#iodine excess

[morningmantra]

Demystifying Hypothyroidism: Understanding the Symptoms, Causes, Diagnosis, Treatment, and Prevention of Underactive Thyroid

In the intricate symphony of human hormones, the thyroid gland plays a pivotal role. This small, butterfly-shaped gland, located at the base of the neck, is responsible for producing thyroid hormones, which regulate metabolism, energy levels, growth, and

In the intricate symphony of human hormones, the thyroid gland plays a pivotal role. This small, butterfly-shaped gland, located at the base of the neck, is responsible for producing thyroid hormones, which regulate metabolism, energy levels, growth, and development. When the thyroid gland doesn’t produce enough hormones, a condition known as hypothyroidism arises. Unveiling the Symptoms of…

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#balanced diet #causes #diagnosis #fulfilling life #Hashimoto&039;s thyroiditis #healthy life #healthy lifestyle #hormone replacement therapy (HRT) #hypothyroidism #iodine deficiency #iodine excess #levothyroxine #medications #morningmantra #prevention #radiation therapy #regular exercise #sleep #stress management #symptoms #thyroid surgery #thyroid-stimulating hormone (TSH) test #treatment #underactive thyroid

[redara]

Cold Bloom

Pairings: Bi-Han/Áila Havarôr Rating: Teen & Up Words: 2.169 Summary: Bi-Han helps Áila tending to her wound.

A/N: also posted on AO3. Áila is the OC of @tazahan and this fic is based on her work:

The empty infirmary still reeks of copper and steel when Áila steps in. She has lost count on how many times she ended up here in this month alone – has stopped counting, to be honest, after the second or the third visit, realizing that it’s better if she doesn’t count her wounds. She limps past empty cots, making a beeline towards the glass cabinet at the end of the room.

The cabinet door creaks when she slides it open; the numerous glass bottles inside are clinking against each other; the smells of alcohol and iodine assault her nose. Áila looks around as best as her swollen eyes can see, where is it? Where is it? Until she finds the white first aid box perching on the top shelf – who in their right mind put that up there?

Grunting, she reaches up with a calculated movement. She hisses at the pull on her side, and at the soreness of her arm. Her fingers make contact with the box, and swiftly, she pulls it down. A victorious sigh escapes her lips as she cradles the box like it is a precious treasure. As much as she wants to savor her small victory, time is of the essence, her wounds require tending.

Like the many times she has done before, she takes a seat on the cot by a mirror; her reflection greets her, and the view makes her grimaces partially in terror. The Grandmaster is truly powerful… She contemplates while tracing the swelling of her left eye where he had elbowed her in their sparring, in which – like always – he did not hold back.

Áila runs her hands around her body, checking for more injury. Her left side is particularly aching, she can only wish she doesn’t have a cracked rib. The ripped sleeves of her uniform are stained with dots of dark red, and she can guess there are more cuts and grazes on her arms. She continues inspecting herself; undoing her belt so she can open the front of her uniform. Her torso looks fine, no signs of swelling or bruising – she quietly thanks her Viking blood for her durability. When she finds no other injuries, she begins to tend to her face.

By the Fire God, what am I doing here?

The question that Áila has recently been asking herself, because she honestly doesn’t know why. She could have stayed at the Wu Shi Academy, and she’ll learn just fine, perhaps better than here with the Lin Kuei. But the decision wasn’t hers to make, or as the Fire God Liu Kang would say, it is better for her in the long run. Right now, the only thing she becomes better at is being the Grandmaster’s personal training dummy.

At the thought of the stern Grandmaster, Áila feels her cheeks becoming warmer. Gods , never has she ever seen a person so dedicated in life, so disciplined and stoic. His demeanor fits his title so well, Sub-Zero, cold and – sadly – distant. Áila wonders if it’s all attributed to his real name.

Bi-Han. Cold wall.

Well, he is definitely cold, alright.

Áila uses a warm wet rag to clean up the cuts and the grazes, lips stifling a whimper. When they seem clean enough, she dries them off with another rag, creating dots of wet blood on the fabric, drying the excess wetness from her skin. Then she opens the first aid kit box, trembling fingers reaching for the bottle of iodine and a stack of gauze. She dabs the gauze with the iodine, and then she pauses, inhaling deeply because she knows the next part is going to hurt.

The iodine stings. It always does. But she continues, as there is no way she would back down. She reminds herself that with each open wound that she rubs with the iodine, she is getting closer to her warm bed that’s waiting in the sleeping quarters; a peaceful rest where she can dream about the good times she had at the Wu Shi Academy; about the warmer places with warmer people.

Finally, almost every inch of her has been covered in a thin layer of iodine. Áila casts the gauze aside to be thrown away, and opts to take the warm compress again to dab over her swollen eye. The heat soothes her ache, making her sigh in relief, tensed shoulders slumping to a relaxed state. For the moment, this is her haven; her own space to take care of herself; where she can be herself, far from the eyes of the other Lin Kuei and the Grandmast –

The sudden drop of temperature in the room startles her; eyes shoot open; she jumps down the cot – hissing in protest from how the sudden action causes a pull at her aching side – and out of habit, she turns to the source of the cold; hands clasped together and she bows despite not seeing the person she fears it to be. “Grandmaster!”

Though she can’t see his face, she knows his shoes from the many times she has seen them in her apologetic salutes. Sub-Zero stands still far away from her, but the chill in the air makes her skin crawl nonetheless.

“Áila.” The gruff call of her name makes her jump. “It’s past curfew.”

Áila lifts her head, a mistake, as she is now face to face with the mask-less Grandmaster. His usually furrowing eyebrows look rather relaxed, though still accompanied by the thin line of his lips. He is not dressed in his uniform, but rather a loose dark blue robe with a black string keeping it tied around his waist. The attire bares his usually covered neck and the top of his chest – Áila quickly responds before her wandering eyes are noticed, “A – Apologies, Grandmaster, I didn’t – uhm – I was cleaning my wounds – I could go now –”

Their eyes meet, and she is not sure if it’s a trick of the light or the truth, but she is certain that Sub-Zero has just flicked his gaze briefly to her chest – he raises an eyebrow. “I sincerely hope that is accidental, unless you think such shameless display would earn my sympathy.”

“Huh?” Áila looks down, and – OH SHIT – she is met by the sight of her bare, iodine-layered torso. Though her not-so-humble-sized breasts are covered by a white binder, the top parts are bulging out of the hellish containment device. She gasps, hand discarding the warm compress to quickly pull her uniform to a close, holding the fabric so tightly until her knuckles turn white. “Grandmaster, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t – I didn’t do it on purpose, I – I swear!”

Sub-Zero only hums, though the frown has returned to his forehead, and there is a slight pink at the tip of his nose. He clears his throat. “You should remain vigilant even among allies.”

“I will, Grandmaster. I’m… sorry.”

“What’s this?” He notices the warm compress she has thrown, and he bends down to take it off the floor. “Really? A warm compress for swelling?”

“It… soothes the ache.” Áila tries to defend herself.

“But it won’t make the swelling go down. Truly, can you do anything right?”

There it is, the cynical tone of his that renders her looking away as if it could alleviate the damage it has done to her psyche.

Sub-Zero sighs, “Sit down.”

Áila scrambles to the cot, never has she ever sat down so quickly in her life. She watches as Sub-Zero approaches and stands in front of her, so close that she can smell the faint fresh smell of soap from him, osmanthus mixing with his natural icy smell. She is not sure on where to look, so she opts to watch him take the bowl of hot water; how easily he makes frost blooms on the water, turning the steam into snowflakes.

He dips the rag into the bowl, and Áila watches partly with anxiety as he squeezes the excess water out. She has never seen his glove-less hand before, especially not from this close; how blue his vein looks under his skin; how thick and long his fingers are; how big his palm is, decorated with the callouses and old cuts. When he slightly lifts the sleeve of his robe, Áila’s breath hitches at the sight of his forearm, bare without the vambrace he usually wears.

“Look up.” Sub-Zero commands.

Doing as ordered, Áila is now looking at his face. Stern expression still graces his feature, but this time with a hint of gentleness especially in his eyes. She only admits internally that he is a beautiful man, though that secret may have been spilled with how flushed her cheeks are right now, and they only grow hotter when he holds her chin in one hand while pressing the cold compress on her swollen eye.

The icy temperature stings, making her winces in response. Sub-Zero grunts, “Bear with it.”

Áila closes her eyes, growing hot and cold at the same time. She tries to regulate her breathing, though a hitch comes now and then, and it gets difficult when her heart is running a marathon in her rib cage. She can feel the Grandmaster’s calloused fingers against her neck, pressing, keeping her steady. Her hands are still gripping at her uniform, now tighter than before, trying to keep herself grounded in the moment.

The cold compress is removed leaving wetness over her left eye. She jumps when she feels a soft fabric is pressing against her face, drying her skin. Curiously, her eyelids flutter open, and she swears her heart just does a somersault when she finds Sub-Zero leaning closer; his lips are parted and pursed a bit; and the next thing she feels is the cold air he blows to the left side of her face.

Áila can’t help the whimper that escapes her throat. While the action soothes the swelling, her brain can only focus on how close they are right now – she can clearly see the faint lines on his face, and the texture of his skin, and –

“Isn’t that better?” He asks in such a low tone akin to growling. The corner of his lips seemingly pulls up a bit. His gaze is piercing, amusement playing behind those browns, especially when he notices her lack of reply.

Áila wants to nod, but he still has her chin in a grip, so she chooses to answer with words, shaky and whispery. “Ye – Yes, Grandmaster…”

“I hope you learn a valuable lesson today. Hot compress is for soreness. Cold compress is for swelling. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Grandmaster.”

“Good. You finally had something right for once.” He stands up straighter and sighs. His grip on her chin loosens, though she can feel his fingers linger a second longer when he pulls away. “Clean up the mess before you leave.”

Sub-Zero walks away without a warning. The sudden loss of his presence startles Áila, and she copes with a deep breath, watching him crossing the room in a long stride; the tail of his dark blue robe swaying with the action; broad shoulders and strong hips moving with such commanding presence.

He stops at the door as if he can sense her stare, and he turns to her. There is an unreadable expression on his face, nose scrunching, top lip curling up almost like a snarl. Yet his words do not convey agitation, “Don’t stay up too late.”

Áila scrambles for an answer, “Tha – Thank you, Grandmaster, good night.”

He only hums before opening the door and taking his leave.

The temperature in the room gradually returns to normal. But it’s not the same with Áila’s racing heartbeat. Shakily touching her chin where she can still feel his fingers, how cold they were, and yet she found the sensation to her liking. Mind replaying the moment where his face was so close to her, with a look so predatory and playful compared to his usual stoicism, and his voice – oh Gods –

Her body calls for another need to be sated. With shaky limbs and scattered focus, Áila tidies up the room, eager to quickly leave the infirmary and back under the warm blanket of her bed.

Meanwhile, walking purposefully in the empty hallway, Bi-Han makes his way back to his chamber. Body tensing, fist clenching, silently cursing the predicament he is facing; how come he nearly loses himself so easily with such a shameless display? The image of Áila’s voluptuous body still lingers in his mind; the pinkish tint of her breasts; how they jiggled despite the restrain of the binder; and her face –

Bi-Han blames her. Ever since her arrival, she has been nothing but a thorn at his side, and now an aching in his pants. Hardness throbbing with want, imagination feeding his thirst; how good she must have looked underneath him, pinned between the cot and his cold body; how soft and warm her body would be.

At least for now, this longing shall remain his secret.

***

A/N: ASLANDKAKSALNT THANK YOU TAZA FOR MAKING THIS ACCOMPANYING ART FOR THE FIC

#bi han #bi han x oc #bi han imagine #sub zero imagine #sub zero x oc #mk 1 #mortal kombat 1 #áila havarôr #fanfic #redarader

[brewed-pangolin]

Headcanon request for Super Soap Sunday:

How does Soap react to first aid? Does he whine with the application of iodine or does he bite down on a tac strap while you stitch him up?

And how does he show his gratitude after?

Ho-ly Shit! As someone who works in the OR and sutures on the regular, I absolutely LOVE THIS!! Please excuse my excessive use of medical jargon...(I'm like a kid in a candy store here)

Full Disclaimer: I only have experience in the OR, not in the field. So if any of the terminology and/or supplies used are incorrect, I apologize. Just going with what I know.

Stitched Up

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x Fem Reader

18+ MDNI Mentions of blood and injury, detailed medical procedures, established relationship, fingering, light bondage. Headcanon plus a smutty little drabble/fic (I'm making my own rules, okay)

First and foremost, wound classification. Life threatening: hemostasis/stabilization trumps all. Closure can wait. Non-life threatening: put some pressure on it. Stitch it up later.

Of course we're going with non-life threatening here. Can't have this man going out on us so quickly

Once in the security of the safe house, you take over. Full-on medical prognosis begins before Soap even has a chance to sit down

And as per usual, he plays it off; "It ain't tha' bad, hen. Jus' a wee cut is all." The thick crimson running down his side told you otherwise. "Shut it, Soap. Gear, off. Now."

Soap does his best to keep his composure, but the wince in his face as he removes his gear is a telltale sign that the wound is deeper than he wants to admit

Laceration to the right upper quadrant. It's a clean cut, thankfully. But it grazes just above the muscle. Two part closure needed. You get busy grabbing the supplies needed while he readies himself for the pain he's about to endure

"Morphine's in short supply here, Soap. And I don't have any Lidocaine." Your eyes are soft as they continue to rummage through the medical bag. "S'alright. Stitch me up, bonnie. Ge'it done, yeah."

Tearing the packaged betadine in your hands, you make quick work prepping the wound and skin around it in a closwise outward motion. He shows only a slight jolt to the coolness of the liquid. No grimace, no sarcastic remark. Just silence.

Cutting needle driver in hand, you begin subcutaneous closure with your favorite; 3-0 Vicryl on an SH. Thick enough to hold strong tissue, and absorbable. No removal needed.

Your first drive was smooth. Quickly, you tied the knot at the end and buried it within his flesh. Clean cut of the trailing end, and you began your running closure. Soap's eyes watched as your hands worked effortlessly with the skill of a flesh working seamstress. He barely moved while you worked, but you knew it was because there were less nerve endings below the dermis. Skin closure was going to be a different story.

"Ya got some skilled hands there, bonnie. Gonnae make a quilt outta me, yeah." You humored his banter while it lasted, only momentarily locking eyes and giving him a sly smirk.

Satisfied with your work, you cut the remaining suture and gently pursed the top layer together, determining whether or not to add a few interrupted stitches to reinforce the wound. Seeing as you had a good amount remaining, you added three more stitches to the subdermal layer before discarding the needle altogether.

Grabbing the next suture, you held it in your hands before pausing and laying it on your lap. You locked eyes with him again, your facial expression serious with a softness around the edges. "You done this without local anesthetic, Soap?" You'd be damned if you didn't see him flinch at your inquiry. "Aye. G'on now, hen." The slightest shaky reluctance could be heard in his voice, but you pressed on per his request.

Barely making it through the first drive, Soap quietly screamed out in pain. "Fuckin hell!" His hands fisted into whatever he could grasp within reach, mainly the wood paneling around the edges of the walls. "Stay still for me Johnny. And I'll get this done quick, okay." Desperation in your tone matched the workings of your hands. Soap clenched his jaw in protest, his cerulean eyes hyper focused on the needle as it delved and emerged in a continuous motion with the help of your trained fingers.

The thin black filament flew through your hands as you worked tirelessly to finish the closure. Interrupted sutures were your bread and butter; you had his skin stitched up within less than 60 seconds.

With the hard part over, you gave him an approving smile. The painful grimace on his face faded and was replaced with the softness you had gradually grown more and more fond of. A quick application of 4x4s and tape, and he was all set. "Thanks, bonnie." It was barely a whisper, only meant for you. You answered in the same quiet tone. "Just doin my job."

*****************

Soap will show his gratitude within the coming days. He'll be appreciative and give endless thank you's before then, but he wants more for you. Needs to show his full admiration for you

He'll wait til he finds you alone in the safe house, most likely perched by the window on the second story surveying the bustling world beyond its frame

"Hiya, bonnie." The quiet kindness in his voice during moments like this always takes your breath away. The vision of him leaning against the weathered door frame, soft expression and telltale exhaustion seeping through, is one you'll put away for safe keeping.

"Hey, Johnny." Your tone was equally soothing, and the welcoming curl of your smile lured him to you like a moth to a flame. He stepped towards you slowly, cautiously. Blissfully under the power of your illuminating stare. As he closed the distance, you rose to your feet and leaned your shoulder against the window panel. He followed suit adjacent to you, his baby blues traversing up and down your frame and lighting up with his as he met your gaze again.

"Anythin suspicious out there?"

Small talk. You knew he was up to something the second you heard his footsteps on the stairwell. You humored him for his own sake.

"Nope. Nothing but pons blissfully unaware of the madness that waits just around the bend."

"Hmm. Tha's deep."

"Shut up, Soap."

The chuckle from his chest sent a shiver down your spine. It was always his subtleties that seemed to have the most effect on you. And no matter how much you tried to hide it, he always seemed to see those little changes and nuances in your demeanor.

You fingered at the hem of his shirt to draw your attention on something else, anything. Lifting it, you eyed the scar along his side and mentally praised yourself on your work. The sutures had been removed days ago, all that remained was a silver line along the curve of his abdomen.

"Looks good, Soap. You heal up well."

"Aye. Compliments to the operator are due, bonnie. Dinnae think Ghost or Price coulda kept me lookin this pretty."

"Smooth, Johnny. Real smooth." The sarcasm in your voice didn't go unnoticed. Slowly, he began to close the gap between you, one hand resting on your hip and the other cupping the curve of your chin.

"Tryin to show a bit'a gratitude 'ere, hen. Or do ya wan' somethin a bit more, hands on?"

His eyes bore into you, cerulean daggers piercing into the veil of your soul. Now it was you who was under the power of his stare; immobile, frozen, deer in headlights. He tilted your chin up and grazed the flesh of your bottom lip with the tip of his thumb, followed quickly by the warmth of his mouth.

With your attention focused on his workings of your lips, Soap's free hand quickly went to unbuttoning your jeans and delving his fingers between the slick flesh of your thighs. You moaned into him as he traced along the wet folds of your opening. Your hands flew to the fabric on his shoulders, fisting its material between your digits as his index and middle fingers gently borrowed into the warmth of your cunt.

"Johnny." Your breathless mewl was silenced by the encapsulating flesh of his mouth, and pushed back into your throat by the forceful entrance of his tongue as it danced across the moist flesh of your own. Soap's hand at your chin descended and lightly wrapped around the curvature of your throat as he pressed your back up against the wall, forcing a knee between your legs to keep you open for him. He began with a slow pumping motion of his wrist, the curved tips of his fingers caressing the bundle of nerves buried deep within your hole.

A silent moan escaped from your lips at his forceful intrusion. And at the trailing of your inaudible quip, he pressed his thumb and index finger lightly into the flesh of your throat.

"Hmmm. Ya ain't the only one with skilled hands, bonnie." His muffled words seduced another breathless mewl from deep within your chest, all while his fingers worked tirelessly within the flesh of your cunt. The ball of his palm pressed against the pulsing flesh of your clit as he continued to pump his fingers into your wet flesh. The pleasured coil within your lower belly began to tighten, the warm wave of energy washing over you like a breaking tide on the shore.

"Don't stop, Johnny. Don't stop." It was barely above a whisper, a silent wail to the ears of your skillfully loving Scot. "Gonnae make ya cum, bonnie. Make ya feel so good for me." You lulled your head back against the wall at his sultry quip, mouth agape as a trail of silence emptied between your swollen lips. Soap's mouth latched onto the pulse point of your neck, his tongue trailed and savored the taste of your salted flesh.

You were teetering on overstimulation when he suddenly released the flesh of your neck and returned his mouth to your lips. Soap could read you like brail beneath the tips of his fingers; the throbbing of your walls around his buried digits, the pulse of your heart bellowing just under the thin layer of skin. You were close, so fucking close.

"Tha's it. I got'ya, hen. Cum for me." Soap's soft persuasion was the last push you needed. Your orgasm washed over you, expanding from the junction of his skillfully buried fingers through the waves of prickling flesh of your being. One final strained mewl escaped your lips as you came undone beneath him, his grip around your throat tightening as your walls convulsed around his expertly working fingers.

As you slowly came down from your sexual high, your vision was engulfed by bright azulean orbs. Their hue swirling around dilated pupils like mini chaotic typhoons. This was his plan all along, how he showed his gratitude; by completely ruining you at the power of his hands alone. As he removed his hand from between your thighs, his grip around the flesh of your neck loosened while his thumb perched beneath the curve of your chin.

Your gazes fixated on each other, and you heard him wipe his fingers along the fabric of his thigh before it joined the other at the at the cusp of your curved cheek.

"Surprised you didn't lick your fingers, Soap. Thought you couldn't resist my sweetness." He couldn't refuse your playful quip, the sexual banter between you two always seemed to heighten the experience. "Aye. Y'know Imma purest, hen. Prefer ta get it straight from the source."

Just the thought caused your thighs to instinctually press together, quell the ache already brewing again as your mind continued to descend from its previous high. There was a crystalline glint in his eyes you couldn't ignore; you may have reached your erotic satisfaction, but Soap was nowhere near done with you.

"Ya wanna test out ya handiwork, bonnie?" The deep brogue of his voice, devilish curl to his lips, and that ever so present bulge beneath the hem of his pants had you crumbling at his request. Never one to deny his carnal conquests, you threw back the same provocative energy right back at him. "Why not, Soap. And don't go easy on it. Need to get a full test run, make sure it'll make the cut."

You praised the mentors of your skillful suturing. The accomplished workings of your fingers would hold against the vigorous showings of his gratitude, no doubt. Your body on the other hand, that was a different story.

Drabbles Masterlist

@deadbranch @sofasoap @thedustlandfairytail @punishmepunisher

#stitched up #requests #super soap sunday requests #super soap sunday #soap squad #soap squad 🧼 #deadbranch #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #john mactavish #cod soap #soap smut #cod smut #call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #cod mwii

[say-hi-intrepid-heroes]

my experience getting/having a septum piercing!

(detailed journal under the cut, overview at the top)

TLDR: my experience was good, but that's because i planned and dedicated time to it. if you're in a situation where you'd need to hide it, make sure you get the piercing at least a week before you would need to flip it under. anything less and it's going to hurt like hell (although it'll still hurt a lot after a week)

general tips: 1) clean it at least once a day for a while. stuff builds up, especially in winter. i'd honestly recommend not getting it right before winter like i did, cause cold metal is not great. 2) try not to mess with it during the day, but make sure to move it around when you clean it, otherwise the healing skin will stick to the jewelry. 3) get a color/style you can live with for a few months. 4) don't flip it back and forth too much. 5) don't blow your nose aggressively or you might pass out from the pain. 6) dont wear face makeup to get your piercing done. touching your nose is gonna hurt like hell afterwards, so removing makeup won't be fun. 7) don't get a septum piercing as your first piercing. i've had two piercings in each ear, so i've had experience with the pain. if you flinch on an ear piercing, it's not as big of a deal cause those are so fast, but this one is NOT. major flinching is really bad here.

i've put a detailed log with dates under the cut. tw for descriptions of blood (obviously) but nothing major.

also, if you have any specific follow up questions, feel free to message or send an ask! i can't necessarily give you a perfect answer, but i can tell you what worked for me :)

(disclaimer: i wrote these on the days they are marked. i have not deleted or added anything, these were my thoughts and experiences as they happened. this does not represent everyone's experience, just mine, and is meant to be used as a reference to anyone wanting more information about this experience)

day 0 (11/11)

- got it done at a tattoo shop, they used a new/sterile needle and disinfected the area or something with something that smelled like iodine. it wasn't as fast as an ear piercing but it was honestly less painful.

- lots of initial bleeding (normal for me and head wounds in general), they nicked the outside of one nostril but that's probably because of my nose shape, lots of eye watering (also normal for me)

- cleaning it sucked, used the stuff they gave me (neilmed piercing aftercare mist) and qtips. moving the piercing was the worst part (it was slightly off center so i had to move it a bit), hurt so bad. did not appear to bleed further, however.

- nose area around piercing (nostrils, tip of nose) is extremely tender. putting on moisturizer was painful. glad i was not wearing full face makeup that i would have had to take off

- still too scared to blow my nose. i have a congestion headache.

day 1 (11/12)

- itchy. so itchy.

- currently biggest challenge is cleaning it. the area is so fragile and hurts so bad if you mess up how cleaning is done.

- also, allergies suck. i can't blow my nose. why.

- no bleeding tho, and nothing concerning

day 2 (11/13)

- cleaning is better, but i did figure out i was doing it wrong so that might be why moving the actual jewelry hurt so much. (the piercing was a lot further forward than i thought it was, so i was kinda just cleaning the middle of my nose. i wasn't cleaning where the hole is, so the scab area was just dry when i tried to move it, which is so so bad)

- area around it is much much less tender. no sudden contact though still.

- moving the jewelry hurts like a bitch

day 7 (11/18)

- substantial improvement over the last few days. no longer hurts to move the jewelry or touch my nose. only hurts if excessive force (i.e. getting punched in the nose)

day 9 (11/20)

- flipped it under (to hide it) for the first time. had to look up youtube videos for people with my nose shape cause i was doing it wrong but other than that it was very smooth and painless.

- now i just feel like i need to sneeze, but no pain.

about three weeks post-piercing

- we've kinda leveled out. no more major pain, now i'm able to flip it under in an emergency (without a mirror, without prep, etc)

- i got super sick and had a runny nose and it did fine the whole time.

- highly recommend flipping it under if you're having to blow your nose a lot, otherwise it snags and snot gets caught in it and i don't like it

two months (mid january)

- it is extremely cold where i am (hanging at about 10-15 degrees Fahrenheit) and this is making my skin so so dry.

- basically the piercing wound has cracked open a bit. it hurts a lot. i'm now drinking lots of water and running a humidifier/diffuser, but there's only so much that can do.

three months (mid february)

- just took out the jewelry, cleaned, and replaced for the first time!! it went really smoothly, no pain, no blood, but i did go slowly.

- make sure not to do it over a sink or the pieces could get lost. also, for the horseshoe i have, the little ball is kinda tricky to get back in, but if you take your time it'll work.

- i'm at the point where i feel like it is substantially healed, barring a major snag or other injury. i'm probably going to change out the jewelry soon once i get a new piece, and im very excited for that!!

[end]

#not really sure how to tag this tbh #oh well it's fine #personal #septum piercing

[justalittlesolarpunk]

This is my last post before I head off on my ten-day minimal-internet tidalpunk adventure (expect pics when I return!) so I thought I’d make a nice long list-type thing for all you solarpunks before I go.

Now, this might not seem very cheerful compared to my other topics - certainly all the people I’ve brought this up with irl have acted like I’m being alarmist and depressing, but I don’t see it that way. I view it as being prepared and maximising your ability to keep yourself and your community safe, which is after all what solarpunk is all about!

So without further ado, here is my *extremely idealised* suggestion for an emergency kit list to help you cope with increasingly frequent and severe extreme weather events. The goal is that with the supplies in this bag you could either shelter safely in place or get up and go, and be well supplied in either case to care for yourself and share with those in need. In fact, in both scenarios you would hopefully be able to temporarily ‘start from scratch’ in terms of infrastructure should the frameworks of society around you no longer be reliable. I based mine off suggestions by climate scientist Kendra Pierre-Louis (you can check out her advice on the ‘Unnatural Disasters’ episode of the How To Save A Planet Podcast), but yours might look subtly different depending on who you are, what you can afford/carry, and where you live.

Emergency kit list:

-Big hiking rucksack, to keep everything in

-Sleeping bag

-A small portable tent and camping stove

-A penknife or multi tool

-Matches or a lighter

-Kindling or firestarters - I use wood wool balls held together with wax

-Torch (with up to date batteries!)

-Towels

-Non-perishable or long-life foods, such as protein bars, rice cakes/breadsticks/crackers, dried fruit, bagged nuts/seeds, crisps, tinned soup, pot noodles

-A seedbomb of edible plants (you can get some for slightly excessive prices here in the UK, otherwise they can be made fairly easily by combining clay, straw, paper or flour with the desired seeds)

-Two large water bottles (600-650ml) and a water bladder

-A water purifier (preferably one capable of filtering out both natural pathogens like bacteria and viruses and synthetic pollutants like heavy metals and PFAS)

-A collapsible bucket

-A first aid kit, including plasters, bandages, sterile wipes, hand sanitiser, latex gloves, antiseptic/disinfectant, (K)N95 masks to filter out particulates (whether ash or pathogens), painkillers, antihistamines, rehydration sachets, anti-emetics and anti-diarrhoeals, steroid creams, aloe vera gel, iodine tablets in case of radiation, and any medication you regularly take (including epipens and inhalers if needed)

-A pair of goggles to protect your eyes from air pollution such as smog, wildfire smoke, etc

-Toothpaste tablets and a spare toothbrush

-Period supplies (pack these even if you don’t get periods - someone you run into might need them)

-A solar charger

-A satellite phone

-A mechanical handheld fan, with working batteries, to keep you cool in extreme heat

-A magnetic heat belt for extra warmth

-A change of clothes, including a sun hat, a scarf, woolly hat and gloves for extreme cold, and waterproofs (plus an umbrella!) for wet conditions

-Pliers or secateurs for cutting through dense debris or vegetation

-Some strong, climbing-grade rope

-A trowel (for planting and digging up but also for burying…waste 😅 - a long-term wild camping scenario isn’t infeasible here)

-Your passport and any other documents (marriage certificate, adoption papers, savings bonds if you’re like a hundred years old) that you might need if fleeing your country becomes a necessity

-As much cash as you are comfortable withdrawing/leaving lying around your house/carrying with you in an emergency

-A personal locator beacon is a radio-transmitter that signals your location to emergency services via satellite. These tend to have a 24-hour battery life, so if you foresee being in any way ‘stranded’ for longer then a useful trick is to switch it on for one hour each day, and then turn it off again. This not only saves power but shows emergency services that there is conscious intention involved, proving you’re still alive and lucid

-Some things to keep your spirits up, like a chocolate bar and your favourite/funniest book

-It’s worth having a sturdy pair of hiking boots for if you have to pick up the bag and go

Obviously this list is super extra, a bunch of these things are prohibitively expensive, and some items would need periodic replacement if a long time passed without the necessity of using the emergency kit. You could also likely build a fairly functional emergency kit with only a fraction of these supplies, I’m just trying to anticipate every eventuality here.

It’s up to you whether you think the investment is worth it - it’s a big outlay for a possible zero return. Personally I think it’s at least somewhat worth it as extreme weather is only going to happen more often and have more serious consequences, and preparedness turns what could be a disaster into an inconvenience, often saving money in the long run. But it will depend on the relative likelihood of severe weather events in your local area. It’s also worth saying that these work for ostensibly non-climate related problems, from a power cut in your town to an authoritarian coup in your government to your house falling down! It isn’t just for wildfires or tornadoes.

Over the next few months I’m hoping to slowly build up the aspects of the kit that are affordable and accessible to me, with the aim of being able to keep myself safe and aid my neighbours should disaster strike.

#solarpunk #disaster preparedness #community care #hopepunk #cottagepunk #environmentalism #social justice #climate change #extreme weather #natural disasters #readiness #obvs all of this stuff is pretty intense but I thought it was worth making the list #also like it’s so expensive I acknowledge especially as I’ve tried not to put Amazon links #how to save a planet #Kendra Pierre-Louis #links mostly for reference #these are just suggestions do what you think is best

[boy-gender]

for anyone who is going to have drains after top surgery (if you’re bigger than an a-cup, this is probably you), i wanna talk a little about my experience with them. when i first saw drains in youtube vlogs by other people who’d had top surgery, they made me queasy and afraid. would i be able to feel the pipe under me? would blood and chunks be coming out? how would i sleep or move with them? so let me reassure you of some things:

no, you do not feel them sitting under your skin. your entire chest is so traumatized from the surgery that you really don’t feel much at all except a dull soreness all over. yes, even without heavy pain meds. i only took tylenol after my surgery.

no, you don’t feel them coming out either. one of my drains was clogged, so all i felt was a gush of warm liquid down my side. imagine if your armpit pissed itself. that is all i felt

no, giant chunks should not be coming out. if you are seeing chunks of flesh, you need to call your doctor.

same with blood. the fluid coming out is probably going to be red or range tinted, but it should not be straight up blood. if you see blood, call your doctor.

the stuff in your drains should, ideally, be see through, but probably with a yellow or orange tint. your body is busy removing excess fluid from the swelling and needs to get rid of this. thats why you have the drains.

to change them you should probably have someone help you. you yourself shouldn’t be lifting your arms and bending them around that much or you’ll stretch out your scars (i did this. i didnt care. if you care about scarring, dont be me). that person will pop off your drain (looks like a little juice pod), empty it, crush it shut to create pressure, and then reattach it shut. this is what creates the suction that draws the yuck out of you.

you inspect the yuck and then flush it down the toilet. if you feel your doctor should see something, take pictures against a white background.

yes sleeping is annoying, but you’ll probably be so exhausted that you’ll sleep anyways. i recommend getting a pillow that props you up so you sleep sitting partways up, or sleep in a recliner if you have one available. if you’re worried about leaking through your bandages, put a towel underneath you.

BUTTON. DOWN. SHIRTS. do not be putting a normal ass t shirt over yourself. buttons or zip ups only. and the less you can wear a shirt at all, the better.

baby wipes. gently wipe around your bandages and in your armpits if possible. you are going to smell bad (like iodine, mostly) and this helps.

#double mastectomy #top surgery #surgical drains #transblr #og

[yoontoonzzz]

seventeen fics

˗ˏˋ ꒰ hansol ꒱ ˎˊ˗

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short fics (<5k words)

⟡ Expecting - thepixelelf (smau, crack)

wherein vernon wants to give his friends a very special announcement

⟡ ' ACCIDENTALLY IN LOVE ' - suhnshinehaos

pairing : vernon x gn!reader genre/s : mini smau, non-idol au, fluff, little bit of angst synopsis : the one where you get into an arranged marriage with your childhood best friend vernon, but neither of you seem to mind that much

⟡ untitled - wqnwoos (f, crack)

“vernon, we need to talk.”

⟡ Are you made of uranium and iodine? Because all I can see is U and I together - kay-rot (f, soulmate au)

pairing: vernon(svt) x reader genre: fluff, comedy, college au, soulmate au summary: when you accidentally listen to a song too many times and it ends up on your spotify wrapped

⟡ untitled - nonranghaes (f)

👽: you still up? 👽: mind if i call? nothin serious btw

⟡ untitled - nonranghaes (f)

vernon throws himself onto your bed without a second thought, just barely missing you. you're jostled awake, though, and he just smiles at you as he's still holding onto a paper bag in his hands. he rests his head on your stomach, gazing at where you've propped yourself up a little.

⟡ vernon + "you're important too" - dokyeomin (f, a)

Pairing: Vernon x Reader Warnings: kissing, sad reader

⟡ [152] - twogyuu (f)

pairing: vernon x fem!reader genre: just pure gross fluff warning: shots fired at jeonghan's dyson blowdryer

⟡ to be together (even when it's hard) - wooahaes (f)

pairing: non-idol!maknaes x gn!reader genre: fluff/comfort + established relationship au (poly relatonship).

⟡ [1:07 A.M] - bobbasmultiverse (f)

"baby." you murmured, shuffling around in your bed to face the man, still very much wide awake with his phone screen lighting up his face.

⟡ untitled - wqnwoos (f, crack)

the first time you cry in front of vernon, it’s because of an orange.

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long fics (>5k words)

⟡ Or, Would You Rather It Be Me? - thepixelelf (f, soulmate au)

Pairing: Reader & Vernon (Seventeen) Genres: romance, soulmate au, university au, (no angst isn’t that crazy?!) A detested soulmark, a friendship over a decade in the making, and an unexpected proposal from one friend to another… what could possibly go wrong?

⟡ what's your number? - husbandhoshi (f, a, soulmate au)

pairing: vernon x gn!reader genre: fluff, light angst summary: this whole soulmate thing is supposed to be easy. unfortunately, fate has other plans for you.

⟡ lavender haze - caratzen

Today’s been an absolute drag, you take to social media to let off some steam where your bff sees you're having an off day. Without a second thought, he decides to stop by your dorm—unannounced, and with provisions in hand.

⊹ ࣪ ──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ๋࣭ ⭑

smut

minors do not interact | each fic has its own tags

⟡ jealous - cheolism (s)

➳ chwe hansol x reader ➳ hansol wants to fuck you until you can't remember anything but his name and when the man who inspires jealousy in him just so happens to call you, hansol can't help but take advantage.

⟡ can't get you out of my head - onlyhuis

member | fwb!vernon x f reader genre | smut, like a little tiny bit of angst? with a happy ending synopsis | so what if calling your fuck buddy every other day is a little excessive? maybe you're just in love with him.

⟡ high and fucked | double fucked - rubyreduji

summary 1: hansol is nothing to you but your ex-boyfriend's roommate, but you still find yourself alone with him while you get high together summary 2: after your ex-boyfriend catches you hooking up his with roommate, he wants in on the fun

⊹ ࣪ ──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ๋࣭ ⭑

find more fic recs here

⊹ ࣪ ──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ๋࣭ ⭑

[know-the-way]

Phrack 20!

Hi! I know it’s like a month later, but I have finally fulfilled this prompt. Thank you so much for sending it! :)

Um… just gonna put it out there that I really struggled to finish this. lol It was rewritten countless times to the point that like… I don’t even know what it is anymore, ya know? So I hope it makes at least a little bit of sense. I tried, I promise. Okay, thank you again, bye!

(and a special shout-out to @glamorouspixels for beta’ing one of the many drafts of this, everyone give a round of applause for them)

A kiss… on a scar. (This prompt is a part 2 to this fic.)

tw: mentions of past abuse

He always asks where she’d rather go and her answer is always the same.

It’s just past midnight and the events of the day are etched on both their faces. He’s sat shirtless and exhausted on the sofa; head hung and breathing deep, save for a sharp hiss now and then when she hits a particularly sensitive spot. A basin of warm water swirls with iodine and faint traces of blood on the coffee table. She’s already mended the gash on his lower abdomen and is dabbing at the broken skin of his knuckles.

On nights like these, after particularly difficult cases, she finds herself seeking refuge in his arms. This isn’t something that surprises her - long before she and Jack even entertained the idea of a relationship, they had formed a sort of unofficial tradition where the case wasn’t truly closed until they shared a drink. It was so easy then to write it off as something light-hearted; a charming wrap up among intellectually-matched colleagues, but she sees now how even then it was far more intimate. In all of those feather-light conversations, the answers to their deeper, unspoken sentiments - are you okay? will any of it stay with you once we say goodnight? I’m here whenever you need, we’ll see each other soon - were affirmed in the subtle expressions they both somehow, intuitively, could interpret between each other. But that just isn’t enough anymore.

“All done,” she says, taping the last piece of sterile gauze around his hand and then rising to empty the basin in the neighboring kitchen sink. “Next time, if you must, try to remember that one or two punches usually does the trick. Twenty or more is rather excessive.”

He chuckles softly, nodding with a resigned tiredness and a bit of remorse. “I will. … Though, under certain circumstances, I can make no guarantees.”

She raises her brows fondly, moving to sit next to him on the sofa. “Are you actually admitting that you might lose control from time to time, inspector?”

He raises his arm for her to duck under it, which she does; settling against his side and resting her head on his shoulder - a gesture that’s become as natural as breathing for them both. He tugs her in close by the waist, his other hand reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear, “Only when things very precious to me are in danger.”

Oh, dear man.

She wishes she had the strength to produce a witty retort; to maintain some levity for the both of them, but in truth the emotions of the day are stacking up all at once and the weight on her chest is becoming far too heavy to ignore. They’d both feared for each other’s lives at one point tonight and with the adrenaline waning, the gravity of the situation is taking its place; forcefully pushing her down to a sobering reality that’s threatening to swallow her whole. She’s not ready to be consumed yet, though; not when she’s only just settled into his arms. So instead of whispering the returned endearment on her lips (“You’re very precious to me, too, Jack Robinson”), she distracts herself by reaching up to trace the lines of his face with her fingertips.

She loves Wardlow; it is the home she built for herself, a fortress that keeps within it the people and things she holds dear, but there is something about joining him in the quiet of his flat that brings her a kind of solace she can’t seem to replicate anywhere else. Here, they have each other’s full attention; there’s no threat of accidental interruptions nor worry over perceived impropriety; no responsibility or obligation that comes with being the head of house or a prominent social figure. At Jack’s place - it’s just them and what they choose to fill the silence with.

“You looked frightened,” he tells her, an unprompted explanation for his actions this evening, and for a moment all she can do is nod silently.

A standoff with their perpetrator had escalated quickly as the sounds of their arriving backup grew closer. The case had started with a murdered woman found two days ago; her house looted and her niece missing. As they worked through the case, every piece of evidence filled Phryne with dread; the story feeling more and more familiar as they put it all together. When they finally identified and caught up to the man, the girlfriend who had tried to escape his repeated violence was weeping and shaking in his arms with a knife held to her throat. Phryne had taken one look into her eyes and instantly saw a younger version of herself reflected back at her - a broken-hearted girl, cold and bruised and scared on the streets of Paris.

It all happened in a blur from there - doors kicked opened, a gunshot, a scream, a scramble for power… then suddenly a hand was fisted painfully in her hair… and had this been a few years ago, she would have found herself back in France, crying on her knees in a freezing flat with broken windows and creaking floorboards. She would have cowered at the menacing shadow of her past towering over her and begged for mercy as if she were living it all over again. But instead she heard the call of her name, clear and present and real, and her footing was instantly found, twisting out of her attacker’s hold and kicking him backwards into the arms of her enraged lover.

With the help of Hugh, they just managed to pull Jack off before he faced charges of his own.

Sitting here with him now, she hates that the image he’s left with from tonight is of her being frightened. She knows he’s blaming himself for it somehow, because he has before - and just like before, he doesn’t realize he was actually her saving grace.

There is a way, though, perhaps - to help him see it.

“You know, I’ve just remembered something,” she says with a soft edge of mischief and he narrows his eyes suspiciously, clearly suspecting that she’s trying to avoid the subject at hand. “I never did keep my end of the deal… to tell you about a scar of mine.”

“Oh,” Jack chuckles under his breath, brows knitting in bemused confusion, “While I’m pleasantly surprised you remembered, and even more so that you admitted it,” she gives him an annoyed purse of her lips that he pretends not to see, “I wouldn’t hold you to that tonight.” He pauses then, considering something, and then smiles warmly, “Unless, of course, you’d like me to ‘kiss it better’.”

She rolls her eyes fondly in response, sighs out a laugh (which he shares), and then she reaches up to stroke his cheek. Looking at him sincerely, she says soft as a whisper, “What if I told you that you already had?”

Before Jack, she only took the company of lovers in her own space, on her own terms, and with the knowledge that her staff was close at hand should a visitor ever outstay their welcome. It was a safety net she began constructing for herself back in 1919 and every thread of it since had been woven with materials made up entirely of her. Phryne Fisher was not beholden to anyone, but herself, by design. She was strong enough not to need others and self-sufficient enough to fight her own battles. But… fighting alone for so long did become exhausting. Being strong always was until someone gave you the space not to be. Others had tried to be that space before, but their intentions were always built on hollow promises; declarations made to a version of herself they had idealized in their minds. Versions she simply refused to entertain.

There’s a hint of a smile in his eyes, but more than anything he looks curious and (somewhat adorably) confused. Gently, she grabs his hand and guides it up to her face. Her fingers resting over his, she presses them against her bottom lip, sliding them to the corner of her mouth so that the skin is pulled taut. He doesn’t understand at first, locks eyes with her; questioning, and she silently bids him to look again. She knows he sees it when the squint of his eyes softens and he carefully strokes his thumb back over the spot.

In the center of her bottom lip is a small, jagged scar, only visible when the skin is stretched and the pink color of her lips fades to white. It’s not something anyone would notice unless she wants them to (a fitting metaphor she tries not to dwell on). Up until now, she’s shown exactly one person, save for those who were there when it happened. She’s always been too proud and, if she’s honest with herself, too afraid of the reaction she might get; too convinced that she’ll be looked at differently or treated her like a fragile broken thing in need of pity. But Jack proved to her a long time ago that no matter what anyone else saw, he would always see her.

He stares at it intently for a few long moments, mesmerized as he repeatedly swipes over it, “What’s this from?”

Keeping her eyes on his face, she stills his hand with hers. “It’s from a long time ago. When I was 18, as it happens… and very naive.”

“We’ve all made some regretful choices at 18,” he murmurs affectionately, referencing the story he’d shared with her.

“Yes, well… youth makes you blind to many things. It keeps you from seeing trouble that’s right in front of you.”

“Hm,” he hums idly, “So what kind of trouble did a young Miss Fisher get herself into?”

She’s quiet a moment, something stirring in her as she watches him continue to examine the spot. “Will you promise me something first?”

His gaze turns upward, the lines of concentration on his forehead fading as he looks her over and his lips turn up into a crooked half-smile, “I won’t laugh.”

She huffs softly off a click of her tongue, feigning offense, then lifts her hand to smooth through his hair, “I know you won’t, Jack. No, I… “ she takes a deep breath, “Can you promise to believe that every word I say is true?”

The lines in his forehead have returned and he lightly shakes his head in confusion, “Of course. Why on earth wouldn’t I?”

She brushes her hand across his cheek reassuringly, “I trust you’ll know once I get to the end.”

The worried suspicion is lingering in his eyes and she feels herself losing her nerve, but after a moment - he nods, “Alright.”

Well then, she thinks, no turning back now.

Straightening herself up from his embrace, she sits on her knees, resting her elbow on the back of the sofa. Jack reaches for her hand and she lets him take it, entwining her fingers with his, thankful for the tether she’s likely going to need. “Do you remember one of the first cases you and I worked on? Pierre Sarcelle? It involved a certain… painting of me being stolen?”

“Ah,” he says, the memory of it playing across his features, “Yes, I… I think I recall.”

She’s amused that still flusters him; occasionally she’ll catch him nervously side-eyeing it in her bedroom and it tickles her that even after seeing the real thing many times now, that painting is what makes him blush. If only the story behind it was equally as amusing. “And the murderer… René Dubois. Do you remember him, as well?”

“Unfortunately,” Jack mutters and she thinks he must be catching on because he sits up to hold her hand with both of his now.

“He… What did I tell you about him at the time?” she asks, genuinely unable to recall.

Jack exhales slowly, searching his own memory. “That he was… a past lover, who you knew to be dangerous… and likely a murderer,” he says plainly, stroking the inside of her wrist with his thumb before turning rather serious. “And though you didn’t tell me this at the time, I knew you were rather terrified of him.”

Yes, she remembers that, too. Every one of her senses had been heightened waiting for René to walk through the door of Café Repliqué. Every sound pushed her further on edge, and when he finally appeared, her body froze in what felt like shock. The Phryne of 1928 wasn’t afraid of him, but in that moment - the Phryne of 1918 took over and all she knew was ice cold fear.

“I was,” she tells Jack, who leans in closer to her, “I was terrified. At the time, he was one of the darker shadows in my life, and knowing he was nearby… that he’d been in my home even, was… deeply unsettling.”

“Mm… I remember Dot describing the bruise he gave you in her statement,” Jack confesses, staring down at their joined hands as he fidgets with one of her rings.

She closes her eyes for moment; takes a deep breath, “Unfortunately, that wasn’t the first he gave me.”

Jack looks up cautiously, an immediate understanding in his eyes which shatters the part of her that likes to pretend it never happened. Without further preamble, tears start gathering and she really, really doesn’t want them to fall this soon. She needs to make it to the end of this. Because even though there’s a faint whisper of hesitance in the back of her mind, here with him - she feels safe, at peace, and entirely unafraid. Because she finally has the words… and if not now - she may never find them again.

He hasn’t said anything, but Phryne sees his jaw tighten as his eyes search hers, silently seeking permission to move closer to her. She grants it by lifting one of his hands and placing it on her waist. He slides it around the small of her back and traces soothing circles there.

“You don’t have to say more,” he whispers sincerely, “Sod the deal, love; this isn’t a fair trade.”

A look of sorrow and longing accompany her responding smile, one of her hands hooking around the back of his neck and the other resting over his heart, “It is. Because I want to tell you… it’s important I do. It’s important to me .”

He presses his lips together, searching her eyes for a moment, and then gives her one of his signature, almost-imperceptible nods. “Then it’s important to me, too.”

She nods back, takes a moment to collect herself, and sighs. “You asked what trouble my younger self got into, yes?”

He nods again.

“Well… just after the war, in Paris, the younger and more naive version of me had no desire to return home to England, so she settled in with a group of friends she knew from the field.” He’s staying silent, giving her the same space she gave him, but even without looking at his face, she can feel the warmth of his support reaching out for her, offering a soft landing should she need to fall. “There wasn’t much work to be had, but she got by through modeling for local artists - sculptors, painters… it was all very bohemian,” they share a brief smile, “And one day, she met a man… another artist, who was very charming, very mysterious… and he made her feel like she was special.“

“Monsieur Dubois, I take it?” Jack asks in a low voice, attempting to hide the building disdain he feels for the man.

“The very same,” she confirms, smoothing her fingertips over his collarbones nervously, “Her friends tried to warn her at the time - the good monsieur had a reputation, you see. But… for some odd reason, she had rather a penchant for ignoring good advice in favor of chasing danger… “

“Imagine that,” Jack smirks in faux surprise. “I wonder if she ever grew out of such a habit.”

“Well… “ she pouts defiantly, avoiding looking into his eyes, “That’s not exactly relevant at the moment.”

“Mm,” he acknowledges quietly. “Something to circle back to.”

She briefly narrows her eyes, lightly shoving his shoulder, and continues, “Anyhow… it was all very nice for a while. The nicest she’d ever felt, actually. He said such pretty words and made so many impassioned promises. And it was in that dreamy haze that she did something rather foolish: she fell in love with him.”

Jack’s arms wrap tighter around her, enough to reassure, but not to smother. She takes a beat, smiling sadly, and looks up into his eyes for what she says next.

“Even more foolish, she let herself get so lost in him that she didn’t even realize she’d given him everything she had in the process,” her voice cracks slightly here, but she ignores it, “Her affection, her body, her money. All of herself. And then one day… he wanted more.” She takes a few cleansing breaths, her hands resting on his chest to support herself, “But she had nothing left to give… and he didn’t like that at all.” She feels more than sees the slight gulp he takes; he knows what comes next. “So one night he grabbed her by the hair, forced her to the floor, and when she cried and pleaded, he called her… such awful things… and then he hit her.” She says it so plainly she might as well be commenting on the weather, but the tension in her body says otherwise. “Without remorse nor restraint. Slapped her so hard across the face that her lip split, right along with her heart.”

Despite her best efforts, a warm tear slides down her cheek, but she cares not to hide it now. She can feel Jack’s breathing becoming deeper, the quickening beat of his heart, the rise of heat on his skin. She knows what it is to have knowledge of a loved ones pain that it’s too late to save them from; knows how infuriating and helpless it feels, but for her he stays steady. He knows that she needs him to.

“I lost her for a while after that. I was worried she’d never come back, to be honest. But slowly, she returned, and I swore to never let anyone take her from me again. Anytime someone got too close, I felt the bump of that scar on my lip, held her tighter, and ran.”

Without realizing it, she’s leaned in so close that her forehead is resting against his and he’s quietly encouraging her to match his breathing, slow and deep. “I… “ she breathes in a few more times, focuses on the warmth of his hands on her waist, “I didn’t love anyone again, Jack. I was too afraid that someone loving me was the same as owning me… and loving them back meant that I was allowing them to.”

“Darling… “ it comes out so soft, she barely hears it, but it’s no less full of the understanding and compassion that is so very him.

“That day at the café, when we were waiting to catch him, I felt panic in a way I hadn’t since 1918. And when he walked through the door, I was petrified; everything around me froze and it felt like I was that broken girl in Paris again. Everything I’d learned to protect myself crumbled into nothing and I was so scared,” she pulls back just enough to look into his eyes again, “Then you kissed me… no Jack, let me finish… you kissed me… and you brought me back. You brought me back to 1928 and I wasn’t afraid anymore. Nor have I been since - for anything - when I know you’re there with me.”

Embraces that felt suffocating in others’ arms now feel liberating in his… stillness she once feared akin to defeat now feels like peace. She knows, if ever she asks him to let go, he will. Without hesitation. And it’s because of that she holds him all the tighter.

He’s shaking his head, lips pressed together as as if he’s refusing to accept what she’s said, “That can’t be because of me. Phryne, you are the strongest, bravest… most frustratingly hard-headed person I know… you can do anything all on your own.”

She huffs out a teary, adoring laugh, lightly framing his face, “That’s not what I meant, Jack.” Sliding into his lap, carefully avoiding the injury on his side, she smiles when he reaches up to brush away one of her tears. “You’re right, I can do all of those things, and I would, but it doesn’t mean I’m not scared. … Except when you’re there, or even sometimes just when I know you’re on the way.”

Eyes glassy, he swallows thickly, hand resting where her neck meets her shoulder, “I think you’re giving me too much credit, Miss Fisher… “

She tilts her head to the side, sighing in loving exasperation, “You promised to believe me, Jack… every word.“

The reservation on his face quickly settles into tender obeisance, hands falling to her hips and squeezing lightly as he nods. “So I did. And I do.”

“Good,” she says, hiding the sudden trembling of her hands by anchoring them to his shoulders. “Because I told you once that I needed you to remind me not to be afraid of shadows. And you have - back on that day at Café Repliqué and every day since.” She hopes, through sheer force of will, that he can see all the moments flitting through her mind - her sister’s murderer, her father’s vengeful cousin, a corrupt vineyard town, the insidious silence of a docked cargo ship on a foggy night. “Tonight, when that man had me by my hair, for a moment I was frightened; for a moment I almost felt like I was in Paris - but then I heard you yell for me and you brought me back again.”

There were very few constants in her life, even fewer that she’d count as blessings, but Jack had witnessed both her best and her worst; had walked with her through darknesses she thought she’d never face again… and still he was here beside her. Not trying to fix her, to tame her, or to step in front - never asking anything of her, but to be the best and worst of her whole self.

The tide within her is rising again, on the precipice of pulling her under, but she just needs a moment more; just needs him to hear this last bit. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she clings to him, her voice muffling into his hair, “I’ve never had to run from you, Jack darling, because you never tried to take anything from me… God, even when I wanted you to.”

The vibration of their joined laughter soothes her like a warm bath and her tears flow freely down her face. “But you have given so many precious things to me,” she tells him on a sob, “Some of which I thought I’d never be capable of again.”

”Phryne,” he murmurs into her neck, his voice thick with emotion as his hand cradles the back of her head, “I can only say the same, my darling.”

She presses her lips to his neck, his temple, his cheek, her vision blurred with tears, though she scans over his face, anyway. “I love you,” she whispers earnestly, kissing him once softly, “I love you so dearly, please know that.”

His hand cups her cheek, tears gathering on the thumb he gently runs over her bottom lip once more, “I promise I do. And I promise, without any give or take, I love you just as dearly. Helplessly even, I fear.”

She manages a quiet laugh, leaning into him as he brushes his lips over hers with purposeful gentleness. “Good.”

Her safety net has frayed at the edges over the years, but she never fears of it breaking. It will always be there; she will always be able catch herself. But slowly she’s been weaving in threads of Jack and she notes now that, when she falls, it is far softer and far steadier than it ever was before.

End Note: Just want to be clear - neither Jack nor Phryne are saying the kiss in Café Repliqué was okay. Obviously, ensuring consent is always a requirement. Nonetheless, the effect of the kiss - in this fic - is a positive one. Of which I hope I have done a decent job of explaining/portraying. Thank you! xx 💙

#mfmm #phrack

[hormonesclinics]

Common Symptoms and Treatment Options for Thyroid Disorders

Introduction:

The thyroid gland plays a crucial role in regulating various bodily functions. When it malfunctions, it can lead to thyroid disorders. In this blog post, we will explore the common symptoms of thyroid disorders and discuss the available treatment options to manage this condition effectively.

1. Understanding Thyroid Disorders:

The thyroid gland produces hormones that control metabolism, energy levels, and growth. Thyroid disorders can manifest in two main forms: hypothyroidism and hyperthyroidism. Hypothyroidism occurs when the gland does not produce enough hormones, while hyperthyroidism results from excessive hormone production.

2. Common Symptoms of Thyroid Disorders:

Fatigue and weakness

Weight changes

Mood swings and irritability

Hair loss

Temperature sensitivity

3. Diagnosis and Testing:

Accurate diagnosis of thyroid disorders involves comprehensive medical testing, including blood tests to measure hormone levels and thyroid imaging. It is essential to consult a healthcare professional for proper evaluation and interpretation of the test results.

4. Treatment Options for Thyroid Disorders:

Treatment for thyroid disorders depends on the specific condition and its severity. Common treatment options include:

Medication: Synthetic hormones to replace or regulate thyroid function.

Radioactive iodine therapy: Used to reduce the activity of an overactive thyroid.

Surgery: Removal of part or all of the thyroid gland in certain cases.

5. Lifestyle Modifications for Managing Thyroid Disorders:

In addition to medical interventions, certain lifestyle modifications can help manage thyroid disorders effectively. These include:

Balanced diet: Focus on foods rich in iodine, selenium, and zinc.

Regular exercise: Promotes overall well-being and helps regulate metabolism.

Stress management: Stress reduction techniques such as meditation and yoga.

Sufficient sleep: Aim for 7-9 hours of quality sleep per night.

Conclusion:

Thyroid disorders can significantly impact an individual's quality of life, but with early recognition and appropriate treatment, they can be effectively managed. By understanding the symptoms and exploring the available treatment options, individuals can take proactive steps toward maintaining their thyroid health. Remember to consult a healthcare professional for personalized advice and guidance.

FOR MORE INFORMATION VISIT: www.hormoneclinic.in/

#Thyroid disorders #Symptoms of thyroid disorders #Treatment options for thyroid disorders #Hypothyroidism #Hyperthyroidism #Thyroid function #Thyroid hormone #Thyroid health #Thyroid testing #Thyroid medication #Radioactive iodine therapy #Thyroid surgery #Lifestyle modifications #Balanced diet #Exercise for thyroid health #Stress management #Sleep and thyroid disorders #Managing thyroid disorders #Thyroid gland

[artwithoutblood]

i would say yes! there are pollution issues caused from the city of dis above

Well that certainly limits the romantic bubble baths… I bet homie drinks bottled water and wine, wears perfume, and uses a lot of talcum powder as dry shampoo in his hair. Maybe even bathes with oil and scrapers as the Romans did. Maybe I need to elope with Kayn and enjoy his hot springs instead.

But… while Dorian probably already does some or all of this water cleaning I’m thinking about how to automate it or do it on a bigger more efficient scale. 

Imagine if Aeron made beautiful marble sculptures of trees that were hollow in the middle, and the branches funnelled rainwater down the centre through layers of gravel, sand and charcoal. Like the ancient sand filtration columns, cleaning and storing large volumes of water passively. 

Or Dorian’s cathedral could have gargoyles on the back that spout the roof runoff through filters into water tanks for treatment. The falling of the water would aerate it too, against anaerobic bacteria. The tank also allows sediments to fall to the bottom, the water to be flocculated with iron or alum, and all the resulting coagulated junk to sink to the bottom.

Actually none of it should be marble though. Filtering water through ash can make it extremely alkaline (doing that with wood ash makes lye) and if it was acid rain from the smog… either would quickly erode the soft marble. I wonder how the cathedral and gravestones resist damage. 

Better alternatives would be metal, resistant asphalt concrete, or a more resistant stone. There is also the Roman concrete that ‘self heals’ by recrystallising to resist erosion. But that requires the inclusion of quicklime which may leach excessive minerals like calcium into the water and raise the pH. 

However if the water is acidic (low pH) that may help buffer and impurities can be addressed later?

Dorian totally knows about aqueducts, which slow the movement of water to let crud settle out, aerate it, keep it moving to avoid stagnation.

However the lead levels in Roman aqueducts were so incredibly high compared with non-aqueduct water. Maybe it doesn’t matter if you’re a demon or dead but it’s not good. Perhaps this explains Dorian’s emotionality and mood swings if this is what he’s doing and can be somewhat affected.

However this contamination was due to lining them with sheets of lead, and as lead was known to be dangerous clay pipes were preferred.

All this stuff is mostly for physical impurities and maybe charcoal removes some of the other chemicals but not all.

Distillation is very energy intensive, time consuming and would be bulky in equipment but Dorian does at least have eternal fire available and space for tanks.

It removes salinity, minerals and heavy metals but not things with lower boiling points than water ie oil, alcohol or petroleum. Boiling and recollecting the condensation was done to seawater by the ancient Greeks. However heating some of the contaminants can create dangerous compounds.

Reverse osmosis is possible with very old tech (pigs bladder in the 1700s) but hard to do on a large scale with a low tech setting and flesh won’t stay usable for long. Frequent replacement, inadequate size or strength, biohazard.

Disinfection is possible with iodine or chlorine (sunlight too but there’s little in Heresy and no electricity for ultraviolet lights unless a generator is made). pH can be fixed by buffer chemicals.

All of this is in the wrong order and has glaring issues but I am trying to apply ancient water purification methods and environmental engineering to Hell!

i saw this at work and blew up so sorry for the late answer.

Imagine if Aeron made beautiful marble sculptures of trees that were hollow in the middle, and the branches funnelled rainwater down the centre through layers of gravel, sand and charcoal. Like the ancient sand filtration columns, cleaning and storing large volumes of water passively. 

he probably did. by accident.

Dorian totally knows about aqueducts, which slow the movement of water to let crud settle out, aerate it, keep it moving to avoid stagnation. However the lead levels in Roman aqueducts were so incredibly high compared with non-aqueduct water. Maybe it doesn’t matter if you’re a demon or dead but it’s not good. Perhaps this explains Dorian’s emotionality and mood swings if this is what he’s doing and can be somewhat affected. However this contamination was due to lining them with sheets of lead, and as lead was known to be dangerous clay pipes were preferred.

you know this guy is lead poisoned. maybe that's why his hair is falling out and isn't as poofy as it was once before. and why he can't ejaculate? that's a joke.

maybe what the church is made out of does not matter. maybe it resists damage. is made of something that looks like marble but is not. he doesn't remember how it got there. but he remembers...making it?

i know he makes noise complaints to the city of dis, because despite it being usually quiet, he does hear it sometimes, very late in the "night."

but hell has no day, has no night, it has eternity.

#dorian ask

[freakingoutthesquares]

‘Freak Out...’ is laugh out loud funny, because, of course, pre-fame Pulp devised a stage set of toilet paper and tin foil only for it to crumble around them, of course they set fire to a prized palm tree in Toulouse with a misfired firework, and the highlight of their first ever Top Of The Pops performance was, of course, eating Mariah Carey’s biscuits.

Louder Than War Magazine, Issue 2, Winter 2015.

With the release of biography ‘Freak Out The Squares’, PULP man Russell Senior remains fiercely proud of the accomplishments of Sheffield’s finest. Louise Brown talks to a uniquely British man about a uniquely British band.

THE rock biography; that tome of scintillating scandal and sordid excess, where musicians can retire disgracefully airing all of their worst behaviours alongside shocking barbs against colleagues, rivals and the waifs and strays they met along their path of rock and roll hedonism. We, mere mortals, lap them up, each page depicting the charmed lives of music’s most notorious characters.

‘Freak Out The Squares: Life In A Band Called Pulp’, by Pulp guitarist, violinist and self-confessed “grownup of the group’, Russell Senior, is the latest in rock memoir overload, and we settle in for a wild ride of mis-shapes, mistakes and misfits. In fact, what we get is a lot of tea, games of chess and mild-mannered facts about minerals. Did you know that if you add iodine to an axolotl it turns into a newt?

But Pulp were a different class, weren’t they? They did not have the cockney cheek of Blur, not the brash Mancunian swagger of Oasis, they were the psychedelic avant garde art experiment, who had tried for a decade to claw themselves out of Sheffield’s agitprop pop scene, who found themselves in the right place, at the right time and stumbled upon the holy grail of indie gold with era defining anthems ‘Common People’ and ‘Disco 2000’.

Sardonic and as well-presented as Jarvis Cocker in one his jumble sale suits, ‘Freak Out...’ is ‘The Royle Family’ of rock biogs, in that nothing actually happens but it is in the ennui and the unglamorous truthfulness that the writer’s Midas touch is revealed.

‘Freak Out...’ is laugh out loud funny, because, of course, pre-fame Pulp devised a stage set of toilet paper and tin foil only for it to crumble around them, of course they set fire to a prized palm tree in Toulouse with a misfired firework, and the highlight of their first ever Top Of The Pops performance was, of course, eating Mariah Carey’s biscuits.

This is not sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, more atypical British fumbling of the bra-straps, white-outs after one toke of Black Grape’s joint and playing so out of tune it actually made the band the unique freaks we came to love.

But if it’s not going to a be a tell-all page-turner of bolshy Britpop bragging, then why write it at all? “I kind of felt I ought to write it,” says Russell, his Yorkshire twang ever-giving him a tone of sarcasm and weariness. Speaking shortly before his appearance at Manchester’s Louder Than Words festival (Louderthanwordsfest.com).

“Astronauts, they seem very inarticulate. They’ve been to the moon, but they can’t say anything about it, so I thought, well, I can be loquacious hopefully, and as an eye-witness, I thought I should do it, especially since there were some programmes on Britpop a few years back and they seemed really lame. They didn’t get to the heart of it. I want to try and put people in that dislocated world, the duty of the witness really.”

Britpop, what actually was it? From the turn of the 1990s until the chimes of the new Millennium were rung in, it seemed like the British pop music, and art, worlds, for that matter, were The Zeitgeist. Tracey Emin was making headlines with unmade beds, Damien Hirst was pickling bovine and bands like Blur, Oasis and Pulp, who couldn’t sound more unlike one other if they tried, were as iconic as Ginger Spice in a Union Jack frock.

“It’s not a genre, is it?” Russell ponders. “It’s not like reggae, it’s not a sound. Saint Etienne were deconstructing dance and yet they were Britpop. It was a group of outsiders from different angles, having a go at making pop music that was vaguely credible. It was a rejection of the world that was around us at the time, but the rejection took different forms. It’s not a musical form, really. You can’t teach it. It’s a funny one, isn’t it? You look back and think, well, what was it? Because it didn’t seem like anything coherent at the time, certainly not artistically.”

“Great guitarists like Bernard Butler and Richard Hawley don’t intimidate me because we all do a different thing. They may be able to play ‘All Along The Watchtower’ better than Hendrix but they can’t do spare and spiky and proddy as well as me.”

One of the motifs throughout the book is just how bad Pulp were as musicians. It starts with Russell reviewing Jarvis’ band for his fanzine and referring to the songs as “dirges” but “the appearance of the frontman is entertaining”, however the two became friends and Russell joined Pulp not to bring any musical splendour to the act, in fact, it led the group down an even more outré and unconventional rabbit hole. This self-deprecation almost does as a disservice to the group that ten years later would give the British musical canon pop gold like ‘Something Changed’.

“We learned,” Russell laughs when challenged. “But one of the good things about not having the musical theory, is that you do things that are, technically speaking, out of tune. I think it frees things up. I avoided learning, I was of that mindset. I wanted to find something around another corner, so there’s an almost wilful determination to retain a naivety in a way. We were anti-muso.

We had proper, in inverted commas, musicians audition for us and we just didn’t want them because we wanted somebody that was enfant savage. It sounds a bit ridiculous now, and yeah, we did get to learn about chords as time went on, so it’s strange in a way because, in the end, Pulp craft the perfect pop song, they don’t make a random extreme noise terror, but that was the roots of it. It ended up as pop music, almost by accident really.”

The band did set out to be a pop band though, Russell makes no claim to the other throughout the first half of the book, which shows a warts-and-all side to Pulp before the Britpop boom. They didn’t shy away from the spotlight, “Or want to be an underground, sell-no-records, indie purity thing,” Russell confirms.

“With the C86 movement, they seemed to take succour from how few records they’d sold, like that was a mark of integrity. We thought that was guff and saw not selling records as failure, so I think, in a way, we stood out from the crowd, in that ‘we are going to entertain and we are going to sell records’. It was not very cool at the time.”

“Outside the Cambridge Corn Exchange a young man approached me. There was something funny about him, then he attempted to pass me a wrap of drugs. I refused and then noticed a cameraman with a long lens taking photographs. This was a set-up, imagine the consequences if I’d taken the wrap. That bastard was prepared to ruin my life for a made-up story.”

The price of fame is high, though, and Russell is candid in his dissection of it. “It’s safe to say [that I hate fame]. It was a downer, there was a certain purity and innocence to the Britpop thing, despite all the excess. It seemed a bit of a charmed life really, and then you hit reality of things and you’re cynical. I had a happy view of it and I liked our fans, and it didn’t seem like this cynical rock world to me, it seemed like something light and fluffy.

I don’t know if I’ve stressed it enough in the book but we were very much ‘of’ our fans. We were jumble sale kids. People would look at you funny in the street, and then you were in the sanctity of the concert where there were other strange people, so there was this secret little club of outsiders, and it was a nice thing.”

Of all the Britpop bands, Pulp seemed the most approachable, the most down-to-earth, the most likely to invite you in for a cuppa if you were camped outside their house in December waiting for an autograph. “It’s true,” laughs Russell, as I tell him a story of a friend for whom that happened to.

“And on the whole, I have had my differences with the members of the band, but basically they’re all fairly decent. I wouldn’t say we were prudes but I suppose we were a bit, in that Yorkshire way. We were well-brought up and had decent manners, and no we didn’t hold with bad behaviour at all.”

Laughing about some of the unpretentious, no-nonsense Yorkshire-ness of ‘Freak Out The Squares’, we promise Russell that we won’t paint him completely as rock ‘n’ roll’s least likely, or as a thoroughly decent bloke too much, a real model of the common people. “If it’s true to say it,” he laughs.

“All that Northern stuff, there’s two strands to Sheffield. One is the by-heck whimsy and they get terribly excited about cooling towers getting knocked down. I can’t be doing with that professional Northern-ness, but there’s always a form of Sheffieldness that’s this Dadaist intense thing and I guess I cleave to the latter persuasion really. I don’t really do Northern whimsy.

This is an unusual interview in a way because most people are trying to get me to dish more dirt and I’m like, ‘I haven’t got any more’.

It’s honest in that it does own up to the fact that there wasn’t much in the way of groupies.”

“When we got on the bus, the back room had a general air of a Western saloon – cigarettes, whiskey and wild, wild women. The tour manager interrupted the reverie with the unfortunate phrase: ‘Excuse me ladies, we’ve got to shoot off now’. Everyone was a winner. The girls could hold their heads up high, and no one had to shag in the toilet looking at the ‘No Solids’ sign and wake up feeling like yesterday’s fish and chips.”

“The chronicle of Pulp, the true and honest chronicle of Pulp would take up a shelf of books,” Russell sighs when we do ask him if he was perhaps too polite and left out some of the more outlandish tales from the road. “If you can’t say anything nice don’t say anything at all.

There could’ve been lots of moaning about this, that and the other but it would all be rather trivial. There would be no major revelations, so even if I had the inclination to write a kiss-and-tell, put-the-boot-in book I’d have been really thin on material for it. I’m actually being quite frank, and in a way, brave, in admitting that it’s not always that exciting and if you win the ‘hang out with Pulp for the day’ prize you’d probably choose not to do it again."

“People want Pulp to live in the Monkees house and all be great mates and I don’t have to put the dagger, because people’s view of Pulp is quite a benign one. I can’t remember the last time anyone said anything unkind to me about it, it’s awfully fluffy all of this and I feel a little bit guilty that there’s not more bite but the truth is that people have a lot of affection for Pulp and I’ve no desire to change that.”

The book starts with Russell carefully considering Jarvis’ invitation to reunite the old gang for a one-off Glastonbury performance, flits back to when he first saw Jarvis “murder” (his words) ‘Wild Thing’ by The Troggs while his bass player fell off the stage, follows his acceptance into the Pulp fold and acts as a witty diary of the band’s 2011 comeback and mid-’90s highs.

It allows us a bird’s eye view of Britpop in ascendance – from its biggest stories (Pulp unwittingly to blame for pitting Blur and Oasis against each other with scurrilous gossip about who said what about Justine Frischmann) and wildest excesses (Russell lays claim to being responsible for Britpop folly Menswear, who signed to Island for a ludicrous fee and actually weren’t very good at all) but while he seemed, on the face of it all, to have had a jolly good time, the reunion was a one-off for him, despite protestation from both band and fans.

“Well, phone calls have come, quite a number of times, and things didn’t entirely wind down when it was supposed to, and so I can say that [I’m done] with reasonable degrees of certainty, because there were things that I’ve not done, like playing The Royal Albert Hall and so I’ve resisted those, but I’m very romantic about Pulp,” he admits, when pushed to see if he would tread the boards just one more time and had this book maybe triggered a little bit of wanderlust in him.

“Not everything in my life is as pure as that, but that’s one thing I like to keep it pure. I don’t wish to reduce it by cashing in on it, although you could say I’m doing that with this book. I could’ve tried to pump up the controversy, and I would have sold more copies but I’m quite romantic about it, and protective about the legacy.”

Now a full-time writer he admits that “I got my violin down so I could play it but I’ve not, it’s got dust on it. We weren’t musicians, I really don’t feel like I was. I don’t know how to play any other songs all the way through apart from Pulp songs, and I don’t sit around playing the guitar. What’s next? Writing! A geology-themed mystery romance, a book on the life of Edwin of Northumbria, and another one on foraging. Eclectic and uneconomic! Choose the things that are least likely to sell and do that, that’s what I’m doing.”

Of course he is, of course the foppish, besuited outsider from Britpop’s most bizarre and stubbornly contrary and peculiar band has swapped the riches and adulation of pop music for writing books about mushrooms and ancient kings. What else would he do? Like we said, Pulp and Russell Senior were of a different class, and we wouldn’t change them for the world.

‘Freak Out The Squares: Life In A Band Called Pulp’ is available now from Aurum Press Ltd

Transcription by me.

#russell senior #pulp #freak out the squares #printed article #interview #printed interview #britpop #90s

[diet-with-swati]

Thyroid Diet Plan for Weight Loss | Hypothyroidism Diet Plan

A well-functioning thyroid is essential for overall health and well-being. The thyroid gland plays a crucial role in regulating metabolism, energy production, and even mood. When the thyroid is imbalanced, it can lead to weight fluctuations, fatigue, and other health concerns. But fear not! With a targeted thyroid diet plan, you can support your thyroid's optimal function and embark on a journey to better health. In this article, we unravel the mysteries of the thyroid and provide you with a practical and easy-to-follow Online Thyroid Diet Plan for Weight Loss to nurture your thyroid health & lose weight.

The Thyroid's Vital Role

The thyroid gland, a small butterfly-shaped organ located in the neck, produces hormones that influence nearly every cell in the body. These hormones, namely thyroxine (T4) and triiodothyronine (T3), regulate metabolism, body temperature, heart rate, and more.

Common Thyroid Disorders

✅  Hypothyroidism: When the thyroid doesn't produce enough hormones, it can result in weight gain, fatigue, and a slowed metabolism.

✅  Hyperthyroidism: Excessive thyroid hormone production can lead to weight loss, increased heart rate, and anxiety.

The Impact on Weight

Thyroid imbalances often manifest in weight-related issues. Hypothyroidism can contribute to weight gain, while hyperthyroidism may lead to weight loss. A well-planned Thyroid Diet Plan for Weight Loss can help address these concerns.

Fueling Your Thyroid with Nutrient-Rich Foods

✅  Embracing Iodine

Iodine is a key player in thyroid health, as it's an essential component of thyroid hormones. Incorporate iodine-rich foods like seaweed, seafood, dairy, and eggs into your diet.

✅  Selenium's Superpower

Selenium supports thyroid function and helps convert T4 into the active T3 hormone. Brazil nuts, fish, and whole grains are excellent sources of selenium.

✅  Smart Carbohydrates

Opt for complex carbohydrates like whole grains, legumes, and vegetables. These provide sustained energy and prevent blood sugar spikes that can impact thyroid function.

✅  Lean Protein

Protein aids in tissue repair and metabolism. Include lean protein sources like poultry, fish, tofu, and beans in your diet.

✅  Healthy Fats

Essential fatty acids found in nuts, seeds, and fatty fish promote hormone balance and overall well-being.

✅  Tyrosine-Rich Foods

Lean meats, poultry, fish, tofu, and dairy products offer tyrosine, an amino acid crucial for thyroid hormone synthesis.

✅  Leafy Greens

Rich in vitamins and minerals, leafy greens like spinach, kale, and Swiss chard support thyroid function.

✅  Colorful Fruits and Veggies

Vibrant produce is packed with antioxidants that combat inflammation and promote thyroid health.

✅  Zinc-Rich Foods

Zinc contributes to hormone production and immune function. Enjoy zinc-rich foods like nuts, seeds, and whole grains.

Hydration and Hormones

✅  Staying Hydrated

Adequate hydration is vital for hormone production and overall health. Aim for at least 8 glasses of water a day.

✅  Limiting Goitrogens

Cruciferous vegetables like broccoli, cauliflower, and kale contain compounds called goitrogens, which can interfere with thyroid function. However, you can still enjoy their health benefits by cooking them, which reduces the goitrogenic effects while preserving their nutritional value.

Mindful Eating for Thyroid Health

The Importance of Mindful Eating

Mindful eating involves savoring each bite, eating slowly, and paying attention to hunger and fullness cues. This practice can prevent overeating and support digestion.

Seeking Professional Guidance

When navigating dietary choices for thyroid health, it's prudent to seek guidance from a qualified dietitian. A dietitian can tailor a nutrition plan to your individual needs, considering factors like thyroid condition, overall health, and lifestyle. This personalized approach ensures you make informed choices, optimizing your diet to support thyroid function effectively. You can consult with renowned Dietitian Swati Singh for seeking any kind of help regarding thyroid.

Consult a Healthcare Professional

Before making significant dietary changes, consult a healthcare provider or registered dietitian. They can provide personalized recommendations based on your thyroid health and overall well-being.

Conclusion

By embracing a thyroid-friendly diet, you take a proactive step toward supporting your thyroid's optimal function. Through nutrient-rich foods, balanced macronutrients, and mindful eating practices, you can promote hormone balance, metabolism, and overall vitality. Remember, your thyroid deserves the best care, and with the right diet plan, you're well on your way to nurturing your thyroid health for a vibrant and energized life.

#thyroid #thyroid treatment #thyroid diet #diet plan #healthy diet

[mcatmemoranda]

Hypothyroidism

Clinical features – The clinical manifestations of hypothyroidism are highly variable, depending upon the age at onset and the duration and severity of thyroid hormone deficiency. Common symptoms of thyroid hormone deficiency include fatigue, cold intolerance, weight gain, constipation, dry skin, myalgia, and menstrual irregularities. Physical examination findings may include goiter (particularly in patients with iodine deficiency or goitrous chronic autoimmune thyroiditis [Hashimoto's thyroiditis]), bradycardia, diastolic hypertension, and a delayed relaxation phase of the deep tendon reflexes. Serum concentrations of thyroid peroxidase (TPO) autoantibodies are elevated in more than 90 percent of patients with hypothyroidism due to chronic autoimmune hypothyroidism (Hashimoto's thyroiditis).

●Diagnosis – The diagnosis of hypothyroidism is based primarily upon laboratory testing. In most patients with symptoms suggestive of hypothyroidism, the serum thyroid-stimulating hormone (TSH) should be the initial test. If the serum TSH concentration is elevated, the TSH measurement should be repeated along with a serum free thyroxine (T4) to make the diagnosis of hypothyroidism. If central hypothyroidism is suspected (eg, presence of pituitary or hypothalamic disease), or if the patient has convincing symptoms of hypothyroidism despite a normal TSH result, we measure serum TSH and free T4.

•Overt primary hypothyroidism – If the repeat serum TSH value is still high and the serum free T4 is low, suggesting primary hypothyroidism, replacement therapy with T4 should be initiated.

•Subclinical hypothyroidism – Patients with a high serum TSH concentration and a normal serum free T4 concentration may have subclinical hypothyroidism.

•Central hypothyroidism – In patients with central hypothyroidism, the serum free T4 value is low-normal or low and serum TSH may be frankly low, inappropriately normal (for the low T4), or slightly high (5 to 10 mU/L) due to secretion of biologically inactive TSH.

●Differential diagnosis – The differential diagnosis of an elevated serum TSH concentration includes resistance to TSH, recovery from nonthyroidal illness, and a TSH-secreting pituitary adenoma.

●Identifying the cause of hypothyroidism – The clinical evaluation of a patient with primary hypothyroidism should be directed toward confirming the presence and identifying the cause of the hormone deficiency. The history, for example, may uncover past treatment of hyperthyroidism with radioiodine or thyroidectomy, the use of drugs that affect thyroid hormone synthesis, or history of iodine deficiency or excess. We do not routinely measure TPO antibodies in patients with primary overt hypothyroidism, because almost all have chronic autoimmune thyroiditis.

●Screening

•We suggest not performing population-based screening for hypothyroidism (Grade 2C). As an alternative, we prefer to screen individuals who are at increased risk for hypothyroidism.

•Measurement of serum TSH (rather than free T4 or total T4) is an excellent screening test for hypothyroidism in ambulatory patients. However, TSH alone may not be a useful tool for the diagnosis of hypothyroidism if pituitary or hypothalamic disease is known or suspected; in hospitalized patients, since there are many other factors in acutely or chronically ill euthyroid patients that influence TSH secretion; and in patients receiving drugs or with underlying diseases that affect TSH secretion.

•The universal screening of asymptomatic pregnant women for hypothyroidism during the first trimester of pregnancy is controversial. We suggest a targeted approach rather than universal screening (Grade 2C). We favor screening pregnant women if they are from an area of moderate to severe iodine insufficiency, have symptoms of hypothyroidism, a family or personal history of thyroid disease, or a personal history of TPO antibodies, type 1 diabetes, class 3 obesity, head and neck radiation, recurrent miscarriage, or infertility.

#hypothyroidism

[normal-with-adhd-is-a-joke]

finding out that seaweed is high in iodine and eating it in excess is bad for you was like the most devastating thing that's ever happened to me. How dare the cruel gods of the sea take the one vegetable that I cheerfully eat away from me

#the medical advice regarding it is "only eat one serving of it a day'' #and I'm like ''two servings is fine''

[mayank10]

*DR. SMITA GOEL HOMEOPATHY CLINIC* Thyroid disorders are conditions that affect the thyroid gland, a butterfly-shaped gland in the front of the neck. The thyroid has important roles to regulate numerous metabolic processes throughout the body. Different types of thyroid disorders affect either its structure or function. The thyroid gland is located below the Adam's apple wrapped around the trachea (windpipe). A thin area of tissue in the gland's middle, known as the isthmus, joins the two thyroid lobes on each side. The thyroid uses iodine to produce vital hormones. Thyroxine, also known as T4, is the primary hormone produced by the gland. After delivery via the bloodstream to the body's tissues, a small portion of the T4 released from the gland is converted to triiodothyronine (T3), which is the most active hormone. The function of the thyroid gland is regulated by a feedback mechanism involving the brain. When thyroid hormone levels are low, the hypothalamus in the brain produces a hormone known as thyrotropin releasing hormone (TRH) that causes the pituitary gland (located at the base of the brain) to release thyroid stimulating hormone (TSH). TSH stimulates the thyroid gland to release more T4. Since the thyroid gland is controlled by the pituitary gland and hypothalamus, disorders of these tissues can also affect thyroid function and cause thyroid problems. There are specific kinds of thyroid disorders that includes: • Hypothyroidism • Hyperthyroidism • Goiter • Thyroid nodules • Thyroid cancer Hypothyroidism results from the thyroid gland producing an insufficient amount of thyroid hormone. It can develop from problems within the thyroid gland, pituitary gland, or hypothalamus. Symptoms of hypothyroidism can include: • Fatigue • Poor concentration or feeling mentally "foggy" • Dry skin • Constipation • Feeling cold • Fluid retention • Muscle and joint aches • Depression • Prolonged or excessive menstrual bleeding in women Some common causes of hypothyroidism include: • Hashimoto's thyroiditis (an autoimmune condition that causes inflammation of the thyroid gland) • Thyroid hormone resistance • Other types of thyroiditis (inflammation of the thyroid), such (at Ghaziabad, India) https://www.instagram.com/p/Coqvp4Dp5Yu/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[do-foryou]

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