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@pipariperho
like to charge, reblog to cast

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the doctor told me aliens keep killing his companions so I asked how many companions he has and he says he just goes to earth and gets a new companion afterwards so i said it sounds like he's just feeding his companions to aliens and then he started crying
The irony of this new breed of self-righteous AI hunters on AO3 is that they're all just copy and pasting peoples fics into AI detectors, which are all operated by AI and therefore THEY are feeding people's work into the algorithm without their consent and in some cases no doubt circumventing the locks people put on to avoid getting scraped...
Don't copy and paste anyone's AO3 work into third party websites, you're not the good guys in this situation?
Reblog cause FACTS
no ai usage over here. youâre gonna get my shitty authentic writing whether you like it or not
One of these has the moral standing of a cartoon villain, the other might save the country.
Welcome to British politics.
Well that's not staying in the tags

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I think the lipstick looks really nice actually, and maybe this was the pig's first night out in a long time.
The sooner you start, the sooner you'll be done with it and the sooner you can stop thinking about it. Go on, up you get, it won't be as bad as you think.
You won't want to do it later either. You might as well just do it now. Even if you don't finish it all, anything you manage to get done now is something you don't have to do later (when you still won't want to do it)
pining is 100000% the most important aspect of pre-relationship fic for me. good-natured whole-hearted pining filled with lovelorn gazing and chest aching and fluttering touches, thatâs my top priority. i was put on this earth to watch characters suffer over the profundity of their love for another person. unrequited love is why god made me. characters finding out that their feelings are reciprocated after long months/years of suffering is why the universe was assembled from nothingness. amen.
Maybe it's naive of me, but whenever I see portraits like this, with just a father and daughter, it restores my faith in humanity a little. Because people seem to love this idea that fathers never loved their daughters in the past and only saw them as bargaining chips for marriage or whatever, but look at the guy in the first portrait on the left, he loves that little girl! And the dad trying to do his work while his daughter bothers him with an Old Timey Barbie. The man teaching his daughter geography, his expression is so soft! The way the man in the last portrait holds the little girl's hand! And none of these are incidental, these aren't photographs, someone (probably the father) paid good money and sat down for hours so that they could have a painting of themselves and their daughter. Probably because they loved their daughter.
From left to right: 1795 MichaĹ Jerzy Mniszech with his daughter ElĹźbieta - Marcello Bacciarelli; Christopher Anstey and his daughter Mary Ann by William Hoare 1776; A Musician and His Daughter by Thomas de Keyser 1629; The Geography Lesson (Portrait of Monsieur G. and His Daughter), 1812; Jean-baptiste Isabey And His Daughter; Portrait of a Young Girl and Older Man by William Harrison Scarborough
(this is probably somewhat related to my other favourite genre of painting, Husband With Multiple Kids Making Come Hither Eyes At His Wife)
oh I love those! People being people is one of my favourite kinds of paintings and an important reminder that people in past times were not all that different. There were dads who loved their daughters fiercely. There were fathers who happily looked after their babies too. The German reformer Philip Melanchton for example had a cradle in his office. His wife was busy organising a household for 20 people- she was out and about, he mostly worked in his office, it made sense for him to look after their babies too babies while she dropped by at snack time.
in fact often if it was kind of safe dads had the babies in their workshops for just that reason as we can see in these paintings:
The left is âthe busy fatherâ by Theodore Weber, the right one is âAt the china repairerâs â by Wenzel Tornoe. All dads who are actively involved in childcare and a painter who thought it was a cute topic rather than anything ridiculous.
I raise you:
First Lesson by Akseli Gallen-Kallela (1865 - 1931)
Un Coup De Main (The Helping Hand) by Ămile Renouf (1845 â 1894)
Italian Winegrower And His Daughter by Francesco Baratta (1590-1666)
After living almost 6 years in my apartment I now have a better understanding of what works and what doesn't, so I'm having this big desire to make the space work better for me. Mostly I need to focus on the craft area, I need a set of drawers where I can put my current projects, which means the doom armchair must go since it's been doing that job all this time. I also want an adjustable table and a good chair. I already found a drawer online in the local thrift store and I hope they won't sell it in the next 2 weeks.
In the living room I want to make a gallery wall, I finally found some frames so I can put the 2 posters in them (they are an interesting size and won't fit perfectly in these either but oh well) and I have many other things like postcards from museums etc.
Those are the major things, then there's other stuff like decluttering my closet, but that'll happen as soon as I get the new shelves.

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The (European) sun is a deadly laser, stay safe everyone
âď¸đ¤ itâs because the further you move toward the earthâs poles, the lower the angle of the sun is at the hottest parts of the day, meaning the radiation hits your whole body, causing it to feel 10-20 degrees warmer than the thermometer reading will tell you. People from tropical climes, aka close to the equator, are used to the sunâs radiation hitting a much smaller target- their head and shoulders.
Also the further you move toward the poles the more pronounced the difference between the length of day and night is. Worst part of a far-north (or south) heatwave is it doesnât get dark long enough for meaningful cooling.
Itâs not the heat. It very literally is the sun.
Now that everyone is discussing Nolan's Odyssey movie, I feel like it's a good time to let non-Italians know that the production dumped plastic props into the Italian sea. Weirdly enough I could not find any article in English about it but it's a fucking problem nonetheless.
I might translate this article later today. This one was the most complete one, even in Italian news it's not talked about that much.
Non è la prima volta che la produzione solleva un vespaio in Sicilia. A Lipari una squadra di sub sarebbe però già impegnata a bonificare i
They dumped plastic skeletons in environmentally protected areas, against the literal contracts they had to sign to get the permits to film in environmentally protected areas. Like they not only did a bad ecological thing that freaked out some divers, they literally broke environmental protection laws and their contract with the Italian government
Concerns about prop disposal as filming on new Nolan film comes to a close | www.italianinsider.it
Found an article on this in English
Also a different, unrelated article about concerns & possible violation of international law in using another of the filmâs locations
The decision to shoot in Moroccan-occupied Western Sahara, where the Indigenous people canât tell their stories without fear of imprisonment
Has someone made those vintage travel posters for Project Hail Mary?
"But surely you've at least wanted to try using AI-"
has anyone considered that it was probably her house too. where else was she supposed to put her chintz?
I like this question because I think it really gets at the power dynamics at the center of the poem!
The poem frames "him" as subordinate in several ways, not just to the narrator ("i fuck him on the floor": not that getting fucked is inherently subordinating, but the narrator has all the agency in the phrase, "he" doesn't decide what happens or where) but also to "his wife". She has filled the house with chintz, meaning it wasn't his decision or his actions. "Filled" is also a choice of words that suggests that there is no space for him in the home: the only place left for him, not already filled, is the floor. To me this framing invokes the trope of the henpecked husband, whose wife has taken dominion over the home and who has ceded its control to her because it, as the domestic space, is "supposed" to be hers.
This trope, of course, is misogynist in its normative rendition: it reinforces gender essentialism, it erases the significant material benefits such "henpecked" men derive from the domestic labor of their spouses, and it dismisses women's expressions of suffering and attempts at negotiating terms for their relationships as "nagging." In the narrator's dismissal of the wife's possessions as "chintz" (frivolous, feminine, contrasted with what is "real") we can see this same misogyny at play.
The narrator's misogyny, and the central fact of the poem which is that the husband is getting fucked by someone other than the wife, quite possibly flip the power dynamics of the poem on their heads. The wife is now subordinated: both by her social marginalization based on gender (a marginalization which drives her into the home and confines her there, like OP so cogently points out! As "he" has run out of room in the home and can only get fucked on the floor, so has she run out of room socially; the only place she can control and make decisions like filling it with chintz is the home), and by the narrator who is fucking her husband in her home.
There's an additional dynamic in reading the narrator as male, which most readers seem to have done: it invokes the particular, bitter misogyny that men-loving-men sometimes direct at women expressing femininity. There's an envy to it, of course--straight and straight-passing women get to (are forced to) express desire for men, have sex with men, marry men, love and be loved by men. His wife gets to be his wife: the narrator gets to fuck him, in their home. Straight and straight-passing women also get to (are forced to) perform femininity: they can buy chintz and decorate with it, without being devastatingly punished for it like people presumed to be men are from the time they're babies. The envy mixes with misogyny to produce disdain, disgust, dismissal. We can read the narrator fucking him on the floor of their home as an expression of power and dominance (again, not that the fucking has to mean the narrator is topping, or that topping is inherently dominant, but the phrasing is stark: "i fuck him", the narrator acts upon him as an object/recipient), not just over him but over the wife in absentia as well.
I think one of the things that makes the poem so compelling for being so short is the struggle at the heart of it, this complicated jostling for power between three people and their actions over time (the wife "has filled" the house, in the past: the narrator fucks him in the present, perhaps in the habitual). Who controls the house? Who controls "him"?
Great poem, great discussion question, love everyone in this bar <3

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What if you were asked a loaded question about your opinions on any sort of gender thing, and you dismissed the whole subject by going "oh, I'm not religious" and not elaborate on that.
âi wish we could see adaptations where sherlock holmes hates the rich and is allowed to be kind to those around him and uses his abilities to support societyâs underdogsâ elementary was doing this back in 2012. this was only episode 4.