saddock-haddock

[saddock-haddock]

Why do men hate?

I write this as a man. A man who loves women. A man who likes women. A man who admires and respects women. A man who sees nuance and at the most will be indifferent to women. If I hate, I do so with knowledge that it is the content of their character that I hate.

We all must choose between our dreams and survival. If those two things lie on the same path, then so be it. If they do not, then let time smooth your scars, and let your rest be deep and true.

Women have no choice. Because of men. No action taken, no amount of mace, no amount of keys in a clenched fist, no amount of buddying up, no amount of wearing what keeps lecherous eyes away will ever change that. A pre-pubescent child is not safe, whilst wearing a fucking hoody. Women do not cause violence against women. In the UK, Women fought and won the right to vote. It’s almost been a century since that happened. The equality act happened in the 1980’s. And still men kill women. Men beat women. Men assault women. Men rape women. Men mutilate women.

I write this as a boy who grew up in abuse. At the hands of my mother and my sisters. I have been wronged by women. I am still angry. My hatred would be justified. But I do not hate. Those who hate must first fear. Fear judgement, fear mockery, fear enfeeblement. Small things that children shed as they become adults. These men fear women. So they enact violence. Their violence does not require weighing of character. Women are an afront to them. A threat to their own image. About being the nice guy. The fun guy. The charismatic guy. The attractive guy. Put a man in a room full of women, and you understand the character of that man.

Within my own life I am glad that my friends who are men know women. That they trust them, and heed them when they are told that they do not feel safe around men. To solve the crux of the issue you must solve the pervasive ignorance of men about women. You must do that when they are children. Educate them out of patriarchal thinking.

But this not about the future. THIS IS ABOUT RIGHT NOW.

NO ONE HAS EVER STOPPED BEING VIOLENT WHEN THEY HAVE ALREADY BEEN VIOLENT AND HAVE A TRACK RECORD OF BEING VIOLENT WHEN YOU ASK THEM. THEY STOP BEING VIOLENT WHEN YOU STOP THEM.

Every figure we have about violence against women are the documented cases. These are often under reported. On top of that they only account for a fraction of the actual issue. On top of that institutions will diminish scale of this violence to preserve their power.

When every other recourse is exhausted. What options is left. Violence has a place in this world. It is meant for men such as these.

[saddock-haddock]

I’m about to save you thousands of dollars in therapy by teaching you what I learned paying thousands of dollars for therapy:

It may sound woo woo but it’s an important skill capitalism and hyper individualism have robbed us of as human beings.

Learn to process your emotions. It will improve your mental health and quality of life. Emotions serve a biological purpose, they aren’t just things that happen for no reason.

1. Pause and notice you’re having a big feeling or reaching for a distraction to maybe avoid a feeling. Notice what triggered the feeling or need for a distraction without judgement. Just note that it’s there. Don’t label it as good or bad.

2. Find it in your body. Where do you feel it? Your chest? Your head? Your stomach? Does it feel like a weight everywhere? Does it feel like you’re vibrating? Does it feel like you’re numb all over?

3. Name the feeling. Look up an emotion chart if you need to. Find the feeling that resonates the most with what you’re feeling. Is it disappointment? Heartbreak? Anxiety? Anger? Humiliation?

4. Validate the feeling. Sometimes feelings misfire or are disproportionately big, but they’re still valid. You don’t have to justify what you’re feeling, it’s just valid. Tell yourself “yeah it makes sense that you feel that right now.” Or something as simple as “I hear you.” For example: If I get really big feelings of humiliation when I lose at a game of chess, the feeling may not be necessary, but it is valid and makes sense if I grew up with parents who berated me every time I did something wrong. So I could say “Yeah I understand why we are feeling that way given how we were treated growing up. That’s valid.”

5. Do something with your body that’s not a mental distraction from the feeling. Something where you can still think. Go on a walk. Do something with your hands like art or crochet or baking. Journal. Clean a room. Figure out what works best for you.

6. Repeat, it takes practice but is a skill you can learn :)

[saddock-haddock]

Humans are a plague which breeds and pollutes.

That's what your taught on homeworld. No mercy is to be given to sapiens of Terra Firma. The only good human is a dead one. Again and again this message is told, again and again through it, actions that safeguard the homeworld are enacted. Ships bearing their red cross are destroyed. Commerce ships are commandeered and any resistance quelled through total annihilation. The is little to no martial discipline amoungst these apes. On several occasion what appeared to be medical equipment to treat mammals has been brandished at me and my fellows. But they were no match for our arsnel. We took over their base on Xero Gamma, dispatching their mechanical transporters and burning their rooting vegetation. Our campaign to keep our systems clean of their pollution was a success.

On one occasion however a pod escaped and engage hyperdrive before photon torpodoes could neutralise it. A fleeing enemy will likely note the advesary it faces outclasses it, and as such is unlikely to return. A much needed lesson to stop the outbreak and keep our system safe.

There was no activity to be found in our system for a whole lightyear. We brought our successful findings to the higher order, who warned against pursuit of the polluters. We thought nothing of it.

We were wrong.

Homeworld sits next to the Starheart of a twenty planetary orbit, the beaken of our supremacy in our system.

We did not know war had come till eighteen, nineteen and twenty went quiet. The first combat humans I encountered were in sector seven of planet sixteen. These are not the same creatures as before. They are violence incarnate. They use mechanical and chemical weaponry, whilst woefully inefficient compared to our plasma rifles, the results haunt me to this hour. Metal projectiles do no simply fire superheated plasma through a target, they shatter and SHRED THE TARGET, ripping apart the inside before exit. One weilded a sharp pole, my etynomicon informs me this called a... Bastard Sword. It cut down 15 of our finest before succumning to phaser fire. This technique of...[searching for term] blade work is rare amoung the sapiens. However I have recieved reports of one human reworking our technology to create a plasma blade. My stoneheart trembles from the footage salvaged by inteligence. Audio files synced to visual indicate a blaring of war sounds...[loading] death metal. A type of... music from this particular sapien. Their strength rivals our Kullo, and their fellow sapiens cheer at their presence on the battlefield. Intelligence states that to their fellow sapiens, this individual is know as... [loading term] Hellwalker.

[saddock-haddock]

It's cold inside the church. The gables and high lofted arches hide above in darkness. The clouds outside dim the sunlight peeking through. Everything is grey. Theres a shuffle next to me as my parents sit back on the pew, a bemusement to their faces as they adjust their sleek outfits. My mother wore black, as was customary, a low black dress with matching shoes and purse. Her and her upturned nose regarded the casket as a cat regards a box, indifferent to its contents. Not a tear blemished that alabaster face, no light lay extinguished in those dark brown eyes. My father set his left hand upon the right one in my mothers lap, the whisper of his navy suit speaking to its fine tailoring. A handsome man, good at being great, but never great at being good. No line creased his weathered face, no fatigued lay on his brow.

My sister lies ten feet away. Still. She lies still. Clad in a dress that she would have torn off within moments had she but the grace to sit back up out of that coffin one last time. She hated dresses. She hated churches more.

"Piety and nonces", She'd huff to me when we were dragged there as children by our zealous grandmother. We listened through the prayers, mouthed the lyrics of All Star to the hymns, and pretended to choke on the body of Christ. She's 19 years old. She’ll always be 19. The youngest out of three. I am the middle child, and my brother has deigned to not attend. I and some 20 relatives, and 30 hangers on, bore witness to the blithe speech my parents so proudly gave about their youngest daughter.

“Our youngest.” That’s what my mother had chirped when my father trailed off. “Thank you for coming to say goodbye to our youngest”. He’d finished.

My little sister died. That sentence floats through my head without end, fogging my senses. I finger the collar of my jacket, feeling the cool leather give against my steady pressure. I hated suits. I stand up from the front pew, earning the mutterings of one of my aunts as my shaved head turns to look upon the gathering. Expensive clothes, glossy and muted, strangers’ faces staring back.

My legs moved without thinking, crossing over to the open casket. I’d seen her when I’d arrived, fresh from the road. Her features were thin, her skin waxy and pale, it looked as though she had a fever, yet she was cold to touch. The lips pursed and grey. That face used to bring me to tears with laughter.

An overdose. That was what killed my little sister.

I stepped to the lectern to the side of my sister. I looked up at those strangers who looked back at me. My parent’s eulogy still lies neatly spread on the light wood.

It’s blank.

I let my hand rest on the lecterns slope, feeling the paper crinkle in my callused hand. Where before a fog held me, a quiet cold came. It travelled from the nape of my neck to the tail of my spine. It sat in my stomach and pulled at the corner of my lips. I felt the blood drain from my face, a certainty building in my mind. From the corner of my eye, my reflection stood in the shine of the casket door.

I look like her when I’m angry.

“My little sister is dead.” My words come out hoarse, hanging in the air. I cleared my throat, trying again; “My little sister died of an overdose. Her name is-was Julie.” My gaze roved around before settling upon the pair in the very front row. My parents. I felt a bitter grin pry at my face as the words began to tumble from me.

“Julie was the only one in my family who could make me laugh. Julie was the person who could make me cry too. Julie could really sing. She hit every note on Bohemian Rhapsody. Julie could talk and talk and TALK. But Julie’s parents couldn’t stand it. Why couldn’t Julie just be quiet. Why won’t this 11-year-old shut up. So Julie’s mother had the bright idea to give Julie some of her pills. Julie got real quiet after that.” The smugness had fallen away from my mother then, her back ramrod straight, my father’s eyes boring into me, his hands clasped in front.

“Julie would cry for hours when I went away. Julie would rush to meet me when I came back. Julie would call me at midnight to say that she missed me. I got a job, not well paid, but enough to save. I was going to come get Julie. I needed one more month. To feed and clothe my little sister. ONE MORE MONTH!” I yelled at the congregation, spittle flying with my words. “One more month and I could have sent Julie to rehab. Julie could sing and I could listen.” Tears blurred my vision. “I’m done.” I stepped down from the lectern, my riding boots thumping on the polished hardwood floor.

I walked down that aisle, not daring to look back at that damned box. As I made my way down the steps of the church to the carpark outside, the clipping of heels and brogue’d feet hurried closer. I turned, feeling the blood pumping through my temples and a hard pain burning behind my eyes.

“Jessica,” my father reached for me, his face reddened, my mother beside him flinty eyed. “What the hell was that.” He hissed through gritted teeth. His left hand grasped me in a vice like grip as he tried to pull me closer.

I bared my teeth, wrenching my right arm from him as my left reached back into my waistband. “It’s Jessy” I barked, my left arm gliding fluidly from under my jacket to press the barrel of my Beretta 92 hard into his temple.

He froze eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. My mother beside him gasped. I looked at my father. My face hot, but my grip steady on the gun. I thumbed off the safety.

“My. Name. Is. Jessy.” Each word punctuated with a harder push into my father’s temple. He raised his hands shakily, bottom lip trembling. The hubbub from inside the church reached my ears, drawing closer by the moment.

“Julie knew that,” I said, lowering the gun to my side. I grimaced and backed down the stairs. Only turning my back to them at the bottom and heading to my bike. I thumbed on the safety and stuffed it back into my waistband. I picked up my helmet from where it sat hooked on the handlebars, my fingers working deftly on the straps. My gloves gave reassuring weight to my hands as I straddled my bike. Looking back at the church, a flow of cashmere and silk hurried from those yawning doors to waiting cars.

I knocked the kickstand and gunned my engine.

Goodbye Julie, I thought, your big brother loves you.

Your sibling, your parents’ least favorite child, died prematurely. They hardly noticed. They certainly didn’t shed a tear. Now, during the funeral, they forgot your siblings name - again. It’s your turn to ‘say a few words’, so you do.

[saddock-haddock]

Gonna go eat the bread guard

TIL that the English word “Lord” in the sense of the head of an estate comes from an Old English word of Germanic origins, hlāfweard, later hlāford, later lord. 

Normally I wouldn’t remark on my romps through etymology, but “hlafweard” is a compound of hlaf, or loaf, and weard, which means guardian (see also Ward or Warden, etc). Meaning that when you call someone a lord you are calling him an esteemed keeper of the bread. 

HEY THERE BREADBOX PETER WIMSEY. LOAF GUARD PALPATINE. BREAD CLIP VETINARI. 

Lady also derives from hlaf, but in this case hlafdige or bread kneader. She makes the bread, he monitors it. Women have to do all the work as usual. 

Now, the reason I was looking this up was that I wanted to develop a gender-neutral analogue to lord/lady; there are analogues already out there naturally, but the Shivadh must be different and anyway I didn’t like the ones I’d seen suggested online. 

Given that the origins of Lord and Lady aren’t all that strongly gendered anyway (they’re about what the person does, not what their gender is), I decided that if a woman is a bread-kneader and a man is a bread-guarder, a nonbinary person should be A BREAD EATER, which would be Hlafetan.  

Thus I present to you the gender-neutral analogue to Lord or Lady: Ledan.  

[saddock-haddock]

This is gonna make me so much more annoying for my degree. Just giving latin names to my overworked lecturer and generally causing confusion. All whilst being amoung toffs. I love it

guys i just found out about this site that does a daily guessing game, it’s phylogenetic wordle- so fun!!!

[saddock-haddock]

Soon i will have a flotilla of porn bots ready to aimlessly like posts and give boosts my laconic and moronic self never needed, but deeply desires. It really is a game of russian roulette to see whether its a genuine page or someone absolutely slonking and honking. Just shloping and toping. You go random ponstars. I hope your workplace is safe and your hours are good and you are credited for your work. Back to your regulary scheduled inactivity interluded with my numbing agony watching as the world dies a little bit more.

Cya ;)

[saddock-haddock]

The best way i've been able to surmise myself to myself so far is as the following; A gentle autistic child brutalised by a disdaining world.

Except now im seen by people as cool and hot(attractive). Which weirds me the fuck out, cause ive been cringe and ugly before 21 yrs of age. But now i have a chin and hair and eyes which unsettled a date- I'm worried that i need to stop letting my eyes rest so long on theirs- which sucks- cause eyes are pretty.

[saddock-haddock]

I know people on tumblr looove stories of underwater cave diving, but I haven't seen anyone talk about nitrogen narcosis aka "raptures of the deep"

basically when you want to get your advanced scuba certification (allowing you to go more than 60 feet deep) you have to undergo a very specific test: your instructor takes you down past the 60+ foot threshold, and she brings a little underwater white board with her.

she writes a very basic math problem on that board. 6 + 15. she shows it to you, and you have to solve it.

if you can solve it, you're good. that is the hardest part of the test.

because here's what happens: there is a subset of people, and we have no real idea why this happens only to them, who lose their minds at depth. they're not dying, they're not running out of oxygen, they just completely lose their sense of identity when deep in the sea.

a woman on a dive my instructor led once vanished during the course of the excursion. they were diving near this dropoff point, beyond which the depth exceeded 60 feet and he'd told them not to go down that way. the instructor made his way over to look for her and found a guy sitting at the edge of the dropoff (an underwater cliff situation) just staring down into the dark. the guy is okay, but he's at the threshold, spacing out, and mentally difficult to reach. they try to communicate, and finally the guy just points down into the dark, knowing he can't go down there, but he saw the woman go.

instructor is deep water certified and he goes down. he shines his light into the dark, down onto the seafloor which is at 90 feet below the surface. he sees the woman, her arms locked to her sides, moving like a fish, swimming furiously in circles in the pitch black.

she is hard to catch but he stops her and checks her remaining oxygen: she is almost out, on account of swimming a marathon for absolutely no reason. he is able to drag her back up, get her to a stable depth to decompress, and bring her to the surface safely.

when their masks are off and he finally asks her what happened, and why was she swimming like that, she says she fully, 100% believed she was a mermaid, had always been a mermaid, and something was hunting her in the dark 👍

[saddock-haddock]

I recently discovered laundry stripping and y’all, no matter how much of a crock of shit you think fast fashion is, you’re underestimating.

[saddock-haddock]

Idea for a Generic Medieval Fantasy Setting: The characters refer to their nameday as an apparent stand-in for birthdays, celebrating it annually according to their respective preferences and perhaps family customs, as one does. People talk about things that happened before someone's time as having gone down "before you were named", someone grievously insults an opponent on the battlefield by going "your mother should never have named you." So with the way naming is always talked about, as a reader you start to somewhat assume from context clues that these people have some sort of a taboo about the word "birth" or something, and naming is used as some sort of an euphenism to avoid naming the process in which people come into the world.

Then somewhere halfway through the story it turns out that in this setting, people aren't named immediately after being born. This is a semi-realistic-gritty fantasy setting, after all. Due to the somewhat high infant mortality, to at least somewhat soften the blow of potentially losing a child, babies just aren't named before the parents are pretty confident that the kid is going to survive. The naming ceremony is where a baby is officially aknowledged as an entire individual, a member of the family and a legally existing person, instead of just a gurgling extension of the mother who may or may not disappear from this world. And that timespan between birth and being named is - depending on the situation and the family - somewhere between 1-4 years.

And suddenly the whole bunch of annoyingly-too-mature teenagers and other weird remarks about age start making sense in hindsight. The heroine protagonist who celebrated her 16th nameday at the start of the story is actually 19 years old. The wild difference in maturity between two characters who were both named the same year wasn't just a difference in backgrounds, The Rich Idiot isn't just rosy-cheeked and naive due to being sheltered growing up, but actually literally years younger than a peasant "of the same age". A character who's sickly and was frequently remarked to look much older than their years hasn't just been harrowed by their illness, but was not named before the age of seven because their parents didn't think they'd survive.

[saddock-haddock]

Elon Musk: the most dangerous Antisemite

[saddock-haddock]

honestly tho that scene in the incredibles where mr. incredible sees the names of all the old super heroes that used to be his friends / that he knew from Back in the Day and how every one of them has been killed by syndrome is such a chilling scene for so many reasons 

like for one, everyone he knew is dead at this point and has been killed on the same island he’s at now and two, its heartbreaking bc that means that almost every hero wanted to try out being a hero again despite the laws against it and wanted to try and help someone out and relive their glory days, only to be straight up murdered like fuck that scene is just so fuckin intense

[saddock-haddock]

When at a social event at night, it is common courtesy to walk up to people with open body language and posture. It is frowned upon to do so on all fours like a wounded spider muttering repeatedly; "shoelaces are my foot ravioli".

This often spooks potential aquantancies

[saddock-haddock]

After losing in chess it is common practice to eat the peices whilst staring into the eyes of your opponent, thereby asserting dominance

[saddock-haddock]

Gonna start making unhinged loading screen tips and info dumps like in Skyrim for real life

[saddock-haddock]

I am delighted to announce that making people with vaginas cum is easy, all you need to be is educated and communicative. And that orgasms can be seen to be achivied in the form of them almost breaking your arm.

This is your PSA to start getting stronger so you can make people with vaginas cum and live to tell the tale.

I recommend doing bone strengthening exercise, ive seen someones bones snap crackle and pop after playing lip guitar.