HELD PENDING TRIAL

There's been a massive amount of innovation in the lower end of DAPs, and you can get a lot for under $100. Here are the main ones I recommend:

Snowsky Echo Mini - This is the most affordable one, at only $65 CAD (I think it's even less in the US) and the one that I ended up buying. Designed to look like a cassette player. The main drawback is that the interface is slightly unintuitive and it doesn't have a touch screen, but I've been delighted with mine.

Hiby R1 - This goes for $85 USD, and is the most widely recommended of the bunch for its good UI and wide range of utilities. Has a touchscreen and buttons.

Tempotec V1 - Similar to the Hiby R1, although the specific features are slightly different. Also has a touchscreen and buttons.

Innioasis R1 (honourable mention) - Designed to look nearly identical to an iPod Classic, including a fully functional clickwheel The sound quality on this is notably worse than the other DAPs I listed above, and the Bluetooth is widely reported to be unreliable, but I have to include it for people who desperately want an iPod again (and don't want to shell out $300+ for a modernized Classic) and because it has an extremely active modding scene.

my favorite recurrent thing in US intelligence/defense is talking about some insane fucked up thing theyve been doing for decades and talking about how we need to study how to do it better to build up our defense because china and russia are gonna do it to us soon (and ya they prob are, its war baby). but like oh wow, theyre using cults as a front for irregular warfare and meeting intelligence objectives? thats really devious, im glad there arent any signs pointing to the US or allied actors doing that with manson, process church, OTS, jonestown,etc. his comment about NLP and hypnosis is interesting tho i wanna look up his work.

u rly will just like..find podcasts and youtube shows with some nerd expert guy casually talking about stuff like cognitive warfare. and youll think oh its some insane conspiracy guy and u check da dude out and its like oh no hes an actual professor with a PhD. writing a buncha papers on this stuff partnering with military and private corps. like, case in point, the video this comment is on. i typed this up before i even checked lmao.

like, ok 300 views, posted a few months ago on a channel called "information professionals association" like ohhh this is one of those podcasts where they just get a crazy guy like me on whose been reading PDFs and call him an expert. lets look this guy up and see what dumbass podcast he hosts

Iraqi Resistance Fighters

Tessa came to her first therapy session with a very sophisticated question, “How does one deal with the effects of attachment trauma in personal relationships?” But as she talked about her new dating relationship, it became increasingly clear that she was describing structural dissociation: “I really like him, but when we’re together, I start feeling very ambivalent. I begin questioning: should I have come on this date? Should I let him hold my hand? What if he becomes sexual?”

The picture she described suggested conflicts between several parts: a part that liked him and longed to be his girlfriend, a part that pulled away and began questioning as soon as things got closer, a part that wanted sex, and a part disgusted and frightened by the thought. “So I keep my distance when we’re out taking a walk, but then I get home to an empty apartment, and I feel a longing for him, and I wish I’d let him take my hand. I hate this—I can’t think about anything else at home, but then I get ambivalent in his presence.”

ME: “Of course it’s a battle …” I knew that validating the normality of her internal conflicts would help her feel understood. “How could it not be? This is what relational trauma leaves as a legacy: the terrible longing when you’re not together and a ‘yuck, don’t get too close’ feeling in his presence.” The “of course” is said with conviction but also a softness and sadness. “How could it not be?” is said with a smile that normalizes and lightens it. “Terrible longing” conveys the yearning in its tone; “yuck” is equally spoken with conviction but also toughness. Both are expressed as if each is entirely normal and to be expected.

 “What generally happens next?” I ask.

TESSA: “I don’t know … I try to be honest about my ambivalence but at the same time, he’s all I ever think about … Usually, these guys stop returning my texts and emails, and I don’t know why, so I get very upset and keep texting to explain myself. And then I get brushed off. He isn’t ready for commitment either, he’ll say. But what’s the ‘either’? What makes him think I’m not ready for commitment?” [Note that she is out of touch in this moment with the part of her that speaks openly to her dates about feeling ambivalent.]

ME: [Again, I mirror her words so she can hear herself better:] “So the ambivalent part discourages him, and then the part that yearns for connection encourages him—the guy must get very, very confused!” [Laughs softly.]

TESSA: “Why do you keep talking to me like I’m some multiple personality?” she suddenly says in a new gruff, irritated tone.

I use an authoritative but empathic tone: “Because I can hear both sides in your story, Tessa. Both sides of you are there. This is what happens when we have relational trauma when we’re young: a battle starts up inside whenever we might possibly, maybe get close to someone.” [The last few words are said with a tone of regret or sadness.]

If clients like Tessa are willing to embrace the structural dissociation model, learn to consciously and voluntarily “split off” the intense affects and assign them to younger, more vulnerable parts, they can achieve the necessary mindful distance to feel some relief without having to resort to denial or disconnection. Only when they are able to “see” the parts in these paradoxical responses will they be able to begin healing their wounds.”]

Mr. Clean is trade, but not the scary kind. Not the kind you blow in the backseat of a Ford parked behind the Saint Paul Episcopal at four in the morning. It's been a long time since you were seventeen trawling Craigslist in your shoplifted Target dress. You're a grown woman now. You’re not that girl, and he's not that guy.

He doesn't try to get you to put out on the first date, or the second. Not even the third or fourth. But the fifth? Well, now you’ve gotta have him. You slip up and call him ‘daddy’ but he just rolls with it, real smooth. “Dirty girl,” he growls, and now you’re digging your acrylics in his shoulder. He can take it. “That’s my dirty fuckin’ girl.”

He’s ex-Navy, blue collar, not rich but he’s got his shit together. Stays at the trailer park down Dryer Street. It’s nice inside, cozy and neat. Man’s got better taste than all the other bachelors in their mid-forties you’ve tangled with. Bi, which is fine. Not exactly out and proud, but he never treats you like a secret. You wake up in his sheets and here he comes in that tight white T-shirt with a plate of bacon and eggs and a glass of OJ just for you. Tells you he’s got his VFW buddies coming over later to shoot the shit over some beers but it’s just a matter of fact, doesn’t have the ‘so you better get going’ sting to it. But you go home anyway, ‘cause it sure as shit doesn’t sound like fun. He gives you a ride and mom doesn’t think to ask where the hell you’ve been the past two days.

So you’ve been seeing him the past couple months now. The man’s so easygoing when you’re with him you feel like you can let your guard down for the first time in Christ only knows how long. Soon enough you’re tangled in his big arms every Friday and Saturday and you’ve got him watching Survivor and I Love New York with a big bowl of popcorn, a glass of wine for you and a can of Miller for him. You don’t need to watch how you laugh with him, or the way you cough or clear your throat. He doesn’t give a shit how you sound. Maybe he’s too good to be true, but you don’t care. He just makes you feel so safe.

‘Til one night you drive to the Love’s down the road, the one where you pick up Marlboro Lights for yourself and Pall Malls for mom. This time there’s a new guy at the register. “You a dude, or what?”, he says, right when he rings you up. Fuckin’ hick asshole. It’s been a minute since you got any of that bullshit and it puts you in a funk for the rest of the week. A real bad funk.

And now you’re damn near black-out drunk in his bathroom, puking your guts out, crying ‘til your eyes sting. You feel disgusting. Ugly. Damaged goods. Just a fuckin’ tranny. That’s all you’ll ever be.

But all you can choke out between the heaves is, “I’m a mess, I’m such a fuckin’ mess.”