#transparency failures

[macsopinion]

Mark Carney's Shadow Carbon Tax Explained - Evil Conman Conning Canadians

Shadow Carbon Tax Explained Carbon Tax Con Job The carbon tax con job. They collect the tax for seven years, pass a law to raise it 300% by 2030, and then, a few weeks before the election, they hide it from sight, all to try and win a fourth liberal term in power. The full carbon tax, which lets them keep the tax and raise the tax, remains in place today, even after Mark Carney tried to hide…

[v4mpblog]

Alice. Madness Returns

[art-soboro]

my turn to draw cute contextless kemonomimis of despicable people

[polypinks]

good failure girl evening? morning? Idk idc. i made a transparent of the failure girl cover in pjsk. the um. the square image of the song Idk what its calledi mhaving a brain fart rn. It is a bit low quality and i also made another one for the mv i think? uhhhh idk.

i dont expect credits bc i just went ham w the magic wand in ibispaint for these. If u guys want better ones tho i will gladly make more bc i love failure girl…….

also the second one is old so Yeah. like a few months ago type of old I AM SO SLEEPY MY YAPPING MAKES NO SENSE

[averlym]

"now, doesn't that look nice?" [insp]

[sunnysideggs]

So I asked some friends but I thought I'd get the tumblr moot word in on this grand decision.

So here's my predicament...

I would say this is a dumb idea that has no purpose or motivation for me but it's maya that's my girl cmmooooon so im torn

[gemmasdeadwife]

I feel kind of bad about doing something so petty, but each time I block a shipbrained weirdo, I feel a little lighter. And I think this will make my experience a lot better overall. I wasn’t caught up on the show until Chikhai Bardo, which is when I finally got online about it. And I’ve loved speculating about what might happen and discussing interpretations of various details and things like that, but honestly the shippers are also ruining it a little bit for me, to the point that I’m starting to feel hints of bitterness toward characters I love and relationships I’m invested in. Solely because of the dismissive, reductive, and bizarrely competitive attitudes I see shippers take toward the characters outside of their ship, and also tbh the objectification of the characters within their ship, and the horniness for the most toxic, psychologically damaging possible versions of the ship & characters. So this is the policy now. If your weird aggressive post makes me feel a streak of resentment toward a beautifully written character, well then so long, friend

[13thdoodle]

bunch of Phantasy AU doodles n wip from earlier this year

Basically I just found out this year that ball-jointed dolls actually have strings in them and not just... magically attached by the ball joints themselves? And 31 in this AU is a ball jointed doll that were made out of Danny's energy so here we are :3c

I've been watching a lot of doll customization since earlier this year and found out from dollightful's video that no they are all connected by elastic strings inside so that's where the idea came from

...i was looking on google to find a good example to put here and clearly I'm not exactly paying attention to how the main body strings are actually.. pinned to?

the video I've been watching the most is dollightful n moonlight jewel and they have their bjd usually only to the bottom of the doll head instead of all the way to the top on the skull pin like the diagram above

Which is why 31 has his strings all connected to the 'heart' in the middle instead of the head kasjdnkasjnd

But yeah uhhh specifics aside...

----

Those ball jointed dolls made me think of 31, and then thinking about the clones in Phantasy AU and like.. the logistic of it

for 31, the idea is that during the circus gothica arc for this AU, Danny actually got kidnapped all the whole way into another universe/plane in which he met Valeska (Enn's oc) who unalive what his face the circus leader n break Danny's hypnosis

and now that Danny is essentially stuck in a whole other plane/realm/or sth he just following Valeska hoping she'll help him find his way back.

In one such trip, Danny got kidnapped (again) by another group/cult who wanted to use his power/energy as a gate keeper to the ghost zone to make their own gate keeper so they can open portals to ghost zones and maybe other realms too

31 is part of the experiments. He's a doll made with part of Danny's energy as his core.

And then it's.. uhh.. sth sth Valeska finally found out where they kept Danny and devour everyone there safe from Danny n 31 who helped him escape so now the three of them travel together~

The last pict is me thinking about clones and kingdom hearts :tm: so dramatic about Danny being the soul separated from the main body and 31 a clone made from part of the soul too and all that Not sure where I'm going with that but it do sound cool

And there's also Danielle but I'm not exactly sure.. how she would fit in? but it would be interesting if she was made from Danny's body somehow

so 31 made from part of teh soul and Dani from part of the body sounds poetic somehow

[thatscreamingrat]

i have a thing i need to turn into one of these comics but i was on my bike so i have been putting off drawing it

[tenth-sentence]

The lack of transparency, especially in the first days, the bumbling global health response, and the unconscionable failures of leadership will share part of the blame.

"Plagues Upon the Earth: Disease and the Course of Human History" - Kyle Harper

[rebuiltzine]

Where Is Grant Reichert? A Father's Plea, A System's Silence

“Where is my son?” That question—raw, desperate, unrelenting—haunts Jeff Reichert every day. As another Father’s Day approaches, it will mark his fourth in a row without seeing or even speaking to his son, Grant. But this isn’t the story of a disinterested parent or a legal deadbeat. This is the story of a father who’s been fighting for years through a system that seems engineered to break him,…

[randomfusilier]

[drdemonprince]

The conversations about accountability & apologies that we've been having in social justice circles these last few years have basically trained everybody to fawn.

We've been telling people that if they are accused of any wrongdoing or of hurting anybody's feelings, it is their obligation to apologize immediately, and never to hedge, disagree, or to explain their rationale what they've done.

In their apology, we expect them to articulate every single thing that they have done that was damaging in the strongest language possible and to declare outright that they have harmed someone, often multiple groups of people, even if they are not sure of the impact (or could not even possibly be sure).

If a person's apology is anything but immediate and entirely self-excoriating, we accuse the person of downplaying the damage they have done, failing to be accountable, and manipulating others.

In this way, we've made it impossible for a person to ever take their own side lest that be taken itself as a form of wrongdoing. We have trained our fellow social-justice-minded people to believe that if they do anything but worsen the case against themselves, they are being irresponsible.

I say we, in all of this, because I have partaken in all of this rhetoric, made these kinds of criticism, given accused people this type of advice.

And I have followed it myself, often to a damaging effect.

I have taken responsibility for problems in which I truly did not believe I played a part, I've overstated the damage that I've done so as not to risk understating it, I've ascribed malice to my intentions when I knew it wasn't there, I've agreed with people's most negative, bad-faith narratives about conflicts involving me that they were not even present for, offered up information about myself that was not a third party's business in the name of transparency, apologized for things I haven't done -- and in doing all of this, I have denied my loved ones the opportunity to really hear me about what I was going through and my motivations when I was in conflict with them, things that any true friend or close associate would obviously want to hear about if they cared about me.

This aim of giving the perfect apology and taking perfect accountability has been nothing but an isolating force in my life, because it has barred me from openly entering into necessary conflict with people when our needs were incompatible or they had hurt me just as much as I'd hurt them. The fear of being a manipulative, unaccountable DARVO-er has led me to roll onto my back and expose my belly, falling over myself with panicked apologies and the most unflattering information possible cast in the least explicable light, almost outright begging for others to become angrier at me and believing that it was only way I could ever possibly be accepted back.

We've drilled into people that the way to be good and responsible is to allow people to view us as negatively as possible, to even arm others with information that will confirm that point of view, and to never insert our own perspective or needs on the matter at all.

And yeah, there are a lot of shitty people out there who dodge accountability easily because their power ensconces them from any consequences. but the primary problem with that was never that they wrote a shitty notesapp apology that used the unforgivable phrase "I am sorry if you felt XYZ." The real problem was that there was no community that held enough influence to hold them to account, and for their victims there weren't ever adequate supports or protections.

instead of addressing any of that in a remotely systematic way, we have taken to picking apart every accused person's every word and deed for evidence of inner moral failure and created a culture in which we think we can determine a person's safety by how artfully they put words together when they are under threat. and what do you know, plenty of bad faith actors and conflict avoidant cowards and people who just dont understand what they are even being accused of can do that just fine.

[mariasont]

Copper Changes Color - A.H

all you wanted was to stop your new kitchen from flooding. what you got was a crash course in home repair, body awareness, and what mr. hotchner looks like in a dripping dress shirt

pairings: aaron hotchner x intern!reader warnings: suggestive themes, mild accidental injury, clothing transparency, mentions of aging (el oh el), slow burn (with water damage), sexual tension but we r making it neighborly, age gap, home repair as foreplay, science girl flirts via plumbing vocabulary, ballcock failure (swear) wc: 1.9k

Water sluices through your shoes in persistent little pulses, seeping into your socks and establishing a semi-permanent colony in the crevices between your toes.

You purse your lips and pitch yourself forward, clutching at the hem of your tank like you might peel the cold from your skin if you just squeeze hard enough. It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t.

The fabric clings tighter instead, now suctioned to your spine, a damp, vindictive second skin with a grudge. (Hydrophilic fibers. That’s why. Cotton loves water. An ironic choice, in retrospect, for someone who knows that cellulose absorbs up to 27 times its own weight.)

So now you’re mid-drip, mid-shiver, mid-existential reckoning over the catastrophic intersection between you and the American household plumbing system when the door swings open.

And there he is, framed in clean lines and afternoon light — your neighbor, your new neighbor, your prohibitively attractive, aggressively symmetrical new neighbor.

What a great impression you seem to be making judging by the look he gives you, as if trying to discern whether this is a cry for help or just your natural state of being.

You realize, belatedly, that you don’t even know which one you’d prefer him to believe.

“Hi! I — okay. This is probably the weirdest neighbor interaction you’ve had all month. Maybe all year. But my kitchen kind of exploded? Not exploded-exploded, there weren’t any flames or concussive blasts or flaming shards of sink shrapnel, just… water. A lot of it. From a valve? Under the sink? It’s called a ballcock, which sounds fake but it’s a real word, I checked. Anyway there was, like, geyser-level water pressure shooting into my ceiling and I didn’t know what else to do, so I came here. Not because I thought you could fix it, necessarily, unless you can? But mostly because I panicked. Which I don’t normally do.”

He regards you silently for a moment, his expression closed off, reminding you of a combination lock, one your brain immediately fumbles through every numeric permutation it can conjure to open it.

“I can come take a look. And call a plumber.”

He gestures for you to lead the way, falling in step behind you, or maybe beside you. It’s hard to tell. Spatial awareness takes a backseat the second his eyes dip toward the distressingly see-through state of your shirt.

He jerks his eyes away in gentlemanly fashion, burning himself on a hot stove.

Clearing his throat, he recovers, “Do you know if your water main’s outside or under the sink?”

You cross your arms, an attempted picture of casual confidence, though realistically more akin to frantic self-containment via strategically placed limbs.

You hope he doesn’t notice.

“It’s under the sink, I think. I mean sixty percent of residential shutoff valves are installed there, though some new models route to an external main, especially in cold climates, but this house predates modular plumbing standards so — yeah. Probably the sink.”

He nods once, as if you had offered a completely ordinary and appropriate response. As if normal people regularly volley niche plumbing statistics at each other in casual conversation.

Most people — regular, socially adjusted humans — would’ve blinked. Or winced a little. Or at least made that polite, closed-mouth “ah” sound that universally signals, please, for the love of god, stop talking.

But not Mr. Hotchner. (Aaron? Hotchner? You weren’t sure which name was appropriate.) He just steps into your house, either unfazed by you or polite enough to hide his confusion exceptionally well.

He crosses the kitchen in three measured strides, slacks neatly creased, white dress shirt still buttoned to the collar.

His posture practically screams executive burnout, like he spent his entire day navigating high-stakes conference calls and patiently explaining things to people he silently considered throttling.

You conclude swiftly and confidently that he must be some kind of CEO. Something complicated, lucrative, and mildly sinister. Finance, perhaps. Or no, something with a more predatory reputation. Venture capital? Private equity? Arms dealing? (Okay, not arms dealing.)

Whatever it is, you’re sure it involves quarterly earnings calls, shareholder appeasement, and an extensive collection of expensive ties.

But then again, he does live here. In this neighborhood, which is lovely, sure, all quiet and sun-dappled, all responsibly pruned hedges and tasteful porch lighting. You love it. You also could never have afforded it if the house hadn’t been, you know, inherited.

Still, it’s not exactly executive-suite-level real estate. 

Unless, of course, he’s one of those hyper-rational finance-blog devotees who preach aggressive saving strategies and believe visible wealth is for amateurs. You could picture that. Actually, it fits him perfectly. Or at least, it fits perfectly with the version of him your brain is assembling based on fifteen seconds of sidewalk interaction and your wildly unused behavioral science coursework.

You haven’t exactly been studying him, per se, but certain details lodge themselves in your pattern-attuned brain. It can’t be helped.

He leaves early. Returns late, consistently solo, and displays zero evidence of a cohabiting partner. There’s no second vehicle, no conspicuous brunch plans on weekends. His grocery trips result in single-serving bags and he waters that one sad potted plant but never waves at Mindi Daugherty across the street who strategically times her daily walks past his house in distinctly flattering activewear. 

He also runs every morning. You know this in the same way you know tides shift or birds migrate because he passes your porch at precisely 6:12 AM.

Same routine, same pace, same gray T-shirt darkened at the collar and clinging to upper-body definition. You’ve taken to waking up early under the noble guise of catching the sunrise before class, gaze angled vaguely toward the horizon, which just so happens to intersect with his jogging path.

But now, with him crouched at your sink, sleeves pushed past his forearms — which, by the way, are absolutely in the top percentile of forearm presentation — you confirm those jogs have a definitive purpose. Strong legs. Powerful quads capable of door-demolishing force. Not that you’ve considered that.

“Can you hand me that towel?”

You comply instantly, arm extending stiffly, acutely aware of the warmth radiating off him in slow, magnetic waves, like a space heater, or maybe a heat lamp, but one inexplicably gifted with superb genetics and bone structure.

He takes it, fingers brushing yours in an accidental collision. You would think it’s negligible by most standards, and yet your entire sensory network lights up simultaneously.

Without a word, he resumes his investigation beneath the sink, using the towel as makeshift padding for one knee.

You shift your weight, then decide proximity is crucial for educational purposes, lowering yourself onto the tile, whose damp chill promptly seeps through your leggings. Not enough to dissuade you.

“What exactly are you looking for?” you ask, voice soft so it doesn’t bounce too loud in the small kitchen. 

“Fault point on the fill line. If it’s clean, it’s a seal issue. If it’s corroded, you’ll need a full replacement.”

Your lips turn to a frown.

“If it is corroded, is it something you can patch temporarily or is it full replacement only?”

He turns to respond, but his gaze slips past your eyes, dropping downward for what seems like the seventh time in ten minutes, and precisely then, his arm brushes the loosened valve with just enough force to dislodge it.

Water explodes in a vicious surge, hitting him squarely in the chest and smacking you on the cheek.

Before you can move or breathe or curse, he’s already between you and the line of fire, arm braced against the cabinet, deflecting the brunt of the stream. Water barrels into his side, soaking through his pristine shirt in seconds.

Amidst the roar of rushing spray, you hear the metallic groan, the protesting grind of something finally surrendering beneath the steady force of his hand, and at last, the deluge tapers.

He exhales and then turns to look at you, shirt molded to his pecs, sleeves dripping onto the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, voice low but not annoyed, if anything, it’s amused. 

You offer him a weak smile, still blinking through droplets. “No, it’s — this is my fault. I should be the one apologizing. I mean, I’m the one who dragged you into this mess.”

He huffs a laugh, and there’s a dimple there, you realize, half-hidden beneath rain-slicked skin and a mouth pulling into something between wry and warm.

His hair drapes across his forehead, coiling slightly now that it’s wet.

You’re still smiling, you think, though hopefully in a restrained, adult, totally-not-enamored-neighbor sort of way.

He tilts his head at the pipe, then looks back at you over one shoulder.

“Yeah, you’re going to need a full replacement.” He gestures vaguely at the sad, dripping underbelly of the sink. “I can shut it off from the main for now, but it needs to be looked at professionally.”

“Right.” You nod. “I’ll just add this to my ever-expanding list of adult learning experiences.” He moves toward the shutoff as you wipe water from your eyes with the edge of your tank top. “Seriously, though, thank you. I know this isn’t exactly a neighborly favor on the usual spectrum of things.”

“This was… not the worst emergency call I’ve had,” he says, almost smiling. 

You’re about to respond, standing from your spot, to ask what could possibly be worse than this, when your heel skids across the drenched floor.

Your arms flail instinctively, grabbing at the nearest available support, which, of course, is him. He moves quickly, to his credit, trying to stabilize you, but the momentum carries you both backward. You tumble gracelessly into a slippery, tangled heap.

He mostly succeeds in cushioning your fall, though the resulting thud against the floor elicits a sharp grunt from him. Your palms, meanwhile, end up planted squarely against his very wet, very muscular chest.

You freeze, trapped somewhere between outright panic and complete sensory overload. His hands rest firmly on your waist in a futile attempt to salvage the situation, but the situation is well beyond saving, you’re adhered to him, nipples peaked against a top that’s now suctioned to skin. He has to feel it. And worse, your hair is now stuck across his face, one curl draped over his temple like an attempt at decoration.

His face, you notice, is stupidly handsome this close up. You can see the exact shape of his jaw, the way his lashes cluster into tiny spikes, the faint suggestion of stubble shadowing his skin, a brow that ticks just briefly as your breath catches against his collarbone. 

“You okay?”

“I’m fine!” you blurt, immediately launching into what can only be described as an anxious, full-body scramble off him. “Are you okay? Because I landed right on your — well, your thoracic region, technically, which absorbs impact better than your lower back, but still, that was a lot of force and you’re older —” You stop. “— I mean, not older, I just mean relatively speaking, like, statistically, the male spine starts to degenerate past thirty-five and — okay, I’m going to stop talking now.”

He stands with a grunt, more from effort than pain, and offers you his hand.

“You know,” he says, clasping yours as he lifts you to your feet. “I didn’t realize I was old until you mentioned it.”

Your face goes hot. “I didn’t mean you specifically, it was a general observation about musculoskeletal aging and —” You cut yourself off with a wince. “Right. Not helping.”

He exhales, a laugh almost, then glances at the kitchen. “I’ll call a plumber I know. They should be able to come out tomorrow and I can come by and oversee it, if you want.”

“Oh. Really? You’d — yeah. Thank you. That’d be great.”

He gives a nod, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you standing in a ruin of your own making. Then he opens the door. “Try to get some rest.”

And you will. Probably. Eventually.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[rebuiltzine]

The $10 Billion Courtroom Con: How "ADR Reform" Built an Administrative Empire

In 1990, Congress passed the Judicial Improvements Act, ushering in a new era of Alternative Dispute Resolution (ADR).Sold to the public as a way to reduce court congestion and streamline justice, ADR was supposed to make the legal system faster, cheaper, and less adversarial. But beneath the surface, a different transformation was underway. Instead of shrinking, the federal judiciary exploded…

[hypokeimena]

i think one of the things happening in this thread is that people don't have a consistent definition of canonical. ​the fact that something is in the authors notes or written interviews does not make it canonical - it means that that was the authors intent. i'm sure we've all read books where the author in interviews said "yes, i wanted this character to read as (gay, whatever)" but this was not sufficiently present in the text itself for people to be satisfied with it.

this extracanonical information is not something you need to point to to support harrows schizophrenia, which is present in the text of the book itself. harrow's schizophrenia is supported by the text. its there! it's incredibly obvious. it's present all throughout harrow, it's reinforced by crux in nona. it's frankly inarguable.

however, lots of readers don't have the personal experience to recognize this or - perhaps more importantly - the willingness to recognize the humanity of people with schizophrenia. it is actually super pertinent that this is not "representation" for gay people or whatever group is probably over represented in the readership for this series - it's completely unsurprising to me that theres way more resistance to reading harrow as schizophrenic IF presented with a magical explanation that doesn't require viewing harrow as 'like that'. this is an issue of people's willingness to extend sympathy/empathy/whatever/SHARED HUMANITY to people who are crazy in ways that are unpalatable.

related to this, obviously harrow is haunted by ghosts and revenants and all that, AND she is crazy. but we are all reading this book with the awareness that sci-fi allegories don't necessarily cheapen something, they can also deepen a text. the bone arm scene is a sex scene and it's no less sexual and textually or allegorically sexual just because genitalia never got involved and no one kissed, yknow? harrow might be schizophrenic because of the hundreds of dead babies she's made out of, but THAT doesn't mean it's a form of fantasy-crazy with absolutely no relevance to the real world and it doesn't mean that if she lost those ghosts she wouldn't be like that anymore. sometimes people are crazy, and sometimes the explanation is genetics and sometimes the explanation is ghosts, but they're still *crazy*, and you simply have to be willing to still see them as human.

I don't wanna further hijack that poor poll, but the thing about Harrow's schizophrenia is that it's canon. The author has confirmed it, and shared that it's based on her own experience.

It's a pretty obscure bit of canon, so of course there's no shame in not already knowing, but that's why I'm so obnoxiously persistent about letting people know.

Whatever else is up with Harrow, autism or cptsd or any number of likely headcanons, she is also schizophrenic. I feel like that's too important to be handwaved away as a difference of opinion.