#wall-o-text

You need to reread, Ned does use the word “love” with and about Catelyn. And he uses other words as well.

“…let them grow up close as brothers, with only love between them,” he prayed, “and let my lady wife find it in her heart to forgive…" –ADWD, Bran III

“I ought to know better than to argue with a Tully,” he said with a rueful smile. He slid Ice back into its sheath. “You did not come here to tell me crib tales. I know how little you like this place. What is it, my lady?” –AGOT, Catelyn I

He looked at Catelyn. “What is it? My lady, you’re shaking.” –AGOT, Catelyn II

Ned crossed the room, took her by the arm, and pulled her to her feet. He held her there, his face inches from her. “My lady, tell me! What was this message?” –AGOT, Catelyn II

Ned kissed the tears from her eyes before they could fall. “Thank you, my lady,” he whispered. “This is hard, I know.” –AGOT, Catelyn II

Not for the first time, he wondered what he was doing here and why he had come. He was no Jon Arryn, to curb the wildness of his king and teach him wisdom. Robert would do what he pleased, as he always had, and nothing Ned could say or do would change that. He belonged in Winterfell. He belonged with Catelyn in her grief, and with Bran. –AGOT, Eddard II

Ned Stark dismounted in a fury. “A brothel,” he said as he seized Littlefinger by the shoulder and spun him around. “You’ve brought me all this way to take me to a brothel.”“Your wife is inside,” Littlefinger said.It was the final insult. “Brandon was too kind to you,” Ned said as he slammed the small man back against a wall and shoved his dagger up under the little pointed chin beard.–AGOT, Eddard IV

Inside, Catelyn was waiting. She cried out when she saw him, ran to him, and embraced him fiercely.“My lady,” Ned whispered in wonderment.–AGOT, Eddard IV

“I feared you’d never come, my lord,” she whispered against his chest. “Petyr has been bringing me reports. He told me of your troubles with Arya and the young prince. How are my girls?”“Both in mourning, and full of anger,” he told her. “Cat, I do not understand. What are you doing in King’s Landing? What’s happened?” Ned asked his wife. “Is it Bran? Is he…” Dead was the word that came to his lips, but he could not say it.“It is Bran, but not as you think,” Catelyn said.Ned was lost. “Then how? Why are you here, my love? What is this place?“–AGOT, Eddard IV

He saw her hands then, the awkward way she held them, the raw red scars, the stiffness of the last two fingers on her left. “You’ve been hurt.” He took her hands in his own, turned them over. “Gods. Those are deep cuts… a gash from a sword or… how did this happen, my lady?” –AGOT, Eddard IV

“My lady,” he said, turning to Catelyn, “there is nothing more you can do here. I want you to return to Winterfell at once. If there was one assassin, there could be others. Whoever ordered Bran’s death will learn soon enough that the boy still lives.”“I had hoped to see the girls …” Catelyn said.“That would be most unwise,” Littlefinger put in. “The Red Keep is full of curious eyes, and children talk.”“He speaks truly, my love,” Ned told her. He embraced her. “Take Ser Rodrik and ride for Winterfell. I will watch over the girls. Go home to our sons and keep them safe.”“As you say, my lord.” Catelyn lifted her face, and Ned kissed her. Her maimed fingers clutched against his back with a desperate strength, as if to hold him safe forever in the shelter of her arms.–AGOT, Eddard IV

He took her in his arms again. “The Lannisters are merciless in the face of weakness, as Aerys Targaryen learned to his sorrow, but they would not dare attack the north without all the power of the realm behind them, and that they shall not have. I must play out this fool’s masquerade as if nothing is amiss. Remember why I came here, my love.” –AGOT, Eddard IV

Robert had left him no choice that he could see. He ought to thank him. It would be good to return to Winterfell. He ought never have left. His sons were waiting there. Perhaps he and Catelyn would make a new son together when he returned, they were not so old yet. And of late he had often found himself dreaming of snow, of the deep quiet of the wolfswood at night. –AGOT, Eddard VIII

Some secrets are safer kept hidden. Some secrets are too dangerous to share, even with those you love and trust. –AGOT, Eddard VIII

“My lady wife is blameless, Your Grace. All she did she did at my command.” –AGOT, Eddard X

His regency would be a short one, he reflected as the wax softened. The new king would choose his own Hand. Ned would be free to go home. The thought of Winterfell brought a wan smile to his face. He wanted to hear Bran’s laughter once more, to go hawking with Robb, to watch Rickon at play. He wanted to drift off to a dreamless sleep in his own bed with his arms wrapped tight around his lady, Catelyn. –AGOT, Eddard XIII

When he kept very still, his leg did not hurt so much, so he did his best to lie unmoving. For how long he could not say. There was no sun and no moon. He could not see to mark the walls. Ned closed his eyes and opened them; it made no difference. He slept and woke and slept again. He did not know which was more painful, the waking or the sleeping. When he slept, he dreamed: dark disturbing dreams of blood and broken promises. When he woke, there was nothing to do but think, and his waking thoughts were worse than nightmares. The thought of Cat was as painful as a bed of nettles. He wondered where she was, what she was doing. He wondered whether he would ever see her again. –AGOT, Eddard XV

GRRM hasn’t said that romance between a lord and a peasant never happened, that people never went outside their class structures, he said it never happened without consequences. And serious consequences were definitely what happened; Duncan and Jenny’s marriage was a major source of friction, and there is a direct line from it to the downfall of House Targaryen.

Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna, and thousands died for it. Daemon Blackfyre loved the first Daenerys, and rose in rebellion when denied her. Bittersteel and Bloodraven both loved Shiera Seastar, and the Seven Kingdoms bled. The Prince of Dragonflies loved Jenny of Oldstones so much he cast aside a crown, and Westeros paid the bride price in corpses. All three of the sons of the fifth Aegon had wed for love, in defiance of their father’s wishes. And because that unlikely monarch had himself followed his heart when he chose his queen, he allowed his sons to have their way, making bitter enemies where he might have had fast friends. Treason and turmoil followed, as night follows day, ending at Summerhall in sorcery, fire, and grief. –thoughts of Barristan Selmy, ADWD, The Kingbreaker  

“Why did they wed if they did not love each other?”“Your grandsire commanded it. A woods witch had told him that the prince was promised would be born of their line.”“A woods witch?” Dany was astonished.“She came to court with Jenny of Oldstones. A stunted thing, grotesque to look upon. A dwarf, most people said, though dear to Lady Jenny, who always claimed that she was one of the children of the forest.”“What became of her?”“Summerhall.” The word was fraught with doom.

–ADWD, Daenerys IV

Do you think her anxiety in regards to the Younger and More Beautiful Queen also contributes to her personality being the way it is?

Considering that Maggy’s prophecy is an explicitly patriarchal one, it’s part of the whole problem.

“[Cersei] thinks herself sly, but in truth she is utterly predictable. Her strength rests on her beauty, birth, and riches. Only the first of those is truly her own, and it will soon desert her. I pity her then.” --Littlefinger, ASOS, Sansa VI

In the Westeros patriarchy, Cersei has nothing except what she gets from her father or her husband or her male children. (Daughter of Lord Tywin Lannister, Robert’s queen, Joffrey’s Queen Mother, Tommen’s Queen Regent.) The only thing that is truly hers and hers alone is her beauty, and who judges who is more beautiful than Cersei? The patriarchy.

When all the vows were spoken, the king and his new queen stepped outside the sept to accept congratulations. "Westeros has two queens now, and the young one is as beautiful as the old one," boomed Lyle Crakehall, an oaf of a knight who oft reminded Cersei of her late and unlamented husband. She could have slapped him. --AFFC, Cersei III

Though he was ten years her junior, he wanted her; Cersei could see it in the way he looked at her. Men had been looking at her that way since her breasts began to bud. Because I was so beautiful, they said, but Jaime was beautiful as well, and they never looked at him that way. When she was small she would sometimes don her brother's clothing as a lark. She was always startled by how differently men treated her when they thought that she was Jaime. Even Lord Tywin himself... --AFFC, Cersei IV

She bared herself in one smooth, unhurried motion, as if she were back in her own chambers disrobing for her bath with no one but her bedmaids looking on. When the cold wind touched her skin, she shivered violently. It took all her strength of will not to try and hide herself with her hands, as her grandfather’s whore had done. Her fingers tightened into fists, her nails digging into her palms. They were looking at her, all the hungry eyes. But what were they seeing? I am beautiful, she reminded herself. How many times had Jaime told her that? Even Robert had given her that much, when he came to her bed in his cups to pay her drunken homage with his cock. [...] All around her was a babble of sound. “My wife has sweeter teats than those,” a man shouted. A teamster cursed as the Poor Fellows ordered his wagon out of the way. “Shame, shame, shame on the sinner,” chanted the septas. “Look at this one,” a whore called from a brothel window, lifting her skirts to the men below, “it’s not had half as many cocks up it as hers.” Bells were ringing, ringing, ringing. “That can’t be the queen,” a boy said, “she’s saggy as my mum.” [...] They grinned and licked their lips and hooted at her as she went limping past, her breasts heaving with the effort of the climb. Some shouted obscene proposals, others insults. Words are wind, she thought, words cannot hurt me. I am beautiful, the most beautiful woman in all Westeros, Jaime says so, Jaime would never lie to me. Even Robert, Robert never loved me, but he saw that I was beautiful, he wanted me. She did not feel beautiful, though. She felt old, used, filthy, ugly. There were stretch marks on her belly from the children she had borne, and her breasts were not as firm as they had been when she was younger. Without a gown to hold them up, they sagged against her chest. I should not have done this. I was their queen, but now they’ve seen, they’ve seen, they’ve seen. I should never have let them see. Gowned and crowned, she was a queen. Naked, bloody, limping, she was only a woman, not so very different from their wives, more like their mothers than their pretty little maiden daughters. What have I done? There was something in her eyes, stinging, blurring her sight. She could not cry, she would not cry, the worms must never see her weep. Cersei rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. A gust of cold wind made her shiver violently. And suddenly the hag was there, standing in the crowd with her pendulous teats and her warty greenish skin, leering with the rest, with malice shining from her crusty yellow eyes. “Queen you shall be,” she hissed, “until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold most dear.” And then there was no stopping the tears. They burned down the queen’s cheeks like acid. Cersei gave a sharp cry, covered her nipples with one arm, slid her other hand down to hide her slit, and began to run, shoving her way past the line of Poor Fellows, crouching as she scrambled crab-legged up the hill.

Thanks so much! And Tyrion is… somewhat suspicious.

“I must admit, you have noble features for a dead boy.”The boy flushed. “I am not dead.”“How not? My lord father wrapped your corpse in a crimson cloak and laid you down beside your sister at the foot of the Iron Throne, his gift to the new king. Those who had the stomach to lift the cloak said that half your head was gone.”

–ADWD, Tyrion V

“A true friend, our Lord Connington. He must be, to remain so fiercely loyal to the grandson of the king who took his lands and titles and sent him into exile. A pity about that. Elsewise Prince Rhaegar’s friend might have been on hand when my father sacked King’s Landing, to save Prince Rhaegar’s precious little son from getting his royal brains dashed out against a wall.”The lad flushed. “That was not me. I told you. That was some tanner’s son from Pisswater Bend whose mother died birthing him. His father sold him to Lord Varys for a jug of Arbor gold. He had other sons but had never tasted Arbor gold. Varys gave the Pisswater boy to my lady mother and carried me away.”“Aye.” Tyrion moved his elephants. “And when the pisswater prince was safely dead, the eunuch smuggled you across the narrow sea to his fat friend the cheesemonger, who hid you on a poleboat and found an exile lord willing to call himself your father. It does make for a splendid story…”

“Trust no one, my prince. Not your chainless maester, not your false father, not the gallant Duck nor the lovely Lemore nor these other fine friends who grew you from a bean. Above all, trust not the cheesemonger, nor the Spider, nor this little dragon queen you mean to marry. All that mistrust will sour your stomach and keep you awake by night, ’tis true, but better that than the long sleep that does not end.”

Young Griff jerked to his feet and kicked over the board. Cyvasse pieces flew in all directions, bouncing and rolling across the deck of the Shy Maid. “Pick those up,” the boy commanded.He may well be a Targaryen after all. “If it please Your Grace.”

–ADWD, Tyrion VI

Tyrion thinks the prince replacement story is somewhat flawed (and it is, far more than he even consciously realizes), and he doesn’t trust Varys or Illyrio or the company of the Shy Maid. Still, Tyrion’s doubts subside slowly, and by the time he gets to Volantis, he does seem to believe that Aegon is who he’s claimed to be:

The priest was pointing at the Black Wall behind the temple, gesturing up at its parapets, where a handful of armored guardsmen stood gazing down. “What is he saying?” Tyrion asked the knight.“That Daenerys stands in peril. The dark eye has fallen upon her, and the minions of night are plotting her destruction, praying to their false gods in temples of deceit… conspiring at betrayal with godless outlanders…”The hairs on the back of Tyrion’s neck began to prickle. Prince Aegon will find no friend here. The red priest spoke of ancient prophecy, a prophecy that foretold the coming of a hero to deliver the world from darkness. One hero. Not two. Daenerys has dragons, Aegon does not. The dwarf did not need to be a prophet himself to foresee how Benerro and his followers might react to a second Targaryen. Griff will see that too, surely, he thought, surprised to find how much he cared.

–ADWD, Tyrion VII

It literally says right there in the book that they know the difference?

“He has no gold to pay soldiers. What if he’s betrayed?” Caravan guards were seldom troubled much by thoughts of honor, and the Usurper in King’s Landing would pay well for her brother’s head. “You ought to have gone with him, to keep him safe. You are his sworn sword.”“We are in Vaes Dothrak,” he reminded her. “No one may carry a blade here or shed a man’s blood.”“Yet men die,” she said. “Jhogo told me. Some of the traders have eunuchs with them, huge men who strangle thieves with wisps of silk. That way no blood is shed and the gods are not angered.”

Dany looked down the length of the long, roofless hall and there he was, striding toward her. From the lurch in his step, she could tell at once that Viserys had found his wine… and something that passed for courage.He was wearing his scarlet silks, soiled and travel-stained. His cloak and gloves were black velvet, faded from the sun. His boots were dry and cracked, his silver-blond hair matted and tangled. A longsword swung from his belt in a leather scabbard. The Dothraki eyed the sword as he passed; Dany heard curses and threats and angry muttering rising all around her, like a tide.

Her brother drew his sword.The bared steel shone a fearful red in the glare from the firepits. “Keep away from me!” Viserys hissed. Ser Jorah backed off a step, and her brother climbed unsteadily to his feet. He waved the sword over his head, the borrowed blade that Magister Illyrio had given him to make him seem more kingly. Dothraki were shrieking at him from all sides, screaming vile curses.Dany gave a wordless cry of terror. She knew what a drawn sword meant here, even if her brother did not.

“The blade … you must not,” she begged him. “Please, Viserys. It is forbidden. Put down the sword and come share my cushions. There’s drink, food… is it the dragon’s eggs you want? You can have them, only throw away the sword.”“Do as she tells you, fool,” Ser Jorah shouted, “before you get us all killed.”Viserys laughed. “They can’t kill us. They can’t shed blood here in the sacred city… but I can.” He laid the point of his sword between Daenerys’s breasts and slid it downward, over the curve of her belly.

Catelyn never adjusted to Jon’s presence, it was always an open wound. These are her thoughts, 14 years (that’s fourteen years) after:

“What of Jon Snow, my lord?” Maester Luwin asked.Catelyn tensed at the mention of the name. Ned felt the anger in her, and pulled away.Many men fathered bastards. Catelyn had grown up with that knowledge. It came as no surprise to her, in the first year of her marriage, to learn that Ned had fathered a child on some girl chance met on campaign. He had a man’s needs, after all, and they had spent that year apart, Ned off at war in the south while she remained safe in her father’s castle at Riverrun. Her thoughts were more of Robb, the infant at her breast, than of the husband she scarcely knew. He was welcome to whatever solace he might find between battles. And if his seed quickened, she expected he would see to the child’s needs.He did more than that. The Starks were not like other men. Ned brought his bastard home with him, and called him “son” for all the north to see. When the wars were over at last, and Catelyn rode to Winterfell, Jon and his wet nurse had already taken up residence.That cut deep. Ned would not speak of the mother, not so much as a word, but a castle has no secrets, and Catelyn heard her maids repeating tales they heard from the lips of her husband’s soldiers. They whispered of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, deadliest of the seven knights of Aerys’s Kingsguard, and of how their young lord had slain him in single combat. And they told how afterward Ned had carried Ser Arthur’s sword back to the beautiful young sister who awaited him in a castle called Starfall on the shores of the Summer Sea. The Lady Ashara Dayne, tall and fair, with haunting violet eyes. It had taken her a fortnight to marshal her courage, but finally, in bed one night, Catelyn had asked her husband the truth of it, asked him to his face.That was the only time in all their years that Ned had ever frightened her. “Never ask me about Jon,” he said, cold as ice. “He is my blood, and that is all you need to know. And now I will learn where you heard that name, my lady.” She had pledged to obey; she told him; and from that day on, the whispering had stopped, and Ashara Dayne’s name was never heard in Winterfell again.Whoever Jon’s mother had been, Ned must have loved her fiercely, for nothing Catelyn said would persuade him to send the boy away. It was the one thing she could never forgive him. She had come to love her husband with all her heart, but she had never found it in her to love Jon. She might have overlooked a dozen bastards for Ned’s sake, so long as they were out of sight. Jon was never out of sight, and as he grew, he looked more like Ned than any of the trueborn sons she bore him. Somehow that made it worse. “Jon must go,” she said now.

–AGOT, Catelyn II

The fact that Jon was raised in Winterfell with Ned’s trueborn children, the fact that he wasn’t sent away (to White Harbor, to Greywater Watch, to anywhere else – see for example Larence (Hornwood) Snow, raised at Deepwood Motte), the fact that he looked like a Stark where Catelyn’s sons looked like Tullys, the fact that Ned literally banned Catelyn from ever asking him about Jon’s origins or getting any kind of closure… this is an open, bleeding wound that was never allowed to close. (Ned had his reasons why, and they’re very probably extremely good ones, and his reasons meant he couldn’t even explain to Cat what they were; but nevertheless, he made the cut, and he kept it open.)

Cat internalized her discomfort with the situation when she could (but Ned learned to read her tension anyway), and showed it openly when she felt it necessary for proprieties or when under great stress. If you read the rest of Catelyn II you can see she’s not passive-aggressive, she’s straightforward (and “armored her heart” to be so), so I don’t think she was often passive-aggressive about Jon with Ned. (Note there are many fics where Cat only calls Jon “the bastard” when talking to Ned, but that, uh, has no textual basis. She calls him Jon, in her internal narrative and in dialogue to Ned and Robb.) On the other hand, ISFJs are sometimes known for passive-aggressiveness because of their dislike for interpersonal conflict, and Catelyn’s about as ISFJ as you can get, so I can’t rule it out entirely.

Despite this open wound, Cat came to love Ned for other reasons. Her narrative says, “I had love enough for any woman, once I found the good sweet heart beneath Ned’s solemn face” (ASOS, Catelyn V). Exactly how long it took for her to find that good sweet heart, how long it took her to love him, how long it might have taken if not for Jon being there… there’s nothing in the book that says, alas. Many people headcanon that it was around Sansa’s conception or birth (there’s plenty of fics on the matter), though it could have been later, and without canon to tell us all we can really do is guess. (Even the triangular theory of love doesn’t give us any timing for when passion and intimacy can be added to commitment to create consummate love, just that it happens.) All we know for sure is that it was truly love for them, for both Ned and Cat, by the time of AGOT.

Regarding a potential ploy, the book answers this for you:

Her name had been Hazzea. She was four years old. Unless her father lied. He might have lied. No one had seen the dragon but him. His proof was burned bones, but burned bones proved nothing. He might have killed the little girl himself, and burned her afterward. He would not have been the first father to dispose of an unwanted girl child, the Shavepate claimed. The Sons of the Harpy might have done it, and made it look like dragon’s work to make the city hate me. Dany wanted to believe that… but if that was so, why had Hazzea’s father waited until the audience hall was almost empty to come forward? If his purpose had been to inflame the Meereenese against her, he would have told his tale when the hall was full of ears to hear.

–ADWD, Daenerys II

Furthermore, we’ve seen in historical stories like the Dance of the Dragons that dragons have very little regard for human life and will kill and eat people as well as animals, especially if the people are in between them and their food, especially if the dragons are wild.

Even for a son of House Targaryen, there are always dangers in approaching a strange dragon, particularly an old, bad-tempered dragon who has recently lost her rider. His father and mother would never allow him to go near Vhagar, Aemond knew. […] Later he would say that he was so afraid of being caught that he forgot to be frightened of being burned to death and eaten.

–The Rogue Prince

Sixteen men lost their lives during an attempt to become dragonriders. Three times that number were burned or maimed. Steffon Darklyn was burned to death whilst attempting to mount the dragon Seasmoke. Lord Gormon Massey suffered the same fate when approaching Vermithor. A man called Silver Denys, whose hair and eyes lent credence to his claim to be a bastard son of King Maegor the Cruel, had an arm torn off by Sheepstealer. As his sons struggled to staunch the wound, the Cannibal descended on them, drove off Sheepstealer, and devoured father and sons alike.

–The Princess and the Queen

The smell of blood roused the dragon, who sniffed at Her Grace, then bathed her in a blast of flame, so suddenly that Ser Alfred’s cloak caught fire as he leapt away. Rhaenyra Targaryen had time to raise her head toward the sky and shriek out one last curse upon her half brother before Sunfyre’s jaws closed round her, tearing off her arm and shoulder. The golden dragon devoured the queen in six bites, leaving only her left leg below the shin “for the Stranger.”

–The Princess and the Queen

And considering what Drogon did, later:

Barsena’s blade was running red, but the boar soon stopped. He is smarter than a bull, Dany realized. He will not charge again. Barsena came to the same realization. Shouting, she edged closer to the boar, tossing her knife from hand to hand. When the beast backed away, she cursed and slashed at his snout, trying to provoke him… and succeeding. This time her leap came an instant too late, and a tusk ripped her left leg open from knee to crotch.A moan went up from thirty thousand throats. Clutching at her torn leg, Barsena dropped her knife and tried to hobble off, but before she had gone two feet the boar was on her once again. Dany turned her face away. […]Above them all the dragon turned, dark against the sun. His scales were black, his eyes and horns and spinal plates blood red. Ever the largest of her three, in the wild Drogon had grown larger still. His wings stretched twenty feet from tip to tip, black as jet. He flapped them once as he swept back above the sands, and the sound was like a clap of thunder. The boar raised his head, snorting… and flame engulfed him, black fire shot with red. Dany felt the wash of heat thirty feet away. The beast’s dying scream sounded almost human. Drogon landed on the carcass and sank his claws into the smoking flesh. As he began to feed, he made no distinction between Barsena and the boar.“Oh, gods,” moaned Reznak, “he’s eating her!” The seneschal covered his mouth.

–ADWD, Daenerys IX

…I have no doubt whatsoever about the circumstances of Hazzea’s death.

Slept in and was running late to a final exam. With a ways to go yet, I was headed by what was my current go-to for food cafe. I sat down outside and saw a friend come out to take my order. As I was waiting my anxiety about the final stewed, no-one came outside for quite some time and it felt that for whatever reason it was not comprehendable to disturb the patrons inside. There was food on the table that was not anything I would order; oddly & without a delivery. It seemed abruptly true that it was already too late for me to make the exam. Suddenly instinct overwhelmed my `good` senses, I stood up having eaten much of the meal which I recognized as some permutation I uniquely detested, nautious.

Briskly I hurried away towards the school. "Who was the waitress," thinking she simultaneously looked like both off the Indian women I spent several years working beside, "I don't have prosopagnosia ...weird". Strangely the path ahead was unfamiliar. A grassy hill tapered downhill and out of sight. Need to hurry it's in this direction. Suddenly, I remembered I didn't pay, and regardless that it was a close friend this was serious trouble, "...could I ever return." Simultaneous to this new knowing that I had to turn back, my feet slipped and the way ahead after a short distance was a pitch black void rectangle in my visual field that could only be described as being an event horizon of a black hole.

Somehow I regained my senses many miles downhill and away from both desparate destinations, near where they charge you a fiver to get to the airport in East Oakland. Disdainfully realizing I forgot my wallet and my bike on the street near where I ate, I was overwhelmed by the feeling, "you can't get there from here." ...

After waking up and sidescrolling and cat petting for a bit, the best part of the day even if impregnated with depression, I got in the shower. After washing my face as I usually do first off, I got that sensation that you get after washing your hands before you've dried them, but on my face. "Is this the bad place"

...

like fuuuuuuuuuuuck, that lucille font isn't a gruesome enough tone.

Stupid-world problem. This may have happened because I spent an entire day redialling my Zsa moonlander, which if you've ever quit the qwerty keys even temporarily you understand how it feels; what even were humans before. I guess as a programmer you have a hard version, did you know we use every symbol on the typical keyboard in a seemingly irreplacable way? I suppose some Chinese, Japanese, Indian programmers or their likeness are absolute wizards at extreme variations |& english. Though what I'm up to is attempting to retire my right hand to do work purely for the devil; I'm kidding I have brain damage; it retired itself. I have been somewhat successful in applying absurd density to my left wing, I plan to document the trials and failures when my configuration stabilizes a bit farther, every change costs a lot and it is often hard to see the value of the commitment. It takes maybe a year to not be shit. I use dynamic code snippets a lot now and have a pile of bash aliases/scripts.

Now that I've explicated it's virtue, here is our sponsor Zsa. Of course I'm kidding, they did however replace a device I was honest about my accidentally breaking of, also they seamed to on the day of reporting it, fix a firmware bug that was disruptive. Way better experience than I expected. A lot of super-users in tech and entertainment are their patrons i think or was it from them i heard that. They have my poisoned endorsement regardless. oof, it is hard being ugly.

I had this joke scene play in my head one day, of re-enacting the sword-fight from Princess Bride with a friend of mine who also has M.S. When reaching the point, "I'm going to tell you something you do not know, I am not left handed." Then i'd start flailing about like a used car-lot gumbi baloon or as if I am a robot made by Simone Giertz. They would then visibly struggle as if against the air itself and then follow that with, "I will also," and then flail about as I did. I imagine someone seeing that without ever watching Princess Bride. Oof, it takes all kinds is a profoundly stupid statement. Look what you did, now we have Hitler to thank for all this wonder. "Stuff white people like" is an abuse of the narrative, don't they know where this rope we're hanging our-self with came from. The only people who've ever tasted a real party were in Berlin when the wall came down that is where the real techno came from, duh.

ActuallllY. Not everyone is an artist.

So a bunch of frat boys wanted to create a site to rate how pretty each bitch they know is.

Now we are all that bitch.

Rimshot, I'll be here all night.

Being trans really jostles that joke.

Not sure if meta is the principle I mean maybe it's recursive because there is something self referential, but it's only funny cause the expression itself invokes some vaguely ironic attribute aside non-vague camp that would really prefer to be more sentient than is allowed to be in binary. Don't bite the hand that doesn't feed you, wait what fresh hell is this.

A coworker I worked with at a cafe once told me "the entirety of Finnegans Wake was written while James Joyce was having a whiz."

Not sure how or why, but this edge-lord claim has managed have serious long term affects. I'm not saying I believed it but at this point I've spent half my life wondering and I need a professional or an adult.

Perhaps it's been the fact that of the thousands of times up till recently I've thought about this I didn't care to pick it up to try to ascertain the odd claim to be true nor to check out literature of a centuries most well known writer being in the midst of his chaos-lord stage. It took him a decade to write it right? I also have no idea if this came up in a class as actual discourse, or if it was an official q-anon miss-information network packet. Cracks me up trying to learn about it cause there are these random guru types espousing it to transcendental extra-elevated subliminality. Is it like the conservatives "noble savage" rhetoric, but for cat-lords? Are they serious? Truly bizarre from my perspective. This is a poem I wrote for my friend, hope you're still hilarious. I am still casually protecting my ignorance to keep your dream alive.

nerve torrents - eddies tension of surface - chaos of making concious locality a flux unit or measure of thunk Algol focus of attention on a tensor regulation of memory for compute/io tension is there an entity in the universe that can thunk once how many sig. digits could be enough to move TF on or is a quanta not integrate-able or seperable of context how could anything be not context is the entire universe a quanta like this? could the universe be one very long run on sentence would even a Frenchman say god is of their likeness someone made the decision to do that thing the naked gun? the invasion of Russia? "full of sound and fury signifying nothing" much ado in the elevator Shakespeare just departed can you really not get a gift that keep on giving from a toilet seat if we had ears near our junk would we call an std a ear worm surface tension is only the illusion of security the future can only be determined yesterday can there truly be a hard edge or closure to anything, ever if time were reversed, would Hawking radiation be of certainty I'm not a docter, but nether am I is yodeling an act of violence meat tenderizers make perfect sense "a life on the colonies awaits"

...

If a tree falls in typescript was it modern techno feudalism or just the normal kind. Maybe there will be a in hindsight 2020 moment but we're probably already past that which; wait who owns the robot army. Anyway i quit video games many months ago to do some seriously oops I'm broke again; flossing. I'm exhausted, it is difficult to see why even, when you mostly burning energy to flux your brain plasticity; again. This WALL-OF-TEXT was brought to the service of all humankind by one hand.

~angelic organs~

Did you know that people in Japan don't believe they will ever not wear masks in public again? Even students. After spending time there and living with an ex-pat partner, I don't think I understood or I guess fully believed that they live by the saying, "You see a nail sticking out you hammer it in." In inversion architecture, basically it's like a friend of mine who came to the U.S. said that she was made uncomfortable that the buildings are all directly | vertical | quite unlike Venezuela, but conceptually imagined for properness of people. I guess I didn't entirely `believe` something could be a cultural absolute that isn't a general human absolute; like in that way. I'm a real gringo after all.