#[I blame statistics

[thesquidkid]

Social experiment on whether Cyndi Lauper was right or not

[marsixm]

my best friend @ work failed/dropped out of college and has been stuck working for the same grocery store since he was 16 (hes currently 39) and i know he blames himself for that every day- and he has adhd. i wonder if statistics like this would be comforting or make it worse lol

[riseofthedark]

Something you should know about me is that I can go rather far to commit to a bit.

I saw this video recently and was inspired for my capstone project (Statistics Major)

By recently I mean last night at 8pm (20:00) with my presentation of this project at 9:30 am today. However I decided it was too great to pass up so hear I am.

My presentation was on bootstrap stats which is used to increase sample size when otherwise unable to. This is supposed to give more accurate sample statistics.

First things first: Acquiring the Spaghettios A-Z

Unfortunately the ones he bought in the video were not in stock so I got these. As you can see these also have numbers. So I had to sort them both alphabetically and remove the meatballs and numbers. This process took about 2 hours with 2 people (me doing 4 cans my partner doing 2)

This is what my spreadsheet looked like at the end

I then went online and got the full movie script for Shrek that lacked image descriptions and who said what (aka just the dialog).

Using R studio I found the amount of each letter in the Shrek script.

A 2061, B 431, C 459, D 925, E 3208, F 504, G 691, H 1663, I 1844, J 62, K 535, L 1225, M 717, N 1771, O 2678, P 358, Q 37, R 1511, 2 1600, T 2552, U 1142, V 242, W 779, X 20, Y 1046, Z 9.

I then found the averages for each letter in my 6 cans combined (rounded up). From this I divided the Shrek script by the cans to find how many cans it would take per letter. Then I found the letter with the highest amount of cans needed and thus had my answer (268).

Now I did the bootstrapping. This is basically taking random numbers from my dataset (with replacement) and assigning them to random letters in a new row. I did this and created 3 new datasets. One with 120 entries per letter, one with 1,200, and the last one with 12,000. I then repeated the process that I did with the first can to find the amount of cans needed (256, 268, and 256 respectively).

So from this I can conclude that it would take 256-268 cans to recreate the Shrek script.

[minaa-munch]

[Note: I'd say this is post sanbi and they are less....squishy? BEHAVE FLAKE SENSEI!]

#Icarus Verse || @strawberry-medic || Nohara Rin:

She sighs for the fourth time. And yet they are still at it. Arguing over who would be a better Hokage. That was one thing that years had not changed about Obito and Kakashi - their bickering was now borderline legendary. "Ne sensei? How about a female hokage instead?" Rin decided the best revenge may as well be jumping into the frenzy.

"Hm" Cue a pensive tap on the chin. A female Hokage, ka? There hadn't been a single female leader in the history of the village - heck, in all of Hi no Kuni, in fact.

Maybe Rin - or some other, equally talented kunoichi could change that (Cue flashback to the nth challenge issued by one boisterous red headed kunoichi. Training ground 4 had never been the same after that).

"I don't see why not." He replies, lips twitching into a grin as the bickering pauses. Blue hues shift from the kunoichi to the duo.

"Hear that? You have competition."

Rin was the most responsible of the three anyways. If he had to pick between the three of him to hold down the fort in his absence, it would most likely be her.

@strawberry-medic

[tangirlisfangirl]

my,,,,,my notifs,,,,,,,,

[pillarsalt]

I'm on a plane right now and this kid is crying and screaming, a woman in my row is basically having to parent across the plane because her useless husband won't do it even though he's sitting next to the child and she's two rows ahead.

[cheemken]

Thinking abt the initial concept of the villain Dia au now and just ncmcnd

Imagine if she didn't really kill Malva, but Malva is still really unaware of Diantha's involvement in Flare or the fact that Diantha just knows abt them. And she's there looking for Lysandre, and she found nothing, no leads, no body, nothing. But Dia's Trevenant was there yknow, watching, waiting, and when Gengar arrived to get the daily report, Trevenant had told him what he saw. And ofc, Dia already knew yknow, she's already aware of the fact that Malva's part of Flare, this was just for blackmail hahaha

And like, imagine a small confrontation between them, or maybe smth like in that first chapter where Dia was asking Malva to help them find the remaining members of Flare. Imagine Diantha waiting for the other three Elites before she turns to Malva, going "aren't you going to help?"

"why would I? I'm sure there's nothing left of Flare."

"oh, I wouldn't say that," Dia laughed at her, taking a step closer towards Malva, "considering that you're still here."

And Malva paling at that tho, cause she and Lysandre hid their identities and involvement in Flare rather well, how would Diantha even know? As far as Lysandre and Malva were aware, Dia never found out abt the actual boss of Flare. Unless..

"you were looking for Lysandre, weren't you?" Then Malva could feel claws from beneath her, grabbing her legs, preventing her escape. She looked down, seeing arms of what she could only assume we're a Gengar's, then she hears a sinister laugh to confirm it. She looks back at Diantha, Lysandre's Mega Ring in hand, "I have to thank him though, if it weren't for him, I wouldn't have gotten my darling Yveltal."

And everything's just sinking in on Malva after watching Dia wear the ring, watching her eyes drift towards her again, and suddenly feeling the cold edge of a blade on her neck. "Now, I suppose you know what will happen if you won't help, yes?" And she could only nod, the cold feeling of dread taking over her body. Diantha smiled at her, snapping her fingers, and the blade on her neck and the hand grabbing her legs disappeared. "Very good, my darling. Now, tell me, just where are those useless Flare admins hiding? I'm in no mood to play this game of Meowth and Rattata with them."

And ofc, Malva told her where, the two of em got the other Flare admins before the other Elites could. And idk, it's fun to think that Xerosic still had intentions at Lumiose to get mega stones from Augustine, and Dia was pissed man, so hey, she got all the admins to a place maybe, somewhere hidden, and Diantha made Malva watch as she let her Aegislash behead the remaining admins in front of her.

So yeah, now Malva's fucking terrified cause holy shit man, watching that was fucked up, and Diantha could do that to her too. She knows having Diantha's favour doesn't do much rn, if she so much as goes out of line, then she'd meet the same fate as the admins before her. And she'd rather not die just yet.

[askshivanulegacy]

Yeah, if you keep telling me to tip, I'm gonna stop, even for things I normally tip for. Places have their damn iPad purchase screens set up to automatically guilt trip you, even for normal shopping experiences that are not even close to providing services that need tips.

They're just trying to make you feel bad or catch you when you're not paying attention. It's embarrassing. For them.

Remember that you have no obligation to tip for anything ever and you should NEVER tip when people aren't even making a drink, and if you're going up to the counter to order and pick up your food, you also don't need to tip. Tipping is for a service, not for the privilege of you doing everything yourself.

Source

[montaguethelorekeeper]

Thinking about Roy Sullivan again, the park Ranger that got struck by lightning Seven Times and that has got me thinking on the nature of statistics and the full length of human existence.

What really is The Most Times a human being has been struck by lightning?

Was there some poor fuckin Chinese fisherman from 800 AD that got struck eight times??

Was there a Paleolithic hunter that got struck nine times and just had to live with that fact?

Given infinite time and opportunity, at some point someone WILL get struck by lightning The Most Times Ever In Human History and I am utterly FASCINATED by what that high score would be

[gremlinshatephilosophers]

Some pie chart data on my fics from this year!

[sepulchral-pulchritude]

forgive me my ignorance (<-not sarcastic, this really is an area i know very little about), but my perspective as a consumer (for car insurance specifically), is this: my big issue is that insurance is REQUIRED to register and drive a car (at least in all the states I've lived in) and driving a car is basically required to have and hold a job.

to be fair, the second thing is more of the problem, but notwithstanding major legislation to expand public transportation which has yet to materialize, the situation is that i have to be able to drive to make enough money to live in a home, and the car insurance company can basically name their price (notably this issue is part of what is so heinous about medical insurance also)

and to be fair to insurance companies, even if they were trying to be good and give the best possible prices to their customers, they are at the whims of the larger markets -- the prices on medical bills (ballooned by medical supply companies and pharma companies basically extorting them), the prices of car parts, the price of gasoline to transport those car parts, probably lots of other market stuff I don't know because like I said i do not know much about this. so there is a bunch of risk the insurance company has to take as well. it is in their interest to act like a company, a money-making entity.

notably, as a profit-seeking entity, they then also find themselves relying on statistics as per @cobrilee's tags, and relying on those kinds of statistics ends up reinforcing institutionalized prejudice. you want redlining? this is how you get redlining.

in the process of writing this post, i looked up the official reason why car insurance is mandatory in 48 out of 50 states. the given reason? public safety.

specifically the idea that if you are hit by a car at no fault of your own, that you should not be expected to pay your medical bills. and i basically agree! that is an assumption that seems fair to buy into as part of living together in a cooperative society. (i will note that who "you" is can really determine who gets to be "at fault" buuuuut we cannot disentangle all of society's prejudices in one go so moving on)

but you know what? if it's for public safety, why is it being handled by entities that are necessarily driven by profit?

the fact is that having and driving a car is basically a requirement to be a working (usamerican) adult, but that it is regulated like it is a luxury item and it is really frustrating. if insurance is mandatory for public safety, it should be a matter of public safety handled by the government. it should be unconcerned with profit!

and if the government had to start really shouldering those costs, i think they might just see that public transportation is much cheaper, more efficient, and all around better than the 1 Car Per USAmerican (Mandatory) system we currently have. and we could have a competent public transportation system. and i would cry tears of joy.

The most frustrating part of working in insurance is knowing why people's insurance premiums are increasing so dramatically but not being able to explain it without sounding like you're defending a bunch of giant megacorporations

[isekyaaa]

Even though my posts make a decent amount of notes, I always compare them to others. Like I'll say, "Well this post has 262 notes, but there's this other person that posts fics that gets an average of 800 notes per fic within the first few days, so...." And it's like I know I shouldn't compare. My fics are really not catered to the reader-insert community as a whole and does well for the niche it's in, but.... There are some others in this niche that do better than me. So it's like.... 🤔🤔 even though I know notes are dependent upon multiple factors.

[the-fiction-will-knit-the-real]

I feel like I should find it funny that women/lesbians seem to be into me, but I'm almost entirely interested in men, who don't seem to be interested in me at all. And honestly I do find that funny, a lot of the time. But sometimes I find it very hard to deal with

[ginghamrose]

Lord knows I royally fucked up multiple times this semester and yet I prevailed

[void-wolfie]

when I have the urge to write but not the timeeee 😤😤😤

[heavenlybodies333]

“you’re so horny” ok so fuck me -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader

The BAU jet touched down at Quantico well past midnight. Another case, another town, another stack of horrific photos left behind. But your mind wasn’t on the unsub, not really. It was on the man sitting across from you on the jet, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek while he typed something into his tablet. Spencer Reid. Resident genius. Your favorite pain in the ass.

You stretched, deliberately arching your back just a little more than necessary, letting out a soft sigh.

Spencer didn’t even look up.

“You’re doing it again,” he said dryly, not missing a beat.

“Doing what?” you asked, all faux innocence as you leaned toward him, elbows on your knees, voice just above a whisper. “Trying to distract you?”

His gaze flicked to you then, sharp as ever, but with that annoyingly unreadable smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No. Being painfully obvious.”

You let out a scoff, crossing your arms. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you’re so horny,” he muttered under his breath, almost like a reflex.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He looked up again, eyes wide—mock innocent. “I said you're clearly suffering from a state of increased sexual arousal due to prolonged exposure to unresolved stimuli, which—statistically—is more common among high-stress professionals who have limited opportunities for consistent release. There’s actually a 2017 study out of Sweden—”

“Okay, stop.” You groaned, heat creeping into your cheeks. “You can’t just…diagnose me with being horny.”

“I think you diagnosed yourself,” he said smugly, leaning back and crossing his legs, ankle over knee like he was enjoying a private show.

You glared at him, flustered, squirming in your seat. “You're such a smug little shit.”

The engines of the jet were still winding down when Spencer stood up and slung his go-bag over his shoulder, stretching his arms with an audible pop of his spine. You followed him off the plane, resisting the urge to stare at the line of his back through his Henley.

“You know,” he said as you both stepped into the transport van, “if you’re going to keep using your sexuality as a weapon, you might want to fine-tune your aim. That stretch was a bit theatrical.”

You narrowed your eyes. “It worked, didn’t it?”

He smirked as he slid into the seat beside you. “Oh, it absolutely did. I’ve just built an immunity to your dramatics.”

Your voice dropped, words curling around your desire like smoke. “Funny, because I think if I put my hand in your lap right now, I’d find out just how immune you really are.”

Your glare lingered as the transport van rolled through the near-empty streets of Quantico, the dim cabin lights casting a glow on Spencer’s annoyingly perfect face. He was still smirking, arms crossed, legs spread just wide enough to be suggestive without technically doing anything wrong.

You shifted again, heat pooling lower in your belly. He knew what he was doing to you. Bastard.

“You keep squirming like that,” he murmured, voice low and conspiratorial, “I’m going to start thinking you want me to do something about it.”

“I do want you to do something about it,” you hissed under your breath. “But you’re too busy quoting Sweden and pretending you’re not hard right now.”

Spencer didn’t even blink. “Statistically speaking, I could be hard just from the friction of my jeans alone. But sure—blame your thighs.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re such an asshole.”

“And you’re insatiable,” he countered easily, glancing at the driver before leaning close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “You know what turns me on more than that little act you put on back there?”

You swallowed hard. “What?”

“That right now, I could tell you not to touch yourself when you get home. And you’d listen. You’d hate it—whine about it—but you'd do it. Because the idea of me telling you when and how you get to come turns you on more than anything else.”

Your thighs clenched together involuntarily.

He smirked, satisfied. “You didn’t deny it.”

You wanted to rip his shirt off with your teeth. But instead, you clenched your jaw and stared out the window, muttering, “Fucking hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You swallowed hard. It wasn’t fair when he did that—when he flipped the switch from awkward genius to calculated menace. It was like watching Dr. Jekyll smirk knowingly as he turned into Hyde.

The worst part? He was right. You’d been half-crazed all week. The case had been long, your hotel room had been cold and lonely, and Spencer had spent every day teasing you.

You barely made it through the front door of your apartment before Spencer had you pinned against it, go-bag forgotten on the floor. His hands gripped your waist like he couldn’t stand the idea of not touching you, his mouth hot and searching against yours, tongue sliding over yours with a groan that vibrated straight through your chest.

You gasped into his mouth, hands tangled in his curls before you could even think. Spencer—your Spencer—wasn’t like this at work. There, he was all long-winded explanations and nervous fidgeting, avoiding eye contact if you so much as leaned too close during a briefing. But here, in the privacy of your apartment, the door slamming shut behind you with the force of his need, he was starving.

You whimper as he curses under his breath. His hands traveled to your waistband, slipping inside with a groan as he felt how wet you already were.

“You’re fucking soaked,” he muttered against your neck, voice ragged and full of something darker than usual. “From what? A few words in a van?”

“From you,” you breathed, nails dragging down his back. “Fuck, Spencer—”

He huffed a laugh, pulling back just far enough to look at you—eyes wild, curls falling in his face, glasses fogging a little from the heat between you. “God, you’re shameless.”

You rolled your eyes. “And you like it.”

His fingers slipped between your folds and you moaned—high, helpless, already unraveling. He pressed his forehead against yours. “Yeah,” he whispered, “I fucking love it.”

He pushed his fingers into you in one slow, deliberate motion. You cried out, grabbing at his shirt like it could anchor you. He hissed through his teeth as he felt how tight you were around him, hips bucking slightly like the feel of you did something to his control.

His mouth met you with a groan, tongue laving through your folds like he was reading you in a language only he understood. You braced yourself against the wall, knees trembling, fingers tangled in his curls as he moaned like your pleasure belonged to him.

“God—fuck, please—”

“Already?” he teased, pulling back with a slick smirk. “That was fast. Almost like you’re really horny or something.”

You didn’t get to snark back before two fingers pressed into you and his mouth returned with vengeance. Every flick of his tongue, every curl of his fingers was deliberate, like he was cataloging every sound you made, every twitch of your body. You were unraveling, spiraling—and he knew it.

“You gonna come already, sweetheart?” he murmured between strokes. “Can’t even last five minutes when I’ve got my mouth on you?”

You wanted to hate him. Instead, you came with a cry, thighs clenching around his head, your whole body shaking against the door. He held you through it, still licking, still tasting like he couldn’t help himself.

When he finally stood, his lips were wet, his eyes blown wide with lust and mischief.

“You know what’s cute?” he asked, guiding you toward the bedroom, already unbuttoning his shirt.

“You?”

He grinned. “You thinking this was enough.”

He carried you to the bedroom, one hand splayed wide across your ass while the other fumbled with your shirt, tugging it over your head the second your back hit the mattress. He followed, mouth already on your chest, sucking a bruise into the soft skin above your bra before pulling it down to flick his tongue over your nipple.

“Jesus, Spence—”

He hummed. “Statistically speaking, women with high sex drives have a stronger response to nipple stimulation—”

You slapped his shoulder. “If you start quoting studies while your mouth is on my tits I swear to god—”

“You’ll come anyway,” he interrupted smugly, already sliding down your body, fingers catching in the waistband of your pants.

“You gonna be good for me now?” he asked, voice thick and low, you nodded, still breathless. “Please. Please, just fuck me.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, dragging it out, letting you feel how hard he was against your stomach. You reached for his belt, fumbling with urgency, but he caught your wrist.

“I said,” he growled against your mouth, “be good.”

You whimpered, nodding frantically. “I will. I’ll be good, I promise.”

He knelt between your legs, dragging the head of his cock through your folds with a hiss of restraint. “Look at you,” he murmured. “So needy. So wet. And all because I didn’t touch you for three days.”

You clawed at the sheets. “You tormented me for three days.”

He grinned, smug and breathless, as he rocked his hips forward just enough to tease your entrance without pushing in. “Correction,” he whispered, licking into your open mouth like he was savoring every whimper, “I watched you torment yourself. That’s different.”

You let out a shaky moan, bucking your hips up, desperate for friction. “Spencer—”

Your back arched, nails digging into his shoulders as he filled you, thick and aching and slow—deliberately slow. His forehead pressed against yours, curls falling into your face as he began to move, hips drawing tight, torturous circles that made you cry out.

“Shh,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “You’re doing so good for me now. Look at you.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he slows, brushing them away with his thumbs. “That good, huh?”

You choke on a laugh. “Fuck you.”

“Already am.” He grins and grinds into you, hard.

He reached around to rub your clit, the combination of pressure and fullness tipping you over the edge with a scream. Your whole body clenched, trembling around him, and he groaned your name as he came inside you, hips twitching as he emptied himself with a groan.

For a long moment, all you could hear was the frantic rhythm of your heartbeats, his weight heavy and grounding over you. Then he shifted, brushing damp hair from your face, kissing your temple with a softness that made your chest ache.

He pulled out slowly, making you whine, then settled beside you, gathering you against his chest.

“You okay?” he murmured, all sweetness again, his thumb softly caressing your cheek.

You nodded, dazed and glowing. “Better than okay.”

He smiled—that smile—and kissed you gently. “Good. Because you’re going to be late to work tomorrow.”

You blinked at him. “Why?”

His eyes gleamed.

“Because I’m going to fuck you again the second I get hard.”

You laughed, breathless, already aching in the best way.

“God, you’re such a nerd.”

“And you,” he said, flipping you back beneath him, “are so horny.”

a/n: im going to hell lmao

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