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Topics - Suu

Pages: [1] 2 3 4 ... 42
1
Apple Talk / So I just got your Christmas Card, Dok.
« on: January 23, 2021, 10:12:13 pm »
It went on a national tour trying to find our new address through forwarding. As a result, half of the glitter on the front of the card got knocked loose. I felt this in the envelope before I opened it completely and rushed to the garbage, but it was to no avail.

Tell Jenn she sent me a damn pipe bomb of glitter. My kitchen is now coated in green, sparkling herpes as only I can expect from a card from Tucson. It landed on the cat, OH GOD, IT LANDED ON THE CAT! On the bright side, it's a bit of an improvement here in Hampton Roads, it gives the real Herpes Simplex 2 out of Virginia Beach a bit of pizazz.

You ARE right, Dok, you do live in a better place. This coast has too much fucking nature. There's a reason why all Holy Mentm come from the desert, after all.

Also, your sons look just like you and I literally thought your oldest WAS you and needed to make a double take. Holy shit, we're getting old.

There might be retaliation, which is a cheesy way of saying I'm going to give you my new address with style.

Okay for now,
Suu

2
Aneristic Illusions / Epstein's Little Black Book has been leaked.
« on: June 01, 2020, 03:40:31 pm »
I'm not sure how legit it is. I've seen two sources, they both look a little different, but Reddit is discussing the Scribd version right now.

https://www.scribd.com/doc/257106594/JEs-LBB?fbclid=IwAR12U-mtsslkV4F1kzl89wkFPIRMpqALPatRZQ79q2BcsHO9XCYd2K6XS7c

3
Aneristic Illusions / Fighting mental illness.
« on: April 03, 2020, 06:56:17 pm »
I can't be the only one right now, sitting on my couch, spending my afternoons crying.

I'm actually more concerned about what this quarantine is going to do to people mentally. I mean, my depression is at full steam, because that's what happens when I take too much anti-anxiety meds. But if I forgo those pills, the anxiety takes over and I'm pretty sure my heart is really a chest burster, but the one from Spaceballs.

The problem as I see it, is that people aren't taking the mental repercussions of this seriously. I have my own husband telling me to "just calm down and deal with it". My therapist, whom I love, is great, but even she admits that this is going to bubble to a head, and we're all doomed.

I think that in a way, those of us who are seriously afflicted, are going through a period of mourning right now, mourning for the old normal and in fear of the new one, which is a pretty standard response, considering. Honestly, I wish I could get off of my ass and do things. Really. I have no shortage of projects, but my brain is just shutting off and telling me to do the same. I just disconnected myself from Facebook for the most part. Checking in on certain people and pages, but mostly avoiding my timeline of crape-hangers, since that's not helping my mood.

How do we come to terms with this? We keep getting told to keep positive, but when it's clear there are no more positives, how do I stop myself from blowing my brains out?

4
Literate Chaotic / A Daughter's Adoration
« on: March 13, 2020, 05:03:31 am »
Beyond the River Styx.

The Eve of Spring.

“My queen, why are you doing this?”

The Underworld was not what most thought it was. In fact, in many ways, in mimicked the mortal world, the living. The dead, at least, those deserving, could find themselves among the creature comforts of home, eternal sunshine, and peace. Of course, if you didn’t deserve it, your fate would be much, much harsher.

There was a hell of a bureaucracy to even get there. Sure, Hades and Persephone ran the joint, but then there was Thanatos, the actual bringer of gentle, eternal sleep. His powers were primordial: A combination of the Night and the Shadows, coming upon you like a star-dusted dream. His touch was not feared. In fact, by most, it was welcomed. The best Death anybody could ever want for themselves or loved ones. One without suffering or pain.

There were other immortals for that.

The Algea. Children of Chaos Herself. Bringers of pain to both the body and the mind.

And the Nosoi, released by Pandora herself. They were disease and plague. But they could not act alone. For that, they needed help. Help beyond the Great Rivers and into the Sky. It was by only the arrows of the Twins borne of Zeus that they could ride into the humours of mortals to remind them of the dangers of their hubris.

It was the Nosoi that knelt before the ebony throne of She Who Destroys the Light, as the Queen gazed off into the distance. Toward a small, inkling of light piercing the horizon as Helios’s chariot made its approach.

“My Queen,” they begged again, averting their gaze. The Algea remained in the shadows, knowing their time would soon come after, “Why? Why now? You’re to return to Olympus soon, to end the gaunt days! We will ever abide by your wishes, but, we must know. What you desire is stonehearted. My Queen, please, tell us, why do you wish to befall pestilence upon the children of man?”

Persephone’s eyes turned back toward the collective of daemons. Green eyes, ever always the color of a fruitful, warm, summer’s day, but shrouded in skin of alabaster and black hair that glistened as the finest byssus when the light shone upon it. Her diadem was cut of pure obsidian, thrown from the forge of Hephaestus, and set with rubies in the shape of her beloved pomegranate seeds. She was terrifying in her divine beauty.

“Because.” Her voice was half past a whisper, “They pissed off my mother.”




[Nanonovel brought to you by a sleepless night and a useless classics degree.]

5
Apple Talk / Wash Your Lyrics
« on: March 11, 2020, 03:09:39 am »
Because there are more important things to do, BUT-

https://washyourlyrics.com/

6
Bring and Brag / Buy my shirts.
« on: March 04, 2020, 11:15:30 pm »
No, really.

I've been invited to speak at Oxford this summer, and I'm poor as fuck. I'm raising money through The Bitchy Historian, my internet D-List alter ego, to help me get there.

Pretty sure this quote is actually a Hamishism, anyway.

https://www.customink.com/fundraising/tbhoxford2

7
Apple Talk / Dear Doktor:
« on: June 20, 2019, 04:34:11 am »
How does one cure the Nazi?

8
::into a dark senate chamber enters a hapless man. A spotlight guides him to an empty seat at a table in front of a large semicircle panel of nothing but angry clones of Hillary Clinton and one Ted Cruz::

:The poor misguided, honest, amazing family man's wife sits behind him, tears in her eyes, because her husband is totes the real victim::



[place holder because I have shit to do. Or, go ahead and continue with the script.]

9
Apple Talk / ITT: Peedee helps Suu pick a nom de plume.
« on: September 28, 2018, 12:44:08 am »
I've been told I should start writing again, because well, A: I should, an B: I have horrible ideas that need to get on paper, but I also don't want to throw my husband's career in the bucket.

I HAVE FAITH THAT YOU ALL WILL GUIDE ME TO CHOOSE THE RIGHT NAME.

10
Or Kill Me / But really, though, what did you expect?
« on: February 20, 2018, 05:41:16 pm »
I really want to know why people expect more out of America. This was a nation that began because three kingdoms that absolutely hated each other had to be the first to land grab the continent and kill those that lived upon it for the sake of their own national interests. The English consisted of religious fanatics, political dissidents, corporate tradesmen, and violent prisoners. The Spanish were violent, cutthroat treasure hunters who forced Catholicism on the natives or else they got the hose again, and the French were...well, nobody likes the fucking French.

The Dutch? Nope. They didn't have a chance.

And that's just how it started.

The French and Spanish sell out, because they know a bad investment when they see one, and then the English, now Americans, get mad that there's people speaking French and Spanish TO THIS DAY. Even when the British stopped the slave trade, Americans kept fucking going, because they were instilled with the business sense of pure imperialism and domination over others by using the Bible as a fucking shield and a whip as the word of God.

Despite being founded by distinctly different cultures, the nation has never cared about the natives, never wanted to consider blacks equal, and has never welcomed immigrants. Ever. For something we allegedly take pride of, that whole "melting pot teeming refuge" rhetoric, it's all a grandiose scheme of bullshit. One designed to continuous build a superiority complex upon the bones of the "other".

Education? Who needs it! Just give us a sharp stick and a few F-35s, that'll learn the rest of the world. We're armed to the teeth, our kids kill each other on average twice a week, but if you so much touch those rights, everybody knows that Joseph McCarthy will come back from the grave, put his rotted boot of post-war anti-communist nationalism on our heads and remind us that if we even discuss various interpretations of the Constitution, Necro-Stalin will come over and Red Dawn becomes a real thing, except that the Russians are supposed to be our friends now. We're supposed to believe them while the top rated James Bond villain of all time has turned a nation that was really trying very hard to be almost stable back into an authoritarian nightmare because he's read his Machiavelli. Therefore, collusion? Nah. Not a thing, but watch out for Necro-Stalin and Lich-Lenin! They're the embodiment of anybody not-MAGA, and they're coming for your guns.

But enjoy those tasty Thanksgiving dinners and your kids in cute pilgrim costumes year after year, despite the fact you're dressing them up as the most oppressive and vicious people to set foot on New England soil before Red Sox fans. That fake nationalism is what makes American great. Lie to your children, keep lying. That is, if you aren't working 3 jobs a day and even have time to lie. Let the teachers lie, oh, they can't, they're too busy teaching to the goddamn test and uh, dying.

I say these things out loud, and I get pointed at as a reason for why we can't have nice things, and I even own a gun that's bigger than Ron Jeremy's. How DARE I read books! Women, get out of school and work, get back in the kitchen, and you pump those ovaries into overdrive, because Baby Jesus demands soldiers for the Motherland, as long as they're dripping with corporate sponsorship labels on their racing silks, they will be immune from fuckery. That's right, heffers, start your engines. Treat that uterus like a goddamn Thompson gun strapped with the ammunition of ONLY XX and XY Chromosomes. That's right, only straight, normal, healthy boys in blue and girls in pink are allowed. That's how the American God intended it. Back to that book, to the Spanish and English and French bayonets at the necks of the "other". Read it, eat it, or die. Praise the Lord, and pass the ammunition.

Shit ain't gonna get fixed. This shit is what we are, who we are. When you isolate the animals from the rest of the world, they evolve in their own, horrid way. Just look at Australia, just fucking look: spiders the size of the entire continent, and the platypus.

So, the next time you hear yourself go, "We need to fix this nation!" Remind yourselves that we weren't broken to begin with. This is just us, the New Normal is same Normal, just with extra Miracle Whip on the shit sammich. When evolution stops in one place, the rest of the world keeps turning.

11
Apple Talk / Dear Doktor:
« on: February 13, 2018, 06:19:56 pm »
I've been back in Florida now for 3 weeks, and I already want to submit my body to medical science for the duration of my husband's tour; thinking some kind of magic, 36 month coma. I've been given condolences by the locals for moving from San Diego, and congratulations that we were able to get a house in Jacksonville so we didn't have to live in Georgia. Whatever that means.

Everything is upside down. I burned incense today, and it somehow managed to light the other end of the stick from where my flame was. I just let it happen. The entire nation has gone full potato, and Florida is wondering why people are so upset, it's only Tuesday, but the raccoons drove off with the food truck.

My husband is confused by the locals. I've had to tell him that it's a different kind of Normal here. The kind where table saw blades on routers in the wood shop is a regular sight and it's okay to insult Hillary Clinton on restaurant menus. The desert made him terrified of rain, and he's perplexed that it actually goes INTO the ground, instead of running into the streets and killing people. He saw his first alligator yesterday and didn't know what to do. I've taken on his case as a personal anthropological experiment, since I can't actually work here, being that intelligence is illegal. We did find a library that is open 3 minutes a week, so there's that.

I've become a local celebrity of sorts. As the Floridian that actually came back to Florida. I'm also hated because everybody says so. As least, that's what my brain is telling me in between the screams. I haven't been able to get to the shrink yet, because the government let private insurance companies touch Tricare and now it's Broken, but I'm told everything will be fine as long as I don't act crazy outside of the house, because Florida will lock you up for 72 hours to make sure that you didn't catch brain eating amoebas from taking a shower. The tap water smells like bleach and tastes like the aquifer. Jeff keeps drinking it, even after I told him not to. Now we all know what happens next.

I guess I'm trying to say that I'm okay, for now. It's a whole hell of a lot of fun getting your life taken from you, because somebody with power had a bad night with his wife and took it out on your husband using a dart board and blindfold.

I can't wait until Hurricane Season, because I really don't like this house.

Best,
Suu

12
Apple Talk / Say Roger, have you heard about the Brain Weasels?
« on: August 22, 2016, 03:30:41 am »
You know, the Brain Weasels.

The motherfucking rodents that slither around your brain pan, looking for new wires to chew on. Usually, they like to knock the hamster off the wheel, and then just dry hump the wheel until it's covered in rust. And then you sit there, on the couch, crying and laughing and wanting to kill a motherfucker at the same time.  I got a bad case of the Brain Weasels.

Husband says I'll be alright, but I should just relax, but keep myself busy.
Doctor says I'll be alright, just take the pills.

But the pills won't kill the weasels, just make them sleep, you know? They'll find a corner to nest in, and make more weasels for the next round. They'll find new wires to gnaw through then, and skullfuck another poor hamster to death. Hamsters don't breed as fast as the weasels, and the weasels don't run the same as as the hamsters do on the wheel.

How do you stop the weasels, Roger? How do you get these little vermin to quit fucking chewin' on the power cables?

13
Apple Talk / But it's a dry heat, Roger.
« on: June 20, 2016, 09:17:55 pm »
You know what I'm talking about. It's the excuse that Easterners who drown in humidity give when they feel bad that the sun is waging full fucking blown thermonuclear warfare on the Southwest.

Dry is relative. "Dry" means that I'm experiencing swampboob and swampass as a less-rapid pace than I would should this be in Providence. Of course, 104 degrees is Providence is guaranteed to carry with it 90% humidity, so you may as well take a hot bath and grow fucking gills.

But it's a dry heat, here. The kind that comes out of a fucking blast furnace.

You see, "San Diego" is not the pretty city on the coast that gets 75 degrees and sunny year round. That is "downtown". San Diego is a million and a half fucking people stuffed into a series of canyons and mountains that surrounds the 75 degrees and sunny. Nobody actually lives downtown. That's where they put the brochures. The people who work downtown all live in on the beach in Tijuana, because it's cheaper by at least half, and because the only people who can afford to live in La Jolla are actually probably invested in something far more sinister to have that much money. Sure, you have to live in Mexico, but there are worse things. Apparently, like living in the canyons. This is where San Diego stuck the Navy. It's cool for the tourists to see the aircraft carriers, but not where they live. So they put us 10 miles from downtown in the desert. 

My house is "lucky" I found out. The rattlesnakes and the tarantulas don't like the baseball field behind my house. Or the brick wall. Or the fact that my side of the canyon drops to the freeway, versus the other side, which drops into a wasteland of "do never go there, Simba" part of San Diego. On the other side of the canyon, they gave the houses a wire fence, a view of the mountains that are on fire, and a fucking prayer. The fire won't get here, though. The coyotes will. Don't put your cats and dogs outside. Or kids, for that matter.  Some kid got run over on the main road before I moved here. She was on the sidewalk, and it was deliberate. Some local saw a brown kid and decided he was doing the neighborhood a favor, but she was some master chief's daughter, and now the asshole isn't going to see the light of day for the rest of his life, which is probably a more humane treatment than what the Navy was going to give him. The glittery pink shrine reminds me of the graves on the roadside in Arizona, but under the shade of irrigated palm trees and thorny bougainvilleas. 

I've been here for 2 weeks, and already decided I don't like irrigation, because it's nothing more than a fucking lie. Farms? Sure. Grow shit, but lawns are a waste here, Roger. They water my front lawn once a week at 11:30pm, and tell us we can only put approved decorations out front. Meanwhile, my backyard is sharing traits with the Serengeti, but we can make it look like a small carnival as long as it's not seen from the front. Some people have fire pits, which sounds like a great fucking idea considering the grass itself is kindling. This seems to be a thing in California so far. Everybody is intelligent, progressive, and kind, but without a shred of common sense, which can be overlooked for opportunities to have great conversation. I had a great conversation yesterday with my manicurist.

...But then there's the fairly large amount of creationists out here, which is alarming. Apparently they moved here because they wanted to prove that paleontological findings in Southern California are all evidence of the Great Flood and that the La Brea Tar Pits is proof. Somehow. They're angry that San Diego won't let them put their museum downtown with the other museums in the park, such as the Natural History Museum, and the Museum of Man. They feel like they're "obligated to fit in." But the city keeps telling them to cop a walk. So, they're stuck in Santee, which is "That" suburb that all cities have. The one that the city limits just completely bypass and go around, despite devouring everything else around. The creationists are so gung-ho on their cause, that they put a selection of petrified wood in the gem show at the San Diego County Fair this weekend and used it to "prove" their theory. I never heard my husband "GUFAW" so loud in my life. He shot water out of his nose and had to go clean himself up.

It actually drizzled for 45 seconds at the fair. People ran for shelter, Jeff and I ate a funnel cake and watched them. I felt like an anthropologist. Jeff said I was mean.

Back East, I would comment on how I hadn't seen the sun in a week. I haven't seen a cloud here now for 3 days.

Now I understand why you hate nature so damn much.

14
Apple Talk / McConnelling.
« on: June 08, 2016, 05:22:10 am »
So I broke Roger with this internet gem.

For those that don't know about this, go to Youtube, search "McConnelling." Enjoy.  :horrormirth:

Here, I'll start: (Videos are typically safe for work, music/overlay may not be.)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jA-RlW2Mm6E

15
Literate Chaotic / And the Mountain Never Got Closer
« on: June 07, 2016, 05:10:03 am »
This is a cautionary tale about what lies beyond Tucson.

The desert itself is an interesting place, and we knew it wouldn’t disappoint.

“We”, being myself, and my copilot on the cross-country roadtrip, Magister Normannorum. Magister is not my husband, the husband is somewhere playing Navy out in the ocean, and hence why I needed a copilot. My initial plan was for a .45 to ride in the passenger seat, but the Navy Guy thought this would be a bad idea. I digress.
There’s nothing to say about escaping the Northeast. We were in a veritable wall of population from Boston to Kansas City. The real fun didn’t happen until New Mexico, when the Kind and Benevolent Rain God appeared above the mesas as the two of us barreled down I-40 head-banging to motherfucking rock and roll. New Mexico exists on a higher plain of existence than Arizona, spelling intentional. The majority of the state alternated between 4000 and 7000ft, and was somewhere between 50-70 degrees Fahrenheit. It was lovely. Colorful and vibrant. The colors of the sandstone mesas and mountains reminded me of a sunset, and it was everything we expected the Southwest to be.

Then Arizona happened.

You see, New Mexico is “the Land of Enchantment” for a reason. It casts a spell on you, an illusion, a veritable mirage that paints the image of what we want our American Southwest to be.

Arizona is none of these things.

We should have known, really, as soon as we crossed the Continental Divide and stopped at a rest area. It wasn’t bad, only like 95 degrees or so, but as ironically as the most bearded hipster would deploy, a tarantula hawk flew by the sign that warns about venomous creatures.

The Magister blinked, “Well, that looks like it could hurt a bit.” He said.

Me? I was already running back to the car.

Two hours later we rolled into Tucson. I think I must have folded space, but in reality, Arizona thinks Daylight’s Saving Time is for pussies, so we gained an hour.
Nurse Jen fed us our first home-cooked meal in a week, and Roger and I talked about the old times. And Science. Motherfucking Science. All the goddamn Science. The next morning he took us up the Mountain Where Science Lives, but we couldn’t stay long, as I needed to get into San Diego by the evening.

This is the part where the Weirdness happened.

Elevation and I don’t get along, and I learned this very quickly driving through the high ranges in New Mexico. This is because I grew up practically below sea level, and I’m simply just not able to adjust easily. So, dropping from 7000ft to 2000ft makes me feel like shit. Unfortunately, Magister beat me to the punch.

“I need to take a nap, I feel sick.”

And just like that, I was left alone.

We were already low on water, but I’d be fine until the next gas stop. Where ever that was. I felt a bit parched, probably from drinking my New England amount of coffee in the morning, and polished off a water bottle as I fixated on a mountain in front of me, and thought to myself how far it was, and how I could gauge the distance based on the current visibility.

But the mountain never got closer.

The road went on forever. A side road, really, one that we needed to get our way from the Mountain Where Science Lives to the highway, but it was still a state highway, one that would arguably have amenities dotting the tribal nation we were passing through. The next gas station, I would stop anyway.

But the mountain never got closer.

There were graves on the side of the road. Graves. Not just cross markers, not memorials, actual graves. Some in small makeshift cemeteries, some just marked off by rock borders or a mound of soil above where the body lay. The temperature was 105F. These poor souls tried to cross a fence to a better life, and never found it. They succumbed to the elements before the Rent-A-Nazis known as Border Patrol could reduce them to subhuman animals in sweltering detention centers wrought with razor wire. Perhaps after seeing the detention centers, I almost felt these bodies under the earth were in a better place. The natives saw to it as well. Somebody had to be burying them, and it sure as hell wasn’t the border Nazis.

I was on the Mexican Appian Way. Just as the Romans did, the Natives buried the dead along the road, outside of the towns. It was a miserable experience. Magister Normannorum was still sleeping.

But the mountain never got closer.

I passed through the reservation, and was reminded on how badly we treat our natives. Shacks. Trailers. Junk heaps littered with liquor bottles, lost causes, and broken dreams. 
The mountain was mocking me. I was out of water.

I found a gas station attached to a casino. The temperature was still 105. Magister woke up and I pumped the gas. We used the restroom and got shitty hot dogs for lunch. Native women walked around the casino, which was the size of a convenience store, dressed in their finest cocktail wear, and hoping for a sign. An escape. Anything to free them from the hell they were tied to.

“How far do you think that mountain is?” I asked Magister.

He shrugged, opening his water, “Maybe twenty minutes or so?”

“It hasn’t moved in an hour.”

“Are you okay?” He asked, passing me my own bottle.

“Maybe it’s just the heat.”

My GPS lost its bearing. It was trying to put us into Mexico. I blamed Tucson. Bad idea.

I turned the car around on the dusty two lane road, and the mountain was back. My GPS tried to put me back in Tucson. We ignored it and opened the paper atlas.
Once we got to I-8, the GPS remembered we were going to California, and at least set us on the right path. The mountain had joined other mountains. Jagged, nasty looking mountains. It was suddenly 112F. The air was a blast furnace.

Dry heat? Humid heat? It doesn’t matter. Heat is heat. I felt every ounce of moisture being leeched from my body. It was so hot it hurt. It physically hurt. You know the feeling you get when you take a hot bath, or go into a hot tub, and it’s too hot but you endure it anyway? That hot. You think you’re going to adapt, but instead you feel pain as you’re starting to be cooked alive. Sweat cannot save you. It’s evaporating as fast as you can release it, and you were just low on water for an hour. Your car is solid, though. You had all the fluids flushed before you left New Hampshire for this reason.

That mountain is an asshole.

We crossed the Colorado, and fell below sea level. That mountain was still there will all of his buddies. Waving in the distance.

We had to stop for gas, because we didn’t plan well enough to get it in Arizona where at least wouldn’t be priceraped. Priceraped: Paying stupid extra tax on gas because you crossed a fucking border. Connecticut does this. Connecticut can go fuck itself.  I took a tanktop inside, because we had resorted to wearing thin flannels IN the car so the sun wouldn’t murder us through glass, but the combination of t-shirt and flannel was still too much with the AC. The clerk was some old fucking hippy who tried to sell me a dune permit instead of water, I wasn’t amused. I was even less amused when we drove down the street and couldn’t make a U-Turn, and instead found a gas station for 50 cents less. Priceraped.

I blamed the mountain. The Magister looked at me funny. He had just gotten off the phone with his wife, and found their cat was sick. He was bummed out so he gave me back the keys. Now I had to stare at the mountain again, and I never got my fucking nap like he did.

Back on the road, here comes the mountains. There goes my thermostat. Windows down, heat on, AWD locked in at 50mph as we shot up from below sea level to over 4000ft in 7 minutes or something, and we screamed horrible things at the sun and the rocks. They weren’t listening. I swear I could still see that goddamn mountain in front of me. Through these mountains, through the next desert. Because in New Mexico, we learned that the Desert (capital D) is a series of little deserts of varying deserts: Sometimes vegetation, sometimes mountains, sometimes nothing but fucking sand for miles. “Desertception.” It was maddening.

These mountains were like driving on Mars: stark, rocky, red, and air unable to breathe. Then the temperature broke like a fever, and started going down. Before we got back to sea level, there were hardwood forests and 80 degrees. This range was the natural barrier that kept the sea breeze locked away from the previous desert. There was still no moisture. The trees were mostly dead. Just another desert.

The mountain was gone. Somewhere behind me, laughing at the madness it had bestowed upon me for the last six hours. It won, I’m trapped here, as the only way out is back through that range.

A desert by the ocean is still a desert.

Everything here is dead.

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