ok I was just telling my sisters about the Vito Russo test and I was trying to say "one of the founders of GLAAD," but instead I said "one of the flounders of Gad" which is an extremely fun phrase to say. So of course we imagined the live action Little Mermaid remake but with Josh Gad as Ariel, and he spends the whole movie managing his swarm of Flounders (who of course include Vito Russo). And actually this movie would pass the Vito Russo test because now Ariel is gay for Eric, but being gay is not his primary character trait; his primary character trait is managing all his Flounders and their various fish problems. It's called "The Flounders of Gad" and they go on quests and stuff. And none of them are actual flounders, they're all different types of fish who are just named Flounder -- except Vito Russo, who is a flounder named Vito Russo.
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I'm torn between Baby and Mitosis, so If It Pleases The Court, may I request both???
Oh man okay. SO Baby is my attempt at writing a 'SJ is SY's dad' fic, to make up for the super angsty PPD!SJ fic. Basically I'm just figuring out what it would take for SJ to actually put in an effort to be a Good Father even though he is by nature... not a super nurturing person... It was originally going to be a drabble, but then it really spiraled out of control and now its 45k words long, with the end nowhere in sight. I'm in trouble.
Mitosis is my FTH fic for the year! Basically, shenanigans happen so that SY!SQQ splits off into two people, the second SQQ of course being a reawakened SJ. Twist is that SJ is just as tuned into the System as SY is, which thinks that they're both basically the same person - have fun sharing points and punishments, boys!
Excerpt from Baby:
“Baba,” Shen Yuan says, and he reaches out to try and touch the blue thing. His hand passes through it, like it’s a firefly just barely managing to escape him. He tries again.
[Download 89% percent complete.]
“Babababa!”
“Yes, I’m here,” Dad says, not looking up from what he’s reading.
“Help grab,” Shen Yuan says, and opens and closes both hands towards the blue thing to let Dad know what he wants. Dad looks up and squints at it.
“There’s nothing there,” he dismisses.
[90% complete.]
“Nooo!” Shen Yuan says, and flails his hands at the blue thing again. He has to be able to see it! It’s weird, shiny and floating. “Baba lookit.”
After a few seconds of not moving, Dad puts down his inkbrush and stands up, walking over to him. He sits down next to Shen Yuan, and turns his head in the same direction as Shen Yuan is looking.
“I’m looking,” he says. “Where is it? What do you want, A-Yuan?”
“That!”
Dad looks - but he’s not looking, not properly. It’s like he’s ignoring it, pretending he can’t see it. But it’s there, it’s been there ever since Shen Yuan woke up from his nap. It follows him around wherever he goes, like it’s chasing him, except it stays in place when he stops. It just wants to be a little bit in front of and above him.
“The vase?” Dad asks.
“No,” Shen Yuan says, frustrated.
“You just woke up,” Dad says. “What are you irritated about now? Are you hungry again?”
He says this like he’s complaining, but he picks Shen Yuan up as he does so, carrying him to the kitchen. The blue thing follows them, silent and glowing. One of the numbers changes. Shen Yuan, who can only count up to four without messing up (his age), doesn’t know how high up it is.
“What do you want to eat?”
Shen Yuan immediately becomes distracted from the blue thing. “Cookies!”
“No. You already had some earlier. Something else.”
Dad asked what he wanted, and then he says no? That’s not fair.
“A-Yuan wants cookies.”
“Good sentence structure,” Dad says, and then, “still no. You can have roasted melon seeds, or peaches.”
Shen Yuan hesitates. He likes both of those things. He wants both, but he has to pick one. He thinks heavily for a long moment, and then says slowly, “A-Yuan wants… peaches.”
“Mm,” Dad says, and then puts him down so that he’s sitting on the kitchen bench. “One moment, then.”
Shen Yuan sits and watches as Dad gets out a bowl of peaches - he lets Shen Yuan pick which peach he wants from the bowl, carefully choosing the one with the prettiest colors - then the way he slices the kitchen knife through the peach, neatly circling the peach pit. By the end, there are six boat slices of peach, glistening with juices.
“Do you want to eat on your own?” Dad asks. He’s been asking that more often lately, which means that it’s something that he wants Shen Yuan to do.
“Yes,” Shen Yuan says, and grabs a peach slice, putting it in his mouth to show that he can do it. Dad rubs at his face with a cloth while he’s still chewing.
“Sticky child,” he mutters, but he doesn’t sound angry. Dad is almost never angry when he’s at home. He likes being at home; so does Shen Yuan. Outside is fun sometimes, but his bed and his toys and snacks are at home. He isn’t allowed to eat any food when he’s outside, unless Dad gives it to him. Food from anyone but him is bad. Being alone with anyone but him is bad. Being touched by anyone but him is bad. Dad has told him so, over and over again.
It’s just easier to avoid all the bad things, if he’s at home.
“Baba,” Shen Yuan tries to say, except there is still some peach left in his mouth, so it falls out a little. Dad wipes it up, chiding, “swallow first.”
“Baba, I wanna play.”
“Later. Your baba is working - and don’t slur your words. You want to play. Want to.”
“Want to,” Shen Yuan obediently echoes, since it makes Dad happy.
Dad smiles, soft and secret. Shen Yuan immediately feels great, victorious and happy, like when he managed to write his name for the first time and Dad called it ‘legible.’ Legible means good, he’s pretty sure.
Dad doesn’t smile every day, but when he does, he only does it for Shen Yuan. It makes him feel special, important.
[98% complete.]
Shen Yuan remembers the blue thing. He tries to touch it again, but his hand passes right through it, like it’s even less than water.
“... It’s good that your appetite is back,” Dad says. “And you’re feeling all the way better again?”
“Mm,” Shen Yuan says, because that’s the answer that makes Dad stop worrying. He’d gotten sick again a little while ago, but Dad’s acting like he’s still sick. Mu-shishu had to visit and everything. He had to swallow gross stuff even though his throat hurt and he was so hot and uncomfortable that he couldn’t sleep. Dad stayed with him the whole time, but he didn’t smile even once.
[99%.]
“Good,” Dad says quietly, and he strokes Shen Yuan’s hair, hand running along the back of his scalp. “If you start feeling bad again, if something goes wrong, you tell me.”
Dad says that every single time Shen Yuan gets sick, or if anything else bad happens. Once, he heard Dad tell Mu-shishu about how when he was a baby, he stopped breathing while he was sleeping one time. He went blue in the face. Dad picked him up by the ankle and smacked him on his back, and he started crying and breathing again.
If I hadn’t been watching him then, he would have died, Dad said. He sounded flat, harsh. No smile.
It sounds like some spit got caught in his throat, Mu-shishu said, and, that isn’t going to happen again. He’s too old. You don’t need to--
And that’s when Dad noticed that Shen Yuan was there, and he stopped talking to Mu-shishu. But Shen Yuan had heard them, and he had understood, a great realization dawning on him. Dad is scared for him. That’s why he’s so fussy, always asking the same questions and making the same demands over and over again, checking his temperature first thing every morning. He’s just worried.
When Shen Yuan grows up, he’ll get a golden core and never be sick again. That way, Dad won’t be scared any longer.
“Yes, baba,” Shen Yuan replies obediently. He bites into another peach boat.
[Download 100% complete. The ‘Great Transmigrator Knowledge’ download has been activated, according to the ‘acceptable maturity level’ timer. Congratulations, congratulations, congratulations! User 02 has regained their memories!]
Excerpt from Mitosis:
His attention immediately swivels onto the groggy noise, his heart jackrabbiting as he realizes that he is not alone. On the ground only a few feet away from him, there is a man facedown on the ground, a cultivator by the look of his robes and the sheathed sword at his side. He’s facedown, his hair puddling around his face, obscuring it. He’s… messily half undressed, as if someone has grabbed the back half of his robes and violently pushed and yanked them down his body, revealing a pale back, shoulderblades. There are bloody smears on the fabric and his skin, some in the shape of grasping and clawing fingers…
Shen Qingqiu looks down at his own hands, smeared with blood. He doesn’t feel like he’s bleeding from anywhere, and yet he’s covered in a thin sheen of blood that keeps smearing onto anything he touches. It is caked into his hair. He’s naked, and he’s filthy. Revulsion and panic begin to crawl up his spine.
“Whazz… wha’ happened,” the man groans, pushing himself up slowly and painstakingly, like a profoundly hungover man waking after a night of revelry. Shen Qingqiu imagines this strange man standing over him, fully dressed and armed, and he is immediately determined not to let that happen.
Lunging forward, he grabs the man by the nape of the neck and shoves him back down into the ground. He yelps, flailing panickedly. “Stay down,” Shen Qingqiu spits. Then, with his other hand, he begins to deftly undo the man’s belt.
“What are you--!?” the man says, swiftly gaining consciousness as he’s manhandled. Shen Qingqiu must act quickly. Efficiently and brusquely, he yanks the man’s loosened outermost robe off his person, and immediately moves to wrap it around himself, not even stopping to wipe the blood off his skin first. He instantly feels more settled at having even the slightest bit of cover.
That’s when the man directs a clumsy palm blast at him, pushing him off himself. Shen Qingqiu manages to mostly avoid it, but he has to let the man go in order to dodge, which allows the man to scramble away from him, fully rising from the ground, now divested of one of his robes.
“I’m not a corpse!” the man cries indignantly. “You don’t get to graverob me--”
Then he stops dead. Shen Qingqiu, once he processes what he’s seeing, stops as well.
It’s his reflection looking back at him. Features that he’s only ever seen before in bronze mirrors or the surface of a lake stare back at him, sharp and angular, with dark, straight phoenix eyes. But surely Shen Qingqiu has never worn such an openly dumbfounded expression on his face before, making him look soft and foolish.
“Ah,” the other Shen Qingqiu says. The fake, the imposter. And then it draws his sword - draws Xiu Ya, draws Shen Qingqiu’s spiritual weapon - leveling it at him. “So, it’s that sort of trap. Alright, then. Don’t--”
Moving on sheer, breathless outrage, Shen Qingqiu forms a sword seal and calls Xiu Ya. It goes flying straight out of the imposter’s hand, smacking into his palm. The imposter blinks at him, gobsmacked, mouth hanging slightly open in an offensively stupid expression.
“Thief,” Shen Qingqiu hisses, rising to his feet, holding onto Xiu Ya with a fierce, vindicated grip. “Pretender! You dare steal a Peak Lord’s spiritual weapon? You will see--”
Wordlessly, the imposter forms a sword seal, and Xiu Ya rips itself out of Shen Qingqiu’s hands and goes straight back to the imposter. Shen Qingqiu stares, betrayed by his very own spiritual weapon.
the first chapter of Moby Dick rewritten in tiresome modern idiom
CHAPTER 1. Loomings.
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - it's none of your business how many - being mostly broke, and bored with the land part of the world, I thought I would sail around a little and look at the watery part of the world. I'm probably the most mentally healthy person you know. Whenever I feel my face getting grim; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself accidentally reading the ads in the window of funeral homes, and following funeral processions through traffic; and especially when I'm hangry, and only my extremely strong moral principles stop me from deliberately going out in public and methodically slapping people's earbuds out - then I know it's high time to get to sea, ASAP. This is my substitute for getting in fights. I'm too mentally healthy to kill myself; I quietly and considerately put myself on a ship and sail myself away instead. There is nothing surprising in this. Everyone feels exactly the same way, and if they don't, they're lying.
You think I'm lying? Exhibit A: a city. Go to your local coastal city. Everyone is looking at the water. They drive over from other neighborhoods just to come to the water. They make a day of it. They're not doing anything, they're just staring at the ocean. Why? Is it because they all work office jobs? No! Here come more of them! They cram themselves up to the edge of the water and stare at it. WHAT DO THEY WANT? WHAT ARE THEY LOOKING AT. Perhaps the ships themselves all packed together, each one with several compasses on it, creates some kind of critical mass - all of the small compass-magnets on all the ships in the harbor combining into one really big magnetic field - and the people get sucked into the field and trapped there. That's science.
Exhibit 2: the countryside with lakes in it. Every path you follow in the countryside brings you to some water, such as a stream. There is magic in it. If you take your standard fool with ADHD dissociating in the middle of a supermarket and put them outside and give them a shove, they'll automatically lead you to water (if there is any nearby) (try it). Another good experiment to try is to get lost in the great American desert in a caravan supplied with a metaphysical professor! Try it in the great American desert at home!
Yes, as everyone knows, meditation and water are a match made in heaven. Married forever. That's science.
Here's an artist who wants to paint you the dreamiest, most enchanting landscape. What does he put in it? Trees, meadow, cows, a cottage with smoke coming from the chimney, obviously. He will probably put a path in it and make lots of triangular mountains in rows and have them be different shades of blue (naturally.) But there's gotta be a stream in it. Go visit the prairies in June, and wade for forty miles through knee-deep through tiger lilies. What's missing from this picture? Water!
If Niagara Falls was made of sand instead of water, would you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why would a guy given a handful of cash have trouble deciding whether to buy a coat (which he needed) or go to the beach? Why are all the best, healthiest, sexiest and most mentally healthy people obsessed with the sea? (You get me.) When you were first on a boat, did you not succumb to VIBES? Consider ancient Persia. Consider ancient Greece. They understood about vibes, and also gods.
SURELY ALL OF THIS IS NOT WITHOUT MEANING.
And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all! You get me! You understand it now.
Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I get weird, don't you dare imply that I buy a ticket and get on a boat. I have never had money in my life. How dare you. Anyway I don't go as a passenger - that's bougie, and something boring people do. Passengers never have a good time. And although my C.V. is incredible - I go to sea SO MUCH, you guys, I have lots of experience - I don't go as a boss, or a cook. That sounds like far too much work. Hard work. Disgusting, respectable, bougie, and far too responsible. I can literally only look after myself. Do not ask me to look after ships or shit. In fact, I have only a vague idea of what a ship is. There's so many different kinds of ships - don't get me started and DO NOT GET INVOLVED. Also, I'm allergic to glory.
It's kind of attractive to go as a cook. I mean, I'm allergic to glory and there's some glory attached to the position of the ship's cook, but, like, you're not management-track and so it's still credible. But I don't really want to cook (say) roast chicken. I really fucking love to eat roast chicken. I'm one of the best at doing it actually. I really appreciate when people go out of their way to butter, season, baste and roast a chicken for me. Picture a roast chicken and I am Looking Respectfully at it. Maybe something more, maybe I'm worshipping it. Don't make this weird. If you want to get weird about my relationship with roasted chicken, why aren't you getting weird about the ancient Egyptians? They ate roasted hippos (look it up) and the pyramids were basically pizza ovens. So it's pretty hypocritical to think that I'm being weird about roasted chicken when I've never made mummies out of chickens or built a religious pizza oven dedicated to honoring them: check and mate, haters.
Anyway - I like to go to sea as a manual laborer. A simple sailor. Salt of the earth… er… sea. Yeah, true: as a job it sucks. They make you jump around, order you around, treat you like shit. They expect you to jump around the boat like a grasshopper. And yes, at first, this sucks. It's degrading, especially if you come from a middle-class family. Worse, it's awful if you've already had some kind of professional job before signing on to be the dirt on the boss's boots - like, if you went to college and worked as a teacher and actually got kids to pay attention to you, really feeling this connection to work/teaching/identity or some shit, and now you are just literally the scum on this captain's boots, in the lowest possible job in the world. It hurts! It hurts your dignity. But the hurt, and also the dignity, both wear off in time.
So what if some old bastard sea captain orders me - ME! - to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, compared to the shit in the Bible, compared to the shit in the news, compared to the shit everyone else has to take. Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain’t a slave? Tell me that. We're all just serfs under capitalism, right, so why not just be honest about it: I prefer the honesty. Anyway, however the old sea captains may order me about - slapping and punching of course - I have the satisfaction of knowing that it's the same experience everyone else on Earth has, but more honest. Everyone else in the world is being served the exact same way. Either in a physical or a metaphysical way - sometimes people get the shit beaten out of them in person, sometimes online, sometimes emotionally, it happens to you in EVERY JOB, you sign on to get pushed around and slapped in the teeth: so the point is that when you're a sailor, it's a clean and honest slap. All the workers of the world share the same universal slap to the face that gets passed round, one slap passed all 'round the chain, like paying it forward, but it's a slap; and we should all accept this Universal Slap as the price of living, and then offer each other healing back massages, brother to brother, and slap each other and then kissed the places we slapped, and be happy.
I could examine that but I'm not going to.
Anyway: I always go to sea as a sailor. I've said that already. You're welcome. BUT THE POINT IS, they pay you. If you're a passenger, they don't pay you, at least, not that I've ever heard of [citation needed] (do they pay passengers?? Is there a job I can get where I can be a passenger and get paid?? Look this up.) Yeah so passengers have to pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. (That's Adam and Eve. You get it.) But BEING PAID. GETTING PAID IS THE BEST. NOTHING COMPARES TO GETTING PAID. EVERYONE LOVES THAT SHIT. Which is surprising, since we also apparently believe that money is the root of all evil, and isn't there something in the bible about "no rich people can get into heaven," right? And yet it's universal, literally everyone loves payday. Ah! How cheerfully we send ourselves to hell.
Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor (I've said this already) because it's FRESH AIR AND EXERCISE. Okay so think about ships. Normally, bosses stand on the "bridge" thing, and because we're sailing a boat, the nose is going into the wind and the butt part of the boat is at the back. That's how wind works. But if you think about it, winds usually go in one direction more than other directions (unless the men have been eating beans and farting: it's Pythagoras, look it up) SO if you're a boss standing on the boss-deck, the wind is blowing FROM the sailors TOWARDS you, and YOU ARE ACTUALLY BREATHING THE AIR THAT SAILORS ALREADY BREATHED. The boss THINKS he breathes it first, but he doesn't. He gets the air at the BACK of the boat and sailors get the air at the FRONT. So it's better to be at the front of the boat (sailor) for health reasons. This is a metaphor for life and work, etc.
But I have smelled the sea lots of times as a paid sailor and WHY I should decide to go on a whaling expedition - ok so you know how there's an invisible police officer of the Fates who has me under constant surveillance, who secretly dogs me, and influences me in some unaccountable way? YOU get me. You know him. "The poor FBI agent tasked with reading my search engine history" YOU GET ME. Anyway, "Ishmael, why, after having a perfectly well-reasoned, and very smart of you, part-time job as a spontaneous random sailor, did you decide to escalate that to joining a WHALING EXPEDITION, which is worse in every way?" Well, ask my fucking secret FBI agent, he can answer better than anyone else. Including me. You get me. Also, obviously, this was predestined, part of the Universe's Grand Programme for its talent show, which was all scheduled way before our time. The concept of sending me on the whaling voyage comes in as a kind of interlude or solo between the main performances of the Universe's great talent show. I bet it was advertised llike,
"PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION OF THE UNITED STATES EMBROILED IN ONGOING LEGAL DISPUTE.
Whaling voyage by some guy called Ishmael.
BLOODY BATTLE IN AFGHANISTAN."
Like a commercial break in between the big acts. A filler episode. Lightens the load for everyone else. Though I can't explain why the stage managers - the Fates - chose such a shitty role for me, a WHALING VOYAGE of all things, when it feels like others were given magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces - it seems a little unreasonable at first. Why doth Ishmael get shat upon, etc. But then I think about all the circumstances, the plot points and motivations that were cunningly presented to me under various disguises - FBI agents, bouts of random hanger, gay awakenings, you get me - and you can see that actually, I was set up. And worse, between them all, these Fates and Circumstances conspired to make me believe it was all my own choice and good judgment. Is Free Will an illusion? Are my decisions bad? We will NEVER know because I, Ishmael, am just a little guy that the Universe plays head games with.
One of the ways the Universe tricked me into starring in this performance and then mocking me for it was the overwhelming idea of the great whale himself (whaling expeditions usually contain whales.) Such a portentous and mysterious monster roused all my curiosity. Then of course, if you have a whale, you have the wild and distant seas where the whale rolls around with his body-the-size-of-an-island; the dangers and nameless perils of the whale; whales are also found in interesting places I haven't seen; this all tipped me over the edge. Maybe normal people could've resisted, but I am tormented with an everlasting itch for obscurity. I hate everyone else's oceans. I want the forbidden seas.
You know The Horrors? Of course you do. You might be surprised that I, the most mentally healthy person you've ever met, a person who is self-aware enough to go to sea when they're at their fucking limits, a guy who likes fresh air and manual labor and normal things, is familiar with The Horrors. Well, you'd be surprised. I know what's good, I'm an extrovert. But I'm still quick to perceive The Horrors. And how I deal with the horrors is a very extroverted thing: I'm social with them, if they'll let me. It's smart to be on good terms with The Horrors. You should always be on good terms with your permanent neighbors. That's how extroverts deal with The Horrors, and I recommend it.
I think that's enough explanation for why I welcomed the whaling voyage. The great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open, and in the wild figments of imagination that pushed me into doing it, the whales came marching two by two, hurrah, hurrah. They marched into my innermost soul in endless processions and occupied it, you see, I was quite helpless under this occupation - I consented to the haunting and the whales marched in to haunt me - and amidst them all was one grand shrouded white phantom, like a snowy mountain in the air.
You get it.
You know how it is, with whales.
(read the actual first chapter of Moby Dick here: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2701/2701-h/2701-h.htm)
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it's so cute how shen yuan is constantly justifying how sweet he is with selfish thoughts. like he'll spend all of volume one insisting "I'm only being nice to Binghe so maybe he wont want revenge on me after the abyss" but then when he meets Binghe in Jin Lan, he doesnt even check if Binghe wants revenge or not. you could have just admitted you were being nice to binghe because you wanted to be
The shocking thing about Laura Dodsworth’s pictures of 100 women’s breasts isn’t the flesh on show, or the many shapes and sizes, but the realisation that images of unairbrushed, non-uniform breasts seem to be so rare. “We see images of breasts everywhere,” says the 41-year-old photographer, “but they’re unreal. They create an unflattering comparison but also an unobtainable ideal. I wanted to rehumanise women through honest photography.”
Gay kink stores are like here’s the fuck master 5000 gnome king pig blaster it goes in your ass obviously pigfag and pansexual kink stores are like here’s like gender sensory backdoor pridefun exploration pleasure rod and it’s the same toy
lately my kids have been playing Baby Knife, which consists of somebody acting as a baby with knife hands chasing people while going "baby knife baby knife" over and over. is this a thing or are they just insane
we have a new teacher this year who has never had kindergarten before & she rounded em all up & told em No Baby Knife and No Zombies and idk how to tell her that 1. all kindergarten recess games boil down to Give Birth And Kill Each Other and 2. the absurd vaguely inappropriate games they make up are usually better than when they try to play an Actual game like soccer
Baby Knife is straightforward. theres a baby knife. baby knife chases you. thats about it. when they try to play Real Sports every single child is playing by a different set of rules unbeknownst to the others and none of them are playing by the Actual rules. everybody is mad at everybody else and running up to tell on their colleagues for cheating every 3 minutes. this doesnt happen when they play Baby Knife
if no one's said it, it's normal. It's just Tag with flavor. Tag is boring so you gotta add imagination.
Our baby knife as kids was Raptor Tag. Raptors hunt in packs so the person who was "it" had to run around pretending to be a velociraptor and to tag people they had to actually tackle them and "eat" them for 5 full seconds (others could come to the rescue and save them in that time, but risked getting eaten too or instead if the raptor switched targets). Eaten players then became raptors, until the whole pack was teamwork-hunting the last wily or lucky kid. There were no winning survivors- the game was won as a group once everyone was a raptor.
My kindergarten played "wolves" where a pack of 4-12 children, usually all the girls, would try to chase down and "kill" the deer (usually me)
I was bulled extensively in elementary school, but 1. Mostly by my teachers and 2. Not during this, because we ALL had PBS Nature and as Deer, I was allowed to gouge, kick, bite, keep running even after being grabbed, or body-check the larger children into the picnic tables and other architecture.
You know, for realism.
In point of fact, I was usually The Deer because I was the best at evading/ not going down without a fight, whereas most boys would just start crying or tattle, which is no fun at all.
We were incredibly boring. We played "murder ball" which was just Capture the Flag over the whole school grounds (outdoors only) and violence was permitted using the ball.
#We played Leeches (people run past you and you grab their legs and make them fall)#And Roadkill (body-slam your friends to the ground)#The teachers did not like these games
we had British Bulldogs which was where one line of kids had to get past another line of kids (and vice versa) and violence was expected, much like we imagine dodgeball to be
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funny thing about anxiety is sometimes it kind of breaks your sense of danger. like i am known for repeatedly putting myself in situations that make my friends go "bro you couldve died. werent you scared?" and the answer is 👍 yjeah. i did it scared. i do everything scared. i didnt know that was the actual important kind of scary because i usually have to ignore my fears to function in society. it will happen again. watch out.
Old Millennial American speaking here. I need you to adopt this mentality as early as possible and hold to it. The older you get, the harder it is to begin this practice and claw back the extremely unhealthy effects of a workaholic lifestyle. I am speaking from 20 years of experience.
This does not mean having a shitty attitude at work, or not doing your job, or relying on co-workers to carry your water.
This means you do what it says above. It also means not making work and productively your entire personality; not tying your productivity to your value; and not becoming so emotionally enmeshed in your work and workplace so that you are living and dying by what happens there.
Good luck out there. American workplace culture is mostly designed to work you to death. Moving against that tide can be challenging, so having a healthy mindset is important to living a life not consumed by your paid labor.
Hey everyone, looks like the “cat summoned for jury duty” was ai generated - even has the ai symbol at the top. Thanks for the heads up, @cannot-all-throw-inkpots . My apologies- I did not realize when I shared it.
Some positive news: There really WAS a cat summoned for jury duty back in 2010. Turns out the error was quickly corrected and the cat did NOT actually have to travel to the courthouse. But at least we can enjoy the fact that a papereork glitch did once try to give a cat jury duty XD
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(Adrian to Grace): retrofitted lights and clear xenonite last month so you can see outside. (Grace to Adrian) that's incredible! I wonder if any of your world's creatures have light receptors? If they do would they be attracted to the light?
Rocky: psst, Adrian
Adrian: Yes, dear?
Rocky: An Asrgestes??? Not that this isn’t insanely cool, but since when could we afford an Argestes?
Adrian: Built this from scratch. Just one of the many century-long projects to distract from the existential dread.
(Cont.) Besides, now that you’re back, we can actually afford like two more ships, and another guiding for Grace if we want.
