#malingering kills

[fleetstreetpies]

TW: mental health problems, psychosis, open and graphic discussion of my hallucinations and delusions, mental health meds, mental health med side effects, medical inaction, medical malpractice.

Content under the cut.

Good god it’s happening again. It’s getting REALLY bad again.

I’ve been on a mood stabiliser for about a year now, and I’ve been VERY open with my psychiatrist about a lot of the complications I’ve faced, like needing my dose increased, nausea and headaches from increasing my dosage, persistence of mania, night terrors, delusions, etc. And now the delusions and hallucinations are worse than they were. They’d gotten better for a while but now here I am and good gods, I want it to stop so badly.

I want to not see things and people melting slowly. I want to not perceive that people have been replaced by near identical clones. I want to not perceive that some people are just my mother in elaborate disguise. I’d make it all stop or go away if I could, and when I was a younger man I tried, though when I tried I fully thought that I was God and could control the universe with just my thoughts.

I’ve been trying to talk to my psychiatrist about it. I need to get my mood stabiliser increased, sure, and I know that. But I also desperately need to get on an antipsychotic. And I think she thinks I’m malingering.

Do people actually think that folks with these problems are faking this? Malingering is relatively rare, and by all means, infuriating for all parties. But do the professionals genuinely think that we’re malingering? Because I’d bet (if I had money and were a gambling man) that it’s way harder to fake than you’d think. People who do that whole malingering thing unequivocally baffle me. Antipsychotics are extremely expensive and I cannot believe people would genuinely be willing to buy them and fake it for sympathy. I can’t afford 880 dollars per refill no matter how hard I try because I can barely make rent in a month (at least I get my meds through the school pharmacy where they cost way less).

So what even is the point of some other person faking it? To sell their prescription drugs for a profit on a black market? To gain sympathy? To get some kind of disability benefits?

I just need for my psychiatrist to fucking listen to me for five seconds and to actually fucking help me for once in her goddamn life when all the other doctors or professionals in their white coats and clean blouses and blazers won’t. I need help because they all fucking refuse to help me and my psychiatrist is supposed to help me. They took a vow to “do no harm”, but that vow is useless when their own inaction or bias is the cause of the harm. It’s pointless and futile! Why take a vow when you don’t even listen to the people you swore to help?

Medical inaction is ableism. Medical inaction is malpractice. Medical inaction is to be complicit in the deaths of so many mentally ill people.

Doctors say “do no harm” but they leave the mentally ill to suffer and die because “what if they’re faking it?” That’s a poor excuse to deny people adequate (read: potentially life saving) treatment and healthcare.

Shame on the pharmaceutical industry, shame on doctors, shame on malingerers, and shame on everyone complicit in the ableism, incompetence, inaction, corruption, and denial that kill.

Shame on you.

[czolgosz]

rip leon czolgosz you would've loved the metamorphosis

[oliviawebsite]

the usa rly wants to kill disabled people, as an entity. the state and the corporations join hands to grind them into a fine paste that can be repurposed to manufacture "green" car parts. propaganda ensures your neighbor sees you as a malingering pre-ghost, a misspent vessel of flesh-- underproductive and therefore useless. it sneaks into every corner of life. its in our infrastructure, our policies, the way most people live their day to day lives. your tax dollars fund genocides on several fronts and the building of world-rending weapons that could wipe out all multicellular life on earth and monstrous mechanical beasts spitting poison into water supply networks. but god forbid a piecemeal portion of it goes towards barely providing a disabled person with enough money to live each month. sorry that like 0.03% of your tax payments go to keeping people who cant work conventional jobs trapped below the poverty line i guess. fuck you. i will not be killed.

[caladhel-iarian]

Say It Like You Mean It

Emet-Selch inspects the selection of drinks with a critical eye. A splash of scotch here, a tankard of foamy ale there, a finger of neat gin with a sprig of rosemary…

Ah .

His hand is already reaching for the whiskey a split second before his eyes register what they’re seeing. If he has truly resigned himself to an evening of Azem’s incessant chatter and Hythlodaeus’ constant teasing, he has a feeling he will need a glass of something strong–and possibly the rest of bottle to follow. One of the two idiots is already grinning at him unabashedly while the other does a fine job of pretending at propriety.

If, of course, one ignores the impish glee in his eyes that says he’s already concocted some new and terrible scheme. 

As the attendant moves on to the next table, Emet-Selch sighs and takes a sip of his whiskey to bolster his nerves before he arches a brow at Hythlodaeus.

“Well?” he prompts. “Are you going to share this juicy gossip of yours or aren’t you?”

Insufferable as ever, Hythlodaeus only mirrors Azem’s grin. With one hand cradling the drink he’d all but demanded in exchange for his information, he holds Emet-Selch’s eye and enjoys tiny sips from the sparkling wine. Exceedingly tiny sips. Exceedingly tiny sips that don’t appear to empty the glass at all.

Emet-Selch grits his teeth. Those sips, he is swiftly realizing, are purposefully designed to drive him straight up the wall.

And damn him, it’s working.

“Patience,” Hythlodaeus drawls, “is a virtue, Most Esteemed Emet-Selch.”

Emet-Selch scoffs. “I have no time for virtues,” he retorts. “I have plenty of work to do and that does not include sitting around with baited breath while you malinger in your melodramatic revelations. If you–”

“Ah, but all work and no play makes Azem terribly sad,” Hythlodaeus counters with annoying cheer. Beside him, Azem’s enthusiastic nods are nearly enough to snap their neck and belie the big, sad eyes glued to him. 

With herculean effort, Emet-Selch ignores them.

“Our duty to Etheirys,” the Chief of the Bureau of the Architect continues, “though important–! can wait while we celebrate our dear friend’s happy return. After all–” He tips his wine glass in Azem’s direction as though intending to toast the miscreant. “We have so little time with one another these days. And I plan to make the most of it before we fulfill our promise and return to the star together.”

Emet-Selch swears he feels his teeth cracking as his jaw clenches. His knuckles whiten around his glass.

“Yes, well,” he grinds out, shooting Azem a dirty look. They only lift their brows in return, the picture of innocence. The effect reminds him of an owl. “That assumes we live long enough to see that blessed day come.”

He waits. A heartbeat. Two. It takes about ten seconds before his words really sink in.

“Hey!” Azem splutters, spraying grape juice everywhere. They bolt up straight from their lazy spawl and swipe a hand across their chin, frowning at the Third Seat. “Are you trying to imply that I’d get us all killed?”

He gives them a withering look that has them quickly averting their eyes and clearing their throat.

“Oh, please. As if you have not dragged us into countless dangerous situations,” he says, his voice coated with sarcasm and disdain. “You are a magnet for trouble, Azem. Frankly, it is an absolute miracle you have survived this long.”

“No, it’s isn’t,” Azem replies, and their smug smile has him torn between wanting to throttle them and licking the drop of grape juice from their lips. “Lady Luck loves me. I’m her favourite.”

Hythlodaeus’ quiet laughter breaks the tension. “I can see why,” he agrees, eyeing Azem with no small amount of admiration and interest. “That just-crawled-out-of-bed hair and those rumpled robes are quite fetching on you.”

“Thank you,” Azem chirps, oblivious. “That’s very kind of you, Daeus.”

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes. “Lady Luck has peculiar tastes, then,” he mutters into his glass. He downs another mouthful of whiskey, using the alcohol to keep his tongue busy before it can say something incredibly stupid. Something like But she will have to get in line because her favourite flavour was my favourite flavour first.

“Yeah?” Azem challenges him, their tanned cheeks reddening as Hythlodaeus continues looking them up and down. “What does that say about your tastes, huh?”

The whiskey burns as it travels down the wrong pipe and Emet-Selch coughs, his eyes widening in sudden concern. Has this complete fool somehow learned to read minds?

“W-What?” he gasps, covering his confusion and unease with his trademark scowl. “What is that supposed to mean?” He dabs at his chin with a napkin and turns his head away, his nose in the air. “I have no particular tastes, I will have you know. I simply have high standards.”

“Remarkably high,” Hythlodaeus agrees, and there’s a note in his voice that has Emet-Selch narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “How fortunate the sun is the highest thing in our world, hm?”

Cheeks slightly flushed–and by Etheirys, he hopes Hythlodaeus mistakes it for the blush that accompanies alcohol, though his hopes, admittedly, don’t soar high–Emet-Selch huffs. The glare he offers the Soul Seer tells the other man that the implications of his subtle ribbing have been perfectly understood and are equally unwanted.

At least by one person at the table, anyway. Those implications have apparently flown straight over Azem’s head without ever stopping to roost. And that is just the way Emet-Selch prefers it.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, downing more whiskey to hide his discomfort.

“Oh, but if I were to shut up,” Hythlodaeus trills, “you would never hear that absolutely fascinating bit of gossip I picked up recently. And I assure you, it is something you will not want to miss.”

A long-suffering sigh escapes Emet-Selch. Hythlodaeus, blast his hide, knows exactly how to bait his curiosity and reel him in. When he isn’t leaving him writhing on the hook, that is.

“Fine,” he says reluctantly. “Spill it, then. Before I change my mind about this whole affair and leave you both here to drag yourselves home later.”

“We-e-ell…”

Emet-Selch swallows a groan. He’s known Hythlodaeus for over a century and the first thing he ever learned about his friend was that his sly grins never mean anything good.

“I have it on good authority that a certain someone–due to his stubborn nature and unfortunate sense of decorum and embarrassment–missed a perfectly mind-blowing evening last night with an exceptional ray of sunshine,” says Hythlodaeus. “Complete, I was told, with smooth jazz.”

Emet-Selch stares at the other man with a mixture of confusion, horrified fascination, and an undeniable sense of mounting dread.

“Are you… Are you telling me that I missed out on a night of… jazz?” he echoes. This is the interesting gossip Hythlodaeus has been alluding to all afternoon? A night of jazz? He can listen to jazz in his own home whenever he pleases–

“In a manner of speaking.” Hythlodaeus’ fingers trace the rim of his glass in slow, continuous circles. Every rotation creates a soft squeak that sets Emet-Selch’s teeth on edge. “But the jazz was not the important part, Emet-Selch.”

“I hate jazz,” Azem interjects.

He fights the urge to roll his eyes and, instead, spares Azem a brief, exasperated glance.

“Noted,” he says dryly, before returning his attention to Hythlodaeus. “But I fail to see how missing an evening of jazz equates to missing a mind-blowing night.”

“I was there,” says Azem.

“Yes, thank you,” sighs Emet-Selch. “I fail to see how missing an evening of jazz with someone I could not care any less about equates to missing a mind-blowing evening.”

“Ow.” Lips curled in a winsome pout, Azem rubs their chest, directly over their heart. They brighten up a moment later when Hythlodaeus gently pats their hand.

“Ah, well,” says the Bureau’s Chief, his eyes gleaming dangerously in the restaurant’s mood lighting. “Perhaps I should also mention there was nudity involved.”

The sudden sputtering has several diners at nearby tables turning in their direction. Emet-Selch coughs until he’s certain he’s lost a lung, his throat and chest burning from the unexpected whiskey. He does his best to ignore the stares leveled his way, but he feels the eyes boring into him, curious and condemning by turns. Ignoring puzzled glances is a skill he acquired only a few weeks after meeting the gremlins currently having dinner with him, and it’s a skill he isn’t sure he appreciates developing. When no other disruptions seem forthcoming from his table, the other diners return to their meals.

“N- Nudity?” he hisses in a strangled voice. “You are joking, right? This has to be a joke.”

“Not at all,” Hythlodaeus demurs. “I never joke.” He doesn’t bother acknowledging the incredulous noise that crawls its way up Emet-Selch’s throat and out into the world. “There was nudity and, my source confided, a full bottle of someone’s favourite wine.”

“It tastes like dzo piss and vinegar,” Azem chimes in, and their face scrunches up the way it does after they eat something sour.

Emet-Selch's sharp frown goes blissfully ignored by its intended recipient. 

“First, I do not ever want to know why you know how dzo urine tastes,” he snaps. “And second, that wine is an acquired taste only appreciated by those with the most refined and discerning palates. That is… I can’t understand why anyone, even an idiot, would waste an entire bottle of it on… whatever this is.” He gestures vaguely at the table, his companions, the whole restaurant and the city at large. Why would anyone ever use such an extraordinary wine to get wasted and nude? It boggled the mind.

“Ah. That is the unfortunate part.” Hythlodaeus heaves a dramatic sigh. Closing his eyes, he shakes his head and tsks softly. “You see, that wine was not drunk nor the smooth jazz enjoyed because the esteemed personage for whom they had been prepared never bothered to show up.”

“I was lonely,” Azem agrees, nodding.

Emet-Selch has always believed he knows the limits of his patience. The last century has seen it pushed, pulled, stretched and compressed. Though he knows ire is a sliding scale and the goalposts can be moved at any time, he also knows that scale always operates within certain bounds. He has always thought he could confidently say he’s seen it all, that he knows just how annoyed he can get. He also thinks he is usually good about heading off his temper before it takes a nose-dive over a cliff.

But Emet-Selch is wrong and tonight is proving that to him. His irritation is reaching new and unusual heights the longer he listens to Hythlodaeus’ drivel peppered with Azem’s accompanying remarks. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he notices the throbbing in his temples and resolves to drop in at the apothecary for some aspirin on his way home.

“...You are telling me,” he says in the tones of someone reaching the end of his tether and accelerating, “that someone went through the trouble of preparing a romantic evening complete with wine and jazz and… and nudity , and they are upset because I wasn’t there?”

“Hm.” Hythlodaeus hums, tapping his lips as if in deep thought. “When you put it that way, then yes. I suppose that does sound similar, doesn’t it.”

Setting his glass carefully aside, Emet-Selch groans and buries his face in one hand. What he wouldn’t give for the floor to open up and swallow him right now. A combination of frustration, disbelief, and something that feels a little too much like guilt to be comfortable washes over him and he rubbed his eyes, wishing he had chosen to work overtime instead of leaving his office. 

“This is absurd,” he mutters, his words muffled by his palm. “Why on earth would someone go through all that trouble for me?”

“I’m sure I can’t imagine,” says Hythlodaeus. He glances at Azem, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Can you, dearest Azem?”

“Because I wanted to fuck,” says Azem. “But you never showed up.”

Emet-Selch’s head immediately snaps up, his eyes widening and his face deathly pale. He stares at them in complete and total silence for several seconds while his brain tries to process what he’d heard. His mouth opens and closes wordlessly, repeatedly, and his tongue scrambles for something–anything–to say.

“You… You what?” he finally manages. It’s little more than a whisper.

“I wanted to fuck,” Azem repeats. “Bump uglies. Get down and dirty. Do the horizontal tango. Make the beast with two backs. Do the hippidy-dippity. Shake the sheets. Get my corn ground.” 

To Emet-Selch’s rising horror, they make a wide circle with their forefinger and thumb, then poke the finger of their other hand through the hole to illustrate.

“Bake a cream pie,” they tell him and anyone else with ears in the nearby vicinity. “Glaze the doughnut. Put the sour cream in the burrito. Assault with a friendly weapon. Dip the wick. Walk the snake. Hide the salami. You know. Fuck. ”

Beside them, Hythlodaeus presses a fist to his lips to stifle his laughter. When that doesn’t work, he tries a napkin.

Emet-Selch is reasonably certain his face has caught fire. His cheeks burn darker and hotter as Azem continues rattling off various euphemism, most of which he has never heard in his life and all of which he could have happily done without ever hearing. The longer they go on, the more he regrets ever being born and Hythlodaeus’ barely suppressed laughter is not helping anything.

“Yes, yes, I understand!” he blurts, desperate to stop Azem’s litany of lascivious language. “No need to go into further detail!”

“Get that daily dose of vitamin D,” Azem replies.

Emet-Selch chokes on air.

“Are you sure?” Hythlodaeus’ voice is sugar sweet, but his eyes glint evilly. “I must admit, I am curious to know what other delightful terms our Azem has learned in their travels.”

“Ride the bony pony,” Azem supplies helpfully.

Emet-Selch emits a sound somewhere between a mortified groan and strangled gasp, his eyes so large they nearly engulf his face. They dart around the restaurant, checking on other diners while he silently prays that no one else has heard Azem’s contributions to this horrible conversation. Hythlodaeus, damn him, is fighting a losing battle to keep his face straight; Emet-Selch can see the tears of laughter glistening on his cheeks.

“Board the train to pound town,” says Azem just as the attendant walks by and Emet-Selch feels his soul leave his body.

“Stop,” he pleads, his voice hoarse. He holds up one hand, palm out in surrender. “Please. Just stop.”

[crimeronan]

Hunter trying to track down his family history on the down-low? Possibly to prepare himself for the most worst-case scenario his brain keeps telling him where Luz makes a life where he isn’t necessary to be in anymore?? Which is a literal mirror what Luz keeps feeling when Hunter is getting closer to new people like Willow, Amity, and Gus???

Anyways, the idea of Hunter doing all this research and finding fuck all and eventually having to make certain leaps in attempt of finding any leads and just… A return of teens asking Darius vague and leading questions about his mentor for their own research and Darius being left internally freaking the fuck out because of drawing the wrong conclusions and it being tied up with the majority of his own bullshit and hangups.

(In reference to the ask about Luz asking Darius questions about the previous gg when she was trying to find out as much as she could about the grimwalkers before Hunter but Darius freaking out because he thought she was on to him being a rebel. Don’t know what wrong conclusions he would come up with Hunter’s questioning while Hunter’s grasping at straws of where he might have come from but the idea of Darius thinking he has an idea of what these teens want from him and being extremely wrong about it is so funny to me. I also don’t know if the fact that Darius knows about how Luz killed Belos means that he knows about the grimwalker situation yet or not??)

MMMMMMMMM

i was THINKING that if hunter was having trouble tracing his own lineage, he'd probably go to darius first. he knows darius was mentored by the prior golden guard and hunter wants to know more about him, because the timeline doesn't match up to him being hunter's father, but apparently he was Also related to belos...? maybe also half-human, somehow, or maybe a key to figuring out what belos lied about.

as for the conclusions darius would draw, i actually think darius would know Exactly what hunter was asking, and that that would kind of be. worse. for him.

i don't know whether darius knows the word "grimwalker" but he's definitely put two-and-two together that the golden guards are something other than witches. and that belos killed all of them. and that luz knows it.

there's the inner luz having referenced the "others" in her mindscape, and darius Knowing belos must have killed his mentor, and the fact that darius has now seen what went down right before luz killed belos. which means he would have seen:

“He has always been sick!” Belos roars. The fury is a driving knife, an explosion, a shrapnel blast. Luz flinches back, hard, and slams into her chair, too startled to stand her ground. But the Emperor isn’t finished. He sweeps everything off the table with an earthshattering crash, objects scattering haphazardly across the floor, the vibration rattling through Luz’s shoes. Even that’s not as frightening as his voice, though. “Do you think that it matters whether the body falls apart?” he snarls. “Do you think that I care whether he could malinger for a witch’s normal Godforsaken lifespan? Do you think that I care whether any of them could? Never for a moment should I have let him live past infancy, and if you weren’t such a softhearted coward, you’d understand the same!”

like. darius knows.

and obviously he's in a position where he can't explain how he came by this information, but even if he COULD, he still wouldn't want to tell hunter. he and luz are both firmly in the same camp as far as "protecting hunter from information that could fuck him up forever" goes. no matter how much darius pretends that he doesn't care or he's not invested

so it would be more like. hunter can Tell that darius is hiding something. bc darius is being cagey about more stuff than usual and blatantly trying to distract hunter and getting snappier than he usually does.

and it's really weird. bc darius has never been less-than-trustworthy before.

so. what gives.

[burningfeathersx]

[.ooc.]

confession time

a lot of overly flowery prose or prose that tries to hard to fill the page and not a lot else or malingers on things that don't have a point or detail things down right to the whorls on the floorboards--

they have no voice to me

when i write i use my internal monologue voice to do it and i make that voice conform to the character in question

and prose like that is just so voiceless

meandering for thesaurus points and not real, living, personable content

okay that is all

not, like, trying to make anyone feel bad but

sometimes i come across writing like that and it feels like one of those rod pistols they use to kill pigs with

anyway, that's a personal opinion/preference so dont take it seriously

if you like it then more power to you i just really do not

[thegreatzombieartisan]

Rings of Power + Tolkien Fusion Meta

“I Found It On a Dead Man”: Some Theories on Why Sauron Kept the Pouch

What made the pouch hold so much significance that Sauron keep it for a millennium?

*

Theories of circumstances where Sauron might've taken the pouch

Sauron actually did find it on a dead man before Morgoth fell.

Sauron killed the last king before Morgoth fell.

Sauron killed the last king after Morgoth fell.

Scenario One: He actually found it on a dead man.

Since it’s suggested that Morgoth and the Southlands king would be allies, then Sauron didn't kill the king. Perhaps during a battle against the mutual enemy, the king was killed. Sauron found him dead among on the battlefield and took the pouch for an unknown reason.

Scenario Two: Sauron killed the last king before Morgoth fell

Perhaps it was a traitor's death or an impersonal political decision. Either way, killing a king holds gravitas. And when Morgoth needed a critical task carried-out, he'd send his chief servant.

Directly himself, - or in close proximity of servants who did - Sauron killed the king. Moreover, he likely also killed royal members around the same time, thus ending the line. It's improbable for an entire royal house to cease without nefarious intervention. Perhaps he pulled a Red Wedding.

Sauron took the pouch as proof for Morgoth that he carried-out the task as ordered.

Scenario Three: Sauron killed the last king after Morgoth fell

In contrast to lore, Sauron engages in fuckery for a while longer before attempting to "heal" Middle-Earth as penance. In this scenario, Sauron does wish to become Morgoth's successor and plans to carry-out his master's contingency plan. He kills the Southlands king in preparation for this.

He keeps the pouch as a “trophy” of the killing - as an act of dominance and humiliation.

Most likely?

I theorize Sauron killed the last Southlands king before Morgoth fell and kept the pouch as "proof" he'd carried out the task. But whykeep it?

The pouch symbolizes Sauron's existence within a fragile liminal between failed penitent and Dark Lord

What exactly made Sauron remove the pouch?

When Sauron accuses Galadriel of using him, he's noticeably upset versus angry. There's a tinge of hurt in his voice and face. And when she distorts his accusation, upset quickly becomes anger, provoking him to aggressively remove the pouch etc. Sauron’s breaking point is Galadriel’s gaslighting.

His S1 main character motif is honesty while maintaining his true identity / seeking "peace."

Sauron's emphasis on honesty serves to distance himself from a dark past of his intentionally harmful lies and deceit. A past Tolkien wrote that Sauron felt ashamed, which leads to avoidant behavior. Sauron's demonstrates this in his flight from Middle-Earth and near begging for Galadriel to leave him be.

But also honesty to seek distance from a past where he was deceived and exploited

Over several millennia, Morgoth and Sauron never had discord. Or so Tolkien said. I call bullshit given seeing how Morgoth is emotionally volatile. Moreover, wildly opposing goals.

But it was said Sauron admired Morgoth "at the beginning." TRoP seems to interpret this as Sauron eventually becoming disillusioned with Morgoth's bullshit. It's more than fair to assume this rapey, nihilistic terrorist would've lied and exploited even to his chief servant.

Thus, Sauron removing the pouch might be a silent declaration to Galadriel, and the malingering spectre of Morgoth:

“Don’t fuck with my reality. Don’t tell me who I am so you can use me for your own purposes. Never again.”

(Not even a fair and feisty Elf with gold silver hair.)

Removing the pouch is also accepting his own adequacy

"I failed because I'm not good enough. It is what it is." In a way, had he continued to believe, it might've lead to a humility that extinguished the most harmful aspects of Sauron's dark impulses.

Head canon: What happened

The pouch symbolizes the moment Sauron honors the internal schism from his master.

Perhaps after carrying-out the assassination, Sauron presents the Southlands king pouch to Morgoth. He then asks for his reward: implementing an idea from his own vision.

But Morgoth rejects his request. The time isn't right. Think of something else. Sauron initially thinks he's still being punished for losing Tor-in-Gaurath .But no —the "time" its been a long time since since any of his ideas were even given serious consideration X. The time will never be right, would it?

This is it. The moment Sauron can no longer lie to himself. He and Morgoth were no longer on a mutual arc. Moreover, that he’s been weaponized for Morgoth’s personal, nihilistic agenda. And this secret divergence in allegiance makes space for empathy trickle back in; shame and guilt to grow.

Sauron leaves his audience with Morgoth, and unlike previous items of “proof”, he kept the pouch. Sometime thereafter, it comes to represents a promise to "heal" he and Morgoth's destruction for forgiveness.

Regrettably, his time with Morgoth has twisted him in ways perhaps irreparable. He’ll never fulfill his promise.

When Sauron joins the Southlands expedition, I don't think he yet has a formulated plan. WEekl, beyond seeking revenge on Adar. Fighting alongside an Elf and Men, especially against the orcs he helped create, is an wildly unexpected and novel experience. And he certainly didn't anticipate a bond forming between he and the Elf.

What he does know is that whatever the future brings, Galadriel is there. Now the dead king's pouch becomes a mere prop to it, for what she offers is something far more powerful.

Hope and possibly more.

Thank you for reading! Like and reblogs are appreciated. Got feedback?

What did you like? Got theories or insights to share?

Disagree? I love good faith debate and sparring!

Need clarity on something or feedback on readability?

Spot an inaccuracy? Hey, Tolkien's work is complex. Drop it in comments or DM.

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

surface level take due to malingering migraine, but it’s genuinely astonishing how any critically acclaimed game manages to emotionally connect with enough people to become critically acclaimed. even very basic emotional hooks like “family” may or may not work due to player’s real life relationships with their family.

like f/allout 3. i do not care about the main cad-related questline “ohhhh it should be inherently motivating bc that’s your DAD and YOU ONLY GET ONE FAMILY” shut up. this is something people with good parents say.

but Close to the Sun, a fairly lackluster bioshock-like/podcast tunnel game (you listen to audio logs while navigating corridors of a spooky facility), kills the player character’s grownup but younger sister with extreme violence and prejudice in an unskippable cutscene and i had to close my laptop and walk away for a bit just now! i don’t think i’ll actually return to that one!

and this is why new vegas’ premise can never be topped, bc solving your own murder is as close as you can possibly get to “universal emotional hook” i think

[pikminenjoyer]

I finished Sense and Sensibility and it was great! Lost a few points due to me not liking Edward that much but I'll get over it.

This means its time for another round of CHOOSE MY NEXT READ!!!

This time, with propaganda included!

The Bell Jar - The Bell Jar chronicles the crack-up of Esther Greenwood: brilliant, beautiful, enormously talented, and successful, but slowly going under—maybe for the last time. Sylvia Plath masterfully draws the reader into Esther's breakdown with such intensity that Esther's insanity becomes completely real and even rational, as probable and accessible an experience as going to the movies

Anxious people - Viewing an apartment normally doesn’t turn into a life-or-death situation, but this particular open house becomes just that when a failed bank robber bursts in and takes everyone in the apartment hostage. As the pressure mounts, the eight strangers begin slowly opening up to one another and reveal long-hidden truths.

Catch-22 - Set in Italy during World War II, this is the story of the incomparable, malingering bombardier, Yossarian, a hero who is furious because thousands of people he has never met are trying to kill him. But his real problem is not the enemy—it is his own army, which keeps increasing the number of missions the men must fly to complete their service. Yet if Yossarian makes any attempt to excuse himself from the perilous missions he’s assigned, he’ll be in violation of Catch-22, a hilariously sinister bureaucratic rule: a man is considered insane if he willingly continues to fly dangerous combat missions, but if he makes a formal request to be removed from duty, he is proven sane and therefore ineligible to be relieved.

Rosemary's Baby - Suppose you were an up-to-date young wife who moved into an old and elegant New York apartment house with a rather strange past. Suppose that only after you became pregnant did you begin to suspect the building harbored a diabolically evil group of devil worshippers who had mastered the arts of black magic and witchcraft. Suppose that this satanic conspiracy set out to claim not only your husband but your baby.

Well, that's what happened to Rosemary... Or did it...?

Too Like the Lightning - Mycroft Canner is a convict. For his crimes he is required, as is the custom of the 25th century, to wander the world being as useful as he can to all he meets. Carlyle Foster is a sensayer--a spiritual counselor in a world that has outlawed the public practice of religion, but which also knows that the inner lives of humans cannot be wished away.

Daughter of the Moon Goddess - Growing up on the moon, Xingyin is accustomed to solitude, unaware that she is being hidden from the feared Celestial Emperor who exiled her mother for stealing his elixir of immortality. But when Xingyin’s magic flares and her existence is discovered, she is forced to flee her home, leaving her mother behind.

Alone, powerless, and afraid, she makes her way to the Celestial Kingdom, a land of wonder and secrets. Disguising her identity, she seizes an opportunity to learn alongside the emperor's son, mastering archery and magic, even as passion flames between her and the prince.

To save her mother, Xingyin embarks on a perilous quest, confronting legendary creatures and vicious enemies across the earth and skies. But when treachery looms and forbidden magic threatens the kingdom, she must challenge the ruthless Celestial Emperor for her dream—striking a dangerous bargain in which she is torn between losing all she loves or plunging the realm into chaos

[high-school-lit-tournament]

High School Lit Tournament Side C

Brave New World: Brave New World is a dystopian novel by English author Aldous Huxley, written in 1931 and published in 1932. Largely set in a futuristic World State, inhabited by genetically modified citizens and an intelligence-based social hierarchy, the novel anticipates huge scientific advancements in reproductive technology, sleep-learning, psychological manipulation and classical conditioning that are combined to make a dystopian society which is challenged by only a single individual: the story's protagonist.

Catch-22: Set in Italy during World War II, this is the story of the incomparable, malingering bombardier, Yossarian, a hero who is furious because thousands of people he has never met are trying to kill him. But his real problem is not the enemy—it is his own army, which keeps increasing the number of missions the men must fly to complete their service. Yet if Yossarian makes any attempt to excuse himself from the perilous missions he’s assigned, he’ll be in violation of Catch-22, a hilariously sinister bureaucratic rule: a man is considered insane if he willingly continues to fly dangerous combat missions, but if he makes a formal request to be removed from duty, he is proven sane and therefore ineligible to be relieved.

[i-think-therefore-i-ar]

I feel like a mimic sometimes

When my OSDD was first showing up, I was dating a DID system. I don’t remember the exact details of how I found it out, but it was through them that it all got triggered. I know I have some old writing recounting the tale, but I’ll write something fresh and new here.

I was 15-16, and I was dating a DID system we’ll call Peter. I was experimenting with things like age regression, but things weren’t white adding up (slight memory issues between being “little Mal” and regular Mal, a clear distinction of identity between Little Mal and Mal, etc).

So much so that it became an issue. Little Mal was doing some sort of internal exploring, and found three more people in the process. Tori, Valentine, and I don’t quite remember who the last one was. After that, alter upon alter came pouring out, with some that were more frequent than others. Little Mal became Ezra.

But Mal wasn’t taking it well. It got to the point where suicide was very, very close to being attempted, and all sorts of other issues cropping up. So, Valentine killed him. Mal was pulled out of control and killed, leaving Ben in charge.

After that, everything slowly merged back together. Ezra, Valentine, Ben, Tori, they all disappeared. I was back, as Mal, but also completely different. The same puzzle pieces were being used, but they were in a totally different configuration. I’m Mal, but a far different *version* of the Mal that used to exist.

Peter and I broke up. I tried to bring everyone out, but was absolutely desperate for any sort of sign that they were still there. It’s terrifying, to experience something like that and be left in the dust by both the person who had some semblance of answers and everyone else in my brain.

For a few months, I fought to get answers. I got a psychological evaluation and got diagnosed with OSDD. It didn’t fix anything. After a couple years, I gave up. I avoided anything talking about DID or OSDD like the plague, didn’t even acknowledge it in myself.

I tried going to a specialist for dissociative disorders, and nothing ever came of it. There were steps made in therapy, but he was the only specialist in the area, and I just didn’t mesh well with his style of therapy. I didn’t trust him.

So, eventually, I gave up. I let it be.

But I opened back up to it. I met a system online and decided to give them a chance, to try and put my own issues aside and attempt to make friends. I told them to not bring up DID or OSDD unless absolutely necessary, and they respected it.

Less than three days into knowing them, Hal showed up. It was unmistakeably another part, alter, whatever you would call him.

It’s not accurate to say that I’m copying others. Every time, I have stark differences from the systems around me, which run consistent with my own experiences. It isn’t like I’m mimicking their exact experiences, or using it to malinger. I am still *experiencing* Hal being here, the fuzzy memory, the dissociation.

I don’t know if it’s some weird attempt at masking, or if it’s a modern form of mass psychogenic illness, or if it’s simply just being around other systems triggering it out from me. I don’t know. I don’t like not knowing.

[devils-pirate-crew]

If you think it'd be best for Dawson to get to New York City, then get him there as quickly as possible. We both know he's not in the best mental state right now and delaying the matter won't make it any better.

Arber bites down hard on his lip, considering it for a moment.

It's not - better, per se. Bigger cities often tend to be louder, and the more people are in a place, the higher chance that at some point, a spirit break happened and there's some form of contamination. At the same time, though - Dawson can't stay here. As long as he stays here, he's going to keep getting drawn to the post office and to Petey and to the residue, and it's going to kill him and take a large chunk of the Cove down with it. The guy who apparently broke in the post office, the one Quinn didn't even deign to name, was no good man, at all. That's why his residue is so potent and so plentiful. In the city, at least whatever residue they'd (possibly) encounter there would (probably) be less contagious. It's question marks, but Arber has to take them at this point.

But then - Dawson's never had issues on Jersey Devil. At least it seemed like that. And the ship had nothing in the way of residue. So that's - that's the safest option, then.

"I think the sea air would help," Arber states, after a long moment, focusing on the diplomacy in his tone.

Nico considers it, then nods. "And if anything like this happens on board? Siegs - my quartermaster - is already concerned about possible malingering."

"It shouldn't happen," the gunner sighs, "At least after a few days when this wears off. But if it does, that's why - " he pauses, trying to formulate it, " - That's why we'd be traveling together."

[beardedmrbean]

Sydney Powell left a Summit County courtroom in tears Thursday after being sentenced to life in prison for the slaying of her mother.

Powell, 23, will be eligible for parole after 15 years.

Powell was convicted in a jury trial in Summit County Common Pleas Court of murder and other charges related to the death of her mother Brenda Powell in March 2020.

Sydney’s attorneys argued that she was not guilty by reason of insanity, and called three experts who said Sydney had a psychotic break. Prosecutors, though, called a fourth expert who said Sydney wasn’t insane when she repeatedly hit her mother with a cast-iron skillet and stabbed her with a steak knife.

Powell plans to appeal.

“This wasn’t justice,” Don Malarcik, Sydney’s attorney, said after her sentencing.

Malarick asked Judge Kelly McLaughlin to impose the minimum sentence of 15 years to life. Prosecutors, though, urged McLaughlin to impose an additional three years in prison for a tampering charge.

McLaughlin followed the defense’s recommendation in imposing the minimum sentence.

Steven Powell, Sydney's father and Brenda Powell's husband, and Betsy Brown, Sydney's maternal grandmother, had urged prosecutors not to take Sydney's case to trial and to reach a resolution. Prosecutors, though, moved forward with the trial anyway, saying they would leave it to a jury to decide.

Jurors convicted Sydney of two counts of murder — one that means purposely causing a death and the other that involves causing a death as the result of a felonious assault — as well as felonious assault and tampering with evidence.

Powell's trial featured testimony from four experts

Powell’s trial spanned three weeks and was divided into two parts. In the first, prosecutors presented evidence on Brenda Powell’s slaying. In the second, several experts testified about whether Sydney was insane when she killed her mother, whom many said was her best friend.

Defense expert James Reardon said Sydney suffered a psychotic break when she killed her mother. He was one of three defense experts who evaluated Sydney and diagnosed her with schizophrenia. They found that, because of this mental disorder, she didn’t understand the wrongfulness of her actions when she killed her mother.

Sylvia O’Bradovich, however, a psychologist hired by prosecutors, disagreed with the three defense experts. She said Sydney didn’t meet the legal definition of insanity at the time of the crime.

O’Bradovich, who is with Summit Psychological Associates, said Sydney does have mental health issues, including borderline personality traits, malingering and an unspecified anxiety disorder.

[nitpickrider]

And that, ladies and gents, was Teen Titans Volume 3. WHAT A FUCKING TRAVESTY This run was a mess from beginning to end, with a baseline of grating and overserious that over nose dived into gritty, vile excess with just a pinch of constant, ear grating bickering just to spice up the whole mountain of garbage. Every single issue of this series was at best boring and at worst a mean spirited SLOG. It couldn't keep a consistent lineup to save its life and what interesting members it DID try to introduce it either misused, flicked off after 3 issues or gruesomely killed. Sometimes a combination of the three just to prove that it could. Constant insistence on its own malingering darkness and this weird obsession with characters struggling with this genetic predisposition toward evil or just assholish behavior flying directly in the face of who we know these characters are. Everyone felt like the Mean Girls version of themselves and that's when it wasn't tossing terrible, cynical gore in my face in an attempt to prove some kind of point when instead it just made me want to go back and read some silver age comics. But I survived. And hopefully you all enjoyed my thoughts on this volume as it went on because the next thing on my docket at DC is...*Randomizer*...

Well. Join me in the Future State, friends. There's Detective work to be done.

[oliviawebsite]

if you find the right harmonic contours you can kill off malingering spirits and agents of selfwrongness

[mousegirlheart]

you will see a doctor i will take you and they will be nice or ill kill them

ngl im actually scared of going to the doctor. I've been accused of malingering so many times.

Went to a new audiologist and she immediately accused me not having hearing problems and just fakimg it even though she probably saw the 3 different hearing tests from 3 different clinics that all equally said 'ears fucked' on my file

Went to specsavers (shouldn't've gone to specsavers) because its hard to read long distance (like signs in the grocery store) and lights at night were starbursty enough to make night driving scary and the optometrist just called me lazy and tried to sell me my reading prescription I hadn't needed since I was 11.

What if I go, describe the problems, they run tests and then they just go 'you're faking it toss the cane and go up the stairs'?