#i tried. therefore no one should judge me.

[pixlokita]

I was gonna give up on this sketch but my super talented fren @0wldn0 helped me with the rest of the body and all of Gregory so I finished it TTwTT also love how they drew Greg all tiny he fits in one hand how cute is that 💕💕💕 he’s fine he just got stabbed a little 👌

[loumauve]

rules: choose 4 of your favorite characters from 4 pieces of media as options and let your tumblr pals decide which one most suits your vibe

not tagging anyone because I wasn't tagged either, I just saw this and felt like doing it. so feel free to continue that trend

[terrorbirb]

Guess who doesn't have to report variance and efficiency numbers for manufacturing!!!🎉🎉🎉

[hedgehog-moss]

(There is blood pictured at the end of this post) (well, 1 drop) (don't worry it's mine, not some innocent creature's)

I found a dormouse in my kitchen today, just chilling on the ceiling above my head, watching me cook. Maybe even judging my cooking technique like Ratatouille. I only noticed its presence because there's a bunch of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling above the stove and at one point I heard a rustling, then a crunching noise.

It was eating my herbs.

As if they were a little snack I'd placed here for my dormouse friends. None of my other animals can walk on the ceiling, therefore any food that's near the ceiling must be an offering to the dormice. (I admit, that's sound logic.)

A dormouse family has been living in my walls since before I moved here—I should probably call it a dormouse dynasty, by now. Here's the first post I wrote about them, in 2019 ! The cats eat a lot of them (especially Morille, she loves dormice) but apparently not enough to make the key decision makers in this dormouse community decide that living in my house is more trouble than it's worth.

Every year when they hibernate and go quiet for eight months I have the renewed hope that this time the cats got rid of all of them, but the next spring they wake up and start scratching inside my walls in the middle of the night again. (Not only that's creepy, but it's so loud.)

Anyway, this dormouse, let's call him Alfred. I saw immediately which hole between two stones he'd crawled out of and the first thing I did was to stuff a salt shaker in there to block his escape route. Step 2 was to call for backup—I summoned Morille, and she came down from the living-room 2 seconds later (the cats know it's always good news when I call them to the kitchen while cooking.)

Alfred was panicking.

I grabbed a broom and started threatening him with it like an angry old woman in a cartoon. He tried to flee towards the ladder, but Morille was there. He tried to flee towards the door, but Morille was also there. He tried to hide on top of the fridge, and Morille happily lay siege to it, like my fridge was a Gallic oppidum on top of a hill and Morille was Caesar and his entire army.

Morille was having the time of her life.

But my kitchen door was ajar, and Alfred managed a heroic jump from the top of the fridge to the lintel, like a flying squirrel. He scurried out then grabbed hold of the climbing rose right above the door. When I got out and took this photo, he looked fairly stressed and pessimistic.

I didn't want him to climb the wall all the way to the eaves and go right back into my house, so I went back in to get my broom again, either to make him lose his grip and fall straight into Morille's gaping maw (sorry), or make him run away into the woods (inferior solution; they always find their way back, unless you take them very far away.)

(I used to trap dormice humanely then drive them 3km away to release them near the barn of a neighbour I disliked, but this neighbour has since moved. (Not because of my dormouse warfare, I swear.) There's also an abandoned house in the woods where I used to exile my prisoners, but after a while I started feeling silly driving around the countryside with dormice in the backseat, so I stopped trapping them (it really was a hassle) and just let the cats eat them.)

But Alfred is a combative and resourceful rodent. In the half-minute it took me to go back in and grab my broom, he laid a trap for me.

He ran along the stem of my climbing rose in such a way that his weight made it droop jussst enough to be now hanging at face level rather than above the door. So when I ran outside again with my broom, I was slapped in the face by a thorny rose plant. (For a minute I thought I was crying tears of blood, which seemed worrying, but it was just a scratch above my eye.) (I wish it could leave a tiny scar, so people will ask how I got it, and I will tell them about the mighty dormouse wielding a rose sword.)

I sent these pics to my brother hoping to get some sympathy, and he cropped & desaturated the one with the blood teardrop then sent it back with the comment "you look like an Evanescence song"

By this point I decided Alfred had won this battle. (Not the war, because it's almost autumn aka hibernation time so he probably found another gap between two stones and went right back inside. The war continues.) But this humble dormouse set a Saw trap to poke my eyes out the second I stepped outside my house and I respect that. I admire the way he used his environment to his advantage, and teamed up with my climbing rose to level the playing field (since I had teamed up with my cat first.) He has won the right to spend another winter inside my walls, curled up in my cosy wool insulation, dreaming of dried herbs, thwarted cats, and heroic skydiving from fridgetops.

Well played.

[yourmoonie]

How to manifest an SP

The Neville Goddard way and my interpretation:

Neville:

“When I decided to marry the lady who now bears my name, I applied this principle. At the time, I was terribly involved. I had married at the age of eighteen and became a father at nineteen. We separated that year, but I never sought a divorce; therefore, my separation was not legal in the state of New York.”

Moonie:

Neville had specific circumstances in front of him:

- He wasn't legally divorced

- The Ancient laws of the New York city were getting on his way of marrying his 2nd wife

Neville:

“Sixteen years later, when I fell in love and wanted to marry my present wife, I decided to sleep as though we were married. While sleeping, physically in my hotel room, I slept imaginatively in an apartment, she in one bed and I in the other. My dancing partner did not want me to marry, so she told my wife that I would be seeking a divorce and to make herself scarce – which she did, taking up residence in another state. But I persisted! Night after night I slept in the assumption that I was happily married to the girl I love."

Moonie:

As you can see, despite the annoying circumstances, Neville still believed in his imagination even if his 1st wife wasn't around, even if his 1st wife didn't sign the divorce papers, he still believed in his imagination more than his 3D or his human senses. He slept in the assumption that he was happily married to the girl he loved even if his 3D was showing him the opposite.

Neville:

“Within a week I received a call requesting me to be in court the next Tuesday morning at 10:00 A.M., giving me no reason why I should be there, I dismissed the request, thinking it was a hoax played on me by a friend. So the next Tuesday morning at 9:30 A.M.I was unshaved and only casually dressed, when the phone rang and a lady said: “It would be to your advantage, as a public figure, to be in court this morning, as your wife is on trial. “What a shock! I quickly thanked the lady, caught a taxi, and arrived just as the court began. My wife had been caught lifting a few items from a store in New York City, which she had not paid for. Asking to speak on her behalf I said: “She is my wife and the mother of my son. Although we have been separated for sixteen years, as far as I know, she has never done this before and I do not think she will ever do it again. We have a marvellous son. Please do nothing to her to reflect in any way upon our son, who lives with me. If I may say something, she is eight years my senior and may be passing through a certain emotional state which prompted her to do what she did. If you must sentence her, then please suspend it.”

Moonie:

Despite the fact that his 1st wife was "running away" from signing the divorce papers or facing Neville so he could marry his second wife, Neville didn't hold any grudges against his ex wife because he believed that his imagination was greater than anything. So Neville experienced a very unique bridge of events, which then later on led him to get whatever he wanted in his 3D

Neville:

“The judge then said to me, “In all of my years on the bench I have never heard an appeal like this. Your wife tells me you want a divorce, and here you could have tangible evidence for it, yet you plead for her release.” He then sentenced her for six months and suspended the sentence. My wife waited for me at the back of the room and said: “Neville, that was a decent thing to do. Give me the subpoena and I will sign it.” We took a taxi together and I did that which was not legal: I served my own subpoena and she signed it. “Now, who was the cause of her misfortune? She lived in another state but came to New York City to do an act for which she was to be caught and tried.

Moonie:

See? She was in another state, but when she came to New York, she was "forced" to do a specific act, which later on became Neville's bridge of events to marrying his 2nd wife. Neville focused on the desire, aka marrying his 2nd wife and not the circumstances (the divorce papers).

Neville:

So, I say: every being in the world will serve your purpose, so in the end, you will say: “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do." “They will move under compulsion to do your will, just as my wife did.” “I tell this story only to illustrate a principle. You do not need to ask anyone to aid you in the answer to a prayer, for the simple reason that God is omnipotent and omniscient. He is in you as your own wonderful I Am ness. Everyone on the outside is your servant, your slave, ready and able to do your will.“

Moonie:

So if people have to move for you, then THEY WILL. Do you want your desire to get externalized faster? Forget about the timing and "trying" and start BEING. If 5000 people have to move for you in order for you to get your desire in a materialized way then they will have to run for you

Neville:

“All you need do is know what you want, Construct a scene which would imply the fulfilment of your desire. Enter the scene and remain there. If your imaginal counsellor (your feeling of fulfilment) agrees with that which is used to illustrate your fulfilled desire, your fantasy will become a fact. If it does not, start all over again by creating a new scene and enter it. In my own case the scene was a bedroom of an apartment, with my wife in one bed and I in the other, denoting that I was no longer living in a hotel alone. I fell asleep in that state, and within one week I had the necessary papers to start action on a divorce.“

Moonie:

You really don't need to beg, or lift up a finger to get whatever you want. Don't focus on the problem, focus on the solution, don't focus on the circumstance, focus on the end goal.

He really proved himself that all he needed to do was to stay true to his imagination.

Do you want your shit faster?

- go straight to the end, accept that your desire is yours (has already been externalized and is yours)

- stand firm

- forgive yourself, forgive the people in your reality bcs they are just playing their roles in your reality.

- It is not your job to worry about "the how" or "the when", your job is to define+decide your desire, then believe and trust yourself that its already yours

Because THERE IS NO SEPARATION

[chic-diet-inspired]

hiii! Do u eat any vitamins to prevent and help with side effects of ⭐ ving and do they actually work😭

Cuz i saw a post with a list of vitamins and now I can't find it

It said something like calcium for deteriorating teeth and bones

And some other stuff for hair loss, skin and nails

SUPPLEMENTS

Yes there are lots of supplements you should be taking incase you are fasting or restricting loads. Your body may start falling apart if you don't. I sometimes see people on here eat like a bag of cheerio's and a pack of biscuit and say they reached their cal limit, when they have not eaten anything that was actually nutritious (and also won't help them lose weight). I remember when I first started getting those deficiency markings on my nails. I hunted everything on the internet about it. It was either calcium or zinc deficiency. I had to look into my diet.

I know that Ed is supposed to be self-destructive and some people are okay with the deteriorating health(sometimes it is their goal) but I want to be a parent in the future and therefore I make sure to take care of myself. I do not judge anyone who does not want kids or are happy with the side effect of not having periods, struggling with an Ed is hard on itself and this community should be as tight knit as possible and support each other.

Back to the topic, I take zinc and iron supplements(Zinc for good hair and skin and iron for good periods and blood flow) because I noticed that I was having a lot of hairfall. Similarly I had tried being vegan and it didn't work out for me much, hence the white marks on my nails. I need the calcium. I also use vitamin E externally for hair and skin. Also everyone in my family takes a vitamin D3 tablet once every fortnight. I try to get all my macros in for the day, eat balanced diet with protein, carbs and veggies(roughage), and then when I have completed my daily quota of healthy eating only then can eat one thing that I like. I also practice intuitive eating. But again what works for me may not work for you.

So my suggestion, see what feels right for your body. Look at the signs and what you are lacking a consume those supplements. And again supplements in themselves can be expensive as well so if possible try to change your diet first to cater to your needs. And also consuming supplements over a long period of time can cause resistance to them. This happened to my grandma. She used (and still takes, god knows why) calcium supplements but when she fractured one of the bones in her spinal cords the doctor looked it up and found out that she has calcium deficiency and none of the supplements were working for her. They had to give her calcium shots. So be careful what you put in you body.

And again look for what time each supplements needs to be taken, how it is going to work and what foods to avoid in case you are taking them. Like lesser salt consumption in case you decide to take iodine.

Here I attached some pictures that might help.

[booksandabeer]

Stucky, Fandom Longevity, and "Primacy Bias"

There’s this post that's been floating around the past few days about how the Stucky fandom in its heyday produced fic and art masterpieces like they were all collectively possessed by an unprecedented spirit of creative insanity. It’s a good, fun post and I agree with the person who wrote it. (not rb'ing because I didn't want to hijack their post with something that's only tangentially related).

It was indeed a magical time and the creative output in both quantity and quality in the two-year period following the release of CA:TWS is—with perhaps a few exceptions—unmatched by anything that I’ve seen before and since. However, going through the notes on that post, I noticed something that left me a little irritated and quite frankly sad since it is in congruence with, and to a certain extent the confirmation of something that I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.

For one thing, there are so many people in the notes expressing sentiments along the lines of “it was such a wonderful time; I wish I could go back; I miss these fics; I want to read these fics again,” etc., etc., you get it. And it feels a little silly pointing this out, but…you can just do that? Almost all of these fics are still right there, waiting for you to be (re)read. Yes, a lot of people left the fandom after The Great Devastation of 2019, but their stories didn’t just disappear. It's not like there is now a big, black hole where the Steve/Bucky tag used to be on AO3. So, if you miss these fics and you want to revisit them—just do it. Chances are the authors will be delighted that people are still finding and enjoying their stories all these years later. And—since apparently this needs saying, too, judging from the notes on that post: A lot of people seem to be very concerned with losing ‘coolness points’ for openly admitting that they still miss the ship and often feel tempted to dip their toes back into the Stucky pool. I don’t know how to tell you this, but if someone tries to shame you for simply enjoying or missing something, they are an asshole. Not to mention that all this is happening on tumble.com—'coolness' doesn't exactly live here. And that is a good thing, to be clear. Fandom is not about being cool. It’s about being as enthusiastic, as silly, as absolutely fucking unhinged about the things you love as you want to be. So, stop caring what other people think and enjoy yourself.

The other thing is that there seems to be a pretty widespread misconception that the Stucky fandom hasn’t produced any good fanworks after 2016.

First, that is patently and demonstrably untrue. There is so much incredibly good fanfiction and fanart still out there. Not as much as back in the day, sure, but it still exists. And more is being posted every day! Even some of the OG Big Names are still around. One of the most beloved Stucky series that started all the way back in 2014 was updated as recently as December of last year. The artist, who I believe the op is referring to as creating ‘baroque’ paintings, posted their latest Stucky art not even two months ago.

Second, I find this “primacy bias” more than just a little insulting to the many hardworking and incredibly talented people who are still putting their blood, sweat, and tears into creating for this community. And it’s one thing if people who have long left the fandom believe or say something like this, but it’s frankly irritating when I see people who are still very much active—and therefore definitely should know better—feed into that same false myth. Yes, it sucks that the Stucky ship isn’t as big as it used to be, but that doesn't mean there isn't any 'fresh talent' to be found anymore. I’m also not saying we shouldn’t still celebrate and recommend older works—I do it all the time! And it sure as hell doesn't mean everyone has to reblog absolutely everything all the time, either. Your blog, your rules.

But maybe we should put a little more focus on the good things, on the creators and the community we have now, especially if we want that community to still exist in another ten years. I mean, imagine you’re a person who’s just gotten into the fandom (because yes, there are indeed still new people discovering Stucky all the time) and one of the first things you’re being told is “eh, nice that you're here, but you’re about 7 years late; the big party is already over.” Does that seem like a fun space to hang out in to you?

So. Let’s all—and I do not exclude myself from this because God knows, I love to complain—spend a little less time mourning the ‘good old days’ that are never coming back anyway, and instead focus our attention on enjoying and appreciating both the incredible treasure chest of an archive we have AND the wealth of high-quality art and fic that is still being created by this wonderful community every single day. With this in mind:

🥳🎊Happy Stucky Week 2023!!! 🎊🥳

*I want to make it very clear that this is a general thing that’s been on my mind lately and that I’m trying to work through here—probably not very coherently. I'm not trying to tell anybody 'how to do fandom' and I’m most definitely not vagueposting about any particular incident, person, or group in this fandom. This isn’t a callout post. It’s an I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about this and I don’t know what else do with them post.

[glitteringcrab]

Evil Morty and the other Mortys (part 2)

A continuation of this blog.

Theory 7: Internalized victim blaming

Evil Morty is not the only Morty acting extremely harsh to other Mortys. We've already seen random Mortys in the Citadel being jerks to other Mortys.

1) Mortys in Morty Town seem to be particularly aggressive towards Cop Morty. It's unclear if it's because he's a cop (and therefore they're equally aggressive to Cop Rick), or if it's because a Morty accompanied by a Rick. Or if they are aggressive to Cop Rick because he dared enter Morty Town. It could be all of the above.

Cop Morty, in turn, returns the favor.

Here we have a Morty who dares to utter the phrase "Mortys are human!" (I mean... is it a matter of debate?! YIKES)

And he gets (a) called a "Rickless animal" (b) electrocuted for his trouble.

Soon after, we see Cop Morty:

(c) calling Mortys another derogative term ("yellowshirts")

(d) electrocuting another Morty for absolutely no reason:

Note that the derogative insults obviously apply to Cop Morty as well. He, too, is a Rickless Morty, as he keeps making clear that Cop Rick is simply his partner, not his Rick. And he might wear a uniform right now, but at some point in the past he definitely wore a yellow shirt.

2) AT THE SAME TIME, having a Rick is also an insult:

(and things escalate fast)

3) Initially, Cop Morty was capable of overplaying his "Mortyness" to other Mortys...

...who also did the exact same thing to him, before making fun of him:

Mortys are also overplaying their Mortyness to Ricks...

...which apparently is a thing that happens often, judging from Cop Morty's immediate explanation:

Cop Morty tries the exact same technique against his partner... (and it's clear at this point that Cop Morty actually liked Cop Rick... but doing as Cop Rick was asking him to do would have serious consequences for him, so Cop Morty put his own well-being first)

However, Cop Rick is wise to this trick by now, and so he is ready. He shoots first.

4) Mortys are quick to throw other innocent Mortys under the bus, so that they can escape:

Here is a description of the Mortys responsible for the perpetration of the store robbery:

No noteworthy features. Just four normal Mortys.

And here is a picture of the Morty Town Locos:

They have facial tatoos... THEY DIDN'T ROB THAT STORE.

5) Cop Morty is ready to go to extreme measures to erase every trace of the Morty Town Locos:

Do any of the above sound familiar?

Derogative terms to other Mortys...

...including self...! (pretty justifiably though, in this case)

2. Getting angry at the suggestion that he is accompanying a Rick:

3. Overplaying his Mortyness

4. Throwing innocent Mortys under the bus:

5. Going to extreme measures for your own well-being...

They're all textbook variations of the things Evil Morty has been doing.

Which makes sense. After all, if he is one of the many excess clones in the Citadel, then his experiences must be similar to the experiences of the other unwanted Mortys, and they should have similar reactions. The only difference between them is that his actions have been careful, calculated and ultimately successful (and, uh, excessive), whilst theirs have been uncoordinated and heated.

If we take into account all of the above, it seems to me that there might be a lot of internalized victim-blaming among the excess Mortys of the Citadel.

If they partner with a Rick, they're sell-out yellowshirt Mortys who throw away their self-respect in favor of Ricks' interests, who choose to turn a blind eye to all the atrocities Ricks have been committing, who worship an undeserving being all for the sake of a mocking semblance of family, encouraging other Mortys to engage in the same self-destructive act. They want to be a human shield. (They might as well be a human shield, then...)

If they don't partner with a Rick they have very few tools in their disposal to survive. They have to become as ruthless and unforgiving as their surroundings. They have to become their own Rick, so that they can catch up to their Rick-full environment. And the Mortys who choose to not do that? It's their fault for being weak and emotional and not doing what needs to be done. I mean, think of it. Evil Morty overpowered his Rick simply by making him drunk. Literally every Morty could do that, if they wanted. They just choose not to. Morty Prime can disassemble neutrino bombs. My bet is he could assemble one too, if he wanted. He could easily kill a black-out drunk Rick C-137, if he decided to. Or he could try to find a way to keep Rick in stasis, so that he doesn't return via Operation Phoenix. But he doesn't. He chooses to let the abuse keep happening to him, so he's deserving of his fate.

(I mean, not really, of course, but I can totally see Ricks mocking their Mortys for not having the guts to stand up for themselves and claiming that Mortys want the abusive relationship to continue... otherwise, why even enlist in a Morty Agency, if not because you want more of the same?)

(At the same time, Ricks manipulate Mortys into believing they're selfish for trying to set boundaries... Into believing they're evil for not putting Ricks' wellbeing first.) (might as well actually be evil then, huh)

...I'm glad the Citadel's gone.

[boundinparchment]

Blasphemous Rumors - II

“Marry me.” He said it with such blasé that you weren’t sure you heard him correctly. Silence surrounded the two of you and he leaned down and tilted his head, watching you like a specimen under a microscope. “Just for a year. A marriage of convenience. Consider it nothing more than a harmless experiment for the sake of curiosity.” Il Dottore/Female reader with established personality. Marriage of convenience. Slow burn. Semi-enemies to lovers. Available on AO3 here. Likes, reblog, and comments appreciated.

“Marry me.”

Your head snapped up from the ledger, a finger sliding across the paper to hold your place.  Just when you were piecing something together, too.  

“I’m sorry, Lord Harbinger?” 

Did Dottore just…demand you marry him?

He said it with such blasé that you weren’t certain you heard him correctly.  Silence surrounded the two of you in your office but several pairs of eyes tried and failed not to stare.  Your coworkers tried hard and failed to look busy, shuffling papers and talking only low enough to give the illusion that they were minding their own business.

No, you had heard exactly right.  And so had everyone else.

Panic seared through you, turning your blood to ice.  Did Lord Pantalone know all along about you passing off information and had asked Lord Dottore to finish you off?  The Second Harbinger was known for his…eccentricities, after all, but…proposing to random members of staff…

He was dead serious and annoyed at your question, judging from the thin line of his mouth.  He leaned down and tilted his head, watching you like a specimen under a microscope.

Dottore pressed his hands flat against the surface of your desk and came closer still, closer than he’d ever been in any capacity previously.  You could smell the lingering scent of disinfectant along with mint and something muskier, his mask almost stabbing your nose.

What the actual fuck was he doing?

“Just for a year,” he clarified at last, voice low enough for only you to hear.  “A marriage of convenience.  Consider it nothing more than a harmless experiment for the sake of curiosity.”

Marriage wasn’t exactly something to simply spring on a person.  For a Harbinger, you imagined that, if it ever happened, it was strategic and political.  Lord Dottore was potentially not even at liberty to offer his hand in marriage to begin with and therefore…

“Are you well, sir?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then you should know that this is neither the time nor the place for such a thing.  You are causing a scene.”

The very air between you seemed to have dropped several degrees and you heard even less chatter from the surrounding offices as the words left your lips.  By now, everyone was listening.  You held little doubt that Lord Pantalone himself had been informed and was somewhere in the main lobby, watching the entire affair like an act of an opera.

Would you end up like your predecessor, your guts splattered across the carpet?  Remembered as the one who refused to answer the Second Harbinger’s demands?

Lord Dottore let out a breath through his nose but straightened to his full height, putting the usual professional distance between you again.  If he were anyone else, the anxiety that sat deep in your chest, clawing at your throat, would have relented.  He pulled his arms behind his back, the feathers of the bird mantle across his shoulders shuddering with the motion.

“I see.  Then I shall return when your work is done for the day.  In the meanwhile, consider it.  Thank you for your usual diligence.”

He turned heel and left without another word.  It was so quiet that you swore you heard someone’s hairpin drop three offices down the hall.  Your heart hammered in your chest, pulse thrumming in your ears.  Whispers swarmed the office as soon as the elevator chimed closed and you inhaled sharply as Lord Pantalone came into view from your doorway, his eyes fixed on the elevators before he turned his attention to you.

Your boss regarded you with a golden stare that gave away nothing except the slightest hint of curiosity, a dark brow arching so subtly that you thought it was a trick of the afternoon sunlight.  Dread wrenched up from the pit of your stomach and gripped your heart.  It was the same look that he had given the appeal to your parents’ plea for leniency, for reconsideration of their loan rate.  You kept your face as impartial as possible, willed your hand to relax before you broke your pen.

Lord Pantalone said nothing but offered an enigmatic smile that you longed to wipe off of his ridiculously well-kept visage with your knuckles.  Before you could say anything, he turned back to the absurdly quiet lobby and to your colleagues, all of whom were milling around in anticipation.  

His eyes closed as his smile grew wider and he said, in the most saccharine voice, “Don’t you all have work to do?”

Agreements chimed from all sides and the office hummed with energy again.  It didn’t stop the looks over shoulders, the whispers, but you never expected it to.

Your boss disappeared again and you returned to the ledger in front of you briefly before deciding your lunch break couldn’t come at a better time.

__________________________

Lord Dottore did, in fact, return.  

You’d only just made a fresh cup of coffee, strong enough to keep you going for the next few hours, and wished your last colleague goodnight before settling in with the ledger from earlier.  It was too risky to do more than review anything during the day and the excuse of overtime was like a blanket on a cold day, the perfect protection.

Not every day, of course.  Too much overtime would raise questions.  Once or twice a week was enough to actually catch up on work and make any handwritten copies as needed.

This ledger outlined a particular noble’s outstanding balances but they seemed lower than they should have been.  The cash flow didn’t make sense.  A Snezhayan noble who might be funneling his money out of Snezhnaya was indicative of something.  

What, you couldn’t quite tell; then again, it wasn’t your job to analyze, merely observe and pass along potential leads.

Between your usual workload and the additional information you were hunting for, you’d given little thought to the previous events from earlier.  Lord Dottore had called the idea an experiment but you couldn’t help but wonder why and what, precisely, he would gain from being married for a single year to an absolute stranger.

Or, rather, acquaintance.  He knew who you were, in the roughest sense anyone could expect of the Second Harbinger.  

What you stood to gain from such an experiment wasn’t lost on you.  Any Harbinger connection was nothing to sneeze at and being the Second’s spouse probably came with more than you even considered.  Even afterwards, assuming you survived to tell the tale, those who served well were rewarded generously.  

Your parents’ debt could be settled and their records wiped clean.

But that still meant marrying a Harbinger.  Temporarily.

Ingratiating yourself further into the very system that put you here to begin with.  But information would be readily accessible.  Boundaries could be pushed with a mere assertion of position.

Passing it along would be far more difficult though.

And the Second Harbinger was not a man anyone wanted to piss off.  He’d killed Krupp for far less, you heard.

Lord Dottore clearly expected a ‘yes’ or at least a very well-thought-out declination.

You pushed your personal copies into an envelope just as you heard the elevator bank chime and the muted cadence of metal tapping carpet.  Instead of his usual attire, you were surprised to find the Lord Harbinger had abandoned his coat and the mechanical bird.  He still wore his gloves and the ridiculously obnoxious metal ornaments over a deep blue shirt, held close by a leather harness around his torso.  

It’s not like the harness was ever inconspicuous, of course—the ring and choker portion were never hidden by his cravat, after all.  

Did that one lock of hair always curl around his earring like that, you wondered.

“I did not expect you to be the last person to leave for the night,” he said by way of greeting.

“Disappointed you didn’t get to scare my colleagues again, Lord Harbinger?”

“Lord Pantalone takes care of that well enough, I’m certain.”

You gestured to the chairs in front of your desk and for the first time in several months, he actually took a seat after closing your office door.  Part of you expected him to extend his long legs and place his boots onto your desk but instead he crossed one ankle over his knee and settled back into the chair, hands clasped; he was never without his usual self-assured arrogance but at least he knew his boundaries, you assessed.

His head was angled down, perhaps looking at his hands for a second, before he angled his head to look at you.  Damn that mask.  At least Lord Pantalone went without obscuring his face, metaphorical though his mask was.  

“Have you given further thought to my offer?” Dottore asked.

“Am I allowed to ask questions?  Or are you simply looking for an answer, sir?”

He lifted his clasped hands and opened them slightly before settling them down in his lap, a silent offer to speak further.  You took a sip of coffee in an attempt to steel your nerves first.

“I was under the impression matrimony was reserved for the Tsaritsa’s discretion, firstly, in which case I’d rather not be on the receiving end of her ire.  If that’s not the case, why me?  And why would you put such a short window on what you are thinking of as simply another experiment?  It doesn’t seem very like you to put limitations on anything.”

You caught a glimpse of sharp teeth, his grin a little wider than you usually saw it.

“The Tsaritsa has no say either way.  We may be the enforcers of Her Will but we are not without autonomy.  As for the time-frame, it is not my stipulation.  Rather, it is the position I find myself in.  No doubt, in part, due to your great diligence in terms of tracking my spending and lack of return on investment.”

So he did blame you.  Shit.

He opened his hands again, gesturing slightly for emphasis as he continued.

“If I can commit myself to another for a single year, Lord Pantalone will approve whatever budget I wish, carte blanche.  Only for a year and it has to be someone whose name I know.  If I fail, every Segment is subject to stricter budgeting and I cannot afford more barriers between me and my research.  The Nation quite literally depends on half of the technology I have developed, never mind Her Most Noble Majesty’s wishes.”

Lord Pantalone would do such a thing, you well knew.  He enjoyed the positions that his power and his money could put people in.  And even those who were business partners were not exempt from it.  Much as the Second had little limitations on his own work, you knew enough between your work and the contracts your parents signed to know that Lord Pantalone was very much the same.

But Lord Dottore deserved to have a taste of failure every once in a while and bear the consequences of his actions.  

The Fatui was one giant house of wolves.  They should eat one another once in a while, you thought dismissively.

Besides, a lot of people knew your name.  That Lord Dottore did was, you supposed, an honor considering how little he cared for anyone or anything.  But you were his accountant.  It probably stemmed from enough respect to be civil to get what he wanted and you never thought much of it.

Dottore continued. “Such a situation does lend itself to an interesting social experiment, admittedly, and thus I am…curious.  Not quite as controlled as I prefer: a year is almost nothing in terms of time; there’s far too many variables.  But life is a series of experiences.  I would be remiss to not seek out new ones.“

“Why would I agree to something that would put me out of a job once my name is dry on the divorce papers?”

That was assuming, of course, that you survived at all, but you weren’t going to tempt fate.

Truthfully, you hadn’t expected him to be so forthcoming with the information.  And it must have shown on your face.  The grin reappeared again with a flash of teeth and Dottore gave a low laugh.

“Dear Accountant, you stand to gain far more than me.  But you are the perfect test subject.”

“Because you know my name?”

Dottore uncrossed his legs, planted his feet on the floor, and leaned forward.  His humor was all but gone as he pressed his hands flat against your desk again.

“And here I thought you might actually be clever.  If I’m going to do this ridiculous farce, I cannot actually seek out a proper spouse to match my station.  Not without destroying several political connections and throwing off what is already a delicate balance between the Tsaritsa and the Court.  You have an understanding of the Fatui, work for a Harbinger, and I tolerate you enough to converse with you for longer periods than most.”

He tapped your desk with his middle finger on every point, as if everything was already charted out in a diagram.

“Most importantly, you don’t tremble in my presence like everyone else.  A spouse who fears me would be a liability to both my status and work.  You’re an asset.  Surely that’s something even you can understand.”

Not that you liked being compared to something to be owned and preserved to retain value but you could see his point.  Negotiations never involved revealing one's cards, not all of them, and you couldn’t quite understand what you might not be seeing.

Divorce settlements among nobility were, you well knew, generous.  Mora didn’t solve everything but it would remove the lien on the tiny home and workshop, stop the debt collectors from threatening your father, and clear out the remaining balances owed.  

Forever branded as the Second Harbinger’s ex-wife; it was less a badge of honor and more the mark of an outcast.  Once that title settled over you, all trust would be gone, along with the power that came with status and rank.

You stood to lose a lot, you thought.  A quick rise and a high fall.

“You didn’t answer my question, Lord Harbinger.  If you are successful, I will be, at best, given a different position but I will also bear the title of divorcee for the rest of my life once everything is over.  A year to help you comes at a very high cost for me.  A year’s worth of social standing is not worth that risk.”

“Then take the time frame out of the equation for all I care.  That suits me even better.”

“But you said—”

“I never said anything about divorce, just that the marriage needed to last a year.  If you’re willing to go beyond that time, then I see no issue with it; a long term experiment might be fun, after all.  Just don’t be obvious with any indiscretions.”

You flinched slightly, cheeks warming.

“I’m hardly the most pleasant man, Accountant.  I wouldn’t demand a marital bed from someone who agreed to this nor expect one to be celibate if it does not suit them.”

You bit your tongue, swallowing a retort that was, at best, tasteless, and at worst, attention-seeking.  You couldn’t believe you were still entertaining this, let alone finding the newer terms agreeable.

But it would put you at a better advantage; that was undeniable.  More confidential information meant more money and you wouldn’t have to rely on Dottore’s coffers.  No matter who you married, if ever, you remained determined to be self-reliant in that regard.  And you got the sense that the less you needed to bother Dottore, the better.

Nothing would be more satisfying than taking the Fatui down from the inside.

You thought of your parents, toiling away at a debt they would never be able to repay; a debt that would be passed onto you.  Your father couldn’t keep it up forever, not with the way his cough sounded according to…

None of this was about you.  You had long accepted that.  But you might as well be useful.

“Fine.  I’ll do it,” you said at last.  “I’ll marry you.”

Dottore smiled, hiding his teeth and tilting his head to the side.  In any other situation, you would have considered it almost charming.

“I’m glad you came to see reason, Accountant.”

He reached towards your collection of fountain pens and pulled the silver letter opener you kept there out from its brethren.  It was shaped like a sword, an imitation of a Fontainian broadsword you saw on display for all of ten minutes.  He twirled the letter opener between his fingers, as if testing its weight, and then pressed the blade to your cheek.  

You felt a sharp sting, not unlike that of a paper cut, just enough to be naggingly painful.  Dottore tapped your nose with the flat of the letter opener.

“Bear in mind, I will address any and all threats to my station, my research, and my goals as I see fit.  No matter who they come from.”

“I would expect no less, Lord Harbinger.”

“As long as we understand one another.”

Your gut knotted itself as your mind raced.  He didn’t know, you told yourself.  He didn’t know about your parents, about the desperate actions you’d taken over the years, about the envelope you cast aside containing sensitive information that had yet to be sealed and addressed.  

Lord Dottore did things to keep people on their toes.  You were no exception.

You looked at him, presumably making eye contact with where you expected his eyes might be behind his mask.  He then placed the letter open back into its holder, the glass ringing as the tip reached the bottom.  You caught the slightest flash of red as the blade settled.

He rose to his feet and pulled his shoulders back, and you followed suit out of habit.  Your hands rested with your fingertips pressed against the desk, unsure of where they should be.  

“I will inform the Tsaritsa myself, although She will likely want an audience to assess you.  I do not expect her to allow me the sanctity of a private affair; I will leave most of the planning to you, if that’s the case.  Have a good evening.”

You nodded, urging yourself to not break eye contact.  He left your office without another word and you didn’t exhale until the elevator doors creaked open and shut, signaling you were alone.

You brought a hand up to your cheek, your skin wet and sticky.

It was just business, you reminded yourself.  Nothing you couldn’t handle.

__________________________

For someone so well-versed in numbers, calculations, and analysis, she is surprisingly daring.  Then again, that’s what makes this subject so intriguing.

My findings shall be recorded here, as usual, but I do not yet have a hypothesis to pose.  

I do detest those that tremble and cower, afraid to challenge me because of my reputation, my status.

If one does not ask questions, one will never find the answers they seek.  Assuming that one knows everything about this world and those beyond it is foolish; although I am closer to the truth than most, even I know there is more to this realm yet to be discovered.

And without toppling that floating island, that knowledge will never come to light.

Regrator knew what he was doing, offering such a reward for something so trivial.  Although I have access to more here than I ever did in that wretched institution, I am still beholden to ridiculous standards that cannot and should not be applied to me.  Unlimited funding would provide the other half of what I already have; I have turned time into a commodity, after all, which is one of the largest challenges anyone ever faces in terms of research.

I digress.

The second I realized the individual who might be tolerable enough to endure in the long term, I could think of no other.  Regrator’s stipulations were quite stupid; a year was nothing to me and names were even less than.  She, at least, seeks to understand a full picture whenever we must interact and I know her name because if I did not, I would never get what I wanted.  I would be a piss-poor diplomat if I didn’t know when to learn another’s name, after all.

Quite fascinating that she was so certain I would throw her out into the cold once the first year was up.  A year, while easy enough, is hardly sufficient for results.

And if I must bother with this, I might as well get the most out of it.  This way, I cannot be leveraged in a political alliance and I can explore, at least in part, what it is so many seem to enjoy out of a union with another.

I never gave it much thought before…it still seems like a waste of time that could be spent elsewhere.

But she is tolerable and even without receipts in front of her, does not back away from asking questions, challenging my perspective.

My younger selves never appreciated that.  I’ll need to manage their interactions and set boundaries.  Especially that pesky one who killed Krupp.  

I can’t exactly have my wife killed by my own hand before I have secured Regrator’s end to our bargain.  It would be in poor taste to have her expire at all but surely even she would understand that fine line between an asset and a liability.  

My present self finds most people lacking and her presence is a strange routine that I have begun looking forward to.  

I suppose that is a better place than any for the foundation of a long-term union.

[strangersteddierthings]

Untitled Song

An installment in the The Interview universe.

"This is a love song."

"What? No, it's not!" Steve argues, looking back down at the notebook.

"It reads like a love song. The little bit you just sang for me has love song vibes," Robin leans more of her weight onto Steve's back, where she's standing over his shoulder reading the lyrics.

He stares down at the page. "Yeah. Okay. I see it. But, like, I didn't mean it to be all love song vibey."

"I would do it again if I could hold you for a minute," Robin reads in a flat tone, unimpressed.

"Okay! Stop, I don't- I mean- ugh!" Steve slumps forward, resting his forehead on the page of lyrics. "Okay, fine, but like, in context I'm clearly talking about like, reliving my whole life. I would do it all again."

"Did you just say that this is clearly about your whole life because if so, I want to be on the same drugs as you," Robin pushes off of him to move around the table and plop into the chair across from him. She tries her best to level him with a stare, but he doesn't give her the satisfaction by refusing to lift his head. The downside of being soulmates, she decides. He knows what she's going to do and when and can, therefore, avoid it. "Look, I get that he was, like, your first love and high school sweetheart but he couldn't have been that good of a fuck. It was just inexperience that made-"

"Robin!" Steve shouts over her, looking at her now so she can see his scandalized expression. Ha! She takes it back. It's an upside to being soulmates because she knows exactly what to say to rial him up. "It's not about the sex! It's about all of it. Everything. I don't- what Eddie did was shitty and it fucking hurt, but that was ten years ago. This song is about everything."

She doesn't see it that way, but even with how well she's able to read him, Steve's mind has always had its own way of thinking she can't quite nail down. With a sigh, she says, "Alright. Benefit of doubt time. Explain the song to me."

"It's not just about Eddie. It's about my whole life. You know how my parents were, how high their expectations were and how I had to hide almost everything about me while I lived with them. That's the my life was a storm since I was born. How could I fear any hurricane bit. And if I hadn't dated Eddie, like, at all. Well, I was already on the track to being an asshole in elementary school. Can you imagine who I would have been in high school if I was still that kid?

"It's also, like, if Eddie and I had stayed together... If we hadn't- I hadn't broken up with him, would I have met Dustin? Or Lucas and Max? Will or Mike, Nancy, and Jonathan? It's like, the years directly after Hey Steve were absolute dogshit, yeah, but it brought me all the people I love now," Steve looks down to the page again, either avoiding her eye contact or finding it too much. She's not sure which one. "If Eddie and I had stayed together there was only option for my future. Once the car had been fully put in my name, I'd have told Eddie to pick a city and we'd have left, for Eddie to chase his dream while I chased him. I wouldn't have gone to Chicago with you, never had the money to purchase that first place to live with you. Maybe never have discovered I loved interior design and house renovation. So, I would do it all again. It brought me my family."

She understands, now, what the lyrics really mean to him. However, she's also the one person in the whole world close enough to Steve to actually see it. "I get what you are saying. But these lyrics do not tell that story. Knowing your reasoning behind it does make me see them that way. But no one who hears that is going to know your tragic backstory."

"So, should I re-write this?"

"Depends. What is your goal with this... statement. What is the best case scenario."

Steve blinks at her. "Oh. Uh, best case, huh? I guess... I want to talk to Eddie, again. We parted on real bad terms, and I think I want closure from that?"

She narrows her eyes at him, judging. "Are you angry, like, at all?" She is. She's still furious with Eddie. His fucking song had blown Steve's life up virtually overnight. But also, she had thought they were friends, too. She hadn't realized their friendship was conditional, with that condition being he and Steve having to be in a relationship.

And, yeah, logically she knows she was Steve's friend first and it would be easy to default to believing she'd be on Steve's side but she wasn't. Not at first.

When Steve had shown up at her house, having gone straight from Eddie's to hers after he told them they were over, she'd held him through the night as he cried. But in the morning, she'd told him she needed to check on Eddie. He was her best friend, too. But Wayne told her he was gone, left last night to Chicago. Wayne had offered her a ride there with him, after he got Eddie's van running again and went to take it to him.

She said she'd think about it. Tried to reach out over all the socials, but Eddie didn't even check them, and then Hey Steve came out and there wasn't any room left in her to care about Eddie and his emotional state.

Not anymore. Not when he'd left her, too. Not when, even after Robin had made her own way to fame, he declined to meet with her. She'd tried to reach out but who was she, a new comer to the music scene and barely known, to Eddie Fucking Munson, lead guitarist to Corroded Coffin?

"I mean, sure, but like... it's been ten years. I don't- I have better things to think about than how mad I was... am? at Eddie. We were friends, first, y'know. And it's complicated. You know this," Steve says.

"Yeah, yeah," Robin waves off his words, "you're whole Eddie was a part of my life for longer than he's been gone from it thing. I'm not sure that the fifteen years of your childhood should be counted the same as this decade of adulthood."

"I get that you don't want to forgive him, and that's fine. But, forgiveness or not, I want closure."

"Okay. Keep the song as is."

"Really?"

"Yes," Robin says, a Cheshire cat grin spreading across her face. If Steve records and shares what sounds like a love song, there's almost a 100% chance that Gareth will reach out again. She knows they're expecting to see an angry and hurt Steve, but instead they'll get this? Robin's not above playing unfair. She hopes this breaks Eddie, consumes him with a guilt as deep as the original hurt felt. "I think we should let everyone think it's your sad, pathetic, pining for a decades-old-love song. It'll definitely get Gareth reaching out to me and my team again."

"Gareth's reached out?"

"It's his job. He's Corroded Coffin's PR Manager now, apparently. When Lauri told me Gareth had reached out, I asked to be included in the call. Anyway, not the point. The point is, if you want to talk to Eddie, this love song is the trick."

"It's not a love song!"

"Whatever you say, Dingus. Sing it again so I can imagine the music to go with it."

[vaspider]

#op is a nsfw blog so it makes sense that theyre pissed abt not being able to block minors from seeing their stuff#however judging by the note count this post left the nsfw tumblr circulation and therefore is an issue#so definitely listen more to spider if youre just. a casual blogger#i understand why nsfw blogs dont want ageless bio blogs following them but personal safety matters more than porn

Listen.

I saw this a lot on the reblogs for this post, and let me be clear:

Whether or not you are an NSFW blog does not fucking matter, you still should not demand that people put their age in their bio, and that is what that post was doing.

There is a difference between 'if your bio does not include some indication of whether or not you are a minor, I will block you,' and

PUT YOUR FUCKING AGE IN YOUR BIO. PUT YOUR FUCKING AGE IN YOUR BIO. PUT YOUR FUCKING AGE IN YOUR BIO. PUT YOUR FUCKING AGE IN YOUR BIO. PUT YOUR FUCKING AGE IN YOUR BIO. PUT YOUR FUCKING AGE IN YOUR BIO. PUT YOUR FUCKING AGE IN YOUR BIO.

One of those things is cool and acceptable.

One of them is not cool and acceptable, no matter whether or not you are an NSFW blog.

That is what I'm talking about when I say that people on the internet do not understand how to properly set boundaries. (People don't, period. People are shitty at setting boundaries, but it's really bad on the internet.)

It is okay to say "I will block anybody whose bio doesn't contain some sort of indication whether or not they're a minor." I totally support that.

What I do not support, and what is actually fucking WRONG, is ANY POST WHATSOEVER, REGARDLESS OF CONTEXT, THAT TRIES TO SHAME OR SCOLD PEOPLE INTO DISCLOSING PERSONAL INFORMATION...

ESPECIALLY CHILDREN.

Because it is actually worse that this is coming from an NSFW blog trying to tell whether minors are interacting with them or not, because you KNOW that part of your intended audience is kids so that you can filter them out.

Learn to set boundaries FOR YOURSELF and not pressure other people into giving away information.

[nicklloydnow]

THE ARTIST AND HIS TIME (1953)

“I. As an artist, have you chosen the role of witness?

This would take considerable presumption or a vocation I lack. Personally I don't ask for any role and I have but one real vocation. As a man, I have a preference for happiness; as an artist, it seems to me that I still have characters to bring to life without the help of wars or of law-courts. But I have been sought out, as each individual has been sought out. Artists of the past could at least keep silent in the face of tyranny. The tyrannies of today are improved; they no longer admit of silence or neutrality. One has to take a stand, be either for or against. Well, in that case, I am against.

But this does not amount to choosing the comfortable role of witness. It is merely accepting the time as it is, minding one's own business, in short. Moreover, you are forgetting that today judges, accused, and witnesses exchange positions with exemplary rapidity. My choice, if you think I am making one, would at least be never to sit on a judge's bench, or beneath it, like so many of our philosophers. Aside from that, there is no dearth of opportunities for action, in the relative. Trade-unionism is today the first, and the most fruitful among them.

II. Is not the quixotism that has been criticized in your recent works an idealistic and romantic definition of the artist's role?

However words are perverted, they provisionally keep their meaning. And it is clear to me that the romantic is the one who chooses the perpetual motion of history, the grandiose epic, and the announcement of a miraculous event at the end of time. If I have tried to define something, it is, on the contrary, simply the common existence of history and of man, everyday life with the most possible light thrown upon it, the dogged struggle against one's own degradation and that of others.

It is likewise idealism, and of the worse kind, to end up by hanging all action and all truth on a meaning of history that is not implicit in events and that, in any case, implies a mythical aim. Would it therefore be realism to take as the laws of history the future - in other words, just what is not yet history, something of whose nature we know nothing?

It seems to me, on the contrary, that I am arguing in favor of a true realism against a mythology that is both illogical and deadly, and against romantic nihilism whether it be bourgeois or allegedly revolutionary. To tell the truth, far from being romantic, I believe in the necessity of a rule and an order. I merely say that there can be no question of just any rule whatsoever. And that it would be surprising if the rule we need were given us by this disordered society, or, on the other hand, by those doctrinaires who declare themselves liberated from all rules and all scruples.

III. The Marxists and their followers likewise think they are humanists. But for them human nature will be formed in the classless society of the future.

To begin with, this proves that they reject at the present moment what we all are: those humanists are accusers of man. How can we be surprised that such a claim should have developed in the world of court trials? They reject the man of today in the name of the man of the future. That claim is religious in nature. Why should it be more justified than the one which announces the kingdom of heaven to come? In reality the end of history cannot have, within the limits of our condition, any definable significance. It can only be the object of a faith and of a new mystification. A mystification that today is no less great than the one that of old based colonial oppression on the necessity of saving the souls of infidels.

IV. Is not that what in reality separates you from the intellectuals of the left?

You mean that is what separates those intellectuals from the left? Traditionally the left has always been at war against injustice, obscurantism, and oppression. It always thought that those phenomena were interdependent. The idea that obscurantism can lead to justice, the national interest to liberty, is quite recent. The truth is that certain intellectuals of the left (not all, fortunately) are today hypnotized by force and efficacy as our intellectuals of the right were before and during the war. Their attitudes are different, but the act of resignation is the same. The first wanted to be realistic nationalists; the second want to be realistic socialists. In the end they betray nationalism and socialism alike in the name of a realism henceforth without content and adored as a pure, and illusory, technique of efficacy.

This is a temptation that can, after all, be understood. But still, however the question is looked at, the new position of the people who call themselves, or think themselves, leftists consists in saying: certain oppressions are justifiable because they follow the direction, which cannot be justified, of history. Hence there are presumably privileged executioners, and privileged by nothing. This is about what was said in another context by Joseph de Maistre, who has never been taken for an incendiary. But this is a thesis which, personally, I shall always reject. Allow me to set up against it the traditional point of view of what has been hitherto called the left: all executioners are of the same family.

V. What can the artist do in the world of today?

He is not asked either to write about co-operatives or, conversely, to lull to sleep in himself the sufferings endured by others throughout history. And since you have asked me to speak personally, I am going to do so as simply as I can. Considered as artists, we perhaps have no need to interfere in the affairs of the world. But considered as men, yes. The miner who is exploited or shot down, the slaves in the camps, those in the colonies, the legions of persecuted throughout the world - they need all those who can speak to communicate their silence and to keep in touch with them. I have not written, day after day, fighting articles and texts, I have not taken part in the common struggles because I desire the world to be covered with Greek statues and masterpieces. The man who has such a desire does exist in me. Except that he has something better to do in trying to instill life into the creatures of his imagination. But from my first articles to my latest book I have written so much, and perhaps too much, only because I cannot keep from being drawn toward everyday life, toward those, whoever they may be, who are humiliated and debased. They need to hope, and if all keep silent or if they are given a choice between two kinds of humiliation, they will be forever deprived of hope and we with them. It seems to me impossible to endure that idea, nor can he who cannot endure it lie down to sleep in his tower. Not through virtue, as you see, but through a sort of almost organic intolerance, which you feel or do not feel. Indeed, I see many who fail to feel it, but I cannot envy their sleep.

This does not mean, however, that we must sacrifice our artis's nature to some social preaching or other. I have said elsewhere why the artist was more than ever necessary. But if we intervene as men, that experience will have an effect upon our language. And if we are not artists in our language first of all, what sort of artists are we? Even if, militants in our lives, we speak in our works of deserts and of selfish love, the mere fact that our lives are militant causes a special tone of voice to people with men that desert and that love. I shall certainly not choose the moment when we are beginning to leave nihilism behind to stupidly deny the values of creation in favor of the values of humanity, or vice versa. In my mind neither one is ever separated from the other and I measure the greatness of an artist (Molière, Tolstoy, Melville) by the balance he managed to maintain between the two. Today, under the pressure of events, we are obliged to transport that tension into our lives likewise. This is why so many artists, bending under the burden, take refuge in the ivory tower or, conversely, in the social church. But as for me, I see in both choices a like act of resignation. We must simultaneously serve suffering and beauty. The long patience, the strength, the secret cunning such service calls for are the virtues that establish the very renascence we need.

One word more. This undertaking, I know, cannot be accomplished without dangers and bitterness. We must accept the dangers: the era of chairbound artists is over. But we must reject the bitterness. One of the temptations of the artist is to believe himself solitary, and in truth he hears this shouted at him with a certain base delight. But this is not true. He stands in the midst of all, in the same rank, neither higher nor lower, with all those who are working and struggling. His very vocation, in the face of oppression, is to open the prisons and to give a voice to the sorrows and joys of all. This is where art, against its enemies, justifies itself by proving precisely that it is no one's enemy. By itself art could probably not produce the renascence which implies justice and liberty. But without it, that renascence would be without forms and, consequently, would be nothing. Without culture, and the relative freedom it implies, society, even when perfect, is but a jungle. This is why any authentic creation is a gift to the future.”

[sgiandubh]

Pretzel logic

I never liked funerals - who does? - and I have always tried to avoid them, under different pretexts. This is one of the moments we meet the Great Beyond and we are at our most vulnerable. It's only fair and it is not something to be taken lightly, ever.

August 10, 2022 happened a few days before I decided to give OL a try and by the time I landed in here, that YouTube live had already been taken offline, perhaps with good reason.

That people watched it should come as no surprise to anybody: it happens in all cultures and societies - Death fascinates us and makes us curious, even if it's a questionable, voyeuristic kind of curiosity. It was posted for everyone to see, on the biggest content streaming platform on planet Earth. It was posted in consideration of the ending peak moment of the COVID pandemic, to allow for more people to attend, with the family's prior consent. It was most probably shot from the organ balcony, at a respectful distance and I am being told the streaming was blurry: a good thing, if you ask me. People screeching for "more clarity" of those screenshots should, in my humble opinion, think twice: context and taboo and all that.

That people saw something bizarre in the front pew was unavoidable. That the said detail (Occam's Razor would help us conclude that ambiguous things are usually anything but...) was screenshot, edited and made its way in here and elsewhere - impossible to control. However, I have not read any disrespectful comments about the event. Nobody snarked. Nobody grinned. A hole in the plot was pointed out, adding to the whole array of inconsistencies and if I remember well, it was almost missed out entirely (a taboo is a taboo, after all) and started its career online only days after.

Was it shared ad nauseam? Maybe - but who the hell am I to judge? Again, not something you can control, unless you set yourself up as the Torquemadas of this fandom and slap everybody on the wrist with your twisted righteousness. When your people discuss the Data Lounge findings in great, lewd detail, that is called having fun and (I love that one, don't you?) gossiping, as if you were just talking about Miss Scarlett's new petticoat, not a man's reputation. When our people dare to post pictures from a public event, or published for public consumption, that is immediately taxed as being insane or snooping.

A neutral person venturing in here would call out the bias immediately. I call out your hypocrisy and have no problem doing it in writing. And I never peddled neutrality, in here: I simply peddled decency and I remind everyone I have probably never posted any pictures from August 10, 2022 (I will triple check later, but I am pretty sure I didn't). It is a personal choice and, as you know very well, I am not alone in the Shipper community. Far from it.

That you chose August 10 to post the largest, most consistent amount of content I have read on your blogs during the last six months, shows me once more what I already knew: you simply can't help yourself, can you? It's all about slap-a-shipper day, even if this community remained remarkably silent and collected, yesterday. Extremes exist, they are a fact of life: silencing them is useless and unproductive, at least as far as I am concerned.

You have once again showed me your true colors, Mordor. At the end of the day, you do not really have a problem with the pictures floating out there. What you do have a BIG problem with, is the person sitting in the front pew and you would go to great lengths - to any lengths, for that matter - to disguise it under a thick sanctimonious cloak of civic disgust. Your shrieks backfire: if anything, they confirm, not deny. And for the sake of politics, anything goes. It is, therefore, ironic, that in order to post your reasoning, you did look, in great detail and for a consistent amount of time, at the same exact screenshots and pictures you send to hell so gleefully.

Spare me the dramatics.

[xenostalgic]

I recall a tea in one Argentine home, where my acquaintance, a Pole, began to speak about Poland. Again, naturally, Mickiewicz and Kosciuszko together with Sobieski and the Siege of Vienna came riding onto the table. The foreigners listened politely to these passionate opinions and heard that ‘‘Nietzsche and Dostoevski were of Polish extraction,’’ and that ‘‘we have two Nobel prizes in literature.’’ It occurred to me then that if someone were to praise himself or his family in this way, it would be considered quite tactless. I thought that this auction with other nations for geniuses and heroes, for merits and cultural achievements, was really quite awkward from the point of view of propaganda tactics because with our half-French Chopin and not quite native Copernicus, we cannot compete with the Italians, French, Germans, English, or Russians. Therefore, it is exactly this approach that condemns us to inferiority [...] I tried, therefore, to indicate condescension in my voice and began to speak as one who attaches no great importance to the attainments of the nation, whose past is worth a great deal less than its future, a nation for whom the highest law is the law of the present, the law of maximum spiritual freedom at a given moment. Pointing to the foreign elements in the blood of the Chopins, Mickiewiczes, Copernicuses (so that they would not think that I have anything to hide or that anything at all could take away my freedom of maneuver), I said that one should not take too seriously the metaphor that we, Poles, ‘‘gave’’ these people to the world as they were merely born among us. What does Mr. Kowalski have in common with Chopin? Does Chopin’s composition of the ballads raise Mr. Kowalski’s specific weight by even one iota? Can the Siege of Vienna augment Mr. Ziebicki of Radom by even an ounce of glory? No. We are not, I said, the direct heirs of past greatness or insignificance, intelligence or stupidity, virtue or sin and each person is responsible only for himself. Each is himself. Here, however, I had the impression that I was not being adequately profound and that I had to speak more sweepingly (if what I was saying was to be effective). In admitting, therefore, up to a point, that certain specific virtues and the tensions, energies, charms, which are born in a mass and constitute its expression, do emerge in the great achievements of a nation, in the works of its artists, I struck at the very basis of national self-adulation. I said that if a nation truly mature should judge its own merits with temperance, then a nation truly vital must learn to disregard them. It must be absolutely condescending in relation to everything that is not its immediate concern and its current becoming [...] It was not until the very end of my philippic that I discovered the thought, which in that atmosphere of muddled improvisation seemed most excellent. Namely, that nothing that is really your own can impress you. If, therefore, our greatness or our past impresses us, it is proof that it has not yet entered our bloodstream.

—Witold Gombrowicz, Diary

[fangirlfrom-hell]

Several Missed Calls and a Sprained Ankle || Jay Halstead x Halstead Sister one shot

*re-posting this because I'm stupid and accidentaly delated my blog 🫠

Also appearing Will and Connor Rhodes because I miss him.

I'm not a doctor, medical topics are vague.

Friendly reminder that Becca is Halstead sister.

☆

The Intelligence squad had just came back to the bullpen with a suspect in custody when Sergeant Platt came inside to interrupt whatever they were having.

-"Hey, Halstead! I've been receiving calls from your sister's school all day. They said they called your father, but didn't answer, so she asked them to look for you, but your phone was off".

-"I was in a UC run, I always turn the personal off...". He tried to explain himself with guilt.

-"That's what I tried to explain to them. Apparently she's injured and needs to be picked up as soon as possible".

-"Wh-what happened?" He hadn't even finished taking off his jacket and now he was hastily putting it back on.

-"They didn't elaborate on the matter, but they've been calling like crazy every half hour. I even volunteered to go and bring her here, but they did say it would be impossible if I'm not in the list". She pulled a face with that last statement. -"Can you believe that?"

Everybody settled in at the bullpen, all detectives listening to the conversation.

-"Boss..." Jay looked at Voight.

-"Sure, go. What are you waiting for?". He ordered with his arms crossed. -"We can take care of this".

Jay nodded his head as saying "thank you" and walked himself down to the parking lot trying to look chill, although on the inside he was really unsettled for whatever had happened to his little sister. He couldn't avoid being the overprotective big brother, it ran through his veins.

-"Hey, Detective. Make sure you put my name in that freakin' list!". Platt yelled before he crossed the door. -"I don't want to feel so humiliated again". She said in her usual exaggerated way. Then she muttered to herself: I'm a CPD Sergeant, who dares to say 'no' to me like that?

The long road to Becca's school in Canaryville wasn't helpful to ease Jay's mind. He was also feeling abashed for not being able to answer the call on time, although he was not responsible for attending those emergencies, therefore he was not aware of them. And where the hell was his father? Why didn't he answer those calls from school? He cursed him. This wasn't the first time something like this happened.

-"I'm here to pick my sister, Becca Halstead".

-"Oh, sure. We've been calling you for hours. Literally hours". The secretary gave him a judging look, which Jay tried to ignore. -"She's upstairs, the nurse is accompanying her. I'll notify her you're here. Follow me".

Jay followed the woman through the halls of the school until they went outside to the back yard. From the second floor of the building in front of them, he recognized Becca's ginger blonde hair. She was leaning on someone else to walk, looked like she couldn't do it by herself and there was some pain in her tiny face.

-"What happened?" Jay asked without taking his eyes off her.

-"She sprained her foot on the stairs, she didn't roll or hit her head, so there was no need to call an ambulance. It was an accident, some kids were playing around and pushed her unintentionally. We already took action on the matter, don't worry about that".

He walked upstairs to help his sister. As soon as he was able to entirely see her, he noticed how her foot was in the air, shoe untied.

-"Jay!" Becca said with relief.

-"It's all right". The secretary told the nurse. -"Her brother will handle it from here".

-"Is it your ankle? You can't put your foot down at all?"

-"No, it really hurts". Becca moved her head from one side to another.

-"It's a little bit swollen". The nurse talked. -"I applied ointment and ice for the pain, but I can't really do anything else in here. I think it's just a sprain, but she should be checked at the hospital".

-"Yes, I'll take her straight to The Med. Thank you!"

Jay took his badge and gun from his hips and placed them somewhere else in his jeans.

-"Sorry". He said, feeling the alarmed gaze of the two women. Then, he took the girl's backpack and put it on his shoulder. -"All right, Becs. Come here".

Jay hugged Becca and lifted her to carry her down the stairs. It was very easy for him, light weight, the girl was smaller than an average 10 years old. She placed her arms around her brother's shoulder.

-"Take care, Beckie". The nurse waved goodbye as she was taken by the detective.

-"This is so embarrassing". She said looking around to check if somebody was watching them, but the yard was empty, everyone was inside of the classrooms. Jay couldn't resist to laugh a bit. It was a cute funny scene: a big, tall, muscular man with a girly purple backpack hanging from his shoulder and a girl with an embarrassed face in his arms.

He didn't put her down until they were back to the office, where he had to sign some papers before leaving.

-"Is that all?" Jay asked.

-"Yes, you can take her now".

-"Oh! Before I forget". He said turning around one more time to the reception. -"I want to add another person to the list of people who can pick her up".

-"Sure. She does need that". She didn't miss the chance to look at him with a judgy face. -"What's the name of the one?".

-"Trudy Platt". He smirked. Becca just gave him a look.

At the truck, Jay placed her in the co-pilot seat and then opened the back door to put the backpack away.

-"What do you carry in this? Rocks?" He freed his shoulder from the weight.

Becca wasn't a talkative girl, but still she was unusually quiet during the road to the hospital. She only broke the silence to groan in pain, that's when he noticed her teary eyes.

-"Does it hurt?" Jay asked, knowing the answer.

-"Yes. I think it's getting worse".

-"We're almost there, just hang up a little bit".

He wanted to ask Becca about how she had fallen, since his detective instincts knew that it was due to something more than an accident. He opened his mouth to say something he had been holding up, but an incoming call interrupted his intentions.

-"It says Hailey Upton". Becca announced, grabbing his phone.

-"Gotta answer that". He sighed. -"Would you put it in the speaker for me, please?".

Both siblings knew each other quite well. Becca knew how Jay noticed something strange was going on, but she didn't want to be interrogated. And Jay knew how Becca was aware of that and was reluctant to speak.

-"Soooooo...Is Sergeant Platt coming to pick me now if I get sick?" She changed the conversation as soon as the call ended.

-"Is that a problem?" Jay laughed out loud.

-"Well, it's kinda scary".

-"She told me to put her name in the list, I don't know if it was true, though. The thing is that today I was on the streets working a case when all this happened. I didn't have my phone with me, that's why I didn't answer".

-"I imagined that. That's why I told them to call directly to the 21st".

-"Which was very clever of you. I'm sorry I wasn't there earlier, I should have".

-"You don't have to be sorry, I'm not blaming you for anything. You are not even supposed to be responsible for me, anyway".

She had this sort of way to make claims to his father and mother without even realizing it. That last statement made the rest of the road extremely quiet.

The moment Becca crossed the entrance door sitting in a wheelchair, she realized she had never been at The Med as a patient before. Maggie was pushing her to the ER where Will was waiting for his siblings. Due to the type of injury, Dr. Rhodes was assigned to Becca's case.

-"This is too swollen". Connor said while checking her foot. -"On a scale from 1 to 10, how much does it hurt?"

-"Uh, I don't know. Maybe 5?"

Both of her big brothers stared at her teary eyes and her sick gesture, not believing her answer. She was trying so hard not to cry.

-"6?"

-"Are you sure?" The doctor gave her a warm smile. -"I was expecting you to say 10 or maybe even beyond 10".

Becca remained silent, pressing her lips.

-"Ok. We'll do an X-Ray just to make sure it isn't more than a sprain. Meanwhile, the nurse will administer you some pain killers".

He went out of the room to order the studios and made a sign for the siblings to follow him outside, leaving their sister alone with the technicians for a few minutes.

-"What do you think?" Dr. Halstead asked.

-"I don't think she just simply twisted her ankle. For the damage, it must have been a harder impact".

-"Is it bad?" Jay asked with concern.

-"Can't tell until I see the X-Ray. What worries me the most right now is how hard she's trying to take the pain".

-"Yeah, that's something she does". Jay sighed. -"Not only with physical pain".

When the three men entered back to the room, Becca was silently crying, wiping her tears away. Jay was the one that approached to hold her. Her bruised and swollen ankle was a standout in the room.

-"Becca, you have what we call a severe grade 2 sprain and I'm pretty sure it hurts more than a lot right now. Why don't you say anything? You can complain about the pain, that's what hospitals are for".

-"I don't want to be a bother". The girl answered quietly, tears still dropping from her eyes.

-"What are you talking about?" Will walked to be close to the bed.

-"Becca...". Jay sat next to her and bent to be face to face. -"You are not a bother and you will never be".

-"It's just...I'm scared you'll stop answering the phone calls too".

In that moment, everything fell into place and Jay's heart dropped. The conversation suddenly closed to just the two of them, although everyone could hear their words.

-"Bec...I will never stop caring for you. I won't lie, sometimes it gets hard with my work, but I will do what is necessary so that something like today does not happen again. I promise".

-"But you shouldn't, like, you shouldn't be the one in charge of me. I'm a burden".

-"I know what you mean, and I know how you feel about dad, but believe me when I tell you how much it makes me happy to be here for you. I'm your big brother, it actually is my job to protect you. I love you, silly. I would never forgive myself if something happens to you. I wouldn't forgive myself if you didn't have the confidence to call me either".

With all being said and those emotions off her chest, her crying increased in tears and sound.

-"It's a 20. The pain is a 20" She managed to say in what seemed to be overacted, although it was only the natural response to having endured so much physical and emotional pain in such a short time.

-"Let's apply more pain killers". Connor talked to the nurses. -"And let's finish this up". He smiled at the little girl.

Jay found her reaction a little bit cute and couldn't resist smiling a bit when she jumped into her arms.

-"You will have to use the walking boot for at least 4 weeks". Dr. Rhodes informed when he finished. -"That if everything goes well".

-"What about dance lessons?"

-I'm sorry, Becs". -Dr. Halstead got into the conversation. -"That's going to be impossible. You need to give it a rest".

-"Not to mention the pain that would cause you".

-"Is she going to be able to be back when her ankle heals?"

-"If she listens to my recommendations in the letter, I don't see why not". Connor then turned to Becca: "I know this thing is very uncomfortable, but is necessary. You might start feeling as if you don't need it before the set time, but it is important that you do not take it off until I say so. If you trust me and you do this, You'll be fine and back to dancing soon".

Becca nodded sadly.

-"I understand this is very important to you, Becca. I can arrange to see you each week instead of two weeks to check how it is going".

-"Thank you, Connor''. His colleague said.

Becca yawned more than once on their way back to the Bullpen. She was discharged from the hospital, so she couldn't stay there and there wasn't any other place Jay could leave her. She was tired, her stressed body only wanting to rest.

-"Look at that!" Platt exclaimed when she spotted both Halsteads crossing the front door. -"It is my favorite Halstead!"

-"I'm glad to hear she's your favorite, because you are in the list now, Serge".

The Desk Sergeant smirked at the news.

-"I take this honor responsible".

-'All right, girl". Jay said, bending in front of the stairs. -"Let's do this again".

Becca hopped into her brother's back and he carried her upstairs, where all the squad greeted her with enthusiasm and good wishes. She sat in the coffee room waiting for him.

-"The punk confessed. We have enough evidence. It was an easy case, we're done for now". Voight informed Detective Halstead.

-"I'm sorry I wasn't here for interrogation, Serge. There was no one to take care of her...".

-"There's nothing to be sorry about''. Hank waved his hand from one side to another. -"Besides, you did your job, a good job capturing him. Now, you all are dismissed. You should take your sister to rest".

Detectives were able to go back home relatively early that day. The bullpen was empty when Jay went out of Hank Voight's office. There was only a blonde woman sitting at the desk in front of him.

-"Why are you still here?"

-"Your sister fell asleep on the couch. It didn't feel good to leave her alone in her condition". Hailey answered.

-"Thank you for that". He said honestly.

-"The same thing happened to me when I was a little bit older than her. I know it hurts like hell".

-"Yeah, she had a bad time. She's tired and drugged in pain killers, I should take her home".

-"Tell me if you need help with anything, I'm here. For real, partner". Detective Upton took her coat and walked herself downstairs.

-"Thanks again, Hails".

-"No problem".

It took him a while to stop staring at the stairs before going into the coffee room. There she was deeply asleep, it looked like she was melting.

-"Becca". He softly called her. -"Becca, it's time to go". But there was no answer, not even when he shaked her.

-"Well, third time's the charm. What could go wrong?" He muttered to himself and took Becca in his arms, this time as if she was a baby.

[hellbubu]

If you don’t like what I post, filter tags and block me. I’m not gonna argue with anyone.

Can the others hear him or are they just roleplaying? Knowing the kids who go to this school, this conversation would fly over their heads rn.

The SebaCiels are always winning. As they should.

Did they all just stand there and watch them??? Like, por lo menos disimulen.

I just noticed that they all wear glasses (except Ciel). Is it like a requirement to enter the blue house?

Also, imagine if Bluewer just walked in while they're talking. Like hearing "Master Michaelis" call Ciel "young master" or Ciel acting in a way Bluewer wasn't used to him acting.

Damn, that mother fucker really is Undertaker. I can only imagine how much his head must hurt. Maybe it's just me, but if I needed to hide my hair in a top hat or smth, the bun would have to be tight as fuck and I have way less hair than Undertaker. Maybe he has thin hair and he doesn't need to make the bun all that tight.

No one knows the way to Ciel's heart like Sebastian

He's a tiny, little, cute baby

Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't the Blue House supposed to be the smart one?? What makes him think no one will notice it's a new uniform? How will he even explain this? Were there sugar daddies back in the Victorian Era? I think Sebastian might be the first sugar daddy in the world.

Did they make Ciel the cox so he wouldn't have to row? Did they think "this baby is the only reason we won, he probably doesn't have the strength to do much rn"

Why does one of the Charles have a hen?? Is this something from another season that I forgot about? Is this from the manga? Like, does this have an explanation in the manga but it wasn't in the anime? Is he just guarding the chicken that the Queen will eat tomorrow?

I hope they know how to swim. If I tried to stand on a boat I'd fall into the water.

I can't stop laughing 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 fucking idiots🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Are you serious??? In front of the fucking Queen????

One, Soma is so sweet. Two, like, I'm not a manga reader, but Ciel is a twin correct? And he has asthma while his twin doesn't, right? Like that might be wrong, but judging by the sad tiktok edits I've seen, O! Ciel was at the very least a sickly child. So, wouldn't him falling get him sick, therefore the Midfords thinking "hey, he didn't get sick this easily back before that day" or did Ciel/Madame Red tell them that because of the conditions of where he was kept, he is likelier to get sick a lot more easy? I don't think it's that, because even Sebastian wasn't aware of Ciel's asthma back in the Circus arc.

Violet, my beloved <3

Also, how come Bluewer's glasses didn't fall off when he fell?

One, didn't Lau and his girls get kicked out? Did he bribe his way in again or did he get them to wear long skirts/pants? Two, Ciel is being dragged around by all his friends <3 Three, get fucking Druitt out of my fucking screen

Do manga readers know what's up with the hen??? I need answers

Are they holding the tea party in a fucking cathedral?? Where's the tea? Where's the food? This is lame as fuck.

I'm on edge. The like vice headmaster or whatever hasn't fallen yet, This feels wrong.

I might be wrong, but I doubt it's a tradition to fall off your boat in front of the Queen.

Damn, Ciel learned the rules like he was about to take the bar exam.

Talk about Bluewer, Redmond, or Greenhill, but leave Violet alone. I support Violet's wrongs. He's allowed to do anything. I gave him permission.

Ciel really is a master manipulator. He is trying to get them to do what he wants because the families told him they are worried and that made him worry about these boys he doesn't know.

I love how the P4 are not even trying to act normal. What are they thinking? "No way they're here. I made sure they were extra extra dead!!"

Shouldn't he be wearing the purple tie? Like he got transferred to the purple house.

Also, kudos to Undertaker for managing to Improve his bizarre dolls in such a short time. I mean, this dude got killed before Easter, right? Like, the Queen tells Ciel she worries because he didn't come home for easter. That means he died before April 21st, 1889. That's like 44 days (if we start counting on April 21st) where the body was preserved so well it could be passes as still living. Very Impressive.