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Topics - Suu

I just told my dad I have $1000 down that more people are concerned about inflation than human rights. This is what both of my parents told me:

"Look we don't like the GOP but if we can get prices under control then we can focus on things like rights next election."

Cool. On that note, we're about to witness the last free election of this version of our nation before Germany bombs us into the 21st Century, so I've started the process of emigrating to New Zealand.
This is a series of creepyposts on Reddit that's a few years old, but it's pretty much what it's like camping in Rhode Island over the summer or just Tucson on a Tuesday. The bottom of the post links to the next one. 100% worth the read.
Or Kill Me / Who takes care of the caretaker?
September 07, 2022, 03:27:10 PM
I was warned.

Oh, I was warned.

I was going to get a maximum of 3 months of "help", more likely a month.

It started off fine. People flocked to throw money at GFM, they offered services from across the country (somehow), and pretended to enter their information in a google form for contact when the going got tough.

And then then disappeared.

Sure, the mother-in-law was here. She sat on the fucking couch reading social media while I cooked, cleaned, went to work, went to class, and cleaned up my husband's vomit in between. It was sure nice of her to water my plants and do his laundry, though. Oh, she started dinner one day because he was hungry before I came home from work. He made sure I brought her everything she needed, too. After she didn't shower for a week, I finally pried out of her that she needed shampoo, but she couldn't be bothered to ask for a ride to the store. Yes, a ride. She can't drive, you see. I had to cart her places, and my mom drove the hour to help get Jeff home from chemo on the days I could not. I warned them both about cleaning the kitchen completely after cooking or the bugs would come back. Within 2 days of this warning, she complained about seeing a bug. Why don't I simply find a better apartment?

I was offered housekeeping help by nearby friends. I asked them to show up last week. "Oh," they said, "Something came up." Nothing since.

I was offered meals by local friends. "Oh," they said, "You have weird dietary needs. Can you just order takeout every night?" The only people still bringing me food are the vegans. THE VEGANS.

When my messaging liaison posts on social media asking for more assistance, the answer is always, "I'm too far away, sorry." My mom still drives an hour to give my husband and ride, and then drives right back despite, "hating city traffic".

I've been yelled at about staying in school. I've been yelled at for working. He's my vocation, you see, he's my sole purpose to exist. This "sole purpose" made it perfectly clear I need to continue to work and study and have a life. I can't hover over him all day, it's not good for me. But he also runs out of breath doing the dishes and then whines that I can't help him enough. I choked in the kitchen last night tasting dinner, and had to kick on a cabinet for help as I gasped for air. By the time he got into the kitchen with water, my face was purple and hot. Dinner got burned. Good thing the MiL left otherwise this would have been my fault.

I go out to an art opening for a friend, I feel guilty.

I have a glass of wine after work, I feel guilty.

I came home yesterday to a mess of trash from projects he started, but got too tired to finish. So, before I could sit down, I had to bring it all to the dumpster after feeding the cat. By the time I did sit down, I burst into tears because the first thing I was asked was to get dinner started. I was stuck in traffic for an hour because of a concert on campus. I literally forgot how to drive while going to pick up dinner at the meal prep place 20min away. All I wanted to do was sit down with a glass of water for a few minutes.

I'm behind on my reading and assignments for the week. Again.

This is my new normal, though. I have been told to suck it up, and deal. I've also been told I'm getting fat again and I need to "devote time to myself" and get back in shape and maintaining my diet. When? I don't even have time to vacuum.

Sure would be nice to have all that help people promised 2 months ago. Now they're just asking if he's dead yet to get out of their empty promises.

I was told I "have to take care of myself" by the same people who call me fat and tell me I needed to quit everything to devote my entire life to him.

I'm still disappointed COVID didn't kill us all off.

But hey, "I gotta take care of myself."

This time?
For appealing a 7 day ban.

Anyways, I still haven't gotten Dok's 90 day mega ban. I must know his secrets.

What's up, spags?
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,
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.
Aneristic Illusions / Fighting mental illness.
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?
Literate Chaotic / A Daughter's Adoration
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.]
Because there are more important things to do, BUT-
Bring and Brag / Buy my shirts.
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.
Two vast and trunkless legs of stone / Dear Doktor:
June 20, 2019, 04:34:11 AM
How does one cure the Nazi?
::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.]
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.

Or Kill Me / But really, though, what did you expect?
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.
Two vast and trunkless legs of stone / Dear Doktor:
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.

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?
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.
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.)
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.
Two vast and trunkless legs of stone / The Berlin Wall.
November 09, 2014, 01:28:41 PM
I know it's still early in the day, but I'm finding a considerable lack of posting on social media on what today IS, and why it's important.

25 years ago, I was in 2nd Grade. My teacher, the very awesome Mrs. Melanik, rolled the TV out, and we sat there in awe as we watched the Berlin Wall being ripped down by Germans from both sides. I went home, and continued watched the coverage with my parents. And I still, clear to this day, hear my mom's voice, "Suu, this is history, and you will remember this day for the rest of your life."

If this was 9-11, there would be NEVER FORGET OMG!!! Littering the internet, but it's not. Why is there no 11-9-89? What is so wrong with our society that we need to celebrate tragedies over victories? It wasn't just a momentous occasion for Germany, it effected the world as a whole. It was the end of the Cold War, the collapse of the Iron Curtain, and a shockwave that disrupted the maps of Europe for a decade. Is it not relevant because the Millennials weren't born yet and aren't chatting it up unlike how they were 5 during 9-11 and remember oh-so-much about it?

Maybe now, because the world is on a brink of yet another Cold War, leaders have their heads so far up their asses that they can't even pay attention to the milestone we already had to overcome to get where we are today. Maybe they don't want us to remember that yes, it is possible to make people come together, and not fracture. Maybe they want us to forget.

Or maybe, I'm just too emotionally attached to the Berlin Wall as my Generation's momentous event. As something that changed the massive Mercator Projection maps across my classrooms through Middle School as I watched the USSR dissolve and the Balkans violently shatter. Maybe it's just because my mom told me not to forget.

Two vast and trunkless legs of stone / Indecision 2014
November 04, 2014, 11:19:50 PM
After months of slanderous ads and smear tactics, the midterms are finally fucking over.

I have 3 tabs open for 3 different state results, because I'm a goddamn election junkie.

Shit to follow for those interested:

New Hampshire, especially the Scott Brown Carpetbagging Affair of 2014:

Florida, the Usurpation of Voldemort by Leatherface:

Rhode Island, because re-electing a convicted felon as mayor of Providence is what they do, and Massachusetts, the land of Democrats as far as the eye can see, which is why Scott Brown crossed the border to Tijuana:

Post your links as you wish.
Aneristic Illusions / Shootings in Canada
October 22, 2014, 05:07:44 PM
I'm busy at school right now, but here is a link with a news feed:

I'm not hearing shit on the American media.
Well, not really Providence, but it's related to Providence, it's in Johnston, the town I worked in for a while. Also, this is the funeral parlor that took care of my ex-father-in-law. I'm skeeved.

QuoteOHNSTON, R.I. (WPRI) — Three badly decomposed bodies were discovered inside a storage unit in Johnston Thursday – one being the body of an infant.

Eyewitness News was first on scene as the state Medical Examiner and law enforcement from Providence and Johnston investigated at United Storage on Putnam Pike late Thursday afternoon.

Major Joseph Razza of the Johnston Police Department confirmed for Eyewitness News one of the bodies was in a coffin, another was on a piece of wood with cardboard over it.

The Medical Examiner left the scene around 5 p.m. and was transporting the bodies to the M.E.'s office. Razza said the remains appear to be those of two adults, because of the size.

Razza said the bodies were connected to the now-defunct Pennine Funeral Home in Providence.

He said the unit was initially rented to the late Alfred Pennine. However, due to non-payment, the unit was auctioned off. Razza said the person who bought the contents of the unit discovered the remains inside.

Last month, the Rhode Island Health Department forced the Pennine Funeral Home to close after six bodies and the cremated remains of two others were discovered in the Grove St. business following Pennine's death.
I lost my grandmother 3 weeks ago. The timing couldn't be worse, I mean, not that it's ever GOOD, especially when it happened out of the blue with no warning. Nevertheless, I had to prepare myself to see my immediate family for a reason NOT Christmas for spring break, and north of the Mason Dixon line to boot. They hate coming up north, especially after last summer's vacation when Long Island was topping the 100s in July, and mom was ready to kill dad for wanting to come up into the land of no central AC to "cool off" for a couple of weeks.

Hearing my dad sobbing uncontrollably on the phone was probably the worst experience in my life. At least with my grandfather, we had warning, we knew he was going to go and mom was ready for it. Gramma was my dad's life line. He lost his father when he was 17, and for the most part, we assumed she was going to out live us all.

Gramma still worked part-time as an activities coordinator for a senior citizens center in Babylon, on top of that, she was also an event coordinator for her apartment complex. She never stopped. Ever. She had called my dad 2 days before she passed to tell him that she won a whopping $120 in Atlantic City, and wasn't planning on spending it all in one place. This is the type of woman she was. They found her on her couch, in her pajamas, holding the remote. She went peacefully in her sleep with no pain. It was just her time. I wouldn't have wanted her to go any other way, despite the total suck it had thrown at us all.

Arrangements were made very fast, because she was to be buried in the military cemetery near Pinelawn next to my grandfather, so we had to book it to Long Island, fully packed 2 days early for Pennsic War. It was damn near killing me. My body hurt, my eyes hurt from crying, and despite the fact I somehow managed to get everything done that I could and packed what I still needed to work on, there was no way I felt ready for anything.

We left New Hampshire at 3am, and I put on my makeup on the Bend of 95, between Stamford and New Rochelle. Mr. Suu would say, "Bump." Every time he saw one coming so I wouldn't poke my eyes out with the liner. I know he was doing it to make me feel better, but his words became grating after a while. I just wanted it to be over with.

We make it to Babylon within a reasonable time, and everyone is at the funeral home still. I was told that we wouldn't have time to get there, so we make it to the church ahead of everyone, and, well, change in the parking lot out of our comfy road trip clothes.

...Yes, you heard me, I dropped trow in the back lot of the very sanctuary where I was christened. This is when the fun begins. My dad calls, and tells us that there's still time to get to the parlor, and that all of the kids and grandkids had limos waiting for us. So, I wince, and we head over. My brother is the first to meet me outside, knowing that I was probably going to snap, and he grabs me tight.

"We got this shit." He says.

My cousin and her husband come out, "Oh good, you still have time to see her!" She says. She's a psychologist. She has no fucking emotions, I swear. I love her to death, and I'm going to miss drinking our way across Manhattan now that she's decided to procreate, but I digress.

I hate funeral parlors. I hate wakes and viewings. That's not the person you loved in the casket, it's a fucking shell made up to look like someone you once knew. Ex-Mr. Suu's father didn't look like himself, and I was scared to death that my grandmother would look equally as horrible. I refused to go up there. Flat out refused...So I got dragged by my brother eventually.

Each grandkid was given gaudy old lady pins to wear. I picked a woman's face wrapped in obnoxious friendly plastic, and my sister, very loudly, goes, "HAH! I knew it! Christina (shrink cousin) owes me 20 bucks!" My other cousin, Danielle, facepalms and goes, "Shit!"

Welcome to Long Island, Mr. Suu. This is my family. Swearing like sailors in front of my dead grandmother.

But wait, there's MORE.

My dad and aunt were, naturally, a mess. But what I saw in their eyes wasn't their grief, it was my own future, freaking out over their caskets. Life is finite, I'm going to lose my parents some day, and now I was dealing with my parent losing theirs as a warm-up. Fuck this. I wanted to leave...but I get dragged up to the casket. My mom and dad had it all planned out. They left all sorts of goodies in there for her:

A bottle of Dewars to drink with my Grampa Sal.
A bottle of Johnny Walker to drink with my Pop, my mom's father. They were buds.
A deck of cards to play with my Uncle Happy.

My brother kept patting her body on the head. She was tiny, he's very tall. This was a joke for a while, and she couldn't stand it. It made him laugh, and as far as I know, he hadn't cried at all yet. That's usually not a good sign. By this point, my sister is force feeding me tissues and Mr. Suu was shanghaied by my uncle, talking Bubblehead shit, since well, here he is, walking in to a funeral home, wearing a Navy uniform, hell of a first impression for the extended family who hadn't met him yet. Mr. Suu lost both his father and his stepfather before he was 18. He's a funeral pro and can hold his shit together well. I'm not so good at this thing yet.

They call us back to our seats to get ready for the services. I sit next to my brother, and my sister walks by us. My brother reaches out and punches my sister in the stomach, making her go, "UNG!" very loudly. Mom facepalms, dad laughs.

Once that's over, the majority of the grandchildren go in one limo, but Danielle and her fiance manage to escape into the "grown-up" limo. So I'm crammed in with Mr. Suu, my brother, my sister, the Shrink Cousin, and her husband. I should mention that putting me and my siblings in a confined space for any significant amount of time is probably a bad idea. I'm pretty sure the limo driver thought we were all psychotic. Seriously, it turns into an episode of the Three Stooges, and I was at least thankful...kinda, that Mr. Suu was separating my brother and I. He could still reach for the noogies, though, totally unfair.

So, back to the church, remember the church? I got naked in the back parking lot of said church. There's about 500 people there waiting for the full Catholic service. Mr. Suu was picked as a pallbearer, along with my brother. My dad couldn't do it, mostly because it's not supposed to be immediate family, but also because he had polio as a child, and limps, badly. My sister and Danielle immediately start imitating my dad trying to carry a coffin and Gramma falling out. We are terrible fucking people.

This was probably the worst part emotionally. Here I am, walking into a large Roman Catholic Church, the one my brother and I were  actually baptized in, seeing faces that haven't seen me since I was an infant (how did they remember me?!)

...This was also when my brother decided to pick his time to cry. And cry he did, the minute they put the pall over the casket, I guess the reality of it all sunk in, and he exploded emotionally. This created a chain reaction back to my sister and I. She grabbed my hand really tight and we processed in with my family to the front row pews, collectively losing our shit and receiving tissues from random folks on the aisle.

And then the eulogy started thusly,

"A priest, a rabbi, and a minister walk into a bar."

Nope, not kidding. The priest actually started it like that.  The entire church erupts with laughter, and he continued, making it as lighthearted as possible. Come to find out, we were sitting where she normally sat, and made faces to the choir during mass every weekend. So we all decided to make faces at the one cantor who attended, and she started laughing at us. At one time, my mom and sister started to discuss making a batch of gramma's cream puffs, to which I over heard, and said, "Oh hells yes!" In church. IN CHURCH, IN THE FRONT ROW DURING MY GRANDMOTHER'S FUNERAL, I SAID, 'OH HELLS YES!'  :kingmeh:

They did have us take communion, and my brother's wafer got stuck on the roof of his mouth, so there he was, getting over his emotional outburst, making funny faces as he tried to pry the thing off of his palette, and my sister and I are trying not to lose it. However, this guy at the service was wearing a really bad toupee, REALLY BAD. That Danielle immediately pointed out, which made my sister snort audibly. We also meet my Gramma's "companion" who was 65. She was 87. so I blurt out loud once we're outside of the actual sanctuary, "Dude, Gramma was a cougar! Fuck yeah!"

Service was over...back to the limo and off to the cemetery, which was a good 20 minutes away at funeral speed. We get there, and there's 2 services ahead of us. They weren't actually going to inter her on the spot because there's just no room and we would be walking on other graves, so they have these, well, picnic shelters to do the final farewells in. However, we had to wait. And wait. Like 45 minutes worth of waiting. Christina and her husband start dozing off in the backseat, and my sister decides that this would be a great time to put her feet up on the back of our seat right into my husband's face. He takes her shoe, and she jumps at him to give it back. He passes it to my brother, who, no shit, opens the limo door, and goes to throw it at the other limo in front of us.

Judgment gets the best of him, and he sits back down, then says, "I forget we're in a cemetery. That would be kind disrespectful. But if we had a moonroof in this, it would have been in dad's lap by now!"

The limo driver at this point has chosen to ignore us and get out of the car. Probably for the best, because my sister claims her shoe back, puts my brother in a headlock from behind him, and proceeds to shove her shoe in his mouth as he was trying to talk. He starts gagging, and remarking that it's salty. I'm laughing so hard I can't breathe, and my cousin, who had been quiet, goes, "You know, if Gramma was here, she would have thrown the damn shoe and blamed it on someone else."

...So my husband and my brother decide to hold my sister down in attempts to get the shoe back, but the limo driver comes back in, totally ignoring us, and drives us up for the interment service. Once last goodbye. This wasn't easy either, but we all got roses, and said our Psalms. We head back to the limos, and my parents' limo driver had a bottle of rum he started passing around to everyone. Apparently mom came prepared, and we all stand there in the cemetery, hitting the sauce. We drive back to the funeral parlor to get to our respective cars. Our limo driver told us that we were the most fun he's had doing a funeral in years, and that he was glad that we could at least still have some laughs, and wishes that he knew our grandmother, since we apparently know how to have a good time. 

We go to the afterparty, we're Italian after all, at Gramma's apartment complex, and we're haunted by her, since there's pics of her everywhere, and her handwriting, and everything. This sucked, so, we put on the disco ball, and us 5 grandkids started dancing like idiots to no music in the middle of the floor, and did the electric slide, which she taught us all when we were younger as we sang it badly. This got an applause from all her friends, who got up and joined us.

Of course this is when the divine interventions start happening. Danielle trips over a bingo chip that wasn't there before, and then when we get back to my aunt's house with all the leftovers, engaging in a drunken game of Cards Against Humanity, the "Grandma" card pops out. So we dealt her in. This is also when I decided it was a great time to run with a meatball and sprain my ankle.  :kingmeh:

The next day, we had to run to the mall so Christina could get something for a wedding registry she was bitching about. So us 4 girls go into Macy's, and sing a song Gramma taught us years ago, "I won't go to Macy's any more more more, there's a big fat policeman at the door door door. He pulled me by the collar and made me pay a dollar, so I won't go to Macy's any more more more." The store manager was unamused, so we book it back to the aunt's for dinner. This is when Christina announces she's having twins, and I proceed to scream and yell and hoot and holler that I get to make blankets. It's the little things, I guess. It made me happy. Later we went to my Gramma's apartment, and decided to play dress-up with her clothes and take what we wanted. I got a couple of scarves and a sign for my kitchen that says, "Never trust a skinny cook." My husband, who loves playing closet archaeology, found the dress she wore to my aunt's wedding in the 70s, as well as her wedding pictures to my grandfather which I have never seen in my life. I think even though she had a strong exterior, she was forever heartbroken at the loss of my Grampa, and just couldn't bring herself to show them off.

We left the next day for Pennsic, and I wore my pins almost the entire war. At least I know now, that it's okay to throw shoes at funerals. I'll keep that in mind for the next one.

So once upon a time, I was really athletic. I competed in volleyball and swimming in high school, made all-state twice in volleyball, started Taekwondo when I was 10 and received my black belt when I was 18, while often competing in colored belt nationals and attended one international competition in Brazil. I detested running with every fiber of my being, mostly because my instructor used to grab me by the collar and drag me to keep up with everyone, no matter the fact that I was asthmatic. I eventually forced myself out of that, would run 2-3 miles every day on my own accord, hit up a couple 5ks each year and even completed 2 triathlons....

...Then I went to college.

During College Mark I, I was at least still able to go to my old TKD school, just not as frequent, because I was working.

...Then I moved to Rhode Island. And for whatever reason, my weight shot up. Probably because I was eating mom's cooking again. I got back into TKD up here, tore my MCL, and that was that. I gave up. And despite what people think, SCA combat in no way shape or form can compare to what I was doing. No way.

So despite diets and trying to stay "thin", I fell into disrepair. My weight ballooned in 2009, which may actually be because of my thyroid come to find out, but I chalked it up to stress, and did what I could to try to drop it. And failed. I started a low-carb diet over a year ago, this has helped, but the weight started to peeter back on, so after much protest to my husband, I finally conceded to start a workout program.

30 Day Fitness Challenges are a godsend. So far I've completed the ab challenge and the Little Black Dress Challenge, and after I get back from Pennsic I'm going to do the Beach Body Challenge, which just looks evil. However, I got talked into trying the Couch-to-5k program from Cool Runnings, which is a free schedule of runs designed to get you off your ass and completing a 5k without stopping in 9 weeks. I just completed week 4, and I have not died yet. It is not easy. In fact, considering the last time I ran, willingly, on my own in a race I was 19 years old. In Florida, where it is le'flat. I'm in New Hampshire now, and my apartment complex has 20 degree grades, and I'm in the flat part of the state.  :lulz:

The goal is to run a pink out race at the end of September to benefit breast cancer here in Portsmouth, with a couple of my girl friends, dressed in pink viking dresses and looking like idiots, but since race costumes are all the rage now, we figured we need to go for it. Right now, my fastest pace before I gas out completely is about a 10 minute mile. I need to shave another minute off before I can race.

Either way, when I started this shit last year, I had a 38" waist, and 52" hips. I am now down to a 33" waist, and 44" hips. My goal is a 30" waist, and 42" hips. Back to a size 10. I'm not far off, but I can't stop the disco, so to speak. I'm not weighing myself. It's too much grief for a number when my muscle mass just shot up.

I don't know if I'll ever get back into triathlon shape. There's a huge difference in 32 years old and hypothyroid versus a teenager, but I want to start swimming laps again as well at the local Y. Military families get free memberships, so may as well.

Oh this is going to be a shitshow if it's actually true and not the media spinning it.

Seriously? A hurricane for the 4th of July? What the hell did the Colonies ever do to you? We gave you the goddamn independence you have this in this great nation, and now you're trying to take off our nose with the first storm of the season? John Adams is rolling in his grave.

That's right, SCOTUS ruled in favor of Hobby Lobby. So not only are they not required to provide affordable birth control and abortion options under federally mandated ACA, this just opened a can of worms for other religious exemptions. Like, I dunno, vaccinations.

We're all gonna have lots of babies and then die of Smallpox, thanks to Jesus.

Fuck this country.
Apparently this ISN'T the free market they wanted. You wanted the fucking cops to be privatized? This is the result, pencilnecks.

QuoteAs it turns out, a number of SWAT teams in the Bay State are operated by what are called law enforcement councils, or LECs. These LECs are funded by several police agencies in a given geographic area and overseen by an executive board, which is usually made up of police chiefs from member police departments. In 2012, for example, the Tewksbury Police Department paid about $4,600 in annual membership dues to the North Eastern Massachusetts Law Enforcement Council, or NEMLEC. (See page 36 of linked PDF.) That LEC has about 50 member agencies. In addition to operating a regional SWAT team, the LECs also facilitate technology and information sharing and oversee other specialized units, such as crime scene investigators and computer crime specialists.

Some of these LECs have also apparently incorporated as 501(c)(3) organizations. And it's here that we run into problems. According to the ACLU, the LECs are claiming that the 501(c)(3) status means that they're private corporations, not government agencies. And therefore, they say they're immune from open records requests. Let's be clear. These agencies oversee police activities. They employ cops who carry guns, wear badges, collect paychecks provided by taxpayers and have the power to detain, arrest, injure and kill. They operate SWAT teams, which conduct raids on private residences. And yet they say that because they've incorporated, they're immune to Massachusetts open records laws. The state's residents aren't permitted to know how often the SWAT teams are used, what they're used for, what sort of training they get or who they're primarily used against.

Apparently privatized civil service is only okay if they're government controlled, which defeats the purpose of "small government" amirite?


This is what happens when Massachusetts tries to be Rhode Island and fails. YOU NEVER GET CAUGHT USING A 501C3 FOR PROTECTION FROM THE GUBMINT!

QuoteHouse Speaker John Boehner Wednesday told reporters that he plans to sue President Barack Obama over his use of executive action.

"I am," the Speaker said when asked if he was planning to initiate a lawsuit.

"You know the constitution makes it clear that the president's job is to faithfully execute the laws and in my view the President has not faithfully executed the laws," Boehner added at a news conference on Capitol Hill.

This is going to be hysterical.
Step one:

Learn to machine.

Discordian Recipes / 5 Colonial Era Drinks
June 23, 2014, 01:03:42 AM
so this came across the book of Faces the other day:

Now, being the historian and experimental archaeologist that I am, there's no way in hell I was going to let this slide. So, after some discussion with the husband, we've decided to try all of them. Because we are scientists, ffs.

First up, the easiest one: The Stone Fence.

Rum: Check.
Cider: Check.

I used Cruzan rum, and Stella Artois Cidre, because that's what we have in the house. The Stella cider is a dry apple cider, which would be more similar to a colonial era beverage. The Cruzan I have is a special edition golden rum. I also drank it at cellar temp, not cold.

Taste: Mild and smooth. rum and apples are like bread and butter, I cook with them a lot. I can see the benefits of having a sweeter cider, though. I'm getting notes of vanilla and oak, which could be from the aging process of the rum.

Effects: I felt a buzz pretty fast. Sugar acts as a carrier for alcohol. Drink responsibly.

Melanie's Marvelous Measles!!!

QuoteMelanie's Marvelous Measles is a book written by Stephanie Messenger who has devoted her life to educating people about vaccines and natural health choices. This book takes children on a journey to learn about vaccinations for childhood illnesses, like measles and chicken pox.
(Warning: I spewed this on Facebook in response to the graduation from every grade bullshit. This is what happened, with no coffee.)

Preschool is arguably cute. The kid has no idea what's going on and its 99% for the parents. But when you get into grade school, and you have these step-up ceremonies, what are you teaching your kids? My brother had to repeat 2nd grade, what happens to him? Oh wait, nothing, because of NCLB. You're making these kids entitled, til when they get into middle school, and realize they aren't getting a cookie for advancing to 7th grade, and they're surrounded by kids with uncontrollable hormone changes and the like becoming little balls of hate rage. I know this, I was a little ball of hate rage in middle school, and suddenly there's no more pats on the back or smiley face stickers when you get a C on the math test. Now it's referrals to the office when you blow a fit, and detention, and your parents coming in to yell at the teacher for giving their special snowflake a C in math.

Then finally, they're rewarded with an 8th grade graduation, ya fucking hoo, you got out of the bootcamp that is middle school and we're throwing you into the lion's den.

Now it's no longer a cookie at the end of the year, it's a, "You need to pass or you don't get into college or do anything when you grow up." The pressure is on. Life isn't fun anymore, the kids are mean, you've been rewarded with everything up until now and then suddenly it's all on you. All those trophies they gave you for showing up to soccer don't mean a thing when you try out for the school team and don't make it, because you suck, but you've been told your entire life that you're a WINNER and YOU ARE A STAR! Suddenly, your parents can't help you anymore, the coach laughs in their face when they go to fight for your slot on the soccer team. You're not doing so hot in Algebra 2, which is a requirement for graduation, but you don't ask for help, assuming that your ingrained entitlement will save you. Your parents bitch, but there's nothing they can do, and you're put into remedial math classes to help, which slows down your progress toward a college-ready diploma, and your guidance counselor keeps shoving this in your face. "GET INTO COLLEGE."

That's all she cares about, because it's a statistic. You begin to wonder if college isn't really for you, but you apply and apply, because you were told to do so, and aren't accepted into any of them but the local expensive tech school and the University of Phoenix online, both of which tell you that you need to pay with every student loan you are eligible for or they can't accept you. Frantic, you sign your life away on Promissory Notes and finally walk across the stage. Your parents are so happy, you graduated high school and got into "college." They're telling all of their friends of your great accomplishments, and you seem to coast through whatever online class Phoenix throws at you, because they're designed to be easy so they keep getting more of your money.

In 4 years you have to fly out to Arizona, on your own dime, to walk across the stage or they won't give you your diploma. So you do that, your parents fronting the bill because DIPLOMA TIME AGAIN, and you walk and you get that expensive piece of paper so you can be qualified to work, so you start applying for jobs, because these loans are expensive and you have to pay them off. Unfortunately, a lot of places aren't sure about your degree's accreditation, and continue to pass over your application for others from viable institutions. This depresses you, and you sit at home, your mother comforting you.

Finally, you get a call back, it's a retail position, but it's SOMETHING to "hold you over" until the big one hits, you tell yourself. So you stop applying for other jobs, and just work...for 2 years at minimum wage, with tiny raises here and there to help offset the cost of living, but you're still living at home, because your loans are killing you. You're already behind on payments, and your credit rating is shot, so you can't get a car, or an apartment, not that you could afford one anyway at your meager wages and loan payments. Your parents are getting frustrated, and you know you need to do better. Finally, after 2 years, your boss promotes you to assistant manager. It comes with a raise to $11 an hour, and you immediately become super excited, YOU DID IT!

The next day, you expect to come into work to cake and a party and a ceremony to "step up" to assistant manager, but instead, you find a new set of keys and a stack of paperwork, oh, and one of the employees that was caught stealing from the register. You need to figure this out, you're told, because the manager is playing in a golf tournament today. Holding back tears that you weren't rewarded for your great accomplishment, you perform your duties as requested. Then on the way home, you stop by the gun shop, because you'll show them what you deserve, rightfully! Unfortunately, your credit is too bad to purchase an AR-15, and the tears in your eyes tell the clerk that you probably shouldn't be filling out the forms for a background check right now, anyway.

So you go home, and your mother comforts you again.

Welcome to the American Dream, Special Snowflake.

TL,DR: This is how my mind works on half a cup of coffee 30mins after I wake up.
Somebody took the "Dark Dungeons" Chick Tract, got the rights, and FILMED THE FUCKER.

:fap: :fap: :fap: :fap: :fap:

For those that have never read the win:
...because it's covered by a libertarian site.

But my favorite part was when the police were called.  :lulz: :lulz: :lulz:
I'm going to be laid over in Chicago twice on my train ride, each for about 6 hours give or take train delays. I've never been to Chicago, and I'm allowed to check my bag and take in what I can in the area. I know the Building Formerly Known As The Sears Tower isn't far from Union Station, but other than that, I have no idea. I'm open to suggestions, bearing these tidbits in mind:

-I'm on a budget, think college travel budget.
-I'm on a diet, but I may have to splurge for a proper piece of deep dish.
-I'm on a schedule.

I hear that Union Station is an impressive piece of architecture from the days of old school rail travel, so I anticipate to be spending some time just wandering around inside, because that's what I do. But I definitely want to get out and walk around the city for what it's worth. My first layover is next Thursday from about 8:45am to 3pm, and my second layover is Monday the 28th from 3:15pm-9:30pm.

Or Kill Me / Eat my fucking gravy.
April 16, 2014, 02:45:51 AM
(copypasta'd from Open Bar du jour)

Apparently I offended people on the Facebook today.

They got offended that I swore like a sailor on one of my SCA groups, so they said it was unfitting a woman of my education to speak such a way, and that I should try harder with a dictionary and thesaurus. So I responded in Latin, and I was called a child-like bitch and blocked.  :? I even used a dictionary!

I'm offended so many fucking people get offended by me.

No wait, no I'm not, I'm happy, because if you can't handle my extra special rants about seams on a fucking corset, you're not cool enough to be my friend, goddamnit. I've been behaving lately, really, I have, because some folks have found my anger a bit harsh and have asked me to keep things cool, and I have. Really. I started this whole mellow thing of being mellow and taking deep breaths and yoga stretches and shit, and all it does it make me extra flexible with extra hate to go around.

Goddamnit, fuck your goddamn request. Who the fuck are people to come on my goddamn cyber front lawn and picket my anger? What the fuck is this shit? The goddamn Westboro Fucktard Church of Bad Reenactors? Eat shit and die, poseurs, you're talking to the goddamn industry professional. Somebody gave me fucking DIPLOMAS in this shit so I can tell you you're wrong and be okay with it, I mean, I would have been okay with it anyway, but expensive pieces of goddamn paper are like more street cred. Bonus if I can make those cool Chinese throwing stars around it.  And then you have the fucking balls to call me a goddamn child after saying I needed to act more educated AND I DID. Latin ain't dead, that shit is immortal, and I just proved your point.

This shit always reminds me of Maria's Art of the Brag, because my goddamn ovaries DO shoot motherfucking ball bearings, and I LIKE IT. I like being on top of the goddamn food chain as one of the educated ones, and still be able to throw an F-bomb on the table like it's a goddamn Sunday pot roast, that's what. Eat it. EAT THAT, WITH MY SPECIAL GRAVY OF DISDAIN AND CHASTISEMENT, because every time you try to knock me down a peg, all I do is let that shit sit a bit until I remember I'm fucking awesome at what I do. And if I want to call a friend of mine a pussy because we joke all the goddamn time, I can do so, in English or Latin, and you can kiss my shiny Classicist ass.

No, this ain't no special fucking rant about anything deep, all it is, is a reassurance, that even though I cry sometimes, and I fuck up, because I'm a goddamn human, that's exactly why, because I AM a goddamn human being, and I'm good at it. Be awesome at your own humanity, and I'll be awesome at mine, just eat my fucking gravy first.
Because we need more wastes of time on the internet.

On the first click, I got, "Underground gnome garden, inspired by something you heard on NPR."

I just had a sewing machine needle fly right for my FUCKING FACE. AGAIN. Fortunately, I was wearing safety glasses this time as I've been known to get a little hardcore. Ask Richter, I accidentally his crotch last workshop day. With Luna's machine.

Somebody put a dead seal with a "Free Seal" sign in front of a house.

I wish I could make this madness up, but it made NATIONAL FUCKING NEWS IN FLORIDA.


WTG, Providence, you've out Florida'd Florida. All of my friends here are now like, "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE UP THERE?!"

Discordian Recipes / Suu's Soap Making Adventure.
February 26, 2014, 03:21:25 PM
So we do these little medieval craft swap thingies in my local group twice a year. So far I've made some clothing (duh,) drink syrups, and painted an icon in return for a lovely handcrafted wooden box with my coat of arms on it, some Roman-style jewelry, and a fantastic Byzantine hat. This round appears to be trickier, since it has a theme, spring or camping. I picked camping, but the recipient of my gift picked spring, and she likes the 16th Century and "useful things." Well, nothing screams more medieval and useful in the spring than stuff you need for your annual bath.  :lulz:

(Trufax: They bathed more than once a year. More like once a month in the winter and once a week or more in the summer.)

Contrary to popular belief, soap was known to exist for a while, and although the Romans were aware of the cleansing properties of using oils to deter dirt from the skin and pores using a strigel, they washed wool with lye, good old fashioned sodium hydroxide, a natural byproduct of wood ash and rainwater, which is dozens times more caustic than baking soda. The lye reacted with the lanolin on the wool, and it got bubbly and low and behold, removed dirt. So prior to the 11th Century, some soaps, primarily used as laundry detergent not people detergent, because they didn't quite have the mix right and people were getting caustic burns...was made with tallow (lard) and lye. Sometime during the 11th/12th Century, the Spanish got smart and tried olive oil. This resulted in a gentler soap, and is still made today in the form of Castile soap, which I am about to try my hand at making. I'm also going to see if I can collect enough bacon grease to make soap that way also.

What I am about to achieve is 100% pure fucking SCIENCE. My measurements have to be pretty sharp. But first, I need something to scent the soap: Essential oil. I cannot legally distill my own oils, so I'm infusing olive oil with lavender for 12 days, replacing the flowers every 3 days per a document I found from the 1500s. I'm also going to make another batch to be used as a perfume, which I'm going to blend with water and grain alcohol.

So far, the fun stuff has been ordered.  :lulz: I should be able to make the soap next week. I found an Excel worksheet that does all the scary math for me, so all I need now are the ingredients and good food scale.

Here's my recipe:

32oz of Olive Oil
4oz of Lye
10oz of Water

I'm making a 2lb batch to start with, if in the event I fuck it up, it's not a real heavy loss of materials and I can start over. I'll make sure the husbandthing is home to take pictures of this, because I have a feeling it's going to be hysterical.
Movers are here...short staffed. I have two semicompetent guys that seem to have gotten short staffed. They're miserable, and keep telling me it's not my fault. They weren't fucking kidding when they said that the Navy goes with the lowest bidder.
I can't make this shit up.

QuotePROVIDENCE, R.I. (AP) - There's another call to make Rhode Island-style calamari the Ocean State's official appetizer.

Rep. Joe McNamara said Wednesday that he's reintroducing the legislation, which he says honors one of Rhode Island's best dishes while highlighting its fishing industry.

Similar legislation passed the House last year but died in the Senate. This year, McNamara's bill has a Senate sponsor, Sen. Susan Sosnowski, a South Kingstown Democrat.

McNamara, a Warwick Democrat, says the bill is an easy way to celebrate Rhode Island's fishing and restaurant industries. He says the state should be proud to have the largest squid fleet on the East Coast. The state's squid catch is shipped to all 50 states and around the world.

Rhode Island calamari consists of fresh squid, lightly fried and served with banana peppers.

This is what Luna, Richter, and myself pay taxes for, ladies and gents. Living in NH is going to be a breath of fresh not-stupid for a while.
Who will think of the children?!

Me, damnit. I don't usually buy Girl Scout Cookies, but when I do, I  fill my fucking freezer with thin mints and flip teabaggers the bird.


I'm good...I'm good...I...*twitch*

Flights are getting booked soon, my sister and I signed up for an evening clinic with the Pittsburgh Pirates in Bradenton. Not that we're huge Pittsburgh fans or anything, but they're the only team that offers it as far as we know on the Gulf Coast, and my sister has done it twice now. Last year we went down to McKechnie for a spring training game, and the coaching staff, who all know her oddly well, were asking me when I was going to come down and play. So, here I go!