This is for the support of Gaza’s Municipality Services - which help ensure clean drinking water, waste collection, debri removal and sanitation services - life saving services to run a state - reader I imagine wherever you are or how lacking the municipality services in your city is, it’s not worse than Ghazza.
This is how I’m proposing to my partner in the future, I’m using this ring
I actually bought this and lemme tell you
It was the best decision of my life
Respectfully, fuck proposing. If I ever get this ring, it’s for me and me alone. It looks sick as fuck and I can fiddle with it and say My Precious just like Gollum.
I’m sorry… I’ve let this go by hundreds of times in the past [x] months and I just can’t do it any more.
You were just sucked up and abducted by a UFO. The alien inside addresses you, “Is this translator working? Listen. I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend for three days so my parents will get off my back about it.”
You consider your options, pretending that the translator is not working might get you put right back down, probably for the better, you had a paper to write that you’ve been putting off for a while. On the other hand, they might insist in keeping you here while they try to fix it, which could keep you away for even longer.
Your mouth betrays you. “No thanks.” Okay, they know the translator works, but they also know that you don’t want to stay.
Their hair bunches up, like a chicken might puff their feathers. “Please! You don’t understand, they have such high standards, constantly comparing me to my older siblings like I’ll never be good enough! They just want me to have someone, anyone!”
You look unimpressed.
“I’ll compensate you! What’s a rare material on your planet? I know you don’t have an organized space fleet yet, so I can get you whatever!” Oh? Now there’s something interesting.
“Alright fine, though I’m not sure what kind of compensation I’d like, cause I don’t know what space has to offer.” The alien stops blinking and looks at you intensely. “You don’t know what there is in space?” Their expression is more befitting of you claiming you ‘Fart on food for extra flavor’ or something else equally horrendous.
“No, since we don’t have much of exploration going on, people focus on their lives down there, rather than what doesn’t concern them up here.” The alien doesn’t appear convinced. “I think your species has a tendency to be self centered, and is willingly ignorant.” You take half a step back, not offended but more surprised. For some reason you didn’t think of how much the alien might know about your home, but if they have a well functioning translator.. it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise.
“Not that I disagree, but can you tell me why you think this? There are multiple conclusions that I can think of.”
“You say you don’t care for space because it doesn’t affect you, meanwhile you follow the lives of famous people.” They state rather bluntly.
“Alright, touché.”
“So, you’ll agree to it?” You’re not sure why they’d pick your race though, they just made clear that there’s plenty of shortcomings.
“Sure, am I expected to talk to them though? Or do you want me to stay quiet?” Their ears flatten, they look like if elf ears functioned like bunny ears.
“No, you’re not a pet! Of course you’ll have to talk. You’re supposed to be my equal, in appearance at least.” O-Kay, feel like there’s some cultural differences there.
“Sure, can I stay in my jeans for this? Also do I need to know anything beforehand?” They chitter, which makes a sound alike to what a parrot would probably do to imitate a cricket. It seems to be their version of being amused.
“Plenty, but we don’t have time. If I had time I’d never have settled for a human.” Ah, okay.
“Your outfit? Uh, well you can’t use anything I have, since they might comment on you wearing my clothes.” Hm, surprise shopping trip?? “I suppose I can at least buy you something of an accessory, to help you look like an astronaut.” Uuh..
“But I don’t have a space suit, nor do I have the qualifications.” They look as confused as you. “What?”
Wait, oh. “Is an astronaut someone who travels through space?” They nod, still confused. “In my language it’s also a job.” They chitter again. “Imagine! Getting paid to wander the stars? I’d take that job in a heartbeat!” You blush, with space travel seemingly common for them, having the government pay for the trip must seem foreign. Like getting paid for making a personal grocery run no doubt.
“Okay, I’ll lend you a tucks, get you an embellishment and then we’ll head to the family reunion.” A tux??
…
The tucks is not a tux. The translator is starting to take breaks it seems. This is a cape that buttons around both the throat as well as the collar on the left side, the fabric around the neck is like a turtleneck, and the fabric that falls around the shoulders is more firm, to ensure it holds and to keep all the weight from hanging from the neck. The cape is attached to two wrist bands that go around the.. wrists.. making the cape rise whenever your hands do. There’s also a sash that is supposed to be tied around the waist that can also be attached to the cape, which keeps it from getting caught up in possible winds from the waist up. The whole ensemble looks like space itself. Like a piece of space was *plucked* from its spot and woven into this.
Keeping this alone would be worth the trip. You have four days until the paper needs to be turned in anyway, you can afford to procrastinate for another three. Probably..
The ships movement feels sleek. Not like what movies make space travel look like, with the whole thing rattling like a present on Christmas. Surprisingly, it didn’t give any sign of movement, until the ship started to slow down.
A quick stop at what felt like the space equivalent of a convenience store, the alien picks up some snacks and drinks for you to try, and picks out ‘an embellishment’, which turns out to be a space gem set in some kind of soft navy blue metal that curls around it in an interesting pattern. It fits the ‘tucks’ well. Though it’s supposed to go on a tiara, it ends up like a brooch, since you’re the wrong species.
Trying out various snacks and reporting back your experience was fun, and it killed the time well. You got some chitters, which by now you recognize as a laugh, and had a lot of weird tastes that feel illegal, like seeing a color that doesn’t exist.
You both arrive. And what a destination!
If space had a mansion, this would be it. It’s like if a house was detached from earth, and the gravity changed per room and that caused the house to mutate new rooms on all sides, including on what once was probably the bottom.
“How does it.. How does that work with gravity?” You ask, they look confused. “Much like your planet, it has a center of gravity and that’s the center on which all else is deprived.”
Uuuuuuhhh…
So if planet Earth was inhabited in multiple layers? And only able to house like.. 200 people instead of 8 Trillion. Gosh that’s hard to describe..
There are a lot of entrances, but only one where a ship can dock, which begs the question when another door would be opened, considering the vacuum of space might be at odds against breathing.
“Alright, remember. Just treat everything like it’s completely normal and roll with it.” Sounds like school. ‘Don’t ask questions lest someone find you stupid.’ Mom said affectionately!
“Got it, be chill and behave.” You resist the need to give finger guns in acknowledgement.
With a deep breath, you exit the ship and walk onto the docking bay.
Two aliens greet you, one of them looks alike to the one who brought you here, the other is shorter and has light green skin and no hair, which makes them look slightly nauseous.
The taller greets the two of you.
“Dahrling! Welcome home! And what’s this? You’ve brought along a coworker?” Oh that is a horrible accent for the translator to use, but it suits the alien well. Your ‘partner’ seems offended, their hair bunching up and a low rumbling sound coming from them. It sounds like an angry exhaust pipe.
“This is my partner, dearest, meet my caregiver.” They gesture from you to their parent and back. You nod to them, as gently as you can. Which is apparently a formal greeting. They nod back, though they don’t seem pleased to meet you, they do make a slight bow with their nod, which shows that they’re ‘grateful’ to meet you. Essentially to show that they’re the host, and that you are a guest.
…
The other half of the parental duo was not present. The one that was, was intent on grilling you the whole time. It felt more like an interrogation than a dinner. The two older sibling had both brought along a significant other, and the parent clearly wanted grandchildren to spoil, constantly doting on them and asking what their plants are for the future. Making sly comments on how wonderful it is to have a child and how child friendly this part of the galaxy is.
No matter how far into space you go, some things seem to stay the same..
The ‘weekend’ went well, it consisted of exploring the.. mansion? Hanging in the assigned room and a seemingly never ending stream of food. The only parental unit that bothered to present themselves never seemed to leave the table. Yet they didn’t eat at any point for as far as you could tell. But as promised, you didn’t question it.
Before you knew it, it ended, literally. There’s no clear day night cycle, which meant that you quite literally had no idea how much time had passed.
Upon your departure, the parent showed up again, this time with a different servant by their side. “It was quite lovely to have you here.” Their voice no longer hid disdain. “Come back anytime!” They say with a gentle nod.
You nod back and keep your face neutral, since anything else appears to be interpreted as aggression.
“It was a pleasure.” You agree. “May I ask you one final question?” They ask, you raise an eyebrow, giving them a signal to go ahead.
“What is the name of my youngest?” …Huh?
This was not covered. Surprisingly this did not come up at any point..
“I call them after a rare treat from home, since they’re the only being I love more.” You look them in the eyes. “Honey.” You purr.
They chitter, faster than you’ve ever heard before. The parent seems to be satisfied, as they let you leave.
The ride home you avoid each other, much to your regret.
It isn’t until the ship has landed that you exchange words again.
“Pick me up on Friday?” They nod eagerly, and you decide to give them a hug before you go.
“This time I’ll buy you something~” You say with a wink as you exit. They chitter loudly and give you a thumbs up, something you taught them.
You wave them off, and sigh. Got a sickass coat and a date! In space!
Your phone connects to the WiFi and catches up on the missed notifications.
keep seeing undergrads on social media saying “oh if a prof has a strict no-AI academic integrity policy that’s a red flag for me because that means they don’t know how to design assignments” like sorry girl but that just sounds like you’ve got a case of sour grapes about not being allowed to cheat with the plagiarism machine that doesn’t know how to evaluate sources and kills the environment! I have a strict no-AI policy because if you use AI to write your essays for a writing course it’s literally plagiarism because you didn’t write it and you’re not learning any of the things the course teaches if you just plug a prompt into the plagiarism generator that kills the environment, hope this helps!
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
I graduated my undergrad last year. I was a TA for a writing heavy sociology class during my undergrad, I did a writing intensive degree, and I still TA for the soc professor despite both of us having left the college I went to.
Anyway. Students get so mad about the no AI policy. I have been using various AI detection softwares that I tested repeatedly to determine their accuracy. It’s so much work for me, the professor, and then for you who will fail the assignment.
To undergrad students: we know when you’re using AI. Even when you’re using grammarly to adjust the structure of your sentences. We can recognize differences in writing style, we know if you are improving your writing skills or if you just were not the one who wrote the paper. We specifically word questions so you cannot effectively answer them using AI. You’re missing a human component. If you aren’t a skilled writer, ask your professor for resources to help. Fuck, DM me and I’ll give you writing tips and go over your drafts. Just don’t go to AI. Anything you write will be infinitely better and will sound more natural than whatever AI wrote for you.
- A tired TA.
Yes
Also please don’t use AI detection software, there are ways to get around it, while at the same time false-positives are a staple of their functionality.
HEY that’s MY emotional support morally ambiguous misunderstood full of trauma touch starved yearning for love drenched in blood responsible for numerous atrocities comfort character who is TRYING & u will TREAT them with RESPECT
yea yea don’t harp on the kids or whatever but i do wish the term POV still had meaning and wasn’t just a thing you say before statements now for some reason
im 21
this has started to circulate so i want to be clear: i don’t care
What if I told you it’s not only entirely possible but in fact quite easy to talk about how some person is acting like an asshole without bringing eugenics into it
*Tumblr user with “mental health activist” in their bio voice* “The problem with everyone I don’t like is that their brains are broken due to their bad DNA and we ought to shoot them before they reproduce”
At 18, everyone receive a superpower. Your childhood friend got a power-absorption, your best friends got time control, and they quickly rise into top 100 most powerful superheroes. You got a mediocre superpower, but somehow got into the top 10. Today they visit you asking how you did it.
“Power absorption?” you ask him over your pasta, which you are currently absorbing powerfully. in the background, a tv is reading out what the Phoenix extremeist group has done recently. bodies, stacking.
tim nods, pushing his salad around. “it’s kind of annoying.” he’s gone vegan ever since he could talk to animals. his cheeks are sallow. “yesterday i absorbed static and i can’t stop shocking myself.”
“you don’t know what from,” shay is detangling her hair at the table, even though it’s not polite. about a second ago, her hair was perfect, which implies she’s been somewhere in the inbetween. “try millions of multiverses that your powers conflict with.”
“did we die in the last one?” you grin and she grins and tim grins but nobody answers the question.
now she has a cut over her left eye and her hair is shorter. she looks tired and tim looks tired and you look down at your 18-year-old hands, which are nothing.
they ship out tomorrow. they go out to the frontlines or wherever it is that superheroes go to fight supervillains; the cream of the crop. the starlight banner kids.
“you both are trying too hard,” you tell them, “couldn’t you have been, like, really good at surfing?”
“god,” shay groans, “what i’d give to only be in the olympics.”
xxx
in the night, tim is asleep. on the way home, he absorbed telekinesis, and hates it too.
shay looks at you. “i’m scared,” she says.
you must not have died recently, because she looks the same she did at dinner, cut healing slowly over her eye the way it’s supposed to, not the hyper-quickness of a timejump. just shay, living in the moment when the moment is something everyone lives in. her eyes are wide and dark the way brown eyes can be, that swelling fullness that feels so familiar and warm, that piercing darkness that feels like a stone at the back of your tongue.
“you should be,” you say.
her nose wrinkles, she opens her mouth, but you plow on.
“they’re going to take one look at you and be like, ‘gross, shay? no thanks. you’re too pretty. it’s bringing down like, morale, and things’. then they’ll kick you out and i’ll live with you in a box and we’ll sell stolen cans of ravioli.”
she’s grinning. “like chef boyardee or like store brand?”
“store brand but we print out chef boyardee labels and tape them over the can so we can mark up the price.”
“where do we get the tape?”
“we, uh,” you look into those endless dark eyes, so much like the night, so much like a good hot chocolate, so much like every sleepover you’ve had with the two of your best friends, and you say, “it’s actually just your hair. i tie your hair around the cans to keep the label on.”
she throws a pillow at you.
you both spend a night planning what you’ll do in the morning when shay is kicked out of Squadron 8, Division 1; top rankers that are all young. you’ll both run away to the beach and tim will be your intel and you’ll burn down the whole thing. you’re both going to open a bakery where you will do the baking and she’ll use her time abilities to just, like, speed things up so you don’t have to wake up at dawn. you’re both going to become wedding planners that only do really extreme weddings.
she falls asleep on your shoulder. you do not sleep at all.
in the morning, they are gone.
xxx
squadron 434678, Division 23467 is basically “civilian status.” you still have to know what to expect and all that stuff. you’re glad that you’re taking extra classes at college; you’re kind of bored re-learning the stuff you were already taught in high school. there are a lot of people who need help, and you’re good at that, so you help them.
tim and shay check in from time to time, but they’re busy saving the world, so you don’t fault them for it. in the meantime, you put your head down and work, and when your work is done, you help the people who can’t finish their work. and it kind of feels good. kind of.
xxx
at twenty, squadron 340067, division 2346 feels like a good fit. tim and you go out for ice cream in a new place that rebuilt after the Phoenix group burned it down. you’ve chosen nurse-practitioner as your civilian job, because it seems to fit, but you’re not released for full status as civilian until you’re thirty, so it’s been a lot of office work.
tim’s been on the fritz a lot lately, overloading. you’re worried they’ll try to force him out on the field. he’s so young to be like this.
“i feel,” he says, “like it all comes down to this puzzle. like i’m never my own. i steal from other people’s boxes.”
you wrap your hand around his. “sometimes,” you say, “we love a river because it is a reflection.”
he’s quiet a long time after that. a spurt of flame licks from under his eyes.
“i wish,” he says, “i could believe that.”
xxx
twenty three has you in squad 4637, division 18. really you’ve just gotten here because you’re good at making connections. you know someone who knows someone who knows you as a good kid. you helped a woman onto a bus and she told her neighbor who told his friend. you’re mostly in the filing department, but you like watching the real superheroes come in, get to know some of them. at this level, people have good powers but not dangerous ones. you learn how to help an 18 year old who is a loaded weapon by shifting him into a non-violent front. you get those with pstd home where they belong. you put your head down and work, which is what you’re good at.
long nights and long days and no vacations is fine until everyone is out of the office for candlenights eve. you’re the only one who didn’t mind staying, just in case someone showed up needing something.
the door blows open. when you look up, he’s bleeding. you jump to your feet.
“oh,” you say, because you recognize the burning bird insignia on his chest, “I think you have the wrong office.”
“i just need,” he spits onto the ground, sways, collapses.
well, okay. so, that’s, not, like. great. “uh,” you say, and you miss shay desperately, “okay.”
you find the source of the bleeding, stabilize him for when the shock sets in, get him set up on a desk, sew him shut. two hours later, you’ve gotten him a candlenights present and stabilized his vitals. you’ve also filed him into a separate folder (it’s good to be organized) and found him a home, far from the warfront.
when he wakes up, you give him hot chocolate (god, how you miss shay), and he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t smile at the gift you’ve gotten him (a better bulletproof vest, one without the Phoenix on it), or the stitches. that’s okay. you tell him to take the right medications, hand them over to him, suggest a doctor’s input. and then you hand over his folder with a new identity in it and a new house and civilian status. you take a deep breath.
he opens it and bursts into tears. he doesn’t say anything. he just leaves and you have to clean up the blood, which isn’t very nice of him. but it’s candlenights. so whatever. hopefully he’ll learn to like his gift.
xxx
squadron 3046, division 2356 is incredibly high for a person like you to fit. but still, you fit, because you’re good at organization and at hard work, and at knowing how to hold on when other people don’t see a handhold.
shay is home. you’re still close, the two of you, even though she feels like she exists on another planet. the more security you’re privy to, the more she can tell you.
you brush her hair as she speaks about the endless man who never dies, and how they had to split him up and hide him throughout the planet. she cries when she talks about how much pain he must be in.
“can you imagine?” she whispers, “i mean, i know he’s phoenix, but can you imagine?”
“one time i had to work retail on black friday,” you say.
she sniffles.
“one time my boss put his butt directly on my hand by accident and i couldn’t say anything so i spent a whole meeting with my hand directly up his ass,” you say.
her eyes are so brown, and filling, and there are scars on her you’ve never noticed that might be new or very, very, very old; and neither of you know exactly how much time she’s actually been alive for.
“i mean,” you say, “yeah that might hurt but one time i said goodbye to someone but they were walking in the same direction. i mean can you imagine.”
she laughs, finally, even though it’s weakly, and says, “one time even though i can manipulate time i slept in and forgot to go to work even though i was leading a presentation and i had to look them in the face later to tell them that.”
“you’re a compete animal,” you tell her, and look into those eyes, so sad and full of timelines you’ll never witness, “you should be kicked out completely.”
she wipes her face. “find me in a box,” she croaks, “selling discount ravioli.”
xxx
you don’t know how it happens. but you guess the word gets around. you don’t think you like being known to them as someone they can go to, but it’s not like they’ve got a lot of options. many of them just want to be out of it, so you get them out, you guess.
you explain to them multiple times you haven’t done a residency yet and you really only know what an emt would, but they still swing by. every time they show up at your office, you feel your heart in your chest: this is it, this is how you die, this is how it ends.
“so, like, this group” you say, trying to work the system’s loopholes to find her a way out of it, “from ashes come all things, or whatever?”
she shrugs. you can tell by looking at her that she’s dangerous. “it’s corny,” she says. another shrug. “i didn’t mean to wind up a criminal.”
you don’t tell her that you sort of don’t know how one accidentally becomes a criminal, since you kind-of-sort-of help criminals out, accidentally.
“i don’t believe any of that stuff,” she tells you, “none of that whole… burn it down to start it over.” she swallows. “stuff just happens. and happens. and you wake up and it’s still happening, even though you wish it wasn’t.”
you think about shay, and how she’s covered in scars, and her crying late at night because of things nobody else ever saw.
“yeah,” you say, and print out a form, “i get that.”
and you find a dangerous woman a normal home.
xxx
“you’re squadron 905?”
“division 34754,” you tell him. watch him look down at your ID and certification and read your superpower on the card and then look back up to you and then back down to the card and then back up at you, and so on. he licks his chapped lips and stands in the cold.
this happens a lot. but you smile. the gatekeeper is frowning, but then hanson walks by. “oh shit,” he says, “it’s you! come right on in!” he gives you a hug through your rolled-down window.
the gatekeeper is in a stiff salute now. gulping in terror. hanson is one of the strongest people in this sector, and he just hugged you.
the gate opens. hanson swaggers through. you shrug to the gatekeeper. “i helped him out one time.”
inside they’re debriefing. someone has shifted sides, someone powerful, someone wild. it’s not something you’re allowed to know about, but you know it’s bad. so you put your head down, and you work, because that’s what you’re good at, after all. you find out the gatekeeper’s name and send him a thank-you card and also handmade chapstick and some good earmuffs.
shay messages you that night. i have to go somewhere, she says, i can’t explain it, but there’s a mission and i might be gone a long time.
you stare at the screen for a long time. your fingers type out three words. you erase them. you instead write where could possibly better than stealing chef boyardee with me?
she doesn’t read it. you close the tab.
and you put your head down. and work.
xxx
it’s in a chili’s. like, you don’t even like chili’s? chili’s sucks, but the boss ordered it so you’re here to pick it up, wondering if he gave you enough money to cover. things have been bad recently. thousands dying. whoever switched sides is too powerful to stop. they destroy anyone and anything, no matter the cost.
the phoenix fire smells like pistachios, you realize. you feel at once part of yourself and very far. it happens so quickly, but you feel it slowly. you wonder if shay is involved, but know she is not.
the doors burst in. there’s screaming. those in the area try their powers to defend themselves, but everyone is civilian division. the smell of pistachios is cloying.
then they see you. and you see them. and you put your hands on your hips.
“excuse me, tris,” you say, “what are you doing?”
there’s tears in her eyes. “i need the money,” she croaks.
“From a chili’s?” you want to know, “who in their right mind robs a chili’s? what are you going to do, steal their mozzarella sticks?”
“it’s connected to a bank on the east wall,” she explains, “but i thought it was stupid too.”
you shake your head. you pull out your personal checkbook. you ask her how much she needs, and you see her crying. you promise her the rest when you get your paycheck.
someone bursts into the room. shouts things. demands they start killing.
but you’re standing in the way, and none of them will kill you or hurt you, because they all know you, and you helped them at some point or another, or helped their friend, or helped their children.
tris takes the money, everyone leaves. by the time the heroes show up, you’ve gotten everyone out of the building.
the next time you see tris, she’s marrying a beautiful woman, and living happily, having sent her cancer running. you’re a bridesmaid at the wedding.
xxx
“you just,” the director wants to know now, “sent them running?”
hanson stands between her and you, although you don’t need the protection.
“no,” you say again, for the millionth time, “i just gave her the money she needed and told her to stop it.”
“the phoenix group,” the director of squadron 300 has a vein showing, “does not just stop it.”
you don’t mention the social issues which confound to make criminal activity a necessity for some people, or how certain stereotypes forced people into negative roles to begin with, or how an uneven balance of power punished those with any neurodivergence. instead you say, “yeah, they do.”
“i’m telling you,” hanson says, “we brought her out a few times. it happens every time. they won’t hurt her. we need her on our team.”
your spine is stiff. “i don’t do well as a weapon,” you say, voice low, knowing these two people could obliterate you if they wished. but you won’t use people’s trust against them, not for anything. besides, it’s not like trust is your superpower. you’re just a normal person.
hanson snorts. “no,” he says, “but i like that when you show up, the fighting just… stops. that’s pretty nice, kid.”
“do you know… what we are dealing with…. since agent 25… shifted….?” the director’s voice is thin.
“yeah,” hanson says, “that’s why i think she’d be useful, you know? add some peace to things.”
the director sits down. sighs. waves her hand. “whatever,” she croaks, “do what you want. reassign her.”
hanson leads you out. over your shoulder, you see her put her head in her hands. later, you get her a homemade spa kit, and make sure to help her out by making her a real dinner from time to time, something she’s too busy for, mostly.
at night, you write shay messages you don’t send. telling her things you cannot manage.
one morning you wake up to a terrible message: shay is gone. never to be seen again.
xxx
you’re eating ice cream when you find him.
behind you, the city is burning. hundreds dead, if not thousands.
he’s staring at the river. maybe half-crying. it’s hard to tell, his body is shifting, seemingly caught between all things and being nothing.
“ooh buddy,” you say, passing him a cone-in-a-cup, the way he likes it, “talk about a night on the town.”
the bench is burning beside him, so you put your jacket down and snuff it out. it’s hard sitting next to him. he emits so much.
“hey tim?” you say.
“yeah?” his voice is a million voices, a million powers, a terrible curse.
“can i help?” you ask.
he eats a spoonful of ice cream.
“yeah,” he says eventually. “i think i give up.”
xxx
later, when they praise you for defeating him, you won’t smile. they try to put you in the media; an all-time hero. you decline every interview and press conference. you attend his funeral with a veil over your head.
the box goes into the ground. you can’t stop crying.
you’re the only one left at the site. it’s dark now, the subtle night.
you feel her at your side and something in your heart stops hurting. a healing you didn’t know you needed. her hands find yours.
“they wanted me to kill him,” she says, “they thought i’d be the only one who could.” her hands are warm. you aren’t breathing.
“beat you to it,” you say.
“i see that,” she tells you.
you both stand there. crickets nestle the silence.
“you know,” she says eventually, “i have no idea which side is the good one.”
“i think that’s the point of a good metaphor about power and control,” you say, “it reflects the human spirit. no tool or talent is good or bad.”
“just useful,” she whispers. after a long time, she wonders, “so what does that make us?”
xxx
it’s a long trek up into the mountains. shay seems better every day. more solid. less like she’s on another plane.
“heard you’re a top ten,” she tells me, her breath coming out in a fog. you’ve reclassed her to civilian. it took calling in a few favors, but you’ve got a lot.
“yeah,” you say, “invulnerable.”
“oh, is that your superpower?” she laughs. she knows it’s not.
“that’s what they’re calling it,” you tell her, out of breath the way she is not, “it’s how they explain a person like me at the top.”
“if that means ‘nobody wants to kill me’, i think i’m the opposite.” but she’s laughing, in a light way, a way that’s been missing from her.
the cabin is around the corner. the lights are already on.
“somebody’s home,” i grin.
tim, just tim, tim who isn’t forced into war and a million reflections, opens the door. “come on in.”
xxx
squadron one, division three. a picture of shay in a wedding dress is on my desk. she looks radiant, even though she’s marrying little old me.
what do i do? just what i’m best at. what’s not a superpower. what anyone is capable of: just plain old helping.
Written art. Beautiful. Better than most movies. Please read and share.
If you’re a Non-Muslim and you see a Muslim praying in public, could you please not pass in front of them?
Go behind them, but not in front. 👍
Oh, signal boost! I didn’t know this.
Okay, but also: if you see a Muslim praying in public and they have something in front of them, like a purse or a bag or something like that, you can pass in front of them, but pass in front of that object.
it’s called a sutrah, and it’s meant to act as a physical barrier between the person praying and someone who might happen to pass in front.
Also, if you did this and didn’t know, please don’t beat yourself up over it. Now you know! Muslims aren’t supposed to pass in front of Muslims praying, either, because prayer is communication with God and you don’t want to break that connection.
Spread culture, respect customs, be good people. Simple as that.
Didn’t know this.
Reblogging again
THE AMOUNTS OF REBLOGS THIS HAS JUST MAKES ME SO HAPPY
S I G N A L B O O S T
Reblog forever !
Similarly, if a Jew is saying the Shemonah Esrei prayer (whispered, moving only the mouth, standing facing east with legs together) don’t go in front unless there’s a barrier.
My boyfriend was showing me his cat and I leaned over to kiss the cat on his soft little baby head and he went “meow” and scrambled away because I’d been wearing my headphones and I accidentally jabbed him with the microphone.
And I said “Damn, this is exactly like in the Iliad”
“Based on data gleaned from the nearly 10 million military dependents it insures, the U.S. Department of Defense has repeatedly called the evidence supporting ABA “weak,” noting there is no research to determine whether the small number of participants who show improvement — 15% — do so because of treatment or simply because a child has matured. After a year of the therapy, the department reported to Congress in 2019, 76% of 16,000 participating autistic children saw no change, and 9% worsened.”
Okay before we get anyone on here saying “water is wet”, here are some other bullet points about the article.
The article uses proper terminology and actually defines stimming, masking, and many other words that neurotypical people may or may not know (re autism)
The data that the article is based off of includes first hand accounts from autistic people who have gone through ABA. The researchers even used ASAN (autism self advocacy) as a resource! Actual autistic people shared their stories!!! And they believed us!!!!!
It explains WHY autistic people have a hard time with ABA, which is incredible. Not just the fact that it’s akin to training a dog, but the psychology of it, and how it’s overstimulating and degrading
There’s a part that does quote from Auti$m $peaks spokespeople, BUT it’s because they’re leading into how neurotypical parents see ABA most often as a “saving grace” to get a “normal child” and then goes on to tell more about how autistic children perceive ABA, both during and after treatment
One family’s story tells of how a mother noticed her autistic son would actually hide when she went to turn the computer on for ABA therapy (this was during COVID lockdown) and how she realized something was off because of that. She canceled ABA and found an alternative (called Floor Time) where the child actually directs the play, and the therapist/teacher goes along with what the kid wants/does!
There’s a really cool bit on why ABA is usually the only thing available to parents, and the answer is Shitty American Healthcare/Insurance Companies!
It notes that ABA therapists don’t really have strict training requirements. You can do a quick online course and become an ABA therapist. It does not require a college degree. That should horrify you.
There’s another parallel study with its own data coming out in 2025
Honestly, this whole article is a gem. Remember, while “water is wet” studies seem trivial, we need them in order to get our side of the story taken seriously. Research with credible data that backs up what we’ve been saying is important!
TL; DR?
Huge study with lots of input from autistic people tells us ABA sucks!
Thank you for this addition. A better encouragement for this article than I managed!
Also the thing about ‘water is wet’ statements is that when it comes to attempting to change actual policy, especially in health care, and especially when convincing insurance companies to for out the cash for something, statements of 'this is obviously bad’ or 'everyone knows x or y’ don’t cut it.
If you want to change something that’s a policy, or even just a convention, then you need to prove that there is reason to make that change.
I’m in archaeology and had a student tell me a study we were discussing was pointless because 'everyone knows people had bad teeth back then’, only to not be able to answer when I asked 'how do we know for sure if we don’t count the bad teeth?’
Studies like the one in the article are massive achievements because it’s a huge dataset and it is providing the actual data to back up the 'water is wet’ statements. Now when someone, especially an insurance company, tries to suggest that ABA is the only therapy that could possibly be offered, you can point to this study and go 'why are you paying for shit that doesn’t work?’.
god fell out of heaven yesterday and we all started making fun of him bc the corpse is only like 5'3’’
i have been thinking about this, because i am 5'2 and was raised catholic. in churches, the body of christ lingers ever in the air, on the back of our tongues, in every sconce and shadow. close your eyes. can you draw the shape of white jesus - bent and always muscled, rangy but masculine. i know the slant of his body from every tortured angle. his serene and pleading face - underfoot and rising above. white jesus is always either a baby or he is a 33 year old man, and the halo is goldleaf. jesus on the crucifix is almost always depicted sagging, a little hollow between his back and the wood of the cross.
god fell out of heaven yesterday, and fox news wasn’t pleased about it, because god was 5'3". in our picture books, god takes up the whole sky. god can lift a mountain. god removed my brother’s rib. my father is a deacon and showed me a diagram of the piece that adam used to form eve, and now “all women” have extra ribs. i was 7 and wanted to talk about if faeries are real or if trees can hear or if magic works, which was not favored. good catholic girls do not look like white jesus. they do not look like white old father-god. they might look like mary (virgin, always an adult, always demure). my brother is 6'0", so the lack of a rib did not stunt his growth. maybe i am smaller because the weight of eve’s sin is pulling me down.
they didn’t want to do an autopsy on god, which was ironic, because, like, didn’t we say god made us in his image? and if god has (according to transubstantiation) been inside my body, can’t we, like, get inside of god’s body? that feels fair. i was mad particularly because when i tell people i am nonbinary, they talk about cutting open my grave and peeling back my gender so all the pulp of it shows. when i am dead, they tell me, they will uncover my “real” gender like a butterfly and pin her to the board. but god was 5'3".
the problem was that god was 5'3". first of all god was measured in imperial units which was kind of fucked up. the corpse landed inside of a townhouse in baltimore, which was bad for the insurance adjuster. that was not how the rapture was supposed to take place. also, the rapture is not covered under insurance, before you ask. the corpse of god was left overnight due to a confusingly-worded twitter update. i got in my car and drove south for over 9 hours, listening to the radio and my audiobook. i’m re-listening to graceling, but will always take good fantasy book recommendations. the radio said god’s body made a strange hum - the announcer said like. well. it sounds like the living room fan from my childhood.
fox news had to say it wasn’t god, because god is a man, and men stand up to pee. they had on male experts who talked about how yes, of course, god might have fallen from heaven, and yes his halo has singed through the first layer of the earth’s crust - but this is probably not god. maybe one of the angels. micheal? rapheal? god cannot be 5'3", god lifts the rich from perdition and allows them passage into the fine life above us. god’s body would be brave and tough and rugged like a lumberjack on a papertowel roll. god’s body couldn’t be like this - whalefall. nobody knew what to do with the body, so he was just lying there, alone in his crater.
i have a lot of reasons to hate god. i am not here to defend any part of the faith nor of god. unfortunately god was 5'3", and i am 5'2". and i guess some of us maybe felt the same way because i wasn’t the only one getting out of the car. we all gathered around the crime scene tape and just stood there and looked at the body of god, who is a small man. god wasn’t rotting correctly - his skin was flaking off like feathers overlapping. did i tell you? my girlfriend and i both saw the same god in our dreams, long before we met. we both described the experience as many hands.
all of us who were there bent down and picked up god from the rubble, which was blasphemy. we put him down in a clover patch. a bee rested on his cheek. what do you say at a funeral for god? he didn’t look like jesus. people got mad then, because it wasn’t funny anymore. they didn’t want us to put god on the tombstone, and that made me laugh, and i suggested INRI. unfortunately i was raised super catholic, so that was only funny to like 3 people and of course the honeybee.
i think god would have liked swingsets and public transportation (when it works). i think he would have liked bodegas and good grilled cheese sandwiches. i think he would have lost his mind about dumplings. think of the humor behind getting god stilts or showing god mariokart. it is warm in baltimore so the ground is thawed. we talked about putting god under the ground and under many rocks, which is ironic because like - back in the cave you go. but it felt wrong to close him off from open air. god should sleep with his chest towards heaven, right?
god ruined my childhood and bored a splint through my eye and now i can never see this world without flinching. when i brought him in the clover i still laid him down with a care that almost felt parental. he was so small, is the thing. it was important to be gentle.
god fell out of heaven yesterday and we all started making fun of him bc the corpse is only like 5'3’’
i have been thinking about this, because i am 5'2 and was raised catholic. in churches, the body of christ lingers ever in the air, on the back of our tongues, in every sconce and shadow. close your eyes. can you draw the shape of white jesus - bent and always muscled, rangy but masculine. i know the slant of his body from every tortured angle. his serene and pleading face - underfoot and rising above. white jesus is always either a baby or he is a 33 year old man, and the halo is goldleaf. jesus on the crucifix is almost always depicted sagging, a little hollow between his back and the wood of the cross.
god fell out of heaven yesterday, and fox news wasn’t pleased about it, because god was 5'3". in our picture books, god takes up the whole sky. god can lift a mountain. god removed my brother’s rib. my father is a deacon and showed me a diagram of the piece that adam used to form eve, and now “all women” have extra ribs. i was 7 and wanted to talk about if faeries are real or if trees can hear or if magic works, which was not favored. good catholic girls do not look like white jesus. they do not look like white old father-god. they might look like mary (virgin, always an adult, always demure). my brother is 6'0", so the lack of a rib did not stunt his growth. maybe i am smaller because the weight of eve’s sin is pulling me down.
they didn’t want to do an autopsy on god, which was ironic, because, like, didn’t we say god made us in his image? and if god has (according to transubstantiation) been inside my body, can’t we, like, get inside of god’s body? that feels fair. i was mad particularly because when i tell people i am nonbinary, they talk about cutting open my grave and peeling back my gender so all the pulp of it shows. when i am dead, they tell me, they will uncover my “real” gender like a butterfly and pin her to the board. but god was 5'3".
the problem was that god was 5'3". first of all god was measured in imperial units which was kind of fucked up. the corpse landed inside of a townhouse in baltimore, which was bad for the insurance adjuster. that was not how the rapture was supposed to take place. also, the rapture is not covered under insurance, before you ask. the corpse of god was left overnight due to a confusingly-worded twitter update. i got in my car and drove south for over 9 hours, listening to the radio and my audiobook. i’m re-listening to graceling, but will always take good fantasy book recommendations. the radio said god’s body made a strange hum - the announcer said like. well. it sounds like the living room fan from my childhood.
fox news had to say it wasn’t god, because god is a man, and men stand up to pee. they had on male experts who talked about how yes, of course, god might have fallen from heaven, and yes his halo has singed through the first layer of the earth’s crust - but this is probably not god. maybe one of the angels. micheal? rapheal? god cannot be 5'3", god lifts the rich from perdition and allows them passage into the fine life above us. god’s body would be brave and tough and rugged like a lumberjack on a papertowel roll. god’s body couldn’t be like this - whalefall. nobody knew what to do with the body, so he was just lying there, alone in his crater.
i have a lot of reasons to hate god. i am not here to defend any part of the faith nor of god. unfortunately god was 5'3", and i am 5'2". and i guess some of us maybe felt the same way because i wasn’t the only one getting out of the car. we all gathered around the crime scene tape and just stood there and looked at the body of god, who is a small man. god wasn’t rotting correctly - his skin was flaking off like feathers overlapping. did i tell you? my girlfriend and i both saw the same god in our dreams, long before we met. we both described the experience as many hands.
all of us who were there bent down and picked up god from the rubble, which was blasphemy. we put him down in a clover patch. a bee rested on his cheek. what do you say at a funeral for god? he didn’t look like jesus. people got mad then, because it wasn’t funny anymore. they didn’t want us to put god on the tombstone, and that made me laugh, and i suggested INRI. unfortunately i was raised super catholic, so that was only funny to like 3 people and of course the honeybee.
i think god would have liked swingsets and public transportation (when it works). i think he would have liked bodegas and good grilled cheese sandwiches. i think he would have lost his mind about dumplings. think of the humor behind getting god stilts or showing god mariokart. it is warm in baltimore so the ground is thawed. we talked about putting god under the ground and under many rocks, which is ironic because like - back in the cave you go. but it felt wrong to close him off from open air. god should sleep with his chest towards heaven, right?
god ruined my childhood and bored a splint through my eye and now i can never see this world without flinching. when i brought him in the clover i still laid him down with a care that almost felt parental. he was so small, is the thing. it was important to be gentle.
Ive said this before but swear the biggest skill to learn as an adult is how to resist high-pressure sales tactics. You do NOT have to answer questions with anything other than “Sorry I’m not interested.” No matter how nice they are or no matter how many follow up questions they ask or even how agitated they get when you stand your ground. Just keep saying I’m not interested. Don’t answer their questions. Don’t give them an opening to try to push back on your reasons. Be a fucking brick wall of I’m not interested.
When we bought our car, I told Sean to let me handle it. I walked in and said “We have X for a down payment and cannot pay more than Y in monthly payments.” My Y number had some leeway, but I didn’t mention that.
First thing the sales guy did after I laid down the rules was turn to Sean and go, “What’s your number?” And Sean said. “Oh, no, you negotiate with Gayle.”
So, strike one for the sales guy. Could not divide and conquer us by implying THE MAN would not surprised at what I laid down.
Sales guy then had to confer with his manager and left us at his desk for several minutes. I have a vague recollection (this was 16 years ago) of Sean and I amusing ourselves doing bits about the other people there to look at cars. I am sure we did not give off the stressed or nervous energy they were hoping for.
Guy comes back. His first offer is fifty dollars a month more than I told him we could pay. I looked at him and said “I gave you our upper limit.”
“Well, but what’s another 50 bucks a month?”
“Something I can’t afford.”
He didn’t know what to do with my open and unashamed admittal that I had a budget because my money was finite.
He went back to talk to the manager again.
It took two more rounds of “I told you what I can afford” before he finally came back 20 bucks under what I’d stated as my max.
The trick to resisting high-stress sales tactics is doing the math at home, knowing exactly what you can afford, and then walking into the room and stating that number minus 15%. Then refusing to budge from that number. Never, ever, meet then where they want. Always meet them where you want. Because at the end of the day, you can walk away and go somewhere else and say “I told the people at Z what my terms were, and they refused to work with me. Here are my terms. Meet them, and you make a sale today.”
I don’t mean family heirlooms that feel like junk but that you can’t get rid of because they’re important. I mean the opposite – things of no importance that were passed down through generations incidentally.
My grandmother owned a dish towel with a distinct checkerboard pattern. It wasn’t important to her, just one of many dish towels. When she died my parents kept some of her stuff because of sentimental value, but some just because it was perfectly fine stuff they could use, and they ended up with it.
Years later I was moving to another state and my parents asked if I needed any old towels since they were getting new ones. I got a box of rags, which included my grandmother’s dish towel (which had been downgraded to ‘rag’ by then, tbh it was in that category even when my grandmother owned it.) I literally have a rag that’s been passed down through multiple generations.
It’s not sentimental or anything, I still use it as a rag, but sometimes I look at it and picture it on the handle of my grandmother’s oven door and feel shrimp emotions.
just wanna say as someone who’s Aboriginal that I think First Nations peoples have every right to be a little angry at white leftists (NOT Palestinians, people blaming Palestinians stfu) who ignored our anti-colonial movements for years but are now supporting the Free Palestine movement. If you, someone living in the US, Canada or Australia or Aotearoa, are serious about the liberation of Palestine then you NEED to be just as serious about justice and liberation for the First Nations peoples’ who’s stolen and colonised land YOU live on. If you’re not serious about where YOU fit in the paradigm of anti-colonial work, fix it. Here’s a good place to start: if you’re a person living on occupied Indigenous lands, learn who’s land it really is, and how you can help them as an ally.
it is my humble yet passionate belief that Deltarune takes place in 2009, here is my take on the lightners’ phones/devices
[ID: Digital paintings of five devices, each with the screen off.
The first is a silver and blue Nokia flip phone. It has a number pad and arrow keys, and a selfie camera on the front. Handwritten next to it is text in bullet points that reads “Kris’ flip phone. Nokia 6290 from 2006. Passed down from Asriel. Only has the number pad so they don’t text much and when they do it’s short messages. Nokia Arabic ringtone. Contains a frightening amount of low quality images.”
The second is a black iPod nano. The top right corner is heavily cracked and covers half the screen and so is the area around the circular select wheel, yet the device is still intact. Text next to it reads “Susie’s iPod Nano. iPod Nano Gen. 1 from 2005. Cracked as hell, 2 GB memory full. Still kickin’. Will work for another decade until she leaves it in her pocket and it goes through the washing machine (which has happened once already).”
The third is a Samsung slide phone. The top is sliver and the screen covers most of the front of the device, with answer, hang up, and a center button on the bottom. A black QWERTY keyboard slides out from under it. Attached to the phone are three charms, a smiling star, a Christmas tree, and a candy cane. Text next to it reads “Noelle’s slide phone. Samsung M900 Moment from 2009. Keyboard so she texts a lot and uses creative emoticons. Lots of charms. Stickers on the back.”
The fourth is an iPod touch. It has a dark blue case and has visible fingerprints on the touchscreen. Text next to it reads “Berdly’s iPod Touch. iPod Touch Gen. 2 from 2008. Crusty grody case. Greasy fingerprints (feather-prints??). Sometimes he plays games on there like solitaire, sudoku, fruit ninja when it comes out in 2010. Mostly uses it for YouTube (where he watches The Guild).”
The fifth is a black BlackBerry phone with a black and bright pink checkered case. The phone has a screen on the top half and a QWERTY keyboard on the lower half. Answer and hang up buttons and a silver center button are in the middle. Text next to it reads “Catti’s BlackBerry. BlackBerry Curve 8330 from 2007. Texts a lot. Lots of music on there. Beloved device, will not be replaced until it dies many years later.” End ID.]
I love this and i also think dr takes place early 2000s so this is so good
I vote we stop calling it inflation at all. Seize the language. It’s price gouging, not inflation. Inflation is a nebulous concept that invokes feeling of being too complex for the layman, a struggle as old as economy itself against a beast no one has ever truly slain.
Price gouging is the truth of it. And it makes it very clear who is to blame, and what must be done to end it.
Can confirm this works wonders. Australia is in a cost of living crisis rn and the two major supermarkets are a big part of it, as they pretty much have a duopoly on not just the grocery shopping market, but a bunch of others considered to be essential (things like fuel). They are trying to blame their price rises on inflation, but the media recently started reporting it as price gouging (which it is), and it got the average person pretty worked up, better than blaming inflation did.
you sign up for the job because you want to save lives, and sometimes you get a chance to just be really, really, clear about “yes it is my job to save lives, there is an obstacle, and i am paid to use an axe to solve this problem”
ALT
ALT
