#ill probably post a pic of it before i do though cause i added a ton of paper tabs and sticky notes to mark stuff and take notes

[estrangedandwayward]

One day I'll run out of photos of aegon targaryen to paint, but not today evidently

[witchymarvelspacecase]

Firebug and Freezer Burn

My entry for @tilltheendwilliwrite​ ‘s 7.7k follower (covid sucks) writing challenge. 

Clearly my time management (and mental health management) is lacking, but I figured I would post this anyway. 

Sorry. 

The pic on the right was my prompt, I added the one on the left.

PLEASE FORGIVE THIS SHITASS TITLE

WC: 3276

Warnings: Fire, cursing, panic, being ill, fluff who the fuck knows

The small suburban neighborhood evening was shattered by the fire engine sirens screaming toward the pillar of fire that had once been a family home. Neighbors who had called 911 huddled outside, speaking to responders as they arrived. The three person family living in the burning house hadn't been seen since the fire started, but as far as anyone knew, they had been at home earlier. The parents had picked up the little girl after school, and returned home like usual. On a normal night, they would have all been in bed by now, if not for the noisy terrier up the street, the fire may have spread farther. Tears burned in throats, and sobs were barely contained as smoke and ash stung sleepy eyes. Lucky. The neighbors were lucky, and they all felt it, the feeling increasing in strength as the minutes ticked by with no sign of the family.

There was practically nothing left of the house now. The supporting structural pieces were still standing, but drywall had been all but disintegrated, leaving an empty shell, filled with smoldering ash. Nothing could have survived a blaze that hot.

An impossible shout came from a firefighter in the house. Firefighters converged on their brother and all blinked in surprise at what they saw. A small body, unconscious but unharmed, wrapped in an equally small blanket. The little girl, she was untouched by fire, though it was clear it had burned through the room around her. Her bed was ash beneath her, and nothing of her room remained standing. She seemed asleep, snoring softly as her dreams went undisturbed by the chaos around her.

The only thing odder still was her skin. It was tinged gray. That could have just been the smoke, if not for the cracks. Like lava creating fissures in soft volcanic stone, lines glowed red-orange all across her skin, visible even underneath her nightgown. The stunned firemen didn’t seem to know how to react, but one of the EMTs on sight already had their phone up to their ear, 

“Phil, you need to get here. There’s someone you’re gonna want to see.”

...Years Later

Having been raised by Phil Coulson, your life was fairly heavily impacted by SHIELD (and the tales of Captain America), it wasn’t a surprise that you became an agent. Though Phil actually wasn’t too happy about his little girl being put into dangerous situations, you gained his approval after pointing out that you would probably involve yourself in dangerous situations whether or not you had the training or backup that SHIELD provided. Working with the Avengers probably shouldn’t have surprised you either, but all you knew you had was your immunity to fire. Turned out that ability, in combination with your martial arts and weapons training from SHIELD, was actually incredibly useful to the Avengers. One mission became several more, and before you knew it, you were living with them.

Phil was a pretty constant visitor, he wasn’t “checking on you”, he was “touching base with the team”, or fanboy-ing over Cap. Mmmmhmm, sure thing. You knew better, but you generally didn’t call him on it, though it got you a lot of shit from Tony Stark. Honestly, Tony would have found something to tease you about either way. Being called “kid” was probably pretty tame, especially considering Tony’s other name for you: “Glow-Stick”. Clint called you “kid” all the time anyway.

The two members of the team who could have called everyone “kid” were usually the most respectful. Steve never called you anything other than your name, Bucky had called you a few different names, but none of them pejorative. Natasha tended to refer to everyone but Clint by their last name, and Sam, well Sam just called you an idiot, but that was for a different reason.

“Well you are an idiot. Seriously, you oughtta man-up and tell him already.” You and Sam were in the lounge area, having reached a commercial break during the game you were watching. He was leaning back against the arm of the sofa opposite you, rolling his eyes.

“First of all, ‘man-up’? Really? You wanna have that discussion again?” you gave him a significant look, eyebrow raised in indignation. He scoffed and waved you off, you continued, “second of all, mind your own business.”

“He’s gonna die in his sleep before you say anything at this point,” Sam’s voice was mocking.

“Stay in your own lane Wilson,” you growled.

“I’m just saying-”

“Nothing. You’re just saying nothing. The game’s back on.”

“C’mon , you gotta -”

“No, Sam.”

“What’s he up to now?” Natasha asked as she walked into the room, dropping into a seat with a bowl of popcorn.

“Nuh-uh, I’m not saying shit to you.” You knew better than to even give a kernel of information to a master spy.

“Pft, I probably know whatever it is already,” she shrugged. She wasn’t wrong, but as long as she didn’t realize Sam was pushing you to admit it, Natasha wouldn’t interfere. 

You turned to watch the game, missing the glint in Sam’s eye as he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

You weren’t going to say shit. The only reason Sam knew about your adolescent crush was that he had hung out with Phil for too damn long one night, and Phil had been a little too open with your story. Years of hearing about Captain America’s exploits had been a basis of your childhood, but Steve wasn’t the character who fascinated you. That was James Buchanan Barnes. Unlike your father figure, your interest lay in the Commando’s sniper, not its leader. Originally, you had wanted to specialize in long-range shooting, but now, having more intimate knowledge of just how involved sniping was, you were even more impressed with Bucky. There were way too many calculations involved in what he did, and he did it so well. 

He had been the yardstick you’d used to measure every romantic partner you’d had, and most of them fell short. That was before you knew he was alive. What was funny was that the Bucky you knew now beat the yardstick you’d made of his past self. 

He was sweet, and mindful of everyone around him, and when he wasn’t too deep in his own head, he was really funny. From the first night you had accidentally stumbled upon him on the roof after a nightmare, you’d been fast friends. Though he was the member of the team you worked with the least, he was the one you spent the most downtime with. Hence, why you put up with all his nicknames. Doll, Sugar, Sweetheart, Darlin’.

When a tennis ball bounced off your head, startling you out of the unintentional mental tangent, you realized that not only had more of the team entered the room, they had clearly been talking to you. 

A blush rapidly heated your face. “Sorry. What?”

“Where’s your head at, kid?” Tony asked. He was sprawled across the loveseat, looking more at you than at the TV.

“Nowhere important; zoned out a little. Guess I’m just tired.”

“Suuuuure you are,” Sam drawled, exchanging looks with Natasha. Your brow furrowed, but you said nothing. 

The topic changed back to the game, as Bucky came into the room. Steve was already seated in the armchair next to Natasha, but instead of crossing to his best friend, Bucky settled on the arm of the sofa, right beside you. Sam cleared his throat, and you shot him a threatening look. 

“Jesus Sam, what did you do to get her looking at you like that?” Steve asked. He sounded almost worried. You would have laughed at his concerned look, but you had to keep an eye on Sam. You let the silence stretch out, not answering Steve and not looking away from Sam, until you were reasonably sure he would keep his mouth shut.

“It’s nothing Steve. Sam just needs to mind his own business.”

“He is nosy as hell,” Bucky grumbled behind you, his arm going to the back of the couch and essentially around your shoulders.

“Aw, you’re just mad cause he’s bugging you about your secrets.”

“Natasha, I don’t care how hard it’ll be, I will kill you.” There was no inflection in your voice, nothing to give away how angry and scared you were. Maybe you should have given a little emotion for the team to read. Maybe then they would have let it go.

As it was, they collectively ganged up on you, grilling you, and refusing to be redirected until you snapped. 

“Just fucking drop it!” you shouted, throwing the tennis ball that was still in your hands at the last team member to pry, Tony.

Everyone was staring. And it took you a moment to process exactly why.

The tennis ball had been on fire.

It hadn’t been on fire before you threw it, and yet it was flaming when it almost hit Tony in the head.

Silence, and slow blinks all around. 

“Holy shit.” Sam was staring open mouthed.

“FRIDAY, when was the last time we checked the fire protocols?” Tony asked, his face still showing surprise, but his voice calm.

“I- I-... That-” you couldn’t seem to form a sentence. Your body seemed frozen to the spot.

“Well that’s interesting,” Natasha mused.

“Is this- is this new?” Clint asked from his seat on the floor in front of Natasha’s chair.

You didn’t know what to say. Was this new? You’d never done it before. You would have known if you had… right?

The only fire you’d ever been in was… oh god.

And just like that, your body was no longer frozen. You shot up out of your seat and sprinted down the hall. You ran into your room and passed through to the attached bathroom without checking if the door was closed, too intent on reaching your destination. Your knees hit the floor in front of the toilet just in time. 

Tears poured from your eyes as you retched. Panic had your chest and gut constricting, making you struggle to breathe. The room would have spun if your head weren’t resting on the cool porcelain of the toilet. As it was, your ears were ringing so much that you couldn't hear your own panting breaths, let alone someone entering the room behind you. You wouldn’t have known Bucky was there if he hadn’t slid his cool metal hand to the back of your neck.

“Shh, doll. It’s okay. It’s just me,” he soothed when you jumped.

You hiccuped in response, taking several minutes to calm to the point that he was able to usher you out of the bathroom. 

Sitting you on the edge of your bed, Bucky stepped back into your bathroom, flushing the toilet and wetting a soft washcloth before coming back to you. He held out the cloth, but when you failed to take it, he began to gently wipe at your face. 

“You know none of the team is upset or freaked out, so what made you run outta there?” Bucky asked quietly.

“What if I did it?” you asked in response, your voice so low Bucky almost missed it.

“Did what, doll?”

“The fire, my parents-” you cut off, unable to say anything more, as fresh tears filled your eyes.

Phil Coulson had been a fantastic foster dad, no doubt about it, but your child’s brain took a long time to adjust to his parenting style. You had missed your parents. Phil had done his best not to erase your parents from your memories. He didn’t know much about them, but your old neighbors had been happy to share stories with you, and you’d created an idealistic version of them in your head. You couldn’t understand why you had survived and they hadn’t, and the nightmares that had followed you into adulthood were still traumatic. What if you had been the cause of the mysterious fire that had killed them. 

“Doll. Hey. Hey Sugar, look at me okay?” Bucky’s hands were on either side of your face. When you met his eyes you got the feeling he had been trying to get your attention for a while. His thumbs softly rubbed your cheekbones as he spoke. “It wasn’t you, doll. It wasn’t your fault.”

“How- how can you possibly know,” you asked in a whisper, trying to pull your face out of his grip, but his fingers tightened slightly. 

“You’ve never done that before. And you’ve only been in one mystery fire.”

“Yeah but-” you started, but Bucky talked right over you.

“If you had been able to start fires as a kid, you would have had it happen around you frequently. When you were angry, when you were scared; it would have happened all the time when you were little, but it didn’t.” He brushed a tear from the corner of your eye and his voice softened. “It wasn’t you honey. I’m sure of it.”

That was a sentiment that he repeated with a few minor variations for several minutes until you calmed down. Once you did, you realized that the position you were in was a little close for comfort. At some point, Bucky had moved from kneeling in front of you, to sitting on the bed beside you, to holding you in his lap. He had his arms around you and your head tucked under his chin. 

However, when you squirmed slightly, embarrassed by your behavior and more than ready to put some space between you and the super soldier you had a giant crush on, Bucky did not let you go.

“Buck,” you said, your voice was a little gravely from crying, “I’m okay.”

“Yeah?” He replied, not sounding convinced.

“Yeah, you can let me go now.” You were fairly certain he could feel the heat in your face through his shirt.

“I can, but I don’t want to.��

“I- what?” you stuttered.

“I happen to like holding you, never got to do it before, but I’ve decided I like it and I’m not ready to let you go yet.” Bucky said it in such a matter of fact tone, it sounded reasonable.

The fuck? Did you hear that right? Uh….

Before you could formulate any kind of response, Bucky’s phone started to ring. He managed to get it from his pocket and answer it without releasing you.

“Hello Agent Coulson, thank you for calling me back. Yes, she’s right here, hold on,” he held the phone out to you.

Still in a sort of shock, you took the phone without question. “Papa?” You used the name you called him when you were little. He was never “Dad” or “Daddy” you could remember calling your father that. No, Phil Coulson was “Papa”.

“Hey sweetie. I heard you had a little scare.” You almost burst into fresh tears, but Phil continued. “You never really asked me about the fire, so I never made it a point to tell you about it. It wasn’t you sweetheart.” As Bucky continued to hold you, occasionally rubbing your back, or rocking you slightly, Phil told you about your father’s business, and the intense and hostile relationship he had with his rival. A rival who had decided that killing your father and your family was the best way to enable a hostile takeover of your father’s much more successful business.

An entire amusement park’s worth of emotions rolled through you as you listened to the tale. Anger so intense you could feel smoke all but coming out your ears.

“Doll,” Bucky softly drew your attention, his fingers ever so lightly grazing your arm. When you looked down, you almost jerked out of his hold.

“Holy fuck!” The lava fissures were glowing across your skin. You knew you let off heat when you were like that. You’d burned plenty of bad guys, guards, and assholes as soon as they made skin contact. “Bucky, let me up.” He did, but he didn’t leave the room as you finished your call with Phil.

Phil felt guilty for not telling you all this earlier, but you shook your head, forgetting he couldn’t see you. “It’s not your fault, Papa. I didn’t know this was even a possibility for me to do, I never questioned the fire before. There’s no reason for you to tell me, I didn't ask.” After reassuring him a few more times, and promising to visit him soon and showing him what you’d done, assuming you could repeat the stunt, you said your goodbyes. “Love you, Papa.”

“Love you too sweetheart. See you soon.”

You handed Bucky his phone back, not getting too close to him. But he took his phone and then quickly grabbed your wrist, pulling you close to him again.

“Bucky, you're gonna get burnt!” “No I won’t. You haven’t burned me before, and I’ve been near you like this before. It’s okay.”

“You’ve what?! Why would you do that?!”

“Why would you let me get anywhere near you?”

“Huh?” Well that was a topic change.

“I’m just as dangerous as you. More so actually, I’ve hurt and killed way more people than you probably ever will. You never hesitated to get near me.” Bucky held up his metal arm, drawing attention to it.

“That’s different Bucky, I don’t have control of this. You have control, you would never choose to hurt me.”

“It’s not different to me. I’m not afraid of you. You wouldn’t intentionally hurt me, and I trust you to keep me safe.” You shook your head, incredulous. “You’ve never burned your clothes. You have burned the shit out of people before, but you’ve never burned your clothes.” When you didn’t respond, Bucky said, “you’re in control, Sugar, and I trust you.”

Too many revelations in one day. That was your explanation. A second after Bucky stopped speaking, you registered what he was saying, and dropped your forehead to his, all the fight leaving your body, as your eyes closed. He settled you more comfortably on his lap but kept your foreheads together.

You sighed. “It’s been a hell of a day,” you said with a laugh.

“You’ve had a few shocks alright,” Bucky agreed. After a short pause, he spoke again. “Think you can handle one more?”

You hummed, “probably,” and soft lips pressed against yours. 

A quick intake of breath and your eyes shot open, but you didn’t pull away. “Bucky?”

It was his turn to hum. A small smile slowly spreading across lips that had just pulled back from yours.

“What- why?”

“Been wanting to do that for a while. And if you don’t want to tell me to fuck off, I’m gonna want to do it again. You gonna tell me to fuck off?”

Hesitantly, you shook your head and the smile on his lips stretched. When he pulled back from your second kiss, you could feel a matching smile on your own lips.

Hours later, the two of you emerged from your room, a plan in place to test your new ability. Another plan for how to explore your relationship with both of you being Avengers and having very little privacy. And most importantly, a plan in place to fuck with your nosy, annoying teammates. 

“Hey there, Matches,” Tony called as he spotted you from down the hall.

“Seems I’ve got a new name,” you grumbled. 

“At least you’re not ‘Manchurian Candidate’,” Bucky grouched, pressing a kiss to your temple. A kiss Tony did not miss.

“OH MY GOD! Firebug and Freezer Burn are kissy-face!” Tony Stark, a 12 year old. You rolled your eyes and prepared yourself for handling your teammates.

[pitiless-achilles-wept]

2020 Can Take My Hair, But Not My Hope

My hair started falling out on election night.

I thought at first it might be the anxiety, that I was literally pulling my hair out with worry over numbers I already knew were not going to be definitive before the night wore into morning but which I stayed up until 3:30am watching anyway. I tweeted rapidly, reassuring my jittery timeline that not only had we all known that the night would bring no results but that we had even expected Trump to lead in key states because of the greater number of mail-in ballots from urban areas that would largely count for Biden. We knew. We all knew. But we were all terrified, flashing back to 2016 and already dreading another four years of living life on high alert, in constant survival mode.

I posted a selfie with a tweet that read, "Could be the last presidential election I vote in (blah blah stage 4 cancer blah blah) and I wish it were better and clearer than this but it's a crucial privilege to have voted. Remember, whatever the outcome, the last thing they can take from you is your hope."

To me that last sentence has been a mantra for these years and for my treatment. I have consistently refused, despite overwhelmingly terrible odds, to lose hope. The story of Pandora's Box tells us that the very last thing left inside was Hope--that even once all the demons were out in the world there was that tiny, feathered creature left to hang on to. It hasn't been easy, but I am one of the most stubborn people you will ever meet (and if you doubt this just ask anyone who's ever fought me on anything!) and it has turned out to be a saving grace rather than an irritating personality trait. Feeling like the world was trying to take my hope away made me angry. And when I get angry I will fight back.

I know I'm not alone in feeling like we entered some kind of alternate nightmare timeline on election night 2016. To that point, despite periods of immense personal difficulty, nothing truly terrible had happened to me. Then, in short order, my marriage ended and I was diagnosed with and began being treated for a terminal illness, all against the backdrop of a regime so deliberately hateful that it was truly incomprehensible to me. Then, a global pandemic and national crisis swept away the small consolations I'd found in my new life with cancer. The temptation to feel hopeless was strong and I struggled with it, particularly in the isolation of quarantine. I'm struggling with it now, facing a winter of further lockdowns, social isolation, continued chemo, and the added indignity (and chilliness!) of not having any hair. But somehow the coincidence of my hair loss with election night seemed like a good omen for the future, if a sad thing for the present.

I heard the news that they had called Pennsylvania for Biden at a peaceful Airbnb in the Catskills after stepping out of a shower where lost hair in handfuls. It felt oddly like a sacrifice I had made personally. I joked about this with friends on the text chains that lit up and that (despite my promise to myself and my writing partner that we'd "go off the grid") I responded to immediately. Instant replies, with emojis and GIFs, participated in the fiction: "Thank you for your service!!!"; "We ALL appreciate your sacrifice!"; "Who among us would NOT give up their hair for no more Trump?". The feeling was real for me, though. It was as though the good news demanded some kind of karmic offering. You never get something for nothing, I thought, and really it was a small price to pay.

The rest of the weekend passed too quickly, with absorption in the novel I plan (madly, given that I also work full-time) to work on for "National Novel Writing Month" (NaNoWriMo), walks in the unseasonably warm woods, and nighttime drinks on the back deck under the stars, watching my hair blow off in fine strands and drift through the sodium porch light. My friend and I read tarot and both our layouts contained The Tower, the card for new beginnings from total annihilation, the moment of destruction in which (as the novel's title says) everything is illuminated. "This might sound dumb," he said, "but maybe yours is about your hair." It did not sound dumb.

[shaved heads, the 2020 election, and a couple pics under the cut]

There is probably no more iconic visual shorthand for cancer than hair loss. It happens because chemo agents target fast-proliferating cells, which tend to inhabit things that grow rapidly by nature (hair, fingernails), or that we need to replenish often (cells in the gut), as well as out-of-control cancer cells. But not all cancer treatments, not even all chemotherapies, cause hair loss. In my 20 months of being treated for cancer and my three previous treatments (four, if you count the surgery I had) nothing had yet affected my hair beyond a bit of thinning. This despite the fact that my first-ever treatment (Taxol) was widely known to cause hair loss for "everyone." I had been fortunate with this particular side effect in a narrow way that I have absolutely not been on a broader scale. "Maybe," I had let myself think, "I can have this one thing." The odds were in my favor too; only 38% of people in clinical trials being treated with Saci lost their hair. I liked the odds of being in the 62% who didn't. But--as we all felt deep in our gut while they counted votes in battleground states--odds aren't everything.

I had come to treat the "strength" of my hair as a kind of relative consolation (though as with everything cancer "strength," "weakness," and the rhetoric of battle have nothing to do with outcomes). I treasured still having it, not just out of vanity (though I have always loved my hair whatever length, style, or color it has been) but because it allowed me to pass among regular people as one of them. I had no visible markers of the illness that is killing me, concealed as first the tumor and then the scars were by my clothing. "You look wonderful," people would tell me, even when I suffered from stress fractures from nothing more than running or sneezing; muscle spasms in my shoulder and nerve death in my fingertips; nausea that I swallowed with swigs from my water bottle that just made me look all the more like a hydration-conscious athlete; and profound, constant, and debilitating fatigue. Invisible illness had its own perils but I would take them--take all of them at once if necessary!--if only I could keep my hair and look normal.

It was not to be. A part of me had known this, since a lifetime with metastatic cancer means a lifetime of treatments a solid proportion of which result in hair loss. But I had hoped. And I had liked the odds.

The hardest thing for me is having to give up this particular consolation before knowing whether or not my new treatment is also working on my cancer. Unfortunately, there really isn't a correlation between side effects like hair loss and effectiveness of treatment. If it is working then I will feel that--like the election to which I felt I had karmically contributed--it was all completely worth it. Yet, even in this best case scenario, there's a new reality for me which is that while I am on this treatment I will stay bald. When you are a chronic patient you hope for a treatment that will work well with manageable side effects. And if this treatment works--and if the other side effects are as ok-ish as they are now--then I will remain on it.

It's that future that I am furious about more than anything else. I want to continue to live my life, of course, but I don't want to have to do it bald! In part that is because I don't want to register to people constantly as an archetypal "cancer patient" when I know that I am so much more. It is also in part because I don't want to think of myself as being ill, and living every day having to disguise my absent hair will make that all the tougher. I have already noticed that I feel, physically, as though I am sicker because of my constantly shedding hair. How could I not, in some ways, when every move I make and every glance at myself (including in endless Zoom windows) shows me this highly visible change?

For that reason, I'm shaving my remaining hair tomorrow (Wednesday). It's a way to feel less disempowered--less like hair loss is happening to me--and wrest control of the situation back. I will try to find agreeable things about it: wigs, scarves, cozy caps, bright lipstick, statement earrings, and a general punk/Mad Max vibe that is appropriate to 2020. But I don't want anyone to think for a second that I find this agreeable, or even acceptable, or that I don't mind. I mind a whole hell of a lot. My hair was my consolation prize, my camouflage, my vanity, my folly, and my battle cry.

I dyed it purple when I was first diagnosed because I knew (or thought I knew) that I would be losing it soon. I didn't, and I came to cherish it as a symbol of my boldness in the face of circumstances trying to oppress me, to make me shrink, to tempt me to become invisible. I refused and used it to "shout" all the louder in response. Because of what it came to mean to me, I'm nearly as sad about losing the purple as I am about losing the hair itself. It both symbolized the weight I was carrying and also that I would not let that weight grind me down. It was my act of resistance and my sign resilience all at once.

I sent a text to my friends, explaining this and offering, as an idea, that I could "pass the purple" to them in some way, small or large. It would feel more like handing off a torch or a weight (or the One Ring) than anyone shaving their head in solidarity. (After all, if they did that it would just remind me as I watched theirs grow back that, in fact, our positions were very different.) You're welcome to do it if you'd like too, internet friends, with temporary or permanent dye or a wig or a headband or one of those terrible 90s hairwraps or whatever. But I don't require that anyone do it because I feel support from you all in myriad ways, all the time. (But if you do, please send me pictures!)

It's November 2020. The election is over and Joe Biden has won. I still have cancer and I'll be bald tomorrow. I hope it's a turning point, both personal and global, because it feels like one. We've given up a lot in the last four years and I cannot say that I feel in any way peaceful or accepting about having to give up yet one more thing. But in losing my hair I absolutely refuse to also give up my hope.

(On our walk we did also seem to find a version of The Tower, all that was left of an abandoned house)

[superfoodish]

How to Lose Belly Fat

source: https://ift.tt/2tHOZbA

When Keeping Up with the Kardashians debuted on E! in 2007, Rob Kardashian had the world on a string. But after splitting with pop star Rita Orain 2012, he turned to junk food to cope, and as his weight ballooned, his self-esteem evaporated. Kardashian was reportedly even afraid to step out in public and be photographed. “If I don't get some. This together, they won't want to like hang around everybody, y'know what I'm saying?” But by 2018, he managed to finally shed some pounds and get back within reach of his ideal weight. So just how did he do it? This is Rob Kardashian's dramatic weight loss transformation. Trending with milkshakes By 2014, Kardashian was making headlines for all the wrong reasons. In a now deleted throwback Instagram post,he revealed that his problem worsened when he started drinking milkshakes. His weight gain was so dramatic that he wound up trending on Twitter because of it. He wrote, in a series of since-deleted tweets: “So I found out I was trending for being fat. Thank you all it really made my day. [. ] I'm aware that I'm fat that def ain't surprise to me lol and my only therapy will be in the gym, anyways had to say something. ” Too fat for the cameras Kardashian's Twitter rant came just days before his sister, Kim Kardashian, was due to marry rapper Kanye West in Italy. Despite making it all the way to Paris, he ended up flying straight back to LA because he didn't want to be seen at the ceremony. “When Rob flew to Paris, he read some nasty comments about himself, and he just didn't feel comfortable, and he didn't wanna see all my guests. ” According to TMZ, Rob had, become so insecure and depressed about his appearance [that] he refused to be in the family wedding pics, despite his family encouragement. ” Kardashian confessed to People, “I'm 6'1″ and at my most I probably weighed300 pounds. There were cameras at the airport on our trip there, and I was very unhappy with the person I saw in all the pictures. ” A little ��tough love' When newlywed sister Kim returned to the States,she told Andy Cohen that Rob sent her “a long email” on the morning of her wedding explaining his reasons for bailing. But Kim wasn't feeling sympathetic, saying, “I try to encourage him and once you just don't make that change for so long and it's not happening, I get frustrated. ” And Kim isn't the only Kardashian to have lost her patience with Rob. Sister Khloé told People in 2015, “I've been really trying, but I have my moments, and I do snap. I've offered to get a chef, I'm like, ‘What'your excuse?' But it's not just that. I can't win life for Rob. I have to wait until [he's] ready to do it for himself. ” Passing on rehab Rumors started circulating in 2014 that Kardashian was headed to weight loss camp. But he quickly shot down that story, in a since-deleted tweet, writing, “To the blogs saying I went to fat camp or rehab, LOL. Then why am I still fat you fools? Y'all must have run out of real news. ” The Kardashians tried to stage a family intervention,but as soon as Rob caught wind of the plan, he split. An insider told Radar Online in 2017, “He's refusing rehab, he doesn't want any fat farms, no more therapists, no more interventions, diets, and meddling sisters. Serious concerns Rob is said to have suffered from depression ever since the death of his biological father in 2003, with his weight issues only making matters worse. In a 2015 episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians,his mother, Kris Jenner, said she fears the worst is yet to come, admitting, “If I don't help him do something drastic,he's going to die. ” She later told a therapist on the show, “It's just like you're waiting for this horrible thing to happen and there's nothing you can do about it. ” A devastating diagnosis By the end of 2015, Rob's weight was threatening his life. In December of that year, he has rushed to hospital after falling ill, due to complications from diabetes. According to TMZ, Rob then became determined to shed the extra weight and get healthy in the new year, but one whistleblower claimed his lifestyle only got worse. The insider told Radar Online, “He thinks nothing of having two or three tubs [of ice cream] in the afternoon. It's wreaking havoc on his diabetes, not to mention the added stress the weight is putting on his heart. ” Hiding out Rob reportedly became so disheartened about his appearance that he withdrew from society altogether, holing up in his mom's house and becoming a total recluse. But Khloe told Wonderwall in March 2015 that his issues weren't just physical ones. She said, “Over the last year, Rob has become very introverted and has a kind of social anxiety. I know he can get to that happy place and will. ” A few weeks later, Kim revealed her thoughts about Rob on Today, saying, “I think he's just going through a phase where he's not comfortable in his own skin. He is working really hard to get back to where he really wants to be. ” But Rob's friends weren't so sure he could do it. One insider revealed to Hollywood Life, “His weight affects his mood, and then his mood affects his motivation to eat well and work out, it's a vicious cycle. ” Support from the pros While those closest to Rob were warning him about his weight; there was one person who thought he was fine just the way he was. Rob's former Dancing with the Stars partner Cheryl Burke told the Allegedly podcast of his fluctuating weight: “I'm surprised that he's making it a bigger deal than it is. Cause I think that it's fine. ” Losing it with Blac Chyna Rob finally managed to get his diabetes under control in 2016, according to CNN. It was the first big victory in his battle with obesity, but Rob didn't do it alone. He revealed that his romance with model Blac Chyna turned out to be the catalyst he needed in order to make positive changes. He told People at the time, “She's surrounded me with a lot of positivity. From the moment we met, I knew I wanted to be more than friends. ” According to TMZ, his new flame encouraged him to cut carbs and red meat, and hit the gym five days a week, with no cheat days. With her help, he was able to shed an impressive40 pounds. Packing it on, again Blac Chyna gave birth to Rob's daughter, DreamKardashian, in November 2016, but less than a year later, the two separated under very nasty circumstances. “So yeah, I am not feeling so good. ” After the breakup, Rob started to pack on the pounds. A friend told Radar Online, “He's the biggest he's ever been. He's well over 300 pounds now [. ] and his a heart attack waiting to happen. ” Radar's source claimed Rob had been “comforting big time”, and claimed, “He's got major anger and addiction issues,brought on by a chronic lack of self-esteem over his looks and his position in the family. He's lost the will to live, and if it wasn't his little girl, he'd probably not have made it. ” According to The Belfast Telegraph, Kim allegedly urged mom Kris to stop “enabling” Rob's unhealthy lifestyle with financial support. Baby motivation According to Hollywood Life, Rob started joiningKylie for workouts every other day as she aimed to shed her baby weight, after giving birth to daughter Stormi in February 2018. Before long, he was looking slimmer than he had in years. A source revealed, “Seeing the weight fall off has been huge in helping Rob get his confidence back. Kylie challenged and pushed Rob to be better for Dream, and that's all the motivation he needed. ” The insider claimed Rob finally agreed on to stick to his diet, though having a young child in the house has helped amp up the activity level. The source claimed, “Rob is staying disciplined and sticking with a strict nutritional program that he's been put on to get his weight down as well, and it makes it easier for him since Dream keeps him pretty active already. He's having a blast chasing her around. ” Fans got to see Instagram evidence of Rob'weight loss, on his 31st birthday in March 2018. Did he secretly get surgery? As of June 2018, skinny Rob is back. But did he really lose all that weight through exercise and healthy eating as he claims? According to court documents obtained by theDaily Mail, Blac Chyna alleged Rob underwent a series of cosmetic procedures at costs totaling$100,000. Chyna reportedly made those claims while defending herself against allegations that she had deceived sponsors by going under the knife. Whatever the case, we're hoping Rob is feeling happy and healthy these days

Source: Youtube

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Don't get screw by Fake News. 5 ways, advice from the birds.

Don’t get screwed by Fake News. 5 ways.

Not our usual fare, but too many kindred have fallen victim to the Dark Side (hence the Vader pic).  

There are numerous poop-up sites, (sorry, pop-up) out there manufacturing headlines and fake stories for one simple reason and it is not to be a propaganda arm of a political party: IT IS TO MAKE MONEY.

How do they do this? They understand that certain words, symbols, and association automatically engage an emotional response be it good or ill and then manufacture articles that support a claim for the targeted group. Basically, humans respond irrationally first to information. They know it, the CIA knows it, and you bettcha corporate marketing firms know it. Life isn’t about first impressions, but first impressions frame the way you process information.  

Now, remember, these purveyors of outrage don’t provide accountable sources or actual support for the claim because they are counting on a normal human cognitive process. It is called Confirmation Bias. You pay attention to things you agree with and probably accept them to be true without thought: thus, reinforcing pre-existing beliefs (the persistence of belief is a powerful thing). Then, things you don’t agree with are almost summarily dismissed as being false and many times forgotten. If you know a group’s pre-existing beliefs, you can cater to them through understanding their moral framework/values and use preconceived notions about the opposing group.

It is really easy to do if you understand that most of reality to humans is about competing stories: politics, law, religion, and most of all self. Find the values and stories, and press the emotional buttons.

We live in a consumer society and everything, and almost everyone, is trying to sell you something be it a product or an ideology. Both increase the salesman’s power with money or influence. Won’t get into the marketing techniques of status, convenience, or novelty but if you approach articles as ads/infomercials you will be one step closer to not being manipulated for another’s ill-gotten gains.

1) Repeat to yourself “Everyone is trying to sell me something.” Even those in your own social group. Sure, you want to trust people like yourself, hey aren’t they like you and nobody is more trustworthy than you… right? I am sure you are, but many people do not operate rationally as you. Many don’t even truly understand why they believe things or why they have certain points of view. They just always have and were brought up that way. It is easy for me because I encountered betrayal at an early age. Not the “girlfriend cheated on me” variety, though I’m sure it is troubling, I encountered the existential breakdown kind that shattered my upbringing and way I thought about the world and myself. Trust nobody, especially myself.   

2) Treat information that you agree with or automatically think, “That’s right” as being faulty. Investigate. Find the counter arguments. Find the evidence to support the claim in more than one other source.  In fact, treat it as if you disagreed with it and were trying to disprove it.

3) Do the same with information you disagree with. Find the counter argument. Find the opposing views. Find the sources of the information. Unreliable sources equal bullshit.

4) Understand psychological priming/hot cognition. Certain events, terms or symbols cause unconscious, emotional reactions that we are not aware.  Your mood can influence your evaluation. For example, it is an overcast day, drizzling, and you get stuck in traffic. Then, you must read essays and write a review. They will probably be pretty negative. But, perform the task on a sunny day where you had a nice lunch and all things fall your way, the reviews will be more positive and encouraging.

As for terms or symbols, humans form associations either positive or negative to certain ideas encountered in their past.     

5) We are irrational susceptible to biases by self or group. They are just shortcuts to processing information that are based on our previous conditioning. They do not control us if we don’t let them, but this takes work.  And that is the crux of all of this. To not be manipulated, we must stop, think and examine the articles put out by Fake News. We must know that hotbutton topics get our hackles all a rage and that others are depending on that to make a buck.

Sure, these Fake News articles, I shouldn’t even call them that, create a nice binary of Us vs Them and the other is an enemy lacking morality. They make the world simple by using generalizations.

Fear and hate are the easiest emotions to manipulate. Don’t get suckered. With all of the posts and blogs and ersatz news sources, people will continue to live in their Naïve Realism and let Confirmation Bias, Bias Blind Spots, Actor-Observer Bias, In-Group Biases, guide their navigation through the world. Why? Because it is easy. Thinking is hard.

To reiterate: know the source, find citations, approach the claims like a debate and know both sides. This might help you before you get manipulated by your emotions and share a post or piece that is factually untrue and allow those Ragebait parasites to suck more blood out of our humanity and society.  They are not informing you. They are exploiting you. And, they play both sides.   

Seek truth, not your own validation.

PS: Beware headlines that utilize virtue or vice of one group against another. Example: {name here} crushes {opposing group} argument with one question!!! or You will never believe what {opposing group} did to {group you support}!!!

AND YES, we are trying to sell you something... comic books!!!!! 

COMICS -> https://waywardraven.com/shop/

     Fare thee well,

Joshua and the crew.