#Tensor Tires

[vividracing]

New Post has been published on https://www.vividracing.com/blog/new-race-proven-utv-wheel-tire-package/

NEW Race Proven UTV Wheel & Tire Package

35″ Tensor Desert Series Race Tires + VR Forged D15 Beadlocks (Swoon)

I think we can all agree that when we see a UTV on a trailer with Tensor DSRs, Regulators, BFG Projects, or any large Baja-proven race tires, it gives us that warm and fuzzy feeling inside. Something about the stance of a UTV or truck with race tires makes us want to turn up some Metallica and do some off-road thrashing. We got to mount up some 35×15 10 Tensor DSR (Desert Series Race) tires to a set of gorgeous VR Forged D15 (5-lug) forged beadlocks. If you aren��t familiar, these D15 Beadlocks by VR Forged are some serious race-proven forged wheels that not only bada** looking, but save a substantial amount of weight. Each wheel weighs in at about 20.7 lbs, but we’ll call it 9.4 kg because we’re MWW. (Motorsports Weight Weenies)

Getting to take this Polaris RZR Pro R out to the desert to hoon and put this wheel and tire package to the test was amazing to say the least. These tires alone compared to the stock rubbers is a night and day difference. The driver characteristics are so positive and can truly feel the energy and capabilities of the machine. Not in a cheesy-sappy way but the assurance of agility and being able to dive into different directions or carve ruts confidently. As for the wheels, the VR Forged D15s really bring everything home with saving weight from adding the big ol’ tires and knowing when SNAFU happens, you have some forged wheels that will still be able to get you home.

Shop These Tensor DSR Tires

Shop These VR Forged D15 Beadlock Wheels

Here are some photos from the shred session:

What Tensor Tires has to say about the DSR Tires:

“Looking for the best competition-legal UTV race tire? Introducing the Tensor Tire Desert Series Race lineup. Whether you’re looking for the lightweight DSR30, the SCORE/BITD legal DSR33, or maximum height at 37in tall with the DSR37, this race proven series is the top choice for those who demand the best.”

What VR Forged has to say about the D15 5-Lug Beadlocks:

“The VR Forged D15 Beadlock UTV wheel is a full 1 piece forged monoblock wheel designed specifically for the new 5 lug Polaris RZR Pro R. You dont have to wait for these to be made like other forged wheels. Just pick your favorite tire and mount it up! This UTV specific wheel was designed to be superior in strength and much lighter than standard cast wheels. Creating this wheel was necessary for those wanting a wheel that will not fail under the harshest conditions as well as look amazing for the everyday UTV owner. The 8 spoke design is a perfect look for UTVs and shows off just enough of the brake caliper. The most important part of this wheel is that it is a TRUE beadlock design. The beadlock allows you to run those low tire pressures without fear of the tire coming off the wheel. Manufactured using a 10,000 ton press, each forged wheel is manufactured to meet the expectations of the highest OEM automobile manufactures.”

In our opinion:

This is a fantastic wheel and tire combo that will ultimate change the way your UTV handles and responds to the abuse you’re going to be putting it through. Before even considering to do any suspension modifications, a proper set of wheels and tires will change the capabilities and reliability of your UTV for the best. Don’t have a RZR Pro R? Don’t worry, there are VR Forged wheels for most UTVs. They can be found here:

VR Forged D15 UTV Wheels

You can also shop all Tensor Tire options here:

Tensor Tires

[locally-normal]

Everyone talks about thinking rationally. But this is of course a mere approximation. At least in special cases, we should be able to understand how to think integrally. In this essay I will compute-

[geniusboyy]

Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 47

Smoke & Mirrors

     The shuttle from campus left them on a side street glazed with early-summer drizzle. Ford kept his shoulders hunched against the wet, Fiddleford ambling beside him, jacket held over his head like a makeshift awning. Neither spoke much on the walk back.

     At the front desk a clerk in a maroon vest murmured the usual pleasantries; Fiddleford answered for both of them, polite but bone-tired. In the mirrored lift, Ford saw their reflections: Fidds’ tie loosened to a sailor’s knot, his own collar still buttoned to the throat like armor. When the doors parted on their floor, Fiddleford gave a yawn so wide it creaked in his jaw.

     “Gonna hit the hay, Doc,” he said, patting Ford’s arm. Ford managed a small, abstracted smile. 

     Fiddleford shuffled off down the corridor—disappearing behind a door that clicked shut with surprising finality. Ford waited, listening to the muffled thunk of the security latch, the sigh of old plumbing. Only when silence settled did he pivot back toward the elevator, one hand already slipping the knot from his tie.

     The lobby bar occupied a shallow alcove off reception, lit by a row of amber sconces that cast slow-moving shadows across cut-glass decanters. Two businessmen argued about soybean futures near the far end; a flight attendant read a dog-eared mystery novel under a green-shaded lamp. Otherwise it was empty.

     Ford chose the center stool, unbuttoned his cuffs, and rested both forearms on the polished brass rail. When the drink came—a modest pour of blended scotch—and he surprised himself by asking for ice.

     The napkin arrived with it, slipped unconsciously beneath the glass by the bartender. Ford barely noticed at first. But as he took his first sip—peat, smoke, the ghost of vanilla—he reached for the pen in his jacket pocket and pulled the napkin close.

     By the second sip, he’d scrawled a pair of symbols—A tensor curve, then a correction term. Then another. His handwriting slanted with intensity, but it wasn’t legible to anyone but him. An idea had begun to form during the panel—half-seeded by Kratzer’s provocations, half-born from spite—and now it itched at the edges of his attention like a tick beneath the skin. Something to do with initial conditions, with multidimensional anchoring. The numbers were wrong, but the structure was close. He scratched one out, tried again.

     Condensation slid down the glass in pale ribbons, each drop seconds pulled loose from the evening—measured, irretrievable. Ford’s reflection hovered in the mirror behind the bar—hazy, doubled slightly in the curved glass. His face looked tired.

     Kratzer’s words threaded back through Ford’s mind with the sterile buzz of the panel lights, with Lorenz’s earnest pencil hovering over an unanswerable equation. Outside, a taxi splashed through a pothole; inside, an ice cube cracked, surrendering to warmth.

     The frontier lived inside equations, inside structures too small or too strange to see. And the men chasing them carried their maps in their heads—and their dangers deeper. You’ve changed. It echoed in his mind.

     Ford lifted the glass, let the chill kiss his lower lip, then drank. Another sip, slower this time.

     The lobby clock ticked like a distant metronome. Meltwater mapped tiny, impermanent deltas across the lacquered wood. Ford watched them converge, thinking of topologies that folded space, of frontiers that ran inward instead of outward, of doors that opened both ways and the costs inscribed in their frames.

     Ford set his glass down, hands steady now, and let the quiet drape over him like a lead apron—shielding some parts, illuminating others, the night’s arguments still orbiting his mind in slow, refractory arcs. With a heavy sigh he lifted his glasses and pressed the heel of his palm against his eye, attempting to soothe the tension before letting the frames fall back into his nose.

     He reached into his coat, fingers finding the soft crush of a half-spent pack. He shook a cigarette free and rested it between his lips, then paused—pockets turned out, thumb brushing uselessly against wool. No matches. A quiet, irritable exhale slipped from him.

     Then—an interruption—a scent. Something floral and resinous, like jasmine. Not cloying, but distinct. It arrived just ahead of the flash caught the edge of his vision—a bright splash against a muted canvas. He turned his head slightly, registering the smooth flick of a Zippo’s hinge, the quiet rasp of its wheel. A woman seated one stool down held the lighter toward him, eyebrows raised gently in silent invitation.

        “Need a light?”

     Her voice carried an undercurrent of amusement, as though she’d been waiting for precisely this mishap. Up close, she was built of warm browns and soft shadows: a tawny knit dress clung to narrow, sun-kissed shoulders; chestnut hair gathered behind one ear by a bronze clip; matte coffee-colored lipstick. Only the lighter—hot pink—broke the sepia harmony, like a neon sign in an old photograph.

     She couldn’t have been there more than a minute, but she seemed already established, as if she’d been quietly folded into the scene while Ford wasn’t looking. He leaned forward, cupping the cigarette carefully, the tip flaring orange.

     “Thank you,” he murmured, voice low, smoke tracing a thin helix past his eyes.

     She lit one for herself, the flare briefly painting a warm line along her cheekbone, the hollow of her throat. Ford’s eyes tracked the faint sunmarks on her skin—tan lines tracing over her shoulders and slipping downward, disappearing beneath the edge of her scoop neckline. For a beat he followed the trajectory—

    “You looked like you needed rescuing,” she said, snapping the Zippo closed with a metallic click.

     His eyes flicked up to hers. “Was it that obvious?” He smiled faintly.

     “Only to people who recognize the posture.” She angled a sidelong glance at the square napkin by his elbow, its surface crowded with half-legible symbols. “Let me guess: you were at that ‘clash of the minds’ panel the university keeps bragging about?”

        “One of the combatants, I’m afraid.”

��    “A man who courts trouble, then.” Her tone was teasing, but her gaze had already dropped again—this time not to the napkin, but to the hand beside it. There was a fractional pause, subtle but unmistakable, as she registered the sixth finger curved along the napkin’s edge.

     Ford saw it. Her eyes didn’t widen. She didn’t flinch. Just adjusted, recalibrated.

     “And an intelligent one, at that,” she added smoothly, nodding toward the equations. “So what do all those little numbers and…whatnot add up to?”

     Ford chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “I can’t tell you—it’s classified.”

     Her lips curved into a wry, interested smile. “Well. Smart, mysterious and important.”

        “That depends entirely on who you ask.”

     A soft laugh escaped her. “Don’t worry—I won’t blow your cover.”

     Ford tilted his head, finally indulging in a longer look. She met it easily.

     “And you? What brings you to this quasi-purgatory at—” he glanced at the dark window, “—quarter past ten?”

      “Consulting gig. The university hired my firm to explain why their donor network keeps leaking money into voids.” She rolled the words like dice, casual. “Tonight was the donor mixer—lukewarm jazz, tepid Chardonnay,” She glanced down at the clingy dress, as if remembering it was on her body. “Hence the uniform.”

     For a moment neither spoke. The room felt thinner with every tick of the wall clock—thinner and somehow more legible, as if the sparse air could now hold the shapes of thoughts too crowded for the lecture hall.

     Ford glanced down at the napkin, thumb lingering over a half-finished integral that trailed into nothing. Subsurface access, Ricci flow, Calabi–Yau. Ideas that had felt incendiary under stage lights now looked strangely innocent in ballpoint ink. 

     When he looked up again, she was watching him—as if that silence were the most revealing datum in sight.

     “I’m Dottie, by the way,” she offered, her voice quiet but easy, testing the sound of her name against the muted hum of the room.

        “Stanford.”

     She raised an eyebrow, cigarette halfway to her lips. “Like the university?”

     He smiled faintly, something complicated flickering behind his eyes—irony, maybe, or nostalgia. “Sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence.”

     At the far end of the bar, the bartender moved silently, sweeping the suits’ emptied glasses into a neat row, the clink of crystal gentle. A single rag passed over the surface, erasing the traces of conversation and half-forgotten ambition. He topped off their drinks without being asked and slid Ford’s back to him with a brief, knowing look.

     Dottie’s voice brought him back. “So,” she said lightly, “are you going to tell me?”

        He blinked. “Tell you what?”

           “The story behind the name.”

     Ford hesitated, then shook his head, the motion slight, rueful. “It’s a long one,”

     She sipped thoughtfully, studying him over the edge of her glass. “I have patience for almost anything,” she said, “if the story’s good.”

     He felt the smile form before he knew it was coming—

        “That’s a dangerous offer.” he said.

           “I’m a dangerous girl,” she said.

     Ford took another sip, the scotch colder now, softened by melt. He crunched absently on a few slivers of ice, then spoke without quite meaning to. “You don’t talk like a business consultant,” he said, the words catching at the edge of a grin.

     “Thank God,” she answered. “I do the paperwork so they don’t have to.” Then, with a sly tilt: “…I figured if I had to be bored, I might as well be overdressed.”

     His eyes moved over her again—longer now, the scotch loosening whatever impulse usually steered him toward caution; it lingered on the freckled sweep of her clavicle, then lower, a breath longer than polite. “Well. Mission accomplished.”

     “But when the networking started I stepped out for a smoke and just… made a break for it.” She gave a small shrug. “A bit notorious for the old Irish goodbye.”

     “We have that in common,” Ford said, taking a drag.

     She smiled gently, lifting her glass a fraction higher. “Here’s to the losers, then.”

     He met her gaze steadily, smile softening at the edges. “To the losers.”

     Their glasses touched—softly, a private little sound.

     The silence that followed was warm and deliberate, not empty but occupied. A current passed between them. Not electricity—something slower. Like heat moving through metal. Their eyes lingered, neither of them moving to speak, the moment lengthening into something else.

     Inside him, Bill remained quiet. He said nothing, no amused barbs, no sharp warnings—yet his silence was somehow more potent, louder in its deliberate observation. Ford could feel Bill’s attention sharpening, coiled in the base of his spine, observing through the same eyes, through the same bloodstream. Watching how long Ford let the gaze hold. Watching what he didn’t say.

     Ford blinked first, deliberately, breaking the eye contact—an act of gentle retreat. 

     And somewhere beneath the placid hum of the room, behind the dull echo of melting ice and cigarettes slowly burning down, the atmosphere began subtly shifting—as if the space itself were now witness, gathering evidence, remembering precisely what had just passed between them.

     After another moment, Dottie set her glass down softly and stubbed the last inch of her cigarette into the glass ashtray, the ember dying with a soft hiss. She glanced toward the lobby, a subtle shift in posture signaling departure. Ford sensed it before she said it, a quiet reshuffling of the evening’s tone, a signal of something drawing reluctantly to an end.

     “I should probably turn in,” she murmured, sliding off the barstool. “I have to be up pretty early.” She slipped the leather check folder from beneath her empty glass and tugged a pen from her clutch. A pause. Then, without fanfare, she flipped the receipt over and scrawled something on the back—her handwriting looping and slanted, a name, then a number, nothing coy.

     “I don’t usually do this,” she murmured, sliding it toward him with two fingers, her touch light on the paper. “But you don’t talk like a man who stays in one place long.”

        The paper came to rest beside his hand.

     He stared at it. Just ink and pulp. Yet it glowed with a kind of static promise—alive, slightly dangerous. An invitation etched into cellulose.

        His hand twitched toward it.

     —And then suddenly, abruptly, it wasn’t his hand at all; everything inside him shifted.

     A static snap behind his eyes. The faintest roll of vertigo, like stepping off a curb you hadn’t seen. Fingers that a moment ago answered to hesitation now moved with crisp certainty: they snatched the receipt, crumpled it into a compact sphere. Before he could even register what was happening, his hand rose sharply to his mouth. He felt his lips part, felt the crumpled paper slide past his teeth, dry and rough. Paper crackled against molars. The taste it bloomed metallic on the heat of his tongue. 

     He swallowed, chasing it with the last mouthful of scotch; the liquor burned a clean path to his stomach.

     The room seemed to dim slightly around him, or perhaps it was his pulse roaring gently behind his ears. Inside him, he felt the echo of Bill’s amusement ripple darkly through his chest—satisfied and dangerously smug.

     Dottie had frozen, eyes wide, smile faltering into startled confusion. Her fingers hovered uncertainly over the clasp of her purse, eyebrows drawn together in a faint question that hung unanswered between them.

     She let out an awkward, uncertain laugh—soft and startled. “I’ve… never seen anyone do that before.”

     Ford sat rigid, breath trapped in his chest, aware of the absurdity of the moment yet powerless to explain. Her expression had already shifted, amusement turning guarded, her eyes searching his face, looking for something he couldn’t offer. Her mouth curved into a hesitant, bemused half-smile. 

     “See ya around, professor,” she said finally, voice gentle but touched with cautious wariness. And with that, she turned—perhaps a shade too quickly. Her heels clicked once, twice, then disappeared into the hush of the carpeted corridor.

        Silence.

     Inside, Bill uncoiled—wordless, satisfied, retreating with the same feline grace he’d used to seize control. Ford’s hand tingled where it rested on the bar, muscles still humming from borrowed voltage. He stared at the empty glass, pulse ticking at his throat, the warm trace of charred paper lingering in the back of his mouth.

     Bill said nothing. He didn’t need to. The silence between them was as dense as a collapsed star: small, invisible, inescapably massive.

     Ford sat perfectly still. His body his again. But his throat still ached.

     He stared straight ahead, lips slightly parted, waiting for an explanation that never came.

—

     The moment Ford’s eyelids slid shut, the hotel room tilted—first a slow cant to starboard, then a full, disorienting roll. The bedside lamp bled amber across the walls, and in its wake the corners warped into an ox blood velvet, pleating downward in heavy drapes that swallowed every straight line the room once possessed. Where bland drywall had hung, mirrors sprouted—tall, mismatched panes framed in gilt and tarnish—multiplying reflections until Ford’s silhouette was scattered like stars around him. A candle guttered to life in each duplicate room, refracting so many flames it felt as if the oxygen were vanishing one match-head at a time.

     Through the tunnels of shifting fabric and low light, a voice stirred the shadows. Bill’s voice—softly edged with cruelty, more dangerous for its deceptive gentleness, rich with theatrical sympathy:

        “Bad night, Sixer?”

     Ford’s jaw tightened. “You know exactly how my night was,” he said, pushing deeper into the maze. Curtains brushed his shoulders with an oily softness; Every so often, a mirror caught a glimpse of Bill—a flicker of gold, a blurred smile, always vanishing before Ford could pin him down.

     “What the hell is the matter with you?” Ford barked, dragging back a curtain. Behind it: another row of mirrors, and in each one, his face scowled back in triplicate. “Why did you make me do that?”

        “What? You didn’t enjoy the dietary fiber?”

     Ford yanked another curtain back. Behind it—more mirrors, more red-gloom recursion. A hundred faces flushed in candlelight, all of them angry. All of them his own.

     “I didn’t enjoy swallowing a wad of thermal paper, no.”

        “You’ll live,”

     Another flicker of movement—Bill’s reflection again, trailing fingertips along the edge of a frame, but never standing still long enough to anchor.

     “We could have had a lovely night,” Bill mused, circling unseen. “A little scotch, a little lucid dreaming, the two of us doing what we do best. But—” a pause, a bitter tilt of tone— “instead, you chose cozying up to little Miss Blush and Bounce.”

     Ford huffed out a laugh, incredulous. “Come on. I can’t make a friend?”

        “Oh, she wanted to be friends, alright.”

     “She was nice,” Ford countered, trying for evenness. “We were just talking.”

     “You liked her perfume,” Bill replied with silken bitterness. “And you looked at her tits twice.”

     Ford flushed, his cheeks burning in every mirror at once. He sputtered. “I—well, her perfume smelled good—”

        “You’re a pig, Stanford.”

     “Oh, alright—” Ford snapped, exasperation boiling through. “Look, I’m a hot-blooded mammal. You’re literally in my head, Bill—twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You get a front-row seat to every harmless, passing thought. I can’t help it—”

     Bill’s laugh cut through the air, sharp and brittle. “Passing thought? Please. If she’d invited you upstairs to ‘review her spreadsheets,’ you’d have followed like a dog.”

     Ford’s voice quieted suddenly, realization breaking through the haze of frustration. “…Are you jealous?”

     The silence that followed was dangerous, deliberate. Bill didn’t answer at first, letting the pause stretch painfully.

     Then finally, dismissively: “Jealous? Don’t flatter yourself—”

     Ford planted his feet. “You’re totally jealous,” he repeated, incredulous and triumphant.

     He pressed deeper into the labyrinth, breath threading in shallow pulls, every curtain a fresh provocation. Bill’s silhouette flashed and vanished, always a step ahead: a gleam of gold heel, the glint of a single eye in a gilded frame.

     “It’s a perfectly normal emotion, Bill,” he said, voice teasing now, coaxing. “It won’t kill you to admit it.”

        “Normal for you, maybe.”

     The reply came from behind him, then above, then directly beneath his feet—skating across the mirrored surfaces in a Doppler whine of distortion.

     “I,” Bill said, “am not subject to carbon-based insecurities. I am an eternal concept.”

     Ford huffed with a smile. “Well, your eternalness—pouting is very unbecoming of a god. Cute, though.”

     That earned him silence—but not the smug kind. Then, a breath caught—sharp, involuntary. Embarrassment. Ford’s mouth curved. He tracked the sound—right, left—the velvet rustled. He seized the nearest curtain and yanked.

     There—lit by a corona of candleflame—stood Bill.

     Not the mercurial, androgynous trickster Ford knew, but a figure wholly, unmistakably, provocatively female. The usual balanced geometry of Bill’s form had tipped into lush conviction: a knit dress—identical to Dottie’s—clung to Bill’s new architecture of curves. Rounder hips, narrower waist, fuller breasts, filling ribbed fabric that seemed one breath away from surrender. Thighs strong, legs long, the hem ending just high enough to weaponize doubt. He’d always been pretty, but now he was…absurdly so.

     Bill folded his softer arms beneath that newly generous anatomy in a gesture equal parts defiance and display. “What were you saying about ‘harmless’ thoughts again?” The sneer curled his lips—glossy lips, as if painted on strictly for spite. “Seems your subconscious filed a request form while you weren’t looking.”

     Ford’s mouth opened, closed, then hung open again. He stared—helplessly. 

     Bill cocked a hip, enjoying the hesitation, but a faint pink tinted the apples of his cheeks.

     Heat crawled up Ford’s neck, words jumbled at the back of his throat—astonishment, apology, dread, then desire—until all that made it past his lips was a brittle whisper:

        “…Oy vey.”

     “Close your mouth, Sixer,” Bill murmured, trying for hauteur but landing nearer to vulnerable.

         Ford did not close his mouth.

           He couldn’t.

     Because in that wobbling heart-beat he saw, beneath the bravado, the simple face of Bill’s jealousy made flesh—an unspoken plea hidden inside all that mockery: Look at me.

        And Ford—scientist, sinner, fool—looked.

     Bill’s blush deepened the moment Ford’s eyes dipped again, and he tried—failed—to mask it with a snarky expression.

     “Well, look at you,” he said, aiming for sardonic and landing somewhere closer to flustered. “Swinging a new direction now, smart guy?”

     Ford’s pulse kicked up, giddy beneath his ribs. The smile that caught on his mouth was boyish, unguarded—almost naïve in its delight. He stepped closer, gaze trailing openly along the new lines of Bill’s form, drinking him in with the reverence of a man trying to memorize.

     “New?” he murmured, the word low and amused. “No…”

     His eyes roamed with no hesitation, took at step forward, then spoke again: “You know how much I love German chocolate cake?”

     Bill blinked, brow furrowing in disbelief. “It’s only your favorite dessert,” he said slowly. “Stranded on a desert island, it’s what you’d take.” He added, something clearly recited. He took a cautious step backward—The mirrored wall behind him quivered with each movement, refracting the scene in fractured panes: Ford advancing, focused, Bill retreating, flushed. 

     Ford kept speaking, gaze pinned like a compass needle. “Yeah… but that doesn’t mean I never crave, say…” He shrugged, the gesture loose, but his focus never wavered. “a black-and-white cookie from time to time.”

     He paused barely a breath away. “Sometimes you spot one in the deli case, and it just looks…irresistible. And suddenly, it’s all you want.”

     Bill’s shoulders brushed the glass; reflections rippled outward like rings in a pond. He swallowed—the first time Ford could recall seeing him do so. “You always did have a sweet tooth.”

     Ford’s hands stayed at his sides, fingers flexing against empty air as if they still weren’t sure they were allowed to touch. “Can I see…?”

        “Ford—“

           “C’mon.” His voice was gentle. “Please?”

     There was a pause—longer than the others. Bill stood there, poised and breathing, skin prickled with awareness beneath the tawny fabric. His posture was proud, but it trembled at the edges, as if unsure whether this was triumph or trap.

        He exhaled, slow.

     Then leaned back just slightly—arms loosening, hands lowering from where they’d crossed protectively over his chest. A nod. Tiny. But unmistakable.

        Permission.

     Ford’s fingers slipped higher, slow but sure, tracing the seam of the dress up and over Bill’s sides. The fabric yielded under his touch, gathering in soft bunches as he slid his hands along the newly drawn terrain. His knuckles brushed bare skin—warm, impossibly soft. Bill didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

     He held Ford’s gaze instead, eyes flickering with something unreadable—daring, maybe. Or bracing.

     Then, with a slow, deliberate tug, Ford eased the dress down.

     The knit surrendered—quietly, obediently—bunching beneath his fingers as he guided it past the threshold of Bill’s chest. The fabric folded away like the edge of a secret.

        And there they were.

     Two full breasts—high, perky, the skin warm with the faintest sheen. And just visible across their curves, as if memory had imprinted itself on flesh; tan lines, Pale bands of skin marked by time, by light. The sight snagged something deep in Ford’s gut, a slow throb of fascination.

     He didn’t know why he found it so hot, he just did.

     The contrast—the delicacy of it, the specificity—The pink of Bill’s nipples stood out against the lighter skin, tight and flushed, pulled into hard little peaks by the air or anticipation.

     They were… beautiful, if he was honest. Not just anatomically compelling, but charged with the unbearable knowledge that they were Bill’s.

        He felt heat spark on the back of his tongue.

     “Can I…” His voice cracked slightly. He swallowed, eyes pinned to the soft rise and fall of Bill’s breath. “Can I suck on them?”

     Bill’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture drew taut. “Knock yourself out,” he said, tonelessly. But his pupil was blown wide.

        Ford didn’t wait for a second invitation.

     He reached out—both hands closing over firm, generous flesh, thumbs brushing across sensitive skin that yielded instantly to touch. His lips closed around one perfect nipple, and Bill’s body jolted enough for Ford to feel it.

     The mirror behind them multiplied it, a hundred versions of the same act repeating at different angles. And all around them, the candles flickered harder—wax trembling in the heat.

     Ford’s mouth moved slowly, attentively—tongue flicking, lips sealing, teeth grazing just enough to make Bill gasp once through clenched teeth. The sound was half-shocked, half-pleased. Ford didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down, working with a kind of fervent curiosity. There was something thrilling about the way Bill’s body reacted under his touch.

        And react it did.

     The soft hitch in Bill’s breath. The way his chest arched just slightly into Ford’s mouth. The flush that deepened across his collarbones, despite all the bluster, the armor of sarcasm, and the godly posturing.

     Bill’s hands—when they finally moved—slid into Ford’s hair, fingers curling at the roots, anchoring them both in this strange, flickering moment.

     Ford’s hands roamed with growing confidence, mapping unfamiliar territory. One hand curved over the small of Bill’s back, the other drifted lower—past his waist, down the flat of his belly, then back again. There was a new softness there, a subtle swell just above the pelvis. Ford rubbed it once—then again—pressing slightly, fingers spreading wide across the gentle rise.

        His hand paused.

           Rubbed again, slower now.

                There was something there.

     The shape of it. The density. The way it seemed to center Bill’s whole frame.

     Ford’s brow furrowed, but his mouth didn’t stop. Not yet—he was far too content with his face nestled between Bill’s tits.

     His hand continued, brushing lower now, searching without urgency, without assumption.

         And that’s when he felt it.

           Or more precisely—didn’t.

     No heat of arousal building the way he expected. Where there should have been something firm, there was only warmth, softness, and tension. A different kind of pulse altogether.

        Ford froze.

        “…Bill?” Ford asked, his voice low, tentative.

     Bill’s eyes opened halfway, heavy with pleasure but alert now.

     Ford tilted his head, thumb absently tracing a soft curve above the belly, just where the dress had begun to ride up. He spoke again, not accusing, not even surprised—just fascinated.

     “Bill…” A blink, then a breathless realization. “Do you… have a pussy right now?”

     The silence that followed was thick, not with shame but with expectation. The mirrored room held its breath.

        For a moment, Bill didn’t speak.

     His body did—tense under Ford’s touch, chest rising faster now, jaw tight. His silence wasn’t indifferent, and it wasn’t amused. It hung there—loaded—like a glittering key suspended just out of reach. A pause so long it answered the question.

     Ford’s eyes darkened, pupils wide and greedy. His breath caught—then spilled out in a low, reverent rasp.

        “Can I taste it?” he asked, already sinking into his knees. “Pretty please?”

     Bill scoffed, but it came too quickly, too brittle to land with real bite. “The cock was more straightforward,” he said, feigning dismissal. “This model feels…complicated.”

     “Don’t worry, Bill,” Ford murmured, his fingers running up Bill’s thighs just past the hem. “I’m a doctor.”

—

     Ford had lost track of how long he’d been kneeling—his face buried between Bill’s thighs. He had one leg hooked over his shoulder while the other braced against the ground beside him, trembling, toes curled against the tile. 

     He wasn’t counting anymore. Not the gasps. Not the moans. Not the number of times Bill’s body spasmed in waves—high, sharp crests of sound and slick heat rolling into him. The only thing Ford could focus on was the speed and shape of his tongue, pressing and shifting, adjusting with each tensing of Bill’s thighs, eager to coax the next one out of him.

     Two fingers were already buried inside—his middle and first ring, pressing upward with relentless pressure, curling just so, exactly how Bill needed. The other three fingers dragged along the flushed, swollen skin surrounding the entrance, spreading slickness, soothing tension. It was everywhere—on his fingers, pooling in his palm, painting his wrist in a feverish sheen.

        And Bill was wrecked.

     Head tipped back against the mirror-glass wall, lips parted, flushed from throat to cheekbone, his body caught in some exquisite stutter of tension and release. He had a vice grip on Ford’s hair. His thighs trembled where they framed Ford’s head, muscles twitching each time Ford curled his fingers just right—right there.

     Ford had been working this one up for a while now.

     And Bill’s pleasure was visible—thick and dripping, coating Ford’s jaw, running in warm trails down his throat, soaking into the collar of his shirt. But Ford didn’t pull back. Couldn’t. His hunger was endless. His mouth pressed harder, tongue moving in tight, eager strokes that bordered on obsessive.

     The third finger slid in without resistance, slick and seamless.

        Bill whimpered, his voice cracked like glass.

     “F-Fordsy—” he gasped. “I feel like I’m gonna burst—”

     Ford moaned again, the sound deep and pleased, almost proud, his tongue pressing harder, slower. His fingers curled and released in rhythm, stroking that sweet, soft place that made stars burst behind Bill’s eyelids. He didn’t let up. Not for a second.

     And Bill—shaking, sweating, soaked—could only hold on.

     Ford groaned against him, deep and guttural, the vibration rolling through Bill’s entire frame. His tongue pressed harder, lips sealed to swollen flesh like he could drink him down to the last drop.

     “Sixer… I’m gonna come again—”

     Bill’s voice was high and shivering, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. His hips bucked hard against Ford’s hand, grinding down onto those relentless fingers as another wave surged loose—hot and thick—spilling across Ford’s tongue; still he didn’t slow.

      Ford pulled his fingers free and dove back in with his mouth—his tongue sweeping eagerly over Bill’s quivering hole—insatiable, desperate for every trace of him. He moaned at the taste, the slick warmth, the way Bill’s whole body clenched and trembled around the drag of his tongue.

     He latched back onto Bill’s clit, sealing his lips around it and sucked with single-minded intensity. The sound Bill made was raw—half-sob, half-moan—and his leg jerked where it hung around Ford’s shoulder, 

        Bill was shaking. Overstimulated. Wide open.

           And still, Ford devoured him.

               Until—

     “Stop—” Bill gasped, pressing his palm to Ford’s forehead and pushing back, not harshly, but with the panic of a body nearing its threshold. “You’ve—made your point,” he panted, barely able to breathe. “I can’t—take it anymore.”

     Ford finally lifted his head, mouth slick and glistening, breath coming in hot, heavy bursts. His eyes dark and wild.

     Then, panting, voice hoarse with desire, he asked:

        “Can I get you pregnant?”

           Bill froze.

     It was impossible to tell if the question was a joke, a challenge, or a request. It hung there, heavy and absurd and terrifyingly erotic.

     Bill’s lips parted, his face flushed, hair stuck to his temples in damp strands. His chest heaved.

      “I don’t know,” he said, voice caught between disbelief and something softer. His eyes met Ford’s—shining, dazed.

     Ford rose, muscles stiff from kneeling, thighs aching with exertion—but the strain barely registered. He was drunk—devastated—on heat, on taste, on the look Bill gave him. He pulled him upright into a kiss—deep and consuming, like he meant to drink the sound out of his lungs.

        Bill melted into it.

     His limbs went soft, sagging into Ford’s hold as if every nerve had burned itself out. His hands clung feebly to Ford’s shoulders—fingertips scrabbling for purchase.

     Without a word, Ford turned the corner of the room—carrying Bill with him, and the dream shifted with them. 

     A bed emerged from the mirrored, velvet haze. Large, low, impossibly plush, its sheets the color of candlelight, creased as if they’d already been slept in. He guided Bill toward it, still kissing him, and pushed him gently down onto the mattress. The fabric pooled beneath Bill’s spine like liquid.

     Then, Ford manhandled him with careful urgency—one hand beneath his hips, the other bracing his thigh as he rolled him over, lifting Bill’s lower half into the air. 

        Ford exhaled harshly through his nose.

     God, he thought, dizzy with want. Just look at him.

     His back gleamed with sweat, his pillowy thighs trembling where they framed that slick, swollen cunt—the inner folds flushed and glistening where Ford had already wrecked him. His hole twitched, still pulsing from the last orgasm, clenching around nothing.

        It was obscene. It was perfect.

     Ford dropped to his knees again, sliding his hands up the back of Bill’s thighs, thumbs spreading him open.

     “Please,” Ford muttered, voice hoarse. “Just a little more.”

     He leaned in and dragged his tongue across Bill’s asshole—slow and deliberate, tracing the ring of muscle with maddening care. Bill jolted, gasping so hard his whole body snapped forward, face burying into the mattress, arms useless at his sides.

        Ford kept going.

      His hand moved with purpose—his middle finger sliding between Bill’s lips while his tongue toyed with him. Bill moaned and Ford’s finger was greedily welcomed, drawn in by Bill’s arousal. Ford accepted the invitation, pushed deep, then curled down.

     The thumb on that same hand swept upward, finding Bill’s pulsing clit with unerring precision, circling it in deliberate passes. Then he pressed—gently at first, then firmly—Until his fingertip and thumb seemed to reach toward each other through the trembling walls of Bill’s body.

     Bill cried out, loud and shattering—his hips jerking, legs twitching, hands clutching fistfuls of bedsheet. The moans spilled loose, uncontainable: half-sobs, half-gasps, all raw pleasure. His cheek dragged against the pillow. Drool smeared across the linen. His eyes rolled, lids fluttering with every tremor. “F-Fordsy—” he babbled. “Ford—Fuck!”

     Bill came with a sudden, overwhelming gush—hot liquid dripping down Ford’s hand, soaking the sheets beneath him. His body convulsed in waves, drawn tight and snapping loose in stuttering pulses that left him shaking and breathless.

        Ford just worked him through it.

            Bill let out a weak, delirious noise—

     “Fuck, is this thing bulletproof?” he rasped, limp and glittering with sweat.

        Ford didn’t bother with finesse.

     His fingers trembled as they fumbled with his belt, the metal buckle clinking in the hush like a warning bell. Then the zipper—rushed, clumsy. He didn’t undress. Didn’t even loosen his tie. He just yanked his waistband down enough to free himself—letting his cock fall heavy into his palm. The cool air hit his skin, but it did nothing to dull the heat rolling off him.

     He leaned forward, one hand braced on the mattress, and let the head of his cock tap lightly against Bill’s pussy—once, twice—just to hear the sound. A soft, wet slap that sent something sparking up his spine.

     Ford spat into his hand—reflex, habit—and rubbed himself once before guiding the head down, dragging it between the soft folds, finding that perfect place where heat met heat.

        The stretch was sudden. Consuming.

     It felt new—silky, pulsing, impossibly warm—but somehow still Bill. Not in spite of the body, but because of it. Like the form had changed, but the soul inside it still met his exactly where it always had.

     Ford groaned through gritted teeth, hips flexing forward as he sank deeper, deeper still. His hands clamped down on Bill’s hips, bruising with the grip, dragging him back slowly to meet each inch until he was fully sheathed in that impossible warmth.

     Bill whimpered, biting his lower lip, his thighs trembling on either side of Ford’s hips.

     “Fuck, Fordsy—” Bill moaned, back arching as his fingers clawed at the sheets. “You barely fit—”

     Ford started to move—just a little, rocking into him, shallow at first, then deeper. Wet sounds and the gruff rumble of Ford’s voice filled the space, amplified by the walls of mirrors surrounding them. A hundred versions of them, rippling across the glass: Ford’s jaw clenched, shirt wrinkled over his belly, tie dangling as he fucked Bill from behind. 

        Each time he bottomed out, he felt it.

     That gentle resistance, soft but certain—like a threshold curled around the tip of him, a secret held just above the swell of his cock, waiting.

     And the thought—that thought—lodged itself in his brain like a thorn:

        There’s a uterus inside him.

           Right there.

     His hand slid down again, over Bill’s stomach, pressing against that tender swell just above the apex of their union. It was warm. Alive. His.

                I could fill it

     The wrongness of it—the anatomical impossibility, the unholy violation of biology and physics and sense—only made it more alluring. Like the laws of the universe had folded in on themselves just for them.

     He groaned aloud, a low, animal sound, hips slamming harder into Bill’s body.

     “Gonna fill this pussy up,” he muttered, not even meaning to say it—just letting the need spill loose, feral and unfiltered. “—gonna fuck it full.”

     Bill whimpered beneath him, eyes glassy, cheek smushed against the sheets, hair clinging to his damp forehead. He was gasping, mewling, his whole body rocking from the force of Ford’s thrusts—but behind the haze, his grin curled sharp.

        “You wanna play house, Sixer?”

      Ford’s teeth bared. “Yeah.”

        “You wanna be the daddy?”

     “Yeah…” His voice cracked. The word hit something in him and rang like a bell. “Yeah.”

     Bill’s hands clawed the sheets, dragging the fabric into knots. His back arched, shameless and trembling.

     “Then come on, daddy,” he goaded, filthy and desperate. “fuck me like it.”

     He gripped Bill’s hips, bruising tight, and dragged him back into each brutal thrust—slamming forward with frantic, punishing rhythm, their bodies meeting in wet, echoing claps. His head dropped to Bill’s shoulder, teeth bared, mouth open, panting like an animal.

     “You wanna have my babies?” he growled, voice guttural, desperate. His hand cracked against Bill’s ass, “Huh? You wanna raise my fucking kids?”

        “Yes, daddy—yes!”

           Ford’s brain blanked.

      He hauled Bill upright, locking an arm around his waist, his other hand grabbing one of his tits. Every drive of hips dragged moans from both their throats, their bodies frantically snapping together—again, again, again.

     His other hand splayed wide over Bill’s belly, like he could summon something into being—a loophole in the seed of creation.

        And still—Ford chased it.

     That image looped in his mind like a liturgy. Not fantasy. Not kink.

        A belief.

Bill, full.

Bill, bred.

Bill, swollen with something he gave him.

     It didn’t strike his mind—it struck something older. Something buried beneath language. A thrum so deep it bypassed cognition entirely, rewiring instinct into need. Into obsession.

        It was madness.

     But in this room—this mirrored sanctum, this candlelit altar—it felt like fate.

        Beneath him, Bill was coming apart.

     He trembled violently, back arched, head falling hard against Ford’s shoulder. His fingers searched for Ford’s and found them—clutched them, clung to them like anchors.

         Each breath was a fractured sob.

           His voice split open:

     “Give it to me, Six—I want it—want it so bad—oh, oh!”

     It was sudden and seismic—his whole body locking tight, then convulsing around Ford’s cock like he was trying to pull him in even deeper, to hold him there, make him stay. The squeeze was unbearable—tight, wet, perfect—and it ripped a raw, primal sound from Ford’s chest.

        He couldn’t hold back.

     Orgasm slammed into him like a white-hot detonation—collapsing every muscle into the single act of giving. His hips snapped forward in one final, brutal thrust, burying himself as deep as he could go.

            He came hard.

         So hard it made him tremble.

     So hard it felt like a piece of himself had been yanked out and left inside the core of Bill’s body.

     He groaned against the damp slope of Bill’s shoulder, his forehead pressed to skin, breath ragged and hot. His arms refused to let go—gripping Bill like he was the only fixed point left in every universe—because to him he was.

        Pulse after pulse, he spilled into him.

     And all around them, the mirrors watched—fragments of the same union played again and again, infinite angles of drive and ruin. A thousand versions of Ford burying himself in the only thing that had ever pulled this kind of madness out of him. Who had met it, matched it, wanted it—written across dimensions in silver and time.

     Ford shivered, still inside, breath catching on a moan he didn’t have the strength to finish.

     And then—without thinking, without pretense—Ford gripped Bill’s jaw, turned his head and kissed him.

     Bill responded in kind—lips parting easily, letting Ford in, his fingers curling gently into Ford’s damp curls. He tasted sweat and salt and the ghost of his own voice, still ringing in his throat. 

     They kissed again—sloppier now, but sweeter. Their noses bumped. Their lips dragged, soft and lazy, as their bodies tilted and collapsed to the side. The edge was gone. Only warmth remained.

     Their breaths mingled, rough and uneven—tongues flicking together not with desire but with fondness. Bill made a low sound—neither a moan nor a word. Just a soft, shuddering exhale. His legs were still twitching, the occasional tremor rippling through him. He shifted and Ford slid out of him with a wet, aching drag.

     They both gasped.

     Ford leaned in and pressed a kiss to Bill’s shoulder. Then another, higher—closer to the neck. Bill turned in his arms, sluggish, limbs loose.

        Ford’s lips brushed against his.

           “Hey,”

     Bill cracked one eye open. His smirk was faint but flickering.

           “…Hm?”

        Ford’s thumb stroked the back of his neck.

     “You don’t have to pull stunts,” he said softly. “Or pick fights. Or change your body.”

        A beat.

           “I’m not going anywhere.”

     Bill’s gaze dropped, then lifted again. The smirk sharpened just a little—more habit. “What,” he muttered, “you don’t like the new hardware?”

     Ford let out a soft, breathless huff against his cheek. “Obviously I like it,” he said, thumb grazing along the edge of Bill’s jaw. “But that’s got more to do with you.”

        That gave Bill pause.

           That landed differently.

     The flicker of wit on Bill’s face faltered—caught mid-step, as if waiting for the punchline. But no quip came. No scoff, no sly jab. Just a blink. A faint furrow between his brows, like he couldn’t quite locate the angle.

        Ford didn’t look away.

     Bill’s smile returned, gentler now. He shrugged a shoulder, trying to reassemble his usual deflective ease. “It’s all based on your subconscious desires and—”

     Ford slid his hand down Bill’s arm, calming. “You get a say too,” he said simply.

        Bill stilled.

           So Ford kept going.

     “I don’t pick the fancy clothes you wear,” he said gently. “But I like them.”

     He twirled a silvery lock of hair around his finger, letting it slip slowly through the curl of his knuckle. “I like when you do things your way. When it’s not about me. Because…”

     He searched for the shape of the thought, then let it land:

        “I like watching you… figure out who you are.”

     Something in Bill’s face shifted at that—some hesitation, some fracture of belief. He looked stunned, almost. Caught in a moment he didn’t know how to deflect.

        Ford only looked at him.

And then pulled him close, gathering him against his chest, sheltering him in the circle of his arms.

     “Whatever form you take,” Ford murmured, lips grazing the shell of Bill’s ear, “whatever makes you feel… happy. That’s what I want.”

     His hand spreading warm across the center of Bill’s back, anchoring him with his touch.

        There was pause. Then:

     “…Don’t be mad at me,” Bill whispered, almost childishly.

        Ford shifted slightly. “What?”

     Bill’s gaze flicked downward. “It’s just—before we, y’know… resolved all this,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely at the bedsheets and their slick, spent bodies, “I was kinda…driving.”

        Ford arched a brow. “Possessing me?”

     “Yes, but I was upset!” Bill blurted, instantly defensive. “You shouldn’t have been talking to her, Fordsy—”

    “Bill,” Ford cut in, stern and tired. “Where am I right now?”

        Bill hesitated.

           Ford waited.

     Then, slowly, Bill squinted—like trying to read fine print on a soggy receipt. “Okay, hypothetical question: how important is it for you to be buried in a Jewish cemetery?”

        “Bill.”

           Silence. A beat, then another.

     Bill let out a tiny, guilty cough—mumbling something illegibly.

        “Where?”

           Bill huffed, jaw tight, and repeated it aloud:

   “Tattoo parlor.”

[Previous Chapter][Next Chapter]

[Read Entire Work Here]

[Theres a Playlist, too ¨̮]

[chelledoggo]

I FEEL LIKE ABSOLUTE CRAP LATELY

MY WHOLE BODY'S IN PAIN, I'M TIRED AND BORED AND STIR-CRAZY ALL THE TIME, MY TENSOR TYMPANI IS ACTING UP AGAIN, AND NOTHING I PLAN FOR EVER WORKS OUT

GOD

[systemadministratorclu]

►

"You two did an excellent job stealing the Declaration of Independence. I now declare that you shall steal... Stonehenge!"

Doomsday to the Atlantis boys

@the-haunted-office

"Well, we're already breaking normal laws, why not the laws of physics, too." Milo said, "But before we go, I need to at least know where I'm reassembling this thing at."

That turned out to be easy. Rourke flew the Aktirak, while Milo marked off the site from above with the aid of several drones he'd made, and a few more he borrowed from Pollux. Then it was time to start on the second heist of his life. The Declaration of Independence, the trophy from the first one, hung in their office in its preservation case like some award they'd won.

He worked, as he had for the first scheme, for a while on their equipment. They would be even more reliant on the tech and machines for this one, to move the huge stones without damaging them. And he'd have to engineer a convincing fake. Pollux even took interest and through his assistance became the third member of the team. He was instrumental in figuring out transport as well as helping Milo engineer the fake replacement (both insisted this was necessary, and also enjoyed it as part of the challenge).

Rourke wasn't sitting idle either. He was looking into possible automated security and how to either get around it or protect themselves. He was especially interested in any anti-aircraft measures, as they would be flying in. He also charged up spare batteries just in case they needed them. Which they did.

Their route took them to a stopover in Atlantis, where Pollux got his own Aktirak and Milo fitted it with a battery rig just like his and Rourke's vehicle. From there, they took a different tunnel and cave system to the surface that came out in Europe.

They came in low and fast, low enough they would be mistaken for speeding ground cars. They landed in the center of the stone circles and got everything ready. This was a bigger job, so speed was even more critical.

Milo and Pollux's latest invention was something they called a portable tensor field generator. Rourke just called it a shrink ray. First, each stone was marked with a temporary tag, so they'd know where to put it when they reassembled the monument. Then it was shrunk using specialized electromagnetic and energy fields, small enough it could fit into its assigned space in the suitcase sized carrier Milo helped Rourke make. A similar carrier held the replacement stones, as they were indistinguishable from the originals. Once the whole thing was safely shrunk and stored, Milo reversed the tensor generator and unshrunk the replacement stones, with Pollux and Rourke positioning them. It was all very efficient and practiced. Each knew their job and did it without question. And when it was done, they left the same way they came, even eliminating any trace of their footprints (tire tracks in Pollux's case) and landed vehicles.

When they got back to the Office (Pollux kept his vehicle, wanting to study it further) they quickly unshrunk and reassembled the Stonehenge monument. Then the three stood in front of it and texted Doom to look outside. When she did, the three waved and Milo's tablet projected a hologram of the words 'WE DID IT!' in the air above them.

[osakanone]

I am smart enough to do the odd consultancy gig maybe once a month for extra money. I do not. I am not well enough to do it in a way where I could actually support myself.

I would die.

If I tried the extra money thing, my income would be squashed.

I want to go back to school. I can't.

A membership to a learning service to make up for my highschool gaps created by my disability is the actual gift I want this year because I apparently accidently invented the "Polish notation system" independently to solve something called a "6th order derivative tensor matrix" but I can't read highschool level equations.

I constantly have a paranoia that if I get any smarter or more knowledgable, it will be the end of my life. I am scared of being more, because if I am too much, it will kill me.

I do not feel seen in a lot of the planning or conversations leftists are having. Yet I side with you anyway, because I know its the only way forwards -- same as I voted for Kier Starmer Queer Harmer knowing if I did not, the conservatives would get in and make things worse for everybody.

I am tired of biting the bullet.

Please see us.

Not only are we dying, we aren't living in ways you can't even imagine.

[drewremmenga]

4/1/25

5:55

Up at five. Kinda tired. Weights and plasma today. New coffee maker. Parahumans are done. Spanish and german flashcards are done. About to do french and russian. New John Oliver but can do that while driving. Lectures during plasma. German and spanish and music theory listening and lectures during drive. Need to do tale foundry. 

6:34

French and russian are done. Music in app is done. 

11:15

Ran at 110 and lifted weights. Cooking. Plasma later. Read all of the casa de bernalda alba. German reading is done. 

12:29

Spanish reading quit. Should read some shakespeare.

3:33

Sold plasma. Did lie algebra. Tensor products. Aunt Barb called me. Music theory is done. Spanish and german listening is done. Started constructables script. John Oliver is done. Tale foundry is done. 

6:05

Smash brothers. Relaxing and watching melee and ultimate. Japanese note cards are done. Will do Japanese other in a bit. 

[gender-related-panic-attack]

Beetlejuice the Musical Is the Reason, Gender is the Problem, and a third thing probably.

First of all, welcome to this impulse blog I created to document me coming to terms with.... not being CIS? Not being as straight as I often pretend to be? Sleep deprivation? Does wanting to bang a Demon make you a monster fucker? Where is my tea?

You know know, the big questions.

Don't actually know what we're going for here.

Starting with the brief background so we can ALL learn together.

READY? OK?

Hi, my name is undecided, I am a 30 year old gremlin who has been doing the CIS female thing poorly for my entire life up to this point. My partner is male and a problem we may or may not get to. WHO KNOWS. Did I mention the sleep deprivation and poor planning? I have been rocking the 'tom boy' label since my parents first decided that it was totally fine that I only wanted to wear my brothers hand-me-down cargo shorts at the ripe old age of like 5 or 6. People have joked about me being trans my entire life in some form. Trans hasn't been a commonly known term my entire life. I was born in the 1900's shhhhhhhh. At 28 I bought my first binder to better fit into the 7,000 short sleeve men's button ups I own. Thankfully this was the choice after some ill conceived tensor bandage use in my teens, mostly for cosplay. Overall the summary is I am the last to the 'You are obviously not a female presenting person' party.

How did we join the party you ask? Beetlejuice the Musical. I, dear reader, shit you not. SOMEHOW I went 30 YEARS without encountering Beetlejuice the musical. I cannot overstate how DEEP IN MY DUMB, FILTHY WHEELHOUSE THIS MUSICAL IS. And I had NEVER had it come across my desk outside of a vague awareness in my bones that it probably exists. I saw the show on a Tuesday, went back to the venue on Wednesday to raid the merch booth, impulse bought tickets to a second showing on Thursday, saw the show again with the same friend (because they were just as in love as me) on Sunday at 2:00pm, and started my spiral around 11:30 that same Sunday. Since Tuesday I have consumed as much as I could media surrounding the musical as my grubby little paws could find. News reports, fan art, tumblr communities, reddit threads, and, the strwa that finally broke me, AO3.

There are a variety of Beetlejuice related fics, the struggle being WHICH Beetlejuice you want. Films vs cartoon vs musical. I wanted musical.

I demanded musical Beej.

I had become feral for musical Beetlejuice.

I had assumed, incorrectly (spoilers), that the purpose of my life was fuck this fictional undead ghost man.

Now around 1:30 am, a terrible time for any realization, 40 fics deep, I realize I am identifying with the wrong section of the Beetlejuice/reader fics. I am not the female breather getting airlocked by Beetlejuice and several clones. I am one of the penis havers. At a pace that human brains only achieve at hour 22.5 hours of being awake, molasses had lapped my brain several hours ago, I begin to think over my entire life and my relationship with fics and OC's. BEHOLD, my brain had finally dragged it's poor, bloated, zebra stripped, horny, corpse to the party.

My imagined ideal self is not female.

*insert that gif of the dude miming his brain exploding*

It's amazing what happens when your entire life shatters around you but you're too tired to deal. In my case I still had AO3 open so that was the obvious answer. Smash cut to another 12 hours without sleep, sitting on the floor of a chapters, gently weeping while reading a book on the basics of the pronouns they/them while mid grade music that some corporate goon decided gave the vibe of what kids think is 'indie rock' plays just too loudly to be background music overwhelms my delicate psyche.

The Shawn Mullins song Lullaby is not the sound track I wanted to this moment, but here we are.

4:00 on a Monday, about to chop off all my hair, and a message in my group chat asking permission from my four friends to ask them to call me they/them instead of she/her, and a new tumblr blog. (My friends basically said yeah sure, took you long enough.)

I have several main blogs, this just felt like something I need to have on it's own.

So if you made it this far, welcome. The only plan I have at this point is to post updates when I have them on whatever the hell the journey I have started is.

It's 2025 and I no longer wish to have boobs.

[jonathankatwhatever]

I’m struggling to start this. I typed ‘As you know’, before realizing I don’t know what you know. I know what I know. The nature of cooperative existence within a generative process, meaning as gsSpaces construct, does not require perfect knowledge, but rather synchrony of development, of movement, all of which translates into tensors in a field of Things. I’m getting bollixed up - where did that come from? - because I have two topics running through now. One is what just happened, which was a complete surprise. The other I need to write down before I forget what it is. The use of 6, meaning SBE2. For example, we translate 6/Pi^2 as SBE2, as a Hexagon, divided by meaning cut up into pieces of bounded 0Space. So it’s literally clumps of 0Space identifying, with all the meaning of D3-6//6-3, meaning Triangular and Hexagonal.

Hmmm. Does that go someplace else? If this means Tri-Hex, then gsSpace generates. Which we count SBE2 over. I think that requires orthogonality, which in turns descends from the complex plane and the Irreducibles. This also generates the Bip pole.

Remember, the progression is the inverse of nSquares, which as I remember are the count on the szK and the area. That goes inside CM1. So can we generate mechanics to make this more than a labeling? It’s on the tip of my mind.

Not getting it.

Inverse of nSquares. Take that as 6szK, meaning it’s 6 in xK and yK and thus CM36. And that compresses to SBE or 3 counted in both directions, so CM9, which is SBE3, which is IC to CM36. I finally see that this IC to CM36 relationship is not fixed, in the sense that it counts up and down from and into forms. I used to see a more limited vision in which there was an answer or solution, which makes sense if you are thinking only of solutions. When I see the enclosure, I see how the need for solutions, how they are defined, relates to the solutions or identifications counting across IC to the CM36 which makes the Not which identifies the Is which makes CM100, which drives choice because then we have 50:50. That was a tremendous amount of fun to type.

That is choice. We can define that in set terms because we generate out of the uncountable into the countable into the finite. The inverses squares are that. We limit ourselves to this progression which is infinite but finite to any n or, rather, n-1 because one of the interesting mathematics to come up again is that we don’t actually count as we think but rather we count from n-1 to a 1-0Segmenting of 0, so that counting projects into the positive, into the ++ quadrant. Or to put it another way, the count runs from n-1 to all but 0 and that character, which means it attaches whatever structure, like coprimes, continues to all but 1, because that is necessary to tie End to End. Very much like the 40 years of wandering creates a child born into the Promised Land born of a child born in the Wilderness born of a child born in Egypt. This could also compress to child born in the Wilderness, next generation, third generation born in the Wilderness, with the Ends being just barely in Egypt, just barely in the Wilderness.

See? We’re counting SBE and SBE2. There isn’t one way to fix this in place. Why? Boundary is uncountable so any version we count represents, which goes into the gs, whether you think of them counting each iteration or rearranging.

I need sleep. I hacked a chunk out of my finger cutting with a dull knife in bad lighting whilst tired. Throbbing. Looks like I’ll be living in Montclair. Go to Holsten’s. Maybe get whacked. Maybe not.

————

Two additions. First, the non-complete knowledge point has been clarifying for a while. It motivates the entanglement of attributes. Second, I completely failed to see that this mechanism is one of the clearest ways by which we link 1Space to 0Space: the concept of within CM1, which we worked incredibly hard to justify, turns out to have been well worth the effort.

[werevampiwolf]

I have tensor tympani myoclonus syndrome, which I know is considered to be a physical form of tinnitus, so I wouldn't be shocked if other types of tinnitus were physical too. In the case of TTS (no, I don't know why the official acronym leaves out the M), there's some wires crossed in the nerves of the head, so the tensor tympani, which is a muscle connected to the ear drum, twitches. It's not unlike when your eyelid is twitching, except you hear a loud noise. To me, it's always sounded like someone banging on a door very loudly and quickly, but the reason it's known to be physical is because you can actually see the eardrum move due to the tensor tympani pulling on it. So it may well make a very small sound they could be picked up on a very sensitive microphone.

The person in the article seems to have gotten tinnitus due to rupturing her eardrum, and as far as I know, you have to be born with TTS, though her description of the experience sounds similar. Which points to there being other forms of physical tinnitus. I'm not very well versed in other, non-TTS forms of tinnitus, though.

But yeah, for years, I thought I was just randomly hallucinating banging noises, especially when I was very tired or right when I was falling asleep. Turns out, it actually was all in my head, just that it was in my skull, not my brain. (I do have hallucinations as a form of migraine auras pretty regularly, though.) But that does explain why I was only hearing the "hallucination" on one side of my head, as the majority of people with TTS either have it on one side or the other, not both, and even when it is on both sides, the sides don't twitch in unison.

They recorded tinnitus? It's a physical thing?????

[vividracing]

New Post has been published on https://www.vividracing.com/blog/top-9-best-mods-for-the-cam-am-x3-turbo-r-2017-2023/

Top 9 Best Mods for the Cam-Am X3 Turbo R 2017 - 2023

Intro into the Can-Am X3. What makes this a great UTV but what does it lack? We have 9 upgrades here that are sure to evolve your UTV into a trail smashing and podium securing car!

As spring break approaches, why settle for ordinary? Get ready to create unforgettable memories with the Can-Am Maverick X3 Turbo leading the way. Let’s hit the trails and leave ordinary behind! Check out our favorite upgrades and also some setbacks from these upgrades! 

1. Agency Power Turbo Upgrade Can-Am Maverick X3 Turbo 2017-2021

Get ready to take it to a whole new level. Picture this: You add a simple ECU flash and exhaust, and bam! Those 3-cylinder turbocharged engines become absolute beasts. But here’s the kicker: After you’ve done all the basic bolt-on mods, the next big move? A full turbo upgrade.

Now, here’s where it gets even better. Agency Power offers a complete OEM replacement turbo upgrade for the Can-Am Maverick X3 Turbo. This isn’t some half-baked modification – it’s the real deal.

We’re talking about a turbo that’s designed to fit like a glove, no messing around. Plus, it comes with everything you need for a smooth installation – silicone adapters, precision-fit oil and water lines, the works. 

Now, let’s talk numbers. We’re looking at a 60+ horsepower gain on pump gas alone, with even more potential on race gas with the right tuning and mods. And the best part? You can still keep all your existing performance mods – exhaust system, intercooler, intake, you name it.

So, if you’re ready to take your Maverick X3 Turbo to the next level, this turbo upgrade is your ticket to horsepower heaven. Buckle up, because things are about to get wild.

2. Agency Power Valvetronic Dump Race Pipe Can-Am Maverick X3 Turbo 2017-2023

Alright, listen up, speed enthusiasts! If you’re all about tearing it up on the track or dominating off-road races, then this one’s for you. But let’s be crystal clear from the get-go: the Agency Power valvetronic dump race pipe is strictly for the racetrack. No joyrides on the street, folks. You’ll need to sign our Vehicle Compliance Waiver before getting your hands on this bad boy.

Now, let’s talk game-changer. Picture this: the Agency Power valvetronic dump race pipe – the first of its kind in the UTV scene. Drawing inspiration from our turbocharged marvels like the Porsche 911 Turbo, this race pipe is the ultimate weapon for upping your game. It’s all about boosting performance, cranking up the sound, all while keeping that stock look intact.

So, what’s the secret sauce? By ditching that factory catalytic converter, we’re talking about unleashing a torrent of exhaust flow, giving your turbocharger the freedom to breathe like never before. Sure, it’s a tad louder than stock, but hey, nothing earplugs can’t handle, right?

Hit that button, and it’s like flipping a switch from “mild” to “wild”. That vacuum-operated valve opens wide, redirecting your exhaust straight from the turbocharger. Everyone within earshot will know you mean business.

Crafted from tough T304 stainless steel, this baby’s built to last. Precision welded, CNC machined, and packed with all the bells and whistles you need for a seamless install. Plus, it’s designed to work seamlessly with other aftermarket mufflers, giving you even more room to customize your ride.

From the flex joint that keeps cracks at bay to the O2 bung for your factory oxygen sensor, every detail’s been dialed in to perfection. Oh, and did I mention the slick AP logo brackets? Because, yeah, we’re all about those finishing touches.

So, if you’re ready to unleash the full potential of your ride, look no further than the Agency Power valvetronic dump race pipe. It’s not just a game-changer – it’s a game-winner.

3. Agency Power Black Intercooler Upgrade Can-Am Maverick X3 Turbo 2020-2023

Introducing the Can-Am Maverick X3 intercooler upgrade for the 2020 model year – engineered to be the pinnacle of performance and efficiency. The Agency Power intercooler stands tall as the epitome of excellence, whether your ride is straight off the lot or a fully decked-out powerhouse.

Let’s talk heat. Inadequate intercoolers? They’re the arch-nemesis, causing sky-high intake temps that zap your engine’s power. But fear not, because we’ve got the ultimate solution. Our intercooler boasts a colossal 12″x11″x4″ bar-and-plate aluminum core, delivering unmatched air volume and maximizing cooling surface area. Oh, and did we mention the fin density? It’s been cranked up to the max for optimal contact, all without sacrificing a drop of boost pressure.

But wait, there’s more. Our team of engineering wizards set out to design this intercooler, they had one mission: to blend flawless function with seamless form. No cutting, no modifications – just a direct swap for your factory intercooler. Plus, it plays nice with your OEM fan and works like a charm with either factory hoses or our own Agency Power blow off valve hose.

So, what are you waiting for? Say goodbye to overheating headaches and hello to peak performance with the Can-Am Maverick X3 intercooler upgrade. It’s not just an upgrade – it’s a game-changer.

4. Agency Power Big Brake Kit Front and Rear Can-Am Maverick X3 Turbo

Well, we’ve got this thing… It’s a Big Brake Kit, and trust me, it’s like, totally not something you’d normally think about, but hear me out – you absolutely need it!

We’re talking about a complete overhaul of your braking system. Our calipers? Two-piece construction, ultra-rigid, and totally bolt-on. And get this: no additional brackets or spacers needed. We’ve thought of everything, trust me.

Oh, and those pistons? Custom machined for maximum surface area, just like the big boys. Plus, they’re lightweight, so they move like butter. And let’s not forget about the rotors – two-piece cast iron beauties that dissipate heat like nobody’s business. Because, you know, nobody likes a spongy pedal.

But hey, don’t just take my word for it. We’ve tested this bad boy with all the common wheels – Method Race, Fuel Wheels, you name it. And yeah, it won’t clear those stock 14-inch wheels, but who needs ’em anyway?

So, if you’re ready to step up your braking game – and trust me, you totally should – then the Agency Power Big Brake Kit is your ticket to stopping power nirvana. I mean, it’s not like you’ll be stopping on a dime, but hey, it’s a start, right?

5. Agency Power Adjustable Rear Radius Rod Set Black Can-Am Maverick X3

Upgrade your Can-Am Maverick X3’s handling game with our rear radius arms – trust us, it’s a game-changer. You know those wonky camber and toe settings? Yeah, we’ve got you covered. Plus, we’ve beefed up these babies to handle whatever the X3 throws their way – think sand whoops and trail climbs.

Our Agency Power rear radius arms are machined from solid 6061 aluminum for ultimate durability. Say goodbye to those flimsy factory arms – ours are built to last. And get this: they’re fully adjustable, so you can fine-tune your ride on the fly. Oh, and did we mention the slick powder-coated finish? It’s available in all your favorite colors to match your X3’s vibe.

But wait, there’s more. Each arm features high-quality spherical rod ends for unbeatable performance. Plus, they’re a direct replacement for those wimpy stock components – no fuss, no muss.

So, if you’re ready to take your X3 to the next level, these rear radius arms are the way to go. Trust us, your ride will thank you.

https://www.vividracing.com/handling-arms-c-4311.html?class_8=39000&class_9=41832&manufacturers_id=135

6. MTS Off-Road Limit Strap Kit Can-Am X3

So, you’ve heard of limit straps, right? They’re like these things that help protect your Can-Am X3 when the shocks are doing their thing. They kind of keep your axles and suspension components from going too crazy by limiting how far they can droop.

And yeah, these limit straps are made from really good quality stuff. Like, seriously top-notch craftsmanship and materials.

Oh, and just a heads up, the straps you get might look a bit different from what you see here. Just, you know, keep that in mind.

So, if you’re into protecting your ride and stuff, these limit straps might be a thing to consider.

7. HCR Racing 72 Inch Elite OEM Replacement Front A-arm Kit Can-Am Maverick X3 XRS

Hey, check out this sweet upgrade for your Can-Am Maverick X3 72″ model – it’s the HCR Suspension’s Elite OEM Replacement Front A-arm Kit.

Basically a heavy-duty, lightweight version of the front A-arms that come stock with your X3. But get this: it adds an extra 1.5 inches of ground clearance thanks to the design of the lower A-arms. Pretty slick, right?

Plus, it’s all about that stealthy look with these arms. They’ve got these awesome stealth approach angles that not only give your ride a clean aesthetic but also add some serious versatility to your setup.

And don’t worry about adding extra weight to your rig – these arms are comparable in weight to the stock ones. So, you’re not sacrificing performance for durability.

Oh, and let’s talk strength. These babies are made from HCR Alloy construction, which is like, way tougher than your standard 4130 chromoly. So, you can bet they’ll hold up to whatever you throw at them.

In the kit, you’ll get 4 front A-arms and 16 HCR Custom Delrin Bushings, along with all the brake line mounting hardware you need.

All in all, if you’re looking to beef up your Maverick X3 and take your off-road adventures to the next level, this front A-arm kit is definitely worth checking out. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed!

https://www.vividracing.com/hcr-racing-inch-elite-oem-replacement-front-aarm-kit-canam-maverick-xrs-p-152685099.html

8. VR Forged D15 Wheel Set Trail Can-Am Maverick X3 15×7

Alright, buckle up because we’ve got something exciting here – the VR Forged D15 UTV wheel, ready to roll straight outta the box and onto your Can-Am Maverick X3.

Crafted from a full 1 piece forged monoblock wheel, designed to take on whatever terrain you throw at them. And guess what? They’re in stock and ready to ship, no waiting around like with other forged wheels. Just pick your favorite tires, slap ’em on, and you’re good to go!

These wheels are built to last, with superior strength and a much lighter weight than your standard cast wheels. Perfect for those rough and tumble rides, while still looking sleek enough for everyday use.

And check out that design – 8 sleek spokes that not only look killer but also give you a sneak peek at those brake calipers. Plus, we made sure these wheels play nice with popular big brake kits like the Agency Power upgrade. Because, you know, stopping power is kinda important too…

Oh, and did I mention they come with center caps and feature a knurled bead area for added grip when you’re tearing up the trails? Talk about attention to detail.

So, if you’re ready to take your Can-Am Maverick X3 to the next level, these VR Forged D15 wheels are the way to go. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed!

9. Tensor Tire Desert Series Race Tire 35×10 15

Hey, I know things might feel a bit uncertain right now, but if there’s one thing you can count on, it’s the Tensor Tire Desert Series Race lineup. I mean, when it comes to competition-legal UTV race tires, these bad boys are the real deal.

Picture this: you’ve got three options to choose from – the DSR30, the DSR33, or the towering DSR37. Each one designed to give you that edge you need out there on the track.

These tires not messing around. With a patented American-made design, they’re built specifically for competition. Plus, that proprietary nylon bias ply with fiberglass belted construction? It’s all about saving weight without sacrificing strength.

But here’s where it gets really exciting – that decreased weight? It means you’re unleashing every last bit of horsepower from your machine. And with the evolved closed tread pattern, you’re getting maximum traction without putting extra strain on your drivetrain.

Oh, and did I mention the steering response? It’s off the charts. Plus, you’re getting increased biting edges for quicker acceleration and unique ribbed protection for those puncture-prone sidewalls.

Legal for SCORE UTV Racing? Check. Legal for BITD UTV Race Season? You bet.

So, yeah, times might be tough, but with the Tensor Tire Desert Series Race lineup, you’re investing in performance you can count on. Trust me, you won’t regret it.

[toruro]

LMFAOOOOO i believe in u ur gonna be the next oppenheimer but man,, someone had to teach einstein tensor calculus (i’m praying i understand it soon bc if i don’t,, pray for me.)

i’m so tired. why am i so tired. like two weeks of pure math and a potentially extremely random elective. 🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲

- ts eliot anon

I BELIEVE IN U!!! u got this for real :3 (psst psst i'll write u a request 2 get u through it bc ilu)

[faelynnupward]

I worked in a non-union Toyota factory for three years. I don’t believe that a member of the UAW went three years without any sort of emergency PTO system for call offs but I absolutely support their strike.

We had five days of “PTO-ER” on a rolling 12 months (so if I used one 8hr day today, I would get it back on Sept 26th 2024) but we had to use banked PTO for it and we didn’t get any PTO until our 6 month anniversary. It is very difficult to believe that the UAW contract has no emergency time off clause. When I was in the UFCW, we had that shit and it was a part-time grocery store job.

Still, I worked my ass off in the factory overnight for three years and I believe that this guy did too. The PPP of an auto worker 1970 vs today was 50% higher. For every dollar I earned at Toyota in 2022, was like an auto worker in 1970 earned a dollar fifty.

They probably had a harder job (less tech like pneumatically assisted tensor tools) but they didn’t line off 450+ vehicles per shift per plant either. Ergo injuries are the number one reason an auto worker has to be pulled from work and there is a lot of strain from building 450 vehicles every night with mandatory Saturdays and all that. I haven’t worked at Toyota for 16 months and I still have to stretch my hands/wrists every day so they don’t stiffen up.

There is no reason why an auto worker shouldn’t have every bit as good of a life in 2023 as in 1970. Even less reason when you look at the crazy profits, CEO and executive compensation, and investor dividends companies like Stellantis or Toyota pump out each year.

I’m tired of watching corporate profits skyrocket, taxes drop like a rock and our public infrastructure crumbling all around us while people blame some striking blue collar work-a-day factory guy for being “greedy.” Pay us what we deserve, tax the fuckers and let’s fix this shit.

United We Bargain, Divided We Beg. ✊

Working class solidarity. #UAW

You have to pay workers more when the corporations are declaring billions in profits.

[elipsi]

WHAT is this

[chromalogue]

In which I am a brazen fool

Last week was kind of strenuous.  I knew it was going to be. 

Monday was a normal day.

Tuesday evening I was supposed to attend a guest lecture put on by a research centre I'd like to join. 

Wednesday started with an early lecture by a friend, put on by another research centre I'd like to join, on a topic I'm interested in.  Then I had to hop on a bus to the downtown campus for a meeting with an administrative person looking for input from international researchers.  Then dinner with the same colleague from that morning's lecture, plus another colleague who I hadn't met yet but who also has similar research interests. 

Thursday was an evening reception for international postdocs. 

Friday was my 6 AM wakeup and then six solid hours of German class, followed by shopping and laundry. 

And then, because last week was special, wretchedly early on Saturday morning was another four hours of German class to make up for the holiday on Good Friday.

So I already knew I was setting myself up for exhaustion and not getting much done.  My compromise with my sleep disorder, for which my partner and family roundly mock me, is maintaining a fairly strict bedtime between 2:30 and 3:30, which requires something like military discipline for me, because I have to be really exhausted to be anything like tired at that time.  The only way I can manage it is to have near-complete control over my schedule and nothing else at all going on.  But it means I get to work around noon at the earliest, eat a wholesome breakfast in the cafeteria, and am in my office from around 12:30-11 or so.  So, evening events mean sharply curtailed days, and morning ones mean less sleep.  Of course.

And the compromise I've made with my pathologically thorough style of note-taking is that I dictate my notes.  This I started in earnest because the electronic lock on my apartment door used to stick and I gave myself a repetitive strain injury always turning the knob, and spent three months in a tensor bandage.  I continued with it even after typing stopped hurting, because I usually take about thirty pages of notes per hundred pages I read, and dictating that goes a lot faster than typing, even though Microsoft speech-to-text is hilariously terrible and requires hours of correcting afterwards.  So like, one of the things I had to do during these very short workdays was dictate a lot of notes in a very little bit of time.  

Well, the Tuesday lecture ended in a trip to a restaurant, where I enjoyed excellent Italian food and hours of good conversation with people from the research centre.  On Wednesday, the meeting with the administration was catered, with little bites of things in jars with spoons.  I had exactly one hour of rapid-fire dictation before joining my colleagues at the restaurant, where we spent many pleasant hours and I ate my own weight in calamari.  

Thursday was more rapid-fire dictation.  By this time I was exhausted, and my throat was raw, and no wonder.  When I arrived at the reception, a very excellent person asked me how I was doing, and I said that I was astonishingly grumpy for someone with no real problems.  She said she hoped I'd feel better as the evening wore on.  And then there was my supervisor, and beverages, and I took my mask off and drank apple juice out of a wine glass, and ate and drank and stayed to the end, which I didn't think I was going to be able to manage.  And my mood improved, even though I was still tired enough that word-finding was a problem.  

We heard some speeches, although the admin person I'd met the day before was supposed to give the keynote, and she was out sick now.  At one point I wondered if I should put my mask back on, but I'd been eating and drinking in room with all these people for hours anyway, and I didn't want to make them feel uncomfortable.  

On Friday I woke up with my throat even worse, and tried to take a covid test, but the one I'd bought had no liquid in the tube.  (Later, I couldn't remember the German for "liquid"; I told the people at the store that the juice was missing.)  So I put on an FFP2 mask, which here seems to be the equivalent of an N95, and went to my six hours of class.  I tried to minimize the time I spent unmasked.  When the window was open, I took advantage of the time to lift my mask a bit and shove in veggie salami and a bit of cheese.  

I was feeling next-level tired, and my skin was starting to crawl in the way that a fever does.  I picked up the (wrong, it turns out) cleaning disk I'd ordered for the Tassimo I found on the side of the road at the beginning of the month, got a couple more covid tests, and did some grocery shopping.  I bought fruit.  Like, lots and lots of fruit.  Ridiculous amounts.  Blueberries, strawberries, grapefruit, passionfruit, grapes, cherries.  It looked so good.  

The only thing that kept me from melting into a puddle of goo when I got the groceries home was the knowledge that if I didn't get my clothes into the building's washing machine as soon as possible, the person in #5 would put her clothes in.  Also probably the dehydration.  Laundry takes four hours, and ye gods, I did NOT want to prolong that today. 

So I took a covid test--negative--and then grabbed my laundry.  I shoved it all in, waited two hours, and went down to put it in the dryer, telling myself, only two more hours until I can put on jammies and curl up.  Only the dryer was somehow full of #5's laundry, and had an hour and thirty-eight minutes left on the timer.  (And I didn't think the timer went higher than 1:05, which in real time is about 2 hours.)  And I thought about waiting whatever vast span of time 1:38 actually represented to be able to even put my laundry in the dryer, not to mention the two hours beyond that.  And I took my wet clothes, shuffled to the elevator, and went upstairs.  I hung them, quite certain that they would be dry before I was in clothes-wearing condition again.

Then I made myself some nachos, and crashed until about 5:30 in the morning.  E-mailed my supervisor that I wouldn't be able to meet.  Had my class.  Slept some more.  Watched Eurovision.  (AWESOME with a fever; 10/10 would recommend.  Finland was still robbed.)

Sunday I spent sneezing.  Watched a film over Zoom.  

Monday I woke up and the fever was gone.  I felt like I had a bad head cold, but my energy was at about 80%.  Back in the Before Times, this would have meant going to work, but it would be bad form now, so I decided I would go to the office after hours and pick up some things to work on.  

I took a covid test.  It was positive.  

So.  Then I had to e-mail all the people I was with last week, and warn them.  And then I waited until evening, when no one would be in the office.  I'd planned to take the bus if I tested negative, but as it was, I just picked the most secluded path to work, with the fewest stairs, and walked.  I was masked the whole time I was indoors, and anytime I saw anyone on the street outdoors.  I touched as little as I could in the common areas of the building, slathering my hands in sanitizer and opening doors with my elbows.  Got my stuff.  Got home.  Felt better for the walk, frankly. 

Normally I stay masked indoors in public (albeit in a surgical mask, the ones they call IIR here), and only unmask to eat and drink, but with all the catered meetings and dinners last week, that still amounted to something like eleven hours I spent unmasked in the presence of others.  Last week I was feeling sheepish about staying masked as long as I did in front of them; this week I get to e-mail them all and tell them that I've exposed them to a potentially deadly disease through my carelessness.  So far, I haven't heard of anyone getting sick, thank goodness, but I'm still not done.

[maxiemartmanager]

I was tagged by the lovely @renee-ssance to pick a song that best personifies rock n roll. Definitely a tough question. First I narrowed it down to Chuck Berry and Little Richard. Pillars of the Rock genre, but what song?? It was “The Girl Can’t Help It” for an hour or so then “Johnny B. Goode”for a bit. I settled on this one. Love it and I’ll never tire of hearing it.

I tag @thevampiresblackrose @camisadeforcapreta @venti-tensor-fasciae-latae @pinkpixiekitty @lollobendix @steelbeltedradio @liftingweights-and-coffeedates @tessernaught @976-evil if you wanna play!