I'm Lulu. 30-something white bi ace spoonie. Writer, OTW volunteer, and fandom statistician. She/her/hers. My AO3 Account Femslash Revolution #AO3 Ship Stats #AO3 Census
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i think more robots should be disabled actually. robots whose bodies keep falling apart and need much more consistent repairs. robots whose bodily upkeep is hard and laborious and exhausting. robots who physically cant do things without help from another individual. robots who are imperfect and dont fit the bill of a flawless machine. i want more of this waiter please bring me more disabled robots
Ok, so, a realistically depicted robot, in my opinion, would HAVE to be disabled. Anyone with any robotic/mechanical parts could tell you that.
So, backing up, many people say that they suddenly "feel their age" around 30 because their body, if they keep using it like they're 20, will stop healing faster than they can hurt it. Many chronically ill folks deal with this slowed recovery starting at a much earlier age, and more dramatically. When we die of 'old age' that's in large part due to your healing factor being slowed down so much, the act of being alive wears you down faster than your body can heal.
Robots can not heal.
Sure, they can have parts replaced, but all mechanical parts are installed with an expected number of uses and hours of operation, not even accounting for any traumatic damage.
These legs are rated for three years of use, or 20,000 miles of walking. I'm one year and 3,000 miles over, and can no longer hit my top speed, and tend to veer left if I'm not careful.
These eyes were supposed to be good for 5 years, but the bright lights of the desert and the frequent sand storm mean that after two years in, some of the sensors are burnt out, and the lenses are scratched and difficult to replace, and the same thing is just going to happen to the next pair, so is it really worth it?
My oil tank is cracked, and until I get a new one, I need to drink a new bottle every morning instead of every two months, and I can't bend over forward without spilling some.
This heart has 3 million beats in it. At 60 bpm, that will last me over 11 years. At 120 bpm, it won't last six, until I need a new one.
My CPU was made to last for 5 years with average use. At 3 years, I can think at 65% of the speed I started with. How slow do I have to be before it's worth it to replace that?
Every robot is built dying in a way that a healthy able bodied person cannot fully understand. The idea that every part of your body is ticking down, that taking a rest day only delays the inevitable, that once something is broken, it stays that way until you can get it fixed.
Sure, some cars are brand new, owned by someone with a garage and nearly infinite money to pour into upkeep. Some of them are old beaters that are just trying their best to get their 20-something owners to class and back, desperately hoping that it can hold its timing belt together until they can afford to replace it, but please drive slow until then?
Do you think that old beater car might also be worried about the day it becomes cheaper to replace than maintain? That "being bale to afford it" might refer to a new car, not a new belt?
Who among us know the fear that me might be easier to replace than to maintain?
Yes, this makes perfect sense. And robots would also share a fear that I think many disabled humans live with - what happens when the company that makes the technology keeping you functional goes out of business? Or decides to stop making the parts you need because it's not profitable enough?
A far-ranging feline, Geoffrey's cat can be found anywhere from the pampas and dusty savanna landscapes of the Gran Chaco to all the way up to 12,500 ft in the Andes mountains. F7n fact: Geoffrey's cats sometimes stands on their hind legs to peer over tall grass, propping their small bodies up with their fluffy tails, a unusal behavior for a cat.
Geoffroy’s cat was named after Étienne Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, a 19th-century French naturalist known for expanding upon Jean-Baptiste Lamarck's evolutionary theories. Three other animals bear his name: a tamarin, a spider monkey, and a bat.
Peeling off the broken breastplate of a stoic knight who only fights and never speaks, just to realize there’s nothing in there. Not metaphorically—the armor is literally empty. It doesn’t appear to affect him. If the armor stays mostly in the shape of a knight, he just gets back up to keep fighting. But with the chest plate off he just sits there, equally impervious to curiosity as I reach up into the cavity where his body might’ve gone. Stubbornly, no answers are found anywhere in there.
So I forge him a new breastplate and on the inside, because I know he has plenty of room, I put a little pocket. Not big enough to hold anything functional of course. Just a little extra piece to see what he’ll do with it.
He comes back next time with some grievous injury to his nothing, presumably from the massive shredded gash across his thigh plates. He sits and waits. I fix it for him. He is still nothing in there. I decide to add a drawing on the inside, of the type of beast I imagine could rend metal into scraps with a single blow. He puts it back on. He no longer moves as if he is injured.
Over time the interior of the knight becomes decorated with whatever odds and ends I could think to attach to the inside of a guy who’s got room to carry it. What really gets me is that he never removes any of it. Never requests a change. Not even when I installed a curtain rod for a small tapestry, or a bud vase to carry roses for his beloved, or an accordion folder for letters. He didn’t say a word for any of the many, many drawings of mythical beasts that now fight forever inside of his shell.
There are plenty of other forges. I’m not entirely sure why he keeps coming back here anyway. We’re pretty popular, but he could get his armor fixed a lot quicker (and with fewer ridiculous modifications) literally anywhere else. I asked him if I could get a look at his nothing again. He flipped up his visor and nodded his head so I could take a look. It was the same as it had been, filled with drawings and trinkets and weird little fixtures I’d put in there. I asked if he was annoyed by it, or liked it, or felt anything at all, but he literally only ever says nothing, so I’m not sure why I asked.
There’s not much room left in his nothing now. When he comes back for repairs I’ve had to fix my own foolish additions. Some of these pieces are intricate and irritating to repair, but I fix them anyway. It feels wrong to take any of it away from him now, even though I’ve been rudely encroaching on his nothingness to the point where it’s barely even there. How he squeezes his nothing back into a body so full, I’ll never understand. But it’s a game to me now, finding a spot not yet filled and putting something there. A dark part of me wonders if he ever gets filled up completely, if whatever sorcery holds the nothing-knight together may break, and it will all clatter unceremoniously to the floor.
When he hands me his breastplate yet again, it is so shockingly disfigured that I wonder if being made of nothing has somehow kept him alive. No ordinary knight could sustain such injuries. So I fix it. And he waits, unmoving, in a quiet corner of the forge. It’s like he’s watching, even though I know the reading glasses I put inside his helmet were just for fun. I’m careful to put it all back exactly the way it was when he last left. There’s no room to add more this time.
He examines the breastplate, and pauses before putting it back on, like he’s looking for something. Is he worried about the fit? But it suits him just as it always did. He calmly points to a little space, about an inch, between a miniature shelf and one of many pockets. There’s nothing there. I ask him what’s wrong, and again he points. It’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen from him, and it’s barely anything at all. I take it to mean he wants something there.
I spend some time engraving a little snail in the gap. He watches, as much as nothing can watch. When I’m finished he holds the breastplate, but he doesn’t put it on right away. I ask him if something’s still wrong. He says nothing, and puts it on. I tell him I can’t add anything else. Even if he could ask, there’s no room left.
Next time he comes back, there’s nothing wrong with his armor—he lets me check to make sure. I ask him what he’s doing here. Out from one of many pockets, he retrieves a tiny rusted knife. It’s in miserable condition, barely worth saving. I tell him I could make him a nice new one, but I’ll fix it if he likes. He puts it away and reaches around to find something else, a needle and thread. Better condition, but I’m not a sewist and I tell him as much. He puts them away. He then retrieves a little twisted piece of wax paper. I open it. It’s candy. I ask if I can eat it. He says nothing. I eat it. It’s flavored with cinnamon. I’m surprised he let me take it.
He keeps bringing me candy now. His armor is the most laborious to repair out of every client my forge serves, but it’s my own fault so I can’t complain. Sometimes he keeps me company while I work. I wonder if he is trying to tell me something when he hands me mints. I wonder again at the lemon lozenges. He stares at me when I eat, as much as nothing can stare.
One day he brings me a little jar of honey. I thank him, I tell him I’ll save it for dinner. He watches me work, he puts his repaired armor back on, and he stays. My shift passes slowly, and when I finally pack up to leave it’s dark outside. He follows me out of the forge. I ask him where he’s going. He points to the jar in my hand. I ask him if he wants to watch me eat it. He says nothing, but the nothing-knight clearly wants something, so I open the lid and dunk my finger in the honey. I try not to get any on my chin. He stands there, inches away, watching me try to consume this jar of honey without a utensil. It tastes like clovers. About half the jar is left when I’ve finally had enough of pretending to be a bear, but he doesn’t move to leave.
I ask if he’s going to follow me home. He says nothing. I tell him he can if he wants to. Again, nothing. I start walking, and he follows at my side. I know he’s not going to say anything ever, so I fill the silence. I tell him I’m grateful for the sweets, I tell him about how his various components are made, I tell him I’ve never met anyone made of nothing before. I tell him it’s a rare opportunity for a smith to work so much on the inside of something. He says nothing. I tell him again how much I like the candy.
It occurs to me that maybe filling me with sugar is as close as he can get to filling someone else’s empty armor with trinkets. I’m not sure if that’s really why he does it. I tell him I don’t have room to be filled with anything on the inside, not like him. I’m not a container for much besides food. He offers me another piece of candy. Maybe he likes containing something, the way I like to feel full. Maybe it’s nothing at all.
—
I didn’t edit this even a little bit. Thanks for reading!
I keep seeing people making fun of using growled, hissed, roared, snarled etc in writing and it’s like.
have you never heard someone speak with the gravel in their voice when they get angry? Because that’s what a growl is.
Have you never heard someone sharply whisper something through the thin space of their teeth? Or when your mother sharply told you to stop it in public as a kid when you were acting up/being too loud? Because that’s what a hiss is.
Have you never heard a man get so blackout angry that their voice BOOMS through the house? Because that’s what a roar is.
Have you never seen someone bare their teeth while talking to accentuate their frustration or anger while speaking with a vicious tone? Because that’s what snarling is.
It’s not meant to be a literal animal noise. For the love of god, not every description is literal. I get some people are genuinely confused, but also some of these people are genuinely unimaginative as fuck.
This for real. Alllllllll of this. All of these sounds are the way different people speak based on their emotions. A snarl is not going GRAWR like a dog. It's so furious their teeth are bared, every syllable sharp and cutting and loud. A growl is lower, the words dangerously rough and hot, a warning.
It's the same with softer sounds. A purr is that low, gravelly mmmmm noise of pleasure, or words warm and smooth as melted chocolate. When someone chirps, it's bright and happy and quick, the syllables a little clipped in excitement. Panting is not tongue lolling like a dog; it's a heaving chest and words that are half-breath.
This is what language, what storytelling IS. It's symbolic, it's imagination, it's metaphor and analogy and simile. Strip that away and all you have is textbook descriptions, which are of course useful when reading actual textbooks, but far less entertaining when reading a goddamn fictional story.
I was in the trenches of the “said is dead”-war in the olden days, I remember the discourse and I’m glad there’s still people taking it out with the trash
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Destiel is like if you were a child and you said to your parent are we getting McDonald’s and they said. No. And you said awwww man. And then you looked out the window and said wait but there’s a McDonald’s right there are we getting McDonald’s? And they said. No. And then you pulled into the parking lot for McDonald’s and you go so we’re getting McDonald’s :) and they say. No. And then go use the McDonald’s bathroom without making a purchase while leaving you in the car. And you keep driving and pull into a different McDonald’s into the drive thru line and your parent orders food for you and when you get it you go Aw yeah McDonald’s! And your parent says why the fuck do you think we’re getting McDonald’s. You’re crazy. You’re insane. You’re also a pervert. And yanked your fries out of your hands and tossed them out the window. But at the end of the day. You did. You did get McDonald’s
- when you’re jay walking, cars will actively accelerate bc the drivers want to kill you for breaking the rules
- servers in restaurants act very scared and apologetic, so maybe people aren’t nice to them here??? or I could be terrifying
- it’s really cute when little kids have British accents, but I’m unmoved by adults with accents
- extremely good gluten free options. this country is like 20 years ahead of Canada in that regard
- people will give random insignificant buildings names with little plaques. and then that’s the name that shows up on the map. like even a smaller than average family home, you can name it like it’s a dog
- lots of brick and stone buildings. looks cute and charming until you enter one and there’s no air conditioning
- people are still wearing jaguar print. I like this. don’t let it die
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unfortunately very true. Doing Better does not always mean never being upset or never being triggered or never having trouble. often Doing Better means experiencing those things and being able to keep going/cope healthily/move on. if you’re in a bubble with no sensation, if you’re numbing yourself out, that’s not what recovering really is. it won’t help you have a happier life it’ll just make your world smaller and smaller until you can’t fit anywhere anymore. gotta learn to make peace with the hard stuff too, that’s the only way to keep going
On this day, 5 July 1948, the UK National Health Service (NHS) was founded, on the principle that medical treatment should be provided according to need rather than the ability to pay.
The idea for the NHS was not the result of individual enlightenment, but of working-class self-organisation. The inspiration for the NHS came from the Tredegar Workmen’s Medical Aid Society in South Wales, where coal miners and steelworkers paid in a small weekly subscription. By the start of World War II, 95% of Tredegar was covered by the society.
Philip Prosser was born with club foot and received treatment as a result of his father's membership of the Society. He recounted: "I was taken to one of the top orthopaedic doctors in Wales and that was the start of my treatment for quite a few years. When the NHS came in in 1948, I was transferred over. It was exactly the same as the NHS in 1948. We already had it in Tredegar before that."
During World War II, to motivate millions of people to sacrifice and dedicate themselves to the war effort, the government promised reforms to benefit working-class people after the war was over. Conservative MP Quentin Hogg had warned Parliament that "if you do not give the people social reform, they are going to give you social revolution."
Sure enough, after the war ended, servicemen returning home, and others, began demanding better conditions, backing it up with direct action, like a huge wave of squatting. The NHS was part of a package of reforms introduced following the conflict to ensure social peace.
But almost right away, it came under attack. Legislation to bring in prescription charges was introduced by the Labour Party in 1949. Then fees for dental treatments were introduced, and since then the free, socialised service has been under attack from successive governments who have gradually introduced more charges, marketisation and privatisation. Meanwhile, health workers, patients and local communities have continuously fought to defend it.
More information, sources and map: https://stories.workingclasshistory.com/article/10531/foundation-of-the-nhs
No, cause this is funnier and always needs to be reblogged with the full context.
On that note, I don’t think we should ever shame the youth for not knowing things. However, there is a serious problem with how self-congratulatory the lack of research before making an observation is these days.
When it comes to chronic illnesses, mental illnesses, and disabilities, I've noticed that a lot of able-bodied people either don't take names seriously, or don't understand and ask you to explain what it is to them.
Now, if you have any kind of disability, you know it's fucking annoying go have people make you explain something over and over again, or have people go "oh, you have X? You mean, like the [awful stereotype] thing?"
So, I have realized recently that being Vague As Shit is great for making people leave you the hell alone.
I have autism and anxiety, and with that comes the symptom of selective mutism. If you don't know what that is, Firefox is free. But I had an episode where I couldn't speak today in one of my classes, and knew I would have to explain it to my partner and probably my professor.
This usually goes with me writing that I can't speak, them asking why, me saying selective mutism, and them asking me what that is. Then I have to painstakingly write out an explanation. And, obviously, I'm tired of this. So I tried something new. When he asked, I simply told him I couldn't speak, and when he asked if I physically couldn't or just didn't want to, I just opened my mouth and unleashed the terrifying, awful, broken stuttering that comes out when I try to speak while mute.
His response was "OKAY OKAY OKAY YOU CAN STOP NOW" and he did not question me for the rest of class, and even explained to the professor what was wrong when she tried to make me popcorn read.
This also works on doctors. When I tell doctors I have PCOS, POTS, or hEDS, they usually hear "oh the crazy women self diagnosis disabilities" and treat me accordingly. So, instead I drop unhinged symptoms until they leave me alone.
"Yes, my last menstrual cycle started on December 12th, 2025 and ended January 28th, 2026." "I have experienced several events where I have passed out randomly, yes." "My hip has subluxated six times in the past week."
It's like in the principles of writing horror. If you name and describe the problem, it's easier for people to minimize and ignore. Don't let them. You live with this fucking bullshit every day. Let your symptoms haunt people. They don't need to know everything about you. Besides, it makes them treat you better than when you give them names.
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not gonna lie i increasingly just find myself thinking... what are single disabled people supposed to do? basically everything assumes that either a) you have never been independent and are fully reliant on caregivers, whether this is parents or a paid carer that you are somehow funding, or b) you have a partner who can look after you, drive you to appointments, pick you up after you've had sedation, advocate for you, be your proxy, do the housework when you're sick, push your wheelchair, be your companion when travelling (e.g. handle the luggage if you're using a wheelchair), etc
and like. first of all even for people with partners that's assuming they're abled themselves and can handle all that. you can't assume that. secondly: what about people who are single, who live alone, who will probably always do so
"get someone to keep an eye on you when you start this new medication" who. "don't over exert yourself" nobody else is going to do the tasks. "this can be a walker or a transit wheelchair so your partner can push you when you get tired" my what
like it's not a coincidence that amatonormativity discussions started / developed in care contexts because it is so often the assumption that intimate partners will fill these needs. but I feel like this is often discussed in the context of "and this is too much to ask and puts too much unpaid labour on the unqualified partner" which is not untrue and needs discussing but like. also. what about people are single, independent adults who are neither emotionally nor geographically close to their siblings etc and are not Disabled Enough to have a paid carer (a group that grows as resources shrink). like are they just fucked then. they're on their own. punishment for failing to be enough of an adult to couple up.
a few years ago i was having a procedure for which i was going to have partial sedation, so they wouldn't let me leave the hospital alone afterwards. even though i would just be getting a taxi from outside the door back to my house
i had to ask my housemate to come to the hospital in a taxi, leave the taxi waiting outside, come inside to fetch me (they wouldn't even let me go from the ward to the taxi even though i could point to my phone and the texts saying that my housemate was outside), and then go back to our house with me. fortunately it was a weekend, so she didn't have to take time off work to do this, but they went on about how she'd have to keep an eye on me for the next day or so
bear in mind that i barely knew my housemate when we moved in together. we had mutual friends but it was an arrangement of convenience
these days i do have nearby friends who own a car, so would potentially be able to pick me up in a situation like this. but they don't live with me. so they wouldn't be able to keep an eye on me overnight as my housemate was assumed to be willing to do. my flat only has one bed in it. like. i don't know. it just seems to be completely beyond their comprehension that somebody could live solo and not just have someone who will look after them?? and this was for a small routine procedure that lots of non-disabled people have, so not even assuming high care needs! hospitals just can't comprehend that single adults exist!
That reminds me of the time I was giving blood and (in addition to my usual fainting shenanigans) there was a concern that the phlebotomist had given me nerve damage.
Trying to get the blood people to understand that I had driven there and that no, I didn't have a partner to come fetch me and monitor me was a flipping task and a half.
It took me over an hour to get out of the centre and I had to promise to call 111 (the non-emergency medical line) if anything happened.... Not sure what they would have been able to do for a tweaked nerve over the phone, or indeed what having a partner there would have achieved...
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