constantly dehydrated

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 (league days) part 8 (league days) part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 (league days) part 13 part 14 part 15 part 16 part 17 part 18 part 19 part 20 part 21 (league days) part 22 part 23 part 24 (league days) part 25 part 26 part 27 part 28 part 29 part 30

part 31 part 32 part 33 part 34 part 35 part 36 (league days) (part 1) part 37 (league days) (part 2) part 38 part 39 (part 1) part 40 (part 2) part 41 part 42 part 43 part 44 part 45 part 46 part 47 part 48 part 49 part 50 part 51 part 52 part 53 part 54 part 55 part 56 part 57 part 58 part 59 part 60 (part 1)

I, knowing that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, waited carefully for the lab director to be deep in conversation with someone else on the other side of the laboratory. And then I took my chance.

Test tubes, as it turns out, are really bad as shot glasses. Their shape turns any liquid inside into a stream, so you really can't knock it back quickly - it takes a couple seconds. Additionally, the best way I can describe the taste of virus concentrate was "sterile rot". A very unique kind of bad! Made worse by the test tube's inefficiency as a shot glass.

(by the way we were studying bacteriophages, not animal viruses. these viruses are too specialized on attacking prokaryotes to even recognize our cells as targets at all, according to studies.)

(but also like. if the viruses managed to successfully switch hosts and killed me with a violent infection, itd still be worth it.)

What if other Gothamites learned to do the same thing?

The first time it happens, Jim is panicking. He’s got an injured bird on his hands and no idea where Batman is. The kid isn’t responding no matter who asks questions, and suddenly the GCPD is treated to Commissioner Gordon doing a scarily good Batman impression, to the point Robin immediately responds

Word doesn’t necessarily get out right away. It happened in the precinct building, so the only witnesses were cops. But the rumors start in bars with drunk men telling anecdotes, with officers coming home with stories, and it spreads from there.

Eventually, people know that if you channel Batman and go “Robin, report!” the bird will go from gasping desperately in pain to a robotic list of injuries. EMTs learn to do this as part of their training. The Bats don’t go to hospitals, but they will let someone do emergency first aid on them.

Interestingly, it doesn’t just work on Robin. Gotham knows, regardless of what the rest of the world thinks, that their little birds grow up to become other Bats. It’s why their rivalry with Blüdhaven over Nightwing is so vicious. That’s their little bird the city is claiming. Blüdhaven did not raise him, Gotham did.

Of course, not all of the Bats were Robin. Signal flipped someone off for trying the trick, and Black Bat pulled out a sharpie and drew a sad face on a civilian’s hand when they were trying to see how injured she was after falling several stories due to a snapped grapple line. So, the trick isn’t universal.

The most surprising one was when someone found Red Hood, half-buried in rubble with a slash across his neck, and barked out the order in a panic and he immediately complied.

It wasn’t Batman who told the city he was their dead little bird. It was the panic of a passerby just trying to do the right thing.

After all, Gotham may not acknowledge it, but all of them love their birds. They are protectors, and not just from the rogues. They help with the murders, yes, but they also do small stuff. Stop muggings. Talk people down. Slip résumés into the right hands, guide people to the right clinics.

===

Mary is just a kid, in the grand scheme of things.

She's nineteen, fresh out of high school after flunking a year, and trying her damnedest to find a job that doesn't have a manager who will grope her under her dress.

They can tell her an 18 year old is an adult all they like, it doesn't give Mary any more idea of what the hell she's fucking doing.

But even clueless as she is, even as scared and lonely and desperate, she knows that when you come across a downed Bat, you help.

You help, because the Bats stop at nothing to help you and ignoring a Bat is like spitting in the face of all the little good things you experience in this beautiful, fucked up hell hole of a city.

Because Gotham is a hell of a place to be but when you're born and bred here, there ain't no other place to be—the city's tar runs in your veins.

Even if that Bat is Red Hood.

he has the ability to decide what is a "crime" to him, he is the one who decides whether people are guilty of those crimes, and he is the one who executes their punishment. the severity of the punishment doesn't matter - he is unaccountable to anyone else, and indeed is allowed to commit as many crimes as needed to reach his arbitrary ideal of "justice."

the ideal of batman is this: a man who is so fundamentally changed by an act of senseless violence that he takes it upon himself to fight back against the rot and corruption in the world. he does this not through political activism, not through ridding himself of his wealth in favor of a greater good, not through community outreach, but through an individualistic fantasy of being a hero.

and you'll say: charlie, but he does do that !!! he donates his money all the time, he funds social programs, hospitals, orphanages, gets people jobs -

and i will say this: so why don't things get better?

because here's the base of it. gotham, at its core, can't get better. no matter what bruce wayne does, there will always be more crime, more villains, more death, more people for batman to beat up in back alleys. because that's what sells.

reoffending rates don't matter in gotham, prison reform doesn't matter in gotham, what actually causes crime doesn't matter in gotham because that doesn't sell books.

and so here it is; dc has unintentionally created a world where batman can't win, but can't be wrong, and where thousands of nameless, faceless, only-created-to-die civilians must be pushed into the meat grinder that is gotham, to fuel bruce wayne's angst and vindicate his constant, tireless, noble fight against the forces of evil.

and then: a new robin, who is poor and who's parents are dead or gone because of this cycle; who is happy go-lucky and hated by editors and fans for being robin, for not being dick grayson, for being poor.

and this robin is written, unintentionally or not, to be angry at the ways in which batman's (the narrative's) idea of justice is detached from its victims. bruce seems perfectly fine to allow countless unnamed women to be at risk from garzonas in his home country, yet robin is the one who is portrayed as irrational and violent.

this robin is not detached from gotham in the way bruce wayne is: this robin is a product of gotham.

(and here's the thing. you can't punch aids. you can't fight a disease with colorful fights and nifty gadgets. and how would robin dying from aids add to batman's story; it would call into question the systemic changes that haven't been made in gotham. how does a child get aids, in batman's city?)

so robin dies, and then bruce (the narrative) spends the next couple of decades blaming it on him. it is jason's fault; he was reckless, he just ran in, he thought it was all a game. if only bruce had seen what was coming, if only he could have known that jason wasn't rich enough or smart enough or liked enough to be robin.

batman gets a little more violent, a little more self destructive. he hurts people more and almost (!!) kills a couple guys. this is bad because it's self destructive and "not who he is." it is not bad because batman should not be able to just beat people up when he's angry.

and then he gets a shiny new robin - who is all the things jason "wasn't": rich and smart and rational and he doesn't put who batman is into question. batman and robin are partners, and jason is a grave and a cautionary tale, and (crucially here) never right.

the joker kills thousands and it doesn't matter because they were written to be killed.

batman beats up thousands and it doesn't matter because they were written to be criminals.

and then jason comes back, and nothing has changed. there is a batman and a (shiny! rich!) robin and the joker kills thousands. (because it sells)

and jason is angry - he has been left unavenged - his death has meant nothing, just as willis' had, just as catherine's had, just as gloria's had, just as -

thousands. ten of thousands. hundreds of thousands. written to be killed.

but one of them gets to come back.

and he is angry - not only at the joker, but at bruce (the narrative) - because why is the joker still alive (when thousands-)

here is the thing - jason todd is right. not because the death penalty is good, not because criminals deserve to die, not because of everything he says -

but because of what he calls into question. why is the joker alive?

because he sells books.

and dc has written a masterful character, through no fault of their own, because jason knows what is wrong, and he knows who is at fault - batman. (the narrative)

so the argument that bruce can't kill because he's not judge jury and executioner; the argument that jason is a cop or that jason is insane or that jason is in the wrong here; they hold no weight.

batman can't kill the joker because the joker sells comic books.

and jason can't kill the joker because the joker sells comic books.

so he will beg and plead and grovel - he will betray everything that is himself, he will forsake his family and his city and kill himself - just so that bruce (the narrative) will let the joker die.

he was condemned to death by an audience, and after he came back he has spent his whole life looking us in the eyes and screaming, asking, pleading; why is the joker still alive?

why are thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands (the number doesn't matter, see, because they're just a number. not people. not real.) why are we expendable for his story? why did i have to die just for nothing to change?

and the answer is money. and the answer is the batman can never be wrong. and the answer is shitty writing. and the answer is -

nothing jason can ever change.

but then you twist both halves and unscrew it to find a flat-head screwdriver in the middle.

BUT, if you twist the very end and unscrew that

you find a phillips screwdriver.

BUT DON’T THINK THAT’S ALL THERE IS! THERE’S MORE!! unscrew the very end again to find a smaller flat-head screwdriver!

BUT THAT’S STILL NOT THE END!!

unscrew the end of this screwdriver to find a final, teeny tiny, flat-head screwdriver

look at how cute it is!

on survival

Thanks to the lovely @sodapanque for letting me dollify her Penelope and Odysseus. After dollifying @freaklikeeliza 's Telemachus here (https://www.tumblr.com/your-everyday-rapunzel/813987962357465088/unexpected-update-i-have-found-the-person-who?source=share), I felt it only right to do the rest of the Ithacan royal family. Penelope is installment 2 in the series.

Okay so I didn't take any progress pics of the body because you can't even tell it's her without the clothes. I didn't have the yarn color I wanted for her dress when I started her, so I used this for the prototyoe dress because I knew the v-neck was gonna be a pain. I also decided to do the dress first and then the hair because doing hair and then clothes was incredibly bothersome for Telemachus.

Here's when I finally got my little mitts on the dress color I wanted. I wound up making the dress a little shorter on the bottom in comparison to the second pic because I just didn't much like it so long.

I completely forgot to take any progress pics of the wig cap and bun before adding the first hair curlique, so here's with the first, second, and third. The hair for Penelope was SO much easier than for Telemachus, and I really love how it came out. I paused for a while after this because I had a critical equipment malfunction (my tool pouch broke in a way I couldn't fix) and had to fix the issue (I made a new tool holder that's not even done yet because I got sidetracked).

This is also where I just completely forgot to take any more progress pics because ALMOST DONE ALMOST DONE SO CLOSE NO TIME TO PAUSE FOR PICS.

I'll post the pics of the final doll in the next reblog down due to Tumblr's image limit.

I added a little lavender shawl to be kinda like the scarf in the original drawing, and I did my best to mimic her bangs without having pieces loose. I think they came out pretty dang cute, not to pat myself on the back.

Then I did the gold on her neck, waist, hair and arms. They were all varying levels of irritating, either due to how I had to move her or how I had to connect the loops.

The laurels were also irritating because I had to sew them on for the sake of size. They came out a bit crooked, so I might end up redoing them, but for now I'm happy with them.

The last piece of her ensemble was the sandals, which, like the laurels, turned out a little goofy. However, they are mostly hidden by her dress, so they can be a little goofy.

Overall, I'm very happy with how she came out. I think she's so stinking cute and I can't wait to get to work on her husband. Thanks again to @sodapanque for letting me do this! 🩵

I'm so amazed by the plushie and the process behind it. I've read every line, and it's so sweet how it all went to achieve such a beautiful result. I especially love its hair; it's usually what I notice first x).

Imagine if one day you were given a choice: Become immortal and indestructible for eternity, unable to be harmed by anything ever again, and get to live forever.

However, in order to achieve that you must give up whatever your purpose in life is. Whatever it is that you were always meant to do, what you were supposed to contribute to the overall scheme and future of the life of the universe, your purpose… the whole reason you were even created, even born in the first place. You must give that up. You don’t know what that is. You’ll never know; But, regardless, you say yes.

Perhaps you assume you wouldn’t have made any sort of significant difference anyway. That butterfly effect theory or whatever they call it? Nah, you call bullshit. It doesn’t matter - you don’t matter, at least not to anything outside of your immediate connections - and it’ll all be fine, and you’ll just live forever with minimal (or maybe even no) consequences.

So, yay! You’re now immortal. You’ll never die or get hurt ever again. Wee!

But then, centuries and centuries later (not to mention that by this point you’ve gone through horrible heartbreak and misery and despair because every loved one you ever had, every friend you ever made, ever person you barely got to know, has passed away, died as you lived on long without them, helpless to do anything for them as you watched them perish, unable to ever go with them or ever see them again. But I digress), now, you learn you actually were important in the grand scheme of things. You were supposed to be a key factor in the world’s survival, long ago; but, because of the choice you made (immortality over individual purpose), you were never given the knowledge or awareness or resources or ability to save the world that you were always supposed to obtain, before you unknowingly made the wrongest choice to ever wrong.

Needless to say, you’ve fucked up big time.

The entire universe as we know it is destroyed soon after this horrifying revelation. It implodes, collapses in on itself, essentially forming a massive black hole or something. Stars, nebulae, galaxies, solar systems and planets, worlds and worlds of living people and things, and light-years of time and space and life, all sucked up into absolute, indefinite nothingness.

But you remain.

Just you. Floating amongst, spiraling around, rocketing through, suspended in… nothing. With a feeling of such unbelievable loneliness that your feeble brain can hardly perceive, can’t possibly hope to comprehend. Not only are you the only living thing left, you don’t even have one inanimate object to keep you company. You have literally. Nothing. And you are literally nowhere. I mean, technically, you are now the universe - if it would bring you petty comfort to think about it that way. You. Only you. With nothing, no one, nowhere. Forever. And ever. And ever.

All because you thought you didn’t matter. That you had no real, meaningful purpose. That you could never possibly make a difference.

But you did. And now look what you’ve gotten yourself into, you silly nugget. You’re gonna be pretty bored and lonely for that eternity, huh?

Or maybe it was out of selfishness. Maybe this wasn’t because you felt useless, but because you simply only cared about prolonging your own life and nothing else. Hm.

The moral here? Be selfless, and always know and remember that you matter.

Or else, one day, you might destroy the universe. And be left to suffer, and be tortured horribly and endlessly by the void of nothingness that has consumed you. With no way to escape. Ever.

Other moral because I got sidetracked from my initial point - all things considered, would you choose longevity over purpose? Immortality over meaning? 

OR, IDK, MAYBE SOME IDIOT JUST LAMINATED A STUPID PIECE OF PAPER TOWEL FOR NO GOOD REASON

AND MAYBE I SHOULDNT BE LOOKING FOR THE ANSWERS TO THE MEANING OF OUR SHORT, FRAGILE LIVES IN

A LAMINATED

PAPER

T OW E L

IDK MAN,

and the pages of that book

were made out of

laminated