#when 44 makes a mistake and gets fucked out of his own race he's responsible for writing his own essays
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the way everyone, from merc socials to britcedes fans to sky sports pundits, are patting lewis on the head going "well done for being so mature" and "what a good teammate he is" is nasty af and the fact that people are so comfortable with how merc is positioning lewis like this is super telling
#when 63 crashed out on his own by his own mistake he got essays of mourning#when 44 makes a mistake and gets fucked out of his own race he's responsible for writing his own essays#not even for himself but for the comfort of his own teammate and team. bc somehow he's been annointed with the responsibility#of keeping the peace even at the expense of his own comfort#no one has to comfort lewis after lewis makes a mistake#bc lewis is “so strong” and “classy” when he apologizes#but when he tries to race his own race it's all “he can't handle competition” and “he's threatened by george”#what are the conditions you guys accept lewis with#george fans do not interact on god
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We Welcome All Solve
This post https://pangenttechnologies.tumblr.com/post/185253110867/ not only celebrates the 2019 Spice Girls Reunion Tour, but also contains some (come to be expected from) Pangent Lore upon deeper investigation.
Included in the post are several images from the Spice Girls’ Spice World 2019 concert in May at Etihad Stadium. It does appear Lottie and Eric were able to attend this concert. I’m not clear on how the timelines align or work or what not, but I’m glad they were able to find their way into this amazing synchronistic Spice World.
The graphic image posted that states:
We welcome all ages all races all gender identities all countries of origin all sexual orientations all religions & beliefs all abilities: Spice World
contains three rows of grayscale shading at the bottom. These can be recombined as Red, Green, and Blue layers to create a color image which follows the Standard Pangent Color Code:
The numbers decoded from this combined image can be interpreted as decimal ASCII as follows:
57 57 51 119 50 122 103 51 122 49 119 104 111 117 48
993w2zg3z1whou0
And the 15-character lowercase alphanumeric value we recognize as a mediafire link: http://www.mediafire.com/?993w2zg3z1whou0
This leads to a ZIP archive - concerted.zip which contains an MP3 - concerted.mp3 with clips of Spice Girls songs.
Thanks to a very helpful stranger who happened to be wearing a Spice Girls shirt one day in the cafeteria and spent time with this MP3 file (Thanks LT!!) it was discovered all the clips were from the 1996 SPICE album, and the track numbers were significant.
timestamp # track name
0:00-0:03 1 wannabe
0:03-0:12 9 naked
0:12-0:17 1 wannabe
0:17-0:20 7 who do you think you are
0:20-0:25 1 wannabe
0:25-0:27 7 who do you think you are
0:27-0:30 1 wannabe
0:30-0:32 10 if u can’t dance
0:33-0:34 5 last time lover
0:35-0:37 1 wannabe
0:38-0:40 10 if u can’t dance
0:40-0:42 6 mama
0:43-0:47 1 wannabe
0:48-0:50 10 if u can’t dance
0:51-0:52 1 wannabe
0:52-0:55 10 if u can’t dance
0:55-0:58 2 say you’ll be there
0:58-1:00 5 last time lover
1:00-1:03 1 wannabe
1:03-1:05 5 last time lover
1:06-1:08 7 who do you think you are
1:08-1:13 9 naked
1:13-1:16 1 wannabe
1:16-1:18 10 if u can’t dance
1:18-1:20 2 say you’ll be there
1:21-1:25 1 wannabe
1:26-1:28 5 last time lover
1:28-1:30 1 wannabe
1:31-1:33 10 if u can’t dance
1:33-1:36 9 naked
1:36-1:39 1 wannabe
1:39-1:41 10 if u can’t dance
1:42-1:44 8 something kinda funny
The durations of the clips were significant as some track numbers repeated, but a workable ASCII decimal string was found from this sequence:
119 99 117 117 105 106 110 102 51 57 99 102 115 109 108
wcuuijnf39cfsml
Another 15-character mediafire ID:
http://mediafire.com/?wcuuijnf39cfsml
This time to blackbird.zip which contains blackbird.jpg (an image of a blackbird) and blackbird.wav (an audio file in Kansas City Standard format)
The KCS WAV file decodes to Vigenere-encrypted text with password ‘argentina’ - so it’s from Lottie.
blackbird.txt - https://pastebin.com/Ry6hiXe1
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Packing up, for the weekend. Well, not the weekend. The back half of a week, and then the weekend, kind of. A few days off, for once. Special occasion. Pushing my luck. Working remotely, but that’s nothing new. Hoping everything’s not on fire when I get back.
At the moment, there’s nothing about these projects that I can take for granted. I can’t just leave town and know that everything’s going to be all right. No, it’s going to be a damn mess.
Rachel was sick for two days so Eric and I were sick for the better part of three weeks. He wasn’t sleeping well, worse than usual. Neither was I, and I’m still not sure why. He’d get up and walk around at all hours like a zombie. It was unnerving.
That was three disgusting weeks, and so this is gonna be the first fun week in awhile. We’ve even got a kid taking care of Rachel, for a couple of the nights. So, fun.
I’ve never been good at having fun. When I was a kid, sometime in my teens, a friend dragged me to a heavy metal concert and once they started playing I immediately needed to get the hell out of there, away from the noise. It was so loud it rattled my organs and made me want to throw up. Nobody had fun that night, I’m sure. I hadn’t discovered that earplugs were a thing yet. I wear earplugs every night now, or I did before Rachel.
Things have gotten back to normal, by which I mean I’m working with a team again and getting twelve dipshit emails every morning from each of them because they don’t know how to tie their own shoes without me writing a visual tutorial.
I hate to make this a generational thing, but working with men over fifty, in particular, is like dragging their whole weight up a mountain, or carrying them, when they should be able to walk on their own. They don’t listen and need to be told what to do at every step. Every day it’s like nothing I’ve done matters and they’re back to square one.
I’m working my ass off, inbetween depression naps. Working harder than usual because I’m interested. Genuinely.
For the life of me I don’t know why Pangent proper is letting me do this, and get away with it. Either X has other things on his mind or he’s finally given up on me. With Leslie’s help we now have a plan. I won’t go into it to jinx it but I think we could survive this. Have a future. Get out of this whole mess with our human souls intact.
I’m enjoying the science again. Enjoying the research. Enjoying doing for real all the stuff that Management wouldn’t let me do before. It’s only been two weeks but a couple of days were genuine breakthroughs. People at Pangent, people who I thought were nutty and useless and liars, suddenly came through with research that changed everything.
So this is the plan, or part of the plan. Project SOS. Save our souls. Shut everything that’s dangerous down and call it a success. Bring this to a conclusion before it’s got a chance to kill us, but in a way which looks good on paper.
In my life I’ve taken on so many projects that are bigger than I can handle. I pretend they’re not, and the scope gets larger and larger, and they take so much more time than I pretended they’d take. And at the end, best case scenario, I think, Well, that just barely worked. Mistakes were made. Mistakes were fixed, as best we could and a little too late.
And a project shouldn’t be like that. A project should be manageable. I shouldn’t be shooting the moon and losing my grip on the project, my time, my health and my sanity. But for the most part those are the only projects I remember. Where I tried to do something great and got halfway there, fucking up the other half along the way. Those were almost the only projects worth a damn, where I was punching above my weight a little. I don’t know what the lesson is there. Maybe there isn’t one. Dare to be great and you’ll always be a goddamn mess who gets part of the way to genius, with a few small errors on every page.
People think I’m a pessimist. I’m an optimist really, an outrageous optimist. I plan every project as if doing the impossible is going to be easy. I know in my heart of hearts that it’s going to be tough, and take a chunk of my soul, and turn into a whole entire mess, but I plan out these projects as if I’m Superwoman, made of steel. A cutout of Ginger Spice, spicing up the world.
I forget how to be afraid, when I should be. I forget to set my sights lower and be more realistic about things.
A few weeks back I was walking out by the shops, in my blue sweater, sometime round sundown. As I passed the grocer, three teenage boys walked by me, hooting and hollering. It wasn’t even coherent enough to be catcalling.
Children. They were just children. They kept shouting nonsense from thirty feet away. Swearing a blue streak, calling me the N-word, as if that makes any sense.
I turned. I must have thought that required a response. “Yeah?” I said. “Fuck you!” I flipped them off.
I was calm. They could have been anywhere from 13 to 18, I honestly couldn’t tell. They just looked like children. I didn’t know how to be afraid of them.
One of them shouted, “The fuck did you say, bitch?” They were a long ways off now, but one of them, in a red hoodie, came running up to me at full speed. And he punched me, or tried to. He whiffed, right off the side of my head. Bad aim. I didn’t feel more than a slight breeze.
He was right in my face now, breathing hot air like a steer in a bullfight.
“I said, fuck you.” I stayed calm. We stared each other down for a moment. He was ready to fight. He spat and he swore, and he saw I wasn’t backing down. And he had, in that moment, a decision to make.
He ran off with his friends.
I kept walking.
That whole time I couldn’t make myself be afraid. And I should have been.
They were just kids. Teenagers who looked about twelve and were probably seventeen. But there were three of them. And if they’d wanted to, or had better aim with their punches, they could have …
Hm.
I did feel nervous, afterward, once I’d had time to process the whole thing. I crossed the street. I went to a different row of shops. And I looked over my shoulder the rest of the night.
They clearly walked there. No one was watching them, and they had nothing better to do than get into trouble.
Every time I pass that row of shops I think about them now. But I wasn’t afraid at the time. I didn’t know how to be.
I haven’t worn my blue sweater outside since then.
The other day a guy tried to stop me in the street. “I just want to ask you something,” in the way that men do when they’re panhandling for money. He didn’t seem like a sex creep so it could have been worse, I guess. I kept walking, and he kept talking, pretending to be offended, like I was the bad guy here for ignoring him.
“What, are you scared?” he asked indignantly.
That got me. I turned.
“No.” I wasn’t scared. I stared him down. “You got something to say?”
Silence, for a moment. Then he said, “Aw, forget it,” and backed off.
He made a decision.
There was a dead blackbird in the road. I took a picture. I had to get too close to the cars to take a picture.
Why did I need to do that? Commemorating its death, like it means something. “Much to think about,” I guess.
Dead blackbird on the side of the road, just far enough away from traffic. Must have hit a windshield. Body completely intact, enough that I kept hoping it would show some signs of life.
It was still there on the way back. No one ran it over. I hope nobody ever does. That it stays that way forever, or until there’s nothing left of it.
A beautiful bird. Making people think about death, if they’re walking that way, so close to traffic. Maybe I’m hoping it teaches people how to be afraid.
Much to think about.
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It’s 3:44 in the morning, and I started crying.
At random times, unpredictable and possibly not even triggered by a specific event, my mind starts wandering. It wanders to the furthest reaches, the deepest recesses of my memories that I have consistently tried to block and bury from resurfacing...
Just so I can be happy in my life.
I’ve been surrounded by so much negativity. I’ve been subjected to so much negativity. So much negativity has been projected on me, and this started at eleven years old. Some of it from classmates, or so called friends, and failed relationships...but most of it has been, because of my family. Or more specifically- my father.
I grew up with a father who was volatile. He was toxic. He was abusive- emotionally, at first, physically came next, and then assumed a verbal role as well. More times than not, all of this was directed towards me.
My father was unhappy with my mother in their marriage- I happened to be born the year before they tied the knot. I still believe they stayed together to have that picture perfect-esque family, and I suffered the most from it.
My father suffered the repercussions of the stock market crash in the 2000s- I was forced to get a job the day of my 16th birthday, and then pay for my own stuff, including the $490 for driver’s ed that he- once again- forced me to go to. One day on the way back, he made me drive home in a truck I wasn’t comfortable in, yelling at me once again, instead of realizing car accidents are my number one fear in life. I didn’t care to drive; I- to this day, almost 11 years later- still have to keep myself from having a panic attack while driving; I really don’t go anywhere, because of it.
And even though I went through that experience, and became more comfortable? He wouldn’t let me drive his or my mother’s car after I became comfortable and wanted to hang out with friends. (He also didn’t want me to have friends.) “Accidents can happen, and I’m not trying to risk that.” If my mom would let me go somewhere in her car? While I was out, he would call, and tell me come right back. It didn’t matter if I just got there- I had to come back, and proceeded to get yelled at more. Oh, but if he needed me to go to the store and pick up things for him, he’d let me drive.
During my sixteenth year, I was going through a pretty rough time emotionally; he told me, “I don’t care about your personal life.”
...Til this day, 11 years later, I haven’t told my dad anything about my personal life.
My father had this vision of what he wanted my life to be, obsessed with monetary gain; I had an opposite mindset, wanting a simpler life, and to be happy, which he did not agree with.
I didn’t get a senior year, because of my father: I missed two assignments in an AP class, and though I had a high B, I was put on punishment for the entire semster...and it was only the fourth week in August. I lost out on senior activities, because of it. Football games, I didn’t go to, even though I was apart of the spirit squad- one of the few activities I would have loved after the only game I got to participate. I had to beg to go to homecoming, and that was after I had another mental breakdown, trying to confide in him; his solution was I shouldn’t go anywhere outside of the house, unless with family.
My father is the reason I didn’t get the HOPE scholarship, missing it by a tenth of a point; instead of listening to me when I said I didn’t understand calculus, he claimed I wasn’t using my “full potential”-
It was the first math class I EVER failed in 13 years of grade school. (I always had As and high Bs). This came after I got cursed at, spit on while being cursed at; my phone taken, and put on punishment yet again for the remainder of the school year, and a phone a friend gave me shattered right in front of me, because “give me the fucking phone.”
I almost didn’t even graduate high school with a College Prep Diploma, and had to bust my ass taking a second homeschool math class to make up the credit; he then had to expedite the grading results, so I could.
I was forced to go to college three hours away with no job, no money, and no car, because the school I wanted to go to, he wouldn’t even pay the application fee for me. “I’ll pay for any other school- not that one, though.” You know what? I had the worst experience of my life at that school after four months of being there; it sent me into a downward spiral, emotionally lost and confused, I called home having another mental breakdown, and was thankfully able to come home...
I would regret that.
My father took the opportunity to blame me for the “lack of cleanliness” and the “peace being disturbed in the house” as soon as I got home, though I was taking the train to get to school downtown and had a part time job. I was rarely home, and if I was, I stayed in my room. I only “made a mess”, because when I left for college the first time, they no longer had one person to clean a family of five’s worth of dishes after dinner. A family of five’s laundry to wash and fold. A family of five’s bathrooms to clean- he no longer had a maid when I left. They had to clean for themselves those four months I was gone; they attempted to stop once I came back.
The “peace in the house being disturbed”? Simply because I was there. You know that saying, “out of sight, out of mind?” Didn’t work for my father, when it came to me. I may have been out of sight, but he knew I was there; that was enough for him.
I thought getting a car would help me stay out more; without knowing that, he found me one. I was so happy; it was mine, I could go when I wanted, come when I wanted, and not have to hear anyone’s mouth. I had a job; I had to pay my own insurance and car note, so nothing could be said, right?
He gave me a curfew. I had never had a curfew, especially not at 19, until I got my own car. Ironic. If he didn’t know I came home, and was in my room in the basement? I’d get calls. Okay.
I had a cell phone; I ended up falling on hard times at my job, and asked my mom to loan me money for the bill- she called my dad. I then got a reality check that my car was actually not mine, and it was his, and my car note I had been working to pay was me paying back a loan to him.
He never told me that when I first signed the papers, and because I was “paying him back”:
“If you come asking me for money for the note or the insurance, it’s gone.”
Til this day, nine years later, and even before then since sixteen- I haven’t asked my dad for any type of help financially.
I’d always been silenced; never been able to stand up for myself. Never been listened to, and never been comforted.
I’d been beat with belts since middle school; put on whole semester punishments since the seventh grade- no phone, no tv, no computer and the like over a missed assignment, and in some cases, for having a B. I’d been chokeheld in high school; yelled at on any random occasion for whatever reason he was upset with. I’ve been chased up the stairs just so I could be beat relentlessly after trying to defend myself. And in 2010, I was slammed on the kitchen floor, to the kitchen counter, to the dishwasher, being screamed “I’m gonna kill you” at for letting two pots dry in the sink.
I left in November of 2010.
There’s so much more to this story...but at the end of the day, I spent majority of my early-mid twenties a broken...mess. My mom has been present my entire life; she turned a blind eye to it all to keep her own peace...sided along with him a number of times, to keep her own peace with him.
As a result? I let people treat me how they wanted to, and stayed around, because I didn’t want to be alone. I contemplated suicide, but was too afraid to take my own life. I made horrible decisions for someone my age at that time, and looked for some type of love and belonging somewhere. I spent majority of my early adulthood depressed; nothing EVER worked out for me. I have anxiety, because of it. I have paranoia, because of it. I’ve woken up sweating, breathing hard, and heart racing from nightmare about my father trying to hurt me. My mind has always gone to the worst thing possible first, because for all that time in my life, I was miserable- truthfully and honestly miserable. Felt worthless. A waste of a life. Cursed. Doomed. Anything negative you can say and feel about yourself, that was me.
Why did I type all of this? Mostly for venting, because I currently live in a household with my father now. Things may not be as horrible as they were before- horrible at all- and only, because he “learned from his mistakes”. I don’t benefit from it; I still can’t ask for help financially, because in his words:
“You got a partner for that.”
I couldn’t even ask him about getting me a deal on a new phone; my family is on a shared plan, and everyone has gotten 2 new phones since 2014- I’ve had the same one...since 2014. He didn’t even give me the opportunity to say “I’m going to pay for it,” before my partner’s name shot out his mouth. I’m no longer his responsibility, in other words. Oh...but my sister’s are living the champagne lifestyle from what he “learned” with all his “mistakes” with me, and I just have to...accept it.
Why else did I type all of this? Because I realized while I was laying down why I’m so afraid I won’t get anywhere with my art career. It takes people acknowledging you, wanting to connect with you, give you a chance, and valuing your work that gets you somewhere...
My issues with my father- somewhere in me- makes me feel like that will NEVER happen for me. If I suffered so much from someone who was supposed to protect and provide, love and care for...cherish me?
How could I expect anyone else to do that?
It’s hard to stay positive...but one thing I will say-
I refuse to let my past win. I wish I could talk and get the closure I always hoped to have, but that is more of a pipe dream than me winning the lottery. Every attempt I’ve made resulted in, “you made it hard on yourself.”
I don’t think anyone who is as shy, insecure, and self conscious as I was in those years could possibly make all the trauma they endured brought on by “themself”; they got taken advantage of, and it shows...
But I’m praying that I can let all of this go. I pray that I can do what I love. I pray that I can have my career. I pray that I can start driving with confidence. I pray that I can be positive. I pray that I can be myself, and be loved for myself. I pray that I can be understood. I pray that I can be happy...
It’s all I’ve ever wanted in life. /4:53am
PS. If you read this? Do not reblog it; it’ll more than likely be private by tomorrow.
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