#truth procedure

[figuringoutstill]

"Truth, for Badiou, is never simply a revelation, but has reality only in and through the subject who changes the world in its name. If the subject “answers the call,” then it and the event become part of what Badiou calls “truth procedures,” of which he recognizes four: politics, where a status quo is breached in the name of a new community or society, science, in the name of new possibilities of knowing, art, of a new language of forms and love, a newly shared world of Two instead of One."

Ype de Boer (In 'Badiou and Agamben Beyond the Happiness Industry and its Critics')

[depresseddepot]

feeling Nervous

[dalesramblingsblog]

"Kill the Moon is unintentionally pro-life" discourse is out, "Stephen Cole's 1998 short story Rights is unintentionally pro-life" is the hot new sensation that will take Tumblr by storm.

[istherewifiinhell]

[watching a video about how reading pedogogy got fucked up when they started assuming kids can naturally pick up words from context and dont need it drilled into them] oh my god they text literacy'd them. but first. they literacy'd them. theyre printed words natives... we dont have to TEACH them things. oh my god....

[13thpythagoras]

i wanna give a shout out to all my tumblr people who don't have living parents / contact with their parents... orphan gang ride or die all ages... if you got questions or ponderings then I for one am here for you... doctors just wanna make a buck off us, the system they represent blocks cures, doctors are just like cops to me. i'm in that anton chigurh school of medicine, i heal myself and i don't ask for permission to do it, and i am glad to teach others about real cures that don't fit the patent system, so the french kissers of boots hate me and i say let em, let em see me as their villain and one day they'll look in the mirror and see a lap dog on the porch of the establishment barking at people saving lives staring back at themselves

[answersfromzestual]

I am currently trying to create a very informative post on my experiences and most likely medical information from another source (I will always post source if I use even one) on urination after Urethra Lengthening (UL) procedure.

I hope this would be of interest to many of you.

I can not speak for metoidioplasty and UL (Urethra Lengthening) procedure in this upcoming post.

If you are interested in urinating after Metoidioplasty, maybe maybe I can find some testimonials and articles online to provide some more insight on the procedure at a later date.

Stay tuned!

Stay Golden ✌️ 💙 🩷

[modernwitnesses]

Excerpt from An Untroubled Heart By Kara Stout

We are excited to feature Kara Stout’s new devotional (which launched April 29, 2025), An Untroubled Heart. “This inspiring 30-day devotional invites readers to begin each morning in God’s presence and end each day in his calming embrace, providing a rhythm of peace for anxious hearts. In An Untroubled Heart, Stout shares glimpses into her own struggles including recovering from a carotid artery…

[color-coded-bear]

i don't remember what fic i read it in, but one of my favorite takes on Yue Qingyuan's life sword bond w/ xuan su was that it was a rite of passage that all of cang qiong's sect leaders go through

[healixhospitals24]

Uncover the truth about gastrointestinal surgeries. Debunk common myths, learn essential facts, and make informed decisions for better health and recovery.

Do Visit: https://www.healixhospitals.com/blogs/gastrointestinal-surgeries:-myths-vs.-facts-for-patients

[nationallawreview]

Lawsuit Challenges CFPB’s ‘Buy Now, Pay Later’ Rule

On Oct. 18, 2024, fintech trade group Financial Technology Association (FTA) filed a lawsuit challenging the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau’s (CFPB) final interpretative rule on “Buy Now, Pay Later” (BNPL) products. Released in May 2024, the CFPB’s interpretative rule classifies BNPL products as “credit cards” and their providers as “card issuers” and “creditors” for purposes of the Truth…

[thatgarden]

A study just came out from Harvard about how gender affirming surgeries are more commonly performed on "cisgender men/boys" than transgender and gender diverse (TGD) people.

But these men/boys have gynecomastia which, if they were born with it (and the study doesn't specify), they're not just "cisgender".

They're intersex.

How many times now have intersex people told us perisex (non-intersex) people to stop using the statistics of their surgeries just as trans talking points, while erasing intersex people on the whole?

We have no idea how many of those surgeries were forced, or coerced, onto these intersex people. Either from doctors, parents, or even societal pressure.

Perisex trans people need to do better. We have to be better allies to intersex people than this. It disgusts me just how much we have failed our own community, time and time again.

UPDATE

The study actually specifically excluded intersex people.

"Importantly, all surgical procedures among patients with indications of differences in sex development or patients with other medical indications for surgery (eg, cancer, injury) were excluded..."

I'm happy to see this particular study has taken care to exclude intersex people, since surgeries done on them cannot be compared to transgender surgeries, but please bear in mind that this is still just one study.

The horrible truth is that medical abuse against our intersex siblings is still heavily normalized within the medical industry. From using terms like DSD, to forcing kids and even BABIES into sexual binaries with non or dubiously consensual surgeries or HRT, these horrors that intersex people have to go through are all too normal for them. That's unacceptable.

If you have reblogged this post without this update, I urge you to delete that reblog and reblog this version instead. We can fight for intersex rights and (if you're also perisex) show our solidarity without spreading misinformation.

[solxamber]

Want You Back with: Housewardens

Where they're still in love with you.

Other parts: Vice-housewardens + Ruggie

Riddle Rosehearts

After the breakup, Riddle acted like he'd read somewhere that repressing emotion was a perfectly valid coping mechanism. Which, to be fair, he probably had. And so he embarked on what could only be described as a grief management routine so structured and detail-oriented that you almost had to respect it.

First came the part where he behaved like nothing had happened.

He went about his day with all the usual pomp—collaring students, citing arcane dorm rules, and drinking his tea as usual.

If anyone brought you up (on purpose or by accident), he would simply blink, nod, and go back to arranging sugar cubes in a perfect geometric formation. "We are no longer together," he would say, as if it were an administrative change and not, say, a soul-crushing emotional catastrophe.

Then came the coincidences.

He began showing up in places he absolutely did not frequent before. The café you liked? Suddenly, he was a regular. The library on Thursday evenings? There. The very hallway outside your class despite Heartslabyul being on the opposite side of campus? Oh yes. There too. And every time you spotted him lurking (because that was the only word for it), he would give a startled little blink, like you were the surprise.

"Oh. I didn't see you there," he said, the fourth time in a week.

You stared at him from behind your drink. "I've been sitting here for thirty minutes."

"Well," he muttered, "public seating is for everyone."

By week two, he began inventing reasons to talk to you. Weird ones.

He approached you one day, armed with a rulebook and what looked like three sticky notes marking battle locations.

"According to Queen of Hearts rule 42," he said, clearly having practiced this in front of a mirror, "ex-partners must return borrowed items within twelve days."

You blinked. "You lent me a pencil."

"It was part of a set," he snapped, scandalized.

You told him you'll give it back and he looked like someone slapped him.

You thought that might be the end of it. But then, course, it escalated.

He showed up at your door one evening with a paper in his hand. A list. A physical list. Titled, in absolutely unnecessary cursive, "A Non-Exhaustive Record of My Missteps."

"It's not meant to change anything," he said stiffly, not quite looking at you. "Only to… acknowledge."

There were bullet points. Short, awkward, and occasionally baffling.

Should not have critiqued your sock choice in front of your friends.

I apologize for saying 'emotional outbursts are not strategic.' That was, in hindsight, a poor choice of words.

You are allowed to eat dessert before dinner. Even if it is cherry pie.

I realize now that asking if we could schedule arguments during free periods was not romantic.

I should have asked you to stay.

You didn't know what to do with it—him. He was so Riddle about everything. Polite. Procedural. Very slightly insane. But under all the awkward attempts at regulation and paperwork, it was clear he missed you. Badly.

And the truth was, you still hadn't returned the matching pencil.

You kept it. Not because you believed in fate or romance or even well-meaning tyrants who quoted rulebooks like love poems—but because part of you thought, maybe, if he was willing to be just a little more flexible, there might be a version of this that could work.

And you hoped it could.

Leona Kingscholar

After the breakup, Leona made it his personal mission to convince the entire world—Ruggie, his dorm, the mirror in his room, the literal wildlife outside—that he did not care.

He went around saying things like, "Tch. Good riddance," and "Like I got time to babysit someone who cries over movies," even though no one had brought you up. He slept more. Talked less. Got moodier, which no one thought was possible until he started growling at actual potted plants for existing near his nap spots.

Whenever Ruggie so much as hinted at your name—usually while dancing around some scheduling conflict or trying to explain why Leona's mood had tanked again—he'd get cut off mid-word.

"I wasn't even talking about them!" Ruggie would complain.

"Then stop thinking about them so loud," Leona snapped, face buried in the crook of his arm like the concept of you physically hurt his eyes.

But of course, the moment your name stopped being brought up, that became a problem too.

He started acting restless. Less asleep all the time and more awake and clearly trying to look like he's not looking around for someone. He'd frown when someone laughed in the hallway, then look annoyed when it wasn't you. He started showing up to classes he normally skipped, sitting in the back with his legs stretched out and arms crossed like he was doing the entire school a favor just by existing in the room.

And then the things started appearing.

First, it was his jacket—left casually across the back of your desk chair, like maybe gravity had just pulled it there on accident. Then his spellbook, shoved between your textbooks in a way that definitely required premeditated effort. Then a sandwich. An entire sandwich, wrapped up and labeled "Not Yours."

He denied all of it, obviously.

"Must've been Ruggie," he said, regarding the jacket that literally smelled like him.

When confronted about the book: "I don't even read, what're you talking about."

As for the sandwich? "You're imagining things. I didn't make that for you."

By that point, no one believed him—not even himself.

The final blow came in the form of a confrontation you hadn't expected. Late evening, when you were walking back to your dorm from the library. You were alone, or you thought you were, until you turned the corner and found him there—half in shadow, arms crossed, gaze trained somewhere just over your shoulder.

He didn't say hello.

Didn't say anything actually.

Just let the silence stretch until it started fraying at the edges, and then muttered, voice low and rough:

"You still want this, don't you?"

You stared at him. He didn't flinch, but you could tell he wanted to. He held himself like someone who didn't expect the answer to be yes, but still desperately needed to hear it before he gave up entirely.

And you realized somewhere between the jacket, the sandwich, and the way his voice cracked at the end of the sentence—that for all his snarling and attitude, he never stopped loving you.

He just didn't know how to ask you to stay without sounding like he might actually need you.

Which, of course, he did. Not that he'd ever say it out loud.

Not yet, anyway.

But the next time he leaves something behind, you think you might return it in person. Maybe even stay awhile.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul handled the breakup the only way he knew how: with spreadsheets, surveillance footage, and a truly unhealthy amount of denial.

He claimed to be fine, of course. Said it with a straight face while color-coding inventory spreadsheets and inputting customer satisfaction data at four in the morning like a man unburdened by heartbreak. But when the tweels found the Lounge security footage paused—again—on a scene of you laughing near the bar, they stopped asking.

He'd memorized the timestamp.

And no, he didn't want to talk about it.

Azul had always been prone to spiraling in a unique way. After the breakup, that tendency mutated into something truly concerning. He didn't cry. He didn't wallow. Instead, he opened a blank document and began calculating. How many hours you'd spent together. How often you laughed in his presence. What the average rate of eye contact was in happy couples versus yours. There were charts. Graphs. Some kind of weighted affection index.

Unfortunately, Jade opened the file looking for the March sales report and instead found a document titled:

"Projected Probability of Them Still Loving Me (v6)."

He would not let him live it down.

"Idea," Floyd said. "You wanna run those numbers again but include the variable where you're super pathetic lately?"

Even Jade raised an eyebrow. "The correlation between desperation and appeal might not be as linear as you'd hope."

Azul tried to brush them off. He even lied (very badly) about what the spreadsheet was for ("Just… tax optimization. Personal hobby. Totally normal."), but the damage was done. The eels were smug. He was mortified. And worst of all, he still couldn't stop thinking about you.

So he pivoted.

If direct emotional vulnerability had failed him, perhaps passive-aggressive marketing would do the trick.

You started receiving coupons. Neatly folded, hand-delivered, no return address—but you recognized the ink. And the handwriting. And the aggressively formal tone that somehow still managed to sound like begging.

"One (1) free drink of your choice at the Mostro Lounge. Offer valid for exes statistically proven to be an optimal match."

Another read:

"Your preferred drink has been discontinued. Kidding. Please come back."

And your personal favorite:

"A reminder that our pairing was 94.3% ideal. Come back. For research."

You didn't respond. He didn't expect you to. But every week, a new coupon showed up—some increasingly ridiculous, some borderline romantic, all of them signed with that same flourish he used when pretending he wasn't panicking.

You weren't sure if it was pathetic or endearing. Probably both. The coupons had piled up in a drawer now, next to a coaster you never returned and a little napkin with a sketch he once made of you during a slow night.

You told yourself it was nostalgia. Curiosity. Scientific inquiry, if anything.

And one slow afternoon, you found yourself digging through the drawer, smoothing out the least crumpled coupon, and thinking—just for a moment—that you might stop by.

For research. Obviously.

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim took the breakup as well as someone who had never actually took a negative emotion in his life to heart could. Which was to say: terribly.

He cried. A lot. At first, it was appropriate—private tears, sniffles in the dorm room, a distant gaze over his drink. But then it started happening at other times. Like during an ad for laundry detergent where the happy couple folded towels together. Or during a weather report where the forecast mentioned rain, which, apparently, you once said made you sleepy. Or during absolutely nothing at all, except that the sun was setting "a little too much like that one day you held his hand, remember?"

He insisted he was fine.

"Totally fine!" he chirped, voice three octaves higher than normal, eyes red-rimmed and suspiciously glossy. "Breakups happen all the time, right? We're both growing and learning! It's healthy!"

No one believed him.

Jamil looked like he was considering reporting you to the disciplinary committee just to end Kalim's reign of emotionally unhinged sunshine. Even Grim asked if someone should "turn him off and back on again."

But Kalim doubled down. If he couldn't be fine naturally, he'd brute-force his way into happiness. Which, in his mind, meant: throwing parties. So many parties. For no reason. His calendar suddenly became a horror show of "themed celebration nights" and "spontaneous joy hours," all of which were weirdly tailored around your favorite things.

"Here!" he said brightly, handing out goodie bags. "Everyone gets this specific brand of chocolates and stickers! Because those are just objectively fun! Not because anyone used to love them or anything!"

It was transparent. Alarmingly so.

Even when he gave someone a little clay charm that looked exactly like the one you wore on your bag, Kalim waved it off with a too-wide smile. "Just spreading the joy! It's important to stay positive, right?"

Everyone knew it was a cry for help. The kind that sounded like party poppers and glitter and repressed sobbing in the school gardens.

The turning point came on a quiet afternoon when he showed up at your door holding a tiny cupcake. It had a frosting heart on it. His hands shook slightly.

"I know this is weird," he said, already teary. "I didn't wanna make you uncomfortable. I just—"

He swallowed, voice cracking like something inside him was giving up the act for good.

"Even if you don't love me again," he said, "can we still be something?"

You looked at him—his earnest eyes, his trembling lower lip—and you felt something soft and painfully familiar unfurl in your chest.

Because Kalim didn't know how to lie to the people he loved. Not well. Not really. He was all impulse and heart, the kind of boy who loved too loud and too fast and never quite knew how to stop once he started.

And maybe you weren't ready to be what you were. Not yet.

But looking at him, at the little cupcake with the slightly smudged heart and the the way he was holding it like he might shatter if you didn't take it—

How could you say no?

You took the cupcake. And maybe his hand, too. Just for a moment. Just to see if something could still bloom.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil did not mourn the breakup. Mourning was for people who couldn't maintain composure under pressure. For people who let emotion smudge their mascara. He was not one of those people.

At least, not publicly.

He was flawless. Unbothered. The exact picture of someone thriving post-relationship, thank you very much. His interviews were polished. His smiles were poised. His posture was impeccable. If anyone noticed that his usual acerbic wit had gone curiously blunt, no one said anything.

They wouldn't dare.

Privately, though, when the cameras were off and the spotlight blinked out, Vil cracked in very small ways.

He started using your favorite perfume. A subtle layer, never enough to be obvious, but just enough to make him feel like you were still somewhere in the room. Like maybe if he breathed in deep enough, he could hold onto something.

He flipped through magazines during lunch breaks, claiming it was for "market research." But every time he lingered on a movie review or a lifestyle spread, it was with the faint, ridiculous hope that you'd read it too. That your fingers might have touched the same paper. That your eyes caught the same line he was rereading for the fifth time.

He knew it was foolish. But Vil had always been prone to beautiful illusions. It was sort of his thing.

The unraveling came, ironically, in the most public of places: a toothpaste commercial.

He was halfway through filming, mid-speech about the importance of a radiant smile, when something in the script triggered a memory—something you once said about how his laugh.

He kept talking.

Kept improvising.

Went off-script entirely.

The crew let him go for a minute—Vil was known for his "emotional depth," after all—but when he hit the line "even the most polished smile can still ache when it remembers someone who made it feel real," the director had to call cut.

"Vil," they said gently. "It's a toothpaste commercial."

He didn't speak for the rest of the shoot. Just touched up his own makeup in silence, eyes a little glassy.

It took him another week to knock on your door.

He showed up in a soft sweater, smelling faintly of something familiar, holding his own hands like he didn't know what else to do with them.

He didn't ask for much. Didn't ask for forever. Just quietly, cautiously:

"Would you like to try again?"

And you thought—looking at him, at the person who once swore he'd never show up like this for anyone, at the vulnerability hiding under all that polish—

Maybe this time, you could make it work.

Idia Shroud

Idia handled the breakup the way he handled most things in life: with a complete and total digital meltdown, buried under forty layers of denial and an emotionally scorched Discord server.

He didn't text. Didn't call. Didn't even leave passive-aggressive emoji reactions on your old posts like a normal ex with unresolved feelings. He simply… disappeared.

Vanished like a ghost into his room, into his code, into the vast and uncaring expanse of the internet, where feelings didn't exist unless they were typed in all caps or conveyed through a crying anime girl gif.

And for a while, it was total radio silence.

Until you logged into that game.

The shared one. The one you used to play together after class, where the two of you ran a little shop in a pixelated fantasy village and spent an embarrassing amount of time farming digital potatoes.

Your shop was still there.

But now there was… a shrine.

Your character's pixel art face, recreated painstakingly in custom tiles and surrounded by in-game flowers, torches, and glowing pink mood crystals that did not exist in the vanilla version of the game.

He'd modded it.

There was a sign in the middle that just said:

"Here Lies Happiness (RIP)"

You stared at it for a long time. Then, just to confirm the ridiculous suspicion building in your chest, you checked the nearby player list.

Sure enough, his username had changed too:

"SadBoy420"

Online. Loitering.

You didn't message him immediately. Mostly because you weren't sure what to say to someone who had quite literally built a shrine to your relationship in a farming sim. But still—you lingered. Logged in more often. Left offerings of rare items near the shrine like it was some strange, silent conversation.

Idia never spoke to you directly, but you noticed the shrine changed a little every day. One day it had a sign that said "I'm Fine." The next, it was replaced with a drawing of your characters fishing together. One morning it was just a massive, pixel-art rendition of the word "SORRY" in bold letters with a sad face emoji.

Outside the game, his silence continued.

But Ortho?

Ortho was not subtle.

"Did you know my brother has been listening to the voicemails you left him on loop for the past 72 hours?" he chirped once in the cafeteria. "Not that he's, like, sad or anything! Just nostalgic. Definitely not crying."

Later: "He made your favorite NPC in our custom server the town mayor! Isn't that cute? I mean, objectively, not emotionally, haha."

Eventually, you got the call.

Your phone lit up with his name and you answered before you could talk yourself out of it.

"Uh—hey," Idia said, voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't, like, mean to call. Or—I did, but. Crap. Okay. Hi."

You waited.

He took a breath.

"I was just wondering," he said, "if you maybe wanted to talk again. Or, y'know. Game. No pressure or anything. It's fine if you're, like, over it and I'm just like a pathetic ghost haunting your social life, haha, classic tragic NPC vibes—"

"Yes," you said, before he could spiral into apologizing for existing.

He paused. Long enough that you thought the call had dropped. Then, quietly—hopeful, almost disbelieving:

"Wait. Really?"

You smiled, even if he couldn't see it.

"Yeah," you said. "Log in."

Malleus Draconia

Malleus did not understand how something so radiant could simply… end.

He didn't throw a dramatic tantrum after the breakup. He didn't disappear in a swirl of thunderclouds or curse the moon or anything out of a tragic love story.

He didn't so much as frown in public, because the full gravity of the breakup hadn't quite hit him yet. Instead, it settled in stranger places—quiet things, strange habits.

Like how he started speaking to the plush bat you gave him on his last birthday as though it were you. Not in a creepy way, more like someone who didn't know what to do with the empty space you left behind.

He asked it questions. Told it how his day went. Laughed, sometimes, as if it had told him a joke—low and fond, the kind of laugh only you had ever coaxed out of him. And when he sat beneath the stars, plush cradled carefully in his lap, he whispered to it with a gentleness reserved only for the lost.

The gargoyles? They weren't even sentient, but even they seemed exhausted. Every night he stood in front of them, musing out loud about the way you smiled or how you always called him weird little nicknames. One of them lost a nose—maybe unrelated.

Lilia, bless him, said nothing for a long while. He simply watched as Malleus wilted, quietly and beautifully, like a flower sealed in ice. But one evening, after Malleus asked in the softest voice, "Do humans ever come back when they leave?", Lilia did not answer. He only wrapped his arms around his ward and held him close.

At some point, he started writing letters. Not to send, just… to say things. Things he didn't know how to tell you, or hadn't said enough when he could. Some were serious. Some were barely legible thoughts written in the middle of the night. But he kept them all, folded neatly in a box that lived under his bed.

And then, of course, Silver found the box.

Silver, ever helpful and half-asleep, assumed it was mail Malleus meant to send and delivered the whole thing to your dorm like it was completely normal to get a hand-bound novel of unsent love letters dropped off on a random day.

You read them all.

You didn't say anything at first. You weren't sure what you were supposed to say. But that night, you left your window open—just a little.

And sure enough, just past midnight, Malleus appeared outside your dorm. Just… standing there. Looking up.

He didn't ask to come in. He didn't even call your name. He just waited. Like maybe you'd hear the quiet, and somehow understand.

And when you finally stepped outside, he looked at you like he'd been waiting centuries.

"May I court you again?" he asked softly. "From the beginning."

And really… how could you say no?

Masterlist

[labelleizzy]

It's important to know what is going on.

Written by US Senator Chris Murphy (D - CT)

Report from the Senate Floor:

Last night in the Senate, something really important happened. Republicans forced us to debate their billionaire bailout budget framework. We started voting at 6 PM because they knew doing it in the dark of night would minimize media coverage. And they do not want the American people to see how blatant their handover of our government to the billionaire class is.

So I want to explain what happened last night and what we did to fight back. The apex of Republicans’ plan to turn over our government to their wealthy cronies is a giant tax cut for billionaires and corporations. And they plan to pay for it with cuts to programs that working people rely on. Popular and necessary programs like Medicaid, Medicare, and SNAP, are all being targeted.

In order to pass the tax cut, Republicans have to go through a series of procedural steps. Last night, they took the first step which requires them to pass an outline of their plan, but with it, any senator can offer as many amendments as we want. So my Democratic colleagues and I did just that.

Now, we knew that Republicans would largely unanimously oppose them, but we had two objectives here. One, Republicans were forced to put their opinion on record — many for the first time — on the most corrupt parts of Trump and Musk’s agenda. Two, as I’ve been saying, I am going to make every process and procedure as slow and painful as possible for as long as my colleagues choose to ignore the constitutional crisis happening before our eyes.

So what did we propose? We proposed no tax cuts for anyone who makes a billion dollars a year. We made them vote on whether or not Elon Musk and DOGE should have limitless access to Americans’ personal data. We made them vote on whether to protect IVF and require insurers to cover it. Every single amendment Democrats proposed was shot down. On almost every single amendment, Republicans universally opposed it. Every Republican voted against our proposal to prevent more tax cuts for billionaires. The corruption and theft is happening in the open here.

The whole game for Republicans is taking your money and giving it to the wealthiest corporations and billionaires — even if it means kicking your parents out of a nursing home or turning off Medicaid for the poorest children. They know what they are doing is deeply unpopular. They are offering a tax cut to the most wealthy that is 850 times larger than what they are offering working people. Oh and by the way, any tax cuts for working people are going to be washed out by higher costs for basic necessities, like health care and food. It’s a fundamental injustice.

Thanks to your pressure and support, many of my Democratic colleagues have joined my effort to do everything we can to make sure they cannot destroy democracy and steal your money in the dark of the night. We are being loud about what is happening. I’m going to continue to grind the gears of Congress down as much as possible to make it that much harder and slower to get away with this corruption. That’s why the votes lasted until nearly 5 AM.

This is a five-alarm fire. I don’t think we have two years to plan and fight back. I think we have months. It’s still in our power to stop the destruction of our democracy with mass mobilization and effective opposition from elected officials. So we can’t miss any opportunity to take advantage of opportunities to put Republicans on the record and shine a light on what is happening.

And you have a role to play in this as well. I need you to amplify what’s happening, support the leaders who are fighting for you to make sure they can continue speaking truth to power against Musk and Trump’s billionaire cronies, and show up at rallies and town halls. Use every tool at your disposal to send a message loud and clear about how you expect my colleagues to lead and fight in this moment.

Every best wish,

US Senator Chris Murphy (D - CT)

[dr-aashish-arbat-pune]

Knee Replacement Surgery Types

Here know, Knee Replacement Surgery Types. Disadvantages of Knee Replacement Surgery. The Truth About Knee Replacement Surgery. Know, What is the Best Knee Replacement Procedure?

[crazyintheeast]

Bobby :I am not saying the tabloids are right but there might be some truth that you a little bit codependent

Mira: How dare you

Rumi : I can’t believe you would say this

Zoey: Give us one example

Bobby: Well you spend 24 hours a day together and even take your holidays together , I am literally the only other person you talk to on a regular basis and half of the time you ignore me to talk to each other , you ordered a custom Alaskan King bed because and I quote “Mira likes to spread out” which leads me to believe that you are all sharing a bed , I have also seen you share a toothbrush which eww really? Come on . Also when Zoey had to have her appendix removed you insisted on holding her hands during the procedure and when the doctors refused you bought the hospital and made them let you

Rumi : She asked for one example

Mira: That’s just being a good friend Bobby

Zoey: This reminds me . I lost our toothbrush . We need to get a new one

[abbotsanatomy]

I can’t stop thinking about the fluffy alphabet you did for Jack where his nightmare is you coming into his ER. I’d love if you could expand upon that please and thank you.

⨳ JUST A WALK-IN

pairing: jack abbot x wife!reader warnings: depiction of ectopic pregnancy, mentions of surgery/medical procedures. author's note: i think it'd definitely feel that much worse if he caused your visit to the ER (even if indirectly). so here's this..

It takes a lot for you to visit the ER. Lightheadedness, pain in the most random places, and three days of excruciating pain later, you've finally succumbed to the fact that this is, indeed, an emergency.

In truth, you're more worried about your husband than yourself. Jack's what the people call completely overbearing, when it comes to your health. If you could be a hypochondriac for someone, he's that. He tries to downplay it, but you know he's panicking inside every time you get a cold that lasts a little too long or tell him about that pain in your side.

That's why it's incredibly detrimental that your husband not see you in his ER. You're going to tip-toe around, asking for anyone who isn't him and hoping the nurses won't slip up and tell him they saw you around. You feel safe, for now, behind this curtain.

You managed to snag Parker Ellis on your way in. She's one of your favorites, and you know she can keep her mouth shut with Jack.

“Y'know if Abbot finds out, I'll tell him you totally threatened me, right?” she deadpans, pulling her gloves on.

She's sat on a stool beside your hospital bed. You shoot her a pouty look that you hope could soften her up. It doesn't.

“Come on! I only threatened you a little,” you yell, “Have my back. It can't be that serious. Probably just appendicitis or something.”

“You waited three days before coming in,” she berates you. “If it is appendicitis, you should be worried.”

You sigh loudly, and move to lie farther back onto the hospital bed. Ellis brings the cart with the ultrasound kit closer to herself.

“Whatever,” you whisper, pulling your shirt up to reveal your torso.

Ellis puts some ultrasound gel there. You close your eyes at the sensation. It feels too cold, especially with the preexisting pain.

She puts the transducer on your lower abdomen and moves it around, her eyes glued to the screen in front of her. You assume she's found something when her hand freezes and just stares at the screen for a minute.

“What is it?” you question, softly. You're a little scared now; you've never seen Ellis look so serious.

When the silence becomes too intense, you start turning the diamond ring on your fourth finger around. You know whatever Parker's about to tell you, it isn't good.

“Should Jack be here for this?” you suggest, unable to pull your eyes from the sparkling rock on your hand.

Ellis finally pulls her eyes away from the screen, “Yeah. Maybe.”

You nod, slowly letting your eyes flutter shut.

“Okay. Can you tell him? To come in here?” you finally look up at her, “I want him here.”

She leaves without another word. You put your head into your hands, breathing deeply. You think you're getting a moment of peace, and then the pain that's been following you around for days, maybe even weeks, it doubles.

Then, it triples.

You know this can't be a good sign. You make for the call button quickly. You're inches away, when you feel your consciousness slip away. Your vision goes black before you can do anything.

Ellis is making her way through the ER at record speed. When she finds Jack, she's even more frustrated than before.

He's operating. She can't interrupt. She isn't even sure how she was going to tell him in the first place, let alone in a room full of people, with someone's life in his hands.

Ellis is more than aware of just how much Jack loves you. She was at the wedding. She sat front row, listened intently to all of your vows. She hears how he talks to you on the phone, his voice completely morphing into something a lot softer. She notices how you’re on speed dial every time a major incident happens, because he always needs to make sure you’re okay.

She knows he'll freak out when he hears.

These things usually aren't that dangerous, but you've left it for too long. She isn't even sure if you'll make it into surgery before it gets bad. This thing's ready to rupture, and Jack should definitely be there for you if it does.

Fuck it, she decides. She walks into trauma room one with a newfound sense of determination. Ellis grabs a mask off of the tray at the door, and walks in, holding it to her face.

“Hey, Abbot?”

Jack only spares her a glance.

“Kind of busy here,” he tells her, his hands literally inside of the patient in front of him.

“You know I wouldn't do this if it wasn't important,” her voice comes off as frantic.

So much so, that it makes him look up. His eyes immediately become set into a deep frown. He quickly tells Walsh to take over, pulling his hands away. They're both out of the trauma room in seconds.

“Is it...” Jack pauses.

“Yeah, yeah. It's your wife. She's here. She came in for an emergency,” she explains.

“You didn't tell me?”

“She's freakin' scary, alright? Just—I'll tell you what it is there.” Ellis just walks away without a second glance. Jack's following, his footsteps heavy.

When they get to the hospital cubicle you were in, Ellis pushes the curtain back quickly to reveal...nothing.

“Where is she, Ellis?”

“I left her right here. Wait...” Ellis walks to the nurse's station to ask about your whereabouts. They give her the worst case scenario.

As soon as Jack hears the news, he's sprinting to the elevator to make his way to the surgical floor. You're having surgery, and he isn't there. You're having life-altering surgery, which he might've caused, and he isn't there.

His heart’s pounding so hard in his chest he think he might be having a heart attack. This is worse. It’s scarier. He isn’t scared of dying, he’s scared of losing the one thing that’s keeping him going. And the idea that he’s the one who put you in this situation makes him more uneasy.

He can't help but feel guilty, especially when they hand him your wedding ring and the band T-shirt and jeans you presumably had on, and tell him to just wait in the room you'll be admitted in.

He just stares at the glittering diamond in his hands for what feels like hours, until they wheel you in. Then, he puts it back on your ring finger and stares some more.

When you wake up, it's like being reborn. It's completely stressful, you feel like you’re learning how to breathe all over again, and you want to burst out crying. But Jack's right there, with your hand in his.

It makes you smile. Your face still feels heavy, but you manage to show a little teeth. You turn your head to the side, and he's still looking down at your interlocked fingers. He finally looks up when you squeeze his hand as tight as you can.

He can't say anything, so you do.

“I'm, like, so fucking hungry,” you whisper, and then start laughing.

Jack stands up from his seat at your bedside, leaning in. He pulls your head up with a hand buried into your hair. His lips are pressed onto your forehead and, if it's even possible, you're smiling wider.

“That was scary,” you admit.

He nods, his forehead resting against yours now. Your brows crease.

“What, uh...What happened?”

Jack shakes his head, “It was an ectopic pregnancy. Ruptured. I thought—”

He closes his eyes tight, “I thought I'd lose you.”

“You didn't.” You bring a hand up, so your fingers can brush against his jaw.

Jack takes a deep breath, but you can tell it's a little off. “I...I sit up, late at night, thinking about this. You dying, here, in this hospital. Me not knowing about it.”

You shake your head adamantly, pulling his face back so you can really look into his eyes. It takes you a good minute to form a whole sentence.

“I didn't die. I'm right here. It wasn't even close, I swear,” you promise him, offering the best smile you can in this moment.

You plant a firm kiss on his lips to punctuate your point. You let your fingers play around in the salt and pepper strands of his hair.

“But, seriously,” you sigh, “I'm totally starving. How do we get someone to bring me something to eat?”

You look around for a minute, until he starts laughing. It's more of a cathartic coping mechanism than a genuine laugh. You giggle along with him anyway.