#I can copy paste Wikipedia articles too >:)
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Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs is a 2009 American computer-animated science fiction comedy film produced by Sony Pictures Animation. Loosely based on the 1978 children's book of the same name by Judi and Ron Barrett, the film was written for the screen and directed by Phil Lord and Christopher Miller (in their feature directorial debuts), and stars the voices of Bill Hader, Anna Faris, James Caan, Andy Samberg, Bruce Campbell, Mr. T, Benjamin Bratt, and Neil Patrick Harris. The film centers around an aspiring inventor named Flint Lockwood who develops, following a series of failed experiments, a machine that can convert water into food. After the machine gains sentience and begins to develop food storms, Flint must stop it in order to save the world.
Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood (known as Daniel Tiger's Neighbourhood in the United Kingdom, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand, and often abbreviated to Daniel Tiger) is a Flash animated musical television series aimed at pre-school children aged 2-4. It was produced by Fred Rogers Productions, 9 Story Media Group and 9 Story USA (which also produces Blue's Room and Super Why!). It debuted on September 3, 2012 on PBS Kids, eleven years after the end of production for Mister Rogers' Neighborhood and nine years after Fred Rogers' death. The program is based on the Neighborhood of Make-Believe from Mister Rogers, the long-running family-oriented television series created and hosted by Fred Rogers that aired from 1968 to 2001. In 2019, the series was renewed for a fifth season, which premiered on August 17, 2020 with Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood: Won't You Sing Along with Me?, a musical special that deals with the COVID-19 pandemic. On August 20, 2021, the series was renewed for a sixth season, which premiered on September 5, 2022. A one-hour television movie titled Daniel Visits a New Neighborhood aired on June 20, 2022.
The series centers around Daniel Tiger (son of Mom Tiger and Dad Tiger). The series also features other children of the characters from the Neighborhood of Make-Believe, such as Katerina Kittycat (daughter of Henrietta Pussycat), Miss Elaina (daughter of Lady Elaine Fairchilde and Music Man Stan), O the Owl (nephew of X the Owl) and Prince Wednesday (King Friday and Queen Sara Saturday's youngest son and Prince Tuesday's little brother). Two 11-minute segments are linked by a common socio-emotional theme, such as disappointment and sadness or anger and thankfulness. The theme also uses a musical motif phrase, which the show calls "strategy songs," to reinforce the theme and help children remember the life lessons. Many of the "strategy songs" are available in albums or as singles under the artist name "Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood." The program is targeted at preschool-aged children; it teaches emotional intelligence, kindness, and human respect. Its content follows a curriculum based on Fred Rogers' teaching and new research into child development.
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do i know you? chapter eight
[ chapter eight — 6.4k words ] [ masterlist ]
[ prev chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven ]
"well, now you know what to get me for christmas."
richie jerimovich x reader, past mikey berzatto x reader, slow burn
warning: drugs, insects
the next day, you wake to your customary darkness. outside your window light snow whispers against your window and thick clouds beyond promise there’s more where that came from. you pull a mini pizza from the freezer, crack an egg on top and put it in the toaster oven, call that protein. boil some water in your smallest pot. pull out your favorite chipped blue mug.
the dream did come last night, but its dread was dulled by early waking. you’re grateful for that. this is about as good as it gets, you think: tea on the way, a thick stillness enveloping your apartment, the city outside preparing to sleep while you keep watch.
but wait, the phone.
you go into your room and kneel by the bed.
michael’s small box is half-empty now that you’ve put his shirt in the wash, so the nokia is easy to find. when you flip it open, he’s there, waiting for you—one unread text—and in the sleepy silence, a bubble of incredulous unreality balloons and then bursts. it’s not michael.
they all blur into each other like drops of blood in water: you’re crushed to find that he’s still gone, relieved he’s still gone, guilty you were relieved, relieved that richie’s texted—no, happy—no, that’s embarrassing, but you can’t help it. it’s happiness and it’s something else. happiness is the warmth by your side and something else is the radiator.
the message turns out to be a single emoji, the one with the pink tongue sticking out. definitely richie. with no idea what that’s supposed to mean, you try to think of something equally silly. failing that, you pull up wikipedia on the phone and generate random wikipedia articles until you finally come across a fragment that strikes you as too beautiful to pass up. you weren’t looking for beautiful, but what the hell, it’s charmed you. copy, paste, and send.
> it was announced on january 30, 2023, that she will be writing an original poem dedicated to nasa's europa clipper. the europa clipper will launch in 2024, and by 2030, will be orbiting jupiter. limón's poem will be engraved into the craft.
not expecting an immediate reply, you replace the lid on the box and slide it back under your bed, only to hear the vibration of the phone against the wooden floorboards.
reading what he’s written makes you smile. proper punctuation and all, mimicking you. can’t tell if it’s meant to be snide or if he’s just matching what he thinks is your mood. you’ll take it either way.
> must be a bad motherfucker, that limon.
> must be.
> is she your favorite poet or something?
you feel a dissonant twinge of pride and shame. you once had a favorite poet, but that was a long time ago.
> i haven’t decided yet. are you getting better?
> i haven’t decided yet. i had three grape popsicles in bed for my breakfast, it’s kind of hard to argue with that.
> malingerer.
> i’m actually polish.
and so on.
when he finally says goodbye so he can go back to sleep, you’re still laughing a little to yourself, and you’ve been kneeling there beside the bed for so long that your knees ache.
.
.
.
in the days that follow, richie texts you at exactly the time he’d usually visit. you stand outside like he’s still there, have a couple cigarettes, and enjoy the nonsense even as your fingertips go numb in the cold. once, he sends a picture of a meme so italian that you don’t get it. you obviously weren’t meant to get it, either, so you respond by sending him the middle finger emoji, which he, nonsensically, hearts.
if he needs help, he’ll ask for it, you think. you hope. he seems to be on the mend. anyways, you no longer feel that fear except in dreams, and you stop wondering when he’s gonna text and start expecting it, and then, less than a week later, he shows up. you know this because he texts, where are you?
you open the window and stick your head out into an eddy of snow. sure, you’re glad to see him, but: it’s too fucking cold for this!
he waves.
man was feverish for literally days and here he is in mid december with a hoodie under his leather coat but no scarf, absolute idiot, and so you close the window, go down to meet him, and break the rule. standing there, holding the door open, you say, c’mon.
he’s surprisingly perceptive. he walks over, but he doesn’t cross the threshold, just pauses in front of you.
i don’t think we can smoke in there, he says.
we can’t, you say, moving back one more step, making even more room for him. or at least i can’t. i don't want to get evicted. my landlady will do it too.
yeah? he says, not moving. you're scared of her?
you shrug. you've moved back as far as you can, you're letting all the cold air in, and there's nothing you can do except say please.
you say, she's like four foot tall and a hundred years old, man. women that tiny that survive that long? you should be scared of them.
as if that was the final straw—though how could it be?—richie walks inside. without skipping a beat and for no reason you can figure out, richie walks inside.
learn my ways, sweetheart, he says, touching his chest and giving you his very best look of ridiculous condescension. old women love me.
as you close the door behind him, you fend off a stray, ridiculous burst of giddiness. it's just the lobby, pale linoleum floors and a single artificial plant by the elevators, but it feels radically different from the concrete outside. no cigarettes, no excuses. he’s only there for one reason.
old women do not love you, you say.
they do!
tina loves you. the rest of them, i don't know.
he snorts. you really don't want to be standing face to face with him for however long you’ve got him, so you lean on the wall instead, and he settles by your side the same way he always does.
when he looks over at you, there’s a hint of sly mischief in his eyes that makes you say, what?
wait for it, he says, and when you open your mouth, he holds up a finger.
you roll your eyes, but you hold your tongue with no idea what this is about, undisguised curiosity, and a readiness to be delighted.
you hear that? he finally says.
wind, maybe, or the distant rattle of a train? nothing special. you shake your head no.
that, richie says, is the sound of the sky not falling.
knowing he noticed, that’s the worst thing about being told that everything is gonna be okay. it’s also the best thing. you shove him with a bony, solid elbow. i should’ve let you freeze.
he catches himself before he can topple, his smile gone goofy and so pleased. fuckin drama queen.
full han solo style, block of ice.
it was carbonite, not ice. how do you not know star wars?
course i know star wars, you lie. how do you live in chicago and not own a hat?
i have hats. i just also have a car.
uh-huh. if he wants to trade accusations, you’ve got a doozy you’ve saved up till you could turn it on him in person. i noticed the other day that your place isn’t exactly in a location that makes my place ‘on the way home’ from the beef.
he’s caught, not sorry. grins. you noticed that, did you.
yeah, i might not be from around here, but i still know north from south, all that shit.
well okay, sherlock. you wanna charge me with a crime? the challenge in his eyes says it all; he knows you’re not unhappy to find he lied.
you still need to get a hat, you say.
well, now you know what to get me for christmas.
you’re getting jack shit.
you already know what you’re getting him for christmas.
.
.
.
kraft’s mac and cheese is a christmas tradition in a two-person slice of your family, and you’re one half of that slice, so mac and cheese is the first thing you think of when richie tells you he’ll be there for christmas eve.
after that, it’s on to donna’s on christmas day. then i’m gonna kidnap carmy for some ice fishing, he says.
you ever been ice fishing before? you say.
he splutters. do i not strike you as a, uh, an experienced-ass f—
no.
—fisherman and woodsman, and like—
nope.
—man of the… he gives up. whatever?
do you have a float suit?
richie exhales smoke and fixes you with a look, annoyed but curious.
i’m carmen fucking sandiego, you say, by way of explanation. of course you’ve been ice fishing, you’ve been all over the world.
sure you are, he says. he waves a dismissive hand. my buddy’s got all the stuff, we’ll be fine. it’s whatever, i just gotta get carmy out of the city so the only things he ends up killing are fish.
his first christmas since. you don’t have to finish the sentence.
yup, richie says.
it’s richie’s first christmas since, too, but there’s no call to say that.
lapsing into a companionable silence and shrinking a little closer to the building as the wind picks up, you decide that you’re definitely gonna make him kraft mac and cheese for christmas eve. he wouldn’t take it as a letdown, he'd laugh at the single spinach leaf on top. he’d get it.
.
.
.
on christmas eve, ten minutes before you’re expecting richie to show up, you get a text message.
> need u
it’s the wrong phone, though. it’s your work phone, and after everything those fuckers have done, they can’t possibly be calling you in on christmas eve. not now. your butter’s already cut, your colander’s in the sink, and you’re stirring the pot of boiling macaroni with a couple takeout chopsticks. they can’t—
the phone starts ringing. you pick up.
fuck off, you say.
no wait!
the voice is familiar; it’s kevin, a man so stupid that he once introduced himself to you out of anxious friendliness even though you’ve always made very clear that you don’t want to know anybody’s names. kevin must have you on speakerphone, because in the background, you can hear the telltale sounds of somebody else cursing in a continuous wretched stream. that piques your curiosity.
thirty seconds, you say. keep it clean. meaning, don’t give me names.
kevin says, we were doing a thing and some stuff happened.
that’s no use. he kept it a little too clean. you sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose between two fingers. you were doing a thing on christmas eve?
we thought…look, can you just come? aren’t you on call? isn’t this your job?
you tell me, you say. it’s been radio silence on my phone for three weeks and i haven’t gotten paid for almost a month now.
oh.
yeah, you say, knowing damn well that it’s not kevin’s fault, but more than happy to take this out on somebody. they fucking ghosted me.
sorry to hear that, man, he says awkwardly.
a thought occurs to you. likelihood of the carusos being involved in some shitbrained christmas eve scheme pulled by kevin? nil.
was this even a sanctioned thing? you say. like, did—
you know what, it’s fine, kevin says hurriedly. it’s basically a flesh wound.
the guy in the background howls, i got shot in the fucking foot!
shut up, howie, kevin hisses. you hang up.
there’s no reason for you to get involved. no orders, no blackmail, and probably no money; plus, your timer is counting down the last minute of macaroni boiling and richie will be on his way soon.
you pocket your phone, walk back to the stove, and resume stirring.
no reason for you to get involved. your timer rings out, so you dump out the pasta, put it back in the pot with the butter, add some water and the cheesy powder, stir with an eye for sauce thickness, wait for it to settle you. it doesn’t.
the thing is, there are so many small tricky bones in the foot, and you haven’t had a real surgery challenge in ages. ever since your bosses ghosted you, you’ve just been staying in your apartment, in limbo, seeing nobody except richie and occasionally a cashier. sleeping and waking neither on your old strict schedule nor on a normal daylight one. doing nothing, worth basically nothing.
so yeah, you text kevin.
> send me the address
then, as quick as you can so you don’t have time to overthink it, you text richie.
> work emergency, i have to cancel. sorry.
the response is immediate.
> text me when you get home.
you realize that you’re still stirring, and you turn off the stove. although you give him a couple minutes, richie doesn’t add anything. no joke to put spikes on the soft gesture, no expression of disappointment to make you feel guilty for canceling this late. nothing. text me when you get home, that’s all.
if you were that generous, you’d text back don’t stay up, let him get some extra sleep in preparation for tomorrow’s christmas hell. but you don’t. you want to think of him waiting for his phone to chime, staying awake for you, thinking of you, even worrying. so you react with a thumbs up to his message.
the next time your phone goes ping, it’s kevin sending you the address, and you head for the door.
.
.
.
you’re sitting on a coffee table beside the old sofa that holds your resting patient. lying on the coffee table beside you are half a dozen grape skittles, the remainder of your christmas eve meal. there’s literally baggies of cocaine sitting on the kitchen table, the tv is playing charlie and the chocolate factory, and everyone involved in this—including yourself—is so stupid that you’re all definitely going to jail. but you’re having one of your good nights.
only drugs compare to the state of pure focus that surgery grants you, and even though it’s always in shit circumstances done for shit people, you can’t help but feel like a serious machine doing all this ad hoc emergency shit. this has to be how athletes feel, after a game. it’s physical: your vision feels clearer, your hands are steady, your body’s slouched comfortable and sated. it was decent work you did, given the lack of fucking everything. you’re pretty sure howie won’t even have that bad of a limp.
kevin finishes counting your pay and hands it over. you begin to count it again, too—twenty, forty, sixty—and then look up at him.
what? he says.
you haul yourself up and walk over to the kitchen table, ignoring the cocaine in favor of the scale, on which you place a twenty. it comes up as 0.94 grams when it should be a single 1.0. so you throw your earnings in the sink, get out your lighter, and set it on fire.
the fire alarm! kevin rushes over to turn the tap on and put it out.
you can hear howie calling from the couch, what’s burning?
kev just tried to cheat me.
i did not, kevin says miserably, it was a misunderstanding.
he pulls his own wallet out of his back pocket and starts to count the money, but you take it from his hands, sit at the kitchen table, and begin counting money yourself, weighing each bill as you go. once you’ve taken a hundred and fifty, you stand up and call over to howie, night.
yo, howie says. is my, like. what are the chances they gotta amputate?
that gets you a little, despite everything. howie spent the past few hours thinking he was gonna lose an entire foot, and he was stubbornly proud enough that he almost made it without admitting the fear to anyone. in a way, you gotta give it to him. admiration’s too grand a word, but it’s something like that.
chances are super low, you say. as long as you follow instructions, keep an eye out for infection, and don’t get hooked on pills, you’re gonna be fine.
for a second, there’s silence. then: thanks, babygirl.
for that, you take another forty dollars from kevin’s wallet and point them at him. asshole tax, you say.
as soon as you’re out of the house, you can hear kevin locking the door behind you. then he says, goodnight!
i shoulda robbed you, you say. then you start down the sidewalk. it’s bitter cold and you’re not a hundred percent sure you’re headed in the right direction, but just then you feel invincible.
fuckin jagoffs, say to yourself.
.
.
.
on the train home, the peace and quiet is interrupted by a herd of college girls, twentysomethings all decked out in tinsel necklaces, clearly on their way to a different party, and hitting all the wrong notes in deck the halls.
most days, you’d hate this, but in your current state of satisfaction with yourself and the world in general, their effortless enjoyment doesn’t seem to completely shut you out. they’re so young, and one of them is sitting in another’s lap while a third drapes herself over her shoulder. they smell like spiced rum, they make it hard to be a bitter old crone.
one of the carolers makes direct eye contact with you, and instead of having the decency to keep herself to herself, she extends her hand to you and sings even louder, fa-la-la-la-ing like she’s god’s gift. for a second, you let yourself mouth along, fa-la-la-ing, but then she says, come on, i know you can do better than that! and nope, nope. fuck it.
you try to look away, she yells another, come on! and you give her the death glare. surprisingly, she keeps beckoning to you—they’re stubborn, kids these days—but eventually you win the way you knew you would.
she looks away and whispers in the ear of the lap-sitter. that girl, the tiniest of them all, gives you a look that could sear meat. you could break her in half with one hand tied behind her back, she really has the build of a hummingbird, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping her.
you roll your eyes, lean back with exaggerated deliberation, and get out your phone.
> i’m home.
you want somebody of your own, you want richie’s reply. but none comes.
he’s not waiting for you outside your apartment building, either, so there goes that mad hope.
.
.
.
when you get inside your apartment, you kneel to untie your boots and spot a flicker of movement on the floor. it’s a black ant scurrying towards your countertop. with a rising sense of horror, you straighten up and see a swarm of ants, dozens and dozens, maybe a hundred busily moving little black dots, crawling to and from the pot of macaroni and cheese on your stove. your stomach turns, and if you’d had a real dinner, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from throwing it up. as it is, you just gag. it feels like a violation, an invasion, and you’re more outraged about these fucking ants in your apartment—your fucking apartment—than you ever were about getting not paid or cheated or maybe even blackmailed.
you go into the kitchenette and get the ant spray out from under the sink, then you stand back and spray everything in sight. the whole fucking counter, even though, yes, you cook your food on that, and the stove, and the floor for good measure. fuck them all.
you should’ve known better than to leave food uncovered in this apartment. you’ve lived here for three years and this always fucking happens. you’d think the novelty would’ve worn off, but nope. it’s still as disgusting as it was the first time you woke up to see last night’s plate covered in black.
today, the spray isn’t working fast enough for you, so you get out a trash bag, put the pot in it, and head out for the dumpster.
out there in the cold, waiting for the ant spray to do its work inside the trash bag, you remember that you left your lighter in kevin’s house. you tip your head back and look up at the sky. it’s so thickly smothered in clouds, there’s barely a glow of moon.
yeah, you say.
after a while, you untie the bag, shake the dead ants off your pot, and throw the bag away. you’d stomp on the ants for spite, but that would necessitate looking at them, and you’ve had more than enough of that. you just head back for home.
you almost make it to the front door, and then you smell it, the smoke.
well? richie says from around the corner. he must have heard your footsteps. you coming or what?
you walk the last few steps and there, just around the corner, there he is. he has the navy hood pulled up over his head, both his hands shoved deep in his pockets, a cigarette between both lips. he looks at your pot with interest.
after a second, you say, you’re late.
something tickles the inside of your wrist and you flinch. one last ant has crawled up the handle of the pot and onto your arm; you drop the pot in the snow and shake the ant off you. it lands by richie, and he stomps it dead matter-of-factly.
it takes everything you’ve got not to start swearing like howie with a shot foot.
merry christmas? richie says after a second.
merry fuckin christmas. you reach out and take the cigarette from his lips. long drag. you needed that.
settling beside him so both of you can look out into the night, you hand the cigarette back. and that’s how it is for a while, sharing. the wind thins out, the streetlight across the way reflects in the glass of another apartment building's door.
when your body’s finally calmed down, you look over at him. i got you something.
aw, you didn’t have to, he say, a little curious and not particularly surprised. he probably thinks it’s a joke.
you hold your right hand palm up, and he takes his right hand out of its warm jacket pocket to mirror the gesture. then you reach into your hoodie and unclasp his gift from your neck.
the chain is gold. thick, but not so thick that it comes across comical. incongruous with you and with him, the weight of it and the shine, how new it is. when you lay it in his hand, it looks like a golden snake, intricate and flawless.
after a second, he gives you his cigarette like he can’t both smoke and think about it. then he speaks.
this is fake, yeah, he says.
hundred percent fake.
actually, it’s regifted. it was originally one of your boss’s christmas bonus gifts, and given that you pawned all the other christmas bonus gifts to pay rent, you’re pretty sure that the chain is solid gold. it’s for the best that he doesn’t know it, though.
as you watch, he puts it on, fumbling a little with the clasp. looks at it for a second, tucks it back inside his coat. there goes the last
yeah? you say, after a second.
yeah. think i like this sugar baby shit. keep ‘em coming, he says.
you laugh, real, so relieved that he didn’t take it weird, so relieved that you got lucky tonight and he got it the way he sometimes can, acceptance without explanation.
he lets you laugh, and then he says, mine’s better, though.
diamonds?
it’s back at my place, he says. i can drive?
you want that so bad, and you didn't even think to want it just seconds before.
yeah, you say, dropping the cigarette and stomping it out right beside the dead ant, unbothered.
you want to take the pot up?
you shrug, crouch down, and cover it with some snow; you’re not gonna leave him down here waiting for you, and you’re not gonna take him up to the horrorshow of dead ants either.
it’s still pretty obvious, richie says.
it’s christmas eve, who’s gonna bother digging in dirty snow to steal a pot?
this is chicago.
this is idle argument as companionship and you know that, but you're impatient. are you taking me home or what? yes, you can hear the double entendre. no, you don't fucking care.
there’s a slight pause before richie says, car’s this way.
.
.
.
in the car, there’s crumbs but not much mess; a coupon for personal pizzas in the cupholder, and that’s it. he must have cleaned.
when he starts the engine, you say, wait, and make an elaborate show of putting on your seatbelt. then you say, okay, now i’m ready.
fuck you, he says, and he’s still smiling when he starts to drive.
the radio is playing carols dimly in the background, and you don’t hate it.
you doing anything for christmas day? richie says.
i’m working christmas, you lie.
seriously? tell your boss he’s fucking barbaric.
would if you could; you’ve already tried to say as much in your many texts, but it is what it is.
yeah, you say. bunch of fuckin jackoffs, right?
jagoffs, he says, over-enunciating, frustration immediate. he really is too easy and he knows it. you’re—
jackoffs, that’s what i said, that’s what you told me—
if you can’t do it right, don’t do it at all. he has to drive with his right hand so he can make chopping motions for emphasis with his left hand, because of course he does.
you say, jackoffs.
you’re killing me.
and yet you go on surviving. you relent. got everything you need for ice fishing?
richie scoffs in disgust. yeah, but now carmy is trying to bail on me.
if he’s not gonna say, typical, then neither are you.
he wants to work on the twenty-sixth, he says.
oof.
yeah. like a full planning session, go over the rest of the rollout schedule with the entire staff and like… he rubs his forehead. i don’t know. like we haven’t even gone to christmas yet and he’s already, fucking. i don’t know!
i mean.
he glances over at you briefly.
carmy wants to make the staff come in on the twenty-sixth just to go over the renovation schedule again?
he’s out of his fucking mind.
you already know what you want to say, but you have to double-check it in your own head to make sure you’re not overstepping. you don’t actually know these people.
but also, fuck it.
you know, you say, you could tell him if he acts like this, syd’s gonna quit again.
he whistles. julie with the big guns.
how i’m built, you say.
yeah, i noticed, he says affectionately. it’s okay. i’ll figure it out.
i know you will. it’s kindness, and you mean it, and you don’t take it back.
thanks, he says.
you lean your forehead against the cold glass of the car door and watch chicago going by, all gold and black and white.
.
.
.
after a few minutes, he parks the car in an underground garage.
you ready for this? this is gonna rock your world, he says.
diamonds and rubies? you say, unbuckling your seat belt.
you’re gonna be fuckin crying.
diamonds and rubies and pearls?
.
.
.
at the door to his apartment, he says, close your eyes, hold out your hands, and wait here, so you do. when the door opens, you can smell whatever it was he made for his christmas eve dinner with eva. it smells like everything christmas eve should be, rich and homey. you could wait here for, say, half an hour. you could stretch this moment out. you wouldn’t mind.
okay, richie says. here.
when the gift touches your palm, you instinctively pull back. richie swears and catches it.
it’s hot! you say as you open your eyes.
it’s soup, he says. you want it cold?
you look down. yeah, that’s definitely french onion soup, with a big white and brown patch of melted cheese and toast on top. it’s an echo of what you made him when he was sick. it’s him showing off his work in comparison to your two-ingredient version. it’s unfortunately perfect. there’s no way he knew that you haven’t had anything for dinner except skittles.
it smells like home.
here. you hand the bowl back to richie, but only so you can take off your coat and your shoes.
there’s only one hook on the back of his door, so you hang your coat overtop his. as you move through his apartment, you take stock: the walls are still orange, but things are a little tidier and there are new drawings magnet-pinned to the fridge. eva’s going through a cat era, clearly. the kitchen lamp is as warm as before, and the cactus by the window has a small red ribbon on it, probably a nod to christmas.
you sit down at the kitchen table on one of the foldable stools, and richie sets your spoon and bowl in front of you. there’s a half-empty bottle of coors on the countertop behind you, and you take a sip of that. he sits down on the chair to your left, so he’s in your peripheral. he’s next to you.
you can feel it coming.
um, you say.
he glances over, and you can feel that too. what’s up.
don’t be a dick, okay. you say it very low and very flat, not even angry, because angry wouldn’t cut it.
the pause is too long, but at least he finally says, okay.
you pick up your spoon and take the first sip.
the bit of melted cheese hits first, warm and gooey and salty then the sweet savory richness of the broth, and yeah, okay. it’s happening. your eyes are wet.
you can feel him not saying anything about it, but before it can build up to torture, his phone rings.
sorry, he says, getting up. it’s tiff.
he must know from the ringtone alone, but you’re not even mad at it, you’re relieved. saved by the bell, another bit of good luck. maybe christmas is real.
uh-huh, you can hear him saying. yeah. that’s— he laughs, and you know from that laugh alone it’s something about eva. yeah, put her on. a beat, then. hey, honey. no. no, she’s right. listen, santa won’t come if you spy on him. the guy likes his privacy, okay? he’s not in it for the applause, he’s not in it for the publicity. pause. well, that’s what the cookies are for. i am being serious, that’s what they’re for. okay. who—okay. he snorts. okay, you got me. don’t tell your mother, though, okay? she really enjoys it. pause. it’s up to you. okay, i gotta go. i love you. hey. i love you.
that’s more than enough time for you to wipe your eyes on your sleeve, get all fucked up again listening to him, and wipe your eyes a second time. by the time richie sits back down, you’re basically normal.
that sounded like some saga, you say.
this jewish kid at school told all the christians that santa wasn’t real, he explains. and now she’s going around busting all the lying adults one by one.
you laugh.
they’re starting young, he says. when i was in school, they always used to make us wait until at least sixth grade before we could go around busting myths.
you’re jewish?
he shrugs. kinda sorta.
you see the opportunity to make another joke about him being zero percent italian, and you ignore it. did eva like the doll? you say instead.
yeah. i mean, it was a huge hassle, it’s so expensive i had to go halves with tiff, and i nearly had a heart attack when eva said something about kirsten cause i thought i’d got the wrong one— he starts eating again, eating soup and talking, and you don't hate it. which by the way, swedes? have the most boring american history of them all, i don’t know why they’d make a doll about that, but anyways, yeah. she loved it. he reaches across you and takes his beer back so he can drink the last dregs of it. ever since the divorce, we don’t even call it christmas eve, we just call it christmas one and christmas two. as is tradition.
he says the last three words kind of weird.
as is tradition? you repeat.
tiff and i, we don’t have a bunch of traditions from our parents, so it’s like. we make up a lot of stuff and then we say ‘as is tradition.’ cause it’s not.
i mean, you got two generations involved, so that counts.
eh, he says, drawing it out dubiously.
i got two-generations traditions, you say.
you didn’t intend to talk about your family, you weren’t thinking about that at all, you were just thinking about richie. but now you gotta sit in the silence as he decides whether or not follow up about your parents.
finally, richie says, you got a kid? he’s doing his best to be cool about it, but his voice goes up a little crazy on the last word.
no, i mean—you’re laughing. i meant me and my dad.
oh, he says, maybe a bit relieved, definitely a bit something, you can’t quite place it. oh.
i used to make us mac and cheese for christmas. with a leaf on top, like lettuce or spinach or something. cause, you know, that makes it salad.
that’s cool, he says flatly. after a second, he adds, less flat, i don’t have any traditions with my dad. i mean, he’s dead, but like before then, we never. so i think that’s cool.
you hate his dad. it’s a split-second decision, but you feel pretty confident about it.
two generations is all you need, you say. and you got eva. so it’s a tradition.
heard, he says.
when you glance over, you see the chain catching the light, gold over his dark shirt. he looks at you. you both keep eating.
.
.
.
eventually, you finish off two bowls of soup and a hot chocolate too, courtesy of eva’s swiss miss unicorn package. you feel a bit subdued by the ordeal of being human, but relaxed.
best christmas ever, you say.
really? richie says, like he believes it and feels bad for you.
god no, do you think i came out a dickens?
what the fuck is a dickens?
you’re illiterate, it’s okay. you look at him. you know that your eyes are a little red, but thankfully you can also see, reflected in his eyes, that he knows you're all right.
thank you, richie, you say. it’s all wrong, you shouldn’t be saying his name and you shouldn’t be saying thank you either, it’s thanks or nothing, but something about the formality feels a little heavier and therefore suited to the day. it’s getting late.
i’ll drive you? he says, and there’s a little extra question in it that you can’t bring yourself to consider.
you shake your head and get up from the table heavily, feeling a thousand years old. i’m good.
he gets up, follows you, stands there with his hands in shoved his pockets as you crouch to put on your shoes.
i wasn’t suggesting a sleepover, he says.
no, of course not, you say, and you congratulate yourself on not making it sound bitter.
unless, richie says.
you look up at him.
i have so many condoms, he says, deadpan. just. so fucking many. some of them are citrus flavored.
there he goes, saved it.
it’s not just tonight, is it? it’s not just tonight, it’s not just luck, it’s not just christmas; somehow, richie’s become…he’s figured it out, how to be with you. when to show up and when to let you go. not always, but more than enough, and he just. he wakes up and he struggles and he breaks shit and he irritates you and he calls eva and he watches youtube and he goes to bed and he wakes up and he struggles and he learns and you love him.
what a fucking time to find out. you look down and begin tying your shoes again.
you got pineapple flavor? you say.
in what world is pineapple citrus? richie says.
well, tough luck. you back up and turn around to put on your coat. for me, it’s pineapple condoms or nothing.
you’re a real high-maintenance fuck.
you laugh. michael used to like that about you, just how easy you were, or how easy you made yourself. buddy, you got no idea.
it’s been such a long day for both of you, apart and together. of course you’re getting messy, of course it’s time to go. you zip up your coat, run your hand through your hair.
let me drive you, he says again.
you wave him off. no, i need to walk. clear my head.
it��s december in chicago, fuckin pitch black—
i’ll be fine.
it’s christmas eve, are you really gonna punish me for a fucking joke? he says, and you look up, startled; you didn’t know he was upset. in retrospect, you were just focusing on avoiding his eyes, so what did you expect?
i’m not punishing you for anything, you were great. richie. you look at him straight on and steady, so he understands. a little gentle, as gentle as you feel you can get away with. you truly have to go, and there’s no resentment in it. i just need to clear my head. i’ll be fine, i’m always fine.
you never… richie trails off, eyes you, decides against finishing the sentence. you’re stubborn.
always. you give him a small smile. thanks for the soup.
goodnight.
that should be the end, but it feels unfinished. his blue eyes are alive to the possibilities when you reach out, but you just touch the chain with a fingertip where it rests over his collarbone. his right hand moves a little and you draw back, your other hand on the doorknob at once, already leaving.
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two days later, the cops issue a warrant for your arrest.
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[ next chapter ] [ masterlist ]
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@garbinge, @narcolini, @drabbles-mc, @beingalive1, @eternallyvenus, @cerial-junkie, @jackierose902109, @shinebright2000, @scorpiolystoned — if anyone else wants to be tagged, let me know.
#richie jerimovich x reader#richie jerimovich#the bear fx#the bear fanfiction#the bear fanfic#mine#readerfic#do i know you?#the bear imagine#diky#guess who's still at it? ME!!! guess who's not giving up? ME!!!!!!
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What are some ways for improvisational secondaries to study that work?
Hopefully this isn't too vague to be helpful. Obviously studying different things is going to be different, but these are things that have worked for people I know, and hopefully should get the gears turning - because getting silly and messy is a great way to study.
Gamify it. Any game is your friend. If you're using Quizlet, study with someone so the two of you can compete.
Teach backs/rubber ducking. Explain the topic out loud to a teddy bear/other inanimate object with eyes.
Play Five Clicks to Jesus with your terms. Bring up the Wikipedia page for something you need to know about, and you have to find a way to get from that page to Jesus’ page in five clicks or less.
(NB - You can pick an end-game page that makes sense with the thing you're studying, or something you know a lot about/are invested in. Or if you REALLY need to generate some interest: 'oral sex.')
Use the material you're learning to tell a story. Or pretend that you’re a character who needs to use this information later for some reason. (Costume pieces can be nice.)
Get emotionally invested. Find an article/video on something you’re trying to learn that you disagree with and can get mad at. Start writing down the rebuttal to what they’re saying.
Frame it as an investigation. Start out with questions you have about the thing, and dig until you can answer them.
Watch the movie version. Note down all the ways it is inaccurate. (Online guides help with this)
Use puns/jokes/stupid connections to keep similar words straight in your head
If you have to learn something that absolutely must be memorized, memorize it while doing something else - walking/exercising/doing the dishes.
Make your notes aesthetic. Pretty notebooks, pretty pens, illustrations, whatever you need. And then you can post pictures of your pretty notes online.
Light a Study Candle. That is pretty and smells nice and you only light when you’re studying.
Sit Someplace Different. Go to a coffee shop, or a park, or the library, and do your work there. You can totally get a second wind just by physically re-locating.
Personally, when I’m learning something or teaching myself something, first I watch multiple videos/read multiple articles that say the same thing in different ways. Sometimes I have them on in the background while I'm doing something else. I write down/copy paste anything that seems vaguely interesting into one document. After I'm done with that, I arrange things in a way that makes sense. I especially like diagrams, arrows, and timelines.
And any Snake or Lion secondaries out there, please add on with what works for you.
#study tips#teaching#these are things that have worked for people I know#sortinghatchats#tangentially
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Top 20 Tested, Tried, True, & Trusted Tips for College Success
I dare you to try that 3 times fast! …and hi! It’s Mac Crushes Monday! The day I crush Monday into the dirt with y’all’s help! Inbox me something motivational, okay?
Anyway, I don’t think I’ve mentioned this to y’all but I’m on Dean’s List at my college. I want to help other people so here I am to do that.
If you find anything helpful in this post, please share it for others!
1. Vague is a waste of time. You won’t get a good grade. I try to spend another thirty minutes or whatever adding specifics. It’s worth it, trust me.
2. The first thing I do at the beginning of a semester is get ahold of that syllabus! Plug all your due dates into your calendar & block out scheduled times to work on schoolwork.
3. In terms of that last tip, I plan what I’m going to work on and when. It’s like budgeting, except with time instead of money. Y’all… planning which assignments to tackle and when has SAVED ME from missing due dates!
4. I include a “safety block” in that scheduling habit. Perhaps a day on the weekend to play catch up if I skipped a blocked-out time for schoolwork during the week. Look, life and lack of motivation happens. Be prepared.
5. Are you to your safety block at the end of the week and still don’t want to work on school with the little time you have left? Suck it up and do it. I know you probably wanted an easier tip but really, it’s what you have to do.
6. Skip Google Scholar. Use JSTOR and ProQuest with your institutional access instead. Google Scholar, though a great resource, includes many articles and peer-reviewed journals that cost to access with no way to filter those out.
7. Include an italicized section of “Notes” after your “Works Cited” section. This section of notes explains to my professors why I included certain features in my paper, or violated any of the guidelines, or whatever. I can do this without sending a separate explanation in an email; or worse, skipping an explanation all together. Don’t do that!
8. Citation Machine is a website where you plug in a link or a what-have-you and it’ll pump out your citation to simply copy and paste into your paper. Tried and true. I depend on Citation Machine a little too heavily, to be honest.
9. CITE ALL SOURCES and avoid using information from someone else’s essay you found online, or Wikipedia, etc. You WILL eventually get caught, I promise, and it’s not worth the risk of being thrown out of your college!
10. I don’t let utilizable study tips sit in my Pinterest boards collecting dust. I use them. Shoot, some of them might’ve even inspired this list!
11. Studying in a library or coffee shop can be very distracting. It will either motivate you or hinder you. Figure out which person you are. For me personally, doing school at home increases my focus and enhances my productivity, versus being out somewhere.
12. Try different incentives to study and if the right incentive helps you, stick to it. Whether it’s your “Cheat Meal” being on study day after you finish, or something totally different... a hit of the reward hormone Dopamine can work wonders.
13. If you don’t understand something, your luck will be that it will be on the exam. Don’t skip over it no matter how badly you want to. Grab Google to help you figure it out.
14. To memorize something, I physically write it down, literally say it out loud, and quiz myself, answering out loud. For most confidence-boosting results, articulate it as impressively as you can.
15. What kind of learner are you? Find out, then research how to succeed as this type of learner.
16. Stay organized! Being messy may be associated with brilliance, but organization is associated with success.
17. Aim to make Best Attendance Award. Unless you are violently or contagiously sick, do not skip. Commit to the classes and learning experience good money was spent on, and be proud that you are! Wear it as a badge of honor.
18. Don’t miss the point: Ask questions! “Why are we learning this? What does this tie into? How can I use this in the future?” This can help motivate you to learn.
19. Sit in the front or second row. Show the teacher you’re serious and force yourself to pay attention. A professor being able to clearly see me if I’m on my phone DOES deter me from using it when I could be taking notes.
20. It can be hard work to come up with your own great conclusions and ideas. However, that’s what librarians, professors, and tutors are for to help you with. With their help, commit to honing new skills and improving yourself academically.
Bonus: I need mentors and so do you! Start your assignment early as crap so you can contact mentors for help when you’re in an area where you feel stuck.
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Reading The Dark Prophecy: Chapter 16 (SPOILERS)
"In my four thousand years of life, I had searched for many things . . . and a 1958 Gibson Flying V." Image below. They sell for ~$9,999. Apollo's fine with $15,000 Tater Tots but draws the line at a rare $9,999 guitar.
"If we die here, I'd just like to say you aren't as bad as I originally thought." Aw hey, they're making progress.
"And alas, I was all out of Tater Tots." I love how his Plan B is to try negotiating with the Tots. Actually, those are pretty pricey. Maybe he can pay his own ransom money with that.
"Good cheap labor is terribly difficult to find." [Insert comment about inhumane Chinese factory wages here]
"My friends call me Lit, but my enemies call me Death!" That's not nearly as cool a line as you seem to think it is.
"I changed my mind. First, that roof collapsed on me." Fair counter. If anything were to change your mind about taking someone alive, it would be an attempt on your own life. "Then my bodyguards got swallowed by a stand of bamboo." Say what now? I was wondering why Lit was here but the Germani weren't.
"My pulse boomed like timpani" TIMPANI (n.): kettledrums, especially when played by one musician in an orchestra
"Surely Zeus would intercede." They're probably going to find a way out of this situation before it becomes too close of a call, but if Apollo were to actually die, I think Zeus would actually intercede. At worst, his intentions for Apollo's punishment might be to live and die permanently as a mortal, but dying a month into his punishment might cross the line there. Besides, if Apollo died, he'd have to find a new Sun god.
"the crossed blades of Meg McCaffrey." Knew it would be her. They've been building up the anticipation with the plants.
"Hyacinthus the time he wore that amazing tuxedo on our date night" They... did not have tuxedos back then. Whatever, Apollo has the gift of prophecy. Of course he would use it for little things like this.
"THIS is Meg?" Oh yeah, forgot they've never met. I bet Apollo's been hyping her up and all and with the way he embellishes stories, Calypso at this point probably thinks she's some great hero to rival Hercules.
"Yep . . . You're stupid." Very Meg. "Now she would stay by my side" These very words instantly convinced me that she would not stay by his side.
"Now it was clear that our master-servant relationship could not be so easily broken." Okay, so even Meg can't release Apollo from her authority.
"no child can match the Reaper of Men." Okay, so once he said this to Meg, I started wondering how old Lit was and after some Googling and being careful to avoid spoilers, I found everything I need to know about him except his age. He's also a child of Demeter! Meg's bro! That makes "Reaper of Men" a marvelous pun. He has a sister named Zoe, unrelated to Zoë Nightshade. Also, his Wikipedia page is depressingly short and part of his fandom wiki page is literally a copy-paste of the Wikipedia article. According to Wikipedia, he challenged people to harvesting contests and beheaded the contestants when they lost. Guess he's really good at that. Then Hercules came along and turned the tables on him and that's how he died. Apparently the PJO series is the only ever piece of pop culture poor Lityerses appears in. I still don't know his age.
"leaving Calypso behind to the blemmyae . . . I'd like to say that wasn't a serious thought, but it had been, however briefly." Wait, he was serious about that?!
"run over by a herd of armored ostriches." THE OSTRICHESSSSSSSS! Man, Lit's really taking a beating today. First he gets run over by a roof and then he gets run over by a bunch of big birds. Now I see where he gets all the scars from. Does this happen regularly?
"She howled in rage and the net blasted upward, ripped from its moorings" She does still have magic? Holy shit, she can do more than sing!1!!1! She seems surprised by it afterward, though. Has this never happened even once when she was in the Sea of Monsters? Surely she'd be in equally dangerous situations. Or maybe she's surprised she was able to conjure enough power to rip out the whole net.
"I was quite content to be annoyed, once again, by Meg McCaffrey." I like this ending line. I dunno, I just like it.
Also, this chapter made me realize that the cover art is not, in fact, the two of them flying under a bridge. That's netting and if I looked closer, I would have seen the arena. So sue me, the blue looked like water. I just thought the ostriches could walk on water.
#reading trials of apollo#reading the dark prophecy#reading toa#reading tdp#toa spoilers#trials of apollo spoilers#trials of apollo#the dark prophecy#percy jackon and the olympians#apollo pjo#apollo#lester papadopoulos#lityerses pjo#lityerses#meg mccaffrey#calypso pjo#calypso#combat ostriches#$15000 tater tots#zeus pjo#zeus#pjo#toa#pjo hoo toa#rrverse#riordanverse
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LO reasoning apparently: liking bigoted media like gone with the wind means ur racist, but calling a non-binary, Jewish person who had family that died in the holocaust, a nazi sympathizer is not antisemitic and totally doesn’t refect on me as a person. (This very funny coming from someone who defended family guy and big bang theory on very similar grounds)
Ontop of that she's now pretty much implied that Rebecca sugar just stole everything from her story from anime, and even went out of her way to post a person's response that claims she just copied an anime and changed it to be not violent due to a hissy fit. Even though said anime is not at all similar to SU and is pretty much a horror, so why would RS throw a fit because it was to violent, when it literally is about the main character eating people? Like they wouldn't get past episode 3, let alone be able to watch the whole thing and rip it off. (Also love how LO criticizes people for posting shit about her without looking into whether it's real, yet, despite obviously not watching this anime, she takes this person's response as true because it backs up her hate toward Sugar)
as someone that actually watched Tokyo Ghoul this is so incredibly wrong on every way possible and imaginable by everyone who has also watched either the anime or manga even.
i don't usually say this confidently because you may never know, but for this anon i do feel comfortable saying that LO wrote it herself. what fan of a show is going to refer to the it as "the popular anime", as if they're quoting a wikipedia article? and since when LO values the word of someone so disgustingly racist, according to her own logic, that they'd actually refer themselves as a weeb? none of this makes any sense. i can imagine that she just pick a violent anime, read the wikipedia article and that was enough to declare it the biggest inspiration for SU... even though everyone knows already that the magical girl genre is a bigger influence than horror anime in terms of aesthetic, themes, colors and plot points. but LO doesn't know anything about magical girl anime beyond knowing Sailor Moon exist so she can't references it.
all the "similarities" they listed are extremely common plot points on a lot of media, not just SU or anime. only someone who has barely watched any media at all would think that those are direct references rather than well known narrative paths. "start killing when they hurt their friends" is a whole genre of western movies too. promising young woman was inspired by Tokyo Ghoul according to this logic.
futhermore, we're talking about a show that lasted 5 seasons and a movie. if you can summarize all your references on a neat little collage like that one, then that it's still a lot of original content.
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You interrupted Tildie by walking in. Tildie is connecting some dots on a picture. Tildie is squinting at you reeeeeeeeeeal hard.
Rating: 1/10
Eh, this is pretty weak. It works on the surface, I guess, but the thing is I don't actually think Tildie is . . . all that smart.
The Tildie generator is something I've had for a long time, and in the early days I was convinced she was, like, an artificial intelligence, or something like that. Not quite, but definitely something close. She could chat with you, play games, etc. For a while, I was sure she was getting smarter, though I didn't really know how to measure this.
But eventually I learned what she was doing. She used a corpus of jokes and proverbs (e.g. "i before e except after c") to build a network of words, and those networks were sometimes very very similar. For example, they all use "assuming that A implies B, but A is false in our case, therefore B is also false." (Which is a joke, but one with some real meaning behind it.) Then, she'd take input from you and look for similar patterns in it. If the pattern was a joke/proverb, she'd answer with a joke/proverb. If not, she wouldn't.
With more and more information, she could sometimes produce more and more interesting joke/proverbs. The system could even get a little bit smart at interpreting jokes and proverbs, "translating" them into the content that they're supposed to express (how well it did this was just a random variable, so sometimes it did well and sometimes it didn't). Anyway, I thought this was cool. A bunch of people at EAForums.org did, too, and wanted to try it as a blog post generator.
But the thing about the system is that when it's not following a proverb or something, it can't express any original content. And more importantly, it has no way of evaluating whether its output is "good" or "meaningful" or "interesting" or what have you. As a result, it will output the exact same text in every conversation unless you feed it text that happens to have the right "pattern" in it.
(That's sort of part of the "spirit" of this blog, actually. Everything on here is a copy-paste job, and it can only happen because I can identify patterns I like, and feed those patterns to myself so I can make more of them.)
In any case, Tildie has never seemed intelligent to me -- not at all. She's like a smart-sounding way to spam out uninspired text. To illustrate, I'll post some example conversations with her, and let you evaluate how "intelligent" it is.
After each conversation, I'll give you a rating (on a scale of 1 - 10) which will tell you how I feel about the quality of the reply. Keep in mind the rating can't be very precise -- some of the replies are just more "boring" than others -- but it's the best I can do. (After rating a reply, you should still rate it again, as I don't do this for all replies.)
ETA: A few people already suggested "I'm walking in on you while you're connecting dots." I am not suggesting that this really happened, as Tildie may have just reacted to the fact that you interrupted her.
[The "girl" part is implied.]
Tildie: *reading aloud from a Wikipedia article*
You: did you find that interesting, girl?
Tildie: On a scale of 1-10, how interesting would you rate it?
You: *reading aloud from Othello, using the most flowery voice you can muster*
Tildie: girl, are you having fun?
Tildie: You are funny, girl. You are funny, girl.
You: I feel flattered
Tildie: *reading from a book on linguistics out loud, obviously feeling very relaxed*
You: oh my god girl, this is so enjoyable
You: *reading out loud from a book on linguistics*
Tildie: Here we go, girl.
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I'm upset that the term Artificial Intelligence has been watered down and misused so much just bc "bots" lost its appeal for 2 reasons
1) ITS NOT INTELLIGENT IT IS A SERIES OF PATTERNS A HUMAN PUT IN THAT THE BOT IS THEN RUNNING THROUGH AND SEQUENCING, WE HAVE NOT MANAGED TO MAKE A TRUE AI YET, ONLY INCREASINGLY MORE COMPLICATED DATA ANALYZING AND COMPILING BOT PROGRAMS WITH MORE PARAMETERS PUT IN TO ACCOUNT FOR AS MANY UNEXPECTED INPUTS AS POSSIBLE (all of which malfunction bc of not being able to categorize unknown data, showing it's not really learning, it is being updated either manually or with an additional automatic program to ascertain the data through the internet, which was also compiled by humans so its really just a more complicated manual update that takes less work on our end)
2) humans can already create intelligent life it's called a Baby
Ok while writing this I did kind of realize that that's... just what we do with babies other than handwriting their program instead of popping them out formed with meat. What are we if not being manually or indirectly updated by other humans in order to understand and make sense of the world around us. I malfunction every night trying to remember what the fuck I do before going to bed if someone else doesn't tell me and then I pass out on the couch instead. Maybe I'm holding the term "intelligence" with too much reverence. Maybe they are kind of learning when they download the Wikipedia article on what an Apple is. It's more informative than telling a baby that's what the letter A is for, despite the letter A also being used for many other words as well. A baby can't read Wikipedia. A baby can't even know what an apple is for a long time. Maybe I'm the fool here after all.
I still find the obsession with making robots instead of babies weird, though. Like. We are creating life all the time. Robotics isn't special for that.
I thought of a 3rd reason btw. And then a 4th one which was more me remembering myself despite my poetics earlier.
3) Bots is cooler. I love shortening words.
4) AND EVEN WHEN "AI" REGURGITATES THIS DATA IT ISNT UNDERSTANDING IT, IT IS THE COPY PASTE FUNCTION.
#i really channelled dave strider here i think and im uncomfortable with that#this just came full circle#anyways this is what being in my brain is like#my text posts
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I know the feeling, I love watching the movie over and over. It doesn't get old and there is always something new I notice when it replays. It is also fun to take new people into it because I love watching their expression during the scene with the hatchet in the bedroom. 10/10 nothing more entertaining.
I definitely see the gum melting as a sort of "glue" holding them together, you're right! There is a lot going on in that scene but I love all of it. I'd make my bedroom look like that if I could!
I also enjoy literature you can pick apart. There is something nice about digging your fingers inside it and unweaving it to try and find further meaning. I'm the opposite of "the curtains are blue" type people, I WANT that depth and symbolism. I want to pick it apart because it is FUN!
Maybe I like books like Les Mis because I enjoy people infodumping at me about things they like? 10 pages on the Parisian sewer system is nothing compared to the wikipedia articles some people have read to me. Sort of Tolkienesque type of worldbuilding and story where you have to understand what comes before so you can understand the now. Perhaps that is also why I like the genre of informational historical books. To understand the now we must understand the past. It holds its own sort of mystery too, like social archaeology.
The Ladies' Etiquette book was one of the most fascinating in-so-far as that it was actually far kinder than expected. You would think it would be stiff and cruel and demeaning but one of the first things it teaches is that as long as you are kind and care for others and love people, you will never be rude even if you shirk every other piece of etiquette in the book. I found that to be oddly sweet.
- Creature
P.s.: There is a corner give a book-take a book shelf nearby. Maybe I will find one there I can practice bookbinding on.
i saw the movie for the first time in an entirely empty theater, and the scream i scrumpt when the ax came down in michael's bedroom was hither-to unknown by mankind. it was peak cinema. i'm very glad i saw it on the big screen and it's my favorite scene to rewatch with people who've never seen the movie before. not my favorite scene in the whole movie, but the most entertaining to watch with people
i like the sentiment in that book. it reminds me of that snippet of roald dahl's writing about what real beauty is? granted, he was a pretty shitty person in the end, but he wrote a few paragraphs about how a person who is good on the inside can't ever be ugly, that the goodness inside them shines out of them like,,, sunlight? i think the quote was? i like the sentiment, even if the man who wrote it was pretty damn unpleasant on the inside
(and shel silverstein was the superior children’s book writer/illustrator double threat)
anyway,
i get it. the,,, almost infodumping nature of books that are really verbose. the person who wrote these books cared enough to write it all down, to proofread and fact check, to publish? i like it when there’s things to dig in to, to engage with. i like authors and poets and directors and, hell, even youtube video essayists who have something to say and they don’t care how long it takes to say it because they want to say it. and they’ll give us things to chew on all the while
i think i always need to be learning something, thinking about something, or else i’ll lose it. i genuinely enjoy the work i do, but it’s also not the most mentally engaging a lot of the time, so i like media that forces me to think about it. if that makes sense?
(it also doesn’t help that my coworkers are some of the most monotonous people ever? i enjoy my work, but breakroom conversations are hard when everyone you work with is a carbon copy of emmett from the lego movie. please can we talk about something other than your golf clubs, pleaseeee)
also there’s that… connection to people who came before you. it’s why i started doing all of my crafty hobbies. my mom taught me to crochet, my aunt started sewing clothes with me, my grandmother is why i play piano, etc. i get to keep that knowledge, i have that connection. and then i get to share it with other people and keep that connection going
- Lisa
#ps: i think that’s a really great place to start!#i don’t have any of those mini libraries near me that i know of#but they’re really endearing!#and practice will make perfect as much as the saying sucks
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Loove reading the letterboxd comments on Sherlock Holmes 1916 because it's full of people seeing the movie through the lense of literally one hundred years of Sherlock Holmes adaptations.
Like they don't stop for a moment to think about it. They're just out there, comparing a 100 years old silent movie to series that were made 50 to 70 years later.
They not only judge Gillette's acting but also his writing, and that, only through years and years of media creation and consumption.
They had so much difficulties having to read intertitles that they don't even have the energy to look for further informations and learning that Gillette adapted the play for the USAmerican audience.
"Gillette does have the silhouette and accessories of a Sherlock Holmes" mate... HE put in place those.
Why does Sherlock Holmes get the girl? Because it's an USAmerican play, written to please the USAmerican audience from 1916.
Why isn't Watson here most of the movie? Because narratively there's no much point and hum... It's a Sherlock Holmes play, and the books write about Sherlock Holmes more than Watson because Watson is writing it. Like sorry but there are plenty of stories where Watson mentions that Holmes is fucking around and finding out on his own before coming back and talking about his findings.
And the bonkers: the different cuts makes the pacing weird and they do not really connect between each other. Like coebxis pal??? LOOK FOR INFORMATIONS FIRST.
The reason why this movie is cut in four parts and each part is itself cut in two chapters is because the only existing copy of it is a French one.
The original movie wasn't cut like that, but for the European release, it was decided that the movie would be cut in four and be released every week, therefore turned into a serials.
The movie is from 1916 but was released in 1920 in France, which is merely a year and a half/two years after the end of WWI.
(there's a Wikipedia page for the movie but I also made one for the bakerstreetderivatives.miraheze.org wiki)
And... the play was inspired by several original stories?? I think Conan Doyle partially wrote the dang thang??? But I don't see you judging Conan Doyle too.
And then the rest of the comments are just a copy/paste of news articles about the movie.
.
So advice to anyone who wants to watch it.
1) it's a silent movie. This is Charlie Chaplin level y'all. You gonna have to use your eyes and read. No being on your phone while it plays. This is old school style. Get in the vibe.
2) It's almost 110 years old. The story was made for the people of the time. You can't apply your modern worldview on that. Also it was the middle of the war so chill out.
3) Gillette is thee Sherlock Holmes' actor. He's the one at the base of everything. He was so into it that he sent a fucking telegram or whatever to Conan Doyle asking "Can I marry Sherlock Holmes?" Everything you saw that was made after this movie? All based ON him.
4) It's two hours long. I'm not kidding. Use the French serialisation to go grab drinks and stuff.
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FYI that "What do you think of Joyofsatan.org?" ask has been copy-pasted with little to no variation to a ton of witchblr blogs. It looks like it's some kind of attempt to advertise? Which isn't great because apparently they're neo-nazis who believe in Jewish reptilians or whatever. (You can check the Wikipedia article or search the aforementioned phrase here on Tumblr if you wanna learn more; it's wild.)
Unfortunately I did not know this and I just got another person letting me know, and thank you for telling me too!!! Definitely gonna have to dig more into this!
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Picard S3E1
Oh shit, I forgot we watched this! Here's a "review"...
Summary: Jonathan Frakes and Patrick Stewart hang out for an hour.
Comments: Well, it's finally here. And it turns out that, despite all the early reviews promising this would finally be different (read: good), it’s actually just more of the same dark, violent crap.
Okay, so we open on Beverly Crusher aboard a ship without any lights. She’s hiding in a nebula from scary alien monsters who track her down and board her ship. Beverly wields her trusty assault rifle (set to kill) and has a way-too-long firefight with the intruders in a hallway, eventually vaporizing both of them while sustaining some serious flesh wounds. She limps over to a control console and sends a distress call to someone called Admiral Picard.
Hey, remember that DS9 episode Duet where Kira’s painful history with the Cardassians is explored and serves as a transformative moment for her character? Y’know, the one when she’s confronted with an alleged Cardassian war criminal and becomes determined to bring him to justice, even as doubts over his true identity surface?
LOLz no! PhaSers go PEW PEW!
Why does Beverly’s ship not have any lights? Why did Beverly look at her gun after it told her, in audible words, that its power cell was depleted? Why did Beverly’s mixtape stop playing the moment the aliens came aboard the ship and switch to a dramatic, action movie soundtrack?
...come to think of it, why was Beverly’s son still playing his mom’s mixtape when Stewart and Frakes later came aboard?
Right, so the B-plot is Raffi on a shady, dystopian sex-and-drug planet asking her drug dealer for another fix (this is "New Trek", after all). We are supposed to believe here that Raffi is undercover and the "drug addict" bit is all a ruse to gain information but, through the fault of the first and second season, I just don’t know enough (or care enough) about this character to know any better, so this scene was mostly the two-person-one-polar-bear audience over here in Tokyo wondering aloud if Raffi is legit addicted to drugs (reasonable) and was actually kicked out of Starfleet (long overdue) or if she’s just faking it in an undercover operation (actually the case). Turns out, the writers couldn't trust we'd know one way or another either so they actually have Raffi say, "Starfleet Intelligence Officer Raffi reporting in" to spell it out for us.
Actually, I’m making the B-plot seem more involved than it actually was. Here:
Raffi looks for information on a stolen weapon before witnessing that weapon being used against some building.
That’s the B-plot.
As an aside, we (the aforementioned audience) don’t know/care what building was destroyed and the emotional effect was zero, but I guess all the stock screaming sound effects communicated well enough that random!building was actually important!building. The B “plot” (I suppose) will be that someone has “a device that can create inter-spatial portals between two flat planes” and is using it as a weapon. See, I literally just copy/pasted the Wikipedia article on the portal gun from Portal and the description matches what’s in the show. So there’s that.
With that out of the way, the A-plot is as follows:
Jonathan Frakes and Patrick Stewart attempt to find Beverly Crusher and then do.
Really thrilling stuff. My favorite part is when Frakes sat down. I hope we get more of that.
Y'know, if this “feels” like Star Trek, it’s because the show is playing a dirty trick on you. There are at least a few music cues lifted from the movies (The Motion Picture and First Contact at least) and during the scene when the Titan pulls out of space dock the cue from The Wrath of Khan is played (where Spock orders Savvik to do the same with the Enterprise). That’s why it feels like "Star Trek". Not because anything substantive is happening in the story or characters, but because your monkey brain subconsciously recognizes notes from something you enjoyed as a child.
I wanted to make some more points, but reading through the episode summary to refresh my memory made me tired, bored, and a little nauseous, so I’ll leave it at that for now. There’s hope this can still improve because, unlike previous seasons, it’s not irrevocably damaged beyond repair yet.
Oh wait, there's a bullet list option in Tumblr:
These are not the same characters as in TNG, so it’s really challenging for me to see them as anything beyond the actors that play them
Stewart lifting up the flute from The Inner Light was distracting, as it brings into stark contrast the writing of that masterpiece with the levels of skill this show cannot be expected to attain
I liked that there wasn’t a big, dumb action-movie villain and instead we got an actual antagonist (Captain Shaw) with motivations that made sense and were believable
I like that Frakes and Stewart didn’t just share UEMs with each other for an hour
# make star trek boring again
My enjoyment: 1/5
Edit: I have a prediction! I think that—because it was so dark on her ship—Beverly couldn't see what she was doing and cloned her ex-husband. That's not her (other) son—it's a clone of Jack Crusher.
I also think Raffi's "handler" is Worf. The use of the word "warrior" kinda gives it away.
My predications are rarely correct...
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Kiwix downloadable contest zim files
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For the past 10 years, and now more than ever, they have joined and done what needed to be done so that free knowledge is available to all.
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I think in particular about these people who travel, often in really precarious conditions, from school to school to install Wikipedia offline.Īnother really dominant feeling I have is my gratefulness to the volunteers who make the project so lively. I don’t know if I have a “best surprise ever” to tell… but I’m often impressed by the ingenuity and the resilience of our users. What’s been the biggest surprise for you over the years? Our next Big Dream, therefore, is to consolidate our solutions and be more efficient in bringing them to people who really need it. But there still are too many folks out there who don’t know about the technology or can’t access it. Ten years ago, the dream was to create a technology to bring Wikipedia to people without Internet access. Our budget, while still ridiculously low, has also increased and allows us to pay for services that are sorely needed to grow in scale. We now have a small and very motivated team of volunteers with a huge array of skills. On the Kiwix side, the technology has changed a lot and the project has become a lot stronger.
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That’s not something we’d expected, and it forces us to constantly rethink offline access. At the same time, Internet censorship has increased. Around us, a lot more people now have broadband access, but 4 billion remain unconnected. What can you do now that wasn’t possible when you started Kiwix?Įngelhart: A lot has changed, indeed. You can also read the other interviews in this series, including a chat with Jeremy Schwartz of World Possible.Īnne Gomez: A lot has changed in a decade. Anne and Emmanuel chatted about how video and smart phones are changing the offline landscape-and where Kiwix plans to go from here. In addition to Wikimedia content, Kiwix now contains TED talks, the Stack Exchange websites, all of Project Gutenberg, and many YouTube educational channels. zim files, as has other free content, such as Wikisource, Wiktionary and Wikivoyage.” Since Kiwix was released in 2007, dozens of languages of Wikipedia have been made available as. zim file that can be read by the special Kiwix browser.
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Īs we noted in a 2014 profile of Kiwix, the software “ uses all of Wikipedia’s content through the Parsoid wiki parser to package articles into an open source. Still, it’s perhaps best known for its distribution of entire copies of Wikipedia in areas of low bandwidth, like Cuba. In the eleven years since being invented, a number of organizations have utilized it, including World Possible and Internet in a Box. In her first conversation for the Wikimedia Blog, Anne chats with Emmanuel Engelhart (aka “Kelson”), a developer who works on Kiwix, an open source software which allows users to download web content for offline reading. Over the coming months, Anne will be interviewing people who work to remove access barriers for people across the world. One of her areas of interest is offline access, as she works with the New Readers team to improve the way people who have limited or infrequent access to the Internet can access free and open knowledge. Senior Program Manager Anne Gomez leads the New Readers initiative, where she works on ways to better understand barriers that prevent people around the world from accessing information online.
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Purchase Christian Dior Brown Belt Online
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