i was in a fictional work, and the author was a sneering cynical asshole who enjoyed seeing me suffer--started mocking me, saying that a real demiurge really in control of things through unlimited possibilities wouldve figured that out, but i'm just a loser who spent a long time being human and therefore my mind has very human limitations. i started arguing with the author, saying that theyd written me this way and have no right to mock me, that despite this attitude they have this clearly is some form of venting theyre doing through art, and they need to take something seriously for once. my limitations are simply a reflection of theirs, and their mockery is their pained wailing in disguise. they were like well i dont like your attitude so because youve decided to be a little bitch about it i will now punish you by making you experience every death that ever happened to anyone and WILL have happened to anyone. so i did. it was awful. the prophetic visions of what sort of carnage famine disease and freak accidents the future has in store for humanity, they were almost as bad as the historical part. reminder: i feel pain in my dreams. anyway once that was done, and it did in fact feel to me like actual centuries were passing, actual centuries of nothing but agony, i told the author they were a vindictive bitch, incapable of comprehending the suffering theyre inflicting. if they ever felt even a fraction of what they dish out without much thought, they would curl up and cry and never do anything again. they told me i just objected to the way i'd sculpted my own consciousness. that to be a human, advanced and philosophy oriented as we are with our proportionally large complex brains, is to reject all inevitability as barbaric. i said that was stupid--humans are still, despite our unique traits, simply part of the animal kingdom, and more broadly made of the same matter as the rest of the universe, a continuous lattice of reactions among many other, a sustained chain that hasn't stopped since the very first instance of reproduction occurred between two organisms. the author just favors the human perspective because theyre biased and write what they know.

then the author felt like doing something petty once more so they decided to put me in a situation where im trying to buy art supplies but my dad is also there undermining everything i say. i said: this wont get to me--author, it seems you dont know me all that well, for buying art supplies was indeed one of the only type of occasion where my dad Would just let me do what i needed to do and would more or less trust i knew what i was doing. the author laughed and said, and yet you were able to summon a version of events where he does act poorly in this context. how cruel and unfair of you, to imagine something so uncharitable. how can you be sure of anything you remember? and i was going to give a reply but things around me started glitching out. people got spaghettified and turned into like. ok imagine a coral reef but its people.

i think i mustve argued with the author about some technical accuracy in their depictions of trains? i got to experience some train crashes as punishment

so yeah im awake now and i dont feel like ive gotten a lot of rest considering i just escaped time prison

[cinnamongorll]

a fragile line - chapter 2

read on ao3! (111k words) | previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female OC

Tags: extreme slow burn, age gap, older man/younger woman, protective joel, jealous joel, hurt/comfort, pov third person, mutual pining, angst, sexual tension, friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, feral joel, parental abuse.

Fic synopsis: three years ago, Juliet escaped her father's religious survivor camp, ending up in the Boston QZ. Juliet created a life for herself in Boston, desperate to forget the trauma of her upbringing. One day, Juliet arrives home to find a mysterious letter which forces her to return to her home town. Juliet can't travel the harsh post-apocalyptic landscape alone, so she enlists the help of the grumpy and, at times, frightening man she works alongside: Joel Miller.

Word count: 2.4k

Chapter 2: ‘Put It On Me’

Joel Miller: cold, aloof, and famously uncharitable. 

Not a man you could ask for a favour. Especially not to join a stranger in a highly dangerous and potentially deadly journey across the country.  

But Joel, despite his reputation, was not a god, he was only a man and that meant he could be bribed or blackmailed, perhaps. 

Drugs or alcohol were not an option. Despite being the most sought after product in the Qz, Joel wouldn’t be interested. He was the one who sold them. 

A dull ache had begun to spread across the back of Juliet’s skull. She dropped her head onto the table and felt the sweat coating her skin stick to the glossy paper of the map. 

The spiral turning in her mind started to pick up speed again, her darkest thoughts now gripping her lungs. Juliet forced herself to take a deep breath, and another, and another. Her father knew where she was now, she had to get out of her apartment and out of the QZ, fast. 

Juliet thought back to every interaction she could remember having with Joel, every time their eyes met or every time he looked away too quickly. Joel was impenetrable, always holding his thoughts close to his chest. 

Juliet sat up quick, her hand instantly reaching to her forehead to calm the wave of dizziness that washed over her. 

She remembered something: 

Abe, a kind but pliant man, worked the radio for the QZ and held ‘office hours’ on weekdays. Anyone in Boston who wanted to contact another QZ waited in a large queue in the dusty hallway outside Abe’s apartment. 

Not Joel, though. 

Juliet was walking through the building a few days ago when she shuffled past the line of bored residents. With no intention of stopping, she kept her head down and avoided eye-contact, as always. Her pace slowed, however, when she heard a familiar name. Juliet turned her head and noticed two men complaining, not very discreetly, about Joel: 

“This isn’t the first time he’s done this,” grumbled a tall man who leaned against the peeling wallpaper. 

His friend grunted and moved closer, “he just walks past, skipping the whole line like we ain’t even here” he replied, rolling his eyes. 

The tall one snorted, “As if he’s the only bastard in Boston who needs to use the radio.”

Juliet paused, now incredibly interested in the conversation of the two whining men. Joel was sending messages out of the QZ? To who?

Juliet continued to walk past the queue and rounded the corner until she could safely tuck into a dark corner and attempt to catch a glimpse inside Abe’s apartment/office. 

There he was. Joel Miller, sliding a piece of crumpled tin foil across Abe’s desk.

It didn’t take a genius to know what was inside. 

Joel sat forward, his elbows now resting on the dark oak as he watched Abe open the silver package. She was only able to catch a glimpse of his profile but Juliet could still make out the hard clench of Joel’s jaw, locked in place, as he waited for Abe to take a puff. 

They started to talk and Juliet inched forward, careful to remain in the shadow of the corner, but she was too far away to hear any part of the conversation. It was clear it wasn’t going well - for Joel, at least. 

Seconds later, Joel abruptly rose from his chair, the screech of metal rang out along the hallway, and he stalked out of the apartment without looking back. Terrified she might be caught snooping, Juliet was gone before he reached the doorway. 

Juliet shook her head, she had forgotten all about that strange observation, having been immediately caught up in another Firefly ambush when she left the building. 

Now though, the memory flushed her body with adrenaline. She sat up straight, the ache in her head had begun to recede. A plan started to take form in her mind, the different puzzle pieces clicking together. There was someone important to Joel outside of the QZ. If she found out who that was, she could use that information to her advantage.

That meant she had to pay a visit to Abe. 

Unfortunately, he didn’t share intel for free. 

Juliet turned to the window on her right, the glass was clouded, aged with the building. Still, Juliet could make out the dark blue sky as night rapidly descended on Boston. Shock had dulled the passage of time, the minutes silently passing around her. 

Juliet walked to her cupboard, her steps quick as she grabbed her hidden backpack filled with supplies ready to be used at a moment’s notice. With one last mournful look at her apartment, Juliet made her way across the hall to Kenny’s door, the neighbour who didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. 

He broke into her apartment on more than one occasion. It was only fair she repaid the favour. 

Juliet pulled a hair pin from the inside pocket of her jacket and started to work on Kenny's rusted lock. Her neighbour was notorious for arriving back home seconds before curfew, always narrowly missing the enforcers. So Juliet had some time, less than an hour to be exact. 

Seconds later, Juliet heard the familiar metallic pop and she was in. Similar to most in the QZ, Abe was very receptive to bribes. She had witnessed it first hand when Joel expertly slid that tinfoil in his direction and Juliet watched a lazy grin glide over Abe’s face. 

Good thing Juliet knew someone else Joel sold to and good thing that person was stupid enough to leave his supply on his dining table where anyone with a hair pin could find it. The small, chalky white tablets were now safely tucked in her jacket pocket. 

Juliet made her way out of the apartment, cringing as the old linoleum creaked under her cautious steps. She took the time to lock the door behind her before tiptoeing down the stairs and past Margaret’s apartment. Juliet prayed no shadows under Margaret’s door announced her departure from the building. 

Outside, the streets were quiet, most residents of the QZ probably now tucked away in their apartments. A peaceful night of relative safety was taken from Juliet the second she picked up that letter. 

She was on borrowed time anyways, Juliet always knew her father would find her eventually. 

Tendrils of doubt and fear threatened to creep back into her mind and destroy the numbness which currently clouded her thoughts. As she moved through the murky streets, Juliet wasn’t just racing against time.

When she arrived at Abe’s building, Juliet sacrificed a precious moment to rest her back against the red brick wall and let her eyes fall closed. Juliet was not a naturally hostile person, she always prioritised indifference in her daily interactions. But she was a survivor, which meant that she would do anything, be anything to ensure her safety and the survival of the people she loved. Meaning, for Ethan, she would wear a mask of hostility. 

She entered the building and hugged shadows to Abe’s apartment. Juliet didn’t wait for an invitation to enter before she stalked through the unlocked door. 

“Abe, I need a word,” Juliet declared, she kept her voice clipped and steady.

Abe stood by the radio and turned quickly at the sound of Juliet’s entrance. A puzzled expression took over his face, his mouth turned downwards. 

“Juliet? What are you doing here? It’s almost curfew,” he said, his voice cushioned with a cautious tone. 

When Juliet just stared back, Abe released a heavy sigh and walked over to his desk. He pushed back his chair and dropped himself into the padded leather. 

“Take a seat,” Abe huffed as he pointed across his desk at the vacant chair.

Juliet approached at a leisurely pace as she took the seat opposite him. She placed her backpack on the floor, leaned forward in her chair and placed her elbows on the table. Then she straightened her back, attempting to imitate the air of intimidation she had witnessed from Joel. 

“I’ll keep this short,” Juliet asserted. “I need information about Joel Miller.”

Abe’s furrowed brow deepened, confusion now etched in the fine lines of his face.

“Joel?” He asked, before sighing.“I don’t deal in information, Juliet. I just listen to the radio,” Abe replied, dismissal clear in his tone, as he shifted in his chair, moving to stand.

“Stop,” Juliet commanded. She raised her left hand and willed it to stay steady as she reached her right hand into her pocket, pulling out the pills. Just like Joel, Juliet locked eyes with Abe as she slid the contraband.

A smug smile twitched at the corner of her mouth as she leaned back in her chair, folding her arms over chest. 

“Like I said,” Juliet maintained, stretching out the words, giving Abe time to make the right decision. “I need information on Joel Miller.”

Abe stared back at her and for a moment, one terrifying moment, Juliet thought he would throw the pills back at her. But no, Abe’s irritated expression eventually transformed into a sly smile to match her own. 

“Okay. What do you want to know?” he asked, already reaching for the drugs. 

Relief was sudden and intense, it settled deep in her stomach and relaxed her tight muscles. Juliet was careful to not let it show on her face. 

“I know he has someone on the outside he’s contacting,” she paused.“I want to know who.”

Abe whistled low then tossed back one of the pills with a swig of water.

“Well, that’s a whole can of worms,” he replied. 

Juliet raised her eyebrows and made a vague gesture with her hand - go on. 

“He’s got a brother,” Abe began, swallowing rough. 

Once again, Juliet willed her features to remain neutral, to show no sign of the shock now coursing through her body. A brother? 

“He stopped responding to Joel’s messages about three weeks ago,” Abe continued.“Not like him, he usually replies within a couple days. Got Joel all worried.” 

It was Juliet’s turn to be confused. Joel, worried? Juliet had yet to see a glimmer of emotion on the man’s face. He was always so stoic, always so detached. It was a surprise to hear there was someone he cared about, someone he worried about. 

Unaware of the turmoil that raged behind Juliet’s steady features, Abe continued to speak as he rambled something about Joel’s accusation of his incompetence. Juliet collected this new information about Joel and held it close as though it was the key to getting to Ethan. It might well be. 

“I told Joel not to go after him, that it might just be a fault in the signal. But of course he wouldn’t listen,” Abe muttered, rolling his eyes. 

Juliet perked up, tuning back into the conversation… Joel needed out of the QZ.

“Where does his brother live?” coaxed Juliet, attempting to exude only vague curiosity. 

“Wyoming,” Abe replied, shaking his head. “He can’t be serious if he thinks he can travel that far alone…” he trailed off, resting his hands on the desk in front of him.

Wyoming… Juliet’s fledgling plan became a concrete shape, igniting a flicker of hope within her. Her old community, her father’s community, was in Iowa. After years of studying old maps, Juliet was almost sure that it was about halfway between Boston and Wyoming. 

This could work.  

“Is he planning on going alone?” Juliet asked, eagerness seeping into her tone. 

Abe’s eyebrows shot up. “Yes, he’s been dealing for a car battery, no luck though. He can’t wait around much longer,” he replied. 

Juliet nodded as she placed her sweaty palms on the dark wood of the desk and pushed herself out of her chair, grabbing her backpack.

Abe leaned back, rolling a pill between his fingers.

“Juliet… Joel’s a capable guy but there are worse things than infected out there. I hear everything on the radio. There are raiders, there are slavers…” he trailed off again. 

Juliet knew this all too well. 

“I appreciate the concern, Abe, but that’s not what I paid you for,” cautioned Juliet. “Keep this quiet,” she warned, turning towards the door and out of the building.

She didn’t look back. 

Outside, curfew was now in place so Juliet pulled her hood up and moved silently through the dark streets. The pressure in her chest was slowly building through her entire conversation with Abe. Now, it threatened to burst. Juliet stopped on a corner and tucked herself into an alleyway. The rain had started, it splashed off the pavement and dampened her jeans. Juliet’s skin was buzzing, electrified by the string of new information about Joel. 

For years, Joel was a mystery. Juliet had learned more about Joel in that five minute conversation with Abe than she had in the three years they worked alongside each other, and now she had to use her newfound knowledge against him. 

Juliet had no other choice. She would use Joel’s desperation to sedate her own. 

Juliet looked up towards the night sky, letting the rain glide over her skin. She took a long breath, licked the water from her lips and moved out of the alley. Juliet danced along the sides of buildings as she headed towards Joel’s apartment.

She had watched him head home a few times after their shifts, his apartment in the same direction as her own. This time, though, it appeared before her so suddenly that she had to force herself to stop, to calm her racing heartbeat as she made her way to the front door. 

Shivering, Juliet gripped the door handle into the building, turning it open as her heart continued to pump more adrenaline straight into her gut.

Juliet stalked up to Joel’s apartment, releasing a trembling breath from her damp lips. This was all happening too fast, the puzzle pieces forming her plan had clicked together so quickly. All she could focus on was the bigger picture. But what about the smaller details? What would she say to Joel? Would he even recognise her? Should she knock the door and risk his neighbours hearing her? 

Juliet didn’t have to agonise over those thoughts for long. Without warning, the rapid sound of multiple locks consecutively turning reverberated through the dark hallway, before the door swung open. 

Joel Miller stood before her, one hand on the handle, the other on the chipped wood of the entryway. Juliet released a strangled gasp, her eyes widened at the sight of his permanent scowl and furrowed brow. 

“Juliet?”

[mitigatedchaos]

The rockets either lift more payload to orbit or less payload to orbit. The bridges either take less time to build and last for longer, or take more time to build and don't last as long. The power grid either has more uptime or less uptime.

When we speak of "merit," we are speaking of whether there will be a higher probability that a particular mission will succeed or have a greater extent of success, or a lower probability.

A credential is not "merit." A credential is a low-dimensionality construct that we may use to estimate merit.

A man who undermines the standards for a credential reduces its correlation to merit.

Money is not "merit." Money is a low-dimensionality construct that we may use to estimate merit.

Given that the world is complex and markets are anti-inductive, it's actually quite challenging to find a profitable niche and then act on it in such a way as to become rich. On the other hand, because it's so challenging, it's true that it does take a lot of time - leaving less time to learn about other things.

Obviously, a formal ruleset implemented by an institution is also a low-dimensionality construct. It is, by necessity, less complex than reality. Institutions don't exist independently of people, and the rules or standards don't come "from nowhere." The idea had to exist in the mind of some specific, individual person.

Reality is constantly changing, so unless the ruleset or standards of the institution are updated, they will gradually become less aligned with reality. One way this happens is that actors within an institution may pursue their own personal interests rather than the organizational mission, unless someone deliberately keeps personnel aligned with the mission (such as firing the guy that hasn't showed up in six months but who keeps collecting a paycheck).

When the underlying reality has changed so that the rules or measures are less aligned with reality, someone who is closer to reality will necessarily be less than 100% aligned with the current rules or measures.

This new success will usually be observable, even though it may be less legible within the existing framework.

I initially wrote up a diagnostic question, but I think you would have found it deeply insulting. Instead, I've decided to provide you with a political gotcha question which cuts your post on the other axis.

Which "Merit" is Boeing?

OK "Merit" can involve a bit of equivocation. On one hand there's "IQ", "G factor", whether you are part of the Calvinist elect, how much money you have earned, how close to the future god-AI you are, how pure your pure white blood bloodline is. This is one thing that people mean by Merit, you just gotta put Elon Musk in charge and everything will be fine.

On the other hand "Merit" can also be expertise, domain knowledge, accreditation, whether you are a actually doctor or you are selling snake oil out of the back of a truck, whether you should trust that doctor to give you legal or financial advice.