#the plastic lining of a ziploc bag

[ehveerivv]

All of the above

@thorne-5658

INGESTED not just chewed on to clarify lol. based on real responses from my groupchat

[e77y]

Everything bagel BLT cures all ❤️

[lunar-fey]

so i got 3-4 hours of sleep and i feel like shit obviously but now i gotta be at work for the next 2.5 hours. and then i get like an hour of break (not enough time for a nap...ill probably need to eat...) and Then i have an appt and itll be another ~2 hours before i get home. and Then itll be like. close to 7pm. and thats too late to really take a nap... oughh.

[possumcollege]

Apologies to my comics friends here but this is ridiculous:

Just the photo for folks who like to ZOOM!

I've been handling guns since I was 6yrs old. These are obviously not real pistols. You can tell by the screw holes in the frames, the mold/assembly lines, the undersized magwells, and the VERY clear airsoft magazines. It's a specific mix of contemporary guns too, including at least 7 H&K USPS, which cost about $1,200 each, assorted Glocks, "tactical" 1911s, and generic S&W/ Beretta autos. They're some of the most common airsoft guns. The guns that aren't obvious plastic reproductions show no wear, and "custom" features that you wouldn't see on say, smuggled military weapons being carried around by local militia in a region that is absolutely littered with cheaper older Soviet hardware. Even looted American weapons would more likely include a bunch of very beat up Beretta M9s.

Plus a random Winchester 92? Is John Wayne's ghost backing HAMAS?

This is my favorite part though:

THAT appears to be a PILE of Knights Armament PDWs and only KAC PDWs. That gun is an "experimental" rifle w/ a $3k price tag. It chambers a proprietary 6x35mm round or 300 Blackout. Not standard ammo for any major military on Earth, making it a terrible choice for guerilla fighters. 500rds of 300blk will cost you as much as a basic S&W M&P (a civilian M4 clone) in .556 if you can find it in the US. The KAC PDW is also a popular airsoft rifle since it's rare, expensive, and dripping with tacticool features. There are almost certainly more airsoft versions than real ones in the world, but I can't say for sure because I can't find a number produced online.

There are NO AKs, M4s, M16s, FN FALs- guns that might conceivably be available in numbers for insurgent militia in the region. It's not uncommon to see fighters in the Middle East still fielding WW2-era weapons, but the only other long gun I can even try to ID on that table is essentially a cowboy gun! 🤠

A refugee camp had a baker's dozen of these though. 👇

A niche gun, so unused in any real number that the sum total of its service history on Wikipedia (gun guys religiously, lovingly maintain gun Wikis) is this:

There are at least 13 of them in this picture, so either that's nigh $40k sharing a table with rusted hunting guns and toys or ALSO TOYS!

(I still prefer LEGO)

10 minutes of searching on my phone was enough to prove this shit isn't real. And I am very very sleepy today. Writing this post took longer than tracking down that rifle by its features. I know this might not be as obvious to people who haven't handled real guns but for anyone remotely familiar with them, this looks like a joke.

This makes American cops posing around a ziploc bag of weed look good by comparison. That weed might be real.

This is extremely lazy misinformation work. It's a pathetically low effort ruse from an army that could easily have just planted real weapons. The only reason someone would post this for the world to see and claim it's real is if they're very, very stupid, think we are, or are well beyond trying because they know they hold a position of such untouchable privilege that they're cool doing the bare minimum of covering their asses. Like the cops!

All of those options make me real sad. So I'm going to just post this and never check on the comments.

[paullicino]

Six Years - On PTSD and Choosing Life

Content warning: This essay very frankly discusses mental health, trauma, gaslighting and suicide. It also links to discussions of abuse and sexual assault.

If you are experiencing thoughts of suicide, know that you are not alone and help is available to you or anyone who might need it, such as the Samaritans, the Suicide Prevention Hotline, or this list of other crisis hotlines and this list of international support resources.

This was reposted from my Patreon.

There are blue skies today. The sun bounces off the mirrored windows of a skyscraper downtown. It cuts straight across my balcony and shines onto my wall. A few blocks away, the staff of my favourite café will share their latest gossip with me, as they always like to do, and maybe later tonight I will make good food and play games with friends until unwise times in the morning. Isn’t life full of wonderful things?

You can find them everywhere. And I certainly do. Sometimes I’ve found them in the intimate, up-close details of a famous oil painting, between the notes of a new song heard by chance, even in the rustling at the bottom of a dumpster, which becomes chittering and then fur and a tail and then direct eye contact with a tiny criminal whose only felony was hunger. I’ve found them amongst perfectly crafted sentences that capture thoughts and feelings and hold them forever on the page, in the silence of the impossibly wild mountain wilderness a thousand miles from home, in the first moments that I’ve taken someone’s hand and watched the gaudy lights of some forgettable venue play across the lines and the shapes of their face.

That’s so many wonderful things to live for. And I can get overdramatically passionate about the tiniest, silliest little details.

I’ve been trying to write this for a long time. I had three significant dreams during that period. In the most recent, I had moved into a dark and barren basement, with most of my possessions still in boxes. Some old friends from long ago came knocking. They pressed their faces against the small windows and tried to force the ageing door. “Where did you go?” they kept asking, their voices entering through every crack. “What happened?”

Six years ago this month I destroyed my suicide note. I burned it on a rainy August night and watched it curl into a tiny, helpless twisting of ashes and charred plastic that no longer had any power or purpose. The note was inside of a ziploc bag, a choice I’d made to ensure its integrity and survival against any of the several different plans I’d made to end my life, and this had melted into black strands of hair-like debris that reached up to nothing. One or two of my handwritten words remained half legible in this mess and tried to reach beyond the flames, to share their intent with the world, but they would never again mean anything to anyone.

I made videos of the burning and took a few pictures, a sort of ritual of recording, then I told a close friend what I’d just done, and then, for a very long time, I set the image as the wallpaper on my phone. It would be an ever-present reminder to me of my choice to stay alive. It was supposed to help me feel strong, though the truth is that I rarely did. It was the worst, most harrowing and most damaging period of my life and with help, honesty, insight, therapy, time and invaluable connection with others who have either seen the same things that I have or had comparable experiences, I managed to fumble and fight my way through it all. But I will never be the same. Six years is a long time and I am still profoundly affected by so much. I am still trying to understand things. I am still trying to figure myself out, to make sense of my identity, my situation, my experiences. To work out where I went and what happened. And I am still trying to move on.

These words are something about that ongoing experience, that work in progress, and about the dual significance of a span of six years. It is not so much about causes or causers, but instead about consequences and changes, and that’s for three reasons.

The first is because what happens after and as a result of trauma is so enduring and significant, perhaps even the most significant consideration of all, and it’s how we find ourselves discussing things like spans of six years or, for some people, far longer. I want to try to explain some of that sort of intensity and that sort of timescale.

The second is because it’s my hope that this is the most helpful way for me to talk about all this, the most illustrative to other people, the most constructive. I could have chosen many approaches, some which I believe might have been more harmful and destructive, and I don’t generally want to be a punitive or destructive person. Ultimately I think this is the most positive and productive approach.

The third is because I’m still not ready to unpack many things, as so much is still ongoing. I am not at the end of this, not out of the woods, and I think I need to know that I’ve reached the end of whatever journey I’m on before I can return to the start.

There is, allegedly, a power in choosing how your own story is told. So I’m choosing to tell it this way and, I hope, with the awareness that any exercise of power requires consideration and responsibility.

Six years is a long time, and while I’ve been trying to write and rewrite this thing for months, those months still pale in comparison to more than half a decade. A lot has changed in six years, and yet I also wish some things weren’t still the same, that I would have been able to make more progress, that I would have been able to create more distance.

Because, while I am six years from that burning note, from that summer rain, in my memory and my mind it doesn’t work like that. I still find myself beside that moment in time, like I could open the door to the next room and once again be right there.

---

Writing this has been very difficult. Writing is supposed to be one of the things that I am best at, and in the past words used to spill out of me so regularly that I wrote a tri-weekly diary, but I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that my relationship to writing has changed. It’s not just that this is a difficult topic. It’s that words don’t come as easily or as fluidly as they once did, making it much easier, all too appealing, to simply not push myself. To avoid things entirely.

But I wanted to write this, in part, because it would be another act of not giving up. I wanted to show myself what I could do, what I still can do, and that, even if I’m changed, I’m still stubborn enough to fumble and fight my way through.

---

I want you to imagine a house. It can be any kind of house, that part isn’t important. What is important is that the house is your home and you have lived there for a very, very long time. It is comfortable. It is safe. It is so intimately familiar that it is a part of your identity. Perhaps you grew up there, or you raised a family there, or you retired there. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s your home and that everyone knows you live there.

Next, imagine that you have a terrible day. The worst day. And at the end of this terrible, terrible day, on a bleak and dusky evening, you expect at least to be able to come back to your house, your home. You take the same route back to the same address, where you see the same building stood before you and open the same front door, ready for the comfort of a place you’ve made your own.

You enter this space that you’ve known for so long and you notice something is wrong. The first clue is something small, perhaps a lamp missing from its usual spot, or you collide with furniture moved somewhere unexpected. You feel for a light switch that is now on a different wall. You stumble on the stairs as you make your way to a bed that is hard and unwelcoming. In the morning, the light from the window is not only a different shape, but cast in the opposite direction.

The changes stop being so subtle. After you notice that a carpet is suddenly faded and pale, you open a closet to find it is twice as deep. Some of your possessions are missing. The spare room no longer has a skylight. The kitchen is a different colour, with different appliances, with no back door, half the size it once was because the walls have been moved. There are new rooms whose arrival and contents are both equally inexplicable. Your most cozy corner is now cold and uncomfortable. You must relearn the entire layout, from bathroom to basement, because moving around the way you once would only causes you to stub your toes, to trip, even to fall.

Your friends don’t understand why you no longer enjoy going back to your house, your home. They don’t understand why you screamed at the different closet, why the sunlight on the wall makes you nervous. Being in your own home now hurts and scares you. How can you possibly relax here? But this is still your same house, at your same address, the one that everybody knows. You can’t argue that it isn’t. And if you invite a friend inside, after ranting about everything that is different, they ask “Why did you change all this? It’s so much worse.”

What can you even say in return? “I didn’t”? That shit’s insane.

But that is how it feels, like I live in a house that isn’t my home. Sometimes I don’t recognise myself. Sometimes, on the worst days, I don’t know who I am any more.

“Where did you go?” ask the voices, entering through every crack. “What happened?”

---

Last summer, a man came roaring down my street in his flawless luxury emerald convertible. I remember him well. He had dark sunglasses and a tan suit jacket and a hairstyle slick with oil, like he was being a parody of a rich man from an eighties film. He surged through the stop sign right in front of me and I let him know what I thought of his public display of privilege and indifference.

“Go a little faster, you cunt,” I yelled. “Maybe you can hit a kid.”

He swivelled his head, looked back over his shoulder and stared straight at me.

He also slowed down.

It was then that I realised the volume I must have used to project myself, over the noise of his engine and toward a driver already continuing down the street, meant a few of my neighbours had likely heard me too.

I’m not sure I cared.

I used to be a more modest and deferential person, and often that is still the case. But often it is not. I have less patience. I have less fear. And I have less trust.

The fear thing is great. Last autumn I walked across a narrow, quivering suspension bridge with no care for the drop below. Later, I found another far narrower, far smaller one and, all by myself, alone in the woods sixteen kilometres up a trail, I jumped up and down on the thing until it shook and swung.

I used to be terrified of heights.

My sense of fear isn’t gone. But it’s both so much more manageable and also, quite often, a thrill. It’s taken me a while to realise that I increasingly seek out things that are exciting, risky or extremely stimulating. I am frank with strangers. I am quick to make decisions. I am keen to try new things.

It doesn’t sound so bad, does it? That’s because it isn’t. Not all change is bad and not every consequence of my experience has been negative. Slowly, gradually, I am learning to appreciate a few of the changes, to lean into them. While one part of me feels sad that I’m less trusting than I used to be, another part of me sees this as more practical. I’m far quicker to drop something or someone like a rock the moment I sense things that I don’t like, and my sense for such things is certainly sharper than it used to be. Am I always right? I don’t know about that. Perhaps some people have been casualties of an overabundance of caution. Or paranoia.

That might just be the new cost of doing business.

---

It was some time in early 2020, while talking with my GP and taking some evaluations, that we began to look at my behaviour more closely. A year before, I’d talked extensively with a therapist about anxiety and about a growing sense of discomfort and distrust. I had far less patience, particularly for those who pushed boundaries, violated or were exploitative, often regardless of whether these things even involved or affected me. Anything that felt uncomfortably familiar, whether it was something I saw in a film, caught on the news or heard about on social media, could ruin my day. I would become jumpy, irritable, scared, or simply unable to do much beyond lie down and try everything I could to banish the feeling that my chest was being crushed. This might take hours. One evening, an ex found me curled up on the floor, ashamed of my own sadness. On another evening, a routine trip to see an exciting film turned into a sleepless night of panic and distress.

I began taking tests and found myself either dismissing the results or retaking them over and over in an attempt to get different answers. The outcomes kept telling me I had the symptoms of PTSD. This was far too dramatic a result and there had already been enough drama in my life already. I myself was too much drama.

Anyway, I thought, having the symptoms isn’t the same as having.

Sometimes I think about how, during some of my most difficult moments, the toughest weeks and months that I didn’t really know how I was going to get through, I made a lot of haphazard decisions motivated by panic and fear and ignorance, by doing my best to improvise and cope and adapt. Some things worked out. Some things did not. Probably the deciding factor there was luck and I’m not really sure I can look back with any wisdom or insight.

I didn’t always know what to do, what to say, who to trust, or how much to trust, how to respond to new information and changing situations, or what in holy hell might ever work out. My response to all of this was to keep secrets or to be cagey, to avoid places and people, to suddenly and liberally cut others off through a mix of ghosting, avoidance and outright blocking, or to occasionally have three-day long anxiety spikes in which I remained highly activated, oversensitive and endlessly insecure. During one of these, someone teasingly pushed me to take part in something that I didn’t want to, something that wasn’t even a big deal, and I was so close to breaking down that I had to almost run from my friends and find a quiet place to catch my breath, all the emotions in my body somehow pinched into a single point somewhere in my gut. During another, a laptop accidentally nudged half an inch sent me into panic mode, manifesting a feeling like a blade of ice slicing straight through my pulmonary artery.

These sorts of responses and behaviours would happen even in spite of all the various combinations of therapy and medication and support I was cycling my way through. I don’t feel proud of how I handled many of these things. I would love to be able to say that I handle them so much better now, with the aid of wisdom and insight. Perhaps sometimes I do.

Sometimes I have simply made terrible decisions and, looking back, I am still not sure how I might have ever done any different. I am lucky that the vast, vast majority of those decisions didn’t fuck things up further.

---

It’s a magnificent day as I write this. The world is jade and azure and gold. The sky is exquisitely, flawlessly blue. Every leaf is rich with the gloss of summer. The sun is setting into the sparkling sea beside a succession of fading distant mountain ridges, each hazier than the last, the furthest so indistinct it looks almost like mist, a ghost of an idea two thousand metres tall. Container ships the size of city blocks sleep in the bay, their hulls traced and wrinkled with rust from a lifetime of global migration. As the growing shadows of slowly swaying trees reach their way toward me, the last light of the day glides over the ground, over the grass and even over my body itself, like spilled wine gushing from a glass. It colours everything the sweet shade of nostalgia. The air is gently warm and the grass is soft beneath me.

I love days like this. They are one of the reasons why I moved here, why I put so much time and effort and energy into relocating halfway around the world. Into building the life that I wanted, piece by piece.

And I love so many of those pieces. I love my little apartment, with the balcony that I always wanted, with its ragtag assortment of secondhand furniture collected one item at a time, with its shelves tucked in here or squeezed in there, never quite tidy enough to look presentable. I love my walkable neighbourhood, with its shops and cafés and cats that follow me from block to block, or critters that peer out from between bushes in the rustling dusk. I love how low cloud creeps in to cover the tips of the skyscrapers downtown, or how the jagged outline of mountains shape the horizon in almost every direction. I love trying to make things, especially with other people, and the reward of being creative, of being silly or being funny. I love all the things I’ve learned to cook, or the ways I can warm myself up on a cold day, or the late nights I can so often indulge, with no care for what might come tomorrow.

I have so much to be grateful for and so much to be proud of. So much here. So much now.

Pretty soon, the sunset will transform the whole sky into a gradient of colour. Someone somewhere will be playing guitar on the beach, and maybe they’ll be good. Stars will appear in the sky, above the familiar urban zodiac traced out by the city lights of apartment buildings. If I stay up late again, the dawn sky will turn the royal blue of an emperor’s cloak. And then all of this will happen again.

I have so much to be grateful for. So much to appreciate.

---

A few weeks ago I had my first nightmare in some time. They still happen. The specifics matter less than the broad themes. Deception. Gaslighting. Manipulation. Boundary violation. All of it in plain sight, yet still unseen, making me feel like I’m helpless, like I’m crazy, like I have no hope of ever being believed.

I thought about it all day. The situations, the faces and the fears. This is the way it’s always been and once one of these nightmares visits you, it stays for a while. It’s like a small stain, an odour that gets into your clothes, the stink of cigarettes after a party the evening before.

Can you wash out a stain? Sometimes. With the right substances, with the correct regimen. And with some aggressive, persistent scrubbing.

One summer night years ago an ex woke me up because I had been thrashing about in my sleep. I had worried her by rolling around and muttering like a madman. Was I having a nightmare, she asked, and it wasn’t just that I was, but that I had them all the time. Every week, at least, each leaving that same gross feeling of violation and abuse. The anxiety medication that I had been prescribed was helping me sleep more, but it also seemed to make my dreams more vivid and profound. It was either that or barely being able to sleep at all, woken by the slightest of noises, up before the crack of dawn because some unresolved tension in my body overpowered all tiredness and fatigue. Even with medication, the smallest of things could still turn me into a nervous wreck, and one night I cried cross-legged on my bed as I explained to my ex not just that I had interpreted a few of her utterly inconsequential actions as a sign she wanted to leave me, but also that I might always be like this. Forever.

The nightmares began a few months after I burned my note. It was right after I opened up to another friend about what was going on in my life, and their response was to tell me about something else that had happened, the full story of an event from another six years before, from distant 2012.

It’s not my tale to tell, but six years is a long time to not know the full story of something. A long time to be deceived, to find out you’ve been lied to by someone you trust and that your ignorance has affected many decisions that you’ve made. Again, I am lucky that the vast, vast majority of those decisions didn’t fuck things up further. But some did.

Six years. It hit me then how long it can take for people to feel able to talk about something, as well as continue to be affected by it. How far the ripples travel and who they touch. And now, here I am, with my own six years.

That discovery was one of several experiences that transformed me into that person having three-day long anxiety spikes, remaining highly activated, oversensitive and endlessly insecure. That person thrashing about in his sleep. That person yelling “You cunt,” down his street.

---

I’ve written before about my physical health and my relationship to my body. I was anxious about things being wrong with it long before I had thorough examinations and validating diagnoses, but as part of those treatments I wrote about, a trio of doctors warned me about how stress was worsening every condition and symptom I experienced. Stress was ruining my health. I was having so many migraines that my GP sent me for an MRI that revealed how those migraines were changing the white matter in my brain.

I would have to do something about this.

Those doctors would help me do something about this, as would other professionals, and their help was invaluable. This would be impossible to tackle alone.

Sometimes I think about people I’ve heard say such things as “It’s not your responsibility to fix someone else,” and, while I don’t disagree, doesn’t such a phrase also imply it’s surely somebody’s responsibility, in this society that we all share, built from things that help us support one another?

Otherwise we’d be suggesting that people fix themselves.

Sometimes I think about people I’ve heard tell others, or themselves, or sometimes the world via the spontaneous and sneeze-like broadcasts of social media “It’s on you to fix your shit,” and I wonder if that’s where that sentence should terminate, if that’s exactly how it should be phrased, if those are really the words that everyone, or anyone, needs to hear.

Because sometimes I also think of another clumsy analogy I once put together. It’s a scenario in which I describe a pedestrian struck by a car, perhaps one driven by a rich cunt with dark sunglasses and a tan suit jacket, perhaps even one that has mounted the curb or surged into a crossing. The pedestrian is knocked down, maybe immobile from the pain and injury that comes from a broken pelvis or fractured leg. An ambulance is summoned, a customised vehicle equipped to transport them to a hospital. In that hospital, that specialised medical facility, a team of trained experts will use skills and equipment to triage and manage, to analyse the pedestrian’s injuries, to provide relief and to chart a course toward recovery. There will be x-rays, there will be drugs, there may well be physiotherapy. I doubt at any point that the person lying in the street would be told, by someone coming upon the scene, “It’s on you to fix your shit.”

No. Not any more than they’d be expected to walk to the hospital, to interpret their x-rays or to prescribe their own medication. Indeed, if they attempted any of these things themselves I wouldn’t be surprised if someone along the way communicated to them some more polite version of “What the holy fucking fuck do you think you’re doing?” and “You’re in no state to do this yourself, let alone know what you need,” and “Fucking hell. You’re at your most vulnerable right now. Fuuuck.”

Hopefully.

Once, many years ago, I knew someone who broke their pelvis. It takes months to recover, maybe a year or more for a limp to fully disappear. And it requires all kinds of help and oversight. It worked out. Doctors and medical professionals can be remarkable.

I have read a lot of books and papers over the last six years. I have listened to a lot of podcasts and interviews. I have been recommended a lot of material by therapists, by friends, by fellow PTSD sufferers. One well-known trauma expert I was pointed toward is Canadian psychologist Dr. Gabor Maté. And he says this:

”Everybody is born needing help.”

He means that it’s a fundamental element of the human experience.

---

Sometimes I go running and sometimes I go to the gym. The reasons I do this are complex, ranging from wanting to be healthier, to wanting to feel better about my body and how it behaves, to feeling like I am making progress with something. That last one is particularly important, because I’m doing something where I’m objectively able to recognise change.

When I run, an app tells me how far I ran and how long it took. I can’t disagree with the app, because it’s entirely objective, and so when I have a bad day, feel terrible and wonder what the point of anything is, the app still shows me that I achieved a reasonable or even an improved time.

It wasn’t always like this. I was bad at these things. I run better than I used to. I perform better at the gym than I used to. I have the metrics to prove it, and while I’m not a particularly dedicated or regular person with my exercise, I still keep at it and I still see improvements.

Whatever it is I’m doing, these apps and their statistics all offer me the same, very simple analysis:

“You’re doing better.”

I motivate myself to run, to go to the gym, to go on twenty-five kilometre hikes over difficult terrain, but I don’t do these things without some kind of help that comes from either expert resources, advice or training.

I don’t exist in a vacuum. None of us do.

---

Help is important because it offers things like perspective and expertise and informed advice. And don’t all of those things sound so extremely important?

How about we imagine that our immobilised pedestrian wasn’t collected by an ambulance. Let’s imagine instead that the driver of the car that hit them stepped out of their vehicle, shook their head, put their hands on their hips and said “Look what you’ve done.”

And then “It’s okay, I know what’s best for you,” before carrying the inert person into their car and driving away. Perhaps even unseen. No witnesses.

If such a thing happened, in this society that we all share, with that person at their most vulnerable, who is responsible then? Who is responsible for what happens next? Who is responsible when that pedestrian, forever limping, says things like “It was my fault, I shouldn’t have been walking there,” or “I should have been looking out,” or “I should have been more visible,” and so on?

A lot of accidents and injuries and collisions and whatnot can be traumatic, scary, confusing. “How do I make sense of this?” asks that person, whether carried away alone in a car, or surrounded by doctors in the emergency room, or anywhere else they may happen to find themselves. “How do I deal with this?” And who might be around them at that moment to help answer such things?

And what will they say?

Perhaps you know someone who was, metaphorically, struck by such a car, before being then carried away by a driver with all sorts of ideas about what’s best, and who later blamed themselves for everything that happened. I don’t know.

I do know how important it was to receive the right help from the right people.

---

It’s hard to know exactly what to do. You may respond to your trauma with a desire for revenge, retribution or restoration. You may not have the insight or the time or the means to do anything much at all. There is the ideal of what could or should happen when harm has been caused, but there is also the uncomfortable reality of how such things actually play out, of how long justice can take, of who is granted credibility, of how complex social dynamics can quickly become, of how awkwardly and uncomfortably people can react when they discover something they would rather not have, or that they have been misled, or so much more. We’ve all seen such things play out secondhand and firsthand.

I have had six years to consider the most helpful way to respond, the most constructive, the most positive and productive. I am still considering. I don’t have much in the way of answers or advice there.

Sometimes I think about the anonymous Broken Teapot essay, with all it has to say about the complexity of dealing with abuse dynamics, of harm happening within a group or community, about social consequences. It was written over a decade ago now, but it remains a very relevant piece of writing that brings up all sorts of considerations around responsibility, about trying to come to terms with trauma and abuse, and about how people might try to use systems or processes to try to solve things in unhelpful ways or even for their own ends.

People can have a lot of opinions about how to handle trauma, how to respond to abuse and how to leap into some sort of process of justice or accountability or reparation or even plain old revenge. So many opinions.

It’s exhausting.

Back in 2020 I tried to write something about all these complications and considerations that I was going to title The Calculus of Abuse. Like much else, it rots in my drafts folder.

Sometimes I think about how many of the ways that we push people to address both their trauma and the things or people that have caused their trauma only makes things worse. I am sceptical about the practicality, value and effectiveness of processes of justice, reparation and accountability. I think a lot of people believe that they will fix things, that they will be fair, that they will spotlight situations and systems and people that cause harm. That, in this cold and unflinching exposure, justice will be done and books will be closed on long and difficult stories.

And I think that’s because we see this happen now and then. Sometimes it happens very publicly. It seems to at least occasionally all work out.

Sometimes I think about friends who were excluded from social circles because they spoke up about something creepy or problematic, because it mattered less what actions or behaviour someone had demonstrated, even what could be proven, and much more who was more popular, or that the status quo be maintained, or that applecarts not be upset. I think about how different people share or don’t share their traumas and their experiences, what they include and what they leave out. I think about people who weren’t believed, people who were misrepresented, people who were shut down. I think about people who spent so long trying to get a handle on their trauma that any thing or person they might want to stand up to already had so much time to prepare, to seed the ground, to dig in, to get a head start. And I even think about the capacity people have to improve, to feel regret, to move forward as better humans. It’s a potential that I hope exists in us all and the writer Kai Cheng Thom seems to agree, saying that even those who cause harm themselves need help to “exit harmful behaviour patterns.”

Sometimes I think about what a friend of mine said about abusive people just being "regular people with very limited tools." And that’s not so different from a child. Doesn’t that make you feel sad?

I think about all of these things because how could you not? How could you not worry about how taking action to address a terrible thing would, in fact, only make that terrible thing even worse?

There is a paper by the American psychiatrist Judith Lewis Herman called Justice From the Victim’s Perspective that touches on how many processes and pushes toward addressing abuse and trauma can be retraumatising, without any guarantee they will lead to a meaningful outcome or significant change. It touches on how legal processes and systems can be manipulated to further harm and harass those seeking redress, or how disparities of power and status and money can immediately put the damaged and disadvantaged people who try this on the back foot. It touches on difficulties presented by such things as burden of proof, especially combined with the challenge of a memory minced by traumatic events. How does someone demonstrate and prove trauma, or gaslighting, or manipulation, or anything else?

It also talks about how not everybody seeks such things as justice, restitution, revenge, or not always in the ways that we think, and for a multitude of reasons. These can vary from worrying they won’t be believed or that the process will serve them, to wanting to move on, to the idea that it may be pointless, as some “offenders are empathetically disabled… not capable of a meaningful apology, so they can never provide anything to victims that would be useful.”

Both this and the Broken Teapot essay also feature people examining how they themselves have handled abuse and trauma. I think this is probably the most difficult part of many years of therapy, reading and reflection. Sure, it sucks to have been harmed by an event, a situation, a person or a system, but at some point you also start asking yourself difficult questions like “How do I avoid something like this again?” and “Did I do anything that made this worse?” and “Was I codependent, did I enable someone or did I perpetuate something with my reactions or my responses?”

“Abuse dynamics aren’t so simple,” says the Broken Teapot essay, at one small but very important moment, not long after “I was not solely ‘a victim’. Is anyone?” And, after all those years of therapy, reading and reflection, I’ve come to believe that abusive people and systems gain at least some of their power from how you interact with and respond to them. If we were, all of us, perhaps better informed, we might understand, avoid or escape so many difficult things so much sooner.

And while both the Broken Teapot essay and Justice From the Victim’s Perspective talk a lot about sexual assault, their considerations and their examinations of consequence are more broadly applicable. This reflects how I find myself relating to so many stories of trauma and abuse, regardless of what the specifics of any incidents might be. It’s because I recognise the same things in the subsequent developments, reactions and outcomes, much like I might recognise the same chord pattern in different songs. I see people trying to understand their own changing behaviours, trying to articulate why they won’t do a particular thing or go to a particular place any more, trying to both explain and understand how their body or their health has been affected. The specifics don’t need to be the same for so many of the consequences to be. And I recognise and am much more attuned to recognising those consequences.

Both these pieces of writing are also very good at illustrating one of the most important things that you can learn about trauma, and that is, whatever happens or whatever choices you make, things can never be put back in the box.

Trauma is never erased.

---

Here’s what I think is another of the most important things we can learn about trauma, which is that people are generally very bad at dealing with it and are even worse at dealing with it if they are unsupported. And even if they have all the support in the world, they are probably still going to make bad choices, self-sabotage, lose perspective and do things they regret.

They will probably be foolish, be confused and be likely to make choices that could hurt other people. They may not have great insight or work against their own best interests. That doesn’t mean that they get a free pass. It doesn’t mean we are obliged to simply accept these behaviours. But I think these are realistic expectations that we should have.

In his pioneering book The Body Keeps the Score, the psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk writes that many trauma responses are “irrational and largely outside people's control,” coming from people who are “rarely in touch with the origins of their alienation.” An awful lot of the book is about helping such people to find ways past this, rather than disregarding them or pushing them away, even though this will be difficult. I don’t remember anything in the book that comes close to “It’s on you to fix your shit.”

---

While one part of me wishes many things had not happened, feeling both weaker and sadder, another part of me acknowledges that I have gained new skills and strengths. And one of the best things about what I’ve gained is that all this doesn’t just help me, but can also be applied to help others.

That’s a good thing.

I’m a tiny bit wiser than I used to be. A lot of reading and talking to experts and digesting all sorts of media leaves its mark. It’s not just that I know a little more about myself and my experiences, it’s that I can now better recognise parallels to those experiences in other people’s situations, behaviours and pasts. I anticipate slightly better, seeing problems further ahead, and I have a stronger sense of what I need to drop or to avoid.

I’m doing better.

---

I don’t have much that I can write here in terms of the specifics of therapy. I would describe a lot of the process of unpacking and analysing the causes of my PTSD as being extremely painful, like trying to both tidy up and then reassemble broken glass with your bare hands. The things that brought about your PTSD are shameful and harrowing. Their analysis can also be, through a process that can variously be sad, scary, frustrating, educational, validating and empowering. It takes a long time and requires expert assistance, which means the help you need can be a somewhat scarce resource and very, very expensive.

You pay for your trauma for a very long time.

---

I discovered one of the most beautiful sounds in the world some time after 2016, some unknown amount of time after I moved into this apartment of mine, with its balcony and its skyscraper views. I don’t remember now when I first heard it, but it’s been years now and I still adore it whenever it happens. It’s small and subtle and can happen at almost any time of night or day. It’s a sound that makes me think of safety and independence, of making my own space and then occupying it. Of security and stability.

I really, really appreciate security and stability. Much as I increasingly seek out change and crave new experiences or opportunities, these things feel so much better if I can enjoy them with the understanding that I have some sort of foundation under me. Something solid. No matter how small or how far away. Some place of safety.

The sound happens when it’s raining. Whatever metal it is that rings my balcony is hollow, so that when rainfall strikes it, it responds with a kind of subtle but sonorous singing. This ringing isn’t the specific sound I’m talking about, though. That sound is slightly different, something that rises above this other background arrangement.

When a particularly large drop of water hits my balcony railing, it gives a flat, gentle ping of appreciation. The background patter of the other raindrops will continue and then, again, after some irregular interval, presumably as water has collected from the balcony above into a particularly large drop, the ping will sound again.

I heard it one morning this spring, months ago now, right after I woke up and not long after I had started writing all this. I lay there in bed on a day the colour of slate and cigarette smoke and I thought about how the world is made up of so many beautiful, tiny things. Ping, goes one of them, and maybe nobody else on the planet notices or cares. But I try to remind myself of this and how my life is full of so many other probably stupid little things that I like, that I love. Don’t lose these things, I try to tell myself. Don’t forget about them and don’t forget to notice them when they happen. You gave yourself so many more of them when you chose to stay alive.

You get a lot of time to think on days the colour of slate and cigarette smoke.

---

You’ll notice I say “sometimes I think about” a lot here, when reflecting on less positive things, and you might consider this a writing device or a cheap hook or some other writer’s cheat. It partly is, but it’s also a truth. I do think about these things, and so many other things, very often. I think about one or another of them almost all of the time. I find it very hard not to think, to turn my brain off, and the unfortunate truth is that it reminds me about things to do with my trauma almost every day. It has done so for six years now and, as we’ve already established, six years is a long time.

Evenings can be the most difficult time. While I’ve always had a flippant attitude toward sleep schedules, I never used to have trouble going to bed. Some nights my brain will never switch off. My memory is overflowing. It doesn’t matter if I’m tired, it makes no difference if I’m exhausted. The rules around sleep are different now and I think I’m still trying to relearn them.

One therapist described the traumatised mind as like an overflowing wastepaper basket full of difficult memories that are constantly falling out. Any new addition can cause one or many of them to spill and scatter. Time and therapy can help to more properly sort them and make space for other, new things.

What a good analogy.

Occasionally, there might be a suggestion of ADHD sent my way. I can understand why things would look that way and a lot has been said by people more experienced than I about how ADHD and PTSD can seem similar. I think if ADHD had ever been the case some mental health professional or other member of the medical community that I’ve dealt with would have spotted this by now. But no. I’m distracted by some memory or flashback. I’m avoidant, or I’m in need of some thrill or stimulation. I might be full of nervous energy or unusually, intensely focused on something because it feels so good to be thinking about something I enjoy.

And sometimes things are bounding out of that wastepaper basket like clowns out of a clown car. I can feel like I've lost a lot of control over my mind and it's all I can do to rein it in. Some days I have coping strategies and some days I'm sick of it and wish I didn't need to have to cope.

And so I keep myself busy with the stimulation and the novelty that I crave. With people. With events. With runs, with the gym and with twenty-five kilometre hikes. Whatever it takes, whenever I can. It’s not ideal. I’m still figuring out what I need. I don’t always get the balance right. Sometimes unexpected things make me very emotional, either very sad or very frustrated, and I rarely know in advance what might do that. Sometimes I sleep less than four hours a night. Sometimes I want to be alone. Sometimes I desperately need company. I probably seem very strange.

But, let’s not forget, in the past I would lose whole days. For hours, my chest would feel like it was being crushed. I might be found curled up on the floor, ashamed of my own sadness. The nightmares would come every week. So things have clearly, obviously, demonstrably improved.

I’m doing better.

---

I still suck at writing. I don’t know how to fix that yet. I still very regularly feel like there is a gulf between me and so many other people, even my friends. I still have outsize reactions to irrelevant, immaterial things. I still lack confidence in my own personal calibration. "Many traumatised people find themselves chronically out of sync with the people around them,” writes Bessel van der Kolk. Yeah.

Toward the end of its six season existence there is an episode of BoJack Horseman where an actor reacts angrily to some improvisation and unexpected physical contact that happens during filming. Her colleagues are confused as to why she does this, and perhaps she doesn’t understand herself, but we the audience know that this a response to a physical assault by the titular character some time before. She never finds out, but this leads to her missing out on perhaps the biggest opportunity of her life, after a director discreetly describes her as erratic.

There is no further development with this plotline, no resolution to be had. Nobody finds out why she is like this, nor wants to, nor sets things on a new, better course. I try to remind myself that this sort of thing can be happening all the time, to try and grant people some grace and compassion, but also I try to remind myself that this is me. I have my versions of this behaviour. Maybe fewer than I used to, but still. I can be erratic and I have to face the consequences of that, as well as minimise it as much as I can.

I recently stopped buying fresh fruit from my local store because they would repeatedly put mouldy, furry produce on display. The last time I discovered this, I was holding up a box of ostensibly shiny, blood-red strawberries to once again discover the mass of fuzz hidden underneath. Food is expensive enough as it is, I thought, and it doesn’t also need to be garbage. Too late, the look on the face of the customer standing next to me clued me in to how vocal I’d been with my three-word expression of disgust and displeasure.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

---

You’ve read a little about my first dream, about old friends. You’ve read a little about my second dream, the nightmare. Here comes my third, from earlier this summer.

I dreamt that I was trying to get home again. I was confused about where I was, trying to remember a route through unfamiliar Vancouver alleys. It was evening, not yet dark, but the time between when you lose the long shadows cast by the last of the sunlight and begin to wear the rich, jewelled canvas of the stars. None of  the people I stopped and spoke to knew the streets I named. None of the alleyways I walked down took me in familiar directions.

I never found my way home, but I never stopped trying. Perhaps this does indeed mean I haven’t reached the end of whatever journey I’m on, that I can’t yet return to the start. I think it’s both practical and pragmatic for me to accept that the next six years might still present me with many challenges. That I will have bad, directionless days. That sometimes I’m going to fuck up and fall short.

I woke up to another bright, warm summer’s day, far later than I meant to, and I made myself a fine cup of coffee and a rich breakfast that I would be foolish not to enjoy.

Sometimes I think about suicide. Those thoughts haven’t left me yet and I’m not sure they ever will. Sometimes they arrive strong and loud and insistent, from out of nowhere and with all the power of a thunderbolt in a storm. Sometimes I want to be a shining example of how to conquer PTSD and sometimes I'm so sad I can’t get out of bed and sometimes I am just pissed off and angry. Each day is still different. But tomorrow I will wake up and perhaps I will think to myself “There are blue skies today,” or perhaps I will hear ping, or perhaps I won’t need anything at all to feel great. And perhaps there will be some undeniable sign in the day’s events, in my behaviour, even in the world around me, that demonstrates to me how much I’ve improved.

Each day is still different and today the glib part of my personality says “I sure hope you’ve improved, it’s been six years! That’s six years of painful PTSD examination, therapy, medication, reading, research, specialist appointments, many thousands of dollars spent and a god damn MRI of your weird and messed up brain.” And am I being disrespectfully flippant of my own experiences when I add that having an MRI of my brain was, at least, kind of cool?

Because another part of my personality wants to remind me I’m wiser, braver and maybe even a little more able to help others, people who I will remind myself can’t be expected to fix their own shit alone. People who shouldn’t be pushed aside, in this society that we all share.

And I don’t regret calling that cunt a cunt.

It’s been six years and each day is still different and this morning, when I pause to ask myself how I’m doing, I find I have the most simple of answers.

It’s three words.

“I’m doing better.”

[boberta]

when did they start making it so that like the ziploc in plastic baggies was so piss fucked and shitty and garbage and worthless crap at fitting together the first time btw? I remember it being around 2013-2015 or somewhere in that time. like the bags really did close when I was a kid nowadays you have to have the precision of a locksmith to fuckin' get them to line up right

[daisiesonafield-blog]

Info for Faith In The Future World Tour SEATTLE, WA - JUN 24 2023

With special guests THE SNUTS & ANDREW CUSHIN!

Important Times:

6:00 AM – Parking Opens 

7:00 PM - Doors Open

8:00 PM - Andrew Cushin

9:00 PM - The Snuts

10:00 PM - Louis Tomlinson

Times are all approximate and subject to change.

General admission (pit tickets):

The ENTIRE VENUE IS GA. All areas are first come first serve. Any seating is on a first come first serve basis.

No overnight camping is allowed.

Fan arrival is allowed starting at 8am day of show.

We do not permit lining up earlier than 8am.

We do not encourage fans to lineup at any offsite locations, as we can't honor the line positions when arrival starts at 8am.

Overnight camping is not permitted on WAMU Theater property. Guests will be escorted off of the property.

No wristbands will be given out (x)

Check the venue’s socials and website for updates!

⚠️ HYDRATION ADVISORY ⚠️

Hydrate before the show, while waiting in line and during the show

For optimal hydration drink something with electrolytes such as Gatorade or LiquidIV

Eat well!

Here are important things to know:

The venue is CASHLESS! Pay with cards only.  Cash-to-card kiosks available on site.

Parking: Venue parking is sold out ($20). Other parking options available in the area.

ADA info here 

Cameras: NO Professional Cameras (anything with a detachable lens).

Coat check is not offered at every event. When there is a coat check, we do not check bags, skateboards, or other items at coat check. The charge is $6 per garment. Card only.

Food: Outside food in a clear plastic bag or pizza in a pizza box is allowed  (food must be single serving).

Water: factory-sealed water bottles (non-enhanced, flavored or carbonated), baby bottles, beverages related to medical needs, and unopened, soft-sided single serve containers (i.e. juice boxes) ALLOWED. Empty reusable plastic water bottles are okay.

Food & beverage menu here.

NO Bottles/Flasks (glass/aluminum/metal)

NO Coolers

NO Animals (except service animals)

NO Marijuana or any cannabis products

NO drugs

NO smoking

NO Umbrellas that are not collapsible (collapsible umbrellas are fine)

NO Flammable products

NO knives, firearms, Brass knuckles, Tasers & mace/pepper spray or weapons of any kind

NO Hydration Packs/Backpacks

NO Inflatables

NO Jewelry with spikes/studs

NO Laptop Computers

NO Stools or any equipment used to stand on

NO Selfie sticks

NO Laser Pointers/flashlights

NO Scooters/Skateboards

There is NO RE-ENTRY!

Lost & Found info here

VIEW VENUE MAP 

VIEW SEAT MAP

*This list is not exhaustive. Items not appearing on the list may still be prohibited at the discretion of Security

For more details click here 

Bag Policy:

Bags that are clear plastic, vinyl or PVC and do not exceed 12″ x 6″ x 12″ are allowed; or

One-gallon clear plastic freezer bags (ziploc bag or similar); or

Clear backpacks that are within the dimension guidelines and do not have more than 2 pockets; and

Small clutch bags or fanny packs, that do not exceed 4.5″ x 6.5″, with or without a handle or strap, may be carried into the theater along with one of the clear bag options.

Over sized bags cannot be placed in acceptable clear bags and will be denied entrance.

Exception for medically necessary items after proper inspection.

*Lockers will be located outside the entrance and are available for purchase.

For more details click here 

Banners, signs and flag policy:

Small signs and flags are ok but cannot interfere with other guest’s experience of the show or obstruct views

No poles or sticks allowed

Soft straws allowed as poles

Content of signs may be restricted at the door at the discretion of Security

Contact:

For additional questions please call the venue at 206-381-7848 or (206) 381-7555. You can also access their website. Message them here. Check their twitter here and IG here for updates. Address: 800 Occidental Ave S, Seattle, WA 98134. Venue: WAMU Theater

[nbula-rising]

Caramel Apple Cheesecake Bars Prep Time 30 minutes Cook Time 35 minutes Chill Time6 hours Servings 16

Ingredients

Graham Cracker Crust 15 graham crackers 3 tablespoons granulated sugar 8 tablespoons salted butter melted

Apple Layer 3 Granny Smith apples peeled, cored, chopped 1 tablespoon lemon juice fresh squeezed ¼ cup granulated sugar 3 tablespoons brown sugar 1 teaspoon apple pie spice or pumpkin pie spice ¼ teaspoon salt

Cheesecake Layer 24 ounces cream cheese softened 1 ¼ cup powdered sugar ⅓ cup sour cream room temperature 1 ½ teaspoons vanilla extract 3 large eggs room temperature

Crumb Topping ½ cup all purpose flour ½ cup granulated sugar ½ cup brown sugar ⅓ cup old fashioned oats 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 ½ teaspoon apple pie spice ½ teaspoon salt 6 tablespoons unsalted butter melted Optional Topping ½ cup caramel sauce

Instructions Preheat oven to 350°F. Line a 9×13 baking dish with parchment paper or lightly spray with nonstick cooking spray. Set aside.

Graham Cracker Crust Crush the graham crackers in a food processor or by placing in a large ziploc bag and crushing with a rolling pin. Make sure the crumbs are very fine. Transfer to a large bowl. 15 graham crackers Stir in the sugar and then drizzle in the melted butter. Stir until thoroughly combined. 3 tablespoons granulated sugar,8 tablespoons salted butter Press the crumbs into the bottom of the prepared pan forming an even layer. Cover with plastic wrap and place the crust in the freezer while preparing the remaining layers.

Apple Layer In a medium bowl, combine the chopped apples and fresh lemon juice and toss together. Add the granulated sugar, brown sugar, pumpkin pie spice and salt. Stir together until all the ingredients are evenly incorporated. Set aside. 3 Granny Smith apples,¼ cup granulated sugar,3 tablespoons brown sugar,1 teaspoon apple pie spice,¼ teaspoon salt,1 tablespoon lemon juice

Cheesecake Layer Place the softened cream cheese and sugar in a large mixing bowl and then, using a hand or stand mixer, beat on medium speed until well combined, about 2 minutes. The mixture should be smooth and creamy. 24 ounces cream cheese,1 ¼ cup powdered sugar Add the sour cream and vanilla extract and mix on low speed just until combined. ⅓ cup sour cream,1 ½ teaspoons vanilla extract Add the eggs and mix on low speed just until incorporated, do not overmix. Set aside. 3 large eggs

Crumb Topping In a medium bowl combine all purpose flour, granulated sugar, brown sugar, oats, baking powder, cinnamon, nutmeg and salt. Whisk to combine. ½ cup all purpose flour,½ cup granulated sugar,½ cup brown sugar,⅓ cup old fashioned oats,1 teaspoon baking powder,1 ½ teaspoon apple pie spice,½ teaspoon salt Add the melted butter and stir with a fork until crumbly. Set aside. 6 tablespoons unsalted butter

Assembly Remove the crust from the freezer. Pour the cheesecake layer over the crust and use an offset spatula to spread evenly. Spoon the apple mixture over the cheesecake layer using a slotted spoon. Spoon the crumb topping evenly over the apple layer. Bake for 35 to 45 minutes or until the sides are set and the middle has a very slight jiggle. Remove from the oven and allow to cool completely. Transfer to the fridge and chill for 6 hours or overnight.

Serve Cut into squares and serve with a generous drizzle of caramel sauce. ½ cup caramel sauce

Notes Storage Information Once the bars have chilled for at least 6 hours they can be cut into bars and served. To store leftovers, place in an airtight container and keep refrigerated for up to 4 days. The bars store best when the caramel sauce hasn’t been added yet. I do not recommend freezing these caramel apple cheesecake bars.

[jqcareconnect]

What are some examples of recyclable Other disposable products?

Some examples of Other disposable products that are recyclable include:

Reusable water bottles, which can be made of materials such as stainless steel and can be recycled at the end of their life cycle.

Plastic wrap, which can be recycled depending on the type of plastic it is made of. It is important to check with your local recycling facility for specific guidelines.

Ziploc baggies, which belong to the same group of plastics as grocery bags and can be recycled at special drop-off centers.

These examples highlight the importance of understanding the recyclability of different disposable products and making informed choices to reduce environmental impact.

FAQs:

What types of disposable products does JQ Care offer, in addition to medical consumable products and Personal Protection Equipment? JQ Care offers a range of disposable products including bed sheets, pillow covers, wipes, surgical drapes, gloves, masks, apparels, shoecovers, and caps.

Are the disposable products made of non-woven or non-woven laminated microporous film? Yes, the disposable products are made of non-woven or non-woven laminated microporous film, meeting the single-use market standard.

What are the types of disposable products available from JQ Care? The disposable products include non-woven bed sheets, non-woven pillowcases, non-woven wipes, disposable surgical drapes, and disposable warming blankets.

Are disposable products recyclable? No, disposable items are generally not considered recyclable. This includes plastic food wrap, plastic wrap for meat and cheese, sandwich bags, paper towels, and toilet paper. However, some plastics used for take-out food containers can sometimes be recycled in specific curbside bins.

What is the mission of JQ Care? The mission of JQ Care is to provide medical consumable products and Personal Protection Equipment to those in need, while also catering to the demands of local distributors and importers by enriching their supply line with various disposable products.

What standards do the disposable products meet? The disposable products meet the single-use market standard, ensuring quality and compliance with industry requirements.

Can disposable warming blankets be used in medical settings? Yes, disposable warming blankets are suitable for medical settings and provide a convenient and hygienic solution for patient care and comfort.

Are the disposable products offered by JQ Care suitable for use in non-medical settings? Yes, the disposable products offered by JQ Care can be used in various settings beyond medical applications, catering to the needs of different industries and environments.

What are the materials used in making the disposable products? The disposable products are made of non-woven or non-woven laminated microporous film, providing durability and meeting industry standards for single-use products.

What is the significance of single-use market standards for disposable products? Single-use market standards ensure that disposable products meet specific requirements for quality, safety, and hygiene, making them suitable for their intended purposes.

[mascalzino]

Casein

“You need to taste this!”

“What weird drug have you made this time, Lore?”

Lore shook his head, and the yellowish curded substance he was keeping in a plastic bag shook in resonance.

“No, no! It’s no drug! …Well, not yet!”. Fra was still focused on a metal joint she was fabricating, but could feel the bratty smile on her friend’s face.

The excitement in his voice lowered a little “It’s not psychoactive, I assure you!”

“Please wait me in the office, I still need a minute”

"The office" is what Fra called a small construction where she kept some readymade food, and a little accounting book on a wobbly table. Everytime someone from the town nearby asked for some piece of metal furniture or small solar automaton, she'd tell them how much it would cost in euros, and she'd add a black line to her book. Some clients tried to pull a bargain, and she'd usually be pretty generous with discounts. It didn't matter much anyway, euros weren't really in circulation anymore for this kind of little transactions.

Everyone else in town accepted that they would be more or less indebted to anyone else, and once a year they'd gather in the main square and decided that the debts more or less cancelled out. Fra was still to be sold on the concept, and tried to diligently keep track of her own debts and credits. She could pretty much take anything she wanted from most shops, and the only person who really cared about balancing her book was her.

*

Fra looked annoyed, and more than a little disgusted. The ziploc bag Lore had brought was crumpled and stained from overuse, and the substance looked a bit like sad scrambled eggs.

She took a teaspoon from the small cupboard she kept in the office, and shoved it in the thing and got out the smallest amount she could.

Lore flashed his eyebrows in encouragement, and she finally caved in.

“It tastes weird… is this spoiled tofu?”

“It’s casein!”

“It’s what?!”

“Casein, milk proteins! Produced by my cows!”

…

“You have no cows”, muttered Fra “I haven’t seen a cow in years"

“Well, not cow cows. Yeast cows! I’ve managed to ave a yeast colture produce casein-like proteins! do you reckon what this means?

I can make cheese!”

[4lornly]

It is a pink and yellow dream. Summery sunset shades. Banana split and strawberry milkshake. Even the darkness gets bathed in a certain golden light.

We're friends at the start, before your grandmother comes to visit, which is why I agree. "Please," you're the picture of a supplicant, hands clasped, "I'm not asking you to lie, just let her believe what she wants to believe. It would make her so happy to think we were happy. Please? Just for one day? For me?" And I say yes--of course I say yes, because what is the harm in letting an old woman make her assumptions and because just for one day and because for you--but I'm wondering if you meant to imply that we're not happy. That you're not happy.

And then I knock on your door and you let me in and there's your grandmother looking impossibly small and impossibly significant perched at the end of your cream colored sofa. "Follow my lead." You whisper in my ear as you lean in for a hug and then you're lifting me off my feet. I don't touch you like this. I don't touch anyone like this, or at all really, and I'm struck by how warm you are. Are you always this warm? Is everyone I meet this warm and does everyone know about it but me? I realize my eyes are closed so I open them and pull away. When I look at your grandmother she winks.

We don’t lie to her, your grandmother with her neat black hair and her sparkling eyes that make me think she's always laughing even though she never does. We don't lie, but it feels like lying. It feels like lying when you put your arm around me with a smile that turns my brain, very briefly, into pink cotton candy. And it feels like lying when your grandmother finally asks if we're a couple and you laugh and say "No, no just friends."

It becomes a lie, that last part. After your grandmother leaves. When you tell me "thank you" and "I owe you," but all I can seem to say back is "you're very warm, you know." Somehow that's the thing that crosses the line and your arms are around me again and then we are happy in the way we weren't happy before. Happy in the way your grandmother wanted us to be.

My alarm wakes me and I turn it off. I need a few more moments of you, warm and solid and unreal, more than I need breakfast. I manage to return to sleep, even return to the dream, but not to the peace. Even in dreams life is not so simple as cotton candy smiles and winking grandmothers.

Your apartment again, with the cream colored sofa. Your mother and your sister and your brothers are there, but where are you? The light coming in through the windows is so beautiful I can't focus on anything else. It feels like I'm in a photograph, only I feel tense. Something is wrong. Everyone's arguing--about what, I don't know. I'm only thinking about the golden light on your cream sofa. But where are you? I wish I had a camera. I remember now, you're in the shower. Something is wrong. You've been gone too long. I get up to go check on you. Out of the living room, through the kitchen, to the bathroom. Something is wrong. The kitchen's a mess. The shower's still running. Something is wrong. Longer strides, calling your name now. Something is wrong. Heart pounding. Something is wrong. Open the door. Something is wrong. See you and

Something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong--

You're still breathing.

Upright, even, but leaning against the shower wall. Half-dressed. Blood on your beautiful face. You don't answer me, but your eyes find their way to mine. I take one step forward, then two steps back. Back to the kitchen. Back to the mess. Back to the blood. "I'll put it in a ziploc," I say aloud to no one in particular or maybe just to you as I pick the blood and hair and broken glass off your kitchen counter with a plastic bag. Your family hears me and comes into the kitchen, still arguing. I rush back to you. The shower's run cold so I shut it off and stand with you in the pool of icy water, pink with your blood. I hear a voice talking about golden light and realize the voice is mine. I don't know if I'm trying to comfort you or protect you, but I hold you all the same.

And you're warm.

Thank God you're still warm.

This time when the alarm wakes me I don't turn it off right away, but I don't open my eyes either. I want to remember this pink and yellow dream. I want to remember the golden light. I want to remember you:

Warm and solid and unreal.

--it is a pink and yellow dream // 4lornly

[carefulhandsmovers0]

Moving from Room to Room: An Expert's Guide

Which room do you attend first? That varies by family and what’s important to you. Here are some tips:

Start with the room that will take the longest to pack.

For example, if you have a lot of clothes or a lot of fragile items, start with those. That way, you can take your time and not feel rushed.

Start with the room that’s most important to you.

If there’s a room that’s very special to you or that you use a lot, start with that. This way, you can get it set up and unpacked first, immediately feeling at home in your new place.

Start with the easiest room.

Sometimes, it’s best to start with the most accessible room first, which can help you get into a packing rhythm and make the process less daunting.

The Kitchen

Start with the fridge. You’ll want to clean it before the move, so you don’t have to transport spoiled food. Once it’s empty, disconnect the water line (if you have one) and unplug it a few hours before the move. That way, it will have time to defrost and dry out before you try to reconnect.

Next, pack your pantry items, pots and pans, and small appliances. You can use plastic wrap, Ziploc bags, and Tupperware to keep everything organised and safe. Be sure to label each container, so you know what goes where when unpacked. Pack any heavy or fragile items, like a stand mixer or a coffee maker, securely in bubble wrap or packing peanuts.

The last step is to clear off your countertops and backsplash. Wipe them down with a damp cloth to remove any food residue. If you have any installed cabinets, secure the doors with painter’s tape, so they don’t swing open during the move.

The Bathroom

Your bathroom is likely one of the smallest rooms in your home, but it’s also one of the most used. As such, it can be one of the hardest to keep tidy. But with a little effort and clever organisation, you can ensure your bathroom is always clean and clutter-free.

Here are some tips to help you get started:

1). Start with the sink. Wipe down the counter, empty the trash can, and scrub the sink basin. Then move on to cleaning the toilet and cleaning under the rim and around the seat.

2). Next, tackle the shower or tub. Start by scrubbing the tub or shower walls with a non-abrasive cleaner. Then clean the showerhead, faucet, and drain.

3). Finish up by mopping the floor and wiping down any mirrors or other surfaces.

4). Don’t forget to remove fresh towels and restock any necessary toiletries.

The Bedrooms

The first step in packing your bedroom is to decide what you’re taking with you and what you’re leaving behind. Make three piles—one to keep, one to donate or sell, and one for trash. Once you’ve sorted through your belongings, it’s time to start packing.

Begin with the smaller items, such as clothing and shoes. Pack them in sturdy boxes labelled with their contents and the new room they’ll go into. Be sure to pack heavier items at the bottom of the box and lighter items on top.

Next, move on to larger items, such as furniture. If possible, disassemble beds and dressers so they’re easier to transport. Wrap each piece securely in blankets or padded furniture covers to prevent damage during the move.

The final step is to pack any remaining items, such as bedding, towels, and curtains. Again, label each box with its contents and destination room.

The Dining Area

The dining area is one of the most important rooms in the house. It’s where family and friends gather to share meals, conversations, and memories. Moving into a new home is an exciting time, but it can also be overwhelming. With some planning and elbow grease, you can ensure your dining room is ready for all those special moments.

1). Start by decluttering. Look around your dining room and decide what you really need and what can be donated or thrown away. This will do the packing and unpacking much more effortless.

2). Measure your furniture and doorways to ensure everything will fit in your new home.

3). Pack up your china and other fragile items with care. Use bubble wrap or packing paper and tape them up securely.

4). Label all your boxes, so you know what goes where when unpacking.

5). If you have the time, deep clean your dining room before you move. This way, you won’t have to worry about it when you’re settled into your new place.

removalists in Carlton are the professional and experienced removalists that you can trust for all your furniture removals needs. We have been helping people move their homes and businesses for many years, so we know a thing about moving!

[airqualityexpresstw]

How To Have A Stress-Free Move To Houston, TX

Moving is stressful, but it doesn't have to be. If you follow these simple tips, your upcoming move to Houston will be stress-free and even enjoyable.

Know your budget.

You can't move if you don't have the money, so know your budget and stick to it. Set a realistic figure for your moving expenses and don't spend more than that amount. If something costs more than what you planned on spending, then either try negotiating with the seller or wait until later when you have more funds available.

You should also keep in mind that when buying a house in Houston, TX make sure not to spend more than its value! This will ensure that there are no surprises later down the line when it comes time for repairs or renovations (which happen all too often).

Get an estimate.

The first step in planning your move is getting an estimate. A good estimate will help you determine how much money you need to save up before moving, which will make it easier for you to plan and budget for the big day.

Once you have an idea of how much everything is going to cost, consider whether or not it's possible for your current living situation (and income) in Houston. If so, great! You can start saving up now by cutting back on small expenses like eating out and buying new clothes on occasion instead of replacing old ones with worn out items from Goodwill stores--or whatever other ways people choose these days when deciding what they want their lives look like when they're done being poor college students/students who haven't yet graduated school but still want accesses certain luxuries that come with adulthood such as having friends over at least once every two weeks without feeling guilty about spending too much money on food/drinks because everyone knows alcohol makes everything better anyway so why not splurge while we can?

Pack yourself.

Packing yourself is the easiest way to ensure that you don't forget anything. It also saves money, since you won't need to pay someone else to pack your things for you. You can even save on shipping costs by using a moving truck or trailer, if available in your area (some rental companies offer these).

Here's what I recommend packing:

Clothes - Pack all of your clothes into suitcases or duffels, and then put those suitcases/duffels into large plastic bins for extra protection during transit. If possible, use clear plastic bins so that someone else can easily see what's inside without having to open them up! If this isn't possible (or affordable), go with black ones instead--they tend not as much light leakage through them as other colors do.* Shoes - Pack each pair individually inside its own shoe box so they don't get mixed up with each other during transit.* Kitchen supplies - Make sure these are packed securely in sturdy containers such as Tupperware containers or Ziploc bags.* Toiletries - Include all kinds here: toothbrushes/toothpaste/mouthwash; shampoo/conditioner; shaving cream; lotion... whatever seems necessary!

Be organized and leave a detailed note.

Organization is the key to a stress-free move. Make a list of items you want to take with you, and then make another list of items that can be left behind. If there are any important documents or personal items, consider storing them with friends or family members who live nearby.

Make sure that everyone knows where they can reach you in case they need anything during this big transition period! Leave detailed notes on both your new and old addresses (including phone numbers), plus email addresses if possible; don't forget any other pertinent information like birthdays or anniversaries!

Have a moving buddy or two.

Moving is a stressful process, no matter where you're moving to or from. You'll have to pack up all of your belongings, find a way to transport them and then unpack them once they arrive at their destination. It's also important not to forget about the cost of hiring movers as well as any fees associated with having them do so (like fuel costs).

If you don't have any friends or family members who can help out during this time, consider hiring professionals instead! Movers in Houston TX are available 24/7 so there's no reason why anyone should have an excuse for not getting things done quickly enough before their move date arrives..

Get a good mattress protector to keep your mattress clean and protected.

A mattress protector is a thin, waterproof layer that sits over your mattress to protect it from dirt and stains. It also helps keep allergens like dust mites at bay.

While sleeping on an old, soiled mattress can be uncomfortable enough, imagine all the things that could go wrong if you were moving while still lying on top of it: ripping off the new sheets you just bought because they're caught in between two mattresses; spilling something onto your brand-new mattress before even having had time to set up house; getting blood stains from carrying heavy boxes across town (or country). These are just some examples of how damaging an improperly-protected bed can be during a move!

The best kind of protector is one that has multiple layers--a waterproof outer layer with another layer inside made out of soft fleece fabric for added comfort and warmth at night when temperatures drop down into single digits outside! And remember: always make sure there's enough room between whatever surface you're moving across (be it carpeting) so nothing gets stuck underneath as well!

Ross Dress for Less

Welcoming people from all backgrounds, Ross Dress for Less is an equal opportunity employer committed to appreciating and developing every individual we hire. At each step, we take the opportunity to ask ourselves, "What can we do better?" By asking, testing and learning, we continue to grow. Here, you will have the opportunity to learn, take on new challenges and grow your career.

Ross Stores, Inc. is committed to being a diverse and inclusive Company, where we treat each other with dignity and respect. All Associates, managers and vendors are expected to foster a professional environment where everyone is treated fairly, differences are valued, communication is open and civil, conflict is addressed early and respectfully, and there is a culture of support and cooperation. Creating a respectful workplace – where we treat each other with dignity and respect and can expect to be treated with dignity and respect ourselves – is everyone’s responsibility.

At Ross Stores, we give back to local communities by supporting programs that enrich the lives of families. We provide support through the engagement of Associate-volunteers and charitable contributions. We also recycle, partner with EPA-certified transportation providers and utilize energy-efficient technology.

The Home Depot

Chain home improvement retailer for tools, appliances & other products (some offer truck rentals). Welcome to the Pin Oak Home Depot. We're ready to help you start your next home improvement project. Whether you're looking for gardening supplies or closet organizers, your favorite hardware store has you covered. Our trained associates can help you find the products you need for your project. You can buy online and have your items delivered from the store using our product locator app.

At Home Depot, getting involved in our local community is important to us. We support North Lamar, Paris, Chisum and Roxton High Schools, Paris/Lamar County Habitat for Humanity and transitional housing. We also offer hands-on learning that covers a variety of topics tailored to everyone in your family, including monthly kids workshops.

Air Quality Express LLC is the leading duct cleaning near me. We offer high quality service at affordable prices. We specialize in mold removal, duct cleaning and dryer vent cleaning. Our technicians are all licensed, insured and bonded to ensure your satisfaction.

Air Quality Express LLC is a full-service duct cleaning, mold removal Houston TX and air quality services company located in Houston, TX. We have been serving the community for over many years and have won multiple awards for our work.

If you are looking to hire a company near me that will provide you with top quality service at affordable prices then look no further than Air Quality Express LLC.

Air Quality Express LLC 8990 Park W Dr Suite F1, Houston, TX 77063, United States (832) 734 8631 https://www.airqualitytech.com/ https://www.google.com/maps?cid=8642530759986204188

[southerncreation]

Stuffed Chicken Alfredo Hot Pocket Just like my last recipe "Homemade Stuffed Lunchmeat Hot Pocket", I love making these too because there perfect to make-ahead meals for  lunch or even dinner with a side item. They’re super easy to put together, and you can customize the fillings of your liking.You can also make these ahead and freeze them.   You can also do this with whatever you have left over as well.  I like to get creative with whatever I have around the kitchen too.I sometimes make my own dough-wrap. But I decided to make this one quick using can biscuits. Directions below. Ingredients Chicken Broccoli Alfredo Sauce Can Biscuit Seasoning-Garlic,Onion Powder, Italian,Oregano and Parsley Flakes shaky Parmesan cheese

Directions 1.For this one, I used leftover cook chicken and broccoli and let them heat up then I added the alfredo sauce into the same pan, stir together and add seasoning. Then turn off heat and cover pan. 2.I get a cutting board and rolling pin. 3. I sprinkle some "flour onto the cutting board that helps with the dough-biscuit when rolling them out, open the can biscuits and lay one down and start rolling them out.Do this each time. (depending on how many you want). I used two. 4.Preheat the oven for 400. 5.I then place the chicken Alfredo on top of the can biscuit dough. 6.I then fold the circle of dough over to make a half circle and roll the bottom edge up and over the top, crimping the dough to seal. You can also use wet hands to press the edges shut or use a fork to crimp the edges. 7.Bake on an ungreased cookie sheet lined with parchment paper. 8.Bake these Stuffed Chicken Alfredo Hot Pockets in the oven for 10-12 minutes. 9.When done sprinkle some shaky Parmesan cheese on top.

How Do You Freeze These Homemade Stuffed Chicken Alfredo Hot Pocket For Later? 1. After baking, wrap in plastic wrap and place in a freezer safe ziploc bag. 2. To reheat from frozen, unwrap the plastic wrap, cover in a paper towel and microwave for 1 1/2 minutes. After it has thawed, heat up in the microwave for 30-60 seconds.

3/25/2023

[arctic-hands]

You know what? I kept the back side blue. The character is Melinoë, whom I've read as described as both a child of the Underworld and of Olympus. So yeah

[Image Description: the above book, now painted in the sunbeam yellow, with tinges of orange dabbed on in the lower half that looks a bit like flames. On the orange cover is a black bird with beak open and wings outstretched, with silver Posca paint marker as the line art for the wings and such. There are two ribbons coming out of the top, one the original silver and the other Posca'd gold. End I.D]

[Image Description: the back cover, still in the original blue. Near the center top is a Hecate Waxing Full And Waning moon symbol thingy (a crescent moon with the tips facing left, attached to a full circle moon, which is the attached to a crescent moon facing right) in gold Posca. End I.D.]

Might add something else to the bottom of the back cover but haven't decided what yet. Eventually going to go over the entire book in varnish because while the paint is dry it's slightly sticky in a plastic sort of way.

And then I went a lil extra

[Image Description: the side of the book showing the pages, which have been "gilded" roughly half in gold and half in silver. From Posca. End I.D.]

For the record, this isn't a hand bound book. I took an unused Michaels Artist's Loft dot journal and just used what I had on hand, so this cost zero money. Here's it is in the early stages next to its identical twin

[Image Description: the above journal on the right, having been painted a base black and it with semi-transparent white tissue paper having been crumpled and Mod Podged to it, giving it a snowflake obsidian, or black marble, look. It is resting on a ziploc bag as the other side dries. Next to it on the left is a plain gray, smooth journal of the same size. End I.D]

There is zero point to making a gaming journal for a character I have no group to play with as, but goddamn I'm doing it anyway

[willgrahamsipodnano]

any cat owners out there whose cats enjoy EATING PLASTIC and if so how do you stop this