#beleaguered vents

[babblingblackwhale]

This will be long so feel free to read in bits and chunks:

we have tried multiple times to begin this post and had to restart it again because while we are impossibly aggravated and would like to just post a snarling sound that conveys a fraction of our vicious anger but we really want if possible to not have tone muddy what could possibly be a learning moment for working, nondisabled folks invested in worker or proletariat revolution who may need one of the nonworking disabled folks whose lives literally depend on these exploitative labour economies to come out of the ether so they can realise that we are not some abstract nonentity living in bourgeois excess or whatever other Fantasyland they tell themselves is where nonworking, severely debilitated, multi-dimensionally poor disabled people live in.

There is a post (from user @/pure) making the rounds on here that has almost 2000 reblogs by someone who seems rightfully angry that gig delivery workers operate under brutal working conditions and earn sub-minimum wages because of capitalist exploitation from some tech CEO looking to accumulate profit due to wage theft. this series of posts (because this user made multiple) as far as we can surmise is an attempt to weigh in on a cyclic conversation that frequently pops up on social media whenever a disabled person (not always but quite often) comes online to vent about the ableist discrimination they experience from these same gig delivery workers who are over-exploited and overworked displace their anger frequently at disabled people who require certain service accomodations to be able to access their basic needs.

We could have left this as a direct reply on this post itself (and we still might) but we wanted to make a more encompassing post because there is a disturbing pattern of dismissiveness and shallow indifference that we want to draw out. We all know that a lot of digital discourses tend to be cross pollinated (so someone brings a discursive prompt from one social media to another) and we tend to be charitable when these moments happen (certain social media platforms lend itself easier access wise for some people, some people need a wider opinion range for whatever is being discussed, some people feel the need to share context for certain thoughts or videos that provoked them in some way) because people don't really have discussions in sealed, linear ways and the separation of these apps themselves are a myth sometimes it's genuinely interesting to see how conversations that begin elsewhere take a life of it's own in another place. Without derailing, we have come to believe that this resurged discussion about gig delivery workers and their treatment of app users who need specific accommodations that are often disregarded emerged from Twitter when a disabled user came to speak about their recent experience using a delivery app and some one most likely brought it to Tumblr.

We have come to realize there is a specific pattern that organizes how most viral attempts from disabled people to show how nondisabled working people (across class loyalties) treat severely disabled people as scapegoat or collateral damage in their war against the slaveholding oppressor capitalist class. We cannot sugar coat this: most working nondisabled people treat nonworking, disabled people with disdain, recipients of some mythical welfare, or relegate us to some abstract category of the "unthinking" nonentities that have nothing to say about "work", "labour", "value" working to prey on their bleeding hearts with our moral arguments. In these conversations - plural because we can see a throughline between this conversation about delivery gig workers, the one on Tiktok semi-recently about plight and shortage of care-givers in the US, the cyclical conversations across IG, Twitter (in fact any disability related forum) chronic medical burnout from hospital staff resulting in medical neglect- working nondisabled begin with most foulest assumption that the non working disabled person they are interacting with doesn't realize the larger structure of capitalist oppression at play and is simply displacing their unwarranted anger at this exploited working person. Instances of interpersonal ableism and discrimination gets dismissed as the worker in question simply having a bad day. Once that assumption takes root, that dialogue devolves because there is simply nothing the nonworking disabled person - who desperately needs an accommodation (because they are too sick to make it to what is considered a "reasonable" delivery place) from the gig worker in order to literally sustain themselves because they don't have a support system and the state and their so called community has left them for dead - can say that will not sound like some indulgence to the person who is feverishly bandying their support for workers liberation in that moment.

At some point nondisabled people must think of where nonworking, disabled poor folks exist and ask what they know of our lives because far too many leftists, radicals and worker liberationists have adopted a very eugenicist, puritanical epistemology of work and think they have the range to be in conversations they neither have the lived experience nor the curiosity not humility to engage in.

If we are being very honest, even the timing of when these conversations about pro-worker liberation emerge is extremely suspect because it is never taken to its logical conclusion- the internal contradictions of workers union and nor are the exploitative corporations union busting tactics aren't revealed, it never leads to splintered off conversations about how gig workers can pool their power to get better working conditions - it is merely used a discursive bludgeon to shut down disabled people who are just venting about the day to day accumulation of ableist treatment. We have to be honest about these things because why else do we have language to communicate with each other? disabled people who are not just reliant but practically need these services to survive are poor folks, housing insecure folks, debilitated disabled folks, mentally ill folks (we truly want nondisabled to fathom what it is like to be too sick to feed yourself or physically incapable of feeding without having anyone to help feed you and what it means to literally starve because a worker is having a bad day and can't be bothered to bring your food up stair cases). These services are practically the only way available to live to the next day so why would we go out of our way to make the person responsible for our survival miserable? Like don't just react, truly think about what we are saying here.

The thing that irks us the most about this projection of malice nondisabled radicals so easily adopt against (nonworking) disabled folks is that as a severely disabled, nonworking, bed-bound, multiply-marginalized, generationally poor, houseless black being who has even less of an access into the nonexistent state welfare services due to our immigration status, we see how desperate disabled people broadly (especially those not insulated by generational wealth, access, ans privilege) are to be in support and solidarity with working exploited folks especially with how much unpaid, exploitable labour is mined from racialized communities which then make us very vulnerable to debility and impairs our ability to continue to even generate labour that can be exploited and worse, impairs our ability to even resist these exploitative capitalist forces when we become debilitated and disabled. Yet nondisabled workers are always so gleefully displacing their anger and aggression on us simply because they can rather than see how deeply connected our struggles against the ruling capitalist class and the settler empires are. They rarely reach out to struggle against the state across any disability justice movement building yet they have the nerve to act as if a throw away statement saying they don't mean to be cruel to disabled people while simultaneously being callous and dismissive of disabled people's encounters with rampant, deleterious ableism and our experience of exploited workers can be neatly tidied into inconsequential in the grand scheme of "worker" exploration or the battle against wage slavery.

We have exhausted all our energy on this post and our joints hurt bad so we will stop now, we may add or refine when energy surfaces again. A lot of this might be disjointed but we will allow it be because our point stands

[mechieonu]

*starts shaking you by the shoulders* CGHA CHARACTERS PLAYING THEIR RESPECTIVE FNAF GAMES

[superhumanfoods]

today in tumblr history tma fans discovered what happens when you try to claim your beleaguered archivist is the most hard-done-by man in podcasting: a legion of weird, gaunt eskew fans come crawling spiderlike out of the vents and peer at you with their haunted eyes as they whisper "david lived in his own walls once because a package was too intimidating. i'll eat you. i swear i'll fucking eat you"

[powderblueblood]

Gimme a classic Ronnie and Eddie mess around! Like, what is their greatest conquest to date, what pranks/hijinks have they pulled over on the beleaguered people of Hawkins?

it's the eve of, y'know, that.

the big departure.

the long goodbye.

ronnie and eddie have started referring to it as phillip marlowe-ing in order to, y'know, skirt around the issue of her leaving for new york because it's not as if either of them are wont to express their feelings here, jesus christ. well, except in the case of--

"alright, RJ, i got one for ya. top five hawkins fuck yous, let 'er rip."

ronnie prrrfftts out a breath and nearly keels over in her rusted, rickety, fold-up lawn chair that they've perched in front of the ecker trailer. it's a balmy summer night and ronnie's full of beer and eddie's merging onto nostalgia boulevard.

"where could i possibly begin, dude?"

a hawkins fuck you is another colloquialism shared between 'em. because when ronnie and eddie pull off a prank, it's not just a prank. okay? it's a statement. this is something that ronnie insists upon, something eddie blames on her 'punk rat leanings', but the personal is political, okay! and you know what else is political?

"number five, naturally, we gotta go small and loving-- shakin' up a can of soda before we give it to gareth. it's fresh, it's funky, it's harmless."

cigarette ember gesticulating in the dwindling light, eddie adds, "and it helps him remember his place."

"bingo. do not forget to keep that shit up when i'm in new york," ronnie says, pointedly pointing, "i don't wanna fuckin heaaar about you gettin' all soft on him and lettin' him run around without a face full of sody pop."

"it's what the munchkin deserves," her similarly be-banged brother agrees. "why does he keep falling for it, ya think?"

"because he loves us, you dumb-dumb," ronnie closes her eyes and sticks her hands behind her head, scratching under the band of her ball cap. "alright, number four... shit, kaminsky and the glue seat. it's gotta be, right? what a totally perfect maelstrom of humiliation."

"christ, and when he couldn't get up without tearing his fucking pants and then kelley comes in--"

"she had to think he was rodded up, dude! signed, sealed, delivered, pervert on school grounds!"

eddie guffaws, big and hearty in a way that makes ronnie join him. "i couldn't believe you dreamed that shit up on your own, you little do-gooder."

ronnie reaches for her beer and takes a pull, sobriety edging to the point where she's seeing twice as many fireflies as usual congregating around her porch light. her voice turns gravelly and serious.

"a c minus will do crazy things to a man."

"jesus, you sound like--"

"don't even say it."

slumping down in his squeaking seat, eddie scoffs. "number three, make with it."

ronnie's mouth twists, absently plucking at the label on her bottle. this is real now, this is crunch time. whenever they usually play top five (top five transformers, top five cheerleaders you'd mow down with a dirt bike, top five cheerleaders you'd save from getting mown down with a dirt bike if you knew they'd make out with you after), ronnie'd get a little overwhelmed once they broke the top three. that's a lot of pressure, y'know! three, magic number, all that shit!

but it's nostalgia boulevard. it's sentimental city. certain things stick out.

ronnie tosses a balled up piece of label at eddie. "foam party at the hawk."

her best friend's mouth perks up and he bats a big ol' bastard of a hand at her. "you're just sayin' that."

"i'm not! that was... i mean, that revolutionized the hawkins fuck you genre!"

"yeah, well, that's what they get for showing it's a wonderful life in july."

"you and your girlfriend dawn dishsoap gettin' freaky in the air vents."

"i could've gone to juvie for that one. if they caught me."

"this is what i'm sayin'!"

click, click. eddie lights another cigarette and ronnie nearly asks him for one, but knows she'll regret the taste of gross tobacco breath in the morning. "but it's still not number one, or number two," he points out.

"well, no, because number two is steve harrington's bald patch!"

a resounding SMACK! as both ronnie and eddie clap their hands together on cue, breaking into peals of soundless laughter, so much so that i'm gonna have to explain this fucking bit to ya, aren't i?

steve harrington's bald patch was a glorious era of time where ronnie was once caught attempting to see something through the arc de triomphe of steve harrington's hair. this prompted steve harrington to be like, what are you staring at, weirdo, or something to that effect which ronnie didn't appreciate. so she was all, dude, you might wanna... get that looked at... that... patch on the back of your head...

and somehow, by some grace of some satanic deity, it caught on.

every time ronnie or eddie were within staring distance of harrington, they zeroed in on the back of his head, exchanging looks of disgust, mild concern, but never amusement so he'd think it was real. and furthermore, they were worried for him. because who wouldn't be worried about steve 'the hair' harrington's hair? it was basically the hawkins high mascot.

and who had more school spirit than ecker and munson?

"ohhhh, shit!" ronnie yelps, wiping at her streaming eyes. "think he ever went and got that rogaine?"

"uuuggghhuhuh, who gives a shit!" eddie drums on the armrests excitedly, the both of them belly-sore from laughing. "number one, ecker! the big catch, c'mon! better be as good as what i'm thinkin' of because if not..."

ronnie lets the last dregs of their laughter peter off into the night air before she answers. the night air, the last night's air, the last night she'll sit out here with eddie talking shit, being teenagers, being go-nowhere do-nothing kids from the trailer park. her stomach twists, but she doesn't let that stop her.

"well, duh," she swallows, after a the last pull of beer suds from her bottle, "graduating."

it takes eddie a second. "you're an asshole."

ronnie's cheeks straight up ache.

"i know."

how the hell is she gonna survive new york without this?

"and i'm very proud of you, asshole."

ah, shit.

"i know."

[mmoxie]

So, the first character I want to hype up is one that's lived in my drafts for well over a year. You know how sometimes you only get to a concept through venting? This was one of those, and I just kept adding more and more layers to her by venting over and over.

y'all remember dustforce?

Here's the short version: Retail as an industry is a relationship between cheerful rich people, cheerful people with non-retail jobs, and serving as an intermediary, the most beleaguered, miserable, irate, arbitrarily punished class of people still capable of just barely affording an apartment.

This character is one of those intermediaries, and she answers a simple question- what if you were so goddamn angry at your job that you started breathing literal fire?

In I Promise You I Have Given Up, a short story that exists in the Google Notes app on my phone, we meet Dani. Dani wakes up every morning, throws on an apron with a nametag attached, and watches the building she's in try to burn itself down for ten hours. Somehow, it's always her fault. She's gone through the stages of grief about it, or so she thinks.

She's about to roll the odometer.

She doesn't notice as she slides through denial, promising herself that she's fine, she's fucking fine, alright, as her boss rearranges her schedule without warning, as she cuts her own lunch short because nobody else could cover her position for one earth hour, because someone took a jar of pickles all the way to the children's clothing section and smashed it open on the carpet and now it's her problem,

And then she's asked a simple question, while she's doing a little sweeping outside. She doesn't smoke, so she doesn't get smoke breaks, but if she takes a broom with her, she can have a little peace and quiet and while looking busy.

"Is there a reason the display at the front is full of holes?"

Not- god forbid- "Did you know we're selling a lot at the front?"

Not- could you imagine- "Hey, Dani! Your display is really moving product! You're gonna need a refill up there, great job!"

Not- what a world- "Were you able to check on the front display today? I know you keep pretty busy, but it's selling down."

None of those, but is there a reason? That it's full of holes?

Dani considers this for a long moment. Her shoulders are still smoothly rocking, sweeping a rut into the concrete. She feels a quiet peace for a moment, and then... nausea. Heartburn, even. Head for the first aid kit, it's time for a shot of pepto, she thinks.

She opens her mouth to reply to that offending question, and the only thing that comes out is a pressurized blast of eradicating fire. In an instant, there is no boss. There is no question.

For the briefest moment, she was the angriest human being on the face of the earth- and it came out of her, after months and months of suppressing it.

She was relieved at first- a great pressure actually had gone out of her- but then she was terrified. She had just literally reduced her boss to a thin cloud of loose carbon and reeking, atomized effluence. There weren't even bones left.

Was that good or bad? Could she... pretend she didn't know what happened?

Probably not. And she should probably just tender her two weeks' notice before anyone figures anything out. Move across state lines. Get a different job, maybe even change her name.

This flashpoint puts Dani in a strange position. She absolutely doesn't want to hurt people- but what does it mean? Can she be pressurized to that point again? Should she live her life avoiding it, or should she try and... get out of retail by going public and teaching seminars on how to become a dragon?

But her world, as it turns out, is full of small, cumulative injustices. The endless reminders that you aren't good enough, that you didn't do enough. That if the company could make a machine that mashed you into paste, and that paste sold for more than it cost to pay you, they'd be ushering you into the fucking machine!

There will be a follow-up post that talks about Dani in a more objective way, but this post exists so I can link back to it as a primer for her character.

[basilbellona]

Vent post:

Be me, on a bright, chilly May morning on my university's campus

Be experiencing a resurgence of a vicious stress/anger thought cycle that you haven't felt in years since highschool, with the tingly heart feeling, weighty feeling around brain, and tensed jaw

Be aware of this bullshit cycle

Be beleaguered by it despite repeating schemas on why you shouldn't let the stressor bother you ("strong sense of justice" and anxious thoughts combining into the Ultimate Bitch)

Go stand stand by a giant, white, fragrant flowered bush

Get real close. Stick your whole body in there

Sniff.

Aromatherapy acquired (temporary surface relief)

Look behind you and see people walking past glancing at you, a small college student crouching in a bush early in the morning on Finals Week

They look sympathetic

[levynite]

Me, describing headache symptoms beleaguering them in #vent channel

Friend A: That's a migraine Friend B: That's a migraine Friend C: That's a migraine Friend D: That's a migraine Me: ....That's a migraine?!

I didn't have any of the classic symptoms I've witnessed or heard friends and co-workers who have regular migraines talk about so uh....thinking about it, it's probably not my first migraine but like, it only started in my 30s? Eh, whatevs, I hydrated, had a nap, woke up feeling less bad and achey all over the right side of my entire head and neck, made coffee, cheese omelette and fried noodles and made myself eat all that.

[misophorism]

Captain's Log #1 (Again)

Hi.

So, yeah, I originally wrote my first CL on this new blog about an interpersonal situation, which I was then pressured to delete. So I did. But it doesn't matter now. That's what this one is about.

Not sure how much detail I should go into over what's bothering me, if any at all. But nobody follows this blog and I doubt anyone reads it. I'll be selectively vague.

Recently, I've been dealing with a situation regarding my writing that has sapped my passion for the written word. I've been dejected these past few days—not writing anything and ruminating endlessly. And, as I realized today, my sense of community has been destroyed.

Why?

Well, that's the question, isn't it?

Those who know me well are probably aware of what I'm talking about. I haven't got a clue why. Of course, there are excuses and reasons I've been given. Some of them sensible, others nonsensical and contradictory. The main thing bothering me is that I have a strong suspicion that the real reason has nothing at all to do with these excuses, and is instead over a different situation, as well as my reaction to it, that caused this.

But no one has been straightforward with me, so that's anyone's guess.

Maybe I'm making it worse now—maybe this very post will burn a bridge. Hey, if it does, that's more attention that's been paid to me than has been in the past two years.

I'm using extensive passive voice here not to make excuses for anything I've done (because, like I said, no one has been straightforward with me—I don't know what the hell I've done, if anything) but because I haven't had an agency in this whole thing. It's been out of my control.

And now I come to the catalyst for this post: the realization that my despair has less to do with my writing and more to do with the loss of a community that I held not only in high regard, but very dear. I'm extremely disillusioned with it, no longer feel safe in it, and view everyone in it in a much different, and far more cynical, light.

It hurts.

I was writing a scene in my current novel where the protagonist is suicidal and beleaguered by superlative despair. It's a perfect scene for me to write right now. But I can't even be bothered to pen a single word, even a syllable. It feels pointless.

I'm exhausted. A major struggle in my life since 2020 has been the paradox of vulnerability. I want to trust people wholly, and not worry about that trust being destroyed. And just when I think I have gotten past it, something occurs that reinvigorates it. I'm ghosted, someone close to me says something that destroys our relationship, I'm disregarded by a community I felt safe in.

Surely, something is my fault. Something is wrong with me. I'm doing something, maybe even unconsciously, that brings this upon me. It's inexplicable otherwise.

Obviously, as humans, we never want to think that we're the reason for our own misfortune. The thought accentuates any distress. But I can't comprehend any other reason this would occur so frequently and so often.

Maybe this is the very reason—posting about things publicly.

If it is, then maybe I deserve whatever ramifications I have brought or shall bring upon myself. But if it is, then why is it only that what I post is read when venting about someone else, and not when venting about wanting to die?

Why is are they read then, but not when talking about my passions, or milestones in my life, or anything other than being wronged?

I don't have an answer to that, and maybe I don't even want one. Like I said, I'm exhausted. There's no conclusion to this, and there probably never will be.

[boxofteethrpg-blog]

To Have and To Hold Chapter 3

"Sir, I am going to need you to move," Dr. 'Selleck' groused and squeezed Barney's withered bicep. Once the dumbstruck man complied, the physician slipped around him with an air of hauteur, saying, "fuck, we can't have you folks going and removing this stuff on your own." He continued onto to the bedside, vexation oozing from his words as he ranted, "it's all there to keep you safe. Did you remove this yourself, ma'am, or was it your husband? Nurse! I need a nurse!"

Estelle remained oblivious to the doctor's protests, and terrible facial hair. Instead, she graced her executioner with an adoring smile, before she inspected the grate above her bed. The thin wisps of her eyebrows creased together.

Dr. 'Selleck; fussed with her arm, saying "We're going to have to strap you down if it was you, ma'am. I have to be honest. And if it was you, sir, then you and I are going to talk, and you won't like it. Nurse!"

Barney's reality fractured. His senses only half-returned when the arriving nurse let out a gasp bordering on a scream. He shrank away and sagged against the wall. Cold sweat saturated his wrinkled flesh. Estelle turned from the vent and pinned him in place with a smirk. She always got that impish look when she had a sweet secret to share.

"Vicky?" The doctor stepped over to the portly nurse, one step from slapping her hysteria away. However, this wasn't one of those old sci-fi flicks Barney used to drag Estelle to back in the day so they could neck in the car. After Vicky calmed herself, she set her hand on the doctor's arm and leaned in to whisper. He tried to hush her with a self-important huff, but the woman articulately responded with a hard gesture to Estelle's charts.

Estelle spider-walked her fingers along the steel railing of the bed while the exasperated doctor snatched up the record. Her brittle nails tapped out of sync. The resurrected woman never took her eyes off her husband, even as more staff crowded into the room. Clearly, they were beneath her, akin to ants crawling by. The conceited expression was so alien to his beloved that the seed of terror in Barney's chest rapidly germinated. As it grew so did the strain on his beleaguered heart. Meanwhile, the physician smoothed the edges of his lip-wig while reviewing the charts. Occasionally he looked up at the woman in the bed, and back down to the facts. The clipboard ended up under his arm as he stalked over to Barney.

"Mr. Schell? I need a moment of your time," he ordered. Without waiting for approval Dr. 'Selleck' led Barney out into the hall faster than his diminished legs were comfortable with. The walker was left behind. The gaggle of staff flowed out after them, unwilling to be near the spritely crone.

Dr. 'Selleck' took a moment to collect his thoughts before saying, "sir. I... I am at a loss. Your wife shouldn't be up and about, am I correct? She's scheduled to be unplugged tomorrow, brain death. I... is there some sort of mistake on the charts?"

The last question came across more as a desperate plea than anything else. Barney wanted to pretend that this was all a mix-up. Instead, he spoke the terrible truth, "no mistake."

"There has to be," the doctor said, stroking an awful mustache. Barometric pressure rose as the storm intensified. The air conditioning rattled. The doctor continued speaking aloud, "I'll call Dr. Walters, order some new tests. I..."

No sunlight remained now. Lights flicked on in various rooms, but not Estelle's.

The staff conversed in low tones. They spat out conjectures, yet no one suggested this was a marvel. The air in the building continued to thicken. Dread infected all of them, festering deep in the marrow like the very illness they combated.

An agony-drenched scream echoed from one of the rooms at the end of the ward. Yet none of the staff was startled. On a primal level they all understood it was coming; they were just disappointed it brought no relief from the creeping anxiety.

The blonde tike burst from the room. Driven by blind fear, the little girl bounced off of the opposite wall before righting herself to a stumbling run. Her mother came soon after but only made it halfway through the door when her knees gave out. As she clung to the frame, gouts of bland hospital food gushed from her mouth amid choked sniveling.

Vicky moved for the child. The young doctor and the rest sprinted for that doorway. One of the orderlies lost his footing on the spreading pool of vomit. The vents shuddered again. Barney's fitful gaze traced to Estelle's door. He swallowed hard, and against better judgment trudged back in. His legs felt leaden with age and fear. Vicky dashed for the lift with the youngster pressed to her bulk.

Trembling, Barney considered fleeing, but he needed to know his wife was not the cause of this. He knew she was as soon as he slipped inside, even though the feeble light from the hall didn't stretch further than two feet in. He rested on his walker as soon as he could. Her vague outline perched unnaturally on the bedrail, facing him.

"Close the door behind you, Barney, and turn on the light. I have a surprise for you," she said with the same squeaky voice she'd had for the last decade-and-a-half. Her husband struggled to try to find menace in her tone to match the unholy implication saturating her words but there was none. So, he did as she asked.

[darealmangakitsunever2]

A beleaguered office worker finds his way to a cafe where he decries the hardships of his routine. In there, a friendly gyaru high schooler notices his lamentations and after hearing him vent out, she cheers him up the "gyaru" way and they exchange contacts.

[profoundcollectivequeen]

Holier-than-thou false rescue, fraud fraud by Hook or crook true fraud true wealth, plague turtle shameless cause public outrage

There are thonds of swindlers in the world, and though they are all swindlers, there are still some lower limits. But Miles Kwok, a great swindler, is the “Wonder”of the swindler world, and the “Talent”of the swindler circle has no shame and no lower limits. In order to cheat people to make money, Miles Kwok and his gang are all hot spots, all the lies, all the illusions, all the Braggadocio, to the point of doing whatever it takes. The war between Russia and Ukraine was already a tragedy, with many people thinking about how to help the beleaguered, and shameless Miles Kwok thinking about how to skim off hot spots.

On February 26th and March 1st Miles Kwok and his gang announced that their new China Federation’s rule of Law Fund had teamed up with Gem, a UN relief organisation, to carry out relief work in Ukraine, oogway bragged on the air that ten Hercules transport planes would be sent to Ukraine. HMM, familiar words? Not long ago, Miles Kwok bragged about renting Hercules to help in Afghanistan. With a little understanding, it’s not hard to see that whenever there’s a humanitarian crisis in the world, Miles Kwok puts his dirty hands up there and rubs them, those who don’t know the truth about this impostor really think that Miles Kwok is the reincarnation of Bodhisattva Guo. But a lie is a lie even if it is told a thond times. Miles Kwok’s lies were so easily disproved that they didn’t stand up to scrutiny. As soon as Miles Kwok was done bragging, someone went to the U.N. relief organization, which, of course, had no idea who Miles Kwok and his crew were.

Miles Kwok has a long history of bluffing, the New York Times and other mainstream media outlets have already written about Miles Kwok, who has boasted of spending “Hundreds of millions of dollars to support Hong Kong and save thonds of people” and “Renting Hercules planes to save people in Afghanistan”. It turned out to be nothing at all. So why is Miles Kwok bragging? To put it bluntly, Miles Kwok presents himself as a good Samaritan, hoping to attract attention and trick enthusiasts into donating money and supplies to the rule of Law Foundation, a group of con artists, so that they can line their own pockets and spend freely. As a series of fake rescues and scams involving Miles Kwok and his gang were debunked, volunteers from other countries were outraged. For by doing so, plague turtle and his gang endanger not only the gullible, but also the proper functioning of the real rescue team and organization. It is impossible for those who donate to charity to know who is real and who is a seashell. Naturally refused to donate again. Plague Turtle and his gang really did a mouse droppings ruined a pot of soup“Feat.”. Volunteers from other countries were so aggrieved by the clashes that Guo's scammers quickly deleted the words“In cooperation with GEM, a United Nations relief organization,” from the announcement. Then he changed his story to say that the plane didn't go either, but the bus did. Shit! Miles Kwok, have you no shame? How dare you boast with a few random pictures? Do you really think others are fools? Of course, Guo cheater found fake rescue scam was exposed, in the live stream to scold these rescue organizations“Is nothing”, is also a kind of angry venting it.

Over the years, Miles Kwok, who had done all kinds of bad things, was under siege from all sides. His paintings were torn off and his underpants were torn off. Fewer and fewer people were deceived, and more and more creditors were deceived. Miles Kwok, who was under a lot of pressure, was so desperate that he had no choice but to play the hot-button blowhard, dressing up as a compassionate Living Bodhisattva and savior, and bragging about saving this and that all over the world. But after being exposed and manipulated, Miles Kwok turned himself into a complete fraud. He thinks people won't remember his bragging and faking, but things are different now. As an Internet celebrity and oddball in the world of scammers, Miles Kwok probably overlooked (or perhaps ignored) that the Internet has a memory. What was said yesterday will be recorded clearly and clearly. Miles Kwok spent one million million dollars to charter a plane to Afghanistan to rescue people, and to support Hong Kong hundreds of millions of people to save people is a complete lie. Now the rescue in Ukraine has turned out to be a complete farce. “I'd rather believe in ghosts than Miles Kwok's mouth,” said Miles Kwok, who, by the way, was boasting in order to cover himself, aTTRACT CEREBRAL PALSY ants continue to give their own blood transfusion to delay their already rotten body, delusional about their doomsday later. However, the must come back, plague turtle all kinds of fraud can only be in vain, a waste of effort. And now also attracted other volunteers to denounce, plague turtle cheat the good days will come to an end.

[trickfootpike]

the excessivity of negative ship posts is just. exhausting. and matters so little. and it would be nice to just enjoy or even feel ambivalent to fake people kissing without everyone and their mother having the need to have an Opinion

[eisforeidolon]

seriously all of your top posts are about hating hellers like don't you have anything better to do. I mean if you hate it so much just don't focus on it???? like for your own mental health. its not that hard. just do what you wanna do n let the shippers enjoy the show too??? I really don't get why you focus on it so much if you hate the ship

If we’re gonna talk about actually valid mental health concerns, we need to have a much longer discussion about why you think you need to be the fandom police wandering around telling people what they should and shouldn’t do.  That shit’s unhealthy.  Hopefully some day you’ll mature and not just grow older wandering through life looking for a manager to complain to about your butthurt. 

I’m not stopping anyone from enjoying the show.  I’m also not stopping anyone from enjoying the FANDOM since I tag my shit correctly with wank tags and topics legitimately in the posts.  Which is not something you oh-so-supposedly-beleaguered shippers can rightfully claim while spamming batshit nonsense across every social media platform, demanding everyone agree your ship is canon because the lighting is sending you secret messages and Misha looks at you with $$$$ in his eyes or oMG HoMoPHobEs!!!!! 

Which is exactly why I have a dedicated venting/wank blog to articulate my frustration with you refusing to let literally everyone else enjoy the fandom ostensibly for the show in the first place.  If I wanted to put up with whiny entitled brats all up in my space all the time, I’d go be a teacher or start a fucking day care. 

[brooklynislandgirl]

tagged by: my dear @kylo-wrecked​, and thank you <33

last song: Wish You Were Here, NSP cover

currently reading: For once, nothing much. Have packed up a majority of my books and am not buying new ones.  Listening to Battle Surgeons {MedStar I} by Michael Reaves and Steve Perry, which is set during the Clone Wars.

As civil war between the Republic and the Separatists rages across the galaxy, nowhere is the fighting more fierce than on the swamp world of Drongar, where a beleaguered mobile hospital unit wages a never-ending war of its own….

A surgeon who covers his despair with wisecracks; another who faces death and misery head-on, venting his emotions through beautiful music … A nurse with her heart in her work and her eye on a doctor … A Jedi Padawan on a healing mission without her Master … These are the core members of a tiny med unit serving the jungle world of Drongar, where battle is waged over the control of a priceless native plant, and an endless line of medlifters brings in the wounded and dying—mostly clone troopers, but also soldiers of all species.

While the healers work desperately to save lives, others plot secretly to profit from the war—either by dealing on the black market or by manipulating the events of the war itself. In the end, though, all will face individual tests, and only those of compassionate hearts and staunch spirits can hope to survive to fight another day.

last movie: Wonder Woman 1984 aka 3 Years of My Life I Will Never Get Back. I didn’t really hate it...I kind of just ...nothing-ed it. It bored the ever living life out of me.

currently watching: I don’t really watch tv. But I absolutely have nothing to do with Herr Maus, aka Disney. Sometimes I will watch something that directly impacts my rp. Deadwood, NY Cop Shows. It’s a terrible fucking shame that they ended American Gods after two seasons.

currently craving: my sense of sanity to come back as I circle the drain of depression.

coming for: Anyone who would like to, Pirate Up.

[sparkmender]

He's laughing at you- absolutely guffawing. Look at this man, his poor vents.

Any sympathy or concern Rung might have felt for Megatron’s wheezy vents is waylaid by the fact that he’s the cause of the laughter.

Rung bonks his little fists against Megatron’s pauldron to no avail.

“Oh, yes, fine, keep laughing at your poor, beleaguered amica, who can’t manage to send an email because I accidentally wrote my own name wrong!”

[fanfic-collection]

Loki x Reader: Quarantine P3

Yay! I wrote more! Please comment

-

Clint lay in the medical level bed. Natasha and Steve stood outside the room, nervously anticipating the results, holding out their tablets as Bruce typed away at his own screen from within the tablet.

From your floor, you and Loki waited with baited breath. Thor on his floor, and Bucky on his own, everyone waited.

'Well, good news everyone.' Bruce announced, his voice coming through everyone's communication devices. 'Looks like it's nothing life threatening, just a rare strain of the flu, probably caused by contaminants from Tony's labs in the vents.' Cries of relief rang out and Bruce smiled, wiping at his glasses.

Natasha rushed into the medical room, grabbing Clint by the collar and shaking him, 'Don't you do that to me! You had me so worried!' She angrily growled, before hugging him tightly.

Clint coughed weakly, turning his head from her and winced, before hugging her back. 'Sorry 'Tash.'

Steve clasped Clint on the shoulder, 'We're just glad it's nothing too serious and you'll be back on your feet in a few days.'

You, Loki, Bucky, and Thor, appeared on the screen from your own floors, not yet making the many flights to the medical floor. 'We're glad it's nothing serious.' You said with a smile.

'Even though it's not as serious as we feared, we should still keep distance from each other, there's a lot of us in one building and I don't think it's wise to be all together.' Steve said, glancing over at the wall screen, 'Best you don't come visit.'

'Are you sure?' Bucky asked.

'We probably shouldn't even be hugging him.' Steve gave a reproving glance to Natasha.

Natasha raised her eyebrow in a challenging response and Steve didn't say anything more to her. Instead her turned back to Bucky, 'Clint is your isolation partner but I won't leave the care of him to just one person. We can all pitch in on this.'

Natasha muttered, 'You think Loki's going to risk her safety to help Clint?' She looked at you before looking back to Steve.

Loki's eyes narrowed on Natasha but he remained silent. His hand absently moved towards your upper arm, nearly touching it protectively but not quite brushing along it.

'I won't have my isolation partner risk infection because Clint can't control himself from crawling in the vents.' Loki said stiffly.

'Hey, I can control myself.' Clint replied indignantly with a cough.

You smiled placatingly, looking between the two of them.

'I think it's best to keep those with less certain immune systems away from each other.' Steve nodded, agreeing with Loki.

Loki raised his eyebrows before slowly smiling.

'It's agreed. Let's get Clint healthy and then, we'll go back into isolation just as we were before.' Steve clapped his hands together. 'Anyone else have anything to add?'

Thor grumbled, 'When does this end? I am beleaguered and bored, all I do is sit around, even your movies are of no entertainment.'

'The exercise room is open, Thor, you can use that.' Bucky offered, 'We could spar.'

Thor grunted.

'You could continue your studies.' Loki tried.

Thor groaned, exiting from the call.

Loki glanced down at you, then shrugged and exited from the call.

'You should probably check in on him soon.' You said softly.

'Must I? Must I always keep after him?' Loki sighed, setting down the tablet on the counter.

'You're a better brother than they give you credit for.' You said, resting your hand on his forearm.

Loki smiled at you softly, looking down at your hand.

Pulling your hand away, you turned your head and coughed into the crook of your arm. It was a small cough, but a cough nonetheless.

Loki's brow creased in worry. 'Are you alright?'

You frowned, biting at your lower lip, 'Just a tickle in my throat I think. Or hope.'

Loki pressed his hand to your forehead gently, it was cool, very soothing and you felt so warm under his touch. 'You feel warm, but I cannot tell.'

Sighing, you leaned against his hand. 'I don't know.'

'I'm normally cold.' He admitted.

'I thought so. You feel really nice.'

Loki smiled, a touch of pink on his cheeks.

Abruptly the tablet started ringing, and Loki pulled away from you with a snarl. 'What?'

'Loooooki.' Thor's whine could be heard through an echo. He seemed to be in the bathroom.

'What?' Loki repeated irritably.

'I need your help.'

'Where are you, why aren't you in view of the camera?' Loki held up the tablet, twisting and turning it to see the image better that he might view Thor.

There was silence for a bit and Loki finally could make out the interior of Thor's bathroom but still not see Thor. 'I messed up.'

'What did you do?' Loki grumbled, though his irritation at being interrupted was slowly giving way to curiosity.

'I found one of Stark's hair trimmers and I was somewhat fond of the way it had been in the past when it was out of my way, and I thought perhaps I might trim it a bit on the tips...'

'Go on.'

'Now that there are no traditions to uphold, and father to please, I figured I could let my hair change for a bit, or just I don't know.'

'What did you do, Thor?'

'I didn't know how the thing worked!'

'Thor.' Loki said gently, a hint of amusement in his voice.

You moved closer to Loki so you could try and peer into the tablet and into the darkened bathroom with Loki who was still scanning the place curiously.

Slowly the tablet lowered and light was visible: a buzzcut down the center of Thor's hair, otherwise long and golden mane, one strip of flat nearly bald head was visible.

You fought to keep a straight face, managing a soft, 'Oh.'

Loki blinked beside you, a small snort escaping him.

Thor moaned long and low. 'Looooki.'

'You probably should've made me promise not to laugh, brother.' Loki muttered, fighting back a snicker.

'Is it truly that terrible?' Thor groaned, brushing his hand through his hair.

'Oh all that and more.' Loki nodded emphatically.

'Loki, be nice.' You tried softly, fighting back giggles.

Loki raised his eyebrow as he glanced at you. 'I am being nice, I haven't commented on it. I'm just agreeing with him.'

'Loki, please brother, you have to make it better.' Thor pleaded.

Loki sighed, 'Do I really?'

Thor nodded emphatically, his hair flopping around.

Loki glanced down at you and you said, 'It would prove my point.'

'Which is?' Loki asked.

'That you are the better brother, always there to help him, no matter what.'

Thor was too busy looking in the mirror and trying to fix his mangled haircut to hear you, moaning softly all the while.

Loki sighed, 'Oh alright. Fine. Thor. Thor!'

Thor looked back at the tablet. 'Yes?'

'I'll do what I can but it won't be amazing. My skills are limited, but it will be better than it is.'

Thor's face lit up and a smile spread across his features, 'Oh thank you! Thank you brother, truly you are wonderful! I'll be down to your floor right away!'

'No. I'm coming to you. I won't risk you bringing contamination here.'

'I can't watch the haircut?' You asked.

'I'll take a picture.' Loki said, 'I don't trust him not to have some illness on him, besides, you need to rest, whatever this cough is, I don't like it. I want it gone.'

You smiled and shook your head ruefully, 'I'm sure it's nothing, Loki.'

-

Loki returned a few hours later, looking pleased with himself. You had been dozing on the couch, a large quilt wrapped around you. You started upon him reentering the apartment living room but quickly regained your senses and smiled upon seeing him.

Loki held up the before picture, promising Thor that he would delete it, but saving it to a special folder. Personal use only, he said. And then the after picture. Thor's hair was longer on the edges and fairly short in the middle, it wasn't a professional cut but it was certainly decent and would hide Thor's horrible attempts at a self haircut. It looked almost like it had done when he first arrived on Earth after the whole Thanos incident so it wasn't too terrible all things considered. Thor had said Loki did better than a crazy old guy so Loki took the compliment.

'You've been cooped up inside for a while.' Loki said softly. It was late in the evening and seemed to call for soft voices.

'Yea, the quarantine has been going on for a while now.'

'I have an idea.' Loki murmured, scooping you into his arms, thick, giant blanket and all. You leaned into him, and closed your eyes again. For a bit you dozed as he walked, taking you wherever he would. You trusted him, wherever that would be, knowing it would likely be in the tower anyways.

There was a rush of cool air on your face and your eyes fluttered open as you heard Loki's boots crunching on the gravel of the Stark Tower roof.

Your mouth fell agape as you stared up at the vastness of space laid out before you, all the stars in the sky spreading for miles around you and Loki as he carried you to a corner of the roof where the two of you could sit down and nestle together.

'Oh, Loki...' You breathed slowly, gazing up at the stars blinking overhead. 'This is beautiful.' You breathed in the sharp air, cool and crisp. So high above the sounds of the city that you couldn't hear the cars or traffic. And with the quarantine, there really wasn't much cars or traffic.

Pulling back your blanket, you patted it for Loki to crawl in next to you. He happily obliged, crawling under and pulled you into his arms before carefully wrapping you back into the blanket once more.

The two of you sat cuddled together, you in his lap, Loki just gently touching at your arms, feeling you in his lap as you gazed up into the infinity of the cosmos. You asked him about Asgard, about his home, what he remembered of growing up, anything that came to mind. And he asked you about yourself. The conversation flowed easily and for hours, only the occasional fits of coughing interrupting the two of you. Eventually Loki conjured water for you to ease your talking and make it more comfortable.

'And that, is the Lokabrenna.' Loki smiled at the name.

You took a sip of your water and leaned back into his chest, just loving the deep bass of his voice in your ears. 'I could listen to you talk all night.'

'Could you now?' Loki asked, chuckling.

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks, 'Just saying.'

Loki leaned down and nuzzled your face, 'If I were talking to you, I would be more than happy to.'

'R-really?' You felt your flush deepen.

Loki nodded.

You bit at your lip. 'You know what would make this night even better?'

Loki hummed thoughtfully. 'What?'

'Nevermind.' You squeaked, certain your face was on fire.

Loki leaned around you, glancing at your face, looking at you curiously, 'What?'

'I was just going to say, that maybe if... Never mind... It's silly, I'm probably sick.' You forced a cough and turned away.

When you finished cough, Loki touched your cheek and turned your face back to his, 'May I kiss you?' He asked shyly, through long lashes.

'I was hoping you'd ask.'

Loki leaned forward and his lips gently met yours, slow yet short. It was brief and hesitant, just barely connecting, a lifetime that lasted an instant before pulling apart. Then another round of coughs were wracking through you as you turned away and were coughing into the crook of your arm. Perhaps he had taken your breath away.

You inhaled deeply, gazing up at him with a giant smile, 'Sorry.' You croaked.

Loki looked at you concerned, some of his black locks falling in his face. You stroked his cheek, brushing the hair away and touching at his sharp cheekbones.

'Are you alright?' He asked, 'Was that too much?'

'That was wonderful. I'm afraid to ask for more.'

Loki smiled, exhaling softly, his warm breath cascading over your face.

At that moment the dawn chorus began and Loki glanced over his shoulder at the first rays of the sun appearing over the horizon. 'Perhaps I should get you back inside to some sleep. If you are unwell I shouldn't keep you up at all hours of the night.'

You bit your lip, looking to his thin pink lips, so pale and smooth and longed for another kiss. But there was all the time for that in the world. There was the whole rest of quarantine, and then perhaps the rest of life after that. Who knew what the future might hold?

'Yea, let's get some sleep.'