They should block chatgpt on uni WiFi the way they used to block coolmathgames
I feel a lot of people have moral systems that are completely detached from centering avoiding real harm to real people and are mostly based on completely arbitrary obsessions with symbolic and abstract "wrongs" and gut feelings, and then they join progressive politics and make an absolute fucking mess out of everything with their weird little moralist obsessions that actually don't help improve anybody's life or serve any purpose besides making a few people feel morally superior. This is why for example anti-kink politics went from having a pretense of being about protecting vulnerable women from abusive men to just being very blatantly "if you have ever done kink at all you're ew ew ew ew ew ew ew ew ew ew".
Conclave (2024) // Conclave (2025)
Mods are asleep post trans ally eminem
Hey. Minors following me. Internet safety is key!! NEVER include these in your bio/byf:
Medical diagnoses - this is nobody's business but yours. You don't owe anyone an explanation for why you are the way that you are
Trauma - same reason as above
Triggers - people can use these against you! Don't give people tools to hurt you. No one has to know what tags you block. Just block tags to stay safe!
Age - age is okay for adults to include but is iffy when you're a teen. Predators want this information, don't give people more than they need. Just state that you're a minor, that's all that anyone needs to know.
In general: stay safe. If you're not comfortable with every stranger out there having access to this information, you shouldn't post it on the internet.
Play devil's advocate and ask yourself about what would happen if someone searched for your information with intent to hurt you. You do NOT owe anyone an explanation!
THE BIRDCAGE (1996)
it's so funny when i see someone arguing that Effie being in SOTR was just "pointless fan service" cause “it doesnt make any sense that she had been with them for that long" cause... do you know what actually makes no sense? Plutarch and Haymitch risking the few things they still had after war to outright fight with President Coin for a woman that, for all we got from Katniss’s narrative, was nothing more than a capitol coworker they had to endure….
Now with the background Sunrise on the reaping provided us, we know for a fact that Effie Trinket wasn’t only District Twelve Escort; but also part of the original team. This was the piece that was missing to justify why Plutarch and Haymitch, who wouldn’t risk their lives for just some random capitol acquaintance, were willing to fight against Coin, the woman that both of them knew wasn’t any better than Snow, to guarantee that she wouldn’t be taken by the Purge and executed among the other capitols
Effie being in sotr was not just fan service, and if you can’t see that…i don’t know, maybe try reading again
Musings About Being Addicted To Sadness
TW: depression, addiction, suicide
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Addiction runs in my family. Alcohol is the big one but drugs and food are as well. I managed to dodge the alcoholism because I could never get the taste for it. Unfortunately, I find myself addicted to sadness. To misery. I crave it. I intentionally do things to make myself sad or wallow in my feelings when sad things happen. I shop for misery on the internet and I savor it in my mind until I'm nothing but a heap on my bed silently weeping into the night until I just fall asleep.
I feel a relief from sadness akin to the feeling of a painkiller finally kicking in. It's just a wash of peace. I feel at home in it. And that scares me. Part of me is screaming to do something. Dance. Sing. Talk. Run around. Do something -- Anything -- to make it stop so I don't barrel toward something dangerous. But god, I am addicted.
It pulls me in and holds onto me and feels like a warm blanket. The way it blocks me from joy and from life feels like protection. It feels like it's encouraging me to just sleep. Rest. All I ever need is rest. Even if my eyes are tired and dry from crying every few hours. Even if my belly aches from hunger from refusing food. Even if my heart burns from the lack of water. Even if I'm dying. I don't care. Why would I? Dying is the the ultimate form of peace, right? The long silence. The sleep that doesn't end. How could that not be enticing? When you're dead, there's no need for hunger. No need for water. No need for tears. You just rest. You don't have to face yourself or the morbid world ever again. Why wouldn't I want it?
Eventually I always feel better. I look back on the way I wallowed and I feel silly for it. I've felt real, true pain before but I didn't feel it just now so why did it consume me just the same? Then it rears its ugly head again, "You're so stupid for feeling sad over nothing. You have nothing to be sad about and you're throwing a pity party. You're pathetic. The only reason you should feel sad is because you're a whiny insignificant girl who constantly cries wolf on her own brain."
It tries to suck me back in. Usually it succeeds. Sometimes it doesn't. On those good days where it doesn't, I realize it's too late. I've already wasted the day away. I've already cursed myself with a nausea that food can't fix. I've exhausted myself to the point where I'll never sleep that night. I've alienated a loved one who only wanted to help. And all I can do is apologize and hope I haven't finally pushed them to the point of not caring anymore. I can't blame them for not caring. You can only care so much about someone who isn't helping themselves.
I try so hard to improve. I go to the therapist. I take the meds. I read the self help books. I do the worksheets. I meditate or exercise when I have the energy but the progress is so slow that that blanket will slide back over me to tell me to rest. It's too much energy. I'll never get better. And I either have to let it comfort me in its own twisted, life-draining way, or I have to use the last of my energy to shove it off. I wish I could burn the blanket. I wish I could rip it to shreds. I wish I could throw it in the dirt and bury it.
But I can't. I need it.
And I hate it so very much that I do.
Okay, okay. As a girl who grew up on the old swashbuckler films. Can I talk about the fucking romance of Nydas Okiro. Betrayed and backstabbed by his crew. Holding his wound. Panting in effort and grief. Telling his traitorous underling that gold means nothing if you do not use it to lift people up. That gold is a resource by which mortaldom climbs. That they are going to save the people of Avalir, and that cause goes above any oath he ever made in a past life.
You can picture so clearly in this moment the kid who joined a pirate crew to climb the skies. The dream he must have had. The dream he shared with Laerryn.
And it’s the end, and he’s betrayed, and he’s standing on what has to be one or two fucking hit points remaining, and he stabs that traitor in the front, and uses every resource he still possesses to get as many people as possible out and to defend them in the process.
And he’s … he’s not only betrayed, he’s rewarded. For the man he’s been. Because Alessander steps up, Alessander thinks to save the sorcerer school, this other piece of Nydas’ dream. When Nydas and his conjured dragon are standing alone and surrounded by devil puppets, the fucking sphinx from earlier, the sphinx from the parade, busts in and rescues him, and has been protecting them the whole time from further tampering of the constructs. Nydas was the first to step up, to try and protect the tree, to try and avert catastrophe, to try and hold the line, and that ripples out. His people stand up around him.
And an entire army of constructs, on Nydas’ word, burst out of the Golden Scythe to defend Avalir as she dies. His ships fly to evacuate her people. The world might be damned, he might be nearly dead, but by Avalir, he and this city will go down fucking swinging, and saving everyone they can.
The romance of this man. I can’t even.