#random wikipedia article of the week

[alicedrawslesmis]

(sorry this is from a week ago but) Wait, what's going on right now that's complicated with Amazonian farmers' land rights?

Not farmers, indigenous people

See, recently they put a new law through congress that severely reduces indigenous land to the borders established during the late dictatorship, or immediately post-dictatorship, in 1988. An absolute joke of a border that was dreamed up by some military assholes. People in america may recognize this type of society from the times of westward expansion and think this is a thing of the past because for you guys it is. But here it is a reality. Murder is rampant. The reach of the law is incredibly limited. Government is just too weak and landowners basically run things. THAT'S WHY it's so important to donate directly to the native peoples instead of random NGOs because native people are fucking there and the more power they hold in the land the safer the land will be from agroindustrial expansion.

Well the law was vetoed by the the president and the Supremo Tribunal Federal, aka supreme federal court, labeled it as unconstitutional. Which it is, because our 1988 constitution describes native american land rights in some of its first articles. We thought this would be it for the law

But then the senate (that already overrepresents landowners in rural states) just went along and approved it anyway. I had no idea they could approve something unconstitutional. The progressives and particularly the socialists are fighting this in court. But it happens that for now the legal border is the severely reduced version.

Doesn't mean they'll just give up, because as it happens we don't have any stand your ground laws so even if you own a piece of land, you cannot legally speaking just shoot everyone there. Or attack or threaten them in any way. They'll just have long legal battles individually for the rights to occupy land based on use. Also the Xingu national park, the largest preserved land of the Amazon described as 'larger than Belgium', is being encroached by huge farms that are poisoning their water supply. The border is Visible. I'll try to find video of it but essentially you have a forest and a desert separated by a strict line.

Just last week in the south of Bahia (not the Amazon, let me explain more about the Amazon situation in a bit) Hãhãhãe leadership Nega Muniz Pataxó was shot and killed by an armed militia group that invaded and occupied the Caramuru territory.

The situation in the Amazon, specifically the yanomami territory in Roraima our northernmost state, aka deep forest, is more dire than average given difficulty of access, sheer size, and government abandonment. It's a place that depends on government aid for medicine. It's land that is being systematically invaded by gold miners, pandemic, toxins from nearby farmlands, wood extraction etc. (wood extration is rampant everywhere tho). Early 2023 saw a massive federal government operation by now president Lula to empty the mines and try to look for where funding comes from. Yanomami land is still being invaded to this day, the struggle is ongoing.

The yanomamis need support right now more than any other. Last year saw a massive heat wave that (well, one, caused a girl named Ana Clara Machado to die during the Taylor Swift concert. This is unrelated but I feel like not enough foreign media covered this, Taylor even lied about it as well.) dried up a lot of rivers, killed a LOT of fresh water animals including an unprecedented amount of pink dolphins. Access that was already hard became damn near impossible without boats. I cannot overstate how many pink dolphins were found dead.

Another technique that landowners use to clear space for farms is to just set things on fire and then occupy the empty land, which they legally can do to land that was naturally burned in a forest fire. It happened that Pantanal, another national park of swampland, was massively devastated by fires last year too

this article is from 2020, the year that the worst fire happened, but in 2023 there was another one. It's been happening yearly now due to a) deliberate action and b) climate change aggravation.

And this is not nearly all. Just off the top of my head. If you speak portuguese I recommend following the APIB or the COIAB on instagram to keep up with the news. The FUNAI is the government branch of indigenous organization, but it's not generally that well liked. Still.

[ashlingiswriting]

do i know you? chapter eight

[ chapter eight — 6.4k words ] [ masterlist ] [ prev chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven ] "well, now you know what to get me for christmas." richie jerimovich x reader, past mikey berzatto x reader, slow burn warning: drugs, insects

the next day, you wake to your customary darkness. outside your window light snow whispers against your window and thick clouds beyond promise there’s more where that came from. you pull a mini pizza from the freezer, crack an egg on top and put it in the toaster oven, call that protein. boil some water in your smallest pot. pull out your favorite chipped blue mug.

the dream did come last night, but its dread was dulled by early waking. you’re grateful for that. this is about as good as it gets, you think: tea on the way, a thick stillness enveloping your apartment, the city outside preparing to sleep while you keep watch. 

but wait, the phone. 

you go into your room and kneel by the bed.

michael’s small box is half-empty now that you’ve put his shirt in the wash, so the nokia is easy to find. when you flip it open, he’s there, waiting for you—one unread text—and in the sleepy silence, a bubble of incredulous unreality balloons and then bursts. it’s not michael.

they all blur into each other like drops of blood in water: you’re crushed to find that he’s still gone, relieved he’s still gone, guilty you were relieved, relieved that richie’s texted—no, happy—no, that’s embarrassing, but you can’t help it. it’s happiness and it’s something else. happiness is the warmth by your side and something else is the radiator.

the message turns out to be a single emoji, the one with the pink tongue sticking out. definitely richie. with no idea what that’s supposed to mean, you try to think of something equally silly. failing that, you pull up wikipedia on the phone and generate random wikipedia articles until you finally come across a fragment that strikes you as too beautiful to pass up. you weren’t looking for beautiful, but what the hell, it’s charmed you. copy, paste, and send.

> it was announced on january 30, 2023, that she will be writing an original poem dedicated to nasa's europa clipper. the europa clipper will launch in 2024, and by 2030, will be orbiting jupiter. limón's poem will be engraved into the craft.

not expecting an immediate reply, you replace the lid on the box and slide it back under your bed, only to hear the vibration of the phone against the wooden floorboards.

reading what he’s written makes you smile. proper punctuation and all, mimicking you. can’t tell if it’s meant to be snide or if he’s just matching what he thinks is your mood. you’ll take it either way.

> must be a bad motherfucker, that limon.

> must be.

> is she your favorite poet or something?

you feel a dissonant twinge of pride and shame. you once had a favorite poet, but that was a long time ago.

> i haven’t decided yet. are you getting better?

> i haven’t decided yet. i had three grape popsicles in bed for my breakfast, it’s kind of hard to argue with that.

> malingerer.

> i’m actually polish.

and so on. 

when he finally says goodbye so he can go back to sleep, you’re still laughing a little to yourself, and you’ve been kneeling there beside the bed for so long that your knees ache.

.

.

.

in the days that follow, richie texts you at exactly the time he’d usually visit. you stand outside like he’s still there, have a couple cigarettes, and enjoy the nonsense even as your fingertips go numb in the cold. once, he sends a picture of a meme so italian that you don’t get it. you obviously weren’t meant to get it, either, so you respond by sending him the middle finger emoji, which he, nonsensically, hearts.

if he needs help, he’ll ask for it, you think. you hope. he seems to be on the mend. anyways, you no longer feel that fear except in dreams, and you stop wondering when he’s gonna text and start expecting it, and then, less than a week later, he shows up. you know this because he texts, where are you?

you open the window and stick your head out into an eddy of snow. sure, you’re glad to see him, but: it’s too fucking cold for this!

he waves.

man was feverish for literally days and here he is in mid december with a hoodie under his leather coat but no scarf, absolute idiot, and so you close the window, go down to meet him, and break the rule. standing there, holding the door open, you say, c’mon. 

he’s surprisingly perceptive. he walks over, but he doesn’t cross the threshold, just pauses in front of you.

i don’t think we can smoke in there, he says.

we can’t, you say, moving back one more step, making even more room for him. or at least i can’t. i don't want to get evicted. my landlady will do it too.

yeah? he says, not moving. you're scared of her?

you shrug. you've moved back as far as you can, you're letting all the cold air in, and there's nothing you can do except say please.

you say, she's like four foot tall and a hundred years old, man. women that tiny that survive that long? you should be scared of them.

as if that was the final straw—though how could it be?—richie walks inside. without skipping a beat and for no reason you can figure out, richie walks inside.

learn my ways, sweetheart, he says, touching his chest and giving you his very best look of ridiculous condescension. old women love me.

as you close the door behind him, you fend off a stray, ridiculous burst of giddiness. it's just the lobby, pale linoleum floors and a single artificial plant by the elevators, but it feels radically different from the concrete outside. no cigarettes, no excuses. he’s only there for one reason.

old women do not love you, you say.

they do!

tina loves you. the rest of them, i don't know.

he snorts. you really don't want to be standing face to face with him for however long you’ve got him, so you lean on the wall instead, and he settles by your side the same way he always does.

when he looks over at you, there’s a hint of sly mischief in his eyes that makes you say, what?

wait for it, he says, and when you open your mouth, he holds up a finger.

you roll your eyes, but you hold your tongue with no idea what this is about, undisguised curiosity, and a readiness to be delighted.

you hear that? he finally says.

wind, maybe, or the distant rattle of a train? nothing special. you shake your head no.

that, richie says, is the sound of the sky not falling. 

knowing he noticed, that’s the worst thing about being told that everything is gonna be okay. it’s also the best thing. you shove him with a bony, solid elbow. i should’ve let you freeze.

he catches himself before he can topple, his smile gone goofy and so pleased. fuckin drama queen.

full han solo style, block of ice.

it was carbonite, not ice. how do you not know star wars?

course i know star wars, you lie. how do you live in chicago and not own a hat?

i have hats. i just also have a car.

uh-huh. if he wants to trade accusations, you’ve got a doozy you’ve saved up till you could turn it on him in person.  i noticed the other day that your place isn’t exactly in a location that makes my place ‘on the way home’ from the beef. 

he’s caught, not sorry. grins. you noticed that, did you.

yeah, i might not be from around here, but i still know north from south, all that shit. 

well okay, sherlock. you wanna charge me with a crime? the challenge in his eyes says it all; he knows you’re not unhappy to find he lied. 

you still need to get a hat, you say.

well, now you know what to get me for christmas.

you’re getting jack shit.

you already know what you’re getting him for christmas. 

.

.

.

kraft’s mac and cheese is a christmas tradition in a two-person slice of your family, and you’re one half of that slice, so mac and cheese is the first thing you think of when richie tells you he’ll be there for christmas eve. 

after that, it’s on to donna’s on christmas day. then i’m gonna kidnap carmy for some ice fishing, he says.

you ever been ice fishing before? you say. 

he splutters. do i not strike you as a, uh, an experienced-ass f—

no.

—fisherman and woodsman, and like—

nope.

—man of the… he gives up. whatever?

do you have a float suit? 

richie exhales smoke and fixes you with a look, annoyed but curious.

i’m carmen fucking sandiego, you say, by way of explanation. of course you’ve been ice fishing, you’ve been all over the world.  

sure you are, he says. he waves a dismissive hand. my buddy’s got all the stuff, we’ll be fine. it’s whatever, i just gotta get carmy out of the city so the only things he ends up killing are fish.

his first christmas since. you don’t have to finish the sentence.

yup, richie says.

it’s richie’s first christmas since, too, but there’s no call to say that. 

lapsing into a companionable silence and shrinking a little closer to the building as the wind picks up, you decide that you’re definitely gonna make him kraft mac and cheese for christmas eve. he wouldn’t take it as a letdown, he'd laugh at the single spinach leaf on top. he’d get it.

.

.

.

on christmas eve, ten minutes before you’re expecting richie to show up, you get a text message.

> need u 

it’s the wrong phone, though. it’s your work phone, and after everything those fuckers have done, they can’t possibly be calling you in on christmas eve. not now. your butter’s already cut, your colander’s in the sink, and you’re stirring the pot of boiling macaroni with a couple takeout chopsticks. they can’t—

the phone starts ringing. you pick up. 

fuck off, you say.

no wait! 

the voice is familiar; it’s kevin, a man so stupid that he once introduced himself to you out of anxious friendliness even though you’ve always made very clear that you don’t want to know anybody’s names. kevin must have you on speakerphone, because in the background, you can hear the telltale sounds of somebody else cursing in a continuous wretched stream. that piques your curiosity.

thirty seconds, you say. keep it clean. meaning, don’t give me names. 

kevin says, we were doing a thing and some stuff happened. 

that’s no use. he kept it a little too clean. you sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose between two fingers. you were doing a thing on christmas eve?

we thought…look, can you just come? aren’t you on call? isn’t this your job?

you tell me, you say. it’s been radio silence on my phone for three weeks and i haven’t gotten paid for almost a month now. 

oh.

yeah, you say, knowing damn well that it’s not kevin’s fault, but more than happy to take this out on somebody. they fucking ghosted me.

sorry to hear that, man, he says awkwardly. 

a thought occurs to you. likelihood of the carusos being involved in some shitbrained christmas eve scheme pulled by kevin? nil.

was this even a sanctioned thing? you say. like, did—

you know what, it’s fine, kevin says hurriedly. it’s basically a flesh wound.

the guy in the background howls, i got shot in the fucking foot!

shut up, howie, kevin hisses. you hang up.

there’s no reason for you to get involved. no orders, no blackmail, and probably no money; plus, your timer is counting down the last minute of macaroni boiling and richie will be on his way soon. 

you pocket your phone, walk back to the stove, and resume stirring. 

no reason for you to get involved. your timer rings out, so you dump out the pasta, put it back in the pot with the butter, add some water and the cheesy powder, stir with an eye for sauce thickness, wait for it to settle you. it doesn’t.

the thing is, there are so many small tricky bones in the foot, and you haven’t had a real surgery challenge in ages. ever since your bosses ghosted you, you’ve just been staying in your apartment, in limbo, seeing nobody except richie and occasionally a cashier. sleeping and waking neither on your old strict schedule nor on a normal daylight one. doing nothing, worth basically nothing. 

so yeah, you text kevin.

> send me the address

then, as quick as you can so you don’t have time to overthink it, you text richie. 

> work emergency, i have to cancel. sorry. 

the response is immediate.

> text me when you get home.

you realize that you’re still stirring, and you turn off the stove. although you give him a couple minutes, richie doesn’t add anything. no joke to put spikes on the soft gesture, no expression of disappointment to make you feel guilty for canceling this late. nothing. text me when you get home, that’s all.

if you were that generous, you’d text back don’t stay up, let him get some extra sleep in preparation for tomorrow’s christmas hell. but you don’t. you want to think of him waiting for his phone to chime, staying awake for you, thinking of you, even worrying. so you react with a thumbs up to his message.

the next time your phone goes ping, it’s kevin sending you the address, and you head for the door. 

.

.

.

you’re sitting on a coffee table beside the old sofa that holds your resting patient. lying on the coffee table beside you are half a dozen grape skittles, the remainder of your christmas eve meal. there’s literally baggies of cocaine sitting on the kitchen table, the tv is playing charlie and the chocolate factory, and everyone involved in this—including yourself—is so stupid that you’re all definitely going to jail. but you’re having one of your good nights.

only drugs compare to the state of pure focus that surgery grants you, and even though it’s always in shit circumstances done for shit people, you can’t help but feel like a serious machine doing all this ad hoc emergency shit. this has to be how athletes feel, after a game. it’s physical: your vision feels clearer, your hands are steady, your body’s slouched comfortable and sated. it was decent work you did, given the lack of fucking everything. you’re pretty sure howie won’t even have that bad of a limp. 

kevin finishes counting your pay and hands it over. you begin to count it again, too—twenty, forty, sixty—and then look up at him. 

what? he says.

you haul yourself up and walk over to the kitchen table, ignoring the cocaine in favor of the scale, on which you place a twenty. it comes up as 0.94 grams when it should be a single 1.0. so you throw your earnings in the sink, get out your lighter, and set it on fire.

the fire alarm! kevin rushes over to turn the tap on and put it out.

you can hear howie calling from the couch, what’s burning? 

kev just tried to cheat me. 

i did not, kevin says miserably, it was a misunderstanding. 

he pulls his own wallet out of his back pocket and starts to count the money, but you take it from his hands, sit at the kitchen table, and begin counting money yourself, weighing each bill as you go. once you’ve taken a hundred and fifty, you stand up and call over to howie, night.

yo, howie says. is my, like. what are the chances they gotta amputate?

that gets you a little, despite everything. howie spent the past few hours thinking he was gonna lose an entire foot, and he was stubbornly proud enough that he almost made it without admitting the fear to anyone. in a way, you gotta give it to him. admiration’s too grand a word, but it’s something like that. 

chances are super low, you say. as long as you follow instructions, keep an eye out for infection, and don’t get hooked on pills, you’re gonna be fine. 

for a second, there’s silence. then: thanks, babygirl.

for that, you take another forty dollars from kevin’s wallet and point them at him. asshole tax, you say.

as soon as you’re out of the house, you can hear kevin locking the door behind you. then he says, goodnight!

i shoulda robbed you, you say. then you start down the sidewalk. it’s bitter cold and you’re not a hundred percent sure you’re headed in the right direction, but just then you feel invincible. 

fuckin jagoffs, say to yourself.

.

.

.

on the train home, the peace and quiet is interrupted by a herd of college girls, twentysomethings all decked out in tinsel necklaces, clearly on their way to a different party, and hitting all the wrong notes in deck the halls.

most days, you’d hate this, but in your current state of satisfaction with yourself and the world in general, their effortless enjoyment doesn’t seem to completely shut you out. they’re so young, and one of them is sitting in another’s lap while a third drapes herself over her shoulder. they smell like spiced rum, they make it hard to be a bitter old crone.

one of the carolers makes direct eye contact with you, and instead of having the decency to keep herself to herself, she extends her hand to you and sings even louder, fa-la-la-la-ing like she’s god’s gift. for a second, you let yourself mouth along, fa-la-la-ing, but then she says, come on, i know you can do better than that! and nope, nope. fuck it.

you try to look away, she yells another, come on! and you give her the death glare. surprisingly, she keeps beckoning to you—they’re stubborn, kids these days—but eventually you win the way you knew you would.

she looks away and whispers in the ear of the lap-sitter. that girl, the tiniest of them all, gives you a look that could sear meat. you could break her in half with one hand tied behind her back, she really has the build of a hummingbird, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping her.

you roll your eyes, lean back with exaggerated deliberation, and get out your phone. 

> i’m home.

you want somebody of your own, you want richie’s reply. but none comes. 

he’s not waiting for you outside your apartment building, either, so there goes that mad hope.

.

.

.

when you get inside your apartment, you kneel to untie your boots and spot a flicker of movement on the floor. it’s a black ant scurrying towards your countertop. with a rising sense of horror, you straighten up and see a swarm of ants, dozens and dozens, maybe a hundred busily moving little black dots, crawling to and from the pot of macaroni and cheese on your stove. your stomach turns, and if you’d had a real dinner, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from throwing it up. as it is, you just gag. it feels like a violation, an invasion, and you’re more outraged about these fucking ants in your apartment—your fucking apartment—than you ever were about getting not paid or cheated or maybe even blackmailed. 

you go into the kitchenette and get the ant spray out from under the sink, then you stand back and spray everything in sight. the whole fucking counter, even though, yes, you cook your food on that, and the stove, and the floor for good measure. fuck them all. 

you should’ve known better than to leave food uncovered in this apartment. you’ve lived here for three years and this always fucking happens. you’d think the novelty would’ve worn off, but nope. it’s still as disgusting as it was the first time you woke up to see last night’s plate covered in black.

today, the spray isn’t working fast enough for you, so you get out a trash bag, put the pot in it, and head out for the dumpster. 

out there in the cold, waiting for the ant spray to do its work inside the trash bag, you remember that you left your lighter in kevin’s house. you tip your head back and look up at the sky. it’s so thickly smothered in clouds, there’s barely a glow of moon. 

yeah, you say. 

after a while, you untie the bag, shake the dead ants off your pot, and throw the bag away. you’d stomp on the ants for spite, but that would necessitate looking at them, and you’ve had more than enough of that. you just head back for home.

you almost make it to the front door, and then you smell it, the smoke.

well? richie says from around the corner. he must have heard your footsteps. you coming or what? 

you walk the last few steps and there, just around the corner, there he is. he has the navy hood pulled up over his head, both his hands shoved deep in his pockets, a cigarette between both lips. he looks at your pot with interest. 

after a second, you say, you’re late.

something tickles the inside of your wrist and you flinch. one last ant has crawled up the handle of the pot and onto your arm; you drop the pot in the snow and shake the ant off you. it lands by richie, and he stomps it dead matter-of-factly. 

it takes everything you’ve got not to start swearing like howie with a shot foot.

merry christmas? richie says after a second. 

merry fuckin christmas. you reach out and take the cigarette from his lips. long drag. you needed that. 

settling beside him so both of you can look out into the night, you hand the cigarette back. and that’s how it is for a while, sharing. the wind thins out, the streetlight across the way reflects in the glass of another apartment building's door.

when your body’s finally calmed down, you look over at him. i got you something.

aw, you didn’t have to, he say, a little curious and not particularly surprised. he probably thinks it’s a joke. 

you hold your right hand palm up, and he takes his right hand out of its warm jacket pocket to mirror the gesture. then you reach into your hoodie and unclasp his gift from your neck. 

the chain is gold. thick, but not so thick that it comes across comical. incongruous with you and with him, the weight of it and the shine, how new it is. when you lay it in his hand, it looks like a golden snake, intricate and flawless. 

after a second, he gives you his cigarette like he can’t both smoke and think about it. then he speaks. 

this is fake, yeah, he says.

hundred percent fake. 

actually, it’s regifted. it was originally one of your boss’s christmas bonus gifts, and given that you pawned all the other christmas bonus gifts to pay rent, you’re pretty sure that the chain is solid gold. it’s for the best that he doesn’t know it, though.

as you watch, he puts it on, fumbling a little with the clasp. looks at it for a second, tucks it back inside his coat. there goes the last 

yeah? you say, after a second. 

yeah. think i like this sugar baby shit. keep ‘em coming, he says. 

you laugh, real, so relieved that he didn’t take it weird, so relieved that you got lucky tonight and he got it the way he sometimes can, acceptance without explanation.

he lets you laugh, and then he says, mine’s better, though.

diamonds?

it’s back at my place, he says. i can drive?

you want that so bad, and you didn't even think to want it just seconds before.

yeah, you say, dropping the cigarette and stomping it out right beside the dead ant, unbothered. 

you want to take the pot up? 

you shrug, crouch down, and cover it with some snow; you’re not gonna leave him down here waiting for you, and you’re not gonna take him up to the horrorshow of dead ants either.

it’s still pretty obvious, richie says.

it’s christmas eve, who’s gonna bother digging in dirty snow to steal a pot?

this is chicago.

this is idle argument as companionship and you know that, but you're impatient. are you taking me home or what? yes, you can hear the double entendre. no, you don't fucking care.

there’s a slight pause before richie says, car’s this way.

.

.

.

in the car, there’s crumbs but not much mess; a coupon for personal pizzas in the cupholder, and that’s it. he must have cleaned.

when he starts the engine, you say, wait, and make an elaborate show of putting on your seatbelt. then you say, okay, now i’m ready.

fuck you, he says, and he’s still smiling when he starts to drive. 

the radio is playing carols dimly in the background, and you don’t hate it. 

you doing anything for christmas day? richie says. 

i’m working christmas, you lie.

seriously? tell your boss he’s fucking barbaric.

would if you could; you’ve already tried to say as much in your many texts, but it is what it is.

yeah, you say. bunch of fuckin jackoffs, right?

jagoffs, he says, over-enunciating, frustration immediate. he really is too easy and he knows it. you’re—

jackoffs, that’s what i said, that’s what you told me—

if you can’t do it right, don’t do it at all. he has to drive with his right hand so he can make chopping motions for emphasis with his left hand, because of course he does.

you say, jackoffs.

you’re killing me. 

and yet you go on surviving. you relent. got everything you need for ice fishing?

richie scoffs in disgust. yeah, but now carmy is trying to bail on me. 

if he’s not gonna say, typical, then neither are you.

he wants to work on the twenty-sixth, he says.

oof.

yeah. like a full planning session, go over the rest of the rollout schedule with the entire staff and like… he rubs his forehead. i don’t know. like we haven’t even gone to christmas yet and he’s already, fucking. i don’t know!

i mean.

he glances over at you briefly.

carmy wants to make the staff come in on the twenty-sixth just to go over the renovation schedule again?

he’s out of his fucking mind.

you already know what you want to say, but you have to double-check it in your own head to make sure you’re not overstepping. you don’t actually know these people.

but also, fuck it. 

you know, you say, you could tell him if he acts like this, syd’s gonna quit again.

he whistles. julie with the big guns.

how i’m built, you say.

yeah, i noticed, he says affectionately. it’s okay. i’ll figure it out.

i know you will. it’s kindness, and you mean it, and you don’t take it back. 

thanks, he says. 

you lean your forehead against the cold glass of the car door and watch chicago going by, all gold and black and white.

.

.

.

after a few minutes, he parks the car in an underground garage. 

you ready for this? this is gonna rock your world, he says. 

diamonds and rubies? you say, unbuckling your seat belt.

you’re gonna be fuckin crying.

diamonds and rubies and pearls?

.

.

.

at the door to his apartment, he says, close your eyes, hold out your hands, and wait here, so you do. when the door opens, you can smell whatever it was he made for his christmas eve dinner with eva. it smells like everything christmas eve should be, rich and homey. you could wait here for, say, half an hour. you could stretch this moment out. you wouldn’t mind.

okay, richie says. here.

when the gift touches your palm, you instinctively pull back. richie swears and catches it. 

it’s hot! you say as you open your eyes.

it’s soup, he says. you want it cold?

you look down. yeah, that’s definitely french onion soup, with a big white and brown patch of melted cheese and toast on top. it’s an echo of what you made him when he was sick. it’s him showing off his work in comparison to your two-ingredient version. it’s unfortunately perfect. there’s no way he knew that you haven’t had anything for dinner except skittles.

it smells like home.

here. you hand the bowl back to richie, but only so you can take off your coat and your shoes. 

there’s only one hook on the back of his door, so you hang your coat overtop his. as you move through his apartment, you take stock: the walls are still orange, but things are a little tidier and there are new drawings magnet-pinned to the fridge. eva’s going through a cat era, clearly. the kitchen lamp is as warm as before, and the cactus by the window has a small red ribbon on it, probably a nod to christmas. 

you sit down at the kitchen table on one of the foldable stools, and richie sets your spoon and bowl in front of you. there’s a half-empty bottle of coors on the countertop behind you, and you take a sip of that. he sits down on the chair to your left, so he’s in your peripheral. he’s next to you.

you can feel it coming.

um, you say.

he glances over, and you can feel that too. what’s up.

don’t be a dick, okay. you say it very low and very flat, not even angry, because angry wouldn’t cut it.

the pause is too long, but at least he finally says, okay.

you pick up your spoon and take the first sip. 

the bit of melted cheese hits first, warm and gooey and salty then the sweet savory richness of the broth, and yeah, okay. it’s happening. your eyes are wet.

you can feel him not saying anything about it, but before it can build up to torture, his phone rings. 

sorry, he says, getting up. it’s tiff.

he must know from the ringtone alone, but you’re not even mad at it, you’re relieved. saved by the bell, another bit of good luck. maybe christmas is real.

uh-huh, you can hear him saying. yeah. that’s— he laughs, and you know from that laugh alone it’s something about eva. yeah, put her on. a beat, then. hey, honey. no. no, she’s right. listen, santa won’t come if you spy on him. the guy likes his privacy, okay? he’s not in it for the applause, he’s not in it for the publicity. pause. well, that’s what the cookies are for. i am being serious, that’s what they’re for. okay. who—okay. he snorts. okay, you got me. don’t tell your mother, though, okay? she really enjoys it. pause. it’s up to you. okay, i gotta go. i love you. hey. i love you. 

that’s more than enough time for you to wipe your eyes on your sleeve, get all fucked up again listening to him, and wipe your eyes a second time. by the time richie sits back down, you’re basically normal.

that sounded like some saga, you say.

this jewish kid at school told all the christians that santa wasn’t real, he explains. and now she’s going around busting all the lying adults one by one. 

you laugh. 

they’re starting young, he says. when i was in school, they always used to make us wait until at least sixth grade before we could go around busting myths.

you’re jewish?

he shrugs. kinda sorta.

you see the opportunity to make another joke about him being zero percent italian, and you ignore it. did eva like the doll? you say instead. 

yeah. i mean, it was a huge hassle, it’s so expensive i had to go halves with tiff, and i nearly had a heart attack when eva said something about kirsten cause i thought i’d got the wrong one— he starts eating again, eating soup and talking, and you don't hate it. which by the way, swedes? have the most boring american history of them all, i don’t know why they’d make a doll about that, but anyways, yeah. she loved it. he reaches across you and takes his beer back so he can drink the last dregs of it. ever since the divorce, we don’t even call it christmas eve, we just call it christmas one and christmas two. as is tradition.

he says the last three words kind of weird. 

as is tradition? you repeat.

tiff and i, we don’t have a bunch of traditions from our parents, so it’s like. we make up a lot of stuff and then we say ‘as is tradition.’ cause it’s not.

i mean, you got two generations involved, so that counts.

eh, he says, drawing it out dubiously. 

i got two-generations traditions, you say.

you didn’t intend to talk about your family, you weren’t thinking about that at all, you were just thinking about richie. but now you gotta sit in the silence as he decides whether or not follow up about your parents.

finally, richie says, you got a kid? he’s doing his best to be cool about it, but his voice goes up a little crazy on the last word.

no, i mean—you’re laughing. i meant me and my dad.

oh, he says, maybe a bit relieved, definitely a bit something, you can’t quite place it. oh.

i used to make us mac and cheese for christmas. with a leaf on top, like lettuce or spinach or something. cause, you know, that makes it salad.

that’s cool, he says flatly. after a second, he adds, less flat, i don’t have any traditions with my dad. i mean, he’s dead, but like before then, we never. so i think that’s cool. 

you hate his dad. it’s a split-second decision, but you feel pretty confident about it.

two generations is all you need, you say. and you got eva. so it’s a tradition. 

heard, he says.

when you glance over, you see the chain catching the light, gold over his dark shirt. he looks at you. you both keep eating.

.

.

.

eventually, you finish off two bowls of soup and a hot chocolate too, courtesy of eva’s swiss miss unicorn package. you feel a bit subdued by the ordeal of being human, but relaxed. 

best christmas ever, you say.

really? richie says, like he believes it and feels bad for you.

god no, do you think i came out a dickens?

what the fuck is a dickens?

you’re illiterate, it’s okay. you look at him. you know that your eyes are a little red, but thankfully you can also see, reflected in his eyes, that he knows you're all right.

thank you, richie, you say. it’s all wrong, you shouldn’t be saying his name and you shouldn’t be saying thank you either, it’s thanks or nothing, but something about the formality feels a little heavier and therefore suited to the day. it’s getting late.

i’ll drive you? he says, and there’s a little extra question in it that you can’t bring yourself to consider. 

you shake your head and get up from the table heavily, feeling a thousand years old. i’m good. 

he gets up, follows you, stands there with his hands in shoved his pockets as you crouch to put on your shoes.

i wasn’t suggesting a sleepover, he says. 

no, of course not, you say, and you congratulate yourself on not making it sound bitter.

unless, richie says.

you look up at him. 

i have so many condoms, he says, deadpan. just. so fucking many. some of them are citrus flavored.

there he goes, saved it.

it’s not just tonight, is it? it’s not just tonight, it’s not just luck, it’s not just christmas; somehow, richie’s become…he’s figured it out, how to be with you. when to show up and when to let you go. not always, but more than enough, and he just. he wakes up and he struggles and he breaks shit and he irritates you and he calls eva and he watches youtube and he goes to bed and he wakes up and he struggles and he learns and you love him.

what a fucking time to find out. you look down and begin tying your shoes again.

you got pineapple flavor? you say.

in what world is pineapple citrus? richie says.

well, tough luck. you back up and turn around to put on your coat. for me, it’s pineapple condoms or nothing.

you’re a real high-maintenance fuck.

you laugh. michael used to like that about you, just how easy you were, or how easy you made yourself. buddy, you got no idea. 

it’s been such a long day for both of you, apart and together. of course you’re getting messy, of course it’s time to go. you zip up your coat, run your hand through your hair. 

let me drive you, he says again.

you wave him off. no, i need to walk. clear my head.

it’s december in chicago, fuckin pitch black— 

i’ll be fine.

it’s christmas eve, are you really gonna punish me for a fucking joke? he says, and you look up, startled; you didn’t know he was upset. in retrospect, you were just focusing on avoiding his eyes, so what did you expect?

i’m not punishing you for anything, you were great. richie. you look at him straight on and steady, so he understands. a little gentle, as gentle as you feel you can get away with. you truly have to go, and there’s no resentment in it. i just need to clear my head. i’ll be fine, i’m always fine. 

you never… richie trails off, eyes you, decides against finishing the sentence. you’re stubborn.

always. you give him a small smile. thanks for the soup.

goodnight.

that should be the end, but it feels unfinished. his blue eyes are alive to the possibilities when you reach out, but you just touch the chain with a fingertip where it rests over his collarbone. his right hand moves a little and you draw back, your other hand on the doorknob at once, already leaving.

.

.

.

two days later, the cops issue a warrant for your arrest. 

.

.

.

[ next chapter ] [ masterlist ]

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@garbinge, @narcolini, @drabbles-mc, @beingalive1, @eternallyvenus, @cerial-junkie, @jackierose902109, @shinebright2000, @scorpiolystoned — if anyone else wants to be tagged, let me know.

#richie jerimovich x reader #richie jerimovich #the bear fx #the bear fanfiction #the bear fanfic #mine #readerfic #do i know you? #the bear imagine #diky #guess who's still at it? ME!!! guess who's not giving up? ME!!!!!!

[thehamletdiaries]

Alright friends, a small project I am going to try and undertake in the next couple of weeks (despite the fact these are going to be two incredibly busy weeks for me but...it's fine).

Horatio's wikipedia page is...a bit crap for a page that is *literally about the one of the most famous character in all of literature's boyfriend* and also just a wonderful and extraordinary character in his own right, of course.

Now, you can't edit wikipedia with just...anything you want and at least for now I'm not intending or trying to push the boat out here; I just want the article to at least indicate the fact that this guy matters and deserves acknowledgement. So, my current thoughts are:

Adding in a bit about the influences of the reformation, which will basically take from what exists on Hamlet's page.

Adding in a list of parallels to other characters, again drawing on Hamlet's page (this bit to me is a bit random but if Hamlet gets it on his Horatio can also have the same section).

A list of notable performances.

Potentially some more pictures if I can find ones I can use - old paintings should be an option, copyright wise, I think.

Also just removing the comment about his role in the drama being secondary because it isn't, and maybe if I can find something I can cite, then pointing out he actually kicks off the plot.

Potentially an in other media section talking about his role in adaptions and such (if anyone can point me to some good ones that'd be great).

Any other ideas for this would be very, very welcome! Or of course if anyone wants to help out and start on the actual editing, or drafting stuff or anything like that, that'd be very appreciated.

#horatio #hamlet #hamlet x horatio #hamlet/horatio #I just think people need to understand Horatio deserves attention #shakespeare #tragic danish boyfriends

[caledfych]

Fandom: Homestuck Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Archive Warnings: Major Character Death(s) Category: Gen Characters: Sollux Captor, Karkat Vantas, Terezi Pyrope Additional tags: Doomed Timeline(s) (Homestuck), Computer Jokes, Suicidal Thoughts, Or Are They Technically Homicidal?, Anyone out there wondering what the Mage class does, it's probably something like this, Existential Angst, Moral Ambiguity, Trolley Problem, ~ATH (Homestuck) Summary: CG: WHAT I'M ASKING FOR IS A HINT ON THIS PROGRAMMING PROBLEM I TOLD YOU ABOUT LAST WEEK, YOU RECALCITRANT BEESLURPER. CG: I'VE BEEN LOSING MY GODDAMN MIND TRYING TO COME UP WITH A SOLUTION THAT SEEMS LIKELY TO TERMINATE BEFORE THE END OF THE UNIVERSE. TA: 2ee, that2 probably your problem riight there. CG: WHAT. WHAT IS MY PROBLEM. CG: WAIT A SECOND, IS THIS ACTUALLY A HINT?! IF SO, IT'S TERRIBLE. TA: never miind. ju2t a 2hiitty joke.

Notes:

Quantum bogosort: A hypothetical sorting algorithm based on bogosort, created as an in-joke among computer scientists. The algorithm generates a random permutation of its input using a quantum source of entropy, checks if the list is sorted, and, if it is not, destroys the universe. Assuming that the many-worlds interpretation holds, the use of this algorithm will result in at least one surviving universe where the input was successfully sorted in O(n) time. -- From the Wikipedia article for "Bogosort"

This started out as a joke fic because obviously, obviously, any real implementation of Quantum Bogosort would have to be written in ~ATH. But I found myself engaging seriously with the premise, which gave it all quite a bit darker (though canon-typical) flavor. At the end of the day I'm always pleased to find new ways (for me!) to engage with beloved and familiar characters.

Fondly written for the Retcon Timeline gang. Happy 4/13, friends, and thanks for sharing a fandom with me. :)

#homestuck #homestuck fanfic #413 #sollux captor #karkat vantas #terezi pyrope #and many happy returns for all who celebrate

[sagau-my-beloved]

Imagine giving Zongli access to the internet and helping him find reliable history website. In a few days I bet he'd be more well educated then most people now adays about days gone by.

Yeah you're totally right though, man would consume information like nobody else, he's got more critical thinking skills than half the people on this planet already, he could probably solve a lot of the worlds problems pretty easily with Internet access

He's the type of person to edit Wikipedia articles in his free time, I can also imagine him having a pleasant time watching history channels on tv and reading peer reviewed articles just in his free time about government and economics

Get this man a library card and watch as you don't see him for weeks on end

And then he would end up having like the false idea that the average person knows about all of this stuff, so he tries to strike up a conversation about random niche history things and how it affects the current times in order to better relate to the common person and maybe appear more like he's not from a completely different dimension, but anybody in a conversation with him would be so incredibly lost

He would quickly become widely loved amongst history buffs though

I could see him getting so incredibly frustrated regarding like politicians too, because let's face it, a lot of these people are completely selfish idiots, it would irk him to no end, and if he was the ranting type you wouldn't hear the end of it for a while

I mean, he does have a vague idea that money and power have the tendency to draw corrupt people out of the wood works, but this is just insane

I could also see him getting really interested in law too, I mean, that's basically his specialty, rules and contracts and loopholes

Zhongli for governor, get him a position in government and watch as he completely obliterates every single debate with the same polite level headedness he's known for

Though that would require you to forge a birth certificate and managed to stop him from letting on about the fact he is not human every five seconds—

#genshin impact #sagau #genshin x reader #genshin zhongli #brainrot #my man would just be going through it seeing the state of the world rn #if only he wasn't broke and a god

[eggthew]

fun new years resolutions I want to work on. mostly about discovering and learning

watch at least one movie I haven't seen before, or dont remember much about, each week. write a small review!!

every week pick a random country and learn about it. put together a mock presentation!

see a new fruit? buy it (if I can afford it lmao) and try it. read the Wikipedia article on it (this one is stolen from that one post)

I'll see if I can add more. these arent Set In Stone they're just things I'd like to try and do

#egg talks

[yamayuandadu]

Both the Zanmu essay and the response to the weather gods ask from last week, which I expanded into a full article, are essentially ready for publication, expect them later today or tomorrow in the evening depending on various random irl factors. Tentative list of possible future serious Touhou posts: a) the historical Yoshika no Miyako and the impact of legends about him and other Japanese taoist immortality enthusiasts on Ten Desires (guaranteed to be the next one as I am already going to cover some of this material in the Zanmu post) b) Mai, Satono, their counterparts Choureita and Nishita, and the concept of douji in Japanse Buddhism c) oni with some relation to these already portrayed in Touhou Long ago I said I might redo the old Matarajin primer, which technically counts as a Touhou post, but admittedly I am not sure if that is really needed, as I already wrote a relatively comprehensive Wikipedia article about Matarajin, plus additional ones on Shinra Myojin and Sekizan Myojin, which basically accounts for 90% of the material. We will see. Tentative list of possible future serious non-Touhou posts: a) a belated celebration of the tenth anniversary of Goddesses in Context feat. a reworked unused pride month special (being written as we speak already). I will not reveal its topic in advance though I did joke about it before somewhere so I'm sure some of you will recognize it once it's published.

b) positive portrayals of Enlil in Mesopotamian literature All around I would like to slightly decrease my wikipedia activity - not entirely, as I still have a lot of work to do there, though - and temporarily priotirize writing for this blog again.

[theshitpostcalligrapher]

Twitch Schedules

Mondays, 8pm to midnightish est are Minecraft Mondays, where I work on an absolutely ludicrous survival world build of a 1pixel:1 block map art of my infamous MS Paint Rose Lalonde drawing. There is a lot of resource gathering, hope yall enjoy the sounds of shears and blocks breaking. Music requests are live. @ghostchilismoothie has helpfully created a faq google doc which you can view here

Fridays, 4pm to 7 pmish est are normally the day of the week we do let’s plays where i try games around, but we just finished Dredge and I need to get lotta work done. Will resume Friday games eventually!

Saturdays, 3pm to 6ishpm est are queue card streams, where I write up the 28 cards that go up throughout the week, these are backlogged from the askbox. Music requests are live. If you sub or donate bits during the stream you can skip the queue and get your card done live

Misc days but usually from any point between 2 am and 7am est are I am Terrible At Minecraft streams, where we try to beat the game but comedically die in hardcore worlds over and over and over again. Chat helps me choose names for these worlds. This is entirely contingent on if i feel like vibing in the middle of the night and want folks to come along with me

Also on Misc late night dates at random I will do Redactle streams, where we solve Redactles together. Redactle is like wordle but with a redacted wikipedia article that you’re trying, via keyword entry and context clues, to find the title of. There’s a multiplayer mode, it’s a lotta fun.

I also show up on a bunch of my streamer friends’ twitch channels in voice channels so that’s a thing to look for

streams are done on twitch under the exact same username here, theshitpostcalligrapher.

#info #faq #to pin

[thedawningofthehour]

6, 14, 17, 18, and 29 for the fic writer asks (or however many of those you want to answer!! I know thats a lot sorry lol)

6. Are there any fics from others you reread all the time?

@spectralsleuth's Little Scraps of Wisdom. It's the perfect blend of just fluffy enough to not require tons of mental energy, but also serious and angsty enough to keep my attention. Also the format makes it really easy to pick a section and just dip in-perfect for my ADHD ass.

14. If you could see one of your fics adapted into a visual medium, such as comic or film, which fan fic would you pick?

Doth, at least parts of it. The whole thing wouldn't translate well to visual media-there's tons of introspection, conversations that wouldn't be all that interesting visually. (at least not animated-you don't really get Cersei Lannister-esque performances from animated characters) Stuff like the actions scenes, big scenes with multiple people speaking, those would probably translate the best.

My Dishonored fic, god no. It's video game media and it's very obvious that that's the source material. It would be incredibly boring if you weren't in Daud's head the whole time.

17. What’s something you’ve learned about while doing research for a fic?

Uhh. Like. So much stuff?

For doth, it's been insanely broad. On any given day, my writing window might be filled with Wikipedia pages on scientific topics, cultural, history, law. Right now I have a bunch of pages open about military tactics and technology, a Google Maps of NYC, and then some articles on nobility and royal titles.

For The Red Queen, I had to learn a lot of architecture terms when writing Daud running around doing backflips off rooftops. I don't even think half of them even made it into the text, but I had to know what he was perched on top of like a daddy seagull. I also did a whole dive into the Black Death for that one. Oh, if you want an interesting fact, did you know the plague was actually carried by fleas and not rats like many assumed? That's partially why it was so bad in cities. Poland actually had a much lower death toll than the rest of Europe in part because of its high Jewish population (mostly refugees because many cities blamed them for the plague-because of fucking course they did) who washed more frequently than the average peasant at the time and their neighbors decided to get in on that too. Milan survived relatively unscathed because whenever someone showed signs of plague, they and their family members were walled up in their homes and set on fire.

18. What’s one of your favorite lines you’ve written in a fic?

I like the entire exchange between Leo and Draxum on the roof. There were a lot of details written into those lines that gave extra information or conveyed something about their mental states.

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)

I've played around with writing out Cass's consensual kidnapping and walking in on Gale being brainwashed, with some blurbs about her adjusting to life in the Hidden City. They never really got past scraps, but I can post this scrap.

She’s just getting back from school, last week before winter break, her head swarming with final this and final that. Tom says hello to her from where he’s working at the dining room table. Casey says hello back and promptly excuses herself to go work on her final paper for English.

He should be happy about that. She’s actually doing her homework.

Tom’s not bad, she supposes. He’s nice enough and doesn’t try to catch her coming out of the shower. He and Cindy offered to pay the fee if she rejoined the hockey team this year. But he gets on her every last nerve. She’s their first foster and they are absolutely trying too hard. At least Cindy isn’t home enough to annoy her.

She shuts her bedroom door and drops her backpack on the floor. Ugh. She could kill whoever invented academic papers. Well, the Odyssey isn’t going to write about itself.

“I have to say, this wasn’t-”

Casey whirls around, grabbing the first thing she registers-some Hello Kitty knick-knack she keeps on her dresser, in this case-and hurls it at the intruder.

Draxum bats it away, barely raising an eyebrow.

#doth asks #ask game

[cryptcombat]

scarlet hollow tag game

tagged by @cymatile (thank you :3), tagging @nerime @sehiriti @jennystahl and all mewtuals who played this game djsff

TRAITS:

Your "canon" trait combination? Mystical/Book Smart. ronja is obsessed with discovering and studying the unknown; these traits make the most sense for her. she has a whole encyclopedia on all kind of random niches in her head, ofc she got it from staying up night reading wikipedia articles :/

What third trait would you add for hardcore mode? i would add hot bc lbr she’s a hottie; she’s very fashionable and has a mysterious vibe to her that’s alluring to ppl. she isn’t interested nor does she flirt with any of them except for wayne. honestly if you want her attention you have to be fucked up and a fucking weirdo. massive bonus points if you’re monstrous.

What trait are you least drawn to? Powerful build, not to be mean but i don’t care much about the meme-y himbo dialogue.

Coolest Trait: Mystical. love the way it has been implimented in the game so far. especially how it effects you if you drink sybil’s tea or not or the ghost dimension scene.

ROMANCE:

Who are you romancing? wayne, it has to be him.

What romance are you least interested in? Stella. stabby real! can’t see her in any way that’s more than friends. ronja is not interested in making friends at all, she’s got horrors beyond comprehension to uncover!!

Who would you romance if every single character was eligible? No one lol

MISCELLANEOUS:

What character would hurt you the most if something bad happened to them? wayne, by bad i mean, he gets a very unsatisfying ending. reese and the gutierrez family come to mind too since in my playthrough reese ate the only available doctor in town and rosalina lost her leg...... i already mentally prepared myself for the consequences

Would you stay in Scarlet Hollow when the week is over? no i dont fuck with cursed places

Who would you vote for dog mayor? Scraps, i trust gretchen’s judgement

#oc: ronja #tagged

[stressedlawsecretary]

Today's Focus

04.23.24 - I'm not generally one to toot my own horn but omg I look so freaking cute today! I am back at work after my 3-day weekend and while I don't exactly want to be here, it is going to be a fun week here at the office, between Administrative Professionals Day, and the designated take-your-child-to-work day.

Work - It looks like I have a couple of efiles to tackle, and a mandatory training to complete by Thursday, but aside from those and a couple of press releases it doesn't really look like I'm going to be swamped or anything.

Background Noise - I am back to binging YT, and Tuesday I focus on videos discussing various internet dramas. There's gonna be a bunch today.

Between Friday and Monday I watched like 34 videos so I'm very happy I'm not taking too much time off and letting my lists build up too much.

Study - Tuesday is article day, and I have several I want to read. If I'm lucky, I'll get through a bunch of stuff like I did last week.

I did read like half a dozen Wikipedia pages over my long weekend, and at least one other random article I stumbled upon. So I have kept my brain active.

Extras - Last Tuesday of the month, so I need to both clean the bathroom (tub, toilet, sink) but also take care of the floor & mirror in there. Dinner is Italian tonight: veal parmesan with a salad, so it should be a lot of labor but not a lot of work actually cooking it. We're back to Carranger tonight and we're starting the second season of Freakazoid as well. I've been doing good writing; a mini-essay today, work on more of a draft, and over the weekend I worked on making a draft a final essay to post. Go me!

#studyblr #my study stuff #today's focus #talking #selfie

[transgenderer]

The snipers were John Allen Muhammad (age 41 at the time) and Lee Boyd Malvo (age 17 at the time), who traveled in a blue 1990 Chevrolet Caprice sedan. Their crime spree, which began in February 2002, included murders and robberies in several states, which resulted in seven deaths and seven injuries. In total, the snipers killed 17 people and wounded 10 others in a 10-month span.[2]

the dc sniper attacks were insane. most sources focus on their "fast spree" in DC, but before that they shot 9 other people! 6 killed! and it was all over the country, which is why they werent caught before they did the whole DC thing. some of them were close range too. outside of the DC area there were shootings in at least tacoma, washington; tucson, atlanta, montgomery, alabama; baton rouge, hammond, louisiana, possibly more, i cant find a clear list anywhere and the wikipedia article alludes to four shootings before september but after tacoma and tucson, but atlana montgomery baton rouge and hammond were all after they did a couple shootings in the DC area, but before the spree. anyway isnt this insane! 10+ shootings, over the course of about 8 months, starting in february and ending in the october spree. isnt that bizarre! malvo kept shooting people in the neck and not succesfully killing them

anyway once you get to the actual DC sniper shootings and not the preliminary stuff the information on wikipedia is SUPER detailed, id recommend just reading it

they shot through a hole in the back of the truck for stealth. just a bunch of random strangers going about their day

they killed a whole bunch of people on october 3rd, nobody even knew where the bullets were coming from but it became clear there were a bunch of shootings so everyone started freaking out, then they started spacing them out, a couple days between each

they shot a 13 year old, and left stuff at the scene:

At this crime scene, the authorities discovered a shell casing as well as a Tarot card (the Death card) inscribed with the phrase "Call me God" on the front and, on three separate lines on the back: "For you mr. Police." "Code: 'Call me God'." "Do not release to the press."[29][32] Despite police efforts to honor the request not to release information about the card to the press, details were made public by WUSA-TV and then by The Washington Post, just one day later.[33]

they kept shooting people at gas stations (and parking lots), so gas stations started putting up tarps to hide their customers!

it went on for THREE WEEKS (eventually people connected the chevy caprice to the crimes)

The crime spree came to a close at 3:15 a.m. on October 24, 2002, when Muhammad and Malvo were found sleeping in their car at a rest stop off Interstate 70 near Myersville, Maryland, and were arrested on federal weapons charges. Police were tipped off by two 911 calls from individuals at the rest stop.[47] Four hours earlier, Montgomery County police chief Charles Moose had relayed this cryptic message to the sniper: "You have indicated that you want us to do and say certain things. You have asked us to say, 'We have caught the sniper like a duck in a noose.' We understand that hearing us say this is important to you". Moose asked the media "to carry the message accurately and often."[48] This statement may refer to a Cherokee fable.[49]

the motive isnt super clear, but here's what malvo testified:

Part of his testimony concerned Muhammad's complete multiphase plan. His plan consisted of three phases in the Washington, D.C., and Baltimore metro areas. Phase one consisted of meticulously planning, mapping, and practicing their locations around the D.C. area. This way, after each shooting they would be able to quickly leave the area on a predetermined path and move on to the next location. Muhammad's goal in Phase One was to kill six white people a day for 30 days. Malvo went on to describe how Phase One did not go as planned due to heavy traffic and the lack of a clear shot or getaway at locations.

Phase Two was meant to take place in Baltimore, Maryland. Malvo described how this phase was close to being implemented, but was not carried out. Phase Two was intended to begin by killing a pregnant woman by shooting her in the stomach. The next step would have been to shoot and kill a Baltimore police officer. Then, at the officer's funeral, they planned to detonate several improvised explosive devices complete with shrapnel. These explosives were intended to kill a large number of police, since many police would attend another officer's funeral.

The last phase was to take place during or shortly after Phase Two, which was to extort several million dollars from the United States government. This money would be used to finance a larger plan, to travel north to Canada. Along the way, they would stop in YMCAs and orphanages recruiting other impressionable young black boys with no parents or guidance. Muhammad thought he could act as their father figure as he did with Malvo.

Once he recruited a large number of young black boys and made his way up to Canada, he would begin their training. Malvo described how John Muhammad intended to train boys in weapons and stealth as he had been taught. Finally, after their training was complete, John Allen Muhammad would send them out across the United States to carry out mass shootings in many other cities, just as he had done in Washington and Baltimore. These attacks would be coordinated and be intended to send the country into chaos that had already been built up after 9/11.

im suspicious of all of this, because this was part of the defense's case that malvo was basically not guilty because he was under muhammad's control, which incentivizes a certain narrative. although malvo was definitely under muhammad's control, he sort of raised him.

the wikipedia articles for the perpetrators are also worth a read. very bizarre story, malvo grew up in jamaica, bounced around between caregivers, and ended up in muhammad's care (muhammad was american, visiting) and illegally immigrated!

[doodlingcrayon]

I'm in another quiet spot on this blog, which if you've followed it for a while, know that's nothing new! :) I tend to draft up a bunch of stuff once I have a collection that I feel comfortable sharing and then post them one day at a time; which means that there are sometimes days or weeks without new art.

However!! I've been trying out streaming every Sunday morning (about 10:30AM EST) where I share whatever I'm currently working on.

I'm by no means a Professional or a Streamer, but it's been fun to hang out with friends (and new folks, too!!) while I draw. It also prevents me from tabbing out every 8 seconds to look at tumblr or random wikipedia articles and instead actually focus for a few hours!! IMAGINE!!!

Anyway, if you ever wanna stop by to lurk or chat, feel free!!

🎨 My Twitch is Here 🎨

I can't guarantee I'll be doing this every Sunday without fail, but hey!! I've been pretty productive the past few weekends because of it, so who knows!!

Okay byeeee 👋

#not art #misc

[bookclub4m]

Episode 189 - Romantic Comedies & Humorous Romance

This episode we’re discussing the fiction genre of Romantic Comedies! We talk about the difference between “fun” and “funny,” crossover romance genres, cataloguing romance fiction, and more!

You can download the podcast directly, find it on Libsyn, or get it through Apple Podcasts or your favourite podcast delivery system.

In this episode

Anna Ferri | Meghan Whyte | Matthew Murray | Jam Edwards

Things We Read (or tried to…)

The House Witch by Delemhach

A Witch's Guide to Fake Dating a Demon by Sarah Hawley

One Last Stop by Casey McQuiston 

Evvie Drake Starts Over by Linda Holmes

Delilah Green Doesn't Care by Ashley Herring Blake

Take Me Home by Lorelie Brown 

I Kissed a Girl by Jennet Alexander 

The Bromance Book Club by Lyssa Kay Adams

Other Media We Mentioned

When Harry Met Sally… (Wikipedia)

The Bear (Wikipedia)

Nominated for Golden Globe Award for Best Television Series – Musical or Comedy

The Martian (Wikipedia)

Golden Globes change comedy rules after controversial win for The Martian

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

Beetlejuice (Wikipedia)

The Wallflower Wager by Tessa Dare

A Week to be Wicked by Tessa Dare

You Deserve Each Other by Sarah Hogle

Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston

Judgment (video game)

Bridgertons Series by Julia Quinn

Crazy Stupid Bromance by Lyssa Kay Adams

A Very Merry Bromance by Lyssa Kay Adams

The Duke Who Didn’t by Courtney Milan

Cats (2019 film) (Wikipedia)

Links, Articles, and Things

Episode 119: Regency Romance

What does a happily ever after look like? (romance novel covers)

Sensible Chuckle (Know Your Meme)

There Is Only One Bed (TV Tropes)

Pop Culture Happy Hour

Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me!

Does the Dog Die?

20 Humorous Romance by BIPOC Authors

Every month Book Club for Masochists: A Readers’ Advisory Podcasts chooses a genre at random and we read and discuss books from that genre. We also put together book lists for each episode/genre that feature works by BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, & People of Colour) authors. All of the lists can be found here.

Courting Samira by Amal Awad

The Wildest Ride by Marcella Bell

A Proposal They Can't Refuse by Natalie Caña

Yinka, Where Is Your Huzband? by Lizzie Damilola Blackburn

Rent a Boyfriend by Gloria Chao

How to Find a Princess by Alyssa Cole

You Had Me at Hola by Alexis Daria

Game On by Seressia Glass

Manhattan Dreaming by Anita Heiss

Get a Life, Chloe Brown by Talia Hibbert

A Dash of Salt and Pepper by Kosoko Jackson

Much Ado about Nada by Uzma Jalaluddin

Serena Singh Flips the Script by Sonya Lalli

The Stand-Up Groomsman by Jackie Lau

Booked on a Feeling by Jayci Lee 

The Secret to a Southern Wedding by Synithia Williams

Pride and Protest by Nikki Payne

Tastes Like Shakkar by Nisha Sharma

The Worst Best Man by Mia Sosa

The Donut Trap by Julie Tieu 

Give us feedback!

Fill out the form to ask for a recommendation or suggest a genre or title for us to read!

Check out our Tumblr, follow us on Instagram, join our Facebook Group, or send us an email!

Join us again on Tuesday, February 20th we’ll be talking about our reading resolutions for 2024! 

Then on Tuesday, March 5th we’ll be discussing the genre of Dark Fantasy!

#episodes #romance #romantic comedy

[aseriesofunfortunatejan]

I can't believe I'm exhausted to the point I'm starting to write a post about Garfield, but... sure, let's go.

Despite being to me just another random inoffensive comic I would grab when I was irremediably bored (too bored to gather the mental energy to read a real book), I think it's fair to say that the lasagna-loving cat has reached meme status.........

Every now and then I'll see or hear someone point out that it's ridiculous for a cat, who doesn't go to work or have any obligations, to hate Mondays. That's honestly true. And for the most part, I believe this is a tongue-in-cheek remark, since it only takes glancing at a couple Garfield-hates-Mondays comic strips to know that Garfield's relationship with Mondays is absurd and exaggerated for laughs. Also it's not that deep, he's a cat obsessed with lasagna, whose ability to talk (or lack thereof) is a mystery, and Jon murdered Lyman in cold blood to steal Odie from him. But still, I have seen this sentiment be shared sometimes with the implied meaning of "yeah, that's really dumb and it doesn't make sense, why did Jim Davis think that was a good idea?"

So I'd like to draw your attention to a memory I, myself, have from my childhood, which I promise wasn't that long ago at all.

When I went to and came back from school, every morning and every night, in front of most subway stations, there would be people handing out free newspapers, either the morning or the evening edition. Every evening, I would take my favourite evening paper, glance at its contents just in case an article appealed to me, and then turn it around to read the daily comic strip.

Though the newspaper where I lived didn't print Garfield comics, this is what Garfield originally was. From 1978 (ignoring the Jon comic strip which was also printed by the Times beforehand from what I'm learning by glancing at the Wikipedia page just in case), Garfield was syndicated and distributed in 41 newspapers. (I didn't think it would be that many from the get-go.) This meant that on Labor Day on September 4, 1978, young readers were able to skip all the boring text and rush to the page where this strip was printed:

And on September 18, 1978, which fell on a Monday, readers of all ages were able to read this strip:

This shows that Garfield's relationship with Mondays was akin to a curse from the get-go, but most importantly, it being Monday and Mondays being bad in the Garfield comic strip was never about Garfield. It was about the workers who would read the daily paper on their commute, who probably hated Mondays because they meant the week-end was over, and would enjoy their short-form entertainment being relatable.

Since it's Monday for you, it's also Monday for your good friend Garfield. And by the way, Mondays are the WORST right? That's right, you're not alone, we're all reading Garfield at the same time and feeling the same way.

It wasn't just Garfield - very often, those short strips at the back of the paper had close to no actual substance. Using the comic to point out "today's Monday, and you probably hate it" was a simple way to make some people smile. Your thoughts being mirrored back to you by a funky orange cat in a wacky situation can easily make them feel less dramatic.

#my tummy hurts i'm tired i'm hungry everything is wrong help me #done writing: i ate a croissant i feel a little better now #garfield #comic strip #random