#i'm still angry apparently

[ozonecologne]

.

[batcastlesociety]

he cream on my cookie till i clotted

rough sketch ,,, i am very normal about him

[alexandersimpleton]

I'm not upset about the CPC getting angry at Frederick and only accepting him once he's better, I'm angry that they do that and just accept Aurelia. Aurelia is worse now than Frederick was at the start of the series, and they're not doing SHIT.

Like I just read a post about how Aurelia shouldn't be given as much crap as she does because she's a teen, and like dude you're completely right, but it's also like I'm pretty sure Frederick is younger than she is and the CPC actually tried to drug him over an insult and never fucking apologized.

[purple-beans]

Fuck.

[hiraunia]

(Im just ranting, ignore me)

My coworker is pissing me off soo badly. I have only been working at this job for two and a half months and within the last two weeks I have had FOUR people come talk to me about how I treat her, TWO of which were managers. Telling me how she feels like I'm bossy and rude and THREE of them were like "Remember, she has senority over you so you need to be nicer to her" but like, I AM NICE TO HER. I have been no ruder to her than any other coworker and yet she is the ONLY one who has had a problem with me.

The fourth person who told me about this, same thing happened to her! Same thing happened to this other guy who quit! This happens with all the time apparently with her and yet no one in management has thought to themselves, "Hey, maybe she's the problem and nit anyone one else?" NOPE! Apparently not since she's the fucking darling of our section and no one ever thinks she's done anything wrong!

Oh, what makes it even better, part of my job is to ask the cook to bring food up front and my job to to wait on customers,l so she knows I'm going to have to ask her to do stuff because ITS LITERALLY IN THE JOB DESCRIPTION! Apparently I'm just so rude and demanding about it though (Even though no one else has had this problem)

And it does not surprise me that this is happening now. I'm damn near certain its happening because a week or two ago we were having a sale of a VERY popular item that she failed to keep stock of and we ran out during the dinner rush which lead to several people complaining about it to management because we are not supposed to out of that during dinner.

And I cannot stress how popular this item is, at least once a day somebody tells me that it the best of its kind that they've ever had(It is pretty good but I wouldn't say its the best) and I'm pretty sure that its the only reason any of us have a job because even on slow days when no one is buying anything we are GUARANTEED to be selling a bunch of this stuff.

So during these sale weeks its pretty damn well known that the cook needs to be making it basically back to back, you need to have extra stock of it if you go on break, and if other items run out but we're only low on said item you neglect the other stuff and make another batch.

So when I, as her partner that day, was asked what happened, I told them exactly what happened. She barley made any thing because she was prepping something else, only started making stuff when we were basically out(Which I am supposed to tell her to do because I'm supposed to tell the cook what we need) and during the dinner rush she left suddenly without telling me and I waited for five minutes for her to get back while trying to explain to customers what was happening and when I go find her she's crying on the phone and I had to put the next batch in(WHICH IS NOT MY JOBS BECAUSE I WASN'T THE COOK THAT DAY)

And now she's telling our managers and anyone else who will listen how rude and mean and bossy I am to her.

And the final cherry on top of this shitshow, she is considered to be one of the two worst people to work with in our area. The fourth person who told me about this, my third week here she saw they were scheduled to work together for closing and freaked out and asked me to switch shifts. The second bad worker doesn't like working with her either!

(I asked her if she liked working with him and she said "Yah I don't care as long as he doesn't talk shit behind my back." Which- Omg that made me SO fucking mad! We all gossip about eachother, obviously, like that just happens when you work with people and there's nothing to do sometimes but like! The fucking audacity to complain about someone talking shit behind you back, and then talk complain to management about me when your Apparently SO FUCKING SENSITIVE ABOUT IT! I wanted to say something so bad and I regret not doing because at the time, I thought it was over, three of the people had already told me about what she was say so that day and the day before that I was being extra nice to her. NOPE, im only so angry about this because the fourth person told me about this TODAY which means she hasn't stopped talking about it!)

[gxlden-angels]

I have a lot of religious guilt around being angry, especially being angry at someone, and it's so funny talking about it with my therapist because I'll admit something like "I feel like Im in a constant low level state of resentment" or that Im thinking something slightly harsh about a person and my therapist will be sitting in his seat like

[the-descolada]

having such a sad bitter evening

[actualmichelle]

have I ever mentioned how much I fucking hate my job lol

[folkinsomnia]

guess who's back in their compassion fatigue for library patrons era!!!

[vox-off]

i work from home 2 days out of the week and i get like. fuck all done on those days. my cat is adorable and my neighbors are loud and we have so many windows and there are noises and some smells sometimes and i've been convinced that my quarterly review was going to be "you're slacking, stop that or you're fired"

well

had my review this morning

not only was absolutely nothing negative said about me at all, three different department heads are fighting. over who gets me on their team. my director wants me to become the full-time trainer, the technical analyst wants to create a analyst team with me as the founding member, and my current department head is metaphorically crouched over me like a dog with food aggression

is this

is this job satisfaction

imagine what could happen if i did my job 5 days a week instead of 3 😳

[torchickentacos]

UGHHHHHH take a shot every time a makeup youtuber uploads a video on their diet or on how sugar ruined their life. paragraph of complaining and criticism of diet culture under cut, ed tw but in a very anti-ed way.

like please just tell me about mascara and stuff, I do not want to be sold a program on how to have an eating disorder. I have SO many rants about this but I'll leave it at this for now: unless done in a very specific and mentally healthy way, restricting categories of food is almost always going to be your first step down a slippery slope, allergies excluded. Restricting one category leads to labeling it as bad, so you assign moral worth to food, so you start trying to 'deserve' your food, et cetera, down you go on that slope.

[keikakudori]

“  you’d accept a caress from the same hands that leave you bruised, just to feel warm.  ” / @godkilller

memes for that specific brand of ships

                 There was a weaving of sunlight in the office today, pouring in golden through the windows and slanting across the bowed head and setting golden sparks of fire to life in the tousled brown locks. The shoji doors pushed open just barely to allow a chill breeze to wash through the room, bringing with it a crisp, clean scent of further snow in the air to add to what already covered the division's grounds. Today was one of those days in which the second-in-command of the Fifth was slow in his work, slow for many reasons all his own; it would've been enough to raise questions had anyone else been there with him,him, but at the moment, he was alone in the office. His captain had vacated the area as soon as the notion of catching up on overdue paperwork had dropped out of Aizen's mouth and as for his little silver shadow... well, Aizen could sense Gin somewhere but he didn't pay focus enough to that hint of power to really place exactly where.

                 The frigid wisps of breezes slipped freely through the bangs that hung over his forehead, teasing gently at stray hairs, and Aizen simply focused in upon the brush he held. A slow day of work for already it promised to be cold and the cold ever distracted Aizen in some ways; he preferred the sharp chill of winter for many reasons. Winter, when he could slip by the eyes of others around him and never raise their notice, with the long hours of the dark there to keep him shrouded from eyes of searching hazel, eyes that would narrow at him from time to time when he was sure Shinji didn't know he was looking, the way his mouth would downturn for a moment at the corners as if he had caught wind of a smell that aggravated his senses.

                 But oh -- winter was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful season. He enjoyed seeing ice during this time of the year and the way snow would blanket the Seireitei, muffling it, masking the blood that had seeped through it long ago. Beneath the veil of ivory powder, one could almost believe that it truly was as good as it claimed to be.

                 Almost.

                 But yes, Aizen had many reasons to appreciate the cold months of wintertime and how he might smile some days for reasons all his own -- not the least of which was the fact that he could often wear moesode beneath his shihakusho, snuggling down into the warm fabric as he pleased. It seemed to send his admirers into fits of swooning when he wore such things as these kinds of layers or when he might show up wearing a scarf that was patterned in some strange way or another; gifts from thin hands that he'd coveted throughout the years. The cold did always seem to bring out their admiration when he dressed warmly as the cold filled the air and he finally rose to go close the doors, sleeves falling back slightly from the warm fabric which covered his hands, his wrists. And Aizen was glad for that, for it gave him a chance to wear his uniform with longer sleeves, long enough to cover his arms down to the heels of his hands. He had reasons to wear the sleeves on this day.

                 So up he got, at last, moving to slide the shoji doors shut. When he turned around, Gin had somehow slipped in past him to perch in his favorite chair by Aizen's desk. It didn't surprise him to see the younger shinigami there in his usual spot, mouth curled up towards his ears at the corners and it drew a smile of his own as Aizen took him in with a single glance. He had known Gin was around since earlier, but whatever he'd been up to - visiting his classmate, perhaps - it did not bother Aizen to see that the boy had made himself comfortable as the air began warming with the circulation of a fan washing over a space heater to help fill the room with the sweet smell of camellia oil and more.

                 Today was a slow day, a day where his wrists ached quietly from the cold and from other reasons as he moved to sit down once more, staring down at the paperwork as something painful and heavy curled in his chest. It took a lot to make him ache anymore, the mornings after, but he was aching today.

                 It was not in the sense of the physical word, but an odd pang filled his chest and his throat time and time again; today, it seemed, it all pressed down on him. Aizen knew what he would see if he but slid the moesode up along his forearms and the older of the two in the office at current had no doubt that Gin would know as well, for the silver viper always seemed to know which days were the worst days when a night prior had been … busy, for lack of a better phrasing. He had seen them this morning when he'd stirred, awakened by the lingering presence of Gin at the door to his choice of room in the barracks.

                 Aizen did not speak of the dapples of blue which settled upon his wrists and while he had never expressly forbidden commentary upon them, it was seldom that his right hand - for already Gin had displaced Kaname in these last few years - spoke on them either. The brunet knew that those sharp blue eyes had ever clocked the darkened coils of skin when such nights had been involved, when it had been more use than actual, mutual want. Right then, he didn't want to speak on those marks, didn't try to bring them up at all. Instead, the elder simply moved a hand and set a plate of persimmons within Gin's reach, having absently gone to pick up such snacks earlier for the both of them.

                 Aizen had never tried persimmons before Gin had entered his life.

                 And now--?

                 Now, he was quite partial to them. So it seemed only fair to use his paycheck from time to time for such things when he knew they would be openly appreciated.

                 And yet, Gin was here, perched to his right where he usually favored to be, as if ready and willing for a hand to lift and direct him with a command. They were still learning one another and Aizen could admit that their learning was taking time for while he did not seek to reign Gin in, not entirely, he was pleasantly indulgent of him all the same. So those brown eyes turned to the youth, studying him as he found himself studied in kind.

                 Perched and observing him with a flicker of blue visible from beneath his lashes, a blue that seemed focused upon him -- or perhaps upon what Aizen had not fully revealed. Nine years since the night he had seen this youth under a spring moon, the silver moonlight on that evening  making him feel as if he were gazing upon a spirit of the forest instead of a Shinigami like himself. Whatever he had seen in Gin, he had been gleefully satisfied. Yes -- rumors abounded where this boy was concerned and Aizen had been validated in his assertions when he'd seen how easily Gin had dealt with the third seat; that fool of a man had put his hands where they didn't belong.

                 How easily ( if, it seemed, uncomfortably ) Shinji had accepted the youth, eyes flicking to where Aizen had set a hand upon Gin's shoulder, to the smile on Aizen's face, to the way they stood together. It was always easiest to make such moves if he used a person's lifestyle against them, as he'd done with the old Third Seat. The old man had been a hoarder of information, eyes cold and hard, and Aizen knew -- he knew what he'd overheard from the older man one day when he'd gone to take something to Shinji. Removing him from the picture had been a cold sort of joy and in the process, he had seen the skillset that had been promised by the paperwork included with the application to the Fifth from the boy who had come to be his own shadow.

                 So no -- he was not surprised his captain did not ask too closely, did not look too deeply, into the death of his subordinate. Two birds, one stone -- a benefit for both of them in the end. A benefit for Aizen for he had taken in the scraps of information the former third seat had curated, a benefit for Shinji because one threat to him and his public image had been removed. Aizen was not hesitant about removing threats to his captain, even if he remained one himself. Such was how it went. But he tried. He wanted and he tried. Yet trying had become such an effort of late, no matter what he did. Last night had proved one thing when he'd woken this morning; that gulf between them that sometimes seemed to lessen would never truly be bridged.

                 Aizen sighed, once, and then carefully lowered the calligraphy brush to the inkstone, dipping the pale bristles into the freshly made ink. The lieutenant enjoyed doing things with his own hands and he always had. A streak of creativity dwelt within him and even simple things like this could please him in a way and sometimes soothe an otherwise ragged mood; the precision that was demanded of his own hands made him focus on the ink strokes and far less dwelling took place where his own moods were in question.

                 Such little things, creativity; they had become a comfort for him. Making ink was one of those activities which could soothe and the dutiful second-in-command would spend his carefully curated funds on getting well-made inksticks for himself -- the older, the better. To grind them down was a ritual of sorts, and how neatly he wrote, his hand steady and his brush strokes were precisely laid out without any display of hesitation. There were such things as regular pens to be found, but Aizen was a traditionalist of sorts. He preferred the smell of fresh ink, the weight of the brush in his hand.

                 It was lighter than the weight on his wrists.

                 Sometimes Aizen preferred the quiet but today he was finding himself agitated by it, the silence only helping to agitate a somewhat surly and dour mood. The concept of talking did not appeal and there was no wind to speak of, no white noise to drown his thoughts out. Their excursions, himself and Gin and Kaname's, were starting to produce fruit. Out in the rukongai, no one cared if souls went missing. It was enough to make his lips curl with contempt in the days following the experiments, understanding that those in power did not care about the lost souls, these shinigami that he lived amongst, these individuals that were there to usher the dead along to their next stage of life.

                 There, in the Rukongai, living memories faded away slowly for some, quickly for others. But not for those like him, who'd been born into it. Silence clung to every corner of the room, every breath of air, and all the while he could feel that gaze upon him and it added tension to his shoulders. Too much silence and he was debating going to put on a record, to fill the room with the airy rippling of the jazz which Shinji had grown fond of - and, unbeknownst to him, Aizen as well - when Gin suddenly spoke up.

                 He spoke up and Aizen did his best not to freeze up for some reason he dared not name.

                 Sometimes, Gin's observations cut to the quick and Aizen's hands stilled in the middle of reaching for the paperwork. He knew it was a tell, but Gin enjoyed to test the boundaries, to see what was a button to poke, where the tender parts were. Here, in the twilight fading of devotion and something more pure, something warm and bright, that had turned sour, turned -- turned into something dark and cruel, all sharp edges and cutting notes -- Aizen truly found himself tender to such remarks.

                 So it was that he didn't expect Gin's hands to suddenly move for him, shoving up the sleeve of his uniform, of the garment he wore beneath the shihakusho, to stare at the chain that he was bound by. The links of it were rusting, rusting away, a leash he was no longer content to be held by, and Aizen took in the way those small fingers moved as if he would touch -- and his arm pulled back before contact could ensue, leaving him to reach and slide the sleeves back down. There was no need for him to look to Gin's face as he did so. It was not the first time that the little viper had seen the bruises and Aizen certainly didn't want to think about what had possibly been overheard by those small, sharp ears; but it was the first time that Gin had made such a move to bring direct attention to them.

                 Don't leave marks, he was always told. Sometimes, perhaps out of spite or some impish whim, he disobeyed that order to sink his teeth against skin and rake his nails over flesh to do that very thing yet he never strayed beyond the boundary of what could not be hidden. More often than not, lately, Aizen chose to disobey, no matter that Shinji would brush him off afterwards with a sharpness that would chew at his bones and burrow into the hollow void which dwelt in that powerful chest.

                 But the aching today was especially poignant, for he'd seen that rare softness in his captain last night, the way those eyes of olive brown had regarded him, the way fingers had seemed to brush his cheeks -- a softness that'd stirred the same feeble flicker of hope within Aizen as it always did, that maybe -- maybe this time, this time, he had begun to bridge that distance between them. And then they'd shot suddenly to gunmetal gray, steely, as the man he called his captain pulled back and away from him, turned to show his back and that long drape of sunlit hair, had flicked his hand in the way he did and oh so bluntly said that it was time for him to leave. That had been akin to ice water, a cold shock that had left the younger man still where he laid and with something much like tears in his eyes for how bluntly the words had been hurled at him.

                 Shinji pulled back and Aizen was sure, so sure, that his captain could not be so blind as to not see what the pulling back was doing to him in kind. How could Shinji not see it, not see how much his withdrawal affected the brunet every time he did so--? Perhaps that was why it felt like the bruises were far more common of late. As if his captain sought to contain him. And yet he would pull back when Aizen tried to reach out to him, even where no one else could see them.

                 Never again had the brunet attempted to repeat the one single time he'd reached for Shinji's hand at a festival that he had gone to and found his captain at. He hadn't expected it. He had only smiled on that evening, bubbling and bright, when he'd run into the older man. And then he had made a mistake. Just one mistake. He had tried to reach out for the other man where everyone could see them and that had been the worst thing he could have done it appeared; the look that had been cast his way had been sharp, a warning laden into that glance that had made AIzen's hand freeze and something cold had been crushed into his chest.

                 It had been an impulse, a desire to take the older man's hand, to take him over to a food vendor. Aizen had thought of treating him, buying him something to eat, had planned to laugh and perhaps even tease the older man. To be playful. It had been an inspiration of sorts, a whimsy that had been cut down before it could even bloom into life. He had not followed his captain immediately, busy feeling a burning shame and humiliation filling his chest and stomach and his gaze had gone to the ground. That single look that he received ensured that he'd never attempt that again. It was a lesson.

                 Only the sharp crack of his name in that accent and beckoning fingers had finally made him move at last to follow him but he had not repeated the gesture. And when they had walked by the river, out of view of others, when those spindly and thin fingers had found his hand ---... it'd hurt. It had hurt in a way he'd never experienced before.

                 Oh, it seemed that his captain would provide him with shows of affection --- but only, only, when no one else would be able to see them. Aizen never dared to use his Kyoka Suigetsu too often upon his captain; he didn't want to be subtle with him, to be hidden. But he was. Like he was --... unwanted. This was different from all those times before. The look -- something between disgust and hatred each. That was what he saw; that was something that he could never explain and something he didn't dare ask his captain about.

                 Shinji kept pulling back from him every time he thought that he might be able to lower the mask in full, to show himself, to speak of what should be changed. Surely the man could see that. Surely he had to understand. Why did children of the Rukongai have to suffer? Why couldn't they change that? But every time he tried to speak of those thoughts, eyes would narrow at him if he so much as hinted at his beliefs, no matter how innocuously he'd hint at it. So he had stopped doing that years ago.

                 No matter what Aizen did, Shinji kept pulling back from him, puling away, pushing to keep that distance between the both of them. How could his captain not see it, not see the yearning, not see what he so desperately desired and dreamed of and wanted--? A connection. Their connection to one another. He tried, tried, tried so much, tried so desperately to acquire the closeness that he desired with the man he loved.

                 Closeness. Something that so many had. So many wanted it. He wanted it but it was not something which he had.

                 A nearness between them that he could only call want, hope, desire -- born from an emotion which had curled gently in his chest for so long but now the pool from which it bloomed was going stagnant, growing rancid within him.

                 How long could one sustain themselves upon false hope, upon having the realization time and time again that no matter what they did -- it would never be good enough?

                 When he found those oft-hidden eyes of blue on him in the weeks following Gin's arrival at the Fifth, Aizen realized just what it meant for him to be seen by someone; even if the someone was a dangerous little viper that seemed eager to coil himself around Aizen's wrist, as if he would shield the skin from accumulating the bruises which were not always there -- but they were fully present today in vulgar shades of dark blues and purples.

                 How many times of seeing Shinji seem to overcompensate for those moments of seeming affection, of seeming care, only to feel something inside himself break again and again every time his captain turned away from him--? 

                 He'd found himself snared by an arm before he could leave for perhaps the older man had seen something in his face that'd produced a retroactive sense of guilt for what he'd said about how it was time for Aizen to leave, for it was rare for Aizen to be the first to leave the blankets which would become tangled from their intimacy, had been dragged back down to the futon for a time and had made his escape later to his own quarters once the older man had fallen asleep. There, the man who wore that badge had laid down and slept fitfully, restlessly, tossing and turning and waking up again and again in starts of awareness and had not truly gotten any rest whatsoever. 

                 So he sat there now, sandy-eyed, head pounding, staring down at his own wrist where it had been exposed before his eyes lifted to Gin. How long could a resource be tapped until it was no longer available--?

                 Gin had not been here for the bulk of their -- whatever they were to one another. Not lovers nor partners. Whatever Hirako Shinji and Aizen Sousuke shared, it was nothing so kind nor romantic nor respectful -- at least, not from the older man, no matter how much his adjutant tried over and over and over to make it be otherwise. Aizen had worked himself to the bone, it felt like, to make his captain look at him, to let him in. He had thought if he had been perfect, if he did everything right, if he was just good enough--- if, if, if.

                 But he wasn't good enough, was he? He wasn't good enough and never had been.

                 Because, if he was good enough, if he was enough at all--- ... then wouldn't Shinji have wanted him? Wouldn't that man want him, if he was good enough? But he didn't. That was the thought that kept curling through Aizen's head. He wasn't good enough. How Aizen tried to excel in everything he did, working late, taking on his captain's paperwork; everything he tried to earn that attention.

                 He was never good enough.

                 --- who would ever want a man who wasn't good enough?

                 ❝ -- I don't tend to find myself very warm anymore where those hands are concerned. ❞ 

                 He had spoken at last, breaking the silence which had dropped heavily into place between himself and Gin. Gin understood him where others did not -- he asked questions, saw what even Kaname missed. Kaname, who was afraid to disappoint him, to speak against him, who used him in kind as Aizen commanded him in turn. 

                 ❝ … I don't think i've felt warm under their touch in a long, long time. ❞

                 Gin seemed content to wait, to let Aizen speak at his own pace, his own rate. That was perhaps one thing Aizen adored about this young man. That Gin was content to sit back and allow Aizen to collate his thoughts, as if waiting to see what answer he would get to his questions. Even as Aizen's fingers moved to curl over the fabric, he found his mind turning things over. He wanted to keep that man and he wanted to break him. Break him the way he'd been breaking the brunet down over long years. He wanted to make him hurt and there were so many thoughts and ideas of how to vent out that slick viciousness that had been building for years.

                 A rage, a pain -- pain, from something that could have been so gentle and warm turning dark and vicious. What did it take for him to be seen by a man he wanted to see him in turn--? What did it take to make those eyes look at him and truly behold him--? He had allowed the mask to slip from time to time, watching the way the gaze which landed on him would take in the teeth, the claws. Only a brief showing of them. Only brief. And yet he would be called in to keep him warm.

                 All Aizen felt now was cold.

                 Cold, cold, cold -- cold from indifference, cold from distance. Cold, when once those hands had warmed him. Oh, true - his body responded to them. He was well-trained. He knew what looks meant, the way a hand might move, the slow curling of fingers to beckon him closer, closer, to come close and dip to press mouth to mouth, as the hands would lift to fist into the locks of brown were he on his knees. He knew. He knew what look meant to bend and what meant to kneel, what meant for him to lie back or roll over or -- he knew. Just as he knew the rule: don't leave marks.

                 How absently Aizen tugged at the fabric now, the fingers of his opposite hand curling into the warm fabric as he stared into the distance. Something dark wrapped in his mind snarled in the wake of what he said. Rage that made teeth itch to sink into flesh.

                 ❝ … I think, Gin … it's time we begin to move things along. The timetable. … I find myself curious to see what will happen next. ❞

                 And he did not see the souls that would fall under the sway of his Hogyoku. He did not see the potential for other shinigami to fall in its wake. His eyes looked ahead, forward -- towards a back that was thin. He knew where the muscles of that body were at their strongest, upon his back and abdomen. How well he knows the feeling of that body against his own, the scars his fingers have touched to for years upon years. Of how it could tense, of how he was never sure if Shinji would see how he would hunch in on himself more and more, head bowing to hide the burning in his eyes -- not of glossy wetness but something else, something he yearned for, craved, something he needed to feel.

                 How could his captain not see it--? How could he ignore it--? But Shinji was not here now. Meetings today, leaving the second- and third-seat to play captain and right hand. A precarious thing, that. Aizen filled that role easily. So did Gin. As if they were already woven together, but Shinji did not seem to pay heed to it.

                 ❝ --... I think it is time to begin seeing just how far we can push things and see if the experimentations will win through or not. And I think... ❞

                 His fingers drummed once over the surface of that desk. A desk where more than once, he'd had a thin frame bear its weight down upon his own, a frame his legs knew the slotting fit of, the frame where he would find bruises upon his inner thighs when it could be rough. But not always. He remembered when Shinji had been gentler. Almost kind. It only made him want to swallow now, to find himself besieged by doubt -- even now. Even now. But the doubt was a small thing compared to that obsidian sharpness that scraped through every vein; he had been hurt. It made sense to employ hurt in return. He knew the weak points. He knew how to apply pressure to them. And if his mouth curled into a cold, sharp smile whilst his eyes narrowed behind his glasses, he didn't seem aware of it.

                 ❝ I have the perfect candidate in mind. ❞

[coulsonlives]

.

[eissaphir]

Okay, I know I'm super late to the party but I just found out Blizzard shut down all Overwatch 1 servers to force all players to move to the second game. I want my fucking money back.

[deepspaceclawstation]

I'm just..very sad and pathetic today. Sad and pathetic hours.

[triscribe]

@squirrelgeneral: #google ai has been corrupted #can't say im surprised

Except this isn't even corrupted data, this is AI doing exactly what it's built to

Want a piece of art in a particular kind of style? Feed the AI a whole bunch of examples from certain artists and it'll spit out a rendering that looks like their work

Want the 'ending' of an unfinished piece of fan fiction? Here's what the author actually wrote, plus their other works and a lot of other stories for comparison, AI will put together an averaged compilation

Want a specific answer to a specific question? AI gets turned loose on the entire effing internet to find key words and smoosh them together, so of course the resulting word salad appears like it could be A Correct Answer, but really, really isn't.

The only corruption here is the people responsible for implementing this bullshit, almost certainly to save a quick buck and/or hype up Google's reputation as 'wielders of the cool new AI trend'

*Is it true, or did Google Gemini just make it up, or did somebody just make that up about Google Gemini?

*Well, who knows; your guess is as good as Google Gemini's