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#this is painful to read
the-cimmerians · 11 months
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Monday, Zephyr, with help from the Montana ACLU, filed a lawsuit in state court asking for an emergency injunction returning her to the House floor for whatever days remain in the session, arguing that her First Amendment rights had been stomped on. The suit also names several of her constituents as plaintiffs, arguing that the House's action effectively denied them and the rest of Zephyr's 11,000 constituents representation.
The AP interviewed one of those plaintiffs, Anna Wong, who has a transgender child and said she'd voted for Zephyr in 2022 because she knew Zephyr would "speak out against the onslaught of bills targeting transgender youth."
“Suicide amongst transgender youth is not imaginary,” Wong said. “It is not a game and it is not a political foil. It is real. It is heartbreaking. And it is the responsibility of my representative to speak out against bills promoting it.”
That's exactly what Zephyr was getting at when she spoke against Senate Bill 99, which bans gender-affirming care for trans youth. Zephyr accurately said forcing trans kids to undergo puberty as the sex they don't identify is "tantamount to torture" and said she hoped that those voting for the bill would "see the blood on your hands" the next time they pray during a House invocation.
***
Zephyr has, since last week's vote, been dutifully showing up and sitting on a bench near the entrance to the House chamber to work on her laptop, although yesterday when she arrived, she found the bench had been taken already. So she worked at a table instead, standing up for her community. [ ]  But who were those ladies who made a point of arriving early to occupy the bench where Zephyr had been sitting? Ha ha it was a very funny trick by the wives of several prominent Republicans in the state Lege, including Jolene Regier, the mother of Speaker Matt Regier and wife of Senator Keith Regier.
***
But also this morning, some unidentified opponent of trans rights took a less harmless approach to trying to silence Zephyr, calling the police in an attempt to send a SWAT team to the home of Zephyr's partner, journalist Erin Reed. Such SWATting attempts have resulted in at least two deaths — one from a police shooting, one from a heart attack — and many incidents in which police arrived at someone's door ready to use deadly force against a nonexistent threat.
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jenxiez · 1 month
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Berlin and Sans-Souci; or Frederick the Great and his friends by Luise Mühlbach
Chapter XIII.
The Last Struggle.
It was Christmas eve! The streets were white with snow; crowds of people were rushing through the castle square, seeking for Christmas-trees, and little presents for their children. There were, however, fewer purchasers than usual. The small traders stood idle at the doors of the booths, and looked discontentedly at the swarms of laughing men, who passed by them, and rushed onward to the Gens d'Armen Market.
A rare spectacle, exhibited for the first time during the reign of Frederick, was to be seen at the market to-day. A funeral pyre was erected, and the executioner stood near in his red livery. What!—shall the holy evening be solemnized by an execution? Was it for this that thousands of curious men were rushing onward to the scaffold? that groups of elegant ladies and cavaliers were crowded to the open windows?
Yes, there was to be an execution—a bloodless one, which would occasion no bodily suffering to the delinquent. The eyes of this great mass of people were not directed to the scaffold, but to the window of a large house on Tauben Street.
At this open window stood a pale old man, with hollow cheeks and bent, infirm form; but you saw by the proud bearing of his head, and his ironical, contemptuous smile, that his spirit was unconquered. His whole face glowed with flaming scorn; and his great, fiery eyes flashed amongst the crowd, greeting here and there an acquaintance.
This man was Voltaire—Voltaire, who had come to witness the execution of his "Akakia," which had been published in Leyden, and scattered abroad throughout Berlin. Voltaire had broken his written and verbal promise, his word of honor; and the king, exasperated to the utmost by this dishonorable conduct, had determined to punish him openly. And now, amidst the breathless silence of the crowd, a functionary of the king read the sentence —-that sentence which condemned the "Akakia," that malicious and slanderous publication holding up the noble, virtuous, and renowned scholar Maupertius to the general mockery of Paris.
Voltaire stood calm and smiling at the open window. He saw the executioner throw great piles of his "Akakia" into the fire. He saw the mad flames whirling up into the heavens, and his countenance was clear, and his eyes did not lose their lustre. Higher and higher flashed the flames! broader and blacker the pillars of smoke! but Voltaire smiled peacefully. Conversation and laughter were silenced—the crowd looked on breathlessly.
Suddenly a loud and derisive laugh was heard, and a powerful voice cried out: "Look at the spirit of Maupertius, which is dissolving into smoke! Oh, the thick, black smoke! How much wood consumed in vain! The 'Akakia' is immortal—you burn him here, but he still lives, and the whole world will know and appreciate him. That which is born for immortality can never be burned."
So said Voltaire, as he dashed the window down, and stepped back in the room. 
« Farewell, Herr von Francheville, » said he, quietly. "I thank you for having allowed me to be present at my execution. You see I have borne it well; all do not die who are burnt. Farewell, I must go to the castle. I have important business there."
With youthful agility he entered his carriage. The people, who recognized him, shouted after him joyfully. He passed through the crowd with an air of triumph, and they greeted him with kindly interest.
The smile disappeared from his face when he entered his room at the castle, and the scorn and tumult of his heart were plainly written on his countenance. He seized his portfolio, and drew from it the pension patent signed by the king; tore from his neck the blue ribbon, with the great badge surrounded with brilliants, and cut the little key from his court dress, which his valet had laid out ready for his toilet. Of these things he made a little packet, which he sealed up, and wrote upon it these lines:
"Je les requs avec tendresse,
 Je vous les rends avec douleur;
 C'est ainsi qu'un amant, dans sou extreme fureur,
 Rend le portrait de sa maitresse."
He called his servant, and commanded him to take this packet to the king.
Voltaire did not hesitate a moment. He felt not the least regret for the great pension which he was relinquishing. He felt that there was no other course open to him; that his honor and his pride demanded it. At this moment, his expression was noble. He was the proud, independent, free man. The might of genius reigned supreme, and subdued the calculating and the pitiful for a brief space. This exalted moment soon passed away, and the cunning, miserly, calculating old man again asserted his rights. Voltaire remembered that he had not only given up orders and titles, but gold, and measureless anguish and raging pain took possession of him. He hastened to his writing-desk, and with a trembling hand he wrote a pleading letter to the king, in which he begged for pardon and grace—for pity in his unhappy circumstances and his great sorrow.
The king was merciful. He took pity on the old friendship which lay in ruins at his feet. He felt for it that sort of reverence which a man entertains for the grave of a lost friend. He returned the "bagatelles" with a few friendly lines to Voltaire, and invited him to accompany him to Potsdam. Voltaire accepted the invitation, and the journals announced that the celebrated French writer had again received his orders, titles, and pension, and gone to Potsdam with the king.
But this seeming peace was of short duration. Friendship was dead, and anger and bitterness had taken the place of consideration and love. Voltaire felt the impossibility of remaining longer. Impelled by the cold glance, the ironical and contemptuous laughter of the king, he begged at last for his dismissal, which the king did not refuse him.
One day, when Frederick was upon the parade-ground, surrounded by his generals, he was told that Voltaire asked permission to be allowed to take leave. 
The king turned quietly towards him. "Ah, Monsieur Voltaire, you are resolved, then, to leave us?"
"Sire, indispensable business and my state of health compel me to do so," said Voltaire.
The king bowed slightly. "Monsieur, I wish you a happy journey." Then turning to the old Field-Marshal Ziethen, he recommenced his conversation with him. Voltaire made a profound bow, and entered the post-chaise which was waiting for him.
So they parted, and their friendship was in ashes; and no after-protestations could bring it to life. The great king and the great poet parted, never to meet again. »
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"Good. And now we must all try to get what rest we can before tomorrow's hunt. Good night, Tom."
"Good night, Lord Golden, Huntswoman Laurel."
After a moment or two of silence, I realized something. I had been expecting Laurel to leave so that I could secure the door behind her. I had wanted to tell the Fool about the basket and the dead rabbit. But Laurel and Lord Golden were waiting for me to leave. She was studying a tapestry on a wall with an intensity it did not merit, while Lord Golden contentedly contemplated the gleaming fall of Laurel's hair.
I wondered if I should lock the outer door for them, then decided that would be an oafish act. If Lord Golden wanted it locked, he would do it. "Good night," I repeated, trying to sound sleepy and not awkward. I took a candle and went to my own chamber, shutting the connecting door gently behind me. I undressed and got into bed, refusing to let my mind wander beyond that closed door. I felt no envy, I told myself, only the sharper bite of my loneliness in contrast to what they might be sharing. I told myself I was selfish. The Fool had endured years of loneliness and isolation. Would I begrudge him the gentle touch of a woman's hand now that he was Lord Golden?
Fool's Errand, by Robin Hobb (Tawny Man Trilogy #1)
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:( Gregor
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cemeterything · 6 months
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my main advice for writing an enemies to lovers relationship is to resist the urge to make the characters' loathing and attraction mutually exclusive opposing forces. it's okay if they're getting weirdly into it and having Thoughts whilst also sincerely wanting to kill each other with hammers.
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lotus-pear · 3 months
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the day i picked up dazai or smth idk i've never read it
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fulgurbugs · 3 months
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Guess who caught up in the manga
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armageddidnt · 7 months
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I’ve been reading so much Ineffable Husbands fanfic on AO3 lately I thought it was time to put this bad boy together. Hope you can find something entertaining/relatable here XD
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You watch him hem and haw over answering, feet shifting, same beat up black shoes, scuffing the gravel, cape swishing behind him in a one-two step. The halo of his hair, bleached eery white in the street lamp, how the light never seems to catch the rim of his shades. You missed this, you think. The bits of him that are so unsettlingly inhuman, how he's so close to you, but just far enough that you couldn't reach to touch. - Metempsychosis
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khytal · 8 months
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and there was only one bed (oh my god there was only one bed)
extra:
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fandomsandfeminism · 8 months
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I'm begging people to not be afraid of OTC pain meds.
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OTC pain meds are not a devil’s bargain or a moral failing. They are a tool to reduce unneeded suffering. They do not destroy your organs if taken correctly, and there is no reward for the people who take the fewest pills in life.
Take what helps, and take it safely! If you have prescription meds or other health issues, always check for possible interactions/adverse effects. 
Edit: the upper limit for paracetamol/acetaminophen is actually more like 4g for most people! :)
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alexxuun · 2 months
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I need to know if other artists also experience this. Every time I tried, I have to hide my face and take +2 psychic damage.
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rrogueamendiares · 8 months
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i just wanted to hold you in my arms
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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 1 month
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Horse Meshi. Delicious, in Horse.
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zarla-s · 9 months
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In playing a game, we bring its artificial borders weight. In creating something, we inhabit that world to bring it life.
I started Handplates during a really difficult time in my life... no matter what happened, no matter how much things felt like they were falling apart around me or I was going to lose my mind or it all was just too much to bear, there’d always be another Handplates comic to do. Like clockwork that alarm in my head would go off and I’d get to work on the next one, no matter what was happening. It was always, always there. It’s hard to believe it’s been over seven years... a few more months to eight.
By my estimates, the next comic will be the last one. It doesn’t seem real, and when it does, it just makes me sad to think about... but I guess Undertale itself was about that too. How hard it is to let go, and when it’s time to say goodbye...
(I made some long long phone calls to my friends at home And I told them where I’ve been and the places I’m going And they said, “Wow, that’s incredible, but we already know, Because of that long long song you wrote.” - [x] )
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petricorah · 3 days
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scenes i loved from Real Enough to Get Me Through by @marriedzukka <333 [ids in alt]
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