Got a 3 day notice this morning. In our email convo she said we just need to cover the late fees ($100)&pay the rent balance down a bit for her to pause the eviction process. I dont get a check again until the 28th, mom on the 31st
Humanity has finally reached the stars and found out why no one had contacted us. The universe is in a sad state. As such, Doctors without Borders, Red Cross, and many othe charities go intergalactic.
The thing the recruiters don’t tell you about space battles is that you die slowly.
Ships don’t blow up cleanly in flashes and sparks. Oh, if you’re in the engine room, you’ll probably die instantly, but away from that? In the computer core, or the communications hub? You just lose power. And have to sit, air going stale and room slowly cooling, while you wait to find out if the battle is won or lost.
If it’s lost, nobody comes for you.
It had been about half a day (that’s a Raithar day, probably a bit shorter than yours) and Kvala and I were pretty sure we had lost. Kvala was injured, Traav and I were dehydrated and exhausted, and Louv was dead, hit by shrapnel when the conduits blew.
Most fleets give you something, of course. For Raithari, it’s essence of windgrass. I looked at the vial.
“It’s too soon,” Traav said.
Kvala gestured negation, shakily. She had been burned when conduits blew, and her feathers were charred, and her leftmost eye was bubbly and blind now. Even if we were rescued, she probably wouldn’t survive. “You know we’re losing the war.”
They couldn’t deny that. “It doesn’t mean we lost the battle.”
“Doesn’t it? The Chreee have better technology. Better resources. And they have their warrior code. They don’t care if they die.”
“We can’t give up!” Traav protested. They were young, a young and reckless thar who had listened to a recruiting officer and still believed scraps of what they had been told. “Any heartbeat now—”
There was a clunk. Something had docked with our fragment of the ship.
“You see?!” Traav crowed triumphantly.
Kvala exchanged glances with me. The Chreee never bothered to hunt down survivors. What was the point, after all?
The Aushkune did.
There weren’t supposed to be Aushkune here. They were supposed to hide in nebulas.
But if there were—
If there were, we were too late. The windgrass couldn’t possibly destroy our nervous systems in time to stop the corpse-reviving implants, and once you were implanted, it was over—or it would never be over, depending on how you looked at it and whether Aushkune drones were aware of anything—
Footsteps.
Bipedal. The Aushkune were supposed to be bipedal.
And then the blast door opened, and a figure stood in it. My first thought was, robot? That’s almost worse than Aushkune . . . But no, it was a being in some sort of suit.
Who wore suits?
“Friendly contact,” the suit’s sound system blared, as the being moved over to Kvala. “Urgent treatment. Evacuation.”
“Who are you?” Kvala struggled upright.
Despite the primitive suit, the blocky being was using up-to-date medical scanners. “Low frequency right angle shape,” it explained—or maybe didn’t explain. Two more figures came into the room and put Kvala firmly onto a stretcher.
“You’re with the Chreee, aren’t you?” Kvala was not at all happy to be on a stretcher.
“Not Chreee,” the sound system said. “You Man. Soil Starship Nichols.” The being hesitated. “Rescue Chreee as well. On ship. Will separate.”
“You what?” I said faintly. Who would do that?
“Oath,” the being explained.
“What kind of oath? To what deity?”
The shoulders of the being moved up and down. “Several different. Also none. For me, none. Just—oath.”
I exchanged glances with Traav, who looked as unsettled as I was. I had never, ever heard of groups cooperating when they couldn’t even swear to or by the same power.
The being scanned me. “Have water,” it said. “Recommend.”
Raithari have fast metabolisms. I could—would—die of thirst quickly, and painfully.
“Where will you take us,” Traav asked, “after you give us water?”
“Raithari to Raithar. Chreee to Chreeeholm.”
“Chreeeholm would kill them for failing,” Traav remarked.
The being hesitated, and then said, “War news sometimes bad. Sometimes lie.”
We had learned long ago not to believe the recruiting officers, but what did that have to do with anything?
“And you—what?” I asked. “Just fly around looking for battles and rescuing victims?”
The being seemed to consider this. “Best invention of soil,” it said finally.
Most of what it was saying didn’t make any sense. Did it worship soil? But it had said that it had sworn to no deity . . .
Madness.
On the other hand—war was a deliberate, rational act by deliberate, rational people, and I wanted no more of it. So why not embrace madness and see what happened?
“Soil Starship—Rrikkol?” I asked, stumbling over the word.
"biblical angels" you do realise there are angels in the old testament that are literally just regular looking guys, right? you do know that the hallucinogenic incoherent descriptions are in like. two books. and the rest of the time angels are just guys. you know that, right?
and I'm not saying don't have fun with weird angels. I'm saying, either the eldritch forms are for special occasions, or the society of the angels is Many-Eyed-Many-Winged-Interlocking-Circles, Four-Faces-Six-Wings, and Mike.
My favourite thing about tumblr, that in my opinion makes it far superior to other social media sites, is that new posts live side by side with old posts. These days, there’s a prioritization of new content. It not only shortens the lifespan of people’s work, memes and such, but it also devalues the work that goes into making certain things.
Sure, a lot of posts are just random thoughts spewed into the ether, but some posts are carefully crafted videos, photos, artwork, prose, that take the creator a considerable amount of time and effort to craft. So, as a content creator, it’s nice to see that you can put work into a piece of content on here and it can have a life of its own. Unlike other platforms where posts live and die in a matter of day, sometimes, hours
[Image ID: Tumblr reply from greggsLife reading: Fuck the endless turnover of content. Let's see what sticks around and continues to be interested. /End ID]
We’re having corset discourse again? I’d like to note for the record that this was one of the most comfortable nights out I’ve ever had, neither my back nor my shoulders hurt for once, and I love that thing like it’s a cherished family heirloom, as I feel compelled to tell everyone at all times.
who wants to see the livejournal comment teenage patrick wrote publicly hating on pete for being a cock block that was subsequently published in an academic text
text:
“You made the attempt to go to the show…and you drank a bunch afterwards, and you know, it was more fun dancing with you than it was getting ground into a couple making out in the corner by the percolating ass of one Chris Deadstop. you were also my only dance that evening as all the rest of the girls were noticably too much older (and pretentious…ironic considering how pretentious I am myself) to bother with little sober me. That and the girl I was most interested in stumbled by making out with another girl.
Did you hear about Pete’s cock block in Orland Park?
So I’m talking to this girl (gorgeous) after the show. I pointed to her a bunch while I sang and now she seems genuinely interested in me. I’m pleased with myself. I’m usually shy, but there I am: approaching a girl who, by the looks of things is WAY out of my league and engaging her in conversation. We’re talking; she’s decently articulate, really cute, my age, and Pete walks up in a baseball cap (bad news) he’s all “How old do you think this kid is?” She looks me over and goes “19.” I’m thinking, okay, I’ll take that. Then he goes, “What about me?” she’s like: “Oh, you’re 16.” He’s like, “Yeah, of course I am!” and he makes an ass of himself which is no problem with me. Then we continue talking and Pete interrupts with “Seniors RULE!!!” and he runs away.
So we’re talking some more. This time Pete and Joe check me into the wall in mid sentence, then they pile on me…them and everybody in all the other bands. Now I’m the butt of some joke I haven’t been let in on in front of some girl I’m trying to impress in the middle of bloody nowhere. Rad. So anyway, I get up and I say my goodbyes, and we head for the party. Before I leave she grabs me (wow) and hugs me (wow) and whispers in my ear: “Tell your bassist he’s cute.”
And that’s why the hilight of my evening is currently a toss-up between dancing with you and talking to the dude from Tom Sawyer about shows.
-patrick”
from Emo : How Fans Defined a Subculture by Judith May Fathallah
thingsmk1120sayz
usercelebs
sweetoothgirl
divinepink
weronlystardust
writing-prompt-s
lyricwritesprose
phoenixyfriend
twixnmix
iknowitwontwork
engulfes
dragons-and-flowers
cosmonautroger
duckbunny
witches-ofcolor
rubensmuse
callmebliss
a-sentient-cup
mens-rights-activia
can-i-make-image-descriptions
afterthefair
meat-wentz