#manifesting them both to the world podium perhaps!

[a-birdhouse-in-your-soul]

this is where my brain is at the moment

[cooloddball]

honestly, i always felt the same where "charles fell first, max fell harder". i never quite imagined it to be the same as those typical tropes where one loves quietly and the loves violently and suddenly though i totally think it is them when described as such.

i do think charles has been interested in max since he was younger, but it just manifested itself as intense rivalry where both parties had something to prove to get to the big leagues. charles could perhaps feel himself sink slowly into the story that is max verstappen and wanted nothing to do with it, and so he fights. he fights it, he doesn't want it, but soon he succumbs and finds himself chasing after the only benchmark that matters. it started when they were children, it continues into adolescence and it dies down when moving up the feeder series. it's only when they're both in formula 1 where charles continues to keep his interest quiet, keeps watching max, allows to give his honest feelings about potential rivals and never fails to bring max up. it's not like he's shy to talk about max, nor is he shy in walking right up to max. but it's tense, it's awkward and neither of them know how to react.

charles had certainly expressed his disdain in austria 2019, with how much he's willing to put love aside for the win. but that too has dissipated, because in the end, charles has fallen for max long ago, and even with his petty and grudging-held hands, he'll talk and joke like nothing even happened.

really it's only recently that charles and max interact more often than not. and it's in these moments where you can see charles treat these moments with slight reverence, as something to keep, as something to have fun with. he laughs, he smiles, he giggles whenever max does something because he's just that enamoured. he defends max in the media, he understands what max has to say, he knows just how much max has left an impact on the formula 1 world. he fell first, all the way back they were teens, he doesn't have a lot of expectations now, not when it's all destroyed by max. bc ofc it has to be max to destroy what charles thought was the norm.

in comparison, max fell harder. it may look like he fell first, and maybe he did. maybe he found a friend in charles, maybe he wanted nothing but peace ever since the start ever since they were both kids with big dreams. but they couldn't be friends, not now, they were born to push each other to the limit no matter what. so their interactions were always rough from the start and it's muddy and unclear to see who would fall first but i think max would perhaps set his feelings aside as soon as he reached the pinnacle of motorsport, whereas charles would use it as fuel to keep going.

max fell harder because it just consumed him over the years because as soon as charles entered the paddock and took the formula 1 world by storm after being accepted into sauber, max had claimed charles as his rival. not anyone else. just charles. it's these interactions, ones that range from shooting glances to just straight up approaching him without a plan — looking at you monaco 2022. maybe austria 2019 is the first instance max finally realised himself, how he kept brushing aside charles' anger to end with the great unfollowing. maybe, when spa and monza swings around, he saw how the podiums treat charles and that's when it gets worse. max just keeps initiating the interactions, is the first (most of the time) to keep praising charles, to go up to charles and just talk and maybe in the middle of it he realises just what he's doing. singapore 2019 had been a disaster of an interaction — what do you mean geography nerd max verstappen, someone who can recite which flag comes from which country, doesn't know the difference between the flags of singapore and monaco? and it just grows worse and worse because he just doesn't stop. why would he — it's not the way he's raised.

ANYWAY BASICALLY, you can def swing it either way as to who "fell first", and who "fell harder". and maybe they both fell at the same time, but charles loves with soft adoration and max loves and loves and loves until he cannot.

(p.s. sorry for the long ask LMAO you can reply to this mess or not, i just wanted someone to talk to about this take hsjdkd)

first of all anon i love you. i love you. i love you 3000 because i love long asks and yours especially because it’s like poetry. so no, your apology for long ask is not accepted because this is so beautiful and describes their dynamic just the way i have always seen it circa 2022.

ps. i have re-read this 5 times and it still makes me grin like an idiot. there’s nothing i could possibly add to this. also feel free to stop and share whatever is on your mind about those two ♥️

[sainzfilm]

perhaps an insta fic of you and carlos dating but both in f1🌶️

a/n: hope you like this anon!! :)

⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅

lights out & away we go - carlos sainz

instagram edit

Liked by carlossainz55, zendaya, and 726,834 others

yourusername pre-season photo dump! let’s go for points, baby 💪🏻🏆

(ps. sainz nation, here’s a photo of my boyfriend working out. you’re welcome 😘)

view all 831 comments

carlossainz55 cheering for you always, mi amor ❤️ ps. this is why my fans love you as much as i do

❤️ Liked by yourusername

smoothoperator55 YOU TWO ARE SO CUTE IM GONNA CRY MY PARENTS

ynloveclub37 the world’s favorite couple fr manifesting one like them 😭

zendaya: WOOOO rooting for you, b!!! will definitely come see your races 😘

Liked by pierregasly, charles_leclerc and 871,830 others

carlossainz55 preparing for the upcoming season ft. my favorite f1 driver. we’ll bounce back 💪🏻 forza ferrari!

view all 912 comments

charles_leclerc ❤️

charlosferrari CHARLOS BEST BOYS FOREVER

scuderiaferr4ri let’s get those podiums!!! cheering for the two of you 🏆

yourusername who’s that girl you’re with? she’s so cute 🤨

carlossainz55 not sure though. looks like she’s gonna be the next wdc for the w series 🤷🏻‍♂️

raceryn37 YES SHE IS GOING TO BE FOR THE NEXT SEASON CARLOS BEST BOYFRIEND FR

Liked by yourusername, carlossainz55 and 651 others

f1insider SPOTTED! yourusername, a frontrunner in the wdc for the w series, comes to visit carlossainz55, ferrari’s very own zooming spaniard, for the first race of the season. cutest couple on the paddock ❤️ we wish the best of luck for both drivers in their respective seasons! 💪🏻

view all 62 comments

pierregasly the two of you are so sweet, im not surprised ants haven’t crawled up on you yet

charles_leclerc mate. you haven’t been in my shoes, i see them every now and then and they’re so cheesy

landonorris plus im thirdwheeling whenever we go golfing now 💔

yourusername ??? what exactly is happening

sainz55ferrari and here i am manifesting a relationship like theirs

❤️ Liked by yourusername

mercgirl4life im a merc girl and i love them so much 😭 purest couple fr no kidding

❤️ Liked by yourusername

supermax33 AND IM A RED BULL GIRL?? they’re my favorite couple on the paddock :(

❤️ Liked by yourusername

[moondeerdotblog]

On Dragons

A brief note for short attention spans: stick around if you wanna see how I manage to seamlessly (and I do say so myself) tie together dragon mythology, weaving, and politics into one giant point about worldview diversity and problem solving efficacy (even got a Trumpian meme for y’all towards the bottom if that is more your bag).

I have always been fascinated by the common thread stretched about humanity that links up our narratives. The similitude with which humanity engineers itself by independent means.

Take dragons for example. Damn near everyone thought up dragons.

They thought ‘em up in Egypt, where Apep was the very embodiment of chaos.

Egypt also thought up my personal favorite, Ouroboros, who was a manifestation of the snake god Mehen.

They thought ‘em up in Mother Russia where it would appear three really is a magic number. One would assume their mastery of weather and water source got ‘em the gig at the bow of this Russian Viking ship.

This handsome three-headed fella, who goes by Zmey Gorynych, is from Russian folklore. He liked taking human form and seducing him some laadiees.

In Greece, dragons were hurling up namesakes. Here we see a depiction of Athena watching as the Colchian dragon, guardian of the Golden Fleece, disgorges Jason.

Greek dragons were also being raised solely for the purpose of slaying Heracles (pictured here failing miserably is the Lernaean Hydra).

The Greeks also liked stickin‘ ‘em in mosaics, as with this depiction of a sea dragon or cetus.

In China, where dragons were thought to bring good luck to those worthy of such fortune, you’ll find them carved into walls. I mean … be kinda awkward not to find dragons at Nine-Dragon Wall … am I right?

The last imperial dynasty of China, the Qing dynasty, chose to stick one of the dragon gods, the Azure Dragon, on their flag.

It wouldn’t be long before the Chinese dragon would make its way to Japan, as evidenced by this Hokusai painting,

as well as to Korea, as evidenced by the murals found at the Goguryeo tombs.

The first known portrayal of a fully modern, western dragon may be found within a medieval manuscript.

Native Americans painted dragons on bluffs. This fearsome piasa bird craved human flesh.

So what is the point of my little dragons of the world presentation? I believe it worth considering the discrepancies and commonalities amongst such cultural invention.

Let us begin with commonalities. The nearest I can tell, the single common thread among these narratives defines a dragon as a serpentine, legendary creature. Let me paint my point metaphorically.

We often speak of storytellers as though they were spinning yarn. It would not, then, be much of a stretch to reimagine them as weavers, and their creations as tapestries such as the two below.

We might think of the universally common as the warp threads running through these tapestries. Something structural. Not the good stuff.

What they all saw the same way isn’t really the interesting bit, is it? Seems to me the good stuff is what each culture thought of a little bit differently, the weft threads of the tapestries.

That which makes the Chinese dragon on the right something entirely different than the Celtic dragon on the left. Different … but no less beautiful … and the world is richer having known them both. Having known them both, what might one weave next?

Consider, then, what invention becomes possible with all things considered.

What might I be able to learn from someone with whom I share nothing but warp threads (were we each provided our very own babel fish … obviously).

What might he learn from me? After we have finished feeding our fish and gone our separate ways, how might we be affected? What ingenuity might we have unlocked for future endeavors?

Not enough? Not yet convinced of the beneficiality of discrepant embrace? Another example, then.

What must this untouched Amazonian tribe have thought possible that they hadn’t only moments earlier?

I don’t want y’all thinkin’ I only value discrepancy. We value the shared human experience, that which binds us as a species … the things about our lives, about the human condition, one finds to be as true beneath the canopy as they are in my backyard.

Without such warp threads we might find those outside the purview of our particular worldview entirely un-relatable. We might consider children one such thread. Entirely relatable.

What I find to be most valuable, however, are those weft threads … the good stuff. The stuff that tells us not who we are, but who we might be … who we might become. It is the unique that drives us to want to try out something new … that has us saying, “huh, I never thought to do that,” or “I haven’t thought of it that way before.”

It is the unique that allows us to glance up at the sky and say to ourselves, “I never knew that was possible.”

Thinking about folklore and mythology in this way got me thinking about world-views, and the current political climate in our country.

When Trump was first impeached, I became deeply invested in the plight of our nation. If I was awake, the television was tuned to MSNBC and I was absorbing all of it. The reality rejectionist platform pushed by the GOP, the militia grooming, the election theft, the fascist coup, etc., etc. You all know the story.

The things is, I was getting there weeks, if not months, before anyone I was seeing on my television (or Twitter for that matter). I began wondering why. I mean … me … a guy with a political knowledge gap the size of those Texan power bills.

Then there seemed to come a moment at which point everyone caught up. Biden was declared victorious.

I was caught up in the jubilation

and felt as though, perhaps, the whole divergency irritant had been flushed.

It hadn’t been. Coinciding with the beginning of Trump’s second impeachment trial, even more so than before, my read diverged from any other I could find. Maximum dissidence was reached immediately following the Senate’s vote to acquit, when Mitch stepped up to the podium and began speaking.

Wait … wait … that wasn’t Mitch.

Okay, that’s Mitch. So Mitch got up there and did precisely what I feared he might … he pivoted away from a doomed reality rejectionist platform. My surprise was in how everyone else responded. I have yet to find anyone anywhere not surprised by Mitch that day.

“So what, then, is your point?” you ask. “It seems as though that vuvuzela isn’t all you’ve been blowing,” you say (in a rather accusatory tone I might add). Here is my point with regard to my power to prognosticate.

I have grown convinced that I have uncovered the force at play here. It is precisely that political knowledge gap which has turned me amateur prognosticator. Without the knowledge of political norms and precedents pressing into my mental map of possibility, my imagination would not be limited to what has come before. My expectations were unflappable when met with a world that no longer made sense, while so many clung to a pre-Trumpian set of expectations. They, consciously or subconsciously (mind is tricky that way), feared the unrecognizable now.

I want to return, briefly, to that Amazonian tribe, staring up at that plane. No doubt you had a similar reaction to my own upon seeing that image, postulating what magic they must invent to explain that which they have seen.

I want you to consider something that perhaps you wouldn’t have thought to consider. Let’s reimagine magic. What if Trump were piloting that plane? (Nailed it, right?)

Of course the plane crashes. It was held aloft by norms and precedents. Say everyone survives the crash. Which group, the planites or the tribe, now possesses the most accurate view of what surrounds them?

Politically, societally, pick-your-ly … who among us has the most accurate view of what surrounds us today?

Well … I mean … you’re not wrong. We have a hell-of-a-lotta problems (and thanks for participating, couldn’t pull this off without ya) … problems requiring masterful weavers work together in fabricating solutions.

Let us, then, consider carefully whom we shall invite to sit down at our table … with which unique perspectives we shall be outfitted.

What might discrepant world-views or experience engender as we begin weaving? What might we see in the weft threads of our tapestry that we never knew was possible?

[littlepurinsesu]

In Regards to Hugs: No

Title: In Regards to Hugs: No Fandom: Yuri on Ice Characters: Yuri Plisetsky, Yuuri Katsuki, Jean-Jacques Leroy, Seung Gil Lee, Emil Nekola, Michele Crispino, Sara Crispino, Victor Nikiforov Relationships: Yuri Plisetsky & Yuuri Katsuki, Yuuri Katsuki/Victor Nikiforov Rating: Teen and Up Warnings: Swearing

*Read on AO3*

Summary: The pork cutlet bowl goes on a hugging spree. It’s disgusting and traumatising and Yuri Plisetsky could have sworn that he saw his life flash before his eyes, but he thinks he understands.

Author’s Notes: The hug scene in Episode 9 has always been one of my favourite moments in the anime. It’s so hilarious and adorable, but there’s also so much potential for some friendship feels between Yuuri and Yurio. So this went from a simple fanfic-isation of the hug scene to a full-fledged fic that got a lot more serious than what I had in mind when I started the piece. Mostly canon compliant, but lots of filling in the gaps to really bring out the relationship between the two Yuris. Because Yurio is an angry tsundere who will never admit how much he cares for his Katsudon.

Silver.

Whether it was the colour or its symbolic value or simply the word itself, Yuri Plisetsky was not happy with it.

He had worked his ass off and almost busted his lungs to execute a perfect free skate performance. For fuck’s sake, he’d even earned himself a new personal best. Yet apparently none of that was enough to stop that Canadian sucker from pushing him to the right side of the podium again. Second for the second time, and Yuri could not be more displeased—with himself, with that jackass, and with practically everyone, because there wasn’t a single person who didn’t piss him off right now.

I’ll destroy that shithead at the Finals. Fucking watch me. Knife shoes or not, I’ll fucking end him.

Yuri’s brows were knitted tightly together and his heavy steps reverberated menacingly as he tramped down the hallway. The aura he was radiating was enough to keep any unwanted people at bay.

‘Unwanted people’ did not include a certain pork cutlet bowl, though. After that frustratingly underwhelming free skate, Yuri had come to the conclusion that he probably needed to give him a good talk (complete with a kick or two) to get him back on track. Maybe he’ll yell at him about this later before the Japanese skater returned home the next day or something.

Yuri rounded a corner in the maze of corridors, hoping to bump into absolutely no one, when lo and behold, who should he chance upon but Yuuri Katsuki himself. The fourth-placer was standing near the wall in a daze, eyes seemingly fixed on nothing in particular as he stared absently into the distance. It was almost odd to not see the balding man-child draped around his shoulders, trying to cheer him up or talk some sense into him. But then again, if that man-child had been present, Yuuri wouldn’t have placed fourth to begin with. Yuri knew this for a fact, because goddamnit, Yuuri Katsuki was better than this.

He was pondering the possibility of giving that pep talk right here and right now when the Crispino twins approached, occupied with some small disagreement that Yuri didn’t care about.

‘Yuuri!’ Sara called suddenly as the pair neared the pork cutlet bowl. She speed-walked the final steps to close the distance, leaving her scowling sibling behind. ‘Congrats on qualifying for the Grand Prix Final! I knew you’d make it.’ She extended her arms warmly, as though welcoming a friendly embrace.

Oh, boy. That obsessive freak of a brother is not going to take this well.

Sure enough, within milliseconds, Michele Crispino had marched right up to them, mouth set in an angular frown. ‘Sara!’ he complained.

Had Sara been asking for a hug? Or had she simply been holding her arms out as a strange gesture of congratulatory pride? Yuri had not quite wrapped his head around the mixed social cues when he saw Yuuri fling his arms around the woman’s slender frame.

‘Thank you,’ he breathed.

Congrats on qualifying for the Final? More like congrats on digging your own grave, Katsudon.

Yuri had to press his lips together to suppress his vindictive snicker as Michele visibly bristled, before squawking out an exclamation of the utmost rage. The flower bouquet he had been holding moments ago went flying as he raised his fists in the air. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?!’ he demanded, with perhaps a little too much passion and force in his voice. If the disturbed Italian man had yelled any louder or harder, Yuri was sure he would have ruptured a vein in his neck.

Yet no horror movie Yuri Plisetsky had mistakenly watched while curled up on the couch in the wee hours of the night could have prepared him for what happened next.

Yuuri Katsuki opened his eyes—if they could still even be called eyes—revealing one of the most terrifyingly lifeless expressions Yuri had ever seen. It was dark and vacant and enough to send an unnerving chill slithering down his spine.

This dangerous gaze was slowly pointed at Michele as Yuuri let go of Sara and latched himself onto her fuming brother instead.

‘Eh?’ Michele spared less than two seconds comprehending his situation before completely losing it. He flailed his arms uselessly, eyes swirling and shoulders practically vibrating as he released a shriek so high-pitched that Yuri had to wonder if it were even possible for a person with a Y chromosome. It was one of the most hilarious cries of distress Yuri had ever been fortunate enough to overhear, and the teen had no shame in his lack of guilt as he mentally thanked the deities for granting him the privilege of witnessing such a spectacle. By now, Yuri was unsure whether he was watching a horror movie or a comedy show.

His amusement was short-lived, however, as a concerned voice rang out from around the corner of the hallway. ‘Was that Mickey screaming?’

A bearded face and a head of chestnut brown hair came into view as Emil Nekola emerged, voice as gallant as a knight’s, ready to sweep his comrade away from danger.

Your comrade has fucking bubbles coming out of his mouth.

Yuri wished he had been joking, but there was no mistake in the scene unfolding before him: Yuuri clutching a mass of glittering purple as Michele lay limp in his arms, eyes blank in a traumatised stupor and a steady flow of froth gurgling at his mouth. The predator now turned those same soulless eyes in Emil’s direction. He put an end to Michele’s misery and freed the foaming man from his grasp, ignoring the dull thud as his body hit the floor and his sister rushed to his aid.

Yuuri’s steps were frantic as he sprinted into Emil’s arms, and Yuri was not so preoccupied with the Italian siblings to miss the ease and amicability with which the Czech man returned the embrace.

‘What’s this? A hugging competition?’ he questioned, cheerful and relaxed as he held Yuuri snug in his arms.

Does the idiot not realise that he currently has a fucking zombie hugger hanging off his shoulders?

Ignorance is bliss, Yuri decided, and he really would feel bad for Emil’s poor cluelessness if he had known the bearded sunshine a little better. But alas, hugs and sunshine really weren’t the Ice Tiger’s forte, so Yuri was content to stand away from the commotion and assume that Emil’s smile was of genuine mirth and not, in fact, a disguised plea for help.

Emil’s beaming face was so bright that Yuri was beginning to feel the need to whip out a pair of sunglasses, so he was quite relieved when the apathetic Korean man appeared and restored some much-needed balance. Seung Gil Lee approached as silently as a skulking cat, but even his phantom presence didn’t escape the hugging maniac. There was an ominous glint in Yuuri’s eyes as he ended the hug with Emil and rounded on his fellow Asian skater instead, tackling him in an unsolicited embrace.

The poor man had no idea what hit him.

Seung Gil failed to register the situation enough to utter some hostile remark about wanting to be left alone, instead only managing to choke out a feeble noise as his face darkened in a manifestation of revulsion and fright. Yuri watched on with a strange mixture of both hilarity and sympathy as Seung Gil’s hands hovered awkwardly about Yuuri’s shoulders, clearly wanting to place them anywhere but on the Japanese man’s body.

At this point, Yuri, being the graciously kind and angelic soul he was, considered stepping in to rescue poor Seung Gil from his predicament and officially putting an end to this mayhem. Agape, right? Unconditional love for all, including those who were suffering. And these people were definitely suffering.

But then Jean-Jacques Leroy sauntered idiotically down the hallway, his unwelcome entrance topped with an equally unattractive smirk as his gold medal flashed obnoxiously from around his neck. The image itself was enough to set Yuri’s teeth on edge again, and the Ice Tiger of Russia internally swore for the umpteenth time that he would wipe that repulsive grin off the fucker’s sorry little face when he knocked him off the podium at the Finals.

And suddenly, the idea of demonstrating his agape didn’t seem like Yuri Plisetsky’s top priority anymore.

Ah, what the fuck. Who am I to deprive Katsudon of another hug? Jean-Jacques fucking Leroy, it’s your time to shine.

There was an irritating swagger in JJ’s gait as he breezed towards them, no doubt engaged in some unintelligent conversation (or monologue, Yuri notes) about his supposed superiority.

‘JJ is—mmph!’

What exactly is JJ? The world may never know. And Yuri had never felt so eternally grateful for the hero that is Yuuri Katsuki, the awe-inspiring saviour who had just rescued humanity from the agony of having to hear JJ speak more than two words at a time. The Japanese skater had thrown his arms around JJ’s build and effectively silenced the lanky idiot, whose mouth was now stretched into the most ridiculously hideous expression Yuri had ever laid eyes on. It was so ugly and so stupid, and it brought Yuri so much joy.

Oh my god. Yuuri Katsuki, you are the light of my life. Holy shit you amazing—

He had spoken too soon.

Yuuri turned.

Huh?

His soulless eyes bore into his final target.

The fuck are you staring at, asshole?

As though in slow motion, Yuuri began to move in his direction.

What the actual fuck? Wait, no. Don’t you fucking think about it, you—shit, no. No! NO!

‘HUHHH?! STAY AWAY FROM ME!!!’ Yuri could hear the cry tearing from his throat as he turned on his heel and fled for dear life.

This is it. This is how it all ends. Yuuri Katsuki was closing the distance with his arms outstretched, and Yuri, the poor deer caught in the headlights, stood no chance against that man’s damnable stamina.

Yuri could have sworn he saw his life flash before his eyes. All the laughter and tears, blood and sweat, love and loss. Every promise he had made to himself and every dream that had yet to come true.

It was all over for Yuri Plisetsky, and at such a young age, too.

What will happen after he is gone? Will the world remember him? Who will feed Puma Tiger Scorpion? His final performance on the ice had suffered a maddening defeat, and he didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to his grandfather…

The image of his grandfather’s smiling face faded and reality gradually shifted back into focus. Yuri was now acutely aware of his surroundings: a dimly lit hallway, the stares of puzzled onlookers, and a pair of arms wrapped tightly around him from behind.

He could not recall when his legs had finally stopped scissoring through air or even begin to fathom why he wasn’t struggling, but Yuuri’s grip was unrelenting as he held the teen’s body firmly against his chest, face buried into his shoulder. Yuri felt a slight tremble in the unsteady rise and fall of the older man’s breathing, and the fingers squeezing even tighter around his upper arms made him swallow the aggressive protest that had been stirring at the base of his tongue. There was a certain sense of unhappiness in the embrace, a kind of loneliness, as though Yuuri was trying desperately to seek out something that he just couldn’t find in any of his previous victims. And from the way his frenzied breathing was failing to slow or even out, Yuri knew that he wasn’t the one, either.

‘The one’? Fuck, sounds like some kind of shitty romance story. That kind of crap belongs in the gross ass world of you and Victor, not—

That was it, wasn’t it? That’s what Yuuri was longing for.

Yuri was no fool. He was very much aware of the reason behind Yuuri’s less than stellar free skate earlier on. The pork cutlet bowl could do so much better, like those times when he had captivated the proud teen prodigy with his entrancing step sequences and flawless spins. Today had obviously not been one of those days, and everyone in the audience and their dogs had probably figured out why.

Silly Katsudon. You won’t find what you’re looking for here… Not even with me, because I’m not him.

Yuri wondered briefly if his part in this sordid hug fest was longer than the others’, or if he had simply lost track of time while fighting between the impulse to kick and shout and the strange urge to reciprocate this one-sided hug. But even if the angry Russian boy were to swivel around and uncharacteristically wrap his arms around Yuuri’s drooping body, it still wouldn’t change anything, would it? He wasn’t the one Yuuri needed right now.

There were many things in this world—perhaps too many, if he was willing to admit so himself—that provoked Yuri Plisetsky’s anger, but never had he considered that this could be one of them. The Yuuri Katsuki he knew could often be a flustered ball of anxiety and insecurity, or sometimes a sensual skater oozing enough sex appeal to rival Christophe Giacometti, and always a kind and simple boy who was sincere, hardworking, and charismatic. Not… whatever this was. This mopey, depressed loser who couldn’t get his shit together and act like the fucking champion Yuri knew he could be. And although this time it wasn’t the Japanese champion’s own fault, it was an infuriating reminder of the cowardly sobs Yuri had heard in the bathroom stall at the Sochi Grand Prix Final, and he hated it. He hated it with his guts, and if he could do something within his power to bring Yuuri back to normal or raise his spirits again, he would fucking do it. Heck, if he could give the pork cutlet bowl something to make him feel warm and safe, to make him feel at home again, then goddamnit, he would give him anything.

But he couldn’t do what Victor does best, nor could he give Yuuri the sense of security he craved, and that upset Yuri even more than the silver medal he had taken off immediately after the ceremony. And before he even realised that he was slowly raising his hand to offer Yuuri a gentle but awkward pat on the arm, the pork cutlet bowl had released him and begun to shuffle away.

Yuri was joined by an assembly of hug victims as they stood, united in their mutual confusion and concern for Yuuri’s behaviour. Michele was wedged between Sara and Emil as they supported his weight (the dumbass still couldn’t even stand on his own); Seung Gil had deigned to situate himself with actual people, risking the possibility of further human interaction; and Yuri himself was miraculously standing less than half a metre from JJ without the temptation to claw his ugly face off.

And as he watched the zombie hugger’s retreating form, slumped and downcast and in desperate need of… of something, Yuri Plisetsky made up his mind. He may not be a certain silver-haired old man, but someone needed to be there for Yuuri right now, and Yuri swore on his skating career that he would fight anyone who dared to jump in for the job before him.

The brown paper bag would probably be slightly soggy and the contents cold by now, but Yuri had many fond memories of his grandfather handing him the steaming pirozhki when he needed a bit of comfort or love. Plus, the ones sitting in his bag weren’t just any ordinary pirozhki, they were katsudon pirozhki—an affectionate invention of his grandfather’s to remind him of the unforgettable taste he had experienced in Hasetsu. And they would serve just as well as a small token of home for the lonely Japanese man as he spent his final night in this foreign country.

‘Where are you going, little Yuri-chan?’

Under any other circumstances, Yuri would probably have grabbed his skates and hurled them at JJ’s face for that wording (not really—his knife shoes were precious and expensive), but tonight, Yuri had more important things to do. The pirozhki were getting soggier and colder with each minute he wasted, but he was sure that they would still taste absolutely divine and hopefully put the smile back on the pork cutlet bowl’s dumb face.

And anyway, it’s not like he had marked Yuuri’s birthday on his phone and had been saving the pirozhki for him in the first place, thank you very much.

[thisdaynews]

Trump’s Grand Display of Isolation

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/trumps-grand-display-of-isolation/

Trump’s Grand Display of Isolation

When Donald Trump arrived on the National Mall on Thursday, accompanied by his wife Melania, Vice President Mike Pence, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Joseph Dunford, and acting Secretary of Defense Mark Esper, the mood in the VIP tentwas subdued. In the moments before his arrival, perhaps because of the rain, or perhaps because of the higher-profile crowd closer to the podium, the chants of “U.S.A.” heard on the Mall never quite reached the necessary volume to sustain themselves or spread beyond small corners.

The event, for all its fanfare, had little of the boisterous joy that you feel on a typical July 4 on the Mall. The rain didn’t help.The president’s appearance gave it more weight and pomp than usual. Some of that weight came from the contradictions ofthis president choosing at this time to speak at this location, one as close to sacred as any in America’s secular religion.

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Trump staged his speechin the shadow of a monument to a president who spoke of “malice toward none,” a message nearly the opposite of his own political strategy; he was just a stone’s throw away from a memorial to American dead in Vietnam, a war he had avoided.

One of the many unusual things about this Fourth celebration was itsVIP tents; I watched it from thesecond of four separate areas reserved for VIPs, a dozen or so rows from the podium but with a view of the president somewhat obscured by a decorative military personnel carrier. Around me werenumerous service members and their families; closer to the president, and among the multiple military honor guards, were men and women with bars on their starched sleeves indicating the number of combat tours they had served, most at least two or three, others even seven or eight.

Speeches are as notable for their omissions as for what they include, and Trump’s were manifest.Unlike other presidents speaking at moments of national tension, there was very little effort from Trump to show how the nation’s disagreements had been resolved by Americans who reached across divides. In Trump’s remarks, it seemed enough for Trump to simply mention they had been overcome.

There was mention of Lewis and Clark, but no mention of their native guide Sacajawea. There was mention of God, and Lincoln’s words at Gettysburg, but none on Lincoln’s meditation in his Second Inaugural on the Lord’s justice, and perhaps his punishment, for the sin of slavery in hundreds of thousands of American dead.

There was even mention of Martin Luther King Jr. speaking in 1963 from the spot that Trump did yesterday evening, but nothing about the racial and economic divides that he worked to repair, or the work yet to be done before America shall overcome. There was mention of a Catholic nun who has long served the needy in Washington, D.C., but none about young migrants, most of them Catholic, and whether their needs were being met. And in Trump’s call to national service, encouraging young Americans to serve in the military, there was no hint of humility or irony that he had not chosen to do so.

In his recognition of Americans, both living and deceased, it was possible to detect afeint towards comity. Trump extolled the service of John Glenn, one of the first astronauts and also a long-serving Democrat. Of course, Glenn was from Ohio, a state Trump must take again to win another term in 2020.

Trump’s speech and the “Salute to Service” itself was rescued, or at least energized, by celebrations of each of the military services. But even here there was a noticeable absence in Trump’s telling of their history and what it revealed about America’s. He spoke almost entirely about American military power without reflecting on the power of America’s example—the example that those servicemembers strive to uphold—and how the nation has inspired other countries across the world in their own marches to greater dignity and freedom.

Trump’s vision of the singular importance of America’s military supremacy was driven home in scores of some of the most sophisticated military platforms flying low over the Lincoln Memorial. He was right about the fly-overs: They were magnificent. What Trump saw in them, exactly, is harder to know. TheNew York Times’ Maggie Haberman had an apt description of the particular appeal this kind of event has for the president. She covered the president’s visit to Paris on Bastille Day two years ago when he was the guest of French President Emanuel Macron at a military parade and lavish display of French military capabilities. “It was like watching a kid with a new LEGO set,” she told CNN.

In the run-up to the speech, the idea of all thatmilitary equipment on the mall struck many people the wrong way, but it’s not as unprecedented as it sounds. It was on the Mall as a boy, nearly 30 years ago during the brief era of good feeling after the first Gulf War, that I was first mesmerized by military hardware. President George W. Bush had also chosen to honor the Armed Forces there in May of 1991.

On the weekend of that celebration, my grandfather, a first generation American and journeyman mechanic from New England, came to Washington to see my sister receive the Sacrament of Confirmation. I remember nothing about the Mass but can vividly recall riding the D.C. metro to what was dubbed “The National Victory Celebration” with my grandfather.

I remember most from that day walking up with him to what must have been an Abrams tank, and my grandfather’s patient description of how a tank’s tracks functioned and the maintenance they must have required. Also, almost in passing, I remember him telling me something I never heard from him again: about how his Jeep had rolled over during his own training for service in the Second World War. The young man next to him died. His own injuries were severe enough to keep him from further service.

The story’s significance did not dawn on me until years later. My grandfather was a diehard Republican and archconservative who brooked no criticism of America’s freedoms at home, or of its behavior defending it abroad. But even he, from his own experience, knew the service did not come without sacrifice and loss, not all of it defined by courage and valor but some of it painfully random and unnecessary.

What Trump could not have imagined when he scheduled today’s “Salute to America” is what it ended up emphasizing—not just deflecting focus from the triumph of America’s story of independence, but directing it toward the contradiction and tragedy of Donald Trump. No president in modern history has more often emphasized the virtues of our military’s courage, honor and valor, and done less in his political or personal life to exhibit them. The selfless service that is at the heart of American heroism, either military or civilian, he has rejected in his approach to his family, community and politics.

Whatever motives the president had in making himself the center of attention on a day dedicated to the nation’s independence, the event became a testament—unintended, but evident to anyone there—to his isolation. When the president craves a crowd, or believes he needs one to demonstrate his popularity, he calls on America’s service members. Unless what he asks for is immoral or illegal, they have to answer.

A sizable crowd came to the mall of their own volition as well. But this was intended as a national spectacle, andwho was watching? With none of the major television networks covering it and most Americans presumably enjoying festivities in their own back yards and neighborhoods, the president was speaking largely to himself, the main character in a play staged at his own command, deeply and publicly alone.

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Running Is Stupid, So Why Do I Do It?

Running is stupid. That’s probably the last thing you’d expect me to say. But let’s be real for a minute – it really is. So, what makes running stupid? There are almost too many reasons to list!

Running hurts. Anyone who tells you otherwise is either lying or not trying hard enough. When you start running your whole body hurts. If you are doing a hill workout, your legs hurt as you progress through it. Running in the heat? It’ll feel like you’re pulling a corpse behind you (and if it’s hot enough, people will actually tell you that you smell like a corpse!). Speaking of smelling like a corpse – I can’t even begin to describe the laundry situation.

There are several days per week when my fiancée and I are both doing two workouts a day. That’s four sets of workout clothes each day festering in the bottom of the laundry basket. Sometimes, doing laundry, I’ll pull out a tank top that’s still wet, six days later. The smell is indescribable. It’s like getting hit in the face with a shovel. A damp, stinky shovel. How about running in the cold? Your lungs will burn and you’ll get to feel the magic sensation of peeling dried/frozen snot, sweat, and drool from your face.

The physical pain is just the beginning. The mental pain of running is much worse. At maximum effort, your brain will constantly send you messages that you are overexerting yourself and that death is imminent. These signals manifest themselves in many different ways, but the ultimate goal of the brain is to trick you into slowing down. When most runners receive these signals, they obey them and slow down. Sure enough, after slowing down, the brain says, “Oops! I guess we weren’t about to die. Go ahead and run again!” Except by that point, you’ve slowed enough that your goal time is blown, which brings a different type of mental pain: regret. “I missed my goal time by 45 seconds!

Why couldn’t I ignore millions of years of evolution of my brain!?” We’ve all been there, and trust me it hurts far worse to slow down than it does to press through those initial pain signals. Or how about training for a race for months…being meticulous doing everything right. You are in the perfect position to win or set a PR. On race morning, it’s 84 degrees with 91% humidity at 7 a.m. That’s a punch in the gut that hurts?

“Running is a great hobby! All you need is a pair of running shoes and you’re ready to go!” That’s another dirty lie runners use to trick people into thinking running is great. First of all, a pair of running shoes isn’t enough. Most running shoes have a life of 300-400 miles. For people running 80 mile weeks, that’s a new pair every 5 weeks (at most). I’d make a bet that anyone running 80 mile weeks isn’t running in $12 shoes from Target. $100 is the absolute low end of good running shoes unless you find some miracle sale. That’s $1000 on shoes annually, minimum.

In our closet, there are currently 18 pairs of shoes. You need your road shoes, trail shoes, other trail shoes for when the trail is muddy, road shoes that have 400 miles on them so you can’t run in them anymore but they still look brand new because they are only five weeks old so you wear them to the grocery store shoes, and other road shoes that you wear when it’s rainy. Oh, and maybe treadmill shoes. But shoes are just the beginning. Would you like to race and get a sweet medal? That’ll cost you. Race fees can be more than $200, not to mention costs of traveling, other gear you need, etc.

Perhaps the biggest shock to me though was the grocery bill. Runners, on the whole, eat nonstop. I consume 3500-4000 calories/day. That’s a lot of groceries. So when someone tells you that running is cheap, laugh in their face and call them a dirty liar!

I could go on for pages talking about all of the things that make running stupid. How many baseball players do you know that hit the field with toilet paper in their pockets, “just in case”? How many tennis players have fallen asleep standing up while playing? I have a friend who, on two separate occasions, dealt with varying levels of blindness during a race. A combination of distance and altitude led to ocular malfunction.My only 50-mile race, Monument Valley 50, further illustrates the stupidity of running. After climbing above the valley and starting single track back down, I turned a corner at about mile 45, and in front of me was a 1,000-foot-tall sand dune, with flags running right up the center. I loudly said the F word, and began trudging up the dune. I reached the pinnacle, and again said the F word (that word is so cathartic, especially when you realize you’ve narrowly escaped turning into a cartoon-style skeleton on the desert floor). I ran a few minutes and needed to empty my shoes. I saw a rock off the side of the trail. As I sat back on the rock, I placed my hand down to stabilize myself (remember, this about mile 45) directly into a cactus – a tiny little cactus with approximately 24-million needles, all of which ended up stuck in my hand.

Here I am: 14 pounds of sand in each shoe, tired, dirty, and ready for this to be over. Now I’ve got a hand full of cactus needles. As I begin removing them, two people pass me. Well, no one is going to beat me for 29th place at this 50-miler! To hell with the needles, I’ll solve that problem later! At one point, I thought it made sense to spit on my hand as some sort of lubricant to help the needles out of my palm (spoiler alert: it didn’t help). But this is how a runner’s brain functions. This is totally normal, sane behavior. If I was in the hunt for a podium, it makes sense. But I wasn’t. I’m a mid-packer who had every reason in the world to take the extra five minutes and ensure I was ok. Four months later, there is still a needle buried in my palm. I’ve named him Spike, and he reminds me how much fun that day was!

So why do I do it? Why am I out there six days a week, usually before 4 a.m., making myself uncomfortable? Why do I and millions of other people willingly subject ourselves to it? I can say that for all the pain, sadness and frustration I feel, there is nothing that makes me feel better. I look at where I was three years ago, overweight and not able to run a mile, and now I’ve done races of all distances! It allows me to clear my head. It’s a time to think, or to go blank. Listen to your breath, nature or music. Running has taken me many places – down the Las Vegas Strip, to Europe, to running up a mountain in Japan, and everywhere in between. It’s who I am. It hurts like hell, but it’s a pain that I wouldn’t trade for anything on this Earth.

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Hire Web Developer

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Monalisa Maitra is Writer the Digital Marketing Advisor and Writer for Pixelsmedia Technologies, a respected we design company cap leaders in custom web site design and development companies. Since 2002, it's been helping SMEs create their presence online and build sites that maximize conversions. The organization leases its capable staffs for dedicated choosing on part time regular and hourly basis.

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