help? No.

Pope Leo is letting American bishops entirely ban trans healthcare for both minors and adults in all Catholic-owned hospitals and clinics, and stop coverage for trans healthcare through Catholic-affiliated health insurance plans!!

People are having surgeries, for which they were on waitlists for years, suddenly cancelled. Hormones no longer covered, their clinicians no longer able to prescribe them. Considering in some states Catholic-owned healthcare organizations make up to a third of the market, as it were, this is a HUGE issue.

Uber is a fucking shell game of a company designed to leech investor capital and output bootleg cabs.

Nvidia posted a profit in 2023 of $4.37 billion. This is like someone stealing less than a penny from me.

And they lock this kid in a prison hospital for LIFE?

Holding Up A Titan

The primarch of the Word Bearers had fallen. His armour, once red and engraved with scripture, was an ashen husk of charred plate. Cracked and weeping skin showed around the patchwork spread of bleeding burns. Not a patch of skin was left untouched. He didn’t rise from his knees. He didn’t lift his head. He did nothing at all. ‘He’s dead.’ Ellas spoke softly. ‘Fire again.’ Delantyr breathed the words. ‘Fire again.’ ‘You bled the core,’ Kei replied. ‘We’re plasma-starved.’ ‘Fire the suppressing tracers. Three bursts.’ Ardentor’s anti-infantry bolters spat their tracer fire at the prone primarch. The first burst chewed glass, spraying fragments everywhere. The second two punched home in the scorched armour, blasting the fallen Emperor’s son onto his back – a vessel of cooked, punctured meat. ‘We just killed a primarch.’ Kei swallowed. ‘We just killed a primarch.’ Delantyr’s grin showed almost every tooth he had. ‘Crush him. Leave them nothing to bury.’ Ardentor walked. Its backwards-jointed legs hammered down on the steaming, downsloping glass, breaking it underfoot as it staggered down into the crater. When it reached the primarch’s body, Ellas raised the right claw-foot, and steered both control levers to slam the limb back down. The Warhound shook, unbalanced with one leg in the air. Great gears in the war machine’s knee and hip protested with rough, mechanical coughs. ‘Get the leg down,’ Delantyr ordered. ‘Finish it.’ Ellas gave the control levers another wrenching shove. ‘Something’s obstructing us.’ Kei lifted his targeting visor again, looking out of the Warhound’s left eye-windshield. He took a slow breath, and glanced back at his princeps. ‘My princeps? The World Eaters in the ruins… They’re cheering.’ The bleeding demigod had torn his way through the ground, giving voice to his resurrection with a bellow nothing short of ursine. Gore sheeted him, painting him in dark, rich red wetness. He threw his axes away, ruined and never to be wielded again, and breathed freedom into his lungs. It smelled of melted glass and felt like sunburn. ‘Lorgar.’ He spat blood as he said the name, rising to his feet at last. The Word Bearer lifted a scalded hand, not for aid, but in warning. Angron had no time to lift his mutilated brother, sprawled at his feet. The sun went dark, as dark as night falling in an instant. He turned, raising his arms, and took a god-machine’s weight on his shoulders. Every muscle in his body locked tighter than the iron trying to crush him. Drool stringed through his metal teeth, skinned knuckles white as he defied the will of a Titan. He gave a bear’s roar as the foot lowered another half-metre. Sinews crackled in his shoulders. His broken boots skidded back on the patch of unglassed rock; something cracked in his spine, something else cracked in his left knee. The compression of his bones sounded like twigs breaking underfoot, which was a vivid burst of imagination he didn’t appreciate. But he could hear his men cheering. He could hear them howling as they killed, and crying his name. He blinked to clear away his sweat’s greasy sting, and dug his boots into the ground. With a smile slitting across his broken-angel face, he shifted his slipping, blood-slick grip on the Titan’s clawed foot, and started pushing back. ‘Lorgar.’ Angron spoke in something that wasn’t quite a growl and wasn’t quite a laugh. ‘Get up. I can’t hold this forever.' ~Betrayer, by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

I really just have to summarize Thomas's entire life:

He was in a committed relationship with a male swan named Henry for 18-24 years before a female swan named Henrietta showed up and mated with Henry.

Thomas was initially jealous of the pair and attacked them, breaking 2 of the 5 eggs Henrietta had laid. However, once the remaining eggs hatched, Thomas warmed up to them and helped raise them.

Henry couldn't fly because of an injured wing, so Thomas taught the cygnets how to fly.

When they needed to reduce the goose population in the pond where Thomas and the swans lived, they dyed Thomas's feathers red so he wouldn't be separated from Henry.

Henry, Henrietta, and Thomas remained in their happy throuple for years and raised 68 cygnets before Henry died in 2009. After Henry's death, Henrietta found another swan and flew away, leaving Thomas alone.

Thomas finally met and mated with a female goose in 2011 and had his own babies. However, another goose named George stole them and raised them himself.

As Thomas grew elderly and blind, he was relocated to a wildlife center where he raised orphaned cygnets.

His caretaker at the center described him as "pretty high maintenance."

Thomas died in 2018 at the age of around 40. He had a funeral that included a small coffin and a procession that was led by a bagpiper. He was buried under the stone where Henry was buried, the two finally reunited in death.

The father of Warhammer 40k art direction and the man that has inspired me as an artist, down to inspiring my current artstyle (and I am sure will continue to inspire me, even in death). 40k just wouldn't be 40k had it not been for the foundation of grimdark sci-fi that he laid.

Farewell, you absolute legend.