#shooting oneself in the foot

[quixoticanarchy]

absolutely wild that at the same time as insecticides came on the mass market and were being hailed w overflowing praise and energetically sold to every conceivable consumer (this being years before Silent Spring etc), the US cold war scientists were out here trying to engineer insects to be resistant to these new and highly celebrated insecticides so they could be more effective vectors for biological warfare. 1950s fucking unhinged decade

[muddypolitics]

(via The 1864 abortion ban is a feature, not a bug, of the GOP's assault on reproductive rights)

Their goal is not to actually address the issue, because they won’t. Implementing a ban written at a time when doctors thought good health came by balancing the four humors in your body is a feature of Republican policy, not a bug.

[whisperofthewaves]

how the hell is it that scavengers reign is supposedly an hbo max production but I still can't find it on my hbo max account.

edit: ah. so apparenty the US get "max" and the rest/Europe/my country gets "hbo max". and this is a max production so fuck the rest of us?

[olderthannetfic]

I am most definitely beating a dead horse with this ask, but I gotta say something cause it's just boiling up inside my chest right now.

We all don't really like the the author for Heartstopper because she put down Asian BL and it's "Bad kinky feithisatization" and basically saying her Western work is pure and non fetishy (Fucking shoot me.)

And it just reminded of an author who did that several years back, definitely to a lesser degree though. They still did it and I remember I stopped reading it because it felt so fuckin performative and it left such a bad fucking taste in my mouth.

Author of the Webtoon Castle Swimmer had a chapter come out maybe between 2021-2022 where the main character (they are guys, they are gay for each other) saw each other again after they were apart for quite some time. When they reunited, there was as scene of them kissing and it getting juuuuuust a tiny bit spicy, not much though. It was cute, it was nice.

I go down to the comments where authors can put notes down for the webtoons and the author had written something along the lines of how the story isn't gonna be icky sexual and there is going to be no fetishy bullshit when it comes to the two main characters and fucking blah blah blah and basically implying that other webtoons that do turn sexual with it's gaybies are impure scum.

Don't know if they still feel like that

But my question is - why the fuck do these supposed queer authors or authors that make queer content always trying to save face and say that their content is better than that "icky shit",

Like fuck, Castle Swimmer has pretty decent rep in its story, but I can't seem to enjoy it when I feel as if its just their as a "HEY LOOK AT MY STORY IT HAS THE RIGHTS THINGS TO LIKE"

and unfortunately that's how I feel with most lgbtq webtoons, books, etc. Idk maybe I'm just cynical and tired or maybe they just suck at writing and incorporating queer themes and characters - I have no idea.

This probably could be worderd a lot better to bring more nuance to the table, but I am so upset at Castle Swimmer because I like it a lot, I just can't past the bullshit.

--

Rest assured that the desire to shoot oneself in the foot is not restricted to authors of queer works.

"My version of this genre is so much better" is a common malady among all sorts of creators.

This particular flavor has a little more stupidass purity culture and sucking up to the mainstream, but it's not so different from the many flavors of "There's no good ___ fic, so I'm going to write some!" and "I, a ~literary~ author, know how to write genre fiction better than you hacks!"

[pluralterhuman]

thinking about removing the "no syscourse" promise in our pinned--not because we want to argue with other blogs (ABSO FUCKING LUTELY NOT), but more because we do actually semiregularly see very well-articulated and interesting posts discussing topics that would be considered "discourse" from the angle of providing insight and talking about experiences productively. my distaste for discourse has always been for the context of unproductively working oneself into a fervor arguing with strangers online and the toxic environment that creates when that is considered a socially valuable way to interact, rather than with the topics people argue about themselves. and i personally feel like i'm shooting myself in the foot promising to not have ~discourse~ when my very existence is a point of discourse according to the website this blog is on.

[langfield]

one of my biggest gripes about double exposure is that a lot of the writing goes absolutely nowhere, which is a shame because they crafted such a fantastic cast of characters to tell a story with. we have a group mostly comprised of queer poc stuck at a prestigious art school that is currently run by an arab woman — which, for caledon, is a first. and yet yasmin fails everyone under her care because, in a tale that’s as old as time, she stops fighting and starts submitting to white society the moment she gets power, and thus begins shielding herself over the large minority voices she promised to protect. she even goes out of her way to manipulate them ( vinh ) and sweep the victims of such an oppressive society under the rug ( maya ). that right there is such a good story, and so many of the characters in double exposure have similar struggles : it is always a battle of oneself, a battle of activism versus pacifism, of having your own individual identity or being what you need to be in order to survive what is expected of you as a queer and / or poc. add powers, old trauma, and two dead girls in the midst and things ramp up in intensity! although despite all these building blocks, these relationships and characters and prime setting for conflict, double exposure struggles with what exactly it wants to say.

honestly, i think that i could even forgive the atrocious plot writing if double exposure committed to its themes rather than bowing out of them, or worse : completely underutilizing important arcs that do, in fact, say something in exchange for meandering around. there are many themes this game could have, and yet not a single one of them is the actual focus of the game — at least not intentionally. there are yarns i could spin about maturity and immaturity, about trauma and how you need to confront it to heal, about being a marginalized person in a society that claims to be progressive but it never, ever is, etc etc. but did the game actually orbit around any of these ideas? or did they just happen upon them by complete accident? if they wrote down an actual core for their story, i do believe a lot of their plot writing would’ve been stronger for it, even if only to have a singular underlying thread tying everything together. however, de shoots itself in the foot by repeating story beats without having their own unique take on the matter, and they very obviously cut a lot of their story in half for money milking purposes. you can tell de was likely thought of as one whole game initially, only for poor directions to override writers for a sequel none of them thought was wise.

overall, while i do defend double exposure often and give it far more grace than most, i won’t ever pretend the plot writing was phenomenal. it wasn’t and that’s just facts. i think the biggest shame about de is that the characters were beyond phenomenal and deserved a better game ( as well as a better chance in the fandom ) than what they got. so many of them go nowhere despite having strong beats, obvious flaws and good qualities, sympathetic struggles, and intriguing relationships. they’re easily better than most of the franchises’ previous supporting casts and love interests but were given perhaps the worst story in all the games. which is the real tragedy, in my eyes.

[privateanxieties]

forget my mercy, take my blame (chapter 5)

Summary: In theory, Frank can't blame you for shooting him. David really needs to stop being an enabler. You're about to learn exactly what you've gotten yourself into.

Words: 3.2K (canon-typical violence)

SERIES MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER

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What Randy O'Hare was doing inside your house, you could only speculate. Well, for now — you'll definitely be asking him yourself when you get back to town, but Frank's shitty van does no more than sixty-five when you need it to do one twenty. If you're being reasonable, it's good that something is reining in your temper and ensuring you don't get pulled over for speeding, but you're not feeling very reasonable.  

Clearly, the Sheriff must've lost something of great importance at your house if he was willing to go fishing for it after hours and without your knowledge. That was the best possibility. The worst, and consequently the most critical, was that he'd lost you and was looking for you at a time when you'd be least alert.

Perhaps a little of both since he cleared each room with his gun at the ready, yet when your absence was apparent, he didn't immediately leave. The footage from your hidden cameras showed him fumbling around drawers and cabinets, and the man had come prepared with gloves, so you know he meant business — just not what kind.  

Frustration is a self-insulating state of being. In you, it manifests in the form of repeated sighs and a tightening grip on the steering wheel, which in turn enforces the reflexive nature of your thoughts. You want to hit something, so your foot keeps pressing a pedal that's already down flat, and because nothing happens, you keep catastrophizing. It took you just shy of four hours to make it to the Valley from Sam's town, which was another two hours away from your own, so you were in for a long drive inside a stolen car. Not that you're expecting Frank to report it missing, because that would be hilarious given the weaponry he's got stocked and his potentially corresponding background. He's not just some weirdo: confirmed. You don't know who the hell he actually is, but he ranks towards the bottom of your priorities at the moment. Even if he does have grenades in here.  

Your hackles stay raised for the entirety of the way back, especially when the fuel light comes on just before you cross into Appoline County. There's still thirty miles left to go and you don't know shit about vans and their capacity, so you make the grievous decision to park it in the first shadowy ditch you can find that's closest to the police station. It's nearly 10AM and the car isn't the only one that's running on fumes. You're approaching thirty hours without sleep and will go no further, because while anger keeps you awake, it doesn't do shit for your aim or reasoning, both of which you're going to need for a confrontation with O'Hare. Unfortunately, everything under the Utah sun is flat and exposed — sniper's nightmare, you've heard it called when you were little. There's no place to hide a car of this size that would be both convenient and secure, so you resolve for just secure. It takes more than one try to get the piece of shit off the road and inside the tree line on either side of it, and you wish you were kidding, but the car stops dead right as you manage to wrangle it past the only maple with hanging branches. Looks like you're walking the rest of the way.  

Just breathe.  

A Sunday morning isn't the worst time to find oneself stranded on the outskirts of town, because no one goes anywhere in this place. The women outnumber the men almost two to one, and nearly a third of the town is over the age of sixty. You can make the walk back without issue once the sun goes down, and until then, all that's left to do is sleep. Except, you're hungry… and there's a perfectly good turkey sandwich at the bottom of Frank's cooler. Somehow, you don't think he'll mind.

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In theory, he can't blame her for shooting him. Frank doesn't have to try hard not to be a hypocrite — he sort of naturally leans the way of honesty, even if he's an asshole about it.

The truth was, he got involved in someone else's business, and when people have done that to him in the past, he responded much like she did. Aside from that, he's pretty sure she didn't mean to just by the look in her eyes right before she did it. To Frank, her reaction was more that of a startled animal than a cold-blooded killer; he just doesn't know what exactly caused it. Either way, the result was the same. He ended up with a slug in a really inconvenient place and a minor concussion, but he has no doubt it could've been worse. Curt would say it serves him right and to mind his own business next time. Lieberman is definitely on the cusp of telling him something similar as he calls him for an update, but Frank cuts him off before he can.  

"Yeah, yeah… Just track it for me, will ya?"  

There's silence on the other end of the line before David sighs in that fatherly way that gets on Frank's nerves.  

"I am. It looks like it's coming back your way, but we don't know for sure. Still on Route 50 for now."  

Frank grunts his acknowledgement of the information as he finishes up the last stitch in his shoulder.  

"Listen, Frank—"  

"Let me know when she gets close," he grumbles, not really in the mood for David's preaching.  

"Will you listen to me? I know you'll do whatever you want, because that's just how you are. I'm not trying to talk you out of anything. I'm just asking you to really think about what you're doing here, Frank. You don't know this person, and she just shot you. She might do worse next time," David says, and although Frank begrudges him his worry, he can't bring himself to be a dick after what they've been through together.  

"There won't be a next time, Lieberman. I ain't getting close again 'til I know what I'm dealin' with."  

It's as good as David's going to get from him, and apparently he knows it, because he doesn't try again — just sighs and confirms he'll return with an update on his van's whereabouts. For once, Frank's not mad about how invasive technology has gotten, even if he's definitely tossing the hidden phone once he gets his car back. Leave it to a guy that calls himself Micro to find a way to stay "in touch" without Frank's knowledge. In a way, he's grateful for having friends who would even bother to check if he's still alive now and then. In another way, he almost wants to goad David about his wife again.  

"I'll let you know. Be careful. You don't wanna die in Utah," David warns before the line goes quiet.  

Frank sighs.  

Jesus, what a mother hen. Yeah, he'd be fucked without David right now, but does he have to make him feel inadequate all the damn time? So he got shot. So what? He's done it plenty of times before and walked away. The problem is, that was back when he was guided by a singular purpose. When he was willing to die a thousand times over to see his mission completed, things were easy. He knew which decisions to make and which battles to pick. Can he say the same now? The earful he'd get from Karen if she knew what he was up to these days… He's not supposed to be a loose canon anymore. He's got a feeling that wandering the country looking for trouble isn't how his friends would want him to spend his 'after', but then again, he's never really known what that might look like. His life is untethered. He didn't die when he should have and now he's a phantom, traveling desolate roads and making ephemeral homes in dead-end towns whose names he can barely remember. There's no purpose, no mission to focus on. There's only a stretch of highway and the same four walls every time he lies down to rest, and that half a life he's got left keeps shrinking under its own weight. It's not like he could grow roots somewhere even if he wanted to. Pete Castiglione has no past that can't be reinvented at Frank Castle's convenience — it makes this cloak he's been asked to don as fluid and unstable as the ever-changing scenery of an episodic life. Fickle, almost. Even the costume he's supposed to wear has no substance behind it.  

He is a ghost, and ultimately, ghosts haunt the things they know.  

And damn if that look in her eyes wasn't familiar.

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David really needs to stop being an enabler. At least, that's what Sarah tells him every time she hears him talking to Frank Castle. He isn't really sure if that's true. David thinks he's doing the right thing. He's being a good friend and a good human by helping the man who got him his life and family back. He just wishes that man wouldn't be so determined to run into trouble the moment it flickered into existence in his general vicinity.  

David also wonders if this isn't partially his fault. He knew it the moment he opened his mouth and uttered the word cartel that Frank was hooked. On the one hand, he couldn't not tell him, but on the other, once he did there was no turning back. If Frank was going on the hunt, he needed to be told the details of what he was getting into. At the same time, there are some things that David did not relay to Frank — a whole history of puzzles and their missing pieces that someone went through a lot of trouble to make sure stayed missing.  

He lost her trail after Houghton, Michigan, which means there are roughly nineteen years of history that he can't account for. It's not a professional cleanup job. He knows what those look like, and this isn't government-sponsored. He'll find it eventually, but incurring Sarah's wrath is not high on his to-do list, so he's relegated to glimpses of research here and there. Between family dinner and helping Leo with her coding, he's got maybe twenty minutes at a time to delve into whatever mess Frank is chasing.  

He'll have to tell him eventually. If a week ago Frank set out to help a woman not get in over her head, that spell has likely dissipated by now. It was left unspoken between them, but they both know that her driving out into the desert only meant one thing. She did what she set out to do. Whoever this person is, David is pretty sure she can handle herself without Frank's help. Or, he was — until the corner of his screen started blinking unpleasantly, an alert he'd set up earlier this morning just in case. The worst outcome is no longer a hypothetical, and now he has to make a decision for everyone involved.

One thing was certain: if Sarah didn’t kill him, Frank definitely would.

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She couldn't sleep. Again.  

It was that same restlessness looming over her, making the head heavy when the eyes were still alert, and each time she closed them, they popped back open on their own and stubbornly remained so despite her many attempts to give in to darkness. The scratchy bandages rubbed unpleasantly against her shirt, and the room was much too hot for the blanket she'd pulled over her shoulders. She tugged at it like the stitches tugged at her skin and sat up abruptly. A ball of frustration, that's what she was, and no comfort would come from indulging in a secret midnight snack. Well, mid-morning, if the clock on her nightstand was to be believed - and it had lied to her before, so she wasn't terribly inclined to trust the red lines.  

'You can't go to him,' she told herself quietly, getting up to meander about the room. She'd repeated those words for several nights in a row, yet they made no more sense than the first time she heard them from her grandmother's mouth. It was an accident, and everybody acted like it wasn't. She knew better. Her dad would never do something like that on purpose.

‘You can’t go to him’, she said again, this time a whisper.  

She didn't want to listen to that command, and she was damn good at not doing the things adults said to do. Simple chores would become insurmountable tasks the moment someone imposed them. She was going to do the dishes when she felt like it, and telling her to do them would only ensure they didn't get done. She didn't feel she was a bad child for it. In fact, she begrudged adults the assumption that she couldn't do what needed to be done on her own initiative.  

If her grandma didn't want her wandering the hallways of her own house, well… then she shouldn't have told her not to do it.  

Huffing her way back to bed, she turned on the small tortoise lamp that sat by the clock. It cast a greenish glow that barely made it past the foot of her bed, but that was enough. As she tip-toed across the floorboards, a tiny smile scrunched the corners of her mischievous eyes. Grandma didn't have to know. She'd be in and out before sensitive ears caught her transgression, and then she could—  

The knob twisted, but the door wouldn't move. Odd, but this was an old door in an old house. They jammed sometimes, and she'd slammed it on more occasions than she could remember, so maybe this was its way of getting back at her. No matter. She could try again. However, yet again, the door wouldn't move. Clearly, it was not the door — it was the lock, which nobody ever touched, including herself. She’d never even seen the keys for it. So what was going on?  

"Dad?" she called out with her mouth by the lock. His room was closest. He would hear her first, and he was also the least likely to be mad at her for being up at this hour.  

Grasping at the knob again, she twisted it and grimaced at the ruckus it made in the otherwise silent house. No dice. Pausing to think, she chewed her lips impatiently. She wasn't going to stay locked in here. The feeling was foreign and most definitely unwelcome, and sleep wouldn't come now even if she beckoned it forth with prayer. She rolled her eyes to the gods, a sigh for the ages deflating her shoulders.  

"Daaaad?" she called out again, abandoning all hope of not getting an earful from her grandmother in the morning.  

She waited with her ear pressed to the wood for any noise of acknowledgement. None came.  

"Da—"  

Her head bounced off the door with the booming sound that rolled like thunder through the house. She wound up tripping over her own feet and falling on her ass, stitches pulling unpleasantly at her side. She sat there a moment, because while her ears knew what they had heard, her mind wasn't quite sure. It was dark. She could've mistaken it for something else. Brows scrunched together, she'd just opened her mouth to call out again when heavy footfalls manifested from down the hall and stopped in front of her door. Finally.  

"Dad?"  

Her eyes widened in tandem with the scream that pierced the door, a terrible one that made her chest hot and tight. It was warm in the room and warmer still inside herself, and that wailing wouldn't stop. It didn't give way to her frantic calls for help and didn't care for her questions as she banged her fist against the door until two of her fingers broke. No answer would come 'til morning, when her door would finally part and a strange man would stand before it, looking even more unpleasant than she felt.  

She turned on her heel and ran past him the instant he opened his mouth, rounding the corner before he could swipe at her. This was her house, and he was an intruder in uniform. Her dad would not take kindly to his presence, and his door was just within her grasp. Her fingers grabbed the handle and she pressed down with all her strength.

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Sudden ringing startles you awake. Not that you aren't used to jumping out of bed at the slightest crackle and squeak, but this particular melody is not familiar to you. It belongs to neither your personal nor your 'work' phone, both of which are on the cusp of giving up the ghost anyway. No, this is another device that roused you, and maybe you should be grateful for that, because while you were sleeping the van took it upon itself to morph into an industrial oven. Plat du jour: tenderly roasted adult woman who doesn't know how to set an alarm so she doesn't die in the August sun. A mouthful, most likely.  

You gulp down air as you exit the car, the air outside feeling like a winter morning compared to the hell of Frank's van. Pouring sweat and somewhat disoriented, you take note of the fact that the ringing hasn't stopped. Hesitant to approach the burning car, you curse softly when you realize you're going to have to get back inside. The phone is nowhere within reach, and it takes a few tries to pinpoint its location, the revelation of which astounds you. Why it's hidden inside the roof lining above the passenger seat is a question for another day, because unfortunately, it stops ringing before you can do anything. Inspecting it more closely, you notice that before you yanked it out, it was connected by one long cable to the van's electrical system, most likely so it could remain permanently in operation. Okay. So Frank might be a weirdo. After all, what else could explain—  

The ringing starts again. This time, however, there's something even more disquieting about the phone: it's flashing your name as the caller ID. It's so effective in getting your attention that you answer it without the slightest bit of contemplation, holding it away from you and putting it on speaker. What sounds like a relieved laugh is the first thing to hit your ears.  

"Oh, thank God. Thought you were gonna destroy it or something. Listen, I need to talk to you. You don't know me, but you should really listen to what I have to say if you—"  

You hang up on the rambling man chatting up the line just as quickly as you answered. Dropping the phone in the grass, you're two seconds away from doing exactly what he thought you were going to do by stomping on it, when a simple text lights up the screen.  

Don't.  

One moment later, another.  

I know where u are.  

You bite the inside of your cheek, annoyance growing. Obviously. Of course. Your day was going so well already, and naturally this makes it even better. Another ding is muffled by the grass. You peer down at it with a glower that rivals the afternoon sun.  

I haven't told Frank. He wants to help you, but I think that's a really bad idea.  

For fuck's sake. You're both the clown and the circus all wrapped up in one. You should've driven his godforsaken van off a cliff. How the hell did you wind up here?  

Another chime grates on your last nerve, and because you just can't help yourself, you chance a look down at the screen. Frustration is a self-insulating state of being.

Just pick me up so we can talk.

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-to be continued-

A/N: Multiple perspectives my beloved… This chapter is kind of the last one before shit goes down. I'm not in a hurry, but I do want to bring her and Frank into each other's path again. They're fun to write and I'm so excited for the next couple of chapters! Let me know your thoughts!

Taglist: @itwasthereaminuteago @hellskitchenswhore @theradioactivespidergwen @trashyart-y @its-me-ya-boi-lisa @marieloves-reading @daisyslibrary @trashcan-writes @mind-nine @reblogmisc3 @hufflepufe @this-is-where-i-keep-my-fic @mccuppie-cake @bookloverfilmoholic @iheartjoel @tortilla-maria1 @aestheticallywinchester @todobird1214 @heimtathurs

Apologies to the strikethrough users, I couldn't tag you!

[woman-respecter]

Is it safe to say at least 95% of the burn it down accelerationists are primarily white? Because I cannot imagine wanting to put oneself, their friends and their country in danger for the sake of one issue unless they think they're privileged enough to get away with it.

you would think so but no i don’t think it’s safe to say that. i have called it “the leopards eating my face specifically party” and i think that rings true. i’ve seen many accelerationists of every race, they’re almost as diverse as the country as a whole. i even think there is a decently large percent of trans accelerationists, which is silly bc we know what republicans want for trans people. there’s stupid people of all demographics, it just takes a special kind of stupid to shoot yourself in the foot like that if you arent cishet and white. i do think they are disproportionately young tho. quite rare to see a 40+ tankie.

[direwombat]

last line tag/wip weekend/sentence sunday/whatever

tagged throughout the week by: @simplegenius042, @vampireninjabunnies-blog, @inafieldofdaisies, @g0dspeeed, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @wrathfulrook, @detectivelokis, and @cassietrn to share some wips and recent sentences (tysm everyone, it's taken me forever to get to this lmao)

tagging: @adelaidedrubman, @henbased, @sstewyhosseini, @confidentandgood, @aceghosts, @poetikat, @purplehairsecretlair, @josephslittledeputy, @euryalex, @clonesupport, @jacobsneed, @neverthesameneveranother, @trench-rot, @voidika, @madparadoxum @strangefable and a blanket tag for anyone else wanting to share something!

been working on the intro (things i always struggle with lmao) to ch 4 of katc, so here's that. it's still rough. but it's something.

Hope County, MT. September 13, 2018. Seed Ranch. 4:35pm.

Sybille should have known that the plane was heading towards John's ranch. There are only so many places in the County that have enough room to land a plane, and aside from Nick Rye’s airstrip, Seed Ranch is the only other property in the Valley that has an actual runway.  She’d seen it the one and only time she and Joey had responded to a noise complaint out there. 

Someone had reported screams coming from somewhere on the estate. They hadn’t found anything when they went to investigate, and John had even allowed them into his home to assuage any suspicion. She hadn’t been a fan of his squirrelly  eagerness — it put her on edge, made her feel like he was hiding something — but with no obvious source to the noise, they’d just written it up as a yowling cougar wandering a little too close. 

But as she drove, she couldn't ignore the ball of dread roiling in her gut that the Sheriff’s department failed to save someone that night, and missed an opportunity to stop the Cult before everything went to shit. She flexes her grip around the wheel and eases her foot down on the accelerator until she’s flooring it, speeding towards John’s ranch. 

When she had arrived at the airstrip, she’d found Nick Rye pinned down, desperately shooting from his own garage. Just one man against a slew of Peggies. She had circled around the cultists, emerging from the brush to mow them down by shooting them in their vulnerable, exposed backs. Dishonorable, to be sure, but quick at the very least. They never saw her coming, and maybe that in itself is mercy enough for her absolution. 

Nick had been grateful for her help. There’s no way he could have held them off all on his own. Not long enough for both him and his wife to escape, anyways, and with their plane in the hands of the Cult, their chances of escaping the county go from slim to zero. 

She chooses to help them. Any heavy artillery she can take from the Peggies, the better, and while she’d much rather have that artillery in her own arsenal, she’d also seen just how far along Kim was. The Ryes and their unborn child aren’t safe here, and if they can cross the county lines and call in the fucking National Guard, it just means that this shit will be over sooner.

Which is what leads her here, screeching to a halt right in front of  the garish and tacky billboard marking the private road leading to the ranch. It’s sun-worn and fading, but the image of John Seed’s placid smile is no less visible.

We love you and we will take you.

The menacing verbiage has to be intentional. She never gave it much thought driving past it before. She’s seen so many accidentally sinister welcoming signs from other churches — there is something terrifying about the concept of surrendering oneself to God’s love and embrace. But John Seed is nothing if not deliberate in his choice of words. Almost infuriatingly so.

The vein in her jaw throbs as she clenches her jaw. How many years has John had this sign up? How long has he been taunting the Sheriff’s Department — how long has he been taunting the entire fucking Community — laughing in their faces, mocking them while he all but confesses to being behind the kidnappings and disappearances plaguing the County? 

[flameunquenched]

so finn and i watched house of the dragon in full over the long weekend we had. i had wanted to read fire and blood first, before watching the show that is based on it and i'm glad i did bc i have a few thoughts.

the first and main one being that hotd is shooting itself in the foot by only doing 10 episodes a season. condensing a timeline is hard enough without deliberately handicapping oneself to just ten episodes. i remember commenting that if they had 15 - or honestly even 12 - episodes instead of ten, they could have really taken their time.

i think another thing it suffers from, around the same overarching issue of the condensed timeline, is that some of those truly emotional parts are stripped away. we never seen rhaenrya react to the news of harwin strong dying, for example. honestly, it seems to be like the bulk of the screentime for grief and grieving is given to the greens. i know that f&b was written from the viewpoint of the victorious so of course there is gonna be some glossing over but i do wish that there were just a bit more time devoted to those hard, emotional punches that all the characters get.

final thing is that i've adopted aemond and honestly anyone who knows me is not surprised by this

[stackofstories]

shotgun rider | chapter 3

Pansy Parkinson, the hard-faced girl, kept shooting looks. Squeezed between towhead Greengrass and pudgy Bulstrode, she thought she was being slick. With each turn of her head, Parkinson glanced at him with her beady eyes and then let out a braying laugh.

Blaise focused on his meal, a side of grilled salmon and mashed potatoes, refusing to give her the reaction she was trying to elicit. Mamma warned him. It was his first time away from home and the comfort of his community. He was different and because of those differences, he was singled out.

Still. Blaise made sure to hold his head high because as proud as these heirs of the Most Ancient and Noble Houses were, Blaise was prouder still. He was of King of Kings and Queens of Queens. His line went back to antiquity. Not to mention, he was also very rich. He wagered richer than almost all in the Hall baring the Chang heiress. Parkinson laughed because that was all she could do: laugh.

These truths didn’t lessen the itchiness burrowing under his skin. The whisper in the back of his mind. Maybe, he should have waited until the winter holidays before unbraiding and washing his hair. He wasn’t sure what to do with it aside from a bun. For at least six weeks, he was without a style.

When dinner cleared away, dessert appeared, and he went for the mint ice cream. Blaise contemplated the merits of asking Snape to firechat Mamma. Maybe there was a way to arrange his absence for a day. It was a dire situation. A Zabini couldn’t go around looking like a bum.

Blaise shoved the last of his ice cream in his mouth. He didn’t bother to wait for the Slytherins to get up from their seats as they were almost always the last table to leave the Hall. Blaise went into the sea of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws. Someone reached out and yanked his black cloak back.

“Who—” Blaise hissed, colliding into the back of the person and feeling them both stumble. Blaise whirled around. He expected Harry with a sheepish half grin poised with an apology. Instead, Blaise got comical wide brown eyes and hands up in a universal placating sign.

Shoulders still raised, Blaise tried to place the tall Black boy. He was bean-pole thin and young looking. Ink spattered his white shirt, and the inside of his left hand, and he was wearing a tie of red and gold.

“I’m sorry!” the Gryffindor boy said. “I was just trying to get your attention and I didn’t know your name.”

“Well, you don’t need to pull on me,” Blaise said flatly. “And it’s polite when introducing oneself, they lead the introduction.”

“Oh, right.” The boy shifted on his feet. “Sorry again. I'm Dean Thomas.”

Thomas. Blaise couldn’t place the name.

“Muggleborn?” Blaise asked.

Thomas tilted his head to the side squinting into the distance. Definitely muggleborn. Blaise withheld a sigh. “It usually means you’re the first magical child in generations,” he explained patiently. Of course, the matrix of blood was a complicated math and science and it varied depending on whom one talked too.

“Oh.” Thomas shifted from foot to foot. “My mom doesn’t speak much about my dad.”

Blaise thought about his own father and his absence in his life. He was just fine with himself and Mamma. He didn’t need a father.

“What did you want, Thomas?” Blaise asked.

“Oh, right. Your hair.” Thomas hurried along with Blaise’s flashing cross look. “I can braid your hair if you like.”

That was unexpected and a bit presumptuous.

“I didn’t take you for a braider,” Blaise said.

Thomas laughed, nodding. “I get it from my mom’s side. We’ve got steady hands. Mom’s a surgeon and Auntie Aaliyah has her own braiding shop, and well, I’ve been helping out in the shop as long as I can remember.”

Blaise adjusted his cloak and frowned. He wondered what had made it obvious that he needed someone to do his hair. “How much for your services?” he relented.

“I don’t know.” Thomas shrugged and crossed his arms. He gave him an appraising look. “Auntie charges £90. 45 if they’re under 12, but she’s a professional and she takes less than two hours.”

“I don’t have muggle money,” Blaise said shortly. “Do you take galleons?”

“Those are the golden ones, right?” Dean asked.

Blaise fought the urge to sigh once more. He ended up, nodding. “There are seventeen sickles to a galleon and twenty-nine knuts to a sickle. I don’t bother with knuts. For my hair, I think three galleons is an appropriate amount.”

Thomas squinted. “I want five.”

“You don’t even know how much a galleon is worth in muggle money,” Blaise said.

Thomas shrugged and smiled. “I know but you could be taking the piss.”

Sound reasoning. Thomas’s ignorance was staggering. The holes in his knowledge would be easy to manipulate, but finding good hair care was a rarity and if Thomas proved skilled, Blaise was set for seven years. It was a potential bridge he wanted to maintain.

“Four galleons and thirteen sickles,” Blaise said.

“Four galleons and sixteen sickles,” Thomas countered.

“Fifteen sickles,” Blaise said neatly.

Thomas’s smile widened. “Done.” He held out his smudged hand. His fingers were long and thin. Graceful.

Blaise shook his hand. “I’m Blaise Zabini.”

“Blaise.” Thomas rocked on his feet. “I can do your hair tomorrow after early breakfast. 7:30? In my common room.”

“I’ll see you then, Thomas.” Blaise turned on his heel and headed in the direction of the dungeons.

—

Blaise wanted to ask did the Gryffindor common room need more gold because he felt like there wasn’t quite enough gold in the space. Like there was an actual dearth of gold in the room. He contained his twitch at all the scarlets and gold threads and the golden chandelier and golden trimmings and golden candle holders and gold, gold, gold. He plopped into one of the stuffed armchairs, waiting.

Thomas clambered down the winding mahogany steps (decorated in gold and red) with several items in hand. He held them in front of Blaise like treasures. A wide toothcomb, a spritzer full of water, several hair ties (thankfully not in gold and red), and a jar of “What is that?” Blaise asked. “It’s blue.”

“Yeah, mate. Good eyes.” Thomas cracked a grin. “This is a staple for Auntie. Keeps your hair looking fresh.”

Blaise grabbed the jar and unscrewed the lid. He looked at the thick jelly of blue goo and took a whiff. It was a faint echo of memories. Following Mamma to her braiding shop, dutifully greeting aunties and enduring smattering kisses on his forehead and pinched cheeks and fussing comments as he was settled into a chair. For two hours, he sat still as his hair was washed and parted and combed and braided.

“If my hair falls out, I’m cursing you,” Blaise warned. He slid down to the plush carpeted floor eyeing the empty hearth.

“Scary,” Thomas said with a tone telling Blaise he was anything but. “I wish we had a telly. I don’t know how Auntie does this without anything. I brought a couple volumes of Dragon Ball and Dragon Ball Z if you want something to read.”

Blaise shook his head. He dug through his satchel and pulled out his wireless. It was small, the size of his hand, and shaped like a rectangle. The dials to fiddle with the station were found on the top and so was the antenna. This wireless definitely wasn’t the one of Mamma’s generation. Blaise shuddered to remember the cumbersome design Mamma kept in the attic. “It has all the channels,” Blaise said. “Well, all the channels here in the U.K.… what do you want to listen to? Warbeck? Weird Sisters?”

Thomas wore flat look apparently less than impressed. “I don’t know who those people are. I don’t suppose your lot gets N.W.A. or highlights of the footie matches?”

“The Wireless will occasionally get signals from Muggles,” Blaise said.

Thomas sighed. He laid his tools on the table next to him and sat behind Blaise on the stuffed armchair. His long legs reached the floor. His shoes had been white but were riddled with black drawings and flowing script. Blaise wagered Thomas’s books and homework looked similar.

Blaise flipped through the channels while Thomas loosened his hair from the bun. Blaise stopped when he heard an excited “Update on Gringotts break in.”

Turning up the volume, Blaise listened closely. He vaguely recalled a headline he read in passing on this very matter a few weeks ago. Hearing it was just as odd as reading it. Gringotts was supposed to be impossible to break into.

“For the last time, nothing was taken from our vaults. The contents of the vault in question are none of your business. There will be no further comments on the matter,” Platinumfinger, Gringotts representative told us this afternoon.

“Goblins are well-known secret keepers for all those passing through their doors. What we do know is that someone tried to rob Gringotts and this is still an active investigation. It is believed dark wizards and witches are behind this crime.

“We’ll be speaking with Auror Chopra this evening for further developments.”

“What’s the big deal?” Thomas asked. “Don’t you guys have bank robberies?”

“It’s not just a bank robbery,” Blaise said, interrupting the Nimbus 2001 ads and turning to another channel. “The two most highly secured places in the U.K. are Gringotts Bank and Azkaban. You can’t just walk in and walk right back out.”

“But someone did,” Thomas said. “And there are no leads.”

“Exactly.”

“Freaky,” Thomas said.

Thomas didn’t even know the half of it. If Blaise remembered correctly and he knew he did this robbery coincided with debutant Harry to the wizarding world. For eleven years, the whispers of the dark wizards and witches on this island had been all but silenced. And now, the supposedly impregnable Gringotts was full of holes. Blaise didn’t believe in coincidences.

“Oi! Don’t turn that dial! What am I listening too?” Thomas leaned around him.

Blaise blinked. “A quidditch match. Harpies against the Harriers.”

“I haven’t got a clue on what those words mean.” Thomas raised a hand. “I don’t need you to explain it. This quiddick match sounds fun. Turn it up and leave it on.”

All right, Blaise thought. That was easy enough. He placed the wireless on the table and sat incredibly still.

It was a little more than two hours later when he felt Dean pull away from his hair with a satisfied “Done! Auntie uses hot water to seal the ends or a lighter, and I don’t have any of those so needs must: I knotted the ends.”

When Blaise moved, he felt the world did too. For two hours, he sat as still as a statue and in those two hours, he and Dean invited the outside world in on their ritual. Gryffindors pored from the dormitories and their common room opening, shooting them glances and the occasional whisper. Some of them chose to stay, watching. Once more, Blaise was reminded of the difference in background. Didn’t anyone teach them that it was rude to stare? Blaise had years of training to hold his head high regardless of the situation, and it seemed like Thomas did too. If he had noticed befuddled eyes and whispers, he paid them no mind, intent on keeping his line straight and cheering on chaser, Ines Nielsen of the Harriers.

“Here you go.” Thomas gave him a mirror. “Look at it. Before you pay me.”

Blaise accepted the mirror. He met his brown-green eyes silently amazed that his fluff of juiced curls were pulled back into small braids with neat lines gathered into a high ponytail to reveal his fade(thankfully, he had enough sense to refresh that style before heading Hogwarts). Next time, he would bring gold cuffs or cowrie shells to adorn his hair. Powerful, protective magic those were. Blaise didn’t like to be without.

“It’s not half bad,” Blaise said as he handed the mirror back. He stood and stretched.

“It’s not half bad,” Thomas mocked with an eye roll and grin. “Is that your way of saying ‘thank you’?”

“No. This is.” Blaise pulled out five galleons and sixteen sickles for Thomas. Never let it be said the Zabinis didn’t pay handsomely for proper products and services.

“Thanks. I guess I’ll see you around?” Thomas asked.

Blaise gave him half a smile.

From the top of the steps, Harry yelled his name. Blaise turned to look at Harry clad in his robe and pajamas. Blaise offered a wave.

“What are you doing here—why didn’t you tell me—I’m coming down—” Blaise blinked. He did not want to spend any more time in the Gryffindor common room than what was necessary.

“There’s no need for all of that, Potter. I had an appointment here with Thomas and I’m done now. I’ve got to go back to the dungeons.” Harry’s face fell spectacularly. “However, this afternoon, around 2, I’ll be walking around the Black Lake…”

“I’ll be there!” Harry grinned.

[rwby-encrusted-blog]

NOrmally, I'd call what Unity is doing as "Shooting oneself in the Foot"

But They've forgone the gun, Pulled a a GRENADE in a bank, ignored the tellers but told the people in line and shit that they want money or they'll pull the pin.

Some are saying "Hey, You realize you'll die to?" while others go "Actually, I won't be taking money out of my deposits"

and then there's the BIG GUYS (Nintendo, Microsoft, ETC) Who are probably gonna take out just, excessive amounts of Lawyers to tackle Unity and beat the hell out of them.

Unity cannot make it out of this unscathed.

It really depends on if the little guys can make it out alright, and if passion projects can get a new engine.

[stoppsychedelic]

ENTJs in Te-Se Loop

Tertiary Se (ENxJ): As these two types overindulge Ni, they become increasingly inflexible, extreme, and out of touch with reality. Therefore, the tertiary Se function should be used to bring them back to what really matters in life. When a person listens to the need for tertiary Se development, they will suddenly start to value being more: amenable, adaptable, grounded, present, adventurous, fun (in enjoying simple pleasures), honest and accepting (about human weaknesses and limitations), attuned to beauty and the sublime. If one resists Se development, overindulgence of Ni is likely to lead to increasingly negative consequences, perhaps repeatedly shooting oneself in the foot by indulging unreasonable ideals/demands that create the perfect conditions for eventual defeat/disappointment. However, if Ni has remained chronically underdeveloped for whatever reason, a person is likely to develop serious Se looping tendencies in adulthood as a lame attempt to cope with development failure. With Se looping, they can continually excuse the lack of Ni development and justify never slowing down to properly introspect. Unfortunately, over time, this produces a creeping sense of losing control that can lead to inferior Ti/Fi grip.

defensive loop tendencies: selectively gathers superficial details as evidence to justify problematic beliefs or hasty action; believes oneself “deep” or “special” but actually cannot see past superficial appearances; impulsive or error-prone because of overlooking/ignoring important facts and details; rationalizes taking the path of least resistance instead of the morally correct path as long as desirable result is obtained (end justifies the means); does whatever feels good in the moment when feeling aimless/restless; indulges in sensory pleasures to escape from (self-imposed) stress or negative emotions; emotionally volatile, highly reactive to setbacks, problems, challenges, negative feedback; covers up flaws or mistakes instead of addressing them transparently, unable to admit to wrongdoing, unable to apologize for mistakes; prone to being over-competitive, incorrectly uses social comparison to define personal success/worth, tends to be jealous/envious of material gains or possessions that signal high/respected social standing; prone to adopting extreme and superficial societal standards to define “intelligence” or “achievement”; externalizes personal issues/insecurities by controlling the environment; compartmentalizes private life from public persona, able to rationalize doing bad/questionable things as long as public appearances/reputation remain intact; stubborn or combative mindset, defends beliefs and values with the unconscious intent to repress feelings of uncertainty or ambiguity

Te-Se loop dynamics: selectively seeks out evidence in support of pursuing goals/objectives or to justify one’s ideas and methods as being (intellectually) superior -> but cannot understand the deeper meaning and moral implications of one’s actions, resulting in critical failures that stoke underlying inferior Fi anxieties about being morally weak or spiritually bankrupt

[lizziethepet]

Both, they got fucked by multiple gods, but also did multiple things comparable to shooting oneself in the foot

fascinated by how "dislocate" seems to be a word used almost exclusively to refer to the misalignment of bodies, or parts of the body, from their proper place. it's distinctly anatomical. you don't say "i dislocated my keys" for instance, even though that's technically a correct and coherent sentence.

[a-1renovationsllc]

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[nedsecondline]

CDC hepatitis lab closes through RIF, imperiling outbreak response | STAT (Me: Beyond shooting oneself in the foot, this goes to the heart!)

An estimated 4 million Americans are infected with hepatitis C, a disease that can go undetected for years. Another 2.4 million people in this country are chronically infected with hepatitis B, which is the leading cause of liver cancer globally. Hepatitis B is preventable, and hepatitis C is curable. But the U.S. capacity to battle these viral scourges has been leveled a devastating blow with…