#skinner meme: is it my training

[themountainsays]

(CRUELLA SPOILERS AHEAD)

Ok ok i'm not done. There's this one criticism of the Cruella movie that I find increasingly frustrating and it comes down to a disdain for the very existance of such a film.

"Why do all villains need to have a tragic backstory or a complicated motivation? Why can't they just be evil for the sake of being evil?"

You know. As if people didn't have a problem with villains being one-dimensional pieces of cardboard before. As if character development wasn't celebrated by everyone and their mom. As if nobody protested one-dimensional characters and demanded depth. Now that Disney listened and said "Got it!" and took note for their following movies, everyone is complaining their characters have too much personality now. God forbid not everyone who's happy and healthy in real life was born as unhinged as to skin puppies on a whim. God forbid writers aim for realism when developing their characters. God forbid Disney wants it's live action adaptation to be less cartoony.

There's absolutely nothing wrong with villains having any semblance of an explanation for their cruelty! It's clear you guys like it when the villain in question is Zuko or Catra or Azula or even Maleficent, who as far as I remember was better received. And i understand Zuko's character could put all Disney movies to shame, that's not what i'm talking about. Ya'll had no idea how Disney was gonna handle Cruella's batshittery in the film just from watching a trailer. It's not about the quality of the villain themselves. It's that suddenly, for some reason, people became averse to villains with a backstory (as if characters in general having a backstory wasn't the norm) and demand to go back to their cartoon carboard villains.

And look, I understand some villains don't need a personality. Ozai from AtLA wasn't a particularly deep person, but Ozai was more of a symbol of colonialism than his own character. Colonialism isn't evil because it's dad was mean to it. It's just something evil you need to get rid of. I could list a thousand examples like this one.

But these kinds of villains have their time and place and when your story is about a character's descent into evil, then they HAVE to have a certain level of development. There's no fun in watching a character become evil if they already eat puppies for breakfast and always have simply because they're °○☆~evil~°○☆. And if THAT is what bothers you, the fact that the writers even dared to tell a story about Disney's most batshit villain, then you're not addressing the quality of the writing! You're just mad the story isn't what you would have written yourself! That's not serious critique! If it makes you so mad don't watch it!

There are problems with the writing in Cruella, yes. I think her descent into madness and evil could have been better handled. But jesus i'm not mad at the writers for daring to try! We should analyze the message they intended to send, where they succeded and where they failed at that instead of complaining there's a movie about Cruella de Vil at all.

Plus?? I think people are approaching the text in bad faith. Okay. Okay, this is another criticism that bothers me:

"Cruella wants to skin dalmatian puppies because her mom was killed by dalmatians (and this is bad)".

This. This is the most cartoonish interpretation of the text you could come up with. Its a Dr. Doofenshmirtz backstory. And while I think there's more to it than that, if this is what you take away from the film, then why are you complaining? Cruella hates dalmatians because dalmatians killed her mom. Here is your one dimensional cartoo villain backstory! Do you want your cartoon one dimensional villains or not? Because no one complains when cartoon villains have backstories with the depth of a puddle.

And i don't even think this is what the writers were going for! Cruella watched dalmatians kill her mom. Dalmatians were the weapon the Baroness used to commit the crime. Girl has a trauma with dalmatians. It's not a simple dalmatians killed mom -> I want to kill dalmatians. It's less rational. More unhinged. Cruella is a bit mad in case you haven't noticed. I think the place dalmatians have in the narrative makes sense, actually. Through the story, Dalmatians haunt her and she tries in more than one ocassion to have control over them, and this thematically mirrors her gaining the upper hand over the Baroness. By the end of the film, she's able to control the very same dogs that killed her mother. She's in power. She's no longer scared of dalmatians. And we know she's later going to go and skin dalmatian puppies! It's the culmination of her character arc as a villain. It makes perfect sense to me. Its use of dalmatians one of the film's strenghts. The fact ya'll treat it as a meme strikes me as jumping onto the Cruella Hate bandwagon because your mutual laughed at this, so it must be funny. But personally? The silliness is flying over my head. It doesn't seem strange to me at all.

Plus, she clearly had a cruel side as a child, with no explanation or justification. She was just a mean kid. There you have your cartoon villain with no backstory.

And one more thing, and this one really makes me scream into the pillow:

"Disney wants to make the puppy skinner more human and sympathetic."

Holy shit what kind of Twilight-induced satanic panic room did these girls who aren't like other girls came from? Movies aren't trying to teach you morality. Cruella doesn't want you to sympathize with a puppy killer because puppy skinning is good actually. They just want to give you screentime of an evil lady being evil. And when it does make you sympathize with her, it's on perfectly acceptable matters. Like the Baroness insulting Cruella's mother, killing her etc. Cruella wants revenge. And even if you're sick of Cruella, you want revenge too. You want to see the Baroness suffer. Sooo you kinda do root for Cruella on this one. Cruella and the viewer share a common interest. Because God forbid we write villains with sympathetic motivations among their more unjustifiable ones.

No dude Disney doesn't want you to think skinning puppies is good. Is this what paranoid twilight parents did to society? Do we assume films are trying to teach us how to live our lives now?

And Cruella's story is clearly not about girlbossifying her. During the very beginning you see her mother begging her to keep her cruel side (nicknamed "cruella") inside as to not hurt others. She wants her to be Stella, her more loveable side. This isn't like, a Frozen case in which parents repress the child's true self or whatever. Lots of kids are little shits and are told not to take their anger out on others. Repressing "Cruella" is presented as a good thing.

Then Cruella talks about honoring and avenging her mother, being someone she'd be proud of etc etc. She may have mentioned at some point being unable to do so and openly embracing her "evil side", but if she did i can't remember. Ignore this point if that's the case. But as she pursues her goals, she takes on Cruella's persona more and more, eventually killing Stella and becoming Cruella full time. And she seems happy but the viewer who remembers what her mother said and is aware Cruella insists she's doing this for her mother's sake, will realize her happiness and fulfillment are misguided. Cruella becoming Cruella isn't portrayes as a good thing. And the movie ends with her feeling satisfied even though she spent the whole movie going against her mother's wishes and insisting she was making her happy. She doesn't even realize. It's a tragedy IT'S LITERALLY HER VILLAIN ORIGIN STORY

I'm getting distracted. I wanted to wrap up sharing why I think people hate the fact a Cruella movie as much as exists. It's because nothing is ever good enough for people! Because hating Disney is cool and trendy! Everyone hop onto the Disney Hate train! Nothing Disney does could possibly not suck. It sucks by virtue of being a Disney Live Action adaptation. Even though, by telling it's own original story, i'd compare Cruella more to Maleficent than to any other recent Disney live action film. But, you know. No one wants to be convinced skinning puppies is good actually.

Or to watch the movie before shitting on it at the very least

#cruella #ya'll skip the 'watching' part of hate-watchint #please at least watch it before blindly whining please 😭 #cruella spoilers

[luthienebonyx]

Can I have B, K and Q for the fanfic ask meme, please?

Fanfic ask meme

B: Any of your stories inspired by personal experience?

My stories come from the characters first, but there is also stuff in them that comes from personal experience. The Aussie coffee verse is set in some very specific places that I have visited more than once in the past. The Personal Touch takes a little from my own experiences with various kinds of physical therapy (though I never had that sort of relationship with any of my therapists!). In the past I’ve written stories that included stuff like bodysurfing, which I know about from growing up by the beach. There are other little bits and pieces of personal experience littered through my fic, but they’re generally not anything particularly important.

I guess History Never Repeats has potentially the biggest part of my real life in it, because I’ve given Brienne the profession that used to be mine, a long time ago. That was inspired partly because lately I’ve been encountering fiction in various media that keeps portraying that profession as the most boring job in the world/a cover for something ‘more interesting’/something done by unhinged megalomaniacs before they go completely off the rails. And yes, while I have met the odd unhinged megalomaniac in that profession, I wanted to present it in a more true way - so we’ll see what happens as the story progresses!

K: What's the angstiest idea you've ever come up with?

In my reply to one of the other asks, I mentioned that I’d written a major character death in a HP fic, long, long ago. That was The Rain Keeps Falling. I doubt anything I’ve written since tops that in the angst stakes, though one or two things have come close. When it was originally posted on LJ, it got several pages of comments that were pretty much all variations on: Your story made me cry. Still proud...

Q: Do you have any discarded scenes/storylines/projects?

Oh, loads of them. Most are handwritten in notebooks, but just a quick look through my googledocs shows ones I may yet get to, like the rockstar/musician AU, and ones I’d forgotten all about, like “angry sex draft” - whatever the hell that was supposed to be. Here is a bit from a half-written Rivers of London story called Stripping Off, which will never be finished because the canon has now moved on from the moment in which the story is set:

Nightingale always dresses well, in a strictly first-half-of-the-twentieth-century kind of way. It was one of the first things I noticed about him, that night we met in Covent Garden, and not just because, as a police officer, I’m trained to notice distinguishing details just in case they might be needed later. I thought he was going to try to pick me up, if I’m being honest. And it turned out I was right that he had an interest in me, but not in the way I thought.

He was wearing one of his beautifully tailored suits the first time I saw him, a bespoke number courtesy of Dege & Skinner, Savile Row, established 1865 - like all of his suits and most of his shirts, as I later found out. The perfect fit of his suits draws subtle attention to the width of his shoulders before nipping in closely at the waist. His shoes are handmade, because of course they are, by Crockett & Jones in Jermyn Street, which is handily situated just a few streets away from Savile Row and has been in business nearly as long as Dege & Skinner. And he carries a silver-topped cane, which fits the whole pre-war man about town aesthetic, but its origins and uses are… well, let’s just say that those are a bit more esoteric.

Nightingale’s entire look, not forgetting his Burberry coat, was more than familiar to me by the time I’d spent a year or two at the Folly, so I’m really not sure why his new driving gloves came as any sort of surprise – but they did.

Gloves of all sorts are a necessary evil in our line of work, but of course Nightingale’s driving gloves were nothing like anything that comes as police standard issue. They were made of thin, high quality brown leather, very supple, with ventilation holes along the knuckles, and lined with some sort of soft wool fabric – probably cashmere. But the day came when the quality of the materials and workmanship couldn’t disguise how well-worn Nightingale's gloves were. Not even Molly’s careful ministrations could make them look even remotely at their best, so eventually Nightingale bit the bullet and ordered – probably from some fifth generation family business with an ampersand in its name – a new pair of driving gloves.

I didn't even know that Nightingale had finally got… I'm sorry, procured, the new gloves until the first time we took the Ferrari for a spin, the one that used to belong to the practitioner formerly known as the Faceless Man and recently revealed to be one Martin Chorley. I'd been itching to take the Ferrari for a test drive since the moment it was impounded in the garage at the Folly, awaiting 'evaluation'. Nightingale still hardly ever lets me drive his Jag by myself, though - one of these days I'll actually get to the top of the priority list for that advanced driving test, but I'm not holding my breath - so I didn't bother asking if there'd be any chance that I could take the Ferrari out without him. Fortunately, he was almost as keen as I was to find out what the Ferrari could do.

I was vaguely aware that Nightingale was wearing his new gloves when he turned the key in the ignition, but at the time most of my attention was on the way the engine effortlessly purred into life. Russell Square isn't exactly the best place to drive, well, anything, let alone a Ferrari, so I waited as patiently as I could while Nightingale negotiated the London traffic and pointed us in the general direction of Oxford.

We were on our way to visit Professor Postmartin, a typical, even stereotypical Oxford don in every way, except that he moonlights as the official archivist for the Folly. He'd phoned the day before to let us know that he'd discovered some uncatalogued volumes in a hat box in a forgotten cupboard at the top of a cobwebbed spiral staircase - or somewhere like that - and he wanted us - well, Nightingale - to take a look at them.

"There's no great rush, Thomas. You can look them over the next time something brings you up to Oxford," Postmartin said.

Nightingale and I exchanged a look at that - he had speakerphone turned on, wonder of wonders, though it's possible he'd just hit the button by mistake - and decided without a word being said that the Ferrari was the thing that would bring us to Oxford.

The thing about being a passenger in a Ferrari? It's totally different to driving one. Those cars were designed for speed before anything else, which means a stiff suspension, thin tyres, and cutting back on extraneous extras like much in the way of padding beneath the beautifully finished black nero leather upholstery. All of which is fine if you're sat behind the wheel and feeling the thing rumble into life beneath your hands, and then having it do your bidding with every tiny change of course. But when you're in the passenger seat you feel it rumble to life beneath your arse, and you feel every. single. dip and pothole.

Apparently, my idea of patience is somewhat different from Nightingale's, because we hadn't even made it as far as the M40 when he glanced at me and suggested that perhaps I could find some way of keeping myself occupied on my phone until we got out of London.

I realised I'd been drumming my fingers on the leather-lined passenger door, and hastily returned my hand to my lap, trying to look the picture of innocence. It turns out that I'm no better at that than I am at pretending to be patient, because Nightingale snorted - actually snorted! - softly before he returned his attention to the road.

I really was intending to do what Nightingale had 'suggested', and I shifted in the seat so that I could reach into my pocket for my phone, but just as I did, Nightingale's arm moved and caught my eye - and I forgot to breathe.

I honestly didn't know why. I'd seen Nightingale drive before, many times. It should have been such an ordinary movement that I didn't even consciously register it, but his hand flexed as it closed around the gear stick and I swallowed. Hard. I probably should have looked away then. Okay, I definitely should have looked away then, but instead I took my first proper look at Nightingale's new driving gloves.

The new gloves were similar to the old ones, except in every way that they weren't. They were soft, high quality leather, and covered his hands as if… well, they had been made for him,  but where the old ones were a worn brown, these were midnight black. At least, they were on the part that covered the back of his hand. Underneath, on the palm, they were smooth red leather. Not the fire brick red of the Ferrari's paint job; Nightingale wouldn't be caught dead wearing such a flashy colour. No, the leather of the gloves was a few shades darker than the red of the Ferrari, but there was no denying that the new gloves fitted this car - just as the old gloves had been a perfect fit with the brown leather upholstery and wooden trim in the Jaguar, I realised.

And damn, did they fit Nightingale.

I choked on the thought in utter horror before I even got to the end of it, and quickly turned it into a coughing fit. I hadn't really… had I? About my governor? About Nightingale?

"Everything all right, Peter?" Nightingale asked in mild concern.

I nodded, my eyes watering as I croaked out a not very convincing, "Fine." I reached down into the bag of supplies at my feet to see what Molly had packed for us. Anything not to have to look Nightingale in the face right then. Suddenly, being in the Ferrari was absolutely the last place I wanted to be.

#fanfic ask meme #intoni

[szopenhauer]

Walking into a party, what’s the first thing you look for? someone I know lmfao also a toilet Who was the last person you ate with? my mom, sister and niece

What do you do when you’ve had a bad day? depends Kiss on the first date? maybe Have you ever had a best friend who was of the opposite sex? yes Are you too shy to tell people when you’re developing feelings for them? wouldn’t say so If you could pack up and leave to move away, would you? yeah Do you wish you were with someone right now? I wish my dad was already home and everybody else OUT or just leave me alone, I wouldn’t mind my gf’s company much either How many more people do you think you’ll kiss before you die? nobody else unless CPR will count if I will ever need it Do you like messing with people when they’re drunk? nothing rude/dangerous  Whats a song you absolutely hate? Gangnam style for example Your opinions on bi people? most of them end up in heterosexual relationships anyway because it’s easier  Song playing right now? Melanie Martinez songs Has anyone ever mistaken you for someone else? my mom and sister

What color dominates your wardrobe? dunno

Do you prefer color photos or black-and white? color, black and white or sepia only if they’re really old - elseway they usually remind me of death What color is your house? What about car? white What color “emotion” are you feeling right now? I’m feeling blue? Have you ever seen a double rainbow before? yep, even this year Do you own anything that is rainbow-colored? like one item that I don’t even use anymore Do you enjoy coloring? not really

If you had the chance to get the cast of any canceled tv show back together to make one “reunion” season, would you? Or do you think it’s better remembering it the way it was? If so, what show would you choose? BUFFY!

Do you find music helps you sleep? Which type of music do you sleep to? recently it helps me survive until I feel sleepy enough to not overthink/cry/get anxiety attacks

Would you try to hold back your tears if you were attending a funeral? I didn’t cry but I believe it depends on who’s funeral it is

If you could be one age forever, how old would you be? I just want to be a kid

Do you have a particular shoe brand you favor over others? nah

If you had the choice, what would your final words be? telling my loved ones that I love them

What is one thing you always wanted as a child, but never received? big stuffed black panther and a treehouse mostly

What social situations tend to make you most nervous?  all of them?...

What is one medical myth you’re tired of hearing? for an example that severe illnesses are visible all the damn time

Do you like making up nicknames for people? love, they’re catchy and other ppl start to use them to :D

Delete a year of your life, or start over in a new town? deleting one year wouldn’t help unless it was a year I was born like in Shrek movie...

What do you call your grand-parents? babcia 

What’s your favorite song by Taylor Swift? Why is that your favorite? the only one I liked was Bad blood mostly because of the music video

What do you think about your hair right now? ugh...

Do you do your homework at the last minute? oh well...

Would you rather get a new brother or sister? new as in a way of replacement or another?

Have you ever used a Polaroid camera? I wanna buy one someday

What is your favorite thing to do online? lots 

Have you ever gone to see a movie just to make fun of it? that’s stupid

Would you rather watch Family Guy or South Park? Simpsons

Does it bother you when people wear pajamas out? I’d do that myself :3

Have you ever tried online dating? How did it go? I tried and every single “relationship” failed, not that there were many of them, I met plenty of people that I wish I didn’t tho

Who was the last person you took a picture with? my sister and niece but shadows only 

Do your parents allow smoking in your house? nooo

Is your last name shorter than your first name? longer

Last two numbers in your phone number? personal

Who’s in your house? my fam just went to the garden and I have a moment of silence, finally

What magazine(s) do you look at the most? interior design

Are you paranoid? kind of

What item should never be shared? toothbrush, bloody period pad, underwear, towel, used piece of toilet paper, gum that someone already had in their mouth etc.

Do you sleep with a fan on? I don’t even own a fan

How many plants are in your home? too many

Do you ever type “kik” instead of “lol”? it never happened :o

Do you know how to play chess? forgot

Are you picky? about some stuff, sure

How tall is the person you like?  tall, much taller than me

Are you excited for winter? if I was then only for Christmas or New year eventually my birthday but it’s doubtful

If it was free and it would work perfectly, would you get plastic surgery? but it ain’t safe and painless etc.

Have you ever been called prince or princess? I dislike that

Do you like your body? pfft

What do you hear right now? dog barking

Last thing you wrote your name on? documents 

Where did you get the pants you’re wearing right now? I don’t even remember anymore

When is the next time you will see your grandma? ...

What is it tomorrow? Sunday

Have you ever laughed at someone because they had a funny name? not face to face, I heard some funny names during mass or my mom told me about them and I saw some online or in movie credits Speaking of names, why do celebrities always call their kids stupid ones? to be unique If you have a problem with someone, will you confront them? maybe

Are you more likely to be called a hard worker or lazy? lazy What is your sense of humor like? quite dark, sarcastic, dry, witty, puns, daddy jokes, memes Have you ever had a dream in black and white? I don’t recall What about a dream with no sound? it’s possible What types of people do you tend to avoid? ... all of them? What is one personality trait a potential friend must have? understanding and similar sense of humor Have you ever been in a helicopter? no What color car would you like to have? DeLorean is grey but if I had a jeep then yellow, red, gree, black or silver

What is your favorite mode of travelling? on foot or train, definitely not plane Are your favorite characters often what the majority like? I hardly ever like the main character so I doubt it but who knows? Is it dark outside right now? not yet Do you get scared when it’s a full moon? when I’m outside it’s bothering If you travel anywhere, do you always buy souvenirs for people? often Are you waiting on anyone coming home right now? YES Do you like the way your voice sounds? nope Can you see the stars from your house? not currently but at night - if it’s not cloudy - yup How would you react if your favorite band made a song with your first name as its title? awesome! unless it was real bad Are you considered an awkward person? it seems Is there a light on in the room you’re in? too bright for that  What day were you born on? Saturday, my mom said I shouldn’t be lazy then but I responded with - I was half an hour late for Friday Do you like having a favorite everything or do you enjoy keeping open? I often say I have a lot of favorites of things as I have a hard time choosing just one for most of them

How often do you feel pressured to be better than or different than you are? For example, how often do you feel pressured to be skinner, tanner, prettier, etc? Keep in mind that pressure doesn’t always have to come from others; In fact, we can put a lot of pressure on ourselves. ugh...

Would you rather it snow for three days or rain for a week? rain for a week if it didn’t cause the flood 

Have you ever changed the look of a survey because you didn’t like the way it was presented? This can even include adding or deleting numbers to the questions. many times

Does it bother you when surveys ask questions that Google could answer? I agree

When is the last time you had a cell phone that wasn’t a smartphone, if ever? 3 years ago

Do you know anyone who can speak more than 5 languages fluently? noooo

Would you rather write an essay on global warming or UFOs? UFO

Do you like sailing? When was the last time you went, if at all? never been and don’t wanna Favourite Pokemon? Mimikyu and Pikachu Do you or have you done martial arts? Which type? karate, self defence

Favorite animal. raccoon

Any turn ons? personal

3 most important people in your life right now? my dad, my gf and my mom

Do you respond to texts quickly? depends

Who was the last person you called? dad

Winter or summer? summer

What is the secret to a happy life? good health, enough money, peace and quiet, either no people around or only good ones, no worries/problems

What are some phrases/words you say often? MAYBE

What are some of your greatest fears? personal

Spicy food:Like or dislike? my stomach doesn’t like spicy food

Do you like to travel? nope

Do you like rain? yup

Would you rather visit the past or the future? future to see if it’s worth living for - past if not to enjoy once more what I lost

How often do you go to parties?  never?...

Do you think you’re ambitious? I know I’m not

What makes you nervous? what doesn’t?...

First mobile phone? grey Siemens

Do you like sharing? sharing what?

What was the last picture you took with your phone? single tiny cloud

If you had one word to describe yourself, what would it be? ME

Are you more creative or logical? why can’t I be both?

Would you rather lie or hurt someone with the truth? I don’t know anymore

When you imagine yourself as really, really relaxed and happy, what are you doing? sleeping well and having a good dream?

What is the best news you could hear right now? that I have no allergies

[chaotic-good-hawke]

For the OC Gift Meme (if you’re still accepting them): “For Astrid,” the note atop a crisply wrapped parcel reads in swooping cursive. “By now I’m certain you’re familiar with my aversion to deliberately hunting down elementally-charged flying lizards. However, the Highland Ravager that has settled in Emprise du Lion since we regrettably killed the last two is much closer to the village than my liking would permit. Which leads me to condone any expedition you and Bull may or may not (part 1)

Decide to partake in with efforts to remove the dragon. That said, within you’ll find two amulets I’ve overseen devising and charming into fire resistance myself. (Why have someone else craft what a pyromancer is fully capable of?) Also a bottle of some Dwarven whiskey Orzammar gifted us. I tried a sip from another bottle two nights ago. My liver is hardly forgiving. Happy Hunting—Kaaras.” (Part 2)

Okay, first off, thank you so much for sending this and promptingme to write about my disaster, zero-fucks-given daughter, Astrid Cadash. Buckle in, because this took a turn into a full on ficlet. 

Note: I am still taking these! Have your OC send my OC a gift and I will respond!

Astrid set the letter aside and looked at the two amulets.Standard looking, but, knowing the Inquisitor, they would be good quality.

“Hey, what’s the boss got to say.” Bull asked, his hand comingto rest against her bare back.

She turned to face him, sprawled out in his bedroll, his eyeheavy-lidded from their recent fucking. She was still pleasantly sore.

Paragon’s asses, she liked being fucked by him.

His hand was rubbing circles on her back, warm and, though shewould be loath to admit it, comforting.

She smirked, leaning in close. “We have a new assignment, ifwe want.” She said, running her rough hand down his chest.

He raised his eyebrow at her, waiting for her to continue.

“Ready to kill another dragon, Bull?” She finally said, herdeep voice teasing him.

Bull laughed. “Do you have to ask?”

“I don’t know, after that last fight…I thought you might bedone fighting dragons and want to retire.” She was teasing him, goading him. Itdidn’t take much for her to push all the right buttons. “You were a little slowin the last fight.”

Before she knew it, she was flipped on her back, Bull holdingher arms over her head. “Slow? Really…” He nipped at her throat, his breath ticklingon her skin. She just smirked up at him.

“Prove me wrong.” She challenged.

“Oh, I will…”

Round 3 of the night was well…fucking amazing.

**

The roar rocked the ancient stones around them, the beating ofgiant wings forcing Astrid to the ground, stabbing a dagger into the ground forsupport, to keep from being blown back.

Bull was closer, his great-axe doing damage to the beast’sforeleg. But right now, he had dug in, pulling Krem down with him against the artificialwinds.  

Dalish was at the back with Stitches, providing rangedsupport.

Rocky was somewhere, lobbing bombs at the thing from randomlocations.

Skinner and Grim were on the other side, attacking the backleg.

With another roar, the dragon stopped beating its wings,reaching out to slash at Bull and Krem. Krem blocked most of it with hisshield.

Astrid pulled back on her bow, calm settling over her as sheaimed. It was easy, reflexive. Taking a deep breath, she loosed her arrow, amoment later watching it sink into the edge of the dragon’s eye, just where shewanted it.

It reared back, screeching. Bull risked enough to look back ather and grin before charging forward, Krem right behind him. The dragon sent aburst of flame towards Bull, but luckily the amulet the Inquisitor had sendprevented the worst of the damage.

It seemed like hours, but they finally weakened the dragonenough. With a final swing of Bull’s axe, the dragon fell, sending a tremorthrough the ground.

“Taarsidath-an halsaam!” Bull bellowed in victory. Astrid justsmirked, hopping down from her perch to get closer. The rest of the Chargersjoined, high-fiving and cheering. A couple slapped her back as she walked byand she returned the favor, even she couldn’t keep a smile from her face. WhenBull saw her, he grinned. “Still think I’m slow?”

She punched him. “Reflexes still need work.”

He just gave a belly-laugh, “Oh, I will show you how good myreflexes are…” His grin took on a suggestive edge, his eyes burning her with theirintensity.

“You can fucking try.” She arched her brow in challenge.

In response, he picked her up, kissing her hungrily, she instinctivelywrapping her legs around him, reaching up to grasp his horns.  

“Get a room!” Krem shouted, followed by the other Charger’s playfullyribbing on them.

“Every fucking time we kill a dragon!” One of them yelled.

Bull laughed and set Astrid back down. “Chargers! Let’s openthe casks!”

A cheer went up.

A celebration was in order, but the look Bull gave her leftlittle doubt that they would pick up where they left off.

She couldn’t wait.  

**

Ale gone, whiskey gone, half the Chargers passed out. It was agood celebration that they mightremember in the morning.

Astrid was pleasantly buzzed, having kept up drink for drinkwith Bull, her cheeks flushed.

She looked around their rag-tag group, a group that she was begrudginglycoming to care about. Krem, Dalish, Skinner, Rocky, Stitches, Grim… She had toshake her head at that thought. The last one she cared about was Malika…fuckdamn, she hadn’t thought about her in ages, must be the whiskey.

And then there was Bull. The Iron Bull. The best fuckingpartner she could ask for…the best fuckingpartner, too.  

His eye was trained on his people, protecting them even intheir revelry.

Without her normal inhibitions, she found herself smiling atthe sight. Once she realized, she frowned, clenching her jaw. Her thoughts wereverging into dangerous territory.

Iron Bull. A man who could kill a dragon, but was secretly,not-so-secretly the biggest softy she had ever met. How he ever survived the Qun…

She rubbed her brow, trying to force her thoughts away, butthey kept circling back to him, to Bull. His raw strength with an axe, hismuscles, his technique…

His love of hot chocolate, the way his eye would crinkle upwhen he laughs, his unerring protective nature, the way he looked at her and madeher feel like she mattered…

FUCK!

She gritted her teeth, trying to fight away the feelings thatwere building. Cursed, traitorous feelings.

“Your tent or mine?” Bull’s voice broke through, her eyesmeeting his. There was desire there, oh yes, but there was care, affection…love?

Fuck.

The way he saw though her, giving her just what she needed,but never asking for more than she was willing to give…Paragon’s asses, did she…?

“Mine,” she said, standing up and stretching, not wanting himto see her face, to see her realization.

She loved him. For whatever the fuck that meant, she loved Bull.

“Chargers! Sleep it off!” A sporadic bunch of mumbles answeredhim, Krem actually managing to raise a fist in response.

As she led the way to her tent, the thought kept echoingthrough her mind.

I love him. I love him. I love him.

What the fuck was shesupposed to do now?  

#thank you for sending this!!! #Astrid Cadash #my writing #dragon age #au #mutuals! #my OC #the iron bull #dragon age inquisition #kaaras adaar #Bull made her have feelings! #I know this doesn't really respond to Kaaras...but then I send you Astrid's gift and reply #She isn't good with feelings #people caring for her what is that about? #but thank you truly for prompting me to write her #she says fuck a lot #iron bull x inquisitor

[sunflowerseedsandscience]

Au Cafe Pequod: Chapter One

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE EARLY DECEMBER 1943

He has been coming to this tiny corner cafe every night for weeks, and every time he's here, he notices something new about her.

At first, it's superficial things, general things anyone would notice: the red of her hair, the way it constantly tries to escape the kerchief she often ties over it, her narrow waist with her apron cinched around it, her tiny size, the way she barely comes up to his shoulder in the low heels she wears to work.

Later, it's smaller things: the intense blue of her eyes, the little mole above her lip, the girlish dusting of freckles across her nose, the thin brows that arch so expressively.

Now, after two weeks' nightly observation, he's begun cataloguing more minute details. She is markedly cool to the many German officers who frequent her cafe, but never rude, which is wise. Her business is surprisingly well-stocked with provisions, especially given the current food shortages that abound, so she must be a resourceful and savvy businesswoman. He's well aware that many women throughout occupied France have reached "arrangements" with German officers in a desperate attempt to feed their families, but she does not appear to have resorted to such measures. He's heard her addressed by locals as "Mademoiselle Scully," which intrigues him, because Scully is not a French name.

And judging by the way her jaw clenches every time the soldiers dining in her cafe make crude remarks to one another regarding the lovely shape of her ass, he's fairly certain she speaks quite a bit more German than she lets on.

The cafe itself is relatively nondescript, a small establishment in an equally small town. It sits on the corner of the high street, an awning covering a handful of outdoor tables that stand deserted in the winter chill. The swinging sign above the door is white, wooden, and carved in the shape of a whale, bearing the name "Cafe Pequod." He's well-read, quite familiar with Melville's novel, and he'd love to find out how this rustic little restaurant ended up being named for Captain Ahab's famous ship.

Obersoldat Fox Mueller- or Mulder, depending on who you ask- has been in one part of occupied France or another for over three years now, since being on the front lines of the Wehrmacht as it pushed its way into the country. First it was Reims, then Vichy, then Dijon, then Limoges, and now, for the past month, it's been Oradour-sur-Glane. Mulder had thought the worst was over once he was no longer in battle... but in reality, the horrors were only beginning.

Mulder has witnessed true atrocities as a part of the invading army. France has been forced by Germany to pay for its own occupation, and the resulting food shortages are slowly but surely starving many of the country's citizens. Mulder has seen "undesirables" being rounded up, rooted out of hiding, beaten, shot, herded onto trains and shipped to what he knows will be a slow and horrible death. The Resistance has been a constant thorn in the Wehrmacht's side, and in retaliation, Mulder has seen innocent French citizens abducted, starved, and tortured.

He is not sure how much longer he can go on. He had never planned to remain alive this far into the war.

The Mulder family changed its name to Mueller some three or four generations earlier, when they emigrated from their Dutch homeland and re-established themselves in Berlin. Fox had defiantly written "Mulder" on his conscription paperwork, reasoning that in spite of his parents' determination to ignore the past at all costs, he was equally determined to hang onto it. It is as much rebellion as he has been able to muster the strength for, and as he was assigned to a unit commanded by his father's closest friend, who will not refer to him as anything but "Mueller," it has been largely lost. Mulder's captain, on the other hand, a strict but fair man who lacks the predilection for cruelty so evident in their commander, is more than happy to refer to Mulder by any name he wishes, and he counts this as a victory.

Mulder's captain, Hauptmann Walther Skinner, can frequently be found at the Cafe Pequod, though he is not present this evening. Mulder finds himself wishing Skinner were here, because tonight's gathering of soldiers is proving to be rowdier than usual, and he doesn't like the looks some of them are throwing the harried Miss Scully as she threads her way through the tables. One of them, an ugly little troll Mulder knows by sight but not by name, actually reaches out and tries to grab her backside as she passes en route to Mulder's table with his latest cup of coffee. She whirls around, pinning the man (who seems to have visited the tavern before coming here) with a glare so icy, Mulder is surprised the man's cappuccino doesn't freeze in its cup. "Vous garderez vos mains a vous-meme," she snaps, and then switches to German for emphasis. "Do not touch me." She turns and continues to Mulder's table without sparing the man or his companions a second glance. "Votre cafe, Monsieur," she says, her fury effortlessly switched off, her formerly cool and detached manner reigning supreme once more.

"Is that man troubling you?" Mulder asks, his French perfect, his accent almost nonexistent. She raises her eyebrows in surprise. They have barely exchanged ten words until tonight, and always pertaining to his order, nothing more.

"It's nothing I can't handle," she responds with a shrug of her shoulders, and she leaves before Mulder can think of something to say to get her to linger. In her absence he lapses back into brooding silence, watching Miss Scully as she winds her way through the tables, staring blankly out the windows into the cold December night whenever she disappears into the kitchen. The cafe begins to empty slowly around him as the hour grows later, until finally, the only patrons left are Mulder, the troll-faced soldier (who is loudly extolling the virtues of French prostitutes), and three of his companions.

"That's the thing about France now," he's saying, his face red with drink. "When it comes to French women, there's no difference between the whores and the rest of them. This whole country's spread its legs for us, it's ours for the taking!" Scully is facing Mulder, clearing off a table halfway between him and the men, and the way she squares her shoulders at these words removes any remaining doubt in his mind that she understands German. She looks up, catching his eye, her face full, for a moment, of an unfathomable sadness.

"Ashamed" is far too mild a word for what he feels right now.

She turns away, her arms laden with dirty plates and mugs, and heads for the kitchen again, passing by the soldiers, who are laughing loudly at their comrade's crude remarks. Suddenly, the man stands and reaches out, grabbing her around the waist, sending her armload of crockery crashing to the floor as she is yanked back towards the table, landing in her attacker's lap as he resumes his seat.

"Take this one, for example," he says, as she struggles to free herself. "She's turned down every man in here, but when her precious little cafe runs out of supplies, she'll come running. It's all in knowing what they-" But this is as far as he gets before Mulder, a red haze of fury clouding his vision, charges across the cafe and breaks the man's nose with a single well-placed punch. Miss Scully springs free as the man falls backwards in his chair, and Mulder stands over him, fists up, ready to bodily throw this pitiful excuse for a human being out of the cafe if he proves unwilling to leave on his own.

It's a noble, valiant thought, but in conceiving it, Mulder forgot to take the man's companions into account, a fact that occurs to him just as one of them breaks a wine bottle over the back of his head, and the world goes dark.

--------

Bright sunlight assaults his eyes when he wakes, and at first, he can see little. He's aware of lying on a soft surface, far too soft to be his cot at the encampment. There is a dull, throbbing ache at the back of his head, and a piercing pain somewhere above his right eyebrow. It takes a moment for him to realize that the pitiful moaning noise he hears is coming from his own throat.

"Shhhh." A soft hand strokes the uninjured side of his brow. "It's all right," says a gentle voice, in French. He recognizes it immediately, struggles to sit up. A firm hand on his chest stops him. "Just relax," she says. "You've been out cold all night." As his vision adjusts to the bright light, he can make out a pair of impossibly blue eyes set in a pale face. He closes his eyes and swallows hard.

"Mademoiselle," he croaks. His throat is incredibly dry. "Where am I?"

"You're in my apartment, above the cafe," she says. "Do you remember anything from last night?" Mulder closes his eyes. A series of disjointed images come to him slowly- the drunken soldier grabbing Scully, the satisfying crack of his nose under Mulder's knuckles, the blow to his head... then, much more fuzzy, the memory of leaning on the much smaller woman's shoulders, staggering up a dimly lit staircase. As he looks around, his surroundings begin to come into focus. He is lying on a sofa in a small, cozy sitting room, bright sunlight pouring in through tall, thin windows. Scully is sitting on the edge of the sofa, and when she sees his throat working as he struggles to form words, she reaches over and retrieves a glass of water from a nearby table, holding it to his lips.

"Just a little at a time," she cautions him, as he tries to guzzle the full contents at once. "With a head injury, you could be nauseous." He continues to try to sit up, and she removes the glass and supports his shoulders until he's steady. He can feel the warmth of her small hands through the back of his undershirt- his uniform jacket has been stripped off- and he feels the loss when she moves them back to her lap. He tries to swing his legs down onto the floor, but she stops him. "You should rest longer," she says. "That was quite the blow to the head you took, and you hit the other side on your way down, as well."

"Is that what I feel on my forehead?" he asks. He reaches up and touches a strip of bandage wrapped around his head. Scully nods.

"You caught the edge of a chair as you fell," she says. "I had to put in a few sutures. You were quite unconscious by then, thankfully." Mulder looks up at her in surprise.

"You're a nurse?"

"A doctor," she corrects him. "I studied medicine in Paris, before the war." His surprise must be evident on his face, because she immediately admonishes him, "There's no need to look so shocked."

"I'm impressed, not shocked," he says. "I promise." She smiles at him, and his breath catches in his throat. For a moment, the pounding in his head recedes.

She is breathtaking.

"So how did you end up running this place?" Mulder asks. "Instead of practicing medicine?" He hopes the question is not too personal, but Scully doesn't seem to mind his asking.

"My mother owns this cafe," she says. "She became ill about five years ago, and none of my siblings were able to be here to care for her. And once she'd recovered...." Scully sighs, looking out the windows pensively. "I don't think she feels safe working here, not now. After last night I'm sure you can see why."

"I am so, so sorry for what happened," says Mulder. "That man's actions were inexcusable and I feel terrible that that happened to you."

"My understanding, from whatever history I've studied, is that this is what an invading force does," she says with an offhanded shrug, looking away from him. And you are a part of that invading force, she doesn't say, but he hears it as clearly as if she had.

"That doesn't mean I agree with it," he says. She arches her left eyebrow skeptically.

"You volunteered for this duty?" she asks pointedly. "Or were you conscripted?"

"Conscripted," he says firmly. "And assigned to this unit against my strong protests, because the commander is a friend of my father's. I wanted to serve at a military hospital instead." The right eyebrow joins its mate on her forehead.

"You're a doctor as well?"

"A psychologist," he says. He catches sight of the clock on her mantlepiece and groans. "I need to get back to the encampment," he says. "I've missed the morning roll call, they'll think I've taken off." He swings his legs to the floor and spies his boots next to the couch. He begins lacing them up. Scully stands and retrieves his uniform shirt from a nearby chair, handing it to him.

"I'll come with you," she says. "And explain to your captain the reason for your absence. You're under Hauptmann Skinner, correct?" He looks up at her, surprised.

"How do you know that?" he asks.

"He speaks with you when he comes here," she says. "I've overheard you once or twice. He seems a very even-headed man; I'm sure he'll understand once I explain what happened."

"You don't have to do that," says Mulder. The idea of her coming into the encampment, being around the same men who attacked her last night, frightens him.

"I want to," she says, and she smiles at him again. "Your knight in shining armor routine was quite dashing last night. Making sure you don't get in any more trouble for it is the least I can do." Mulder grins.

"It seems a bit late for introductions, now that you've already taken off my shirt and boots," he says, and she blushes, "but my name's Fox Mulder." She raises her eyebrows.

"Fox?"

"Don't ask. Best to just go with Mulder."

"Dana Scully," she says, reaching out to shake his hand. "Pleased to meet you."

"How does a Frenchwoman come by such a thoroughly un-French name?" asks Mulder.

"By having an American sailor for a father," says Scully.

"Ahhh," he says. "Wartime romance?"

"He swept my mother right off her feet," says Scully. "But that's a story for another time, I think. We need to get you back to your encampment before someone comes looking for you." She helps him slowly to his feet, still holding his hand in hers. He's wondering how long she'll allow him this familiarity, but she lets go as soon as he finds his footing. He's unsteady at first, but she is patient, and together they slowly make their way downstairs and out into the cold December morning.

----------

The encampment lies just outside the western edge of town, spread out over a farm that had been confiscated when the region had fallen to Germany. The unit commander and his staff have taken over the farmhouse; the tents of the captains and their men surround it. Mulder leads Scully to his own unit, determinedly ignoring the stares and whistles of the men around him, and finds Skinner sitting outside of his tent, reading a letter. He stands as Mulder approaches, his face unreadable. Mulder salutes him.

"Obersoldat Mulder," he says gruffly. "I was told you were involved in an incident last night."

"Yes, Sir, I was."

"I understand that you assaulted another officer- that you broke his nose- because you were jealous of the attentions he was receiving from a local woman." Mulder and Scully look at one another, eyebrows raised. "I take it that's not quite accurate?"

"No, Sir, not at all," says Mulder.

"Herr Skinner, Obersoldat Mulder defended me last night when another soldier made unwelcome physical advances. He was injured when one of that soldier's friends hit him over the head with a bottle, and I kept him overnight at my cafe to suture his wounds and care for him." Skinner says nothing, only looks back and forth between their faces, as though weighing the validity of their version of events. Finally, he nods curtly.

"Very well," he says. "Mulder, keep that wound clean. I don't feel like losing you to something as stupid as infection, not when you're so determined to find a thousand other stupid ways to die."

"Yes, Sir," says Mulder, smiling slightly in spite of himself.

"And Fraulein Scully," Skinner continues, turning to her, "rest assured that the soldier who bothered you will not be returning to your establishment. If he does, please let me know immediately." He glances at Mulder. "Or perhaps Obersoldat Mulder will keep me informed, since I'm sure he'll continue to haunt that back table nightly." Mulder ducks his head sheepishly.

"I suppose I'll see you soon, then, Mulder," says Scully, smiling warmly at him.

"Count on it, Miss Scully," he says. She laughs.

"I think we'd better make it just Scully, if you're going to make me call you Mulder," she says. "And you should be off your feet for at least awhile yet. That was a nasty knock on the head."

"You heard her, Mulder," says Skinner. "I'll escort Fraulein Scully back to the cafe. Get yourself back to your tent immediately."

Perhaps it's the lingering aftereffects of the head injury, but Mulder makes it all the way back to his tent and is lying on his cot before he realizes that the entire conversation between himself, Scully, and Skinner had been conducted entirely in German. His earlier suspicion was correct: she is completely fluent, and hiding it from most of her customers.

Mulder is drifting off to sleep before he comes to a second realization: none of this was at all a surprise to Hauptmann Skinner.

Next chapter >

#My fic #GOD it feels weird to see this version again

[theliterateape]

The Word of 2021 was "Impatience"

by Don Hall

After two years of waiting for the pandemic to even out, the economy to level up, Congress to nail the fuckers responsible for the January 6 insurrection and subsequent propaganda campaign known as the Big Lie, looking for Congress to pass some laws and regulations that at least look like measures to limit climate disaster, schools to open and kids to get the fuck out of their parents' hair, we humans of the world are fed up. We're weary. We're nothing short of pathologically impatient.

Americans have become that guy in line for his Big Mac with no special sauce and fries who has waited for seven whole minutes and has lost his shit at the horrors of being denied his instant gratification.

Thinkpieces about the woes of living through a pandemic abound as if no one else can feel the existential angst accompanying the realization that we are not in control of nature no matter how much we want to be. 

The Skinner Box was popular back in the day when studying human behavior by torturing rats was in vogue and had a simple premise: put a rat in a box with a lever. Rat presses lever and gets a treat. Rat learns this behavior and continues to press that fucking lever until Scientist stops dropping the treats. Rat gets pissed off as he is now expecting the treat and deserves the treat and Where The Fuck Is My Fucking Treat, Motherfucker!?

If there is a defining characteristic of the last decade it is that with the introduction of the smartphone (2007), which beget social media and nearly unrestrained connectivity to immediate gratification we have spent ten years in various Skinner Boxes almost twenty-four hours a day.

Rat gets the internet. When he presses the lever and chooses his Amazon Prime treat, he gets it in twenty-four hours. Rat keeps pressing the lever and stuff keeps getting delivered. Internet goes down for a bit and Rat tries to press the lever but no treats come. Rat gets pissed off because he deserves that immediate gratification and deserves the internet and Where’s My Goddamned Bali Essential Oil Bath Bombs at 30 percent Off, Jackass!?

Rat joins Facebook. Posts pictures of funny things and gets likes. Likes feel good and are, in and of themselves, little endorphin treats. Rat keeps sharing opinions about politics, personal information, and memes and gets used to the flow of treats. Rat decides these treats aren’t quite enough and starts tailoring everything he shares to get more and more attention but the treats are arbitrary and inconsistent. Rat gets pissed off because he is entitled to the attention and why does that vapid bikini model have so many more followers than me and Where’s My Cocksucking Likes and Followers, You Stupid Mouthbreathing Fucktards!?

Skinner Boxes are the avatars of immediate gratification and unearned treats.

The multiple Skinner Boxes we have embraced in our every moment—fast food, social capital, speedy travel, The Customer Is Always Right, self-checkout lines, Black Friday, movies on our computers, instant payments online, Tinder, hashtag activism—have trained us to expect things we haven’t earned and to become a society of toddlers and Rats without the understanding or valuation of Patience.

We love to read about how badass we are by simply existing. According to the Information Highway, we are all beautiful and amazing even though we know we aren’t all beautiful and amazing. The simple Law of Averages says that at least half of us are decidedly ugly and unremarkable, right? When anything gets in the way of that self-esteem is deserved belief, we lose our shit. The idea that one would need to work on themselves—to lose a few pounds, maybe hit the elliptical once in a while, take a fucking walk, buy some pants that actually fit—means that in order to be beautiful and amazing, we need to do something rather than simply press the self esteem lever and get the sugary treat on the other side.

Rat has no patience for that. Rat wants what he wants and isn’t fucking waiting that shitstaining fucking-fucking treat for a second longer. I mean, How Long Do I Have To Stand Here and Wait For My Crapping Soy Latte with a Shot and Extra Fucking Foam, Asshole Barrista!?

At this point, we’ve been moving from Skinner Box to Skinner Box for a full decade and escape is pretty much an impossibility. Arguably, there are far less of them in Flyover Country, which is perhaps why the social justice rhetoric finds far less purchase in, say, Kansas, than it does New Jersey. For a lot of us in America, we aren’t going to suddenly cut ourselves off from the levers and treats but we can focus on that sense of entitlement and the outrage we boil in when we aren’t gifted with the immediate.

We can’t escape but we can re-learn Patience and Self-Discipline.

The Biden Administration may seem slow but it has heralded in two of the most sweeping public safety bills in history in just a year. Calm down. Have some patience.

The masks and vaccines are a remarkable set of tools to combat a worldwide virus of which we have no control and, in a country where we can't even agree what teaching about the legacy of slavery looks like, a whopping sixty-percent have been vaccinated against the debilitating effects of full-on COVID. At this point, the only people actually dying from it are either old, fat, or old fatties. Chill out. Get some patience.

Take a breath. Research the numbers. I mean, you have access to every piece of published information on the planet, right? Googling some basic statistics is not complicated or difficult. My discovery is that for every hysterical crisis I read about, if I read it, do five minutes of research online, I'm far calmer because most of these problems are not even nearly as bad as the rhetoric.

The difference between the rat and you is that you can get out of your Skinner boxes. You can reflect upon your situation and make changes for your own benefit.

Or live 2022 much like you did 2021 in despair and apathy and take it all out on a teenager or 70-year-old in need of a minimum wage trying to get you a fucking cup of coffee or sandwich under three minutes.

#impatience #Skinner Box #calm down

[westboast]

Homecoming

Chicago, Illinois

This city is not the epicenter of the virus. The epicenter is, according to the news, the Midwest at large, particularly Wisconsin, though boundaries between states are imaginary and movement is freely allowed across state lines. The virus is everywhere. The American “strategy” is no strategy. It is liberty to decide whether you want to catch the virus or not. Some people wear masks diligently, wash their hands, etc. Some do not. Restaurants are open not because it is safe for them to be open, but because their employees are desperate. The right has decided that masks are effeminate, gay. 

We are apparently in the “third wave” of the virus. Cases are up thirty percent from what they were fourteen days ago. And yet businesses remain open. The Biden campaign is slamming Trump for his mishandling of the virus, but at this point it is hard to imagine what can be done to make things better. The opportunity for slowing it down came and went in January. Now we are all coming to terms with the aftermath. That is, the present.

The streets are empty and yet not. Grocery stores are abandoned and yet not. Bars are closed and yet not. There is doublethink everywhere, contradiction everywhere. There is no coherence. There is no plan. There is no voice of authority. There is no trust, no sense of direction. There is a black hole and at the center is the virus, determining everything. The escape is referenced as “the vaccine” or “the cure.” When it comes everything will change, maybe. 

“The Bubble” is how Americans think they control the virus. Everyone inhabits a “bubble,” and who is in it determines what we can do, who we can see, where we can go. We can hang out with people if they are in our “bubble” and known to be Covid-negative. But the nature of the virus, a highly contagious airborne respiratory infection, makes “the bubble” illusory. The disease is so out of control that we must monitor our own behavior, because the government is too hobbled and incompetent to do it for us. But even this conception of control is delusional.

Politics everywhere. Biden flags everywhere. Circuitous, self-affirming conversations everywhere. “We have to vote.” “Things will get better with Biden.” “If you don’t vote, you don’t have the right to criticize.” The same pattern that has always been followed is now being followed again. “The left,” with Bernie on one side and Warren somewhere closer to the middle, has been neutralized. Now the election has been reduced to a simple binary, Trump vs. Biden. “He’s not perfect but he’s the best we’ve got.” “Are you saying we shouldn’t vote for Biden?” Think piece: the lesser of two evils. Meme: salvation from evil. Overlooked: Senator Joseph R. Biden, of Delaware, was a chief architect of the 1994 crime bill, the primary catalyst of the mass incarceration of Black men following its passage. Senator Joseph R. Biden, of Delaware, voted in favor of the ruinous Iraq War. The protests which swept America in 2020 are largely attributable to the 1994 bill. And yet its author has been offered to us as the country’s salvation. Coronavirus infects over seven million and kills over two hundred thousand Americans, and yet single-payer healthcare is still off the table. 

“I am the Democratic Party right now,” said Biden in his debate with President Trump.

My friend in Korea swiveled toward me in her office chair and said: “We weren’t in America for the lockdown, so we didn’t experience the collective trauma. We missed something that is going to be a part of American identity.”

Others: “Why did you leave Korea? It’s safe there.” But it isn’t my home. Living abroad creates a feeling of perpetual anxiety. This does not make sense to me; I do not belong here. 

Chinatown, Chicago, 11 PM. Dim sum restaurant, mirrored walls, sets of fine china, plexiglass, hand sanitizer. One circular table near ours, four people, early thirties, an Asian couple and a white couple, predictable racism. “I don’t like [redacted], it’s not like a hamburger.” “It looks [redacted], like a [redacted].” Camera, close-up, pivots to the other side of the table. “It’s pork and vegetables with a gravy over it.” “Gravy? What kind of gravy?” “Gravy!” Bystander training literature indicates that one should signal their presence but not escalate. Minutes later the restaurant has been overwhelmed by police, ostensibly here to enforce social distancing. The waiters spread the patrons as far apart as possible. Bathroom: three police officers. Two at urinals, one behind them. “Don’t worry, the toilets don’t [redacted].” “Can you stop looking at my ass?” “Never.”

Everything is so sickeningly predictable. I can guess what will be said to me during most conversations. Most people communicate in political and cultural sound bites. Not everyone, of course.

Benito Skinner, crying: “Sorry, y’all, I was just readin’ my own poetry.”

Me, reading Donatella’s romance novel: “Vanity was the sin for which Alek condemned Kenji, but in the bubbling, mirrored pool, he looked as much upon himself, all of those reflections.”

K, in Chicago, texted me the day after we met. He presents as confident but is actually insecure: “How did I look in person?” he said.

Me: “You looked great, very classic and handsome.”

K: “You looked good too.”

I’ll probably never see him again.

Donatella: “I’m beautiful, he thought. He wanted to touch Kenji. He wanted to be touched by Kenji. He wanted to be wanted by Kenji. He had never met Kenji.”

A bouquet of silk hydrangeas, covered in dust.

A concrete staircase in Seoul at 4 AM.

A folding metal chair surrounded by orange tape.

Donatella: “There were missions before this one and there would be missions after it. There were loves before this one and there would be loves after it.”

Korean Air flight KE037 lifts off.

The water bearer Aquarius and her pitchers.

Libra and her scales. Call her.

Man: “I call it an accident, but it was a suicide attempt.”

Humboldt Park: a gust of wind, a thousand dried leaves thrown into the air.

Woman: “I was pretty blindsided.”

Bank billboard: “At Fifth Third, racial discrimination is not tolerated in any form.”

Oversharing, honesty, vulnerability. At some point we sedated ourselves with images. “It looks like you were having so much fun.” Productivity: the internalized logic of neoliberalism— “a productive day,” “I’ve been so unproductive.” Production, branding, grinding, hustling, pedal on the floor, speeding into oblivion. Desperation, alienation, lies.

Issa: “I don’t cancel [redacted] left and right like you.”

Alternatively: “I want to be a ghost.” I want to be invisible. Secrets, the last real currency.

A stranger on the street: “A Black man has approached you, but don’t be alarmed. I want to tell you a joke. What do a dead cop and a live Klansman have in common? They’re both pigs in a blanket.”

New acquaintance: “The committee is just an extension of the marketing department.”

Foot Locker advertisement: “There is no us without you.”

North Korean patriotic song: “Without You, There Is No Us.” [See: Kim, Suki, Without You, There Is No Us, Broadway Books, 2015].

I check the Korea coronavirus stats against the United States stats every day. On October 15, the New York Times reported 59,751 new cases of Covid-19 within the United States. Meanwhile, 110 new cases were reported in Korea. When I was in Seoul these numbers infuriated me. Now I am submerged in the sensory deprivation tank of my own country. The line between hope and inevitability has blurred. I am still not afraid of this virus. I am still terrified of this virus. I am attempting to be less afraid of solitude. The vaccine will come one day. I am with C, my best friend, who understands me.

Issa: “I’m an American.”

R called me from California and said: “I just want to be American.”

Billboard on Armitage Avenue: “VOTE.”

C looked out the car window and said: “The system is working exactly how it is meant to work.”

Seoul, spring: I am sitting in a sterile, sealed room. Before me is a pair of large plastic gloves attached to a plexiglass wall. A doctor enters on the other side of the pane and slides his arms into the gloves. He is giving me instructions that I do not understand. He gestures for me to come closer. I take the swab out of the plastic and put it into his hand. I lean my head back. He shoves the swab down my throat and I gag. He takes it out and in a swift motion shoves it up my nose. I gasp and grab the edge of the seat. My eyes expand and begin to water. It feels like getting fucked, but it’s inside my head. I exit the room and drink Coca-Cola. I wait. “What did it feel like?” my coworker asks. But he wouldn’t know that feeling.

K: “Maybe Biden will win.”

C: “I’m so glad you’re here.”

There are heaps of fruit at the Puerto Rican grocery store near my new apartment. I gather peaches, come home, and bake them into a pie for my roommates. This, at least, is straightforward. Now, at least, there are no conditions. Cut, measure, bake, eat, sleep.

“Two things can be true at once,” I keep telling C.

I feel so much better.

I hadn’t seen H since January. I needed to see him before I left Korea. I ran to him on Sunday, the day before my flight. We spent the whole day together on his campus, under the trees. I held him and cried. “I can feel how much you love me,” he said. My sweatshirt is covered in dust from the door I was leaned against when he kissed me. I still haven’t washed it. I’ll probably never see him again.

Seattle, Japan, Korea, Chicago.

Peach, momo, bogsunga, durazno.

Resist. Accept. Go out. Stay home. Comply. Thrive. Die.

[nilesdaughter]

DWC: "Oh my God. You're in love with her. " Pairing of your choice! (This is Distractthegoddess btw)

I started another Lavellan earlier this week. As if I don’t have enough of them, hah. And I’m intending this playthrough to produce some Krem x Inquisitor content, so I hope you all enjoy!

For @dadrunkwriting. Find the full fic meme here.

The Iron Bull figured it out first.

He had trained with the Ben-Hassrath for years, after all. He was well-versed in the intricacies of body language and inflection. If anyone were to ask, it was probably one of the only reasons he managed to last as long as he did in Seheron. And while it had been a while since he was actively using his training, it was also a skillset that was not easily forgotten.

So, of course he noticed.

He noticed the way Krem would perk up at the slightest mention of the Inquisitor. Even when he tried to pretend he wasn’t listening, Krem would still angle himself slightly towards whomever was talking about Sulahn Lavellan.

He had noticed how nervous energy had practically poured out of Krem following the attack on Haven. The way he had hovered outside of the Inquisitor’s tent, eager to check up on her but never acting on his concern.

He had noticed the light in Krem’s eyes when they had first heard Sulahn singing, the goofy grin on his face.

And when he wasn’t trying to be subtle - which was usually only when the Inquisitor made an appearance at The Herald’s Rest - Krem tried to make himself look as conspicuously inconspicuous as possible.

On one hand, it was hilarious. On the other, it was a bit sad. And yet The Iron Bull didn’t necessarily know how to breach the subject with Krem without the Tevene becoming defensive. Besides, while he himself had had his fair share of lovers, The Iron Bull also knew he wasn’t necessarily a great source of long-term romantic advice, which he knew Krem would need.

Instead, he continued to watch while Krem quietly fawned over the Inquisitor, but still remained silent instead of saying anything to her about it.

Grim was the second one to figure it out. Since he seldom spoke, it meant that he had become an avid listener, which by extension meant that he picked up on things easier than some of the other Chargers.

Skinner figured it out next, but only because she bullied the answer out of Krem. When they had been sparring, Sulahn had passed by the training grounds with Gatsi to review some structural reports, and it had distracted Krem from the match. It meant that Skinner had basically bowled him over, and hating that she had only won because he had his head up in the clouds, refused to let him up again until he told her what had diverted his attention.

But once Skinner found out, it was not long before Dalish and Stitches knew, because the three of them often banded together around meal times. As a result, they shared conversation…as well as rumors and gossip.

Rocky was the last one to figure it out. Rocky was also the most vocal about it.

“By the Stone, you’re in love with the Inquisitor!” he declared one night when the Bull’s Chargers were playing cards and drinking together.

Krem, who had been in the middle of taking a drink of his ale, choked and sputtered, coughing up the alcohol back into his tankard. “What?” he said, a touch shrill. “What in the Void makes you say that?”

That set off uproarious laughter around the whole table, which only served to make Krem scowl at his fellow mercenaries.

When the laughter finally died down, The Iron Bull reached out to clap his hand on Krem’s shoulder.

“Trust me, Krem de la crème, you’re not nearly as subtle as you think you are.”

Scowling a little, Krem knocked his hand away. “Ah, shut it, Chief.”

The Iron Bull snorted. “I bet you practically fell for her as soon as you set eyes on her. I was picking up on some interest even as far back as when she came out to meet us on the Storm Coast that first time.”

“I said shut it!”

“See? He’s head over heels for her,” Dalish snickered as she nudged Rocky. “And you didn’t believe me when I told you yesterday!”

Krem groaned and buried his face in his arms, which he had crossed on the tabletop before him. “I hate you all,” he added in a grumble.

“We should make bets on how long it takes him to tell her,” Skinner suggested, sounding far too amused for her own good, and far more amused than any of them had ever heard her.

“No!” Krem moaned, his head suddenly shooting up, even as the Chargers voiced their agreements and started to place their bets.

The Iron Bull chuckled and gave his lieutenant a pointed look. “Well, it looks like you gotta act on those feelings of yours at some point. A lot of good people have their money riding on you.”

“Maker damn you all,” was the only response before Krem hid his face again.

The Qunari man chuckled again when he spied just how red the tips of Krem’s ears were turning. Well, at least now he knew that they all knew. Maybe it really would be the push he needed to confess to the Inquisitor.

#motherofgriffins #da drunk writing circle #krem x inquisitor #cremisius aclassi #the bull's chargers #the iron bull #sulahn lavellan #female inquisitor #female lavellan #inquisitor lavellan #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #fanfiction #Tia replies

[andrewuttaro]

New Look Sabres: GM 65 - TOR - Bleakness Threshold

Friday night against the Pens I talked about this thing I dubbed the “Bleakness Threshold.” It’s basically when the majority of the fanbase realizes the playoffs are pretty much out of reach for the season and start looking to the Draft and the summer. Part of the reason I talked so much about it, after a victory mind you, is that going into that game all the talk was about why this team just isn’t good enough. It’s not, that’s clear; but the insistent self-flagellating of recounting missed picks and failed prospects gets tiring. The fun part of this game was that all that talk took a back seat to what Sabres fans yell when something gets dropped on their foot: FUCK THE LEAFS! I debated with myself how much I was going to talk about all their Tavares stuff this week. I went back and forth before ultimately deciding I can’t hate a guy who left in Free Agency. JT’s departure from Long Island was like their summer 2007. They got nothing in return and the whole situation leading to it was in large part because of a GM who had stuck around too long and not been a good negotiator. I feel for Isles fans that way. Maybe don’t throw things AT him? There are bad eggs but the whole Islanders fan base has the right to be upset at him and even boo him. Leafs fans… ugh, this is why I need wins against the Leafs: they give me Hockey life. Maple Leafs fans have been hurt so much in the past… or neglected by decades of bad teams, that now that they got a good team, they’re going to go all Leroy Jenkins on it. Sabres fans will struggle to understand the mental state of Leafs fans because we just have more experience with good Sabres teams (before the last five years of course). Let that realization color the Leafs pregame ritual of saluting Tavares before this game. He’s a great Leaf and he’s probably the best player to ever come home to play for that organization. They’re going to do that because not only is it cool for the millennials there, but their parents, who also haven’t seen a good Leafs team since their parents showed them the black and white footage. Yes, it looks stupid to give a guy on your team a spotlight standing ovation just because he got booed visiting his old team. Let it be. They need this.

And the Sabres need two wins in a fucking row for the first time in months! When JT opened the scoring it was the sauciest goal you’ll see scored against the Sabres. Pajama boy… gee, I can’t do that name: the photo showed his bed sheets you monsters! Oh, I got a positive spin for Tavares as a Leafs: it pissed off a lot of downstaters who think they’re the center of the universe! Whatever, I don’t have it in me right now. Luckily this game wasn’t a total blowout. Jason Pominville responded a couple minutes later tapping in a rebound originating with *checks notes* Girgensons and Scandella. This team is becoming a meme of itself, isn’t it? The goal might not have been announced yet when Conor Sheary got the puck in the Leafs zone, one-on-one with Nikita Zaitsev. Zaitsev must have screened Leafs goaltender Fredrik Anderson because Sheary just fired it on net, still blocked by Zaitsev and it went in. 2-1 Sabres was fun and we could’ve taken that scored into the first intermission if it weren’t for the guy who apparently deserves the Norris Trophy in Morgan Rielly. He shot one in from the blue line like he’s Brandon Montour or something and this game is tied 2-2 going into the second. That, my friends, is the end of today’s recap. But what happened next, Andrew? The Leafs scored three more goals and won. What do you think happened, ass hat? This isn’t November. We don’t get to have back to back wins anymore! Jack Eichel got some great chances and so did Skinner as always. The Leafs are basically Jeff Skinner is he was cloned five times. There’s an alternative timeline where the Leafs get Skinner and Buffalo has Tavares. Imagine that. Back to reality! Right, this game was not only our reminder we aren’t allowed two wins in a row, it’s also our reminder that the Sabres can’t perform consistently on the road.

I heard a few people on the twitter machine talking about how too many people see lack of result as lack of effort. That concept really touched me because I’m the guy at Soccer games yelling it’s the effort that counts. However, when they’re consistently losing the same ways using the same guys in the same ways, does that still make sense? Moreover, if you get bad results it means your effort wasn’t good enough! That’s real chicken-before-the-egg shit. Half the league makes the playoffs in the NHL. HALF THE LEAGUE! Buffalo hasn’t done it in eight years! If you make the first round that means you’re an average team! These guys had an 83% chance of doing that when we all started our Christmas shopping and here we are thinking about what to do with our St. Patrick’s Day all but assured the Sabres will not make the playoffs! Look this has been the reality for nine, maybe ten games now. We’ve crossed the bleakness threshold and we’re working on closing the door behind us at this point. I gave you the silver lining with the last game, this is my rant! Do you know what two wins in a row, one being against the Leafs would have done? Well not a whole lot in the standings considering the gap but folks like me who just can’t quit you: we’d have some spring in our step again! The Sabres need to go all Rocky Balboa training montage to make the playoffs at this point but they’re back at Rocky’s apartment playing with the turtles! One turtles name is Road Losses and the other one… oh and he’s a big heifer now: TWO STRAIGHT WINS!

Okay, I just had to get that out. I don’t know where the Rocky reference came from but there it is. Like, share and leave me a comment on how you’re dealing with the Sabres guiding us down the slow descent to madness. I’m Catholic and I realized Lent start this coming Wednesday and I joked to my wife about giving up the Sabres (that’s what we do for Lent, we give up stuff we’re probably better without). At first I laughed, and then I cried. I’m pretty sure my wife was thinking I was having a panic attack. I look at Amerks scores and standings almost daily now. The Rochester Americans are my happy place. They will probably kick the Toronto Marlies’ ass if such a playoff series occurs. That will be so therapeutic considering that by that point we’ll be forced to root for Boston to knock the Leafs off in the first round again. THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE US KNOCKING OFF THE LEAFS IN THE FIRST ROUND! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh! Tomorrow night we got a nice little Monday night game against Buffalo west: Edmonton. It’s those guys followed by Chicago on Thursday. So which team do the Sabres lose to in order to keep their win-lose pattern alive? If its Chicago again then this will not be fun. We joke about Jeff Skinner not wanting to sign here but lord have mercy, I don’t want to sign here right now. Nonetheless, like a marriage vow, through sickness and in health: Let’s Go Buffalo!

Thanks for reading.

P.S. Mandatory Prospect check to make us less sad: Ukko Pekka Lukkonen (UPC) won his 34th game of the season in the OHL with the Sudbury Wolves. Meanwhile Linus Weissbach scored a game-winning goal for the Wisconsin the other night.

#buffalo sabres #hockey #blog #nhl #Toronto Maple Leafs

[xxxthe-grammar-nazixxx]

Worst. Songs. Ever

Okay this is inspired by a Facebook meme in a group I’m in. We were asked for our least favourite song, but the problem was, nobody could pick just one. Most people came back with two or three after their initial post, and others just rattled off a list. And then I’d see one on theirs and think ‘YEAH! Why didn’t I think of that?’ So the question is: How many least favourite songs do you have, and why do you hate them? Here’s mine: 

1. Sweet Child of Mine - Most over-rated GnR song ever. Axl Rose sounds like a cat having its claws removed one by one. And then being water-boarded. 

2. Mambo No.5  - Lou Bega should just stick to grooming his shitty little mustache. I doubt he got that much play, anyway. He looks like a pimp. 

3. Happy by Pharrell Williams - After listening to this repetitive, overplayed, over-hyped piece of merchandising for a kid’s film let’s just say I’m anything BUT happy. 

4. The Ketchup song - Like fingernails on a blackboard. What it has to do with ketchup is beyond me.  But then I don’t speak Spanish so ... Appears to be just an excuse to get a lot of chicks in bathing suits to twerk on the video while hammering on an upside down bottle of sauce. Whatever floats your boat.

5. Macarena - A fad that didn’t last long. Thank fuck for that. 

6. Wonderwall - I wonder why. The Gallagher brothers are the most overrated, whiny, arrogant, ugly pricks on the face of the planet. Just about anyone can sing this song ... just block your nose while you’re doing it. You’ll slay ‘em at karaoke. 

7. Sussudio - I’d like to meet Phil Collins just so I can ask: what the fuck is this song about?! A girl? Who names a kid Sussudio? Who names a song Sussudio?  Is she from Japan? I don’t get it. 

8. I’ve never been to me by Charmaine - I’ve never been to me, either. I doubt it’s much of a tourist attraction. I’ve heard the song, released in the early ‘80′s, is about masturbation but you could have fooled me. That song contains more euphemisms than a Thomas Hardy novel. 

9. Living on a Prayer - I prefer Lizard on a Chair. I’m not kidding. It’s catchier. 

10. Who’s that Girl? - Annie Lennox has such an amazing voice, i don’t know why she wastes it on this ode to a guy who can’t keep it in his pants. Plus the way she pronounces ‘girl’ as ‘gil’ sets my teeth on edge. 

... but wait, there’s more ...

11. Firestarter by The Prodigy. I cannot tell you how much this song works on my last nerve. I don’t know if it’s the discordant synthesizer or Keith whatsisname’s strong accent. Just a tip, dude: the only time a Kiwi accent worked in a song was Dave Dobbins’ Slice of Heaven. And that’s because you could barely hear it. 

12. New Sensation by INXS - It’s not often that I can criticize an INXS song because I’m a Hutchence fan from way back, but this is one of their tunes that falls completely flat with me. And the fact that everyone’s using it in their ads these days doesn’t do it any favours. 

13. MMBop. You’ve got to give those little skinners from Hanson credit. They released a song on the world that would make its way into your head and stay there. Forever. Never to be removed, save by deep regression hypnotherapy or a dose of cognitive recalibration (translation: a whack upside the head).

14. Too Funky - George Michael might be the flavour of the last couple of months now he’s dead, and I totally get that, I’m not begrudging him his posthumous glory (he is the one singer who could do Freddie Mercury proud) but this song is just ten kinds of blah. I particularly hate the sampling from The Graduate. No, George, I don’t want a lover like that. Anne Bancroft gives me the creeps. 

15. Treaty by Yothu Yindi. - I’m probably going to be accused of racism here but it’s not the fact that the artists are members of Australia’s indigenous community. It’s the fact that the song SUCKS. And the main reason is that t’s repetitive in the extreme.And if you’ve been paying any attention at all, you know I HATE that. For instance, the chorus goes: Treaty, yeah. Treaty, yeah. Treaty yeah. Oh-oh-oh. Treaty, yeah. Treaty yeah... enough said. 

16. Run the World (Girls) - talk about repetition and you have the one Beyonce song that makes me want to carve my ears off Van Gogh style, and stick knitting needles in the exposed canals. Who run the world? Girls. Who run the world? Girls. Who run the world? Girls. Who run the world? Girls. Who run the world? Girls. Who run the world? Girls. I don’t actually think there are any other lyrics. I could be wrong. But I don’t think so. 

17. Baby - Was Justin Bieber old enough to start shaving when this song was released? Had his balls dropped yet? Had his voice broken? Actually, I think the song itself is proof of the answer to that last question. Why a legion of screaming fangirls have attached themselves to this vacuous little poser is beyond me. 

18. Absolutely anything, ever, by Kanye. Go, Kanye. Just go. And don’t come back. 

19. (I’ve had) The Time of My Life - There is a reason you cover a song. It’s because you think you can improve on the original; put your own stamp on it. I was never a fan of the Bill Medley/Jennifer Warner version to start with but the Black Eyed Peas remake makes me want to dig Patrick Swayze up and send him to Fergie’s house to haunt her ass. 

20. Sing that song - The one that sounds like Heart and Soul ... because it is Train can you  ... come up with something new? 

#George Michael #justin bieber #kanye #black eyed peas #Guns n Roses

[lumateranlibrarian]

For @becausedragonage‘s OC meme, I present my Elvhen Inquisitor, Elakshi Lavellan.

Class: Mage Specialization: Knight-Enchanter Romance: The Iron Bull Choices: 

Ally with the Mages

Force Gaspard, Celene, and Briala to work together 

Drink from the Well of Sorrows

Elakshi was born to a Dalish clan living just outside Hercinia. She and her twin brother manifested their magic within hours of each other when they were eight years old. No one knows for certain why the clan elders chose for her to leave to train under Clan Lavellan’s keeper over her brother. Elakshi has always fought to belong, and longs to see her birth family again. She is a scholar at heart. Elakshi and Solas have been known to have arguments (sometimes playful, sometimes heated) that last for days, often taking place in the Fade when they can’t resolve an issue during their waking hours.

She is vicious when threatened, and will protect her new family in the Inquisition with every weapon in her arsenal. Her closest friends in the Inner Circle are The Iron Bull, Solas, and Cole. She bears a soft spot for Sera, and wishes the city elf would trust her more. The relationship between Dalish and Skinner in the Chargers fascinates her. She would do almost anything to see the Elvhen people reunited once more.

Just, you know. Something with less reality-tearing magic and genocide involved. She and Solas might disagree on a few points there.

#da:i #my OCs #elakshi lavellan #please pardon the image quality

[theslothfulpenguin]

Steamed Hams

Steamed Hams #memes #steamedhams #thesimpsons

First off, yes I know I’m a bit late to the meme train on this one, but I thought it was important to share my two cents about this meme in particular. So without any further adieu, here’s my Steamed Hams fan-fiction: Chalmers: Well, Seymour, I made it- despite your directions. Principal Skinner: Ah. Superintendent Chalmers. Welcome. – I hope you’re prepared for an unforgettable luncheon.…

View On WordPress

#memes #steamed hams

[artstudi174b-18]

MY FIDGET SPINNER COLLECTION

I’m very serious about fidget spinners, like not even as a meme. These aren’t even all my spinners. I have like 6 more than what’s on this video.

I found out about spinners while abroad in Paris, so you know that this toy has some insane global impact. Here’s my pitch for why they exist. Millions of dollars have been put into getting you addicted to your phone. The attention economy is a diabolical battleground. We’re hooked off of our little Skinners’ boxes of free-to-play games and social media apps to the point where we expect a little spike of dopamine everytime we make a swiping motion. How many times have you opened up your phone for no reason and felt that strange unsatisfied yearning?

There’s enough people for there to be a market for people who want to detox away from their phones. So it makes sense that there’s an analog toy that gives us satisfaction by using the same motion that our phones have trained us to love. They’re perfect devices for object meditations.

I hate it when people think spinners are stupid. They’re just haters who think that they’re above playing with toys, while their phones are just complicated, thousand dollar toys themselves. 

I like different kinds of fidget spinners and trying to find good deals for different qualities of spinners. My favorite part of spinners is that they just do one thing. They’re all kinetic sculptures with different interpretations of just that one thing that spinners do. 

Luke Soon-Shiong et al. 

[theliterateape]

Take a Peek Out of Your Comfortable Skinner Box Once in a While

by Don Hall

Driving in Las Vegas is a necessary danger in that one has to drive to get almost anyplace around and other drivers pursue their road trip like a seventh grade boy hopped up on Mountain Dew Xtreme and a raging boner. Every roadster on Sahara or Tropicana gets into his or her car, shuts the door, and a bizarre bubble of entitlement and narcissism envelopes each person. No one outside this bubble matters and every second on the road is an inconvenience.

One can imagine that this attitude combined with two-ton metal boxes hurtling forward at seventy miles an hour might be taking one’s life and tossing it casually into a cage of cats on meth and hoping none of the felines notice.

Each vehicle is a version of a Skinner Box. 

The Skinner Box was popular back in the day when studying human behavior by torturing rats was in vogue and had a simple premise: put a rat in a box with a lever. Rat presses lever and gets a treat. Rat learns this behavior and continues to press that fucking lever until Scientist stops dropping the treats. Rat gets pissed off as he is now expecting the treat and deserves the treat and Where The Fuck Is My Fucking Treat, Motherfucker!?

If there is a defining characteristic of the last decade it is that with the introduction of the smartphone (2007), which beget social media and nearly unrestrained connectivity to immediate gratification we have spent ten years in various Skinner Boxes almost twenty-four hours a day.

Rat gets the internet. When he presses the lever and chooses his Amazon Prime treat, he gets it in twenty-four hours. Rat keeps pressing the lever and stuff keeps getting delivered. Internet goes down for a bit and Rat tries to press the lever but no treats come. Rat gets pissed off because he deserves that immediate gratification and deserves the internet and Where’s My Goddamned Bali Essential Oil Bath Bombs at 30 percent Off, Jackass!?

Rat joins Facebook. Posts pictures of funny things and gets likes. Likes feel good and are, in and of themselves, little endorphin treats. Rat keeps sharing opinions about politics, personal information, and memes and gets used to the flow of treats. Rat decides these treats aren’t quite enough and starts tailoring everything he shares to get more and more attention but the treats are arbitrary and inconsistent. Rat gets pissed off because he is entitled to the attention and why does that vapid bikini model have so many more followers than me and Where’s My Cocksucking Likes and Followers, You Stupid Mouthbreathing Fucktards!?

Skinner Boxes are the avatars of immediate gratification and unearned treats.

The multiple Skinner Boxes we have embraced in our every moment—fast food, social capital, speedy travel, The Customer Is Always Right, self-checkout lines, Black Friday, movies on our computers, instant payments online, Tinder, hashtag activism—have trained us to expect things we haven’t earned and to become a society of toddlers and Rats without the understanding or valuation of Patience.

We love to read about how badass we are by simply existing. According to the Information Highway, we are all beautiful and amazing even though we know we aren’t all beautiful and amazing. The simple Law of Averages says that at least half of us are decidedly ugly and unremarkable, right? When anything gets in the way of that self-esteem is deserved belief, we lose our shit. The idea that one would need to work on themselves—to lose a few pounds, maybe hit the elliptical once in a while, take a fucking walk, buy some pants that actually fit—means that in order to be beautiful and amazing, we need to do something rather than simply press the self esteem lever and get the sugary treat on the other side.

Rat has no patience for that. Rat wants what he wants and isn’t fucking waiting that shitstaining fucking-fucking treat for a second longer. I mean, How Long Do I Have To Stand Here and Wait For My Crapping Soy Latte with a Shot and Extra Fucking Foam, Asshole Barrista!?

At this point, we’ve been moving from Skinner Box to Skinner Box for a full decade and escape is pretty much an impossibility. Arguably, there are far less of them in Flyover Country, which is perhaps why the social justice rhetoric finds far less purchase in, say, Kansas, than it does New Jersey. For a lot of us in America, we aren’t going to suddenly cut ourselves off from the levers and treats but we can focus on that sense of entitlement and the outrage we boil in when we aren’t gifted with the immediate.

We can’t escape but we can re-learn Patience and Self-discipline.

Control Yourself Rather than Others

Is that guy in the car in front of you really a slow motherfucking brain dead dipshit? Or are you feeling rushed by an arbitrary sense of time and didn’t really plan your trip as well as you could have?

Is that woman really a racist piece of shit? Or are you constantly looking for racist things to be upset about and she was just at the wrong place at the wrong time and you now can put her on YouTube in an effort to seem engaged politically?

Is it really McDonald’s fault you’re a fat sack of suet and lard? Or are you just more addicted to convenience and salt to grab an apple instead?

Be aware of yourself and practice control over your impulses and emotions.

Always be Chill

I mean, seriously. Calm the fuck down. Trump is embarrassing and kind of awful in almost every way but your life after 2016 isn’t that vastly different than your life before so get some perspective, hunker down, quit mewling and banging your head against the world, and quietly get the work needed to vote him out this year done.

Chop the fucking wood rather than scream at the tree. 

Remember that Treats Taste Better When You Actually Earn Them

Patience is the practice of waiting for a period of time without reward. And maybe not being a raging cunt about it. Not really that hard (unless you identify as Raging Cunt and are prevented from constantly reminding everyone that your RC Flag flies at all times). 

Food tastes better when you are genuinely hungry. A cigarette is more satisfying when you need a moment to relax. Sex is better when you take your time.

Learn to wait for your treats. You don’t even have to be civil or polite. Just try to avoid being a Total Dickhead and you’re way ahead of the game.

#skinner box

[theliterateape]

The Virtue We Have Given Up On and Must Embrace in This Decade

By Don Hall

Driving in Las Vegas is a necessary danger in that one has to drive to get almost anyplace around and other drivers pursue their road trip like a seventh grade boy hopped up on Mountain Dew Xtreme and a raging boner. Every roadster on Sahara or Tropicana gets into his or her car, shuts the door, and a bizarre bubble of entitlement and narcissism envelopes each person. No one outside this bubble matters and every second on the road is an inconvenience.

One can imagine that this attitude combined with two-ton metal boxes hurtling forward at seventy miles an hour might be taking one’s life and tossing it casually into a cage of cats on meth and hoping none of the felines notice.

Each vehicle is a version of a Skinner Box. 

The Skinner Box was popular back in the day when studying human behavior by torturing rats was in vogue and had a simple premise: put a rat in a box with a lever. Rat presses lever and gets a treat. Rat learns this behavior and continues to press that fucking lever until Scientist stops dropping the treats. Rat gets pissed off as he is now expecting the treat and deserves the treat and Where The Fuck Is My Fucking Treat, Motherfucker!?

If there is a defining characteristic of the last decade it is that with the introduction of the smartphone (2007), which beget social media and nearly unrestrained connectivity to immediate gratification we have spent ten years in various Skinner Boxes almost twenty-four hours a day.

Rat gets the internet. When he presses the lever and chooses his Amazon Prime treat, he gets it in twenty-four hours. Rat keeps pressing the lever and stuff keeps getting delivered. Internet goes down for a bit and Rat tries to press the lever but no treats come. Rat gets pissed off because he deserves that immediate gratification and deserves the internet and Where’s My Goddamned Bali Essential Oil Bath Bombs at 30 percent Off, Jackass!?

Rat joins Facebook. Posts pictures of funny things and gets likes. Likes feel good and are, in and of themselves, little endorphin treats. Rat keeps sharing opinions about politics, personal information, and memes and gets used to the flow of treats. Rat decides these treats aren’t quite enough and starts tailoring everything he shares to get more and more attention but the treats are arbitrary and inconsistent. Rat gets pissed off because he is entitled to the attention and why does that vapid bikini model have so many more followers than me and Where’s My Cocksucking Likes and Followers, You Stupid Mouthbreathing Fucktards!?

Skinner Boxes are the avatars of immediate gratification and unearned treats.

The multiple Skinner Boxes we have embraced in our every moment—fast food, social capital, speedy travel, The Customer Is Always Right, self-checkout lines, Black Friday, movies on our computers, instant payments online, Tinder, hashtag activism—have trained us to expect things we haven’t earned and to become a society of toddlers and Rats without the understanding or valuation of Patience.

We love to read about how badass we are by simply existing. According to the Information Highway, we are all beautiful and amazing even though we know we aren’t all beautiful and amazing. The simple Law of Averages says that at least half of us are decidedly ugly and unremarkable, right? When anything gets in the way of that self-esteem is deserved belief, we lose our shit. The idea that one would need to work on themselves—to lose a few pounds, maybe hit the elliptical once in a while, take a fucking walk, buy some ants that actually fit—means that in order to be beautiful and amazing, we need to do something rather than simply press the self esteem lever and get the sugary treat on the other side.

Rat has no patience for that. Rat wants what he wants and isn’t fucking waiting that shitstaining fucking-fucking treat for a second longer. I mean, How Long Do I Have To Stand Here and Wait For My Crapping Soy Latte with a Shot and Extra Fucking Foam, Asshole Barrista!?

At this point, we’ve been moving from Skinner Box to Skinner Box for a full decade and escape is pretty much an impossibility. Arguably, there are far less of them in Flyover Country, which is perhaps why the social justice rhetoric finds far less purchase in, say, Kansas, than it does New Jersey. For a lot of us in America, we aren’t going to suddenly cut ourselves off from the levers and treats but we can focus on that sense of entitlement and the outrage we boil in when we aren’t gifted with the immediate.

We can’t escape but we can re-learn Patience and Self-discipline.

Control Yourself Rather than Others

Is that guy in the car in front of you really a slow motherfucking brain dead dipshit? Or are you feeling rushed by an arbitrary sense of time and didn’t really plan your trip as well as you could have?

Is that woman really a racist piece of shit? Or are you constantly looking for racist things to be upset about and she was just at the wrong place at the wrong time and you now can put her on YouTube in an effort to seem engaged politically?

Is it really McDonald’s fault you’re a fat sack of suet and lard? Or are you just more addicted to convenience and salt to grab an apple instead?

Be aware of yourself and practice control over your impulses and emotions.

Always be Chill

I mean, seriously. Calm the fuck down. Trump is embarrassing and kind of awful in almost every way but your life after 2016 isn’t that vastly different than your life before so get some perspective, hunker down, quit mewling and banging your head against the world, and quietly get the work needed to vote him out this year done.

Chop the fucking wood rather than scream at the tree. 

Remember that Treats Taste Better When You Actually Earn Them

Patience is the practice of waiting for a period of time without reward. And maybe not being a raging cunt about it. Not really that hard (unless you identify as Raging Cunt and are prevented from constantly reminding everyone that your RC Flag flies at all times). 

Food tastes better when you are genuinely hungry. A cigarette is more satisfying when you need a moment to relax. Sex is better when you take your time.

Learn to wait for your treats. You don’t even have to be civil or polite. Just try to avoid being a Total Dickhead and you’re way ahead of the game.

The best part of those calendar benchmarks is the sense that you can turn some sort of personal page and reboot. Not only do we have the New Year but we have the New Decade. That’s cool. It’s important if you choose for it to be.

If you have only one resolution this year, make it patience. We all need it more than we need some more immediate gratification.

And drive safely because that guy in the Honda Accord is going to be fucking late to his $9.00-an-hour job and fuck everyone else.

#Skinner Box #impatience #2020 #New Decade