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The ants analogy is somewhat of an inept one, I think. Aliens aren't necessarily going to be more advanced than us, especially if they can't manage interstellar travel, and if they're less advanced than us, we're not going to hear from them anyway

This thought experiment is predicated on the aliens contacting us.  I think that, compared to a species that can communicate and/or travel across interstellar distances, we would likely be little more than ants.  And even if they aren't very different from us in terms of intellectual capacity, they would likely view us as a primitive people purely because of the technology gap.  (And interstellar technology is a hell of a gap, compared to where we are now.  Larger than the gap from a stone hammer to a smartphone, I think).

Aliens that can't contact us aren't really in the scope of this thread.

The thought experiment has them contacting us which means they don't consider us like ants

I guess I did not express my meaning clearly.  I meant contact in the sense of them sending a message we are capable of receiving, or in visiting this planet, not in the sense of establishing some sort of meaningful two-way communication.  Any message they sent would be intended for species they believed to be their equals, and I doubt we would qualify.

I have personally made contact with ants, and I still considered them to be ants afterward.  I do not think this contact was a positive experience from the ants point-of-view (if they can be said to have such a thing).

Why do you doubt that we would qualify? If we were capable of receiving, deciphering, and responding to their message, not only are we roughly their technological equals, but they're also thinking like us.

Expanding on option 3:  Twilight Zone episode-ish.  We send them cordial invitations to visit, but then it goes all The Hills Have Eyes on them when they do.  Or maybe we just invite them in and describe our history in a really positive tone, like we're all proud of it.  Send them home with a complex.

Expanding on option 3 some more (this is pretty much repost):

"Come on down 'galactic space brothers', Doktor Howl has something for ya."

I seem to remember writing something here once describing humans in a way that would be terrifying to aliens, among which were things like, "they intentionally consume disinfectant for fun" and "they speak to entities that you cannot perceive" with the sense that humans are so convinced of their gods and ghosts that they *must* exist and it's the aliens' deficiency that they can't see or hear them

The ants analogy is somewhat of an inept one, I think. Aliens aren't necessarily going to be more advanced than us, especially if they can't manage interstellar travel, and if they're less advanced than us, we're not going to hear from them anyway

This thought experiment is predicated on the aliens contacting us.  I think that, compared to a species that can communicate and/or travel across interstellar distances, we would likely be little more than ants.  And even if they aren't very different from us in terms of intellectual capacity, they would likely view us as a primitive people purely because of the technology gap.  (And interstellar technology is a hell of a gap, compared to where we are now.  Larger than the gap from a stone hammer to a smartphone, I think).

Aliens that can't contact us aren't really in the scope of this thread.

The thought experiment has them contacting us which means they don't consider us like ants

Answer.

It's not like they're actually going to come here, what with the vastness of space. If somehow they have managed getting around the speed of light using physics we don't understand yet, they don't have any idea with how they will be able to tolerate Earth's millions of microbial species, since their immune systems didn't evolve to keep Earth microbes in check.

The ants analogy is somewhat of an inept one, I think. Aliens aren't necessarily going to be more advanced than us, especially if they can't manage interstellar travel, and if they're less advanced than us, we're not going to hear from them anyway

That's a rather optimistic estimate

I'm probably going to revisit this thread a few times to assess what I can do

On the front of how I'm doing, i have 8 more shifts at my second job, and I'm very much looking forward to getting my weekends back, being able to do make progress on my research, getting my weekends back and spending more time with my wife. Also not taking the train home at night, missing the last bus and having to weigh the options of paying for a rideshare or walking for 90 minutes home

I've seen people shitpost in facebook. They are not fun at all.

So, how are things? (you, yes you reading this)

I decided that university is for nerds, mainly because they didn't let me in. So now I'm gonna get a real job from trade school. How does one convince to itself and ones around it that it's actually unhealthy to be intellectual. Do I need  become an unronical Pol Pot fangirl or something to save my ego?

Nothing wrong with the trades, but there is nothing more dismal and banal than a tradesman griping about college kids.

Yep. Aside from the fact that college give you formal education in the basics of a range of subjects before you specialize, it makes you defend your ideas. It's not the only way to get those skills but if your GPA is on the line it's going to motivate you to do it. It also hopefully makes one realize that you're scratching the surface of subjects and respect expertise.

Society needs both tradespeople and academics.

So, where is everyone? Legends tell that once the place was thriving and filled with actual people. For some reason i keep refreshing the page like this was some social  media. Does anything happen like, ever?

My participation declining here coincides with me going back to school to finish my bachelor's. I'm not saying that's the only reason, of course, but it is a significant one. I'm still in school--I only have my Master's thesis left, as well as applying to PhD programs and slogging through a few more years. I found that I had less to contribute. The last major thing I remember doing is illustrations on demand because I felt like drawing

Mild bruised rib from the protest yesterday. Some dumb fuck decided his commute was more important than the march and proceeded to ride his bike through. I was blocking traffic, and don't fucking play around.

You know, just in case you thought yelling at buildings was over or something.

Oof. Glad you're okayish

So tomorow or Monday, I find out if I have in fact found the worst job yet.

Which would be better than what I have now.

I wish you luck, if that's appropriate.

Thank you.  I found out today that I do in fact have the worst job in the world now.   

Oof. Sorry to hear

That's a bit of good news!

Bump

Um... Day one...





The blood.  Oh, fuck.  So much blood.  It's still kind of fuzzy, what happened.  Going home from work.  Jacket.  Hat.  Walk up the street to the subway, through the bitter wind, blowing like a jet engine between mirrored buildings, reflecting the stream of white collars taking the same trek.  Get through turnstile.  Avoid eye contact.  Turn up the iPod a little higher.

The train rumbles in, a gigantic mechanical cock spewing out a new load of struggling drones and duds for the evening shift, as the spent automatons shuffle through the half-broken sliding doors.  At the best of times, it's a tight fit.  You need to have a certain flexibility to weave through the packed bodies, one arm lifted like a half-assed salute to the working day.  But this was different.  The bodies were nervous, like a pack of cattle when a Mylar balloon lands in the pen.  Skittish.  They were all pressing towards the front end of the car, as if some malevolent force was pushing them away.

At the other end of the car, it looked like one of the worker bees was having a bad day.  The top two buttons on his shirt had popped off, power tie askew.  Hair that had most likely been perfectly shellacked eight hours ago was in disarray, heavy strands hanging down his forehead, and jutting up from the kind of cowlick that must have gotten him a lot of grief in middle school.  His face was twisted into a snarl, flecks of white spittle on his lower lip, and in the corners of his mouth.  I pressed forward, against the weight of the masses, to get a better look.  You could tell he was muttering something under his breath, but from where I was standing, I couldn't hear it.

His head snapped around, and he was looking straight at me.  His eyes were bloodshot; the left one brimming with a tear, which gently shimmered on his lower lid and then let go, marking a track down through the faint evidence of a five o'clock shadow.  His stare transfixed me, and I could finally make out what he was chanting under his breath.

"You-can-be-whatever-you-wanna-be-you-can-be-whatever-you-wanna-be- you-can-be-whatever-you-wanna-be- you-can-be-whatever-you-wanna-be-"

Even as his teeth ground together, those words managed to force their way through his throat.

"whatever-you-wanna-be-you-can-be-whatever-you-wanna-be- you-can-be-whatever-you-wanna-be- you-can-be-"

I glanced down at his right hand, which was clenched, white-knuckled, around the handle of a briefcase.


"you-WANNA-be-you-can-BE-whatever-you-wanna-be-YOU-can-be-whatever-you-wanna-be-you-CAN-beeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-"

The case slipped from his hand.  It seemed to fall in slow motion, drifting downward to the floor of the subway car, streaked with the film of dried coffee, sugar residue from donuts, and grease from breakfast sandwiches hastily gobbled from the morning's commute.  The edge of the case struck, and the shock broke the flimsy latches on top, security in name only.  From its depths erupted paper, whatever anonymous reports and tallies from the quarter's bookkeeping, or reports, or memos, or minutes, or spreadsheets, or contracts, or bank statements, or bills, or receipts, or tax forms, or briefs, or faxes, whatever they were, they seemed to burst forth.  But all that was forgotten when my eyes tracked back to his hand, rising upwards, fingers claw like, predatory.

With a shriek, those fingers clutched at his face, the nails digging in, and he pulled.  Tiny half-moons of crimson turned into gutters of red as he scraped down his cheek.  His left hand joined his right, tearing at his face.  His ring finger jabbed underneath one eye, now filled with terror, not tears, which disappeared with a "pop" of blood and jelly.  Two fingers caught on his lip, which tore away easily, exposing the pink gumline, white teeth stained red, a spray of blood spattering subway's car window.  His remaining eye wheeled in its socket as his fingers continued to scrape away his skin, his right hand lowering to scrabble at his neck, looking for purchase, and finding it, and stabbing, and pulling, his left hand fluttering for a moment, then joining in to help its brother, clawing, ripping, tearing at his throat, until, with a guttural, bubbling finality, his hands came away in triumph, the horrific shrieking silenced, a gaping hole where his adam's apple once quietly bobbed and swallowed, swallowed all that his life threw at him, swallowed decades of shit and abuse and deadlines and progress reports and rejection and derision and advertising and mediocrity.  His heart still beat, blood streaming and spurting from his throat.  The only sounds now were these:

A soft patter on the subway floor like raindrops on a spring day.

The wet thump as his body collapsed.

That was LMNO, I think it's in Literate Chaotic.

I'm pretty sure the thread is called thirty days of Eris

Hi not so new but new to me people.

Hello.

How about that weather, eh?

Quite nice today, but it's going to rain and be muggy tomorrow. That reminds me, I should get an umbrella