#taft answers

[so-i-did-this-thing]

Hello!

I wanted to ask a question, if that's okay. So, I'm genderfluid afab and feel like a man sometimes (probably more often than I allow myself to realise). I don't have access to a Binder or anything of that sort (transphobic parents).

Is there any way for me to look/be more masculine? I'm a bit scared of goggling because I don't want to accidentally take advice from Tate people or the like.

(PS. I really like your Siegfried Farnon cosplay!)

Heya!

This is a tough one to answer. Because "masculine" means different things to different people. And "passing", as well.

Like. When I wear my fleece jacket and baseball cap, I'm deliberately passing as a certain type of man. But I felt more masculine the other day wearing an ascot.

So, I think we need to break down this question:

1) If you're looking to pass, there are going to be trans masc guides out there that will direct you to a very particular gender presentation. They tend to assume you are white and skinny. They present themselves as a list of Dos and Do-Nots, and at the end of the day, do more harm than good, imo. Because passing guides are almost always about hiding parts of yourself physically, often to the expense of hiding parts of your psyche.

Seek them out if you must, but when it comes to passing for safety, all I can suggest is ambiguous layers, a hat, keeping your head down and your mouth shut. The best way to pass is to not draw attention to yourself, alas.

2) If you're looking to dress more masculine to alleviate gender dysphoria, then you need to drill down to what makes you dysphoric and start there. My smaller feet is one area of contention for me, so I look for semi-dressy shoes that look long and elegant (like Taft boots). Since you can't get a binder, consider layers, if your chest bothers you.

3) If you're looking to dress more masculine to seek gender euphoria, then figure out your aesthetic masculine ideal. Make a pinboard of Looks you enjoy and see if there are trends. Some folks are drawn to athletic wear. Work wear. Perhaps a vintage aesthetic -- Rockabilly. 90s grunge. 1940s British country vet (meeeee, lol).

Ask yourself: What are the hallmarks of this style? Are there casual and formal versions? How does it change seasonally? How much of it is clothing and how much of it is the body (haircut, being muscular, etc)? And above all - what is this style trying to communicate to others?

Once done, see what sort of fashion tips are out there for your style. Who are the fashion experts and how much do you care about their advice? (Menswear guy has great tips about how a modern suit "should" fit, but a lot of his advice is also personal preference with a big dollop of classism.)

Pay close attention to how men wear their clothes -- where they sit on the body, how they style the outfit. Compare how a man is styled in your preferred look to how a woman is styled and see what that sparks in you. How much of it is the clothing or body? How much is posture? You might discern some visual shorthand you can harness to be read as more masculine. You might also come up with ways to have plausible deniability around your parents by being able to pivot a masculine look to be more feminine, when needed.

After all this research, get yourself to a thrift shop or other second hand option and start experimenting. Buying actual men's clothing is probably going to be your best bet, but depending on your Look Book, that may not always be the case.

No one can tell you how to feel more masculine -- that really needs to come from within. Once you figure that out, then it's a matter of reconciling your ideal look with the peculiarities of your body. (And all men have their own challenges wrt the fit of clothes.)

Afford yourself as much grace as possible when it comes to your body. And again, remember that feeling more masculine and passing more masculine may not always overlap and could even be at odds. And only you can determine if and when that is a problem.

[si1verghosts]

you and me found love (lost under the shade)

re4r leon s. kennedy x fem reader (no use of y/n)

wc: 3.3k

18+ | cw: mentions of drinking, smoking, sex | tw: illusions to suicidal thoughts; author's general preoccupation with death and dying

read on ao3

title: falling asleep on a stranger by pierce the veil | art: taft bridge under the rain [#127] by carmonamedina

a/n: i honestly don't know if i am doing this whole tagging thing right idk how to tag on here so sorry if i missed anything.... anyways, this is the first thing i've managed to finish in months - i did not imagine the first leon fic i'd actually post would be reader insert but here we are!! i hope u enjoy :D

not beta read - all mistakes my own or done purposely due to my general disrespect for the grammatical conventions of the english language.

i do not own leon, yadda yadda, please don't sue me <3

please do not use my work to train any sort of AI chat bot and/or writing generator.

-----

"I can't be what you want," Leon had said, voice even. "Maybe you should try to find someone else; someone who can… be around."

Someone who can give you a straight answer. Someone who doesn't come home bloodied and bruised and can't tell you why. Someone who doesn't make you feel like it's all just a lie. 

You had never heeded any of Leon's suggestions before - "You should go," he had whispered after that first night, and the second, and the third - but you wish you had; so you give it a shot now. 

You let your friend set you up with the guy in accounting at her job she had been telling you about for months. "And get this - he always wears a tie bar! He just seems so put together," she had raved to you over drinks the weekend prior.

Accounting, tie bar, put together. Nice, neat, safe. 

You had shrugged, "give him my number."

He's waiting for you outside the bar when you arrive, jogs over when he notices you approaching, holding his umbrella out over you. It's unnecessary - the cold precipitation is hardly a mist, barely coating the strands of your hair. "You look beautiful," he smiles. It feels rehearsed, platitudinous. You thank him, letting him guide you inside. 

His hand brushes your arm as he helps you out of your jacket, skin soft. You pull away with the shock of it, covering with a small wave of beckoning. He falls in behind you as you traverse the familiar path through the room to your usual spot, settling in before he can manage to make a show out of pulling out your chair.

Same table, different seat; back against the wall - it's a whole new perspective. No longer focused solely on the person across from you, it's as if the whole world falls into your line of sight. It suddenly makes sense why you always found it so difficult to hold on to Leon's attention.

He slinks away to acquire your requested vodka soda from the bar. You pick at your nails until your fingers shake, shifting to look out the windows. The rain has picked up, pelting the glass and obscuring the view. You long for your car and the pack of menthols tucked away in the glove box, nobody to quit for now. 

He returns with your drinks, water for himself - "trying to cut back on carbs, you know? I've been making real progress with my lifts lately." 

"That's great," you smile. 

He leans in, beginning to chatter away excitedly about weights and protein and bicycles and Wall Street. His cologne reeks of business school, of polo shirts and white picket fences and 2.5 kids. You hope you are nodding at all the right moments. His tie bar catches the light of the Budweiser sign hanging behind you, silver glinting red, as if informing you you aren't.

It's hard, much harder than it reasonably should be but you've forgotten how to do this. Leon and you hardly spoke; the silence was easier - until it grew violent from your overreliance. 

You catch the ring of the doorbell over the drone of his voice, a familiar shape of blonde hair and brown leather entering your peripheral vision. You turn, a sick sense of satisfaction slithering up your spine. 

Shoulders hunched and hands shoved deep in his pockets, he shakes off the water droplets clinging to his hair like a dog. He picks his head up, blue eyes and dark circles meet your gaze almost immediately.

You raise a brow, I took your advice; happy?

He spins around, setting the bell off again as he slips out the door. 

"I'm sorry," you interrupt your date, who had been entertaining himself, seemingly never even recognizing your shift in attention. "I'll be right back." 

You are out the door a second later, shoving your arms back into the coat you thankfully remembered to grab, shielding your skin from the rain clouding your vision. Blinking away the droplets from your lashes, you spot Leon making his way down the sidewalk and take off after him, catching up as he nears the corner. 

You call to him, voice near enough to stop him, but only for a moment. "Go back inside," he throws over his shoulder, continuing forward.

You want to reach out and grab him, make him turn to look at you, but his shoulders are set in a tense line. Your touch is sure to set him off like a slingshot. 

Steeling yourself, you dart around him, blocking his path. You find yourself in front of him without any idea of what to say. You gape at him stupidly, chest heaving from the exertion of chasing him down; maybe you should've asked what's-his-name for a good gym recommendation before you ran off.

Leon entertains you for a moment before he huffs, eyes narrowing, "what are you doing?"

It's an excellent question - one you had never bothered to stop and ask yourself. 

What are you doing? 

Why did you agree to go for drinks? Why had you put on the dress Leon had carefully unzipped and let pool around your ankles just a few weeks ago? Why had you asked Mr. Tie Bar to meet you at the bar you knew Leon always popped into after work? 

Fuck. 

You swallow harshly, "trying." 

"Trying?" Leon reiterates, almost laughing. "And what is it that you are trying?"

Normal. To get over you. To make you mad. Honesty. To make you look at me. To make you want me like I want you. Safety. To hurt you. To get you to say something, anything. Trust. To get you to make me stay. To get you to stay. 

You feel yourself frown, the familiar pressure of tears building behind your nose. You try to swallow the feeling but it just mixes with the venom stuck in your throat, bubbling back up after mutating into a bitter twinge of anger. "What the hell does it look like, Leon? You told me to try to find someone else - that's what I'm trying."

He rocks back on his heels, crossing his arms. "Well, it doesn't really seem to be working out, does it?" 

"It was going great, actually." You smile, hoping it's not as hollow as you feel. 

"Oh, yeah?" He cocks a brow, lips pulling into a sly smirk. "Then why are you out here with me?

"You," you huff, at a loss. His words seem to be coming easier than ever while you choke on every one. You shrug, "You looked upset when you left."

"And I'm sure that's exactly what you wanted, right?" His smirk stretches into an acetous grin. "Came to relish in the tears, huh? Sorry to disappoint." He moves to brush by you, but you plant yourself in his path once again. 

"I can't believe-" you start, but stop short. Because you can believe he'd think of you that way - you'd never given him a reason to think otherwise. 

You think back to the silence that had made its home between the two of you, realizing you had used it as a confidant, letting it absorb everything you should've given to Leon instead. 

"I just wanted to check on you, see how you are doing." Your voice comes out as small as you feel under the weight of Leon's gaze. It's ironic - all this time you just wanted him to look at you, and now you wish he'd turn his eyes anywhere else. 

He snorts, short and irascibly, "I don't need you worrying about me."

"I know you don't, Leon," you throw your hands out, rainwater flicking off your skin with your exasperation. "You've made that very clear. But I can't help it - I'm going to anyways." 

"You shouldn't."

"Why not?" You half-yell, half-whine. You cringe at the sound, feeling slightly delirious; freezing cold and nearly begging him to let you care. 

 "Because you can do better." His voice is even once again, feelings stacked neatly away and locked up tight. 

"You don't get to decide that for me," you spit, ears ringing with the echo of your too-loud voice. 

"Yeah," he nods. "I do." 

He steps around you again, intending to disappear down the side street. But this time you grab him, fingers latching onto the slippery leather of his jacket, his arm as tense as a bowstring under your grip. 

"Let me go," he requests without turning to look at you, voice still even, even, even. It's a courtesy, he could easily pull free - but you are sick of his kindness, his courtesies; that's how you ended up here. You don't want them anymore.

"Make me." 

"Let me go," he repeats, slower and thicker. 

"No." If you want me gone, you'll have to force me. You don't say it, but you know he got the message when his shoulders slump, fight draining out of him all at once. 

With the thrill of victory that ripples through you, you make the mistake of loosening your hold on his jacket. He seizes the opportunity, twisting your arm and grabbing you by the bicep, pulling you close. He is running hot despite the chill of the rain, you have to force yourself not to relax into his heat. 

A moment passes, and then another. Neither of you move. The precipitation falls in sheets around you. You can't bring yourself to care. 

Your gaze slides from his chest to his neck to his jaw, backtracking the path of a stray raindrop. You chance a glance at his eyes, finding they are already on you, steely blue shimmering with the light of the streetlamp behind you. 

You love him. 

You wish the ground would crack open, allowing you to freefall straight down to hell. You imagine that would feel better - less painful - than this. 

You love him, and your skin burns with the feeling of it. You want to throw up. You want to kiss him. You want to pound your fists against his chest, curse him for doing this to you. 

You settle for allowing a sob to escape your throat. 

He releases you from his hold instantly at the sound. You scramble to grip his jacket to keep yourself upright - it's pitiful, the teeth of the zipper biting into the skin of your hands. The sharp pain comes as a tether, gifting you the space to ground yourself, to shove the tears back down. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers, tight and clipped. "I didn't mean to-"

"No," you cut him off, voice rough, grating. "It wasn't. You didn't hurt me."

"Okay," he mutters. 

You laugh. You love him and you can't help but laugh, sinking into the insanity of it. 

You feel him start to stiffen again, unsure. The feeling of his discomfort building under your fingers forces you back into yourself, realizing where you are, that you've been causing a scene on the corner down the block from his apartment. 

You release him, but you don't step away, tilting your head just enough to take in the sight of him - parted lips and a handful of freckles, blonde hair tinted green by the neon sign over the entrance of the convenience store a few feet away. 

"I'm sorry," you croak out, drifting back; wishing the rain would melt you down, suck you into the storm drain. That's the only thing that could pull you from him, you think; swirling down the gutters with the cigarette butts and the fallen cherry blossoms until you're laid to rest at the bottom of the Potomac. 

His nose twitches. "For what?"

That I can't find someone else, can't force myself away from you.

That I love you, but can't tell you.  

"For," you throw your hands out, weaker than before. "All of it."

He nods, "It's okay."

You don't want it to be, but you suddenly feel exhausted. Too tired to fight, to pull any more truths from him. 

"Take me home?" You request, you plead. 

He nods again, holding his hand out to you. "Yeah."

You intertwine your fingers with his own, the roughness of his callouses and scars soothing in their familiarity. 

The walk to his place is short. You don't bother trying to shake off the water before entering, leaving a trail of raindrops up the stairwell, down the hall, through his front door, across his apartment to the tiled floor of his bathroom. 

He reaches into the shower, cranking the hot water, allowing the stream to heat up as he helps you out of your wet clothes. He removes the drenched fabric piece by piece - jacket first, then your dress, unzipping it with even more care than the previous time. It doesn't slip off with the same ease, but his gentle fingers pull it from your skin until it falls away. He crouches to undo your shoes, allowing you to step out of them before reaching up and rolling your nylons, guiding them down your legs. 

He moves to do the same with your underwear, fingers resting on the waistband as he glances up to you, silently asking your permission even though he already has it, always will. There's no heat behind his actions, but the tenderness sears your skin all the same. You nod, a low ache settling into the center of your chest as he slides them off you before standing. You unclasp your bra; he doesn't comment on the matching set.

The steam of the boiling shower envelops you as you undress him in turn. You struggle with his belt buckle, stiff fingers uncooperative. He takes over and you drop to your knees to untie the laces of his boots, finding them mercifully secured with single-knots. You make quick work of them and he reaches down to help you up, moving you out of the way before he kicks them off. 

You assist him in pulling his shirt over his head, peeling the cotton away from his skin. You unbutton his jeans as he removes the clips from your hair, wet strands falling limply in front of your eyes. 

"Go ahead and get in, I'll go throw this stuff in the wash." His voice is mellifluous, sickeningly soft. 

It makes you feel like a kid, incompetent and helpless. You hate him for it. You hate yourself for twisting his kindness into something dark and disgusting. 

"I can help," you offer, because that's all you can do; already leaning down to collect your things. "You have to hang the jacket, it's-"

"Wool. I know," his hand brushes your back lightly, "it's okay. I'll be right back."

You straighten up, allowing him to guide you across the bathroom and help you into the tub. You slowly ease your way under the hot stream as he slides the shower curtain closed. 

You watch the shape of him through the cloudy plastic, shucking off his jeans and pulling off his socks. The sobs you had just barely choked down twice before make another escape attempt, clawing at your throat as you watch his shadow collect your clothes and move down the hall. 

You shut your eyes against the sudden emptiness of the room, against the tears and the silence and the panic; against the loathing and inferiority. You take the coward's way out, turning away from it all to hold your face up to the showerhead. 

He returns quickly, rustling around for a moment before slipping into the tub behind you. His presence awards you the bravery you needed to crack open your eyes, to clear your throat. "You're wrong, you know."

Exhaustion overshadows his amusement as he hums in question, "about what?"

Picking your hand up, you reach out slowly to slide your fingers along his collarbone, circle the puckered scar on his shoulder. "That I can find someone better." 

He scoffs, dropping his head, hair fluttering down to obscure his face. 

You move your hand to his neck, thumbing his jaw. "If anything, it's me who doesn't deserve you, Leon." 

He shakes his head, but you ignore the action, continuing before he can protest. "Nobody can take care of me like you do - not even myself. I'm sorry" - for needing you, for burdening you; for loving you even though I'm unworthy of it - "for pushing you. I understand there are things you can't share, but I want whatever you can."

You sigh, shifting your hand at his neck to pull him to you; he follows you easily, achingly. "Even if it's just this." 

He nods minutely, hooking his arms over your hips and resting his forehead on yours. Answer delivered on a breath that floats across your lips, "alright." 

You remain in his arms, his agreement echoing in your mind in time with the beat of your heart in your chest. Seconds morph into minutes, only moving when the water begins to grow cold. 

You wash first, your shampoo and conditioner still on the rack next to his own. Leaving him under the stream, you make your way to his room after wrapping yourself in one of the towels he'd brought into the bathroom. 

Home. You had asked him to take you home and he brought you here, despite your own place being just a few blocks further in the opposite direction of his from the corner you had been on. But his assumption was right; this - he - was home to you.  

The emptiness of his apartment was unsettling at first, but it quickly grew comforting - no regrets staining the carpet; no photos on the dresser of you as a girl you don't remember being. Here you could be untethered from the past you didn't want; white walls graciously offering a clean slate, even if you didn't deserve it, didn't earn it. 

There is a shirt of his waiting on the bed for you, a pair of your pajama pants in the drawer next to his. Your stomach turns at the sight - no wonder he had tried to push you away; you had subconsciously settled into his space, his closet and his bed. 

Your mug in the sink, your pills behind the mirror - the reckless domesticity of it all is startling, terrifying. He had given you an inch and you had taken a mile, too eager for the chance to be something new. 

You pull on the clothes, making your way towards the balcony, a wave of nausea rolling through you under the soft cotton. Outside, it's still raining, translucent ropes sluicing off the overhang of the roof. 

You almost immediately regret stepping outside, feeling as if it's a betrayal of the care Leon took to get you warm; but you needed it. The chill of the air forces your thoughts to line up, to wait to be addressed one by one.

His hand leading you home, your wool coat hung to dry, his shirt waiting on the bed for you to occupy - each act a silent invitation; the realization stirs inside you, grips your collarbones from the inside. 

Could it be…?

You should ask him, but you've asked for more than enough tonight. 

He slides open the glass door, sweatpants low on his hips; the lamp on his nightstand illuminates him from behind, feathering out all his sharp edges. Maybe it's not love; maybe it's just lust, desire - a need so great it's all-consuming. You have no point of comparison to use as a frame of reference, to assist in finding the distinction. 

"I was away for a few days, there's not much in the fridge. Is ramen alright or do you want to order something?" He asks and it's love, you are suddenly sure of it. 

You turn; the sight of Leon in the buttery glow of the bedroom acting as a beacon, guiding you through the terror. "Ramen is fine."

[deadpresidents]

Which president/s do you think probably had a close encounter with a grizzly at least once in their lives?

To highlight what I was saying earlier about the questions I'm asked, this is closer to being stupid or annoying, but still isn't either of those things. It's just a weird question that I would seemingly not be able to give any sort of answer to because why would there ever be any record of an encounter between a President of the United States and a grizzly bear?

BUT...we have had many Presidents who were avid hunters and/or fishermen throughout their lives, and Theodore Roosevelt is at the top of that list. And since he somehow wrote roughly 18 million books about 13 million different subjects in his "down time", we know for a fact that Theodore Roosevelt encountered a grizzly bear because he wrote about killing one while hunting in his book, Hunting Trips of a Ranchman, which was originally published in 1885! I don't know about any other Presidential summits with grizzly bears, but I'm told certain segments of our population consider William Howard Taft a bear of sorts.

[heathersdesk]

LDS Church History for Beginners

Somebody mentioned they wanted to get around to digging more into Church history. I could give a topical list, but I think the better way to do this is to give a list of people whose lives and words will illuminate how/why/when the Church became what it is today.

Emma Smith: her experience with polygamy, the suspension of the Relief Society, and her conflict with Brigham Young after the death of Joseph Smith.

Brigham Young: the experiences of his wives, his racial biases and support for slavery and segregation, and the conflicts with indigenous people that occurred under his leadership.

Emmeline B. Wells: her writings defending polygamy, women's empowerment, and her advocacy of women's suffrage.

The excommunications of apostle Richard Lyman (for adultery) and patriarch to the Church Joseph Fielding Smith (for homosexuality.) Also note that there were multiple Joseph Fielding Smiths. The prophet was a different one.

J. Reuben Clark: his authorship of segregationist, homosexualist, and anti-feminist thought in the modern Church, post-WWII.

Spencer W. Kimball: his impact on the Church's role in defeating the ERA. Also the Indian Placement Program, and the mechanics of how the racial restriction was enforced.

Ezra Taft Benson: his relationship with and advocacy for the John Birch Society, the Red Scare, and his open animosity towards Hugh B. Brown.

The September Six: their advocacy, excommunications, and the works of D. Michael Quinn.

Chieko Okazaki: her life and faith and her criticism of the Family Proclamation.

Also, a piece of advice: when trying to see/understand any aspect of Church history, with all of the tragedy that can entail, I find it helpful to connect with the voices and perspectives of LDS women.

"How do I keep my faith alive when *this* is what our people are like?" is a question LDS women have been answering since 1830. They don't just fall in line behind every ridiculous thing a person in authority says, does, or wants to do. They never have, which is part of why those in leadership weren't interested in telling the stories of LDS women for so long. No study of Church history is accurate or complete if it doesn't include the perspectives of women.

[quintsjacket]

fuck it ellen headcanons that no one asked for let's Go (under the cut because i'm shy. and it's longer than i meant it to be.)

^^ this is backed up a little by the scrapped scene of michael's birthday party in one screenplay, where she asks (mr? mrs? unclear) taft if at the very least sean would be considered an islander had he been born there (the answer is no, by the way). she wants to belong; if she can't have that, then maybe the boys can.

ellen grew up in a small town. i know this i can feel it in my bones. she left after graduating high school. moved to a city for... college? general adult life? i'm not sure yet. probably nyc though, given... *waves hand*. like the line "but when do i get to become an islander?" reads to me as a desperation to have that small-town connection again, in spite of how othered the brodys are by amity. i like to think that ellen would have assumed she'd be right at home again with amity's relatively tiny population, but gets totally thrown off when neighbours refuse to acknowledge her as an islander.

i do think that the brodys' decision to move there would have been a mutual one - they respect each other too much to allow for any other possibility, imo - but i think adjusting would have been harder for ellen than martin. she would feel so simultaneously both at home, being from a small community similar to amity's, and totally alienated. it would be hard.

she's jewish! lorraine gary speaks briefly in the making of jaws doc about how her being a jewish mother contributed to her characterization of ellen's guilt, so that's where that comes from! (if hooper can be jewish by way of dreyfuss, then so can ellen . basically). to what extent she's a practicing jew, though........ Shrugs

ellen can't drive. martin drives her to work in the blue police truck in jaws 2 - and that + the original yellow truck are all we see them using, as far as i can recall - so i figure them as a single car household. she never got around to learning as a teenager, never needed to drive in new york.

she's a bookworm :> i cannot remember for the life of me who it was, but i know someone's mentioned ellen being really into reading alongside brody. i think she'd also be a sucker for cute romcoms and melodramas.

^ speaking of other peoples' ideas, i know ellen getting along with quint after a while is another headcanon that bounces around sometimes. i think it's cute.

martin's anxiety is much worse than hers, ESPECIALLY post-orca, but i think she has a bit of a nervous streak too.

it's not a constant/permanent headcanon for me, but i am *exceedingly* fond of transfem ellen. t4t ellen/martin 👍👍

still haven't seen jaws 4 oops lol but she's probably close with mrs kintner after martin & sean die, given that kintner shows up at her house to console her. assuming we actually accept that film as canon to begin with

the book does also (iirc) describe ben gardner's wife distraught after he's killed, so if there's a mrs gardner within the film's universe i think they would get along as well. amity support group for people whose family members keep getting eaten by big fucking sharks

[good-to-drive]

I wanna make an unpopular presidential opinion ask game but I can only think of a few questions

1. Is Abraham Lincoln from Illinois and why will people from Illinois kill you if you answer that question honestly

2. Was JFK a spoiled frat boy or a super tragic spoiled frat boy

3. Are we fat shaming Taft enough or could we be doing more

[redreadretale]

History & Trivia Buffs! Check this out :)

Wonder what mascots our current presidential candidates would adopt?

[offender42085]

Post 1098

Before and After....... He hid the gun in a dog food bag at his house afterwards.

Yanmarkoz Jimenez, Florida inmate N61519, born 2005, incarceration intake July 2022 at age 17, scheduled for release November 2026

Homicide: Manslaughter with Cruelty and/or Negligence, Obstruction of a Criminal Investigation

In may 2022, a Hillsborough County judge sentenced 17-year-old Yanmarkoz Jimenez to five years in prison followed by five years of probation for the death of Crysi Coleman, 18. Prosecutors said Jimenez shot Coleman one night in summer 2021, then he and a friend drove Coleman to the emergency room, dropped her off and cleaned up the crime scene.

Jimenez, who was 16 at the time of the shooting but was prosecuted as an adult, pleaded guilty to manslaughter with a weapon and evidence tampering as part of a plea deal with prosecutors. He faced up to 35 years in prison for the two charges, and state guidelines called for a little more than 10 years.

Jimenez’s age and the fact the shooting was unintentional were among the factors in the plea deal, Assistant State Attorney Danielle Villamil told Judge Mark D. Kiser.

Jimenez’s attorney, Daniel Fernandez, said his client was “intensely remorseful” and sought the care of a psychiatrist after the shooting because he was almost suicidal.

“This was a juvenile reckless act playing with a firearm,” Fernandez said. “The firearm went off accidentally and this was not an intentional act in any way whatsoever.”

Jimenez did not speak during the hearing beyond answering Kiser’s questions with “yes, sir” and “no, sir.”

The shooting happened Aug. 29, 2021. About 10 p.m., police received a call about two young males arriving at Tampa General Hospital in a sport utility vehicle with a woman in the back seat who’d been shot in the head, an arrest report states.

A paramedic working at the emergency room entrance asked the pair what happened to the woman and they said they didn’t know. The two males, later determined to be Jimenez and 18-year-old Sabian Taft, then left. Coleman was pronounced dead about 15 minutes later.

Detectives learned Coleman had been hanging out at Taft’s house on the 2600 block of Durham Street in Tampa’s Palmetto Beach neighborhood. After detectives got a search warrant for the house, Taft told them Coleman had been shot in his bedroom by a 9mm Glock 19 he owned. He said he and Jimenez then drove her to the hospital.

Taft said he covered a bullet hole in his door with a sticker on one side and filled the other side with toothpaste, court records state. He also cleaned up blood from the bedroom.

Jimenez changed his account of what happened at least three times, finally admitting that he picked up the gun that was on the bed and took out the magazine, according to an arrest report. As he waved the gun around, he said, he unintentionally pulled the trigger. He said he thought the gun was unloaded and didn’t realize there was a round in the chamber. He hid the gun in a dog food bag at his house.

3v

[classystudentclown]

I have serious problems, that clash with basic understanding and have roots in mathematics.

Facts aren't as baffling as trash,

Answers that don't pass and last laughs.

Brutally immature and crass, brash like Dempsey and Taft. People must be daft and expect a pass.

Like we break bread and burn grass?

Don't need to be invited to BBQs where everyone is strapped or with a pack.

It's not of a division of race, it's a division of class.

Like, I never act rashes with an evil laugh.

Beat, skip and miss the tempo.

Look at me, wishing I was getting into a Pinto.

🤣

[mightyflamethrower]

Some decisions are so negligent and with consequences so predictably disastrous that only a Big Stupid Government could ever make them. Over the weekend, a massive fire under I-10 at E. 14th Ave. in Los Angeles was severe enough to cause structural damage bad enough to close that section of the freeway "indefinitely."

The miracle — thanks to Big Stupid Government — is that it didn't happen sooner.

With more than 300,000 vehicles being rerouted each and every day until further notice, frustrated Los Angelenos demanded answers — and, on Tuesday, they got one.

"Bad actors" caused the fire, according to State Fire Marshal Daniel Berlant.

Some unknown arsonist is believed to have started Saturday's blaze, but that's not the "bad actor" to whom Berlant was referring. You see, the city government leases underpass space to people and companies for storage. In this case, "bad actors" filled the underpass with wooden pallets and containers of alcohol-based hand sanitizer.

In my report on Monday (and at the top of this story), you can see the pallets stacked so high under the freeway that they're almost touching the underside of the elevated road. The photos were courtesy of Google Street View, so it isn't like the towers of literal kindling were some dark secret.

The city is currently in a legal battle with a company called Airspace that leased the underpass storage area.

Let us pause here to consider the ill-considered wonder of stuffing underpasses full of kindling and flammable goo. Let us pause again to consider the bone-crushing stupidity of allowing unpoliced homeless encampments filled with vagrants, addicts, and the mentally ill to cohabitate with pallets and accelerants. 

"Giving money and power to government," P.J. O'Rourke quipped, "is like giving whiskey and car keys to teenage boys." But sometimes the situation is reversed. In this case, government gave dry wood and alcohol to vagrants.

Was the I-10 fire started by a malicious arsonist or just a bored fentanyl addict? We may never know with 100% certainty, but we do know these fires are common wherever the homeless are living free range. PJ Media's own Victoria Taft reported back in March, "Fire, fire everywhere" rages all up and down the West Coast, where the homeless are treated like an endangered species.

That story was just one entry in Victoria's ongoing "West Coast, Messed Coast" series, of which, if you aren't a regular reader, you should be.

Meanwhile — you're going to love this one — KTLA reported Tuesday morning: "Just days after a massive blaze destroyed part of the 10 Freeway in downtown Los Angeles, another fire broke out under a different freeway." This time, the fire appears to have started at an underpass homeless encampment near eastbound 105 and southbound 110 and then spread to nearby vegetation. 

Fortunately, this fire didn't have nearly as much fuel to burn and only resulted in some traffic slowdowns.

But two of these fires in four days are a sure sign that LA's Big Stupid Government doesn't know how to protect the city's critical transportation infrastructure. Or maybe they just don't care. Maybe the neglect is on purpose — a stealthy way to promote the city's "road diet" to force drivers out of their cars and onto public transportation.

Whether by accident or design, however, it takes a Big Stupid Government to allow anyone to store kindling and accelerant under freeway overpasses occupied by those who are negligent, drug-addicted, mentally unstable, criminal, or all four. 

[cuzikan]

Great knowledge!!

On Jeopardy the other night, the final question was, How many steps does the guard take during their walk across the Tomb of the Unknowns? ------ All three missed it ---

This is really an awesome sight to watch if you've never had the chance Very fascinating.

Tomb of the Unknown Soldier

1. How many steps does the guard take during their walk across the tomb of the Unknowns and why?

21 steps. It alludes to the twenty-one gun salute, which is the highest honor given any military or foreign dignitary.

2. How long do they hesitate after their about face to begin their return walk and why?

21 seconds for the same reason as answer number 1

3. Why are their gloves wet?

Their gloves are moistened to prevent losing their grip on the rifle.

4. Do they carry their rifle on the same shoulder all the time and if not, why not?

They carry the rifle on the shoulder away from the tomb.

After their march across the path, they execute an about face and move the rifle to the outside shoulder.

5. How often are the guards changed?

Guards are changed every thirty minutes, twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.

6. What are the physical traits of the guard limited to?

For a person to apply for guard duty at the tomb, they must be between 5' 10' and 6' 2' tall and their waist size cannot exceed 30.' Other requirements of the Guard:

They must commit 2 years of life to guard the tomb, live in a barracks under the tomb, and cannot drink any alcohol on or off duty.

They cannot swear in public and cannot disgrace the uniform or the tomb in any way. After two years, the guard is given a wreath pin that is worn on their lapel signifying they served as guard of the tomb. There are only a little over 600 presently worn.

The guard must obey these rules while serving as guards or for the rest of their lives if they choose.

The shoes are specially made with very thick soles to keep the heat and cold from their feet. There are metal heel plates that extend to the top of the shoe in order to make the loud click as they come to a halt.

There are no wrinkles, folds or lint on the uniform.

Guards dress for duty in front of a full-length mirror.

The first six months of duty a guard cannot talk to anyone, nor watch TV.

All off-duty time is spent studying the 175 notable people laid to rest in Arlington National Cemetery. A guard must memorize who they are and where they are interred.

Among the notables are: President Taft, Joe E. Lewis (the boxer) and Medal of Honor winner Audie Murphy, (the most decorated soldier of WWII) of Hollywood fame.

Every guard spends five hours a day getting their uniforms ready for guard duty.

ETERNAL REST GRANT THEM O LORD, AND LET PERPETUAL LIGHT SHINE UPON THEM.

In 2003 as Hurricane Isabelle was approaching Washington , DC , our US Senate/House took 2 days off with anticipation of the storm. On the ABC evening news, it was reported that because of the dangers from the hurricane, the military members assigned the duty of guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier were given permission to suspend the assignment.

They respectfully declined the offer, 'No way, Sir!' Soaked to the skin, marching in the pelting rain of a tropical storm, they said that guarding the Tomb was not just an assignment, it was the highest honor that can be afforded to a serviceperson.

The tomb has been patrolled continuously, 24/7, since 1930.

God Bless and Keep Them

I don't usually suggest that many posts be reshared, but I'd be very proud if this one reached as many people as possible.

We can be very proud of our young men and women in the service no matter where they serve.

Duty - Honor - Country

IN GOD WE TRUST

[readnburied]

What I Read in February

Target: 7

Read: 5

I was so close to reaching my reading goal for this month but fell short of two books. However, I did read some really good books and managed to finish quite a few series on my list, so without further ado, here’s my reading wrap up for February. 

Stalking Jack the Ripper by Kerri Maniscalco 

This is book 1 in the series of the same name and follows Audrey Rose Wadworth in Victorian England as she tries to apprentice in her uncle’s forensic laboratory while trying to maintain her life as a respectable woman in society. However, expectations soon takes a back seat when unexpected murders begin taking place with the victims losing vital organs and it’s up to Audrey to figure out who is the person behind the killing, all the while being careful not to get herself killed in the process. 

I’d been wanting to read this book for so long and I’m so glad I finally did and this book did not disappoint. Everything was so perfectly written and orchestrated that I couldn’t help but turn page after page until I reached the end. The plot twist really caught me off guard  and that’s just another evidence of the author’s talent. I definitely intend to continue with this series and can’t wait to read everything else written by this author. 

A Portrait of Loyalty by Roseanna M. White

This is book 3 in The Codebreakers series which is also the conclusion to the series and revolves around the lives of Zivon Marin who was one of Russia’s most prominent personalities but was forced to flee his country and take shelter in England as a cryptographer, along with Lily Blackwell who’s an expert with a camera to the point of playing a vital role in terms of homeland security. When circumstances throw them together, Zivon and Lily have no choice but to work together to uncover the truth while not only protecting themselves but their countries as well. 

I’ve loved every book in this series and this one was just as amazing and downright adorable. I loved Zivon from the beginning and as the story progressed he just made me fall harder and harder for him. Lily didn’t disappoint either and I loved her job. Now that I’ve finished reading this series, I can’t wait to start the next series by this author. 

As Good as Dead by Holly Jackson

This is book 3 of A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder series and is the conclusion to this series which follows Pip and Ravi as they take on one final case which is to help Pip more than anybody else. With trauma plaguing her, Pip needs something to save herself and this case seemed like the perfect thing to help her go back to normal. But as she tried to save herself, she doesn’t realize when she takes things too far and now she must pay the consequences. 

I have some serious thoughts about this book and I can’t believe whatever happened actually happened. I tried to deny and pretend that I didn’t just read what I read but I failed miserably. I never expected such a plot twist and such a pacing of the book but I did like the last line of the book and I’m glad I finally read this book and finished another series. 

Deadly Little Scandals by Jennifer Lynn Barnes

This is book 2 in the Debutantes series and the conclusion of this series which continues with Swayer Taft and her three fellow debutantes as they try to uncover the million secrets their families are clearly buried in. Being forced into joining an exclusive debutantes society, Sawyer seizes the opportunity to find the answers she’s looking for, but she needs to make sure the secrets don’t kill her first. 

I have no words for the crazy in this book. And I really think I need to read this book again to truly make sense of everything that was in this book, because there was a lot. So many secrets and all twisting into one another with the past and present meshing into each other, this story is a salad of entertainment. I really want want some of the author’s talent into writing something so scandalous and deliciously messed up. And I can’t wait to target another series by this author. 

Evertrue by Brodi Ashton 

This is book 3 in the  Everneath series and the final book following the life of Nikki as she takes on the impossible task of destroying the Everneath with her boyfriend while searching for Cole who now owns her heart. With time against her and darkness gathering around her, Nikki has no choice but to see this to the end or die trying. 

I’m glad I finished this series because it was kind of starting to bore me, for the simple reason that I’ve outgrown it, at least that’s what I believe. The ending was sorrowful yet sweet but Nikki’s and Jack’s love seemed a little exaggerated and far-fetched considering how they’re in high school but it’s to be expected from YA romance. 

And this is my wrap up for February. I did read some pretty good books and I’m thinking which one to write a review on, and hopefully I’ll have it figured out before next week. Let me know if you’ve read any of these and what you thought of them or if you’re interested in reading any of the books mentioned above. 

[pan-de-queer]

realized i never talked about how kara found lena again so here's part 1.5 of the supercorp ph uni au [1   2  3]!

oKAY!

so kara knows lena studies in dlsu and that it was around early afternoon on a specific weekday (let's say thursday for the happy t) when lena had gotten swept along with the protesters. so kara makes a point of dropping by taft every thursday (and sometimes tuesdays, as she’d used her journalism skills to figure out the usual scheduling pattern the uni has) from 1PM to the early evening for more than three weeks straight. she’d “swore” she saw lena at least five times and had accidentally called out to the wrong person at least thrice. still, kara’s nothing if not persevering.

on the third thursday of her attempt, she’s standing in front of goks on a call with alex (who’s told her to just use facebook like a normal person to post on the dlsu freedom wall) when she feels a light double tap on her shoulder. an apology is already on kara’s lips despite not knowing what she’s being called out for, but the second she turns around, her jaw drops.

because there, in the flesh, is lena.

“hey, stranger,” lena smiles, dimples digging deep as blue-green eyes crinkle adorably with her nose. “fancy seeing you here.”

“lena,” kara breathes, jaw hanging low as her tunnel-focus misses the way alex is yelling up a storm on the other end of the line. “hi.”

“hi,” lena repeats, swaying back and forth and all too happy to see kara in the flesh again (lena’s daydreams really didn’t do the woman justice).

“hey,” kara giggles, unable to hold back the giddy feeling of finally, finally finding lena. “i’ve been looking for you.”

“oh?” lena’s left brow quirks teasingly despite the clear curiosity (and hope — kara can’t name it yet, but lena knows) in blue-green eyes.

“yeah. you’re pretty difficult to find, lena no-surname.”

lena pauses, a frown briefly flitting on to her face before she takes a deep breath and answers. “luthor. it’s lena luthor.”

and kara knows the name. knows how clark and lois spent months on reporting lex and lillian. knows that her cousin-in-law had interviewed lena herself and returned to clark saying that they shouldn’t write her into any of their articles.

kara knows the luthors.

but she’d rather know more about lena.

“lena luthor,” kara repeats, soft and reverent and closer. “i’m kara danvers. and i’m glad i finally found you.”

[feartheshadowsofnight]

Tomb of the Unknown Soldier

From a friend

On Jeopardy the other night, the final question was, How many steps does the guard take during his walk across the Tomb of the Unknowns? —— All three missed it — This is really an awesome sight to watch if you’ve never had the chance Very fascinating.

Tomb of the Unknown Soldier

1. How many steps does the guard take during his walk across the tomb of the Unknowns and why?

21 steps. It alludes to the twenty-one gun salute, which is the highest honor given any military or foreign dignitary.

2. How long does he hesitate after his about face to begin his return walk and why?

21 seconds for the same reason as answer number 1

3. Why are his gloves wet?

His gloves are moistened to prevent his losing his grip on the rifle.

4. Does he carry his rifle on the same shoulder all the time and if not, why not?

He carries the rifle on the shoulder away from the tomb. After his march across the path, he executes an about face and moves the rifle to the outside shoulder.

5. How often are the guards changed?

Guards are changed every thirty minutes, twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.

6. What are the physical traits of the guard limited to?

For a person to apply for guard duty at the tomb, he must be between 5’ 10’ and 6’ 2’ tall and his waist size cannot exceed 30.’ Other requirements of the Guard: They must commit 2 years of life to guard the tomb, live in a barracks under the tomb, and cannot drink any alcohol on or off duty for the rest of their lives. They cannot swear in public for the rest of their lives and cannot disgrace the uniform {fighting} or the tomb in any way. After two years, the guard is given a wreath pin that is worn on their lapel signifying they served as guard of the tomb. There are only 400 presently worn. The guard must obey these rules for the rest of their lives or give up the wreath pin.

The shoes are specially made with very thick soles to keep the heat and cold from their feet. There are metal heel plates that extend to the top of the shoe in order to make the loud click as they come to a halt. There are no wrinkles, folds or lint on the uniform. Guards dress for duty in front of a full-length mirror. The first six months of duty a guard cannot talk to anyone, nor watch TV. All off duty time is spent studying the 175 notable people laid to rest in Arlington National Cemetery. A guard must memorize who they are and where they are interred.

Among the notables are: President Taft, Joe E. Lewis {the boxer} and Medal of Honor winner Audie Murphy, {the most decorated soldier of WWII} of Hollywood fame.

Every guard spends five hours a day getting his uniforms ready for guard duty.

ETERNAL REST GRANT THEM O LORD AND LET PERPETUAL LIGHT SHINE UPON THEM.

In 2003 as Hurricane Isabelle was approaching Washington, DC, our US Senate/House took 2 days off with anticipation of the storm. On the ABC evening news, it was reported that because of the dangers from the hurricane, the military members assigned the duty of guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier were given permission to suspend the assignment. They respectfully declined the offer, ‘No way, Sir!’ Soaked to the skin, marching in the pelting rain of a tropical storm, they said that guarding the Tomb was not just an assignment, it was the highest honor that can be afforded to a serviceperson. The tomb has been patrolled continuously, 24/7, since 1930.

God Bless and Keep Them

We can be very proud of our young men and women in the service no matter where they serve. Duty - Honor - Country IN GOD WE TRUST

[madamlaydebug]

Here are some historical facts about Alice Allison Dunnigan, an American journalist, civil rights activist, and author.

Born on April 27, 1906.

After graduating high school, completed a teaching course at Kentucky Normal and Industrial Institute.

Taught Kentucky History in the Todd County School System, which was segregated then.

From 1947 to 1961, served as chief of the Washington Bureau of the Associated Negro Press.

First African American female correspondent to receive White House credentials.

First Black female member of the Senate and House of Representatives press galleries.

Wrote an autobiography entitled "Alice A. Dunnigan: A Black Woman's Experience."

An official Kentucky Historical Society marker commemorates her.

Chronicled the decline of Jim Crow during the 1940s and 1950s, which influenced her to become a civil rights activist.

She was inducted into the Kentucky Hall of Fame in 1982.

Her love for writing began when she was 13. Penning one-sentence pieces for the Owensboro Enterprise changed her life forever. Her dream was to experience the world through the life of a newspaper reporter, and she accomplished her goal by becoming the first African American female White House correspondent.

Her journey was not an easy one. Dunnigan reported on Congressional hearings where Blacks were referred to as "niggers," were barred from covering a speech by President Dwight D. Eisenhower in a Whites-only theater, and were not allowed to sit with the press to cover Senator Robert A. Taft's funeral. She covered the event from a seat in the servant's section. Dunnigan persevered, kept writing, and was eventually known for her straight-shooting reporting style. Politicians routinely avoided answering her difficult questions, which often involved race issues.