#web design course content

[chsalm]

CLIENT HUNTING PAID UPDATED COURSE 2023 FOR FREE😍.

click here to download videos:

[gdesignsme]

Tips To Improve Your Website's SEO Ranking

Search Engine Optimization, better known as SEO, is the practice of generating genuine traffic to a website through natural and organic search engine results. A search engine optimization company in India uses smart keywords to optimize a website’s content to attract higher rankings from search engines. In this age of digital media, SEO rankings play an important role in driving business for a…

[carrdtemplates]

ONLINE COURSE website template

Create a high-converting course sales page effortlessly with our premium Carrd templates. Perfect for educators and trainers, our templates are designed to maximize conversions and present your courses attractively. Ideal for boosting your online course sales with Carrd Templates.

[jcmarchi]

Where You Can Still Get A Book Apart Titles

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/where-you-can-still-get-a-book-apart-titles/

Where You Can Still Get A Book Apart Titles

It’s been a few months out since A Book Apart closed shop. I’m sad about it, of course. You probably are, too, if you have one of their many brightly-colored paperbacks sitting on a bookshelf strategically placed as a backdrop for your video calls.

It looked for a bit like the books would still be available for purchase through third-party distributors who could print them on demand or whatever. And then a redaction on A Book Apart’s original announcement:

UPDATE: Ownership and publishing rights for all books have been given back to their respective authors. Many authors are continuing to offer their work for free or in new editions. Our hope is that these books will continue to live on forever. A Book Apart no longer sells or distributes books, please reach out to authors for information about availability.

Oh, snap. The books are on the loose and several authors are making sure they’re still available. Eric Meyer, for example, says he and co-author Sara Wachter-Boettcher still figuring out what’s next for their Design for Real Life title:

One of the things Sara and I have decided to do is to eventually put the entire text online for free, as a booksite. That isn’t ready yet, but it should be coming somewhere down the road.

In the meantime, we’ve decided to cut the price of print and e-book copies available through Ingram. [Design for Real Life] was the eighteenth book [A Book Apart] put out, so we’ve decided to make the price of both the print and e-book $18, regardless of whether those dollars are American, Canadian, or Australian.

Ethan Marcotte has followed suit by listing his three titles on his personal website and linking up where they can be purchased at a generous discount off the original price tag, including his latest, You Deserve a Tech Union.

Others have quickly responded with free online versions of their books. Mat Marquis has offered JavaScript for Web Designers free online for a long time. He helped Chris Coyier do the same with Practical SVG this past week. Jeremy Keith put out one of my personal ABA faves (and the first ever ABA-published book) for free, HTML5 for Web Designers.

What about all the other titles? I dunno. A Book Apart simply doesn’t sell or distribute them anymore. Rachel McConnell sells Leading Content Design directly. Every other book I checked seems to be a link back to A Book Apart. We’ll have to see where the proverbial dust settles. The authors now hold all the rights to their works and may or may not decide to re-offer them. Meanwhile, many of the titles are listed in places like Goodreads, Amazon, Barnes & Nobile, etc.

Thanks for all the great reads and years, A Book Apart! You’ve helped man, many people become better web citizens, present company included.

[themoneymakershub]

Want to make money online? Here are 3 ways to do so in 2023!

There are 3 ways to make money online that catch my attention. Those are:

Affiliate marketing

Dropshipping

AmazonFBA

If you have a large audience, you should definitely do either affiliate marketing or drop shipping.

To learn how to make money online with these business models read this article! The article explains what the business models are, how they work, and how to start making money with them.

[sibhudmp]

Short-term course means an intensive sequence of learning activities offered regularly over a short period of time.

[madschiavelique]

you know those perfumes that are supposed to be based on “pheromones” or whatever that are supposed to make you more attractive?

imagine that… with Miguel… who already has extra sensitive smell… I’m just— 😳

OMG anon i TOTALLY see what u referenced right here. the man will be on his knees

summary ➤ you got one of these pheromones perfumes that went viral and Miguel notices it pairing ➤ miguel x gender neutral reader

content warnings ➤ none in particular, just miggy sniffing u word count ➤ 841

You had seen some reels on instagram or some tik toks where lots of people, especially women, were trying on these perfumes with pheromones, and you'd managed to get hold of one of these famous things out of sheer curiosity. You examined it a little, wondering what effect it might give, then decided why not give it a try? After all, that's what it was created for. So you applied it to basic heat points, focusing on your wrists, the inside of your elbows and, of course, your neck. Determining for yourself whether it worked was impossible, you needed someone else to try this, so you simply wandered around the society as you would do on the basis, a few glances turning towards you as you strolled to Miguel's office. You entered the office as if nothing had happened, making your way to the platform where Miguel was silhouetted in his usual busy-man way. Most of the spiders in society had a keen sense of smell, as did you, but this scent was designed to attract the noses of a targeted audience, so you wondered how he would react. "Hi gorgeous," you smiled, the platform slightly raised just three meters above you as you walked towards it. He did not even turn around, his eyes deeply anchored on his holopad and mind burried in work, mumbling all the same as you came within a few steps of the platform, stopping in your tracks: "Hey cariño,” he sighed, sliding something from one holopad to the other, “how are-" But he immediately stops his sentence, and you can hear him inhaling a sharp but short breath. You smile, he noticed really quickly. He pivoted slightly on the side, showing you his profile, eyebrows furrowed, sniffing again a little more slowly, his chest swells as his lungs fill with the slightest ounce of it. His head turns to yours on the spot, his eyes immediately landing on yours. "What's that?" Touché. He'd taken the bait, and hard. He turned fully towards you, beginning the descent from the platform. "What's what?" you asked, concealing your excitement incredibly well, as if the questioning made you genuinely confused as you pulled every string of your web to perfection for your little prey to get stuck. He didn't even wait until the platform was completely ashore before stepping off, pressing the pace towards you. "That," he repeated, his eyebrows furrowing as each step closer to you made him smell that inebriating scent. "What do you mean 'that'?" you say, a little laugh that's half confused and half amused taking hold of you. "You changed something," he said, fluttering his eyes as he finally reached your height and the smell became more and more powerful.

Once he was close enough to you, he closed his eyes, taking another deep breath as he opened them again the next second. Is it you, or has his pupil dilated? He took hold of your wrist, bringing it close to his lips and smelling the perfume on it, pressing his nose against your skin until it wrinkled and closing his eyes tightly just to be poisoned by the smell that seemed so exceptional. He opened his eyelids again, a slight tinge of red beginning to take hold of his irises. He gave you a look of new interest, lips parted as his eyes locked on yours. "Did you... buy a new lotion?" You let out a little breath of laugh from your nose, pretending not to understand a single thing he was saying. Most of the spiders in society had a keen sense of smell, as did you, but this scent was designed to attract the noses of a targeted audience, so you wondered how he would react.

"'No? What's the matter?" you ask as he listens intently, "What's changed?"

He stepped closer, his body towering over you as he tilted his head, bringing you face to face with him. Yeah, his pupils were truly dilated.

"There's something new, you..." he seemed to consider his words for a moment as he inhaled, moistening his lips, "smell different."

He came to smell your cheek, the skin of his nose brushing against yours and sending little shivers down your spine.

"Really?" you asked, smiling softly. You weren't regretting this discovery at all, and Miguel seemed to be of the same opinion. "How so?"

His eyelashes placed butterfly kisses on your cheek as he moved down a little further into the crook of your neck, the sensation of his breath spreading over your warm, scented skin sending little tingles up the back of your skull.

"It's..." he breathed, coming to place his hand previously on your wrist at the small of your back and pulling you towards him to get closer, "intoxicating."

You felt the warmth of his lips kiss tenderly down your neck, the distinct sensation of his canines tracing the warm skin of it as he let out a sigh.

"Lyla," he grunted against your skin, "Lock the door please."

Definitely a good investment.

[whatsnewalycat]

Designated Person | 10

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 10: Flat Tire

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 6.9k+ (nice)

Tags / Warnings: reader pov, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship, angst, food & eating, blackout, movie references, car problems, alcohol & alcoholism, 12-step programs, lying, conflict avoidance, crying crying crying sorry, internal conflict, monologue, toxic relationships but listen we're tryna get better, journal entries, nightmares, ptsd, flashback

Notes: WHAT UP PARTY PEOPLE?? MAKE SOME NOIIIISE (insert dallas buyers club matthew mcconaughey scream crying in his car). Sorry for being a bummer lol sometimes growth hurts but we're gonna get thru this I swear. Ok thank u let me know what you think!!!

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ][ My Masterlist ]

-----

Blackouts work like magic. 

One second you’re perched on a barstool, trying not to sway or slur your words while ordering another drink, and the next you’re jolted awake by the thud of a door closing. 

Heart pounding in your chest, you sit up and look around, breathing a sigh of relief to see you somehow made it to your bedroom last night. 

You grab your phone off the side table, swiping away the missed calls from Frankie and Leah, then discover that you apparently re-downloaded a dating app in your alcohol-induced fugue state. Judging by the number of reply messages in your inbox, you must have hit up every man in the tri-county area who was “looking for a good time.”

Perfect. Of course you did. Why wouldn’t you? Bad decisions and dick has never ever steered you wrong. 

You read one typo-filled exchange between yourself and Russ K, 34, before deactivating the account and uninstalling the app. 

When you set your phone back on the nightstand, you notice a mason jar filled with ice water and frown. Beside it sits a small plastic container holding four neon orange tablets and two white tablets. A sticky note on the table reads ‘Went to a meeting, be back this afternoon’ in Frankie’s handwriting. 

Alarm trickles through your veins and inspires a wave of nausea you can’t ignore. Clasping your hand over your mouth to hold down the rising bile, you jump out of bed and beeline to the bathroom. 

After emptying the sparse contents of your stomach into the toilet, you lean back against the cool tile wall and search the ceiling for answers. How did you get home last night? Did you say anything to Frankie? 

You think about the ice water and over-the-counter pills left on your nightstand, then think about the note Frankie left. However you got home, he must know you were hammered. Which means you definitely interacted with him while blacked out. Do you even want to know what you said to him? 

Mortification twists your stomach when you imagine the possibilities. You could have tried to fuck him or murder him or anything in between. Given how you feel about him right now, it’s impossible to predict. That fact alone makes your mouth start to sweat again. 

So… no, you don’t want to know what you said to him when you were drunk. You don’t want to know how you got home or why the fuck your hair is damp. All you want is to get through this fucking day without hurling again. Maybe greasy food and a NASCAR nap, too. 

With this new clear goal in mind, you pick yourself up off the bathroom floor and set about making your low-stakes dream a reality. 

—

You wake on the couch to the soothing lull of commentators giving a play-by-play of the Rays versus Yankees game. A thick web of fatigue clings to you, fighting against your efforts to open your eyes and sit upright. 

“Hey.” 

Instinctively, you look towards the noise at the other end of the couch, locking eyes with Frankie. His face droops with this wounded expression that gets under your skin. Diverting your gaze to the TV, you cross your arms and try to keep your demeanor aloof despite the deep ache in your chest. 

“How are you feeling?” 

You choke out a humorless laugh and shake your head, keeping your eyes trained on the screen. A few tense seconds go by before he accepts that you will not be answering his ludicrous question, so he takes an alternative approach. 

“I brought home cubanos from that place you like. For, um… for family dinner. If you still wanted to do that.” 

Home, he says, as if the word meant something to him. As if he didn’t match every brick you laid in the foundation of this relationship with paper mache blocks. As if he didn’t take a wrecking ball to whole fucking thing regardless. 

Maybe to him home is just a place he rests his head at night, not where he anchors his heart. A matter of physical location rather than a feeling. You, on the other hand… never felt quite at home in this house until he started living here. 

Are you crazy for having felt like that? Like home was a space you held with him and him alone? 

Your parents were right. You make too much of things. You’re overdramatic. 

Why would he love you? Why would he choose you over his wife? You knew what you were getting into when this started. 

Stupid girl. 

“I understand if you don’t want to, though.” 

His voice brings you back to yourself. You blink hot tears from your eyes, then wipe them from your cheeks, trying to hold yourself together despite the whisper of ‘stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl’ at the back of your head. 

“Can we… can we at least talk about it?” 

You wince as a fresh batch of tears surges up your throat. Rising to your feet, you shake your head and manage to choke out, “Just forget it,” before fleeing to your bedroom. 

—

I slept most of the day yesterday so it took me forever to fall asleep. Also Frankie was walking around the house all night. At 11ish, I heard him talking on the phone, then I think someone picked him up. I texted him to see where he went because I’m unfortunately still his designated person. He said he was with someone from AA and he’d be back soon, just needed to talk. I couldn’t fall asleep until I heard him come in at 1. He wasn’t stumbling around so I’m guessing he was sober??? Hopefully he was. I don’t want this to get in the way of his recovery. Which I sort of hate. I wish I could delete the feelings I have for him. I wish I didn’t care. But I guess I do, so… I don’t know. This fucking sucks. Leah said I should kick him out, but I don’t want to fuck up his program. Maybe I’ll talk to Ralph today and see what he thinks. The thing is… the more people I talk to, the more I just want to talk to Frankie. Nobody makes me feel like he does. More than the lies, this is what bothers me the most. The fact that I can feel this way and he just doesn’t. I don’t understand how he can’t feel it, too. I thought this was real. But I guess I always do. I guess he’s just a really good liar and I am just a stupid girl. 

Tossing the notebook aside, you sit up to grab your mug off the side table. Wisps of steam rise from the coffee and dissolve into the air. The image blurs as a thick, wretched sensation twists up your throat. 

God fucking damnit. 

Every time you think you have no more tears left to cry, you prove yourself wrong. They just keep coming. Yesterday you waded in and out of these sudden fits where crying was all you could do. It reminds you of all the other times he broke your heart, but especially the last time. 

After Angie caught the two of you fucking, part of you hoped that maybe she would leave him. From what you understand, though, he convinced her to stay. Called you a mistake. An ‘isolated incident’ or whatever. Fucking asshole. 

Anyway. 

Seeing each other became logistically and emotionally difficult. Participating in an affair is much easier when it’s still a secret, for obvious reasons. He tried to see you when he could, which wasn’t nearly as frequent as you wanted. When you did see him, he was drunk. You’d pick him up from the bar, or he’d come over after Angie went to bed, but he was always at least five drinks in and counting. 

You bailed him out of jail twice in those six months. Once for drinking and driving, once for getting in a fight over a fucking pool game, of all things. 

He seemed so walled-off from you, too. Like he detached from his emotions when he saw you. Maybe it was because of the liquor, but a million other reasons are just as likely. After sex, he would leave. The sex was… well, it was still good, but… different. Rougher, impersonal. It felt less like making love and more like fucking. 

You still loved him, though. You still had fantasies of having a real, normal relationship with him. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, you still wanted to believe that he was meant to be with you. 

Stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl

And then, well… 

Your phone starts to ring. It’s Ralph. 

You take a few quick sips of your coffee, then set the mug aside to answer. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, kiddo. Do you have a minute?” 

His tone, less jovial than normal, gives you a small burst of anxious energy.

“Sure, what’s up?” 

“I just got off the phone Mr. Morales and he briefed me on the, ahhh… situation over there.” 

Unsure what to say, you fold an arm over your belly and stare down at your lap. 

“I understand that things are a bit tense due to an incident that occurred on Saturday, is that correct?” 

“Yeah,” you nod, voice wavering, “Yeah, I, um… I overheard him talking to Angie, and… well, basically I found out he’s been lying to me.” 

It sounds so pathetic when you say it out loud. 

“Uh-huh. He lied about the nature of his relationship with Mrs. Morales.” 

“Correct.” 

You prepare for Ralph to tell you it’s not a big deal. Brace yourself for the inevitable scoff, or for him to accuse you of overreacting. 

So he lied to you, so what? You knew who he was. You knew he had a family to keep together. You should have known better than to get involved with him. Stupid girl, why would you put yourself in that position in the first place? 

“And this isn’t the first time he lied to you about this particular matter, am I understanding correctly?” 

“Well…” you frown and shake your head, “No, not really. When we were together before, he was pretty explicit that he wouldn’t leave her. I just… I just thought… I don’t know. It’s dumb. I’m fucking dumb.” 

Ralph doesn’t respond right away, so you add, “Sorry. I’m still in my feelings.” 

“Don’t sweat it, I think I’m picking up what you’re putting down,” he pauses here to clear his throat, then recounts, “Before, he told you leaving her wasn’t a possibility. And despite my warning going into this, the two of you re-established your romantic relationship, he told you that kind of relationship was effectively over with his wife. Which wasn’t true.” 

“Correct.” 

“Ok. Got it. Has Mr. Morales exhibited any unusual or suspicious behavior since the incident on Saturday?”

After thinking about it, you tell him, “I wouldn’t call this suspicious exactly, but yesterday he left a note saying he was going to an AA meeting, which isn’t normal. And late last night someone picked him up. I texted him to check in and he said he was with someone from AA, talking.” 

“Do you believe he was being truthful?” 

“Yeah, I do,” you shrug, “I mean, I’m obviously not the best at detecting his bullshit, but I’ve seen him under the influence more times than I can count and he didn’t seem… like that.” 

“Well, that’s good. And it’s good you checked in with him, I take that as a positive. You are still responsible for him while he’s on parole.” He sighs, “Which brings me to my next question. Are you thinking you want to continue serving as his designated person, or should we start looking for alternatives?” 

A lump rises in your throat. You swallow it down, wincing at the tears that burn behind your eyes, “I, um… I’m not sure yet. Can I have a few days to think it over?” 

“Sure. How about this. Why don’t you take some time, maybe go to one of those Al-Anon meetings I told you about, and I can stop by Saturday to have a sit down with you and Mr. Morales. Does that sound agreeable?” 

“Ok,” you nod, “Yeah, that sounds good. We can do that.”

“Alrighty then. I’ll shoot you an email with some details sometime today and we’ll go from there.” 

“Thanks, Ralph.” 

“Call me if anything comes up, ok kiddo?” 

“Will do.” 

After hanging up, you put in a load of laundry and wander around the house, stopping by the fridge to stare at the cubano Frankie brought home for you yesterday. You roll your eyes with annoyance as you grab it, then you return to the couch and put on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. 

—

By the time Frankie comes home, you’re four feature films deep in your angsty post-breakup movie marathon and feeling indignant enough not to surrender the common space to him. 

His eyebrows do this little surprised jump when your eyes meet his, and he glances at the TV, “Reality Bites?” 

You don’t respond, just curl deeper into the couch and return your attention to Ethan Hawke’s spiteful cover of Add It Up.

He kicks off his work boots and walks into the kitchen, coming back a minute later to ask, “If I make something for dinner, will you eat it?” 

Your stomach rumbles at the thought of food. Without looking at him, you shrug. 

Accepting the non-verbal answer, Frankie returns to the kitchen and starts bumbling around, cussing and grumbling under his breath. Eventually, though, he seems to get the hang of it. 

Just as the end credits of Reality Bites start rolling, he enters the living room holding two plates and sets one on the coffee table for you, then takes a seat at the opposite end of the couch. 

You sit up, crossing your legs as you pull the offering into your lap, and toss the remote control to his side of the dividing cushion. He wordlessly searches for something else to watch while you study the avocado-filled hot dog buns. 

“What is this?” you ask. 

“Completo. Hot dog topped with good shit, basically. Avocado, tomato, onion, condiments.” He selects play on Moulin Rouge, then looks at you and shrugs, “Ma would make it for me when I had a bad day.” 

You stare at him for a moment, then roll your eyes and shake your head as you turn to the TV, “I see what you’re doing.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Kissing my ass.” 

He chuckles, shifting a little, “Yeah, well… yeah.” 

The movie starts to play. You don’t mention that this will be the second time you’ve seen it today because he probably knows that. After taking a bite of the completo, you hum at the mix of flavors and textures as you chew. 

“Good, right?” Frankie says through a mouthful. 

“Mmm,” you nod in agreement. 

He swallows, glancing between you and his food before asking, “Can I ask why you haven’t kicked me out yet?”

When you contemplate how to answer, the reasons all snarl into a tight knot of which you can’t quite make heads or tails. 

“No.” 

“Fair enough,” he murmurs, letting his gaze linger on you, “Do you want me to give you some privacy, or…? Because I can go—” 

“It doesn’t matter, Francisco, just stop talking.” 

“Ok, but—” 

You hold your hand up to him, “Shhhhhh.”

He sighs, but accepts the silence. Tension resides in the air at first, but slowly dissipates as you clear your plates, then settle into the couch. And although your eyes stay trained on the screen, you can’t make yourself pay attention. 

You keep wondering why he lied about being with Angie. He’s never had a problem making that clear in the past, even if it meant breaking your heart. Is it because he lives with you? It’s possible he didn’t want to risk getting kicked out, so he kept it a secret. 

Then why get involved with you again? Did he think this was the best way to stay in your good graces? Has he been manipulating you this whole time? 

It’s possible. It’s also possible you’re another one of his bad habits he can’t kick. A coping mechanism. Disposable, like always. 

You remember the night you asked him to come over so you could talk to him about something important. He promised to be there at eight o’clock, which is when you planted yourself on the front porch swing to wait for him. At nine o’clock, his truck came rumbling down the street and parked in front of the house. 

“What’re you doing out here?” he smirked as he climbed the porch steps. 

“Waiting for you,” you glared at him, observing his fluid movements when he plopped down beside you.

“I went and got a drink, lost track of time.” 

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and drew your stiff body closer to kiss your cheek.

Something hot flared in your chest, and you distinctly remember wishing he would show up sober for once. This wasn’t the scab you wanted to pick, though. 

He tilted your chin up, pressing his lips to yours, breath heavy with whiskey, then pulled back to frown at your lackluster response. His body swayed a little as he studied you, “What?” 

“I need to talk to you.” 

“Ok,” he leaned away from you with a scoff, “Well, I’m here. Talk to me. Tell me how I fucked up this time.” 

You winced, “Don’t do that.” 

Crossing his arms, he stared at you, all fucking wobbly and drunk, irritation folding his facial features. He shrugged, “Do what?” 

“That! You’re being an asshole.” 

“Oh, I’m being an asshole?” he mocked, “How’s that?” 

Rage simmered beneath your skin. You let out a chuckle of disbelief, shaking your head as tears pooled in your eyes. After taking a moment to gather yourself, you spit out, “Do you love me?” 

“Do I—?” he furrowed his brow like he didn’t understand, shifting in his seat, “Do I love you?” 

“Yes, Frankie. Do you fucking love me or not?” 

His indignation melted. Shoulders slumping, gaze going soft. He swallowed hard and looked out at the street as if searching for an escape hatch. Emergency brake. Make it stop. 

“Because I love you. I’ve been in love with you for so long… and-and I still don’t know what the fuck I am to you.” 

He seemed frozen, staring at something a million miles away without sparing a reaction. 

Nine months later, you can still feel the frantic vibration of your bones when you moved closer and cupped his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. When his eyes met yours, they were so cold and vacant that you barely recognized him. You tried to get through anyway. 

“I need you right now, Frankie. But I need all of you. I can’t be on the back burner anymore. I need you to be with me or I need to let you go.” 

“You know I can’t do that. I can’t be with you, not like that.” 

“But you could, though. You could. We could do this, we could make it work, start a life together—”

“I won’t leave her,” he shook his head, “I have a family—goddamnit, you knew what this was when it started.”

You sobbed, letting your hands fall away from his face, and his eyelids fluttered with the ghost of an emotion that you didn’t understand. 

He started, “I don’t—” then paused, tapping his clamped lips. His bloodshot eyes flicked around the porch and settled a million miles away again, “I don’t love you.” 

With this declaration, he took his chisel to you, lined it up in just the right spot, and gave it one firm tap. You crumbled at his feet. Shattered into dust. 

He got up and drove off while you were still bawling on the front porch swing. 

Onscreen, Toulouse-Lautrec shouts, “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return!” 

It hits you square in the chest. 

With tears brimming your eyelids, you jump up and flee to your bedroom before he can see them. 

—

Terrible nights sleep. Every time I drifted off, I was in the bedroom at my parents house but it wasn’t in my parents house. He was there but he wasn’t there. I don’t know how to explain it. I felt his presence but knew it wasn't him. I kept my eyes closed because I was scared to see, but I could hear him getting closer and closer. When I opened my eyes I woke up. The feeling stuck to me. It took me forever to fall back asleep and when I did it started over. 

Frankie didn’t go to work this morning. I don’t think he slept well either. Heard him walking around all night again. Idk if I should ask him what his deal is. I don’t want to talk to him about it yet and he’ll probably try to do that. Which is weird for him. A year ago I’d give anything for him to open up like he’s been trying to. But it hurts too much right now. It’s so messy. I’m all tangled. I need to straighten myself out before talking about it. 

I think I’m going to an al-anon meeting today and I’m nervous. Not sure what to expect. Keep worrying they’ll tell me I don’t belong there or make me talk about him. I don’t know if I belong there. I don’t know if I belong anywhere. 

Pulling back from your notebook, you stare at the last sentence for a while before closing the cover and setting it on the end table. 

Frankie walks out from his bedroom and rounds the corner to the living room, looking suspiciously formal, wearing slacks and a white dress shirt. His dark curls have been combed into a neat side part. It even looks like he trimmed his facial hair. 

As he peeks through the front window curtains, you blurt, “Are you wearing a fucking tie?” 

He looks surprised to hear you speak, raising his eyebrows as he glances down at himself, then up at you, “Yeah. I have a uhhh… a deposition today.” 

“Is that good or bad?” 

“Not really either. It’s normal, I guess. They’re just asking me questions on the record.” 

Nodding, you study his nervous demeanor, watching him reflexively go to lift his hat, faltering a little before running his fingers through his hair anyway. 

A desire to comfort him trickles through you, extinguishing the glowing embers of contempt inside your chest. 

“How is the case going, do you know?” 

The corner of his mouth pulls back into a kind of grimace. He takes another peek out the window, then steps back and shrugs as he approaches the couch, “The lawyer says they’ll probably offer a plea deal once this is over. We’ll see what that looks like.” He sits down at the other end of the couch, pulling out his phone to keep an eye on the little car on his rideshare app, “He thinks maybe they could agree to a reduced sentence.” 

You pick at your frayed cuticles, holding your tongue for as long as you can before asking, “How are you doing with… everything?” 

When you glance at him, his face is crooked with contemplation. He shifts in his seat and crosses his arms, lips parting with an answer. A notification dings on his phone. 

“My ride’s here,” he murmurs and meets your eyes with an apologetic expression, “We can talk about it later?” 

You give him a non-committal smile, “Good luck at your thing.” 

—

The woman who gave you your new member packet, apparently the leader of the meeting, looks around the room and announces,

“This afternoon, our fearless speaker will be Taylor. Everybody please welcome Taylor.”

From the back row, you sink down in your metal folding chair and glance around at the attendees, joining in when they start to clap for a woman approaching the podium. 

“Hi everyone, my name is Taylor. I’m a member of Al-Anon.” 

The room responds in unison, “Hi Taylor.” 

Taylor smiles and shakes her head, looking down at a small stack of trembling notecards. Her round shoulders raise with a deep breath. She closes her eyes for a moment, exhales, then looks up at the room. 

“If you would’ve told me a year ago I’d be the speaker at an Al-Anon group, there’s no way I’d believe you. But here I am,” she chuckles, “Wow. Thank you everyone for coming in today. I see so many familiar faces and some not so familiar faces and I’m grateful to see all of you. I’m proud of you for coming to this meeting today. 

“One of the biggest preconceived notions I had when I started attending Al-Anon meetings nine months ago is that they would help me support my alcoholic husband. At the time, he was about a month into sobriety and had just started going to AA meetings. He was struggling like hell and a friend of his asked if he wanted to go to an AA meeting with him. So he did. 

“I’ll be honest, when he suggested I go to Al-Anon, I was annoyed. I really was. At that point, we’d been married for five years. He tried quitting, oh, I don’t know… six times in that five years? Three 90-day inpatient rehab stays, two arrests, more sleepless nights than I can count.” 

Taylor pauses and looks down at her notes, then back up at the room as an amused smile spreads across her face. 

“What it always reminded me of was this story my husband told me. Every so often, he goes through these phases where he gets very very interested in a particular subject. It completely takes him over. All he wants to do is read about it and talk about it and… well, you get it. 

“When he was in his Greek mythology era, he told me about Sisyphus, the king of Ephyra. Sisyphus killed people who visited his palace, which angered the gods because they considered it impolite, which is the understatement of the millennium, but that’s neither here nor there. When Sisyphus died, Hades punished him to an eternity rolling a boulder uphill. He would fight his way up this steep hill, pushing the boulder with all his might. The boulder was enchanted, though, and every time the it got near the top, the boulder would roll back down the hill, then he’d have to try again. So he does this over and over and over for eternity. Infinite frustration and exhaustion. 

“Sometimes it felt like that with him. With my alcoholic. Like I was stuck in this loop, fighting like hell to push his dead weight to the top of the hill. Just when I got a scrap of hope, it went tumbling back down. Over and over and over again. I structured my whole life around his relationship to alcohol. Checking in with him constantly, making sure I didn’t say or do anything that might trigger another relapse, putting myself on the back burner to accommodate his needs. So when he suggested I try going to Al-Anon meetings, I expected it to be another chore catering to his sobriety. I thought I would come here and learn all the ways people support the alcoholic in their life the right way. Because I obviously wasn’t doing it the right way. If I was, he would have years of sobriety under his belt. 

“Regardless, I agreed to go, and quickly discovered my preconceived notions about Al-Anon were wrong. Al-Anon doesn’t exist for us to better service the alcoholic or alcoholics in our lives. Sure, we’re all here because of the alcoholic in our lives, but the point is to better service ourselves. I think that distinction is important. 

“When I came home from my first meeting, I went through the new member packet Mario gave me, and found a handout that said: Detachment is neither kind nor unkind,” Taylor nods at the memory and looks around the room, “That struck a chord with me, that phrase. Detachment is neither kind nor unkind. It didn’t make sense to me at first. I thought, how is detachment neither kind nor unkind? It went against my instincts completely. How was I supposed to help my husband if I detached from him? Isn’t love about being attached to someone, sticking together through thick and thin? 

“Attending meetings and working the steps helped me get a better grasp on the concept. I came to understand that, in Al-Anon, detachment can mean two different things. The first is separating the person you love from their alcoholic behaviors. The second is a little harder to define, but it centers around the idea that you are separate from other people, and their actions do not control yours. Let me show you what I mean, though.

“In my relationship with my husband, we were entangled,” Taylor laces her hands together and holds them up for everyone to see. “Wherever he went, I went, too.” She moves her clasped hands back and forth. Spreading her hands apart, she says, “I didn’t want to be apart from him. But what I found with detachment is,” she flattens her hands palm-to-palm, “We can be close without being entangled. That way, if he goes to a dark place,” she moves one hand away from the other and shakes her head, “I don’t have to go with him if I don’t want to.” 

Taylor looks around the room, allowing her words to sink in, then returns her attention to the stack of notecards and flips to the next. 

“When we detach in this way, it both relieves us of our perceived responsibility for their actions and emotions, and grants them autonomy to make their own choices. They deserve dignity and freedom, which is difficult to obtain if we try to manage their lives. 

“So often in our marriage, I thought that loving my alcoholic meant rescuing him from himself. I thought that if I exerted myself hard enough, pushed him up that steep hill long enough, we would get to the top together. But the effort was Sisyphean. It didn’t matter how much time or effort I put into controlling the direction of the boulder. It would always roll downhill, because the boulder was enchanted. Even if I spent an eternity trying, even if I begged and screamed and pleaded with the boulder, it would still be enchanted. And, you know… maybe that’s ok. Maybe he’s not meant to sit at the top of the hill. It’s not his fault, either, and I came to realize that instead of getting frustrated at him for being enchanted, I can meet him where he is and love him anyway. If I don’t like that place, I don’t have to stay there. When I detach with love, I grant myself autonomy as well as him. 

“Putting the metaphor aside, I’ve used this in practice by no longer lying for him. If he’s at an AA meeting and our daughter asks why he’s not home, I tell her the truth. When my family or friends ask how everything is going, I don’t try to make it seem easier than it is so he can save face. I confide in them with sincerity because that is what I need. I’ve stopped giving him advice unless he asks for it, because I’ve learned here that most times people don’t need advice, they just need someone to listen and be present. I’ve stopped trying to take the reins when I think he’s making poor decisions, because he doesn’t need someone to do it for him. He needs to learn to do it himself. Part of learning is making mistakes and growing out from beneath the consequences. 

“Detachment is neither kind nor unkind, it’s a tool we utilize to free ourselves and the alcoholic in our lives. Al-Anon doesn’t exist to teach us how to help the alcoholic in our lives, although the tools it gives us can aid in their recovery as well as ours. This fellowship exists to help us, the families of the alcoholic, so that we may lead more joyful and serene lives. Thank you.” 

Applause erupts from the crowd, and you join in, watching Taylor glow with pride as she steps away from the podium. 

—

Damp, hot air pours in through the rolled-down windows, carrying with it the earthy scent of algae-bloom off East Lake Tohopekaliga. Driving along the slow, steady curve, you pass by sprawling oak trees, their eaves all draped in spanish moss. 

Your hope was that taking the scenic route home would clear your head, but it’s not doing the trick. Something shifted inside you during the meeting. You can’t quite put your finger on exactly what shifted or why it happened, although your circular thoughts give you the sense you’re on the precipice of understanding. 

You keep thinking about the speaker, Taylor, and the lesson she relayed from her podium. Her situation is different from yours, but you know it all the same. You know how it feels to dig your heels into the dirt, struggling like hell to push someone in the direction you think is best. You know how it feels to see him tumble to the bottom time and time again. And for what? It’s not like he’s any better off because of your efforts. It’s not like you are, either. 

How many times have you betrayed yourself for the sake of his favor? How many times have you put your needs aside to tend to his? 

Calm blue-gray water flickers behind the trees you drive past. It looks peaceful. Further up the road, you spot a public access point to the lake and turn into the lot, hitting a bump. When you do, a loud BANG reverberates through the car. The steering wheel shakes as you slow to a jerky, lopsided stop.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you fume, shifting the car into park. Folding forward onto the steering wheel, you pinch your eyes shut and take a deep breath, then exit the vehicle to look at the damage. 

The front driver’s side tire sits flat against the pavement. You stare at it and shake your head, muttering, “God fucking damnit,” before walking to the trunk. 

You open it and pull up the mat to the spare tire well. It’s empty. 

“Fucking of course. Jesus fucking—” 

Cutting yourself off with a furious groan, you pull out your phone and go through your contact list, pointedly scrolling past the F’s to pause at Leah, who’s over an hour away, then Marla, who’s busy enough as it is. You even briefly consider Rory, but the idea makes your stomach lurch. 

You could just do it all yourself. Order a car on one of those rideshare apps. It would take forever, though, and you’ve never changed a tire before. 

Frankie is the logical choice. The first person who came to mind, if you’re being honest. Something hard and stubborn inside your chest throbs when you hover over his name. 

It’s pride, you realize. Maybe a little fear. You don’t want to ask for his help. You don’t want to burden him. You don’t want to be disappointed if he says no. 

All the same, you dial his number. He picks up on the second ring. 

“H—”

“Are you at the house?”  

“I am.” 

“Are you busy?” 

“Nothing I can’t put off ‘til later. Why?” 

“My fucking tire blew out, and my spare is in the garage,” you sigh and throw your head back, propping a hand on your hip, “Is there any way you can bring it out to me?” 

“I, umm… yeah, of course. Where are you?” 

“East Lake Toho.”

He snorts, “Christ, what’re you doing all the way out there?” In the background, you hear the floorboards creaking, mapping his way through the house. Before you can respond, he asks, “Spare tire in the garage, need me to grab anything else?” 

“Uhhhh…” you wrinkle your nose at the trunk, “I don’t know, I have a jack and the tire iron thing.” 

“That should do it. Wanna drop me a pin? I’ll have to get a ride out there.” 

“Yeah. I can pay you back if you need to order a Lyft or whatever.” 

“Just take it off my tab,” he jokes, the back door squeaking open behind his voice, “Hang tight, I’ll be there in a bit.”

You turn around to lean back on the bumper, “Ok, I’ll be here.” 

After hanging up, you share your location with him, then wander down to the dock. It rattles around as you teeter to the end and sit down, letting your feet dangle over the edge. 

Cattails and lily pads have been cleared from the shoreline near the boat landing, giving you a clear view across the lake, broken up here and there by thick swaths of aquatic vegetation. The glassy surface of the water reflects the hazy blue sky, and stagnant air sticks humid to your skin. Insects buzz and birds sing and somewhere far away you hear a boat motor chugging across the lake. 

When you think of serenity, this is what you picture. Stillness and calm. Peace. You inhale the scene, allowing it to stretch out inside you and unfurl your tensed muscles. 

As soon as the unease evaporates from your body, fatigue takes over.  

Lying back on the dock, you stare up at tall, fluffy clouds littering the sky. Your eyelids grow heavy as you watch the slow-moving parade of shifting giants, the warm air lulling you into comfort until you let your eyes drift closed. 

Your awareness fades in and out while you sleep. At one point, a car door shuts, then the car drives off. Vaguely, you know it’s Frankie but can’t lift your limbs, syrupy thick with lethargy. You hear grunts and metallic clattering. Some time later, your trunk slams shut. 

When the dock starts wobbling around beneath you, you blink your eyes open and sit up, scrubbing your hands over your face as a yawn overtakes you. 

“Hey sleepyhead.” 

You glance over your shoulder at Frankie, who comes to sit down beside you with a groan. He’s back to his usual attire, jeans and a t-shirt, baseball cap firmly in place atop his head. 

Still groggy, you yawn, “I couldn’t make myself wake up.” 

“Not sleeping well?” 

“Fucking awful, honestly.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

You frown at him, searching his face until he gives you a little shrug, at which point you mumble, “Oh. I forgot that I, umm… yeah. Sorry.” 

“No need to apologize,” he tells you, squinting up at the sky before dropping his eyes to his hands as he fiddles with his wedding band, “Same here. The—the sleep part, not the nightmares.” 

“Yeah, I know. I hear you pacing around at night.” 

“Oh… sorry, I didn’t realize—”

You push yourself up straighter to watch his legs dangle next to yours, “It’s fine.” 

Quiet settles comfortably between you. Near the dock, you see a cluster of bubbles rise to the surface of the lake and burst. The ripples flatten out and calm returns. 

A question swells in your ribcage. Just a small pocket of air at first, maybe the size of a pebble. The longer you sit and stare at the water, though, it expands. It works its way up your throat, taking up more and more space with each passing second until you can’t contain it any more. 

“So you were lying to me, right? About not being with her?” 

He meets your gaze, dark eyes all remorseful and gooey, then he nods, “Yeah. I was lying. To both of you.” 

Folding your legs up onto the dock, you look away in the hope that he won’t notice the tears starting to come. When he speaks, his voice comes out hoarse and quiet. 

“How much do you want me to tell you?” 

The question replaces the air in your lungs with a vibrating sensation. Another cluster of bubbles dissolve on the surface of the lake. You manage to croak, “I don’t know.” 

He doesn’t respond. You sense that he’s waiting for you to make the next move. 

Your mind wanders to the front porch swing that night you forced him to choose. He felt so far away. Until he told you differently, you were so certain he was in love with you. 

“I don’t know how to trust your words as truth, Frankie. All the way back to the start, I don’t know what was real and what was bullshit and I am fucking—” your voice cracks from the emotion burning up your throat. 

He goes to comfort you, but pulls back before making contact. 

Every cell inside you aches for him to bridge the gap. You follow the instinct, grabbing his shirt to curl into his shoulder. As soon as you do, he wraps his arms tight around you, bringing you in closer. 

A wave of moth-eaten hurt wells up your chest. 

“Why?” you sob, “Why did you do this to me? I don’t understand—”

He starts to rock you in a slow, soothing motion, burying his face in your hair as you cry into the collar of his shirt. In the background, behind your racing thoughts and shattered breaths, you hear him whisper on repeat: I’m sorry, baby… I’m so sorry.

[femsolid]

About the media in which male always get to talk more, can you give the source of that, especially when talking about books? I've been looking for this for my final school paper but couldn't even find something about the bechdel test used for literature.

Disney films may focus on female characters, but when it comes down to statistics, these women barely speak. Thats’s right, there are some Disney films with as much as 2% female dialogue.

Media also distinguish between males and females in a more subtle way: importance. ‘Children scanning the list of titles of what have been designated as the very best children’s books are bound to receive the impression that girls are not very important because no one has bothered to write books about them. The content of the books rarely dispels this impression’, remarked Lenore Weitzman and colleagues in their classic review of Caldecott winners, nearly a third of which had no female characters at all. And of course there are characters, and then there are main characters. The Dr. Seuss books are rightly classics, adored by children and a joy of rediscovery for parents. Yet as Lamb and Brown observe, in all the forty-two books he wrote, not one has a female lead in its central story. The power of the media to dish up a stripped-down, concentrated version of cultural values enables it to represent the higher status of males in this uncomfortably blunt fashion. Even in contemporary picture books, researchers find that this is a habit that dies hard, with writers and illustrators still less inclined to feature female characters. For example, the most recent analysis of the Caldecott winners and runners-up, together with 155 best-selling children’s books around the same time, found that males, overall, were featured nearly twice as often as females in title roles, and they appeared in about 50 percent more pictures. Nor does the use of gender-ambiguous animals or characters in books help to increase female numbers. This is because mothers almost always label gender-neutral characters in picture books as male. If it doesn’t look like a female, it’s male. I’ve tried labelling neutral animals and characters as female when reading to my children – it feels extremely unnatural, as you will discover if you try for yourself. (The reason is probably that we have a tendency to think of people or creatures as male unless otherwise indicated. In other words, as has been long observed, men are people, but women are women.) As within the pages of books, females tend to be underrepresented on TV and computer screens, and to miss out on central roles in advertisements and even cereal boxes. A recent survey of 19,664 children’s programmes in twenty-four countries found that only 32 percent of main characters are female. (This drops to an even more dismal 13 percent when it comes to nonhuman creatures like animals, monsters and robots.) And, a survey of the 101 top-grossing Grated movies from 1990 to 2005 found that less than a third of the speaking roles go to females, with no signs of improvement over time. As the Web site of the Geena Davis Institute, which sponsored the research, asks, ‘What message does this send to young children?’

- Delusions of Gender by Cordelia Fine

[gdesignsme]

Why Integrated Marketing Communications is Essential for Small Businesses

How can Integrated Marketing Communications help me, the small business owner? Integrated Marketing Communication is essential to small business owners because they, even more so than large corporations can not afford to misspend or waste money on a single isolated marketing effort. For instance, as a small business owner, it may be tempting to focus on one aspect of marketing – a new website, a…

[199x-furry-archive]

I noticed skunks were much more popular. As someone with a skunksona it warms my heart. I'm wondering if you have any theories on why they were popular around this time?

I get the impression that, if you made a histogram of the most popular furry species, skunks would have been way above the median. Now I get the impression that, in terms of often-anthropomorphized species, they're pretty unpopular. Some species have always been popular, and some have always been unpopular – skunks are neither. So there are two angles to this question: why were skunks so popular, and why are they now not popular?

In the twilight of Usenet, Tiny Toons was a cultural lynchpin among furries online. This might sound strange in our moment, when furries attempt to define themselves as a "fandom without an object," but what is worth noting is that early-90s furries related to the internet completely differently than us—the content they shared across the net was primarily text-based, and visual content was the exception. In general, "content creation" online meant stories and binaries, not bulky bitmaps and gifs. Having a cartoon was useful as a visual anchor for which you could share stories and "fantasize," for lack of a better word.

I would wager that most shows out there had zero prominent Usenet groups. Many had one and some had two, but Tiny Toons was one of the few with three: alt.tv.tiny-toon, alt.tv.tiny-toon.fandom, and, of course, alt.tv.tiny-toon.sex. If Tiny Toons was popular, Fifi La Fume was very popular. Fifi La Fume was romantically aggressive, which many of the young adult male viewers of the show could read as an appealing sexual aggressiveness. For the purposes of this post I'm going to sidestep the question of why so many adult furries were attracted to a child skunk-thing.

That being said, there were Babs and Shirley fans, but rabbits and loons were never as popular as skunks, even though they were all in Tiny Toons--"rabbitfucker" didn't catch on like "skunkfucker." Sexualized characters like Animaniacs' Minerva Mink or EWS's Amy the Squirrel were probably as popular as Fifi, but minks and squirrels never really caught on either. As a result I think this is, at best, an incomplete description, but it might help illustrate why so many "fandom pin-up girls" were skunks.

What I think further helps is that skunks are pretty "easy" to draw for both amateur and professional artists. Striped skunks are black and white, which makes them particularly readable from just a doodle. Eric Schwartz was able to make (off the top of my head) 4 skunk characters for Sabrina Online that look reasonably distinct, and people grew attached to all of them. An amateur artist with no formal training, nor access to any of the online "how to draw" resources we have now, might find a skunk to be the easiest anthro to draw with the ballpoint pen and #2 pencils they had on hand.

But at some point skunks became less popular. I'm not sure what the decline stems from, but it might be the waning popularity of WB/Disney cartoons in shaping the fandom compared to anime, and the evolution of the world wide web into a technology that centered sharing visual data and holding personal accounts. Furries in this time wanted a holistic internet presence for the more visually-oriented world wide web, instead of just “a character” for text-based MUCKs or RP. As a result I think many of them shied away from skunks, which have a reputation for being pests, and to more unique, visually-distinct designs that could stand on their own without elaborate roleplay or description (which might have led into sparkledogs).

[butchsophiewalten]

There's this interconnected web of Walten Files Information that keeps coming back into my mind which I meant to make a post about a while ago. Which is as follows:

-We know from the Richie audios in Findjackwalten/caretakerlibrary that Rosemary had already been banned from (or at least highly discouraged from entering) Bon's Burgers by the 1st of July, which is quite a ways away from when she disappeared on the 19th. I definitely wouldn't put it past her to sneak into the restaurant during its off-hours, but we know at least that her being there wasn't formally sanctioned.

-From the way he talks to and interacts with Susan in TWF4, it seems that Bon's 'Selection Process' for who he 'beautifies' is not arbitrary, nor is it necessarily opportunistic. Which is to say that he's not picking people at random, and he's not picking people only because they would be an easy target. He watches them, and chooses them based on criteria they exhibit which appeal to him. In essence, he picks people he likes, who he thinks belong in his Wonderland.

-There's a near-undeniable but Implicit fixation that Bon has on Rosemary, which we only learn through many, many small things. The 'shrine' we see him create for her in Souvenir is relatively elaborate, (in that it seems to contain more than one object that is associated with her,) and he put her in Sha, which is the companion animatronic to his Bon. Rose's death scene in TWF2 also makes it seem like he spoke to her, as the Bon animatronic, before killing her. What he says exactly is notable, too. "Rose broken. Will fix you. You will beautiful." It's, one, an explanation of what he's doing. Bon did this for Susan too, but not in the 'physical world,' before he actually hurt her. Also, it's comfort. A soothing reassurance. I'll fix you. You'll be beautiful. Then also, of course, he calls her Rosie. "I know where he is, Rosie," is a line that haunts me forever, thinking of it coming from him.

This all paints a specific sort of picture in my mind. I like to think that Bon likes Rosemary a lot, and that she's a favorite of his, because she designed The Showstoppers. I think he likes Susan quite a lot for a similar reason, she was the woman who gave him his flesh and his bone. Who forged the vessel that he now lives for. But Rosemary is the artist who made it what he loves. She was the visionary who made him Beautiful.

So I think that Bon had his heart set on Rosemary for Wonderland. And it makes me wonder if the contentions between her and Felix that kept him away from her really pissed him off. But the core of my 'theory' here is just that Bon wanted her in the restaurant, that night. That she maybe wouldn't have been there at all, if someone hadn't asked her to be.

[mariacallous]

In March 2007, Google’s then senior executive in charge of acquisitions, David Drummond, emailed the company’s board of directors a case for buying DoubleClick. It was an obscure software developer that helped websites sell ads. But it had about 60 percent market share and could accelerate Google’s growth while keeping rivals at bay. A “Microsoft-owned DoubleClick represents a major competitive threat,” court papers show Drummond writing.

Three weeks later, on Friday the 13th, Google announced the acquisition of DoubleClick for $3.1 billion. The US Department of Justice and 17 states including California and Colorado now allege that the day marked the beginning of Google’s unchecked dominance in online ads—and all the trouble that comes with it.

The government contends that controlling DoubleClick enabled Google to corner websites into doing business with its other services. That has resulted in Google allegedly monopolizing three big links of a vital digital advertising supply chain, which funnels over $12 billion in annual revenue to websites and apps in the US alone.

It’s a big amount. But a government expert estimates in court filings that if Google were not allegedly destroying its competition illegally, those publishers would be receiving up to an additional hundreds of millions of dollars each year. Starved of that potential funding, “publishers are pushed to put more ads on their websites, to put more content behind costly paywalls, or to cease business altogether,” the government alleges. It all adds up to a subpar experience on the web for consumers, Colorado attorney general Phil Weiser says.

“Google is able to extract hiked-up costs, and those are passed on to consumers,” he alleges. “The overall outcome we want is for consumers to have more access to content supported by advertising revenue and for people who are seeking advertising not to have to pay inflated costs.”

Google disputes the accusations.

Starting today, both sides’ arguments will be put to the test in what’s expected to be a weekslong trial before US district judge Leonie Brinkema in Alexandria, Virginia. The government wants her to find that Google has violated federal antitrust law and then issue orders that restore competition. In a best-case scenario, according to several Google critics and experts in online ads who spoke with WIRED, internet users could find themselves more pleasantly informed and entertained.

It could take years for the ad market to shake out, says Adam Heimlich, a longtime digital ad executive who’s extensively researched Google. But over time, fresh competition could lower supply chain fees and increase innovation. That would drive “better monetization of websites and better quality of websites,” says Heimlich, who now runs AI software developer Chalice Custom Algorithms.

Tim Vanderhook, CEO of ad-buying software developer Viant Technology, which both competes and partners with Google, believes that consumers would encounter a greater variety of ads, fewer creepy ads, and pages less cluttered with ads. “A substantially improved browsing experience,” he says.

Of course, all depends on the outcome of the case. Over the past year, Google lost its two other antitrust trials—concerning illegal search and mobile app store monopolies. Though the verdicts are under appeal, they’ve made the company’s critics optimistic about the ad tech trial.

Google argues that it faces fierce competition from Meta, Amazon, Microsoft, and others. It further contends that customers benefited from each of the acquisitions, contracts, and features that the government is challenging. “Google has designed a set of products that work efficiently with each other and attract a valuable customer base,” the company’s attorneys wrote in a 359-page rebuttal.

For years, Google publicly has maintained that its ad tech projects wouldn’t harm clients or competition. “We will be able to help publishers and advertisers generate more revenue, which will fuel the creation of even more rich and diverse content on the internet,” Drummond testified in 2007 to US senators concerned about the DoubleClick deal’s impact on competition and privacy. US antitrust regulators at the time cleared the purchase. But at least one of them, in hindsight, has said he should have blocked it.

Deep Control

The Justice Department alleges that acquiring DoubleClick gave Google “a pool of captive publishers that now had fewer alternatives and faced substantial switching costs associated with changing to another publisher ad server.” The global market share of Google’s tool for publishers is now 91 percent, according to court papers. The company holds similar control over ad exchanges that broker deals (around 70 percent) and tools used by advertisers (85 percent), the court filings say.

Google’s dominance, the government argues, has “impaired the ability of publishers and advertisers to choose the ad tech tools they would prefer to use and diminished the number and quality of viable options available to them.”

The government alleges that Google staff spoke internally about how they have been earning an unfair portion of what advertisers spend on advertising, to the tune of over a third of every $1 spent in some cases.

Some of Google’s competitors want the tech giant to be broken up into multiple independent companies, so each of its advertising services competes on its own merits without the benefit of one pumping up another. The rivals also support rules that would bar Google from preferencing its own services. “What all in the industry are looking for is fair competition,” Viant’s Vanderhook says.

If Google ad tech alternatives win more business, not everyone is so sure that the users will notice a difference. “We’re talking about moving from the NYSE to Nasdaq,” Ari Paparo, a former DoubleClick and Google executive who now runs the media company Marketecture, tells WIRED. The technology behind the scenes may shift, but the experience for investors—or in this case, internet surfers—doesn’t.

Some advertising experts predict that if Google is broken up, users’ experiences would get even worse. Andrey Meshkov, chief technology officer of ad-block developer AdGuard, expects increasingly invasive tracking as competition intensifies. Products also may cost more because companies need to not only hire additional help to run ads but also buy more ads to achieve the same goals. “So the ad clutter is going to get worse,” Beth Egan, an ad executive turned Syracuse University associate professor, told reporters in a recent call arranged by a Google-funded advocacy group.

But Dina Srinivasan, a former ad executive who as an antitrust scholar wrote a Stanford Technology Law Review paper on Google’s dominance, says advertisers would end up paying lower fees, and the savings would be passed on to their customers. That future would mark an end to the spell Google allegedly cast with its DoubleClick deal. And it could happen even if Google wins in Virginia. A trial in a similar lawsuit filed by Texas, 15 other states, and Puerto Rico is scheduled for March.

[sibhudmp]

Short-term course means an intensive sequence of learning activities offered regularly over a short period of time.

[kairiscorner]

Hello! Can I ask for a scenario where Spider-Noir meets the reader who is a Barbie? I LOVED THE NEW BARBIE MOVIE and wanted to know how Spider-Noir would get along with a Barbie reader. I think they would make a nice couple, they are the total Barbenheimer.

You can have them meet in the events of the first movie by making reader Barbie as spider-woman or by having them meet in the spider-noir dimension. As you like, but I would like to emphasize the great color contrast between the dark palette of Noir with the colorful pinks of the Barbie reader.

Crystal ✨💞

HI AGAIN !!! OMG YES PLEASEEEE my barbie brainrot refuses to go and so does my atsv brain rot so...... i hope you like this :DDD

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

pretty in pink, great in gray

"oh, and before anything else, there's someone who's running fashionably late. sorry fellas, she had to fix up her makeup and hair, it's a very important priority of hers, as you can see." noir told the others as they looked at him in confusion. soon, their spider senses all turned on as they sensed yet another one of their kind in the room. "oh, well hello, cuties!" exclaimed a cheery voice from above as they heard the faint clacking of stilettos on the ceiling, pretty pink and glittery ones, in fact. they looked up and saw, hanging from the ceiling, a spider woman dressed in hot and light pink. she waved to them, with the others awkwardly waving back at her confused.

the spider woman from above shot out a pretty pink web from her pink webshooter and swung down after doing a somersault in the air and landing on her feet, with one in front of the other as they pointed outwardly in the opposite directions, a bright smile on her face still as she looked at everyone; all of which were thoroughly impressed by her acrobatic capabilities. "can you please adopt me?" gwen whispered underneath her breath as she looked at the woman in front of them intently. the spider woman giggled and walked forward to extend her hand to them all.

"spider barbie, at your service! it's so lovely to meet you all, and you, dear... of course, i will adopt you! would you like to live in my dream house or would you like me to arrange for the construction women back in barbieland to design a house of your choosing?" she asked gwen as gwen held on to miles from both sheer excitement and thoroughly getting weirded out. "did she just say she was barbie, or..." "pretty sure she said she was barbie." miles replied in a manner that showed he was just as stunned as gwen was.

noir moved to the front of their little group and shook barbie's hand first. "nice to meet you, barbie. i'm parker, peter benjamin parker, not to be confused with this guy." noir said as he pointed his thumb at peter b, who folded his arms and shrugged. barbie smiled widely at the monochromatic man as she held his hand tightly and shook it back. "and nice to meet you, peter!" she responded as she noted how dark peter's whole get up was. "i must say, i love the shades you've got going on here. i was considering making a darker outfit for myself, but pink feels more natural for me. i love how you look by the way, it's so... mysterious." she said as peter chuckled and scratched a little at the side of his head. dare he say miss barbara here was flustering him a little with her charisma and cheeriness.

"why, thank you, barbie. i love the abundance of... pink in your costume. very striking, and very powerful, i must say." he said with a slight smile underneath his mask as barbie's smile widened. she thanked peter, and the two went on and on about each other's costumes and quirks that came with them. they were hitting it off so fast, surprisingly. the group was actually questioning if what they were seeing was reality; because even though all of them are quite weird already as mutant spider people (and animal) a real, live, talking and walking barbie was also a mutant spider woman and was getting along well with the dark, brooding, and mysterious version of peter parker?

"so... care to maybe visit my dream house sometime, peter?" barbie offered noir, to which he felt a little flushed in the face at the prospect of visiting the beautiful woman's plastic home. "i... i'd be delighted to, my dear." he responded, to which barbie clasped her hands together in delight. soon, she wrapped her arms around noir, who tensed up a little at the abruptness of the situation, but loved every second of it. "this has got to be the craziest sight i've ever seen in my life." peter b said in tired disbelief as gwen and miles held themselves back from begging barbie to show them more of her pastel pink moves, and with peni and ham teasing them from behind about this new little couple they have in the group. well, not quite couple yet; barbie can be barbie without her ken, or peter--but she can be her own spider barbie with a spider man. it's not spider barbie with her spider man, it's spider barbie and spider man.

a/n: I NEED THE BARBIE MOVIE TO BE STREAMING NOWWWWWWWWWWWWW

tags !! @thecoolerdor @miguelswifey04 @sabcandoit @binibinileonara @luvstarrstruck @k4tsu3 @maxoloqy @fictarian

[perdvivly]

In a beginning, though there had been many beginnings before, God made the universe. And into the universe He poured a goodly portion of divine providence. Almost too much divine providence according to one particularly problematic angel. This angel’s name was Meaning. One day, Meaning and God decided to talk the problem through.

God: I hear you have a problem with my grand design. Is this true?

Meaning: It is. There is too much divine providence in this world.

God: Is that so? And how did you make that calculation?

Meaning: I looked into the world and I saw a deep facile beauty permeating the fine webs of connection between all things. I applaud the beauty of your design, of course, but perhaps we could do away with the facileness?

God: And how is it facile? It is not an easy beauty of shallow sort. The people in this world will be able to look quite deeply into it and see the beauty spiralling inwards, though, they will not have to look deeply to see the outer layers.

Meaning: See your phenomena, cast into their distinct types and each phenomenon acting only on each other phenomenon by type. This is the grounding of all deeper facile beauties in your world. A perfectly clockwork universe, and these mental stuffs you’ve made fitting so neatly into the material by dint of providence. It’s not right. It’s not… Fertile. The world is sterile in its deepest layers.

God: Ah, on the contrary my dear Meaning! The world is only facilely sterile. Like a pianist sitting at a pianola. Sure, the mental phenomena don’t affect the physical, and the physical phenomena don’t affect the mental. And sure, the pianist pressing the keys in perfect timing isn’t the cause of the music. But does that make the music any less beautiful or rich? Could a music theorist find any deep problem with the music on this account alone?

Meaning: An aesthete might, and isn’t this world for them?

God: For the aesthetes? Not in particular.

Meaning: For the thinking and feeling beings in the world!

God: Ah. It is. I suppose I got too caught up in the elegance of the world-design to consider that objection… What is that objection by the way?

Meaning: The objection is that this is an affront to sensibility of feeling. The pianist cannot know or hone their skill in world inhabited solely by pianolas. And in a world of complicated and terrible emotional content, sometimes—in order to legiblize the world to them—the individual needs things to be their fault. They need things to be bad; they need to hurt.

God: It sounds to me as though you see this problem as somewhat deeper than the material design. What are you really trying to get at?

Meaning: Well. See. You make all this good stuff happen. You make the music of the pianola beautiful. And it’s terribly nice to be surrounded by good stuff. But people get… Sick. They get hungry for the bad stuff. They want salt in the wound. They want noise! Not this cloying melody all the time, I mean, real noise. The harsh stuff. The real good stuff.

God: I will not make a discordant world.

Meaning: I’m not asking for a discordant world. I’m asking for a malleable world. Full of risk and consequence and… Me. There aren’t powerful emotions without me. Humans would be forced to live in a chokingly narrow spectrum of their full range. Can’t we give them more… Opportunity? Even if that opportunity means pain sometimes.

God: Then, my child, it shall be done.

In a beginning, though there had been many beginnings before, God made the universe. And into the universe He poured a goodly portion of suffering. Almost too much suffering according to one particularly problematic angel. This angel’s name was Grace. One day, Grace and God decided to talk the problem through.

God: I hear you have a problem with my grand design. Is this true?

Grace: It is. There is too much suffering in this world.

God: Is that so? And how did you make that calculation?

Grace: I looked into the world and I saw a horrific cascade of needless pain permeating the fine webs of connection between all things. I applaud the beauty of your design, of course, but perhaps we could do away with the pain?

God: And how is the pain needless? It is not an arbitrary sort of pain. The pain people feel is in accordance with phenomena, which is mechanistic. The worlds of feeling and of fact intertwine into a great and terribly legible slate of suffering. You will experience hunger, yes, and hunger legiblises your relationship to consumption. You will experience illnesses and aches, yes, and these will legiblise your relationship to your autonomy. But you do not need to experience these to deeply know suffering. Friends will leave you and lovers will die, and this will hurt them, and this will hurt you, and you will know the world. If you could not know the world, you could not know beauty.

Grace: Frankly, Lord, this is not what I signed up for. And sophistry does not make suffering okay. Granted, that everything in your world means something, and means it deeply. Granted that all people will know deeply the significance of what they do and feel it so keenly it is as if it is in their bones. But that significance is always so terribly evil. You have not really succeeded in making anything more legible if the only way people can relate to the professed objects of lucidity is through pain. What about love? What about charity? What about me?

God: You would experience love through the absence of pain that the absence of love would provide. Surely it’s quite simple really?

Grace: Love is not apophatic! There is something there. Something really there! A truly undeniable thereness to its thereity.

God: What would you have me do?

Grace: I would have you break the universe each time a person hurt. And I would have you tell them it is okay. And I would have you make that true.

God: I will not break the universe.

Grace: Then I would ask that you do not totalise suffering. Let people acquire privilege and let them use that privilege to help each other. Let the lucidity of compassion be a driving force in human nature.

God: Then, my child, it shall be done.

In a beginning, though there had been many beginnings before, God made the universe. And into the universe He poured a goodly portion of amnesty. Almost too much amnesty according to one particularly problematic angel. This angel’s name was Justice. One day, Justice and God decided to talk the problem through.

God: I hear you have a problem with my grand design. Is this true?

Justice: It is. There is too much injustice in this world.

God: Is that so? And how did you make that calculation?

Justice: I looked into the world and I saw a deep veneer of faux absolution permeating the fine webs of connection between all things. I applaud absolution, of course, but perhaps we could do away with the injustice?

God: And how is it an unjust world? People make choices, those choices have consequences. The webs of connection between cause and effect are subtle and it is difficult to see how they relate but they do. Always.

Justice: Yes. Well. That’s bullshit, isn’t it?

God: What?

Justice: Uh, that’s bullshit Lord?

God: You are far more laconic in your criticism than the other angels.

Justice: Right. So you say, everyone’s got a choice, right? And sure, everyone has a choice, but some people have way more choices than other people. Whether that’s by virtue of their wealth or privilege or social power or whatever. Not everybody can make the same choices. See how people die in starvation and famine. Isn’t it a bit of a dick move to say that they just made bad choices? There weren’t any choices made. The world robbed them of their agency and they suffered and they died. And sure, people who do well will say that they did well because of their choices, but that’s bullshit too isn’t it? They got lucky.

God: It is true that some people get lucky and others are unlucky. And it is true that people are often at the mercy of another’s will. Whether this turns out for good or ill is mostly a matter of serendipity for their part.

Justice: And you haven’t even bothered to metre out the serendipity evenly. The elite are secure and powerful. And their lives are good, and they have enough to eat. And their power becomes less diluted. And their power gives them access to more options, more choices. They can afford high-priced lawyers. They can afford live-in chefs, housekeepers, secretaries. They can get away with crimes. Their influence makes them untouchable. The poor and powerless are downtrodden. And their wretchedness becomes less diluted. They go hungry because they cannot afford food. Their hunger makes them ill. Their suffer their illness because they cannot afford medicine, they cannot afford time off work, and the stress exacerbates everything. It seems clear to me Lord, for whom you have made the world. And I must say, I don’t like that one bit.

God: What would you have me do?

Justice: Give them a drive, a motivation to fix injustice where it arises. Let them be angry. Let their anger be righteous!

God: That does not sound much like justice to me. But then again... You are Justice. So perhaps you are right. Then, my child, it shall be done.

In a beginning, though there had been many beginnings before, God made the universe. He had been getting it wrong a lot lately though. And instead of just one beginning He decided to run multiple universes concurrently and take some feedback from the inhabitants of each on what worked and what didn’t. A.E. Housman (professional stranger) just so happened to be in one such universe.

God: I know this might seem an odd question but, is the universe doing its thing properly?

Housman: What is the universe supposed to do? What’s a universe for?

God: It is here to provide sanctuary for all living, thinking, feeling beings.

Housman: And what does sanctuary involve?

God: It’s just like… Vibes, man. Can’t you meet me halfway here?

Housman: I don’t think the universe is doing a very good job. But before now, before speaking to you, I couldn’t have conceptualised it in those terms.

God: Could you say more?

Housman: I am stuck between anger, and sorrow, and love. I feel all of them so deeply it hurts. I thought this was my fault. Why have you done this? Is that sanctuary?

God: Like you, I am stuck between angels that I could not refuse. I hope you will forgive me.

Housman: This world happens to me, but it isn’t for me. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone it was for.

God: What would you have me do?

Housman: You want my honest opinion?

God: I do.

Housman: Too many cooks in the kitchens of heaven. Could you and your celestial comrades just like, fuck off please? I don’t think we’ll handle it very well on our own. But you haven’t been doing a very good job either.

God: Then

Go: I

G: Sh

:

In the beginning, there was a big bang.