#buoy health

[buoyhealth]

Discharge After Sex | Buoy Health

Vaginal Discharge: What Different Colors & Odors Mean Ladies (and curious gentlemen), today's topic may not be the sexiest one, but it's an important aspect of every woman's health: vaginal discharge. Vaginal discharge is something that many women are curious about and want to discuss, but feel reluctant bringing up. That's why we at Buoy Health wanted to learn more about this natural body process, what's normal, and what to watch out for. https://www.buoyhealth.com/learn/411-on-vaginal-discharge-from-gynecologist

[jockpoetry]

rags and wolves both losing their game ones in their respective conference finals

[pepsi-maxwell]

anyway. moral of the story is never say you're not gonna write a certain kind of fic, look at what happened. this was a perfectly good dash and now it's got omega piss slick all over it

[zvaigzdelasas]

In the week since the International Court of Justice ruled that the Israeli government is plausibly committing genocide and ordered it to prevent potential further acts of genocide, Israeli forces have only continued committing atrocities against Palestinians.

Buoyed by the staying support of American officials, Israeli forces have killed at least 874 Palestinians and injured at least 1,490 in Gaza since last week’s ICJ ruling, according to Palestinian Health Ministry figures from Saturday, January 27, to Friday, February 2. That’s not to mention other acts of Israeli violence in the occupied West Bank and Jerusalem.The loss of life should not be dismissed as “collateral damage,” contrary to what Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has said.[...]

Backgrounding the atrocities in Gaza is the broader misery the entire population faces. The BBC noted that UNICEF’s biggest concern is the “estimated 19,000 children who are orphaned or have ended up alone with no adult to look after them.” CNN reported that Palestinians are eating grass and drinking polluted water amid famine conditions. The Guardian reported that 50-62 percent of all buildings in Gaza have likely been damaged or destroyed.

Earlier this week, a federal court affirmed the ICJ’s finding that Israel may be carrying out a genocide and warned the Biden administration to reconsider its unconditional support for Israel’s war effort. [...]

The Intercept asked Sen. John Fetterman, D-Pa., to comment on the court rulings that the accusations of genocide by Israel are credible. “I don’t accept that. I reject [the ruling of the International Court of Justice]. I don’t believe that is Israel’s intention: to commit genocide,” said Fetterman, who has emerged as one of Israel’s most staunch Democratic defenders, on Thursday. “I do believe that their goal is to neutralize or dislodge Hamas from that. And I believe that they certainly do not want to take the lives of any innocent Palestinians and I certainly don’t assign higher value to my children versus a Palestinian child. I mean, I wouldn’t want anybody to die throughout all this tragedy, and it’s just an awful situation.”

Within hours of the ICJ issuing its ruling last Friday, Israel alleged that 12 of 30,000 — 0.04 percent — employees of the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East were involved in Hamas’s attack on October 7. The United States immediately suspended its funding of UNRWA, the largest provider of humanitarian aid in Gaza, spurring a cascade of other nations to follow suit.

Sky News later obtained an Israeli document that actually downgrades the allegation to 0.02 percent of UNRWA staff (six people) being involved in Hamas’s attack. Sky News reported that the documents, which allege further ties between UNRWA and Hamas “make several claims that Sky News has not seen proof of and many of the claims, even if true, do not directly implicate UNRWA.”

The contrast between the U.S. decision to pause funding based on unverified allegations and its unwillingness to reconsider its military funding of Israel, despite serious allegations of genocide, is stark.

Fetterman also said that he supports the suspension of funding to UNRWA. When asked why the standard of suspending funding while investigating serious allegations doesn’t apply to the Israeli government, Fetterman dodged the question.

Fetterman: Well, again, it — well, it’s not. We need a full investigation and find out just how much a part of it was about that and how much, you know, the old question: how much they knew and when they knew that.

The Intercept: So you’re saying that for Israel as well?

Fetterman: Yeah, OK, so good, all right, well good.[...]

Reporter Said Arikat confronted State Department spokesperson Matthew Miller on the tension Wednesday. “I’ll say with respect to the charges of genocide [at the International Court of Justice], we believe that they’re unfounded,” Miller said. “We continue to support Israel’s right to take action to ensure that the terrorist attacks of October 7th cannot be repeated, but we want them to do so in a way that complies with — fully with international humanitarian law.”

Miller was then asked about Israel receiving aid even as Israeli government officials call for the ethnic cleansing of Palestinians and maintain good standing in government.

“When the secretary traveled to Israel on his most recent visit,” Miller said, “he made clear that he thought it was important that the Israeli government speak out against those matters and those comments publicly and reiterate that it is not the policy of the Israeli government to force Palestinians from Gaza.”[...]

Two days after the ICJ ordered the Israeli government to prevent and punish incitements of genocide from public officials, National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir and Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich were among 11 cabinet ministers and 15 coalition members of the Knesset who rallied at conference hosted by hundreds of settlers calling for the settlement of Gaza.

On Tuesday, Defense Minister Yoav Gallant reportedly told members of the Knesset’s Foreign Affairs and Defense Committee that afte​​r their military campaign ends, Israel will maintain military control of Gaza, so it can operate similarly to the way it does in the West Bank.

On Thursday, Smotrich said that allowing aid into Gaza contradicts the goals of Israel’s campaign, and that he spoke with Netanyahu, who supposedly assured him that things will change soon. Israeli ministers Benny Gantz and Gadi Eisenkot reportedly called to limit humanitarian aid as well. Meanwhile, at aid crossings, people in Israel have taken cue from their leaders, attempting to block aid trucks from entering Gaza, where hundreds of thousands of people — including the hostages held by Hamas — are at risk of starvation and malnutrition, every day since the ICJ ruling.

One clip even shows a right-wing activist telling an aid truck driver, a Palestinian citizen of Israel, that “I am the owner here, you are a slave here.”

2 Feb 24

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The unexpected upside of global monopoly capitalism

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me TODAY (Apr 10) at UCLA, then Chicago (Apr 17), Torino (Apr 21) Marin County (Apr 27), Winnipeg (May 2), Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), and beyond!

Here's a silver lining to global monopoly capitalism: it means we're all fighting the same enemy, who is using the same tactics everywhere. The same coordination tools that allow corporations to extend their tendrils to every corner of the Earth allows regulators and labor organizers to coordinate their resistance.

That's a lesson Mercedes is learning. In 2023, Germany's Supply Chain Act went into effect, which bans large corporations with a German presence from using child labor, violating health and safety standards, and (critically) interfering with union organizers:

https://www.bafa.de/EN/Supply_Chain_Act/Overview/overview_node.html

Across the ocean, in the USA, Mercedes has a preference for building its cars in the American South, the so-called "right to work" states where US labor law is routinely flouted and unions are thin on the ground. As The American Prospect's Harold Meyerson writes, the only non-union Mercedes factories in the world are in the US:

https://prospect.org/labor/2024-04-08-american-workers-german-law-uaw-unions/

But American workers – especially southern workers – are on an organizing tear, unionizing their workplaces at a rate not seen in generations. Their unprecedented success is down to their commitment, solidarity and shrewd tactics – all buoyed by a refreshingly pro-worker NLRB, who have workers' backs in ways also not seen since the Carter administration:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/14/prop-22-never-again/#norms-code-laws-markets

Workers at Mercedes' factory in Vance, Alabama are trying to join the UAW, and Mercedes is playing dirty, using the tried-and-true union-busting tactics that have held workplace democracy at bay for decades. The UAW has lodged a complaint with the NLRB, naturally:

https://www.commondreams.org/news/alabama-mercedes-benz

But the UAW has also filed a complaint with BAFA, the German regulator in charge of the Supply Chain Act, seeking penalties against Mercedes-Benz Group AG:

https://uaw.org/uaw-files-charges-in-germany-against-mercedes-benz-companys-anti-union-campaign-against-u-s-autoworkers-violates-new-german-law-on-global-supply-chain-practices/

That's a huge deal, because the German Supply Chain Act goes hard. If Mercedes is convicted of union-busting in Alabama, its German parent-company faces a fine of 2% of its global total revenue, and will no longer be eligible to sell products to the German government. Chomp.

Now, the German Supply Chain Act is new, and this is the first petition filed by a non-German union with BAFA, so it's not a slam dunk. But supermajorities of Mercedes workers at the Alabama factory have signed UAW cards, and the election is going to happen in May or June. And the UAW – under new leadership, thanks to a revolution that overthrew the corrupt old guard – has its sights set on all the auto-makers in the American south.

As Meyerson writes, the south is America's onshore offshore, a regulatory haven where corporations pay minimal or no tax and are free to abuse their workers, pollute, and corrupt local governments with a free hand (no wonder American industry is flocking to these states). Meyerson: "The economic impact of unionizing the South, in other words, could almost be placed in the same category as reshoring work that had gone to China."

The German Supply Chain Act was passed with the help of Germany's powerful labor unions, in an act of solidarity with workers employed by German companies all over the world. This is that unexpected benefit to globalism: the fact that Mercedes has extrusions into both the American and German political spheres means that both American and German workers can collaborate to bring it to heel.

The same is true for antitrust regulators. The multinational corporations that are in regulators' crosshairs in the US, the EU, the UK, Australia, Japan, South Korea and beyond use the same playbook in every country. That's doubly true of Big Tech companies, who literally run the same code – embodying the same illegal practices – on servers in every country.

The UK's Competition and Markets Authority has led the pack on convening summits where antitrust enforcers from all over the world gather to compare notes and collaborate on enforcement strategies:

https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/cma-data-technology-and-analytics-conference-2022-registration-308678625077

And the CMA's Digital Markets Unit – which boasts the the largest tech staff of any competition regulator in the world – produces detailed market studies that turn out to be roadmaps for other territories' enforces to follow – like this mobile market study:

https://assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/media/63f61bc0d3bf7f62e8c34a02/Mobile_Ecosystems_Final_Report_amended_2.pdf

Which was extensively referenced in the EU during the planning of the Digital Markets Act, and in the US Congress for similar legislation:

https://www.congress.gov/bill/117th-congress/senate-bill/2710

It also helped enforcers in Japan:

https://asia.nikkei.com/Business/Technology/Japan-to-crack-down-on-Apple-and-Google-app-store-monopolies

And South Korea:

https://www.reuters.com/technology/skorea-considers-505-mln-fine-against-google-apple-over-app-market-practices-2023-10-06/

Just as Mercedes workers in Germany and the USA share a common enemy, allowing for coordinated action that takes advantage of vulnerable flanks wherever they are found, anti-monopoly enforcers are sharing notes, evidence, and tactics to strike at multinationals that are bigger than most countries – but not when those countries combine.

This is an unexpected upside to global monopolies: when we all share a common enemy, we've got endless opportunities for coordinated offenses and devastating pincer maneuvers.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/10/an-injury-to-one/#is-an-injury-to-all

[khangi]

Starting a new post for our sick list.

Spouse and I are disabled native people and have a wishlist of items to help with our lives.

At current, items we’d really like to help are:

-eye drops

-bottles

-buoy drops (I use about 1 of these per week and they’re a huge boon for my health)

As always, any help we receive us deeply appreciated!

[buoyhealth]

Itchy Toes On Top Treatment | Buoy Health

Why do your feet itch? Feet are exposed to many potential irritants like allergens, bugs, and fungus that can cause itchiness. Your feet also spend long hours in the potentially moist, hot environment of your shoes and socks, which can be a breeding ground for bacteria and fungi.

https://www.buoyhealth.com/learn/itchy-feett

[venus-haze]

Power in the Blood (Father Paul Hill x Nun!Reader)

Summary: There’s power in the blood. Father Paul knows this. Soon, you will, too.

Note: Female reader who's only referred to as "Sister," but no other descriptors are used. Also, the newspaper clipping isn't on the wall in this, for obvious reasons. I’ve been working on this fic in one way or another for about a year, but watching The Devils (1971) and Immaculate (2024) earlier this year as well as encouragement from my amazing friend @zaras-really-dreamless finally gave me the push I needed to finish it. Major visual inspiration from this scene in particular. Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 5.7k

Warnings: Major canon divergence. Angst, yearning, and unrequited feelings. Elements of Catholic mysticism. Sexually explicit content which involves dubious consent by way of religious manipulation, members of the clergy engaging in sexual acts, oral sex (f. receiving, but it's related to the stigmata and vampirism), blood play.

In retrospect, Crockett Island was the only place it could have happened. Desolation hung over the remote fishing village like fog in the early mornings, when you’d take your walks before the Monsignor awoke, and you heard the woes of the fishermen as they prepared to sail out for the day—oil spills, restrictive fishing laws, better paying jobs on the mainland but leaving everything they knew behind in exchange. Despite coming from the mainland yourself and otherwise alien to the ways of the dying village, your being a woman of the cloth on the largely Catholic (though predominantly non-practicing) island made the islanders trust you, consider you one of their own a bit more than they otherwise would have as you took on the burden of buoying their spirituality as the Monsignor’s health continued failing, and he could no longer fulfill the task himself.

You’d begged the diocese for help, hardly considered yourself equipped to care for the ailing priest and run a parish, however small, essentially on your own. But for a parish as small as St. Patrick’s, you were all the help the diocese would care to send. The letter you received in response to your detailing all of the things Crockett Island’s parishioners desperately needed boiled down to “wait until the old man kicks it.” 

You supposed it was a miracle the diocese even sent you there in the first place. Though most of the islanders took the arrival of a young nun like yourself as a breath of fresh air, Beverly Keane didn’t seem all too pleased to have her self-appointed position as number two at St. Patrick’s knocked down to number three. She seemed to settle down when it became clear you had no interest in engaging in petty politics in a church that barely counted three dozen people for regular Sunday mass attendance. 

The island’s social life, small as it was, interested you more. People were more open to receiving you as a friend than as a representative of the church, undoubtedly put off by Beverly Keane’s self-righteous fanaticism that veered into cruelty. You got to know the regular parishioners, like Erin Greene, who’d grown up on the island, left for some time, and returned pregnant yet eager to become a mother to her unborn baby. She taught at the island’s small school with Beverly, who encouraged you to take up teaching there, obviously hoping to bring a religious curriculum to the tax-payer funded public school. You declined. 

Besides Erin, and to your chagrin Beverly, who was convinced the two of you were compatriots of some kind despite how often you clashed, you found yourself spending increasing amounts of time with Sheriff Hassan. Despite dutifully filling an essential role in the community, he hardly seemed any closer to gaining acceptance despite a year on Crockett Island. 

The day he and Ali moved onto the island, you had a cold, and thus weren’t part of the unofficial welcoming committee. Your head pounded from the sinus pressure when Beverly brought the Monsignor back to the rectory afterward, and you barely heard what she said. You met Sheriff Hassan a few days later, when you were feeling well enough to shop for yourself and the Monsignor for the week. Among your expectations about Hassan Shabazz, his being handsome enough to make your breath hitch for just a moment before introducing yourself wasn’t on the list. But he was understandably weary of you, expecting the same horrendous treatment he undoubtedly received from Beverly. 

Over time, he found you were only interested in buying groceries and not in underhandedly converting him or Ali. You were both lonely outsiders to the island and found some solace in regular conversations about the mainland, or observations about the islanders, occasionally broaching the topic of religion, which had a comfortable place in the space you two shared in the general store, sometimes over a cup of coffee he’d brew for you. 

You admired him. His dedication to his son, the efficacy with which he performed his thankless job, and the unwavering faith he had in his religion, while yours had long lost its luster since you’d become Monsignor Pruitt’s live-in nurse in all but name. 

But the days became your own when the Monsignor made his trip to the Holy Land, ill-advised considering his health. When you voiced your concerns to the parish, your outsider status was paraded through the discussion by Beverly, who insisted you had no way to understand how much the trip meant to the Monsignor, and by extension, every good, practicing Catholic on the island. At the time, to your frustration, she had won. 

Besides, even if he were there, you weren’t sure a man on death’s door himself would have been able to give Mildred Gunning Last Rites. Torrential rain pounded against the rectory when you could barely hear the phone ring. 

You had picked up with a hesitant, “Hello?”

“Sister, it’s—it’s my mom. I think she’s—”

“Sarah, do you want me to come over and see her?”

“Yeah, she’d want that. Just be careful with the rain.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

Grabbing a flashlight, you had only half pulled on your raincoat when you hurried outside, in a near sprint to the Gunning house. You almost slipped and fell on the way there, and then you wouldn’t have been any good to anybody, and the last thing Dr. Sarah Gunning needed was to tend to a broken leg while her mother was on her deathbed.

The door was unlocked when you arrived, the house quiet and dark save for a few lamps left on.

“Sarah?” you called out.

She emerged from her mother’s room, eyes red. “I thought I was ready for this a long time ago, but being face-to-face with it…”

“Are you sure this is it?”

“As sure as I can be. She hasn’t been eating. There’s only so much I can do,” Sarah said, her voice breaking in despair. “Sister, I—she’d want you to be here. Even though she didn’t know you very much, I could tell she liked you.”

“Of course,” you whispered, giving her a hug before approaching Mildred’s bedside. 

Despite her labored breathing, she managed a kind smile when you took her weathered hand in yours and prayed the Our Father with as steady of a voice as you could manage. Then, you knelt, pulled the rosary from your raincoat pocket, and prayed until your knees ached and you nearly passed out from exhaustion at staying up so late. You almost thought you had dreamed it, the way she went, as peacefully as drifting off to sleep. It was only the cry of her daughter that pierced through your haze, and you struggled to your feet as you allowed Sarah privacy and called Sheriff Hassan over to certify the death, as was necessary for the burial Mildred would have undoubtedly wanted as a Catholic.

When the Sheriff arrived, about fifteen minutes after you called, you’d become acutely aware your nightgown had soaked through in the rain, and pulled your raincoat more closely over your body, ashamed you’d even forgotten such a detail in your haste.

“I should head back now,” you said. “I’m so sorry again, Sarah. You’ll be in my prayers. I’ll contact the diocese first thing in the morning."

She nodded. "Thank you, Sister."

“Do you need a ride back to the church?” Hassan asked. “This shouldn’t take long.”

You smiled, tempted by his offer, the prospect of spending more time alone with him. Instead, you shook your head. “Thank you, Sheriff. I think I can manage.”

Crockett Island was quiet the following day, when Annie’s son Riley arrived home for the first time in over a decade, following his four year prison sentence. You could tell through his polite greeting he had no interest in speaking with you further than his mother’s introductions. Fair enough.

Monsignor Pruitt was supposed to return that evening, but you had been calling the diocese to try to get confirmation that they could send a priest over to perform the funeral mass if needed. As usual, you got answering machines or the run around of being told to call different offices, none of which could apparently help you. 

When you returned to the rectory after visiting with Sarah Gunning, you noticed the light on in the distance. Beverly had planned to meet the Monsignor at the ferry and bring him home. In all honesty, you couldn’t believe he survived the trip, both there and back.

“Monsignor, it’s me!” you called out. “How was your trip? I’d love to hear about—” You froze when you came face to face with a priest. A priest who wasn’t the Monsignor. Younger, handsome, absolutely unexpected. “Hello. I–I’m sorry, who are you? Father—”

“I’m Father Paul, Paul Hill,” he said kindly. “The diocese sent me.”

“That was quick. I thought they’d been ignoring my messages.”

“Yes, I’m afraid the Monsignor became ill on his trip, and I’m here until he recovers. I hope you don’t mind, I went ahead and brought my things into what I assumed was his room.”

“Please, make yourself at home.” You hastily made a sign of the cross. “But the Monsignor…I don’t think the islanders could take another loss. I’m so sorry, you come here and your first mass is a funeral.”

“Funeral? For who?”

“Mildred Gunning, an elderly parishioner who had been ill with dementia for a few years, I believe. She passed away two nights ago,” you said. “That’s why I’ve been calling the diocese all day. We need someone to perform the funeral mass.”

His deep, brown eyes widened with all the terror of a deer being chased through the woods. “Are–are you sure?”

“Of course I am. I was there when she passed.”

“Did she suffer?”

“No, it was like she had fallen asleep,” you said softly, watching in wonder as tears fell from his eyes. “Father?”

“I’m sorry, Sister. These things affect me deeply.”

You put your hand on his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. “Can I make you coffee or tea?”

“Coffee, please,” he said, his voice empty, an almost far away sound to it.

“While that’s brewing, I’ll call Dr. Gunning, Mildred’s daughter, and let her know you’re here. I don’t think she’d want any deviation from the typical funeral rites. Her mother was quite devout.”

“Yes, I know.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “What was that?”

“Yes, I–I figured.”

He retreated into the Monsignor’s room. When you brought the coffee to him, he requested you leave it outside the door, which you found odd. Even more strange was having to tell Beverly that she missed the Monsignor’s arrival because he wasn’t arriving in the first place, and the diocese forgot to tell you that he’d become ill on his trip and Father Paul was serving as his replacement until he recovered. You privately figured the assignment would be more permanent, as yours had unexpectedly become.

Mildred Gunning’s funeral was held in St. Patrick’s Church less than a day later. A simple, solemn affair that saw the church nearly packed for the first time outside of Christmas or Easter. Mildred had lived and died on Crockett Island, everyone knew her in one way or another. Father Paul conducted the funeral mass as if mourning the Pope himself, and you were particularly struck by his grief, the way he nearly fell apart while giving the homily.

He fared no better at the wake that followed the funeral mass, held in the community center. Father Paul was utterly disinterested in speaking with any of the parishioners who tried to introduce themselves to him or sought solace and spiritual guidance in his presence. Thus, the burden once again fell on your shoulders, and you almost thought the diocese would have been better off ignoring your calls after all.

You sighed. You couldn’t let your cynicism get the best of you. It’d be entirely inappropriate for Father Paul to treat Mildred’s wake as a social hour. Besides, people with such deep empathy for others, especially someone they’d never met, were rare, as reminded to you by Beverly, who made her way over to you with a plate of cheese and crackers and a slight sneer on her face.

“I suppose it’s nice and all, but it’s not like he knew the woman,” Beverly muttered.

“He needs time to adjust,” you said. “This isn’t the best way to start out his tenure here.”

“Yes, well, let’s just hope he gets his act together soon.”

You could swear the diocese had you on some kind of blacklist, the way your calls to them went unanswered, letters returned with vague instructions and empty assurances. Father Paul had no idea how long they intended for him to stay on Crockett Island or the condition of Monsignor Pruitt. 

Your living in the rectory made sense when you were caring for the Monsignor, but with Father Paul fully capable of taking care of himself, you wanted to know if you’d be staying on the island, and if so, if separate arrangements would be made for your own housing. The island was too small, too chatty, for you and Father Paul to be living alone for too long before it was turned into something it wasn’t.

The bitter taste of married life settled on your tongue as you took up most of the responsibilities around the rectory while Father Paul moped . The old man could hardly help with cleaning, and you didn’t want him anywhere near the kitchen, but your new roommate was an able-bodied man who could spare to pick up some slack, couldn’t he?

“I made dinner, if you’re hungry,” you said, emerging from the kitchen and into the living room where he sat on the couch. “Just spaghetti and meatballs. The jar sauce from the store isn’t too bad. I usually add—”

“Red wine and oregano to it. I know.”

“Oh,” you said, taken aback by his statement. “I guess Bev told you. Not much of a secret recipe.”

“You’re pretty young for a nun,” he said, turning to you. “What made you want to give up a normal life for this?”

“It’s my vocation. For as long as I can remember, I knew this was what God called me to do. I never wanted another life.” You sat down next to him, sparing a glance around the room. “This is it for me.”

“Crockett Island?”

You conceded a small smile. “I was hoping for somewhere a little more exciting, but I think there’s a chance for something amazing to happen here.”

He shook his head. “That time’s long passed. Look around you, Sister. People are leaving in droves, and the ones who’ve stayed…it’s just too late.”

“Please, Father, I know this island may seem like it’s dying, and presiding over a funeral as your first mass here doesn’t help that, but the people still need guidance,” you pleaded, taking his hands in yours. You couldn’t contend with the diocese sending you to rot with the rest of the island. It couldn’t be for nothing. “The Monsignor is no longer well enough to fill that need, and I couldn’t do it on my own, but together, I think we can do something great if we try. This might be the island’s last chance to have life breathed into it again.”

“Sister—”

“I agree that Crockett Island is hardly a place anymore, but it’s somewhere to start, isn’t it? We couldn’t have been sent here without a reason.”

He swallowed roughly, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You’re right, Sister. I—Thank you.”

You smiled, relief washing over you at his words, at his assurance you wouldn't have to bring revival to Crockett Island on your own. 

Following your conversation with Father Paul, his attitude completely shifted. He was friendlier with the parishioners, taking extra time to spend with Leeza, offering to hold Riley’s AA meetings in the community center to save him a trip to the mainland, and, inexplicably, he liked Beverly, who’d changed her mind about Father Paul since the wake and warmed up to him. The only time he wavered was when he visited with Sarah Gunning, still grieving the loss of her mother and considering moving her practice off of the island.

He’d return to the rectory on those evenings quiet, morose, seeking the comfort you selflessly offered him. A warm embrace in which he’d bury his face in the crook of your neck. A hand to hold and squeeze in his own, intertwining his fingers with yours. Teetering on the brink of an intimacy you’d made vows against, you weren’t quite sure how to bring it up to him, not when he needed you, and you, him, to fill the hunger in your heart for a man you knew you could never have. 

You allowed the beast to live in you. Fed it. Nurtured it. Cared for it. Guarded it with a shameful protectiveness, shielding it from your regular confessions with Father Paul, in which uttering its name would make it real, and thus ripped away from you and destroyed. 

Ash Wednesday and the first week of Lent were resigned to a haze in your memory, hardly able to think of the beginning of the holiest time of the liturgical year without feeling sick. Not after the potluck. You were sure it had been Beverly, Sheriff Hassan was, too. You knew she was cruel, but to harm an animal, something so innocent…You couldn’t stand to be in her presence for long after that, and silently resented Father Paul for keeping her so close. But you supposed everyone had their vices. 

Yours came to a head in a dream, one that felt all too real, that you could hardly remember when you awoke apart from burning hands on your skin, lips pressed to yours, you and Sheriff Hassan in throes of passion. You laid in bed with a lump in your throat and aching between your legs. You hadn’t experienced a dream like that in…you couldn’t even remember.

The entire time you sat through mass, you thought you were going to be sick. You couldn’t concentrate on the readings or the homily. Taking the Eucharist felt wrong, and your hand shook when you brought the communion wafer to your lips when Father Paul handed it to you. Finally, when mass ended, and you were sure the church was empty, you approached him with trepidation.

“Father, I have something I need to confess.”

“Would you like to go to the confessional?”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to hide behind it. I need to be transparent and held accountable.”

He nodded. The two of you sat in a pew, facing each other as you crossed yourselves. 

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Three days,” you answered.

“What is it, Sister?”

“I’ve been having lustful thoughts, Father, about someone incredibly close to me, who I care deeply for. Instead of asking the Lord to take these feelings from me, I’ve been indulging in them, and last night I—I had a dream about him. A sexual one that I experienced physical pleasure from.” You were in tears, guilt wracking your body as you spoke. “I’m so ashamed. I should have been stronger. I’ve been sinning against God, exploiting this man in my heart when he’s done nothing to deserve such disrespect. Sheriff Hassan is—”

“Sheriff Hassan?” Father Paul’s gaze darkened ever so slightly, and you leapt to the sheriff’s defense in his absence.

“He didn’t do anything, Father. Nothing more than friendly smiles and kind words, never anything inappropriate. It was me, letting my lustful thoughts ferment instead of nipping them in the bud right away. He committed no sin. It was me.” Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

“Why him?”

You were silent for a moment. “He’s a good man.” Better than most you’d come across. Kind, selfless, just—the virtues that were few and far between among the men of the cloth you had met. Above all else, even when it was difficult, Hassan Shabazz was good. “I love him.”

“You don’t love him, Sister. Lust after him, yes, but you don’t know him, not enough to love him the way you think you do.”

With a shaky, reluctant sigh, you nodded. “Will you help me, Father?”

He took your hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Of course, it’s the least I can do after you helped me through the trial God set out for me when I first arrived here.”

“Thank you.”

“We’ll get through this together, Sister. Let us pray.”

The following Sunday, you tried to match the enthusiasm he had for ten o’clock mass that morning. You had gotten used to it by then, the way he always seemed to know something you didn’t or was aware of details about the islanders you weren’t keen to even after living there for two years. He was easy to trust, you supposed. 

Sitting in the wooden pew, you focused on following along with mass until the homily following the reading from the Gospel. Father Paul’s homilies were always a bit odd, cryptic, even. You assumed his faith was influenced by mysticism, and sought out books by the likes of St. John of the Cross and St. Francis in an attempt to better understand him. The way he spoke that day unsettled you, a fantastical fanaticism that felt out of place on Crockett Island.

Then, when it was time to receive the Eucharist, there was a solid minute where you were sure you had never hated anyone more in your entire life than you hated him. Telling Leeza Scaroborough to walk, goading the poor girl to step out of her wheelchair in an act of cruelty you couldn’t abide by. You got up from the pew, en route to smack him across the face when she did it. Leeza stood up from her wheelchair, and with tentative steps forward and tears of disbelief and hope in her eyes, she walked up to Father Paul and received the Eucharist.

Everything that followed was a blur, but you knew you were one of the few in attendance who hadn’t broken out into frenzied celebration. Something just wasn’t right. You found yourself hesitant to make eye contact with him when you took communion, and remained quiet even as mass ended, the cacophony of elated voices almost background noise to you.

“I’m sorry, everyone, but I need to speak to our dear Sister in confidence. I’m sure you all understand,” he said, murmurs of affirmation from the congregants who had crowded around him, except for Bev, who had a puss on her face at being excluded.

Father Paul ushered you into the sacristy, closing the door behind you.

“Is something wrong, Sister?” he asked.

“How can anything be wrong? Leeza Scarborough can walk again.”

“Yes, a miracle occurred in this very parish, right before our eyes, yet you seem…hesitant.”

You chewed on your lip before murmuring, “Seeing isn’t always believing.”

“You were the one who told me this island needed life brought back to it, who said we could achieve great things together. Now I’ve done that, by the grace of God Himself, and you have cold feet?”

“It’s not that.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“You know I do,” you said, trying to ignore the lump in your throat. “Maybe my faith is still weak—I’m still weak. I’m sorry, Father.”

“You’re not weak, Sister.”

“I think I’m going to get some air,” you said.

He nodded, distressed by your continued lack of enthusiasm. “Alright.”

Leaving St. Patrick’s through the side door in the sacristy, you tried to muster up the joy and faith you were supposed to feel, but found yourself coming up disappointingly empty. You had seen it with your very own eyes, and had been standing right there when Leeza walked for the first time in years. It couldn’t have been a trick, not orchestrated or premeditated, not by her. But Father Paul seemed so certain. Was his faith that much stronger than yours? Strong enough that he could be a true miracle worker, a vessel of God Himself on Crockett Island of all places?

Even the more skeptical congregants present, like Erin and Riley, had bared witness to it. Could attest to what had happened just as everyone else had, as you could. As a nun, you were undoubtedly expected to believe, be among the most fervent of Father Paul’s advocates. Beverly wasted no time in declaring the act a miracle worthy of the Vatican’s attention. Your faith still wavered despite what should have been undeniable proof. 

You’d lost track of how long you’d been walking around the island, but the sun was beginning to set and you realized you were tired and hungry. The general store wasn’t much farther of a walk from where you ended up while mindlessly wandering, and so you made the trek into town, telling yourself you were getting a few groceries for yourself and Father Paul. Really, the only person you knew you could speak to without judgment would be in there.

When you entered, Hassan greeted you with an emotional distance you expected. He probably figured you’d be among the dozens of people eager to relay Leeza’s miracle to him, underhandedly attempting to invalidate his own faith. 

Grabbing a jar of sauce and a box of pasta, you brought them up to the counter. Your mouth was dry while he rang up the groceries, but you couldn’t help asking, “Have–um–have you seen Leeza recently?” 

He nodded, his lips pressed in a thin line. “Walked right in here and bought a Twinkie earlier.”

“Amazing, how it happened.”

“I know about what happened to Leeza. I don’t believe what happened to Leeza.”

“Neither do I.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t?”

“It doesn’t sit right with me,” you said. “It felt more like a show was being put on than a miracle. I don’t think she had anything to do with what happened, but he had to have done something. He was so sure she would walk, and I just felt angry, betrayed that he’d make a spectacle in mass. In all honesty, Sheriff, my faith has been wavering for a while, but this didn’t make it any stronger.”

“It makes me feel a little more sane to hear you say that.”

“Well, if anyone can get to the bottom of this, I’m sure it’s you.” You smiled, taking the bags of groceries from the counter. “Have a good night, Sheriff.”

“You too, Sister.”

Walking back to the rectory, you wondered if anything would be able to make you change your mind about actually bearing witness to a miracle.

Father Paul hugged you as soon as you walked through the door. “I was about to send out a search party for you.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you, Father. I just needed time to think.”

He looked at the grocery bag in your hand. “And to see the Sheriff.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Sister, something incredible is happening here. I need to know you’re on my side,” he said, his urgency striking you like lightning. 

“I am. I want to be. Please just be patient with me. This is—it’s a lot to process.”

“I can’t do this without you,” he said softly, caressing your cheek. “I need you.” His gaze fell to your lips.

“I should start on dinner,” you whispered, pulling away from him.

“Let me, you cook enough for me already,” he said, taking the bag from you. He pulled out the jar of sauce. “Red wine and oregano, right?”

You nodded. “That’s right.”

“Make yourself comfortable out here. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

The following half hour or so was unbearably tense, and you could hardly focus on the book sitting in your lap, The Dialogue of Divine Providence, while he cooked. The two of you ate in near silence, and you retired to your room early, falling asleep almost as soon as you changed into your nightgown and crawled into bed.

Burning pain seared your limbs when you awoke in the middle of the night, the pungent scent of iron assaulting your nose, and for a moment, you thought you were dying. You reached over to the lamp on your nightstand, your arm heavy as you moved it. With trepidation, you pulled the cord, a phantom sensation in your hand as you did so. 

Soft, white light from the bulb illuminated your beside. Lifting your hands to your face, you let out a panicked whimper at the gaping wounds in your palms, gently bleeding crimson and flowing down your arms to your nightgown. The fabric around your torso was blotched with blood, each tinge of pink becoming red with every ragged breath you took. You tried kicking at the covers, but found it excruciatingly difficult, and to your horror, discovered identical wounds to the ones in your hands through both of your feet.

Your hands shook as you screwed your eyes shut, telling yourself it was a dream, and that when you opened your eyes, the blood would be gone, the wounds healed. Except the pain was all too real, pulsing in your wounds, tears stinging your eyes as you choked out a sob. Your simple bedroom, with little more than a bookshelf, desk, chair, and crucifix on the wall, threatened to suffocate you as your panic set in.

A groan pulled from your lips as you pushed yourself out of bed, your legs nearly giving out beneath you. The strange sensation of your bare feet on the wooden floorboards made you feel dizzy, or maybe it was blood loss. Each step forward was more agonizing than the last, but you needed help. You needed someone else to see you, a witness to what was happening. 

“Father Paul!” you cried out from the doorway, your voice hoarse and low, barely carrying across the hallway. “Father, wake up!” Mustering what strength you could, you threw yourself against his bedroom door, your closed, bleeding fist erratically banging against it. “Father, please!”

“Sister, what’s going—” 

As soon as he opened the door, you collapsed into his arms, sending him stumbling backward with the sudden burden of your body on his. He looked at you, gaping at the blood that covered you—and him. 

“Father?” 

“I should call Dr. Gunning.”

You shook your head frantically. “Don’t! Not yet.” 

“What happened?”

“I woke up, and I was like this.” Your bleeding hands clenched around the hem of your nightgown, keeping it at your thighs. “I’m too afraid to look.”

“May I?” he asked, his own hands shaking as his fingers brushed the blood-drenched fabric.

Staring at him for a moment, reckoning with the further vulnerability you were about to display to him, you breathed a soft, “Yes.”

He pulled your nightgown up, the fabric sticking to your skin from the congealed blood. You stared at the ceiling as he lifted the garment over your head, too embarrassed and mortified to acknowledge your body bare before him. His fingertips brushed your torso, and you moaned. In your horror, you looked down to see deep, fresh wounds on your sides.

“Oh my God.”

“Do you know what this is, Sister?”

Tears blurred your vision as you shook your head. “It can’t be stigmata. I’m not pure enough, not devout enough. He’d never—”

“Of course He would. He saw you needed faith, a reminder of His love for you, and look at you now,” Father Paul said with hushed fervor as he took in the state of you. “You’re beautiful.” He kissed your forehead, then pressed his lips to each of your weeping palms, and then your feet. 

Desire twisted in your gut at the sight of him beneath you. He kissed your feet again, a terrifying hunger in his gaze as he brought his lips higher up your legs, his hands brushing your skin with a reverence you felt unworthy of receiving. 

You watched as he dipped his fingers into one of your side wounds and then brought the digits to his mouth, tasting your blood from them. With a ragged breath, he brought his face to your torso. His tongue plunged in the valley of your wound, lapping up the blood that gently flowed from it. A moan tore from your throat, pleasure rolling across your skin as if you truly were a vessel for the divine. Surely it was the same sensation that inspired St. Teresa of Avila’s eroticism, a mystical ecstasy that saw her driven out of villages and cloister herself in search of the purest, incorporeal love.

Except before you knelt a man of God whom you could reach out and touch, eagerly devouring your flesh as if able to find salvation in your blood. His teeth grazed your skin, eliciting a shudder that echoed through you like a worn-out hymn. Words failed you, the pleasure you received from his ravenous consumption of you overtaking the pain from your wounds. 

Holding his head against your side wound, you wanted more, the feeling of him indulging in you. Taste and eat. Everything you felt and saw was in shades of violently blossoming red, deeper and deeper with each curl of his tongue and brush of his fingertips, his unadulterated worship, his veneration for you, serving as the flowing cup of God’s grace and mercy.

Rapturous bliss hummed through you like an ecstatic prayer, pulsing in your wounds on your hands, feet, and sides. You felt like he was part of you, a mystical union between yourself and him.

But just as high as he’d taken you, you quickly came down. The gravity of the situation, of what he’d done, what you’d let him do, weighed on your conscience more heavily than any illicit feeling you’d ever harbored toward Sheriff Hassan.

Father Paul took your face in his hands, eyes glistening with a joyous faith you no longer envied. “Your own miracle, Sister. Do you see it now?”

“You did this to me?” you asked in distressed horror. “You—Who are you?”

“Not me, Sister,” he said. “Here, let me show you. You’ll understand everything. I think you’re ready.”

He held out his hand, and despite everything in you screaming otherwise, you took it.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

Archived link here

An important paragraph to remember:

William and Kate have also been “buoyed” by public support and the sense that “the public sentiment is not the same as on TikTok”. On Tuesday, the Buckingham Palace switchboard “rang off the hook” with messages of support for them

But also, Harry and Meghan aren’t going to like this one:

Those close to William say that the family “bubble” he and Kate have created at their home in Windsor, Adelaide Cottage, is his top priority. After school, it is just the five of them at home, with Kate, rather than a cook or housekeeper, usually preparing dinner. By his own admission, William is no chef. What he has found especially challenging in recent weeks, say friends, is the feeling that the couple’s bubble is coming under threat, and that his wife is experiencing some of what his mother went through.

[racefortheironthrone]

Is there any way for governments to respond to a pandemic such as Covid 19 or something worse without provoking considerable public resentment? Take no measures to prevent the spread and you’ll be blamed for the resulting public health disaster. Try to prevent the spread, and you’ll be blamed for the inevitable inequities and negative effects taken to do so, and the (mitigated, but not entirely avoided) public health disaster.

I don't mean this to come off as pessimistic or overly negative, but I would say as a matter of historic record, public health campaigns (especially anti-pandemic campaigns) tend to be quite unpopular - and my suspicion is that the mid-20th century moment where public health experts like Jonas Salk and Albert Sabin became folk heroes with enormous amounts of popular support from the middle-class parents of the Baby Boom is probably the exception that proves the rule.

You can go all the way back to the very earliest days of public health measures - the Venetian invention of the quarantine during the Black Death - to find one of the first anti public-health backlashes. Conservative Venetians felt that the free food packages that were an essential part of the quarantine process (because you don't want potentially sick people wandering the city looking for food) would make people lazy and economically dependent on the government.

Likewise, when advances in medicine and state capacity in the early 19th century led to one of the first modern pandemic campaigns during the cholera outbreaks of the early 1830s, the public's response was not one of orderly compliance and gratefulness. Instead, you had what were called the "cholera riots" in both the U.K and Russia. Buoyed by conspiracy theories about shadowy cabals of doctors working hand in hand with an autocratic government to kill the destitute, mobs attacked symbols of public health (public hospitals, government doctors, public research clinics, anatomical colleges, health boards) and government authority (governors, police stations, quarantine cordons, court houses, etc.).

By contrast, all the anti-vaxx insanity of the past couple years seems a bit tame - at least in COVID-19, most violence has been rhetorical and abstract rather than involving the targeted murder of doctors and government officials.

Ultimately, we may just have to come to grips with the fact that public health/anti-pandemic policy is always going to be unpopular and that the correct approach is to use hard power rather than try to chivvy people into doing what's in their best interests. I certainly remember how California started to make strides against the anti-vaxx movement prior to COVID-19: it ultimately required legislation like SB 277 and SB 742 that made vaccinations more mandatory and made anti-vaxx harassment punishable with six months in jail.

[arjudy224]

Cobblepot's Cabana

Summary: Working for Oswald Cobblepot has its perks. Mr. Cobblepot always gives out Christmas and summer bonuses, you get excellent health insurance... However, working at a pool owned by one of Batman rogues can put you at odds with the Caped Crusader himself. One day, the Riddler and Killer Croc team up to defeat Batman. This team endeavor doesn't work out the way they expected.

Lifeguard POV:

There wasn’t any mention of how to handle situations like this during the certification. Teenage boys doing back flips into the shallow end? Yes. Nose bleeds? Of course. Clocking into work to find the Gotham knight fighting not one, but two of his rogues on the pool deck? Absolutely not. Nothing could have prepared me to witness the all out brawl that was occurring during my shift. Or the fact that Killer Croc’s tail defensively slapped the Riddler, Batman, and Robin into the pool. Tyler hands me the lifeguard tube with a sly smile.

“Good luck with that. I’m going to go pee.”

If I wasn’t so concerned for the teenage vigilante getting his face pushed underwater by a crocodile, that would have been incredibly annoying.

Staring at the drowning quartet, I am faced with a dilemma.

Do I get paid enough for this? (No)

Would interrupting the feud end with my imminent death? (Probably)

Poor Eddie Nygma flails desperately against the waves made by Killer Croc and Batman wrestling. For such an intelligent guy, one would have assumed he would at least know how to doggy paddle... One would be wrong. Every time the man, known to the rest of the world as the Riddler, touches the water... He sinks. It's honestly impressive how quickly he can reach the bottom of the pool. His panicked green eyes cause my heart to swell.

Dammit... Fine.

Within moments, I plunge into the icy water. Of course today of all days Cobblepot would turn the temperature down for dramatic effect. Fighting against Killer Croc's waves, I lunge for Eddie first. Avoiding his panicked limbs, I shove the buoy flush against his chest. Eddie clings onto the life preserver with a grateful gaze as I meet a face full of salt water.

My eyes burn from the impact. Resurfacing a few feet away, the vigilante/ crocodilian brawl somehow managed to turn on the manual waves. I watch in disbelief as Eddie gets pulled in their direction. His feverishly pale skin and blue lips chill me to my core.

"Oh.. No you don't!" I gasp struggling against the current. Another wave pushes me under. Stay calm. You've done this before. Opening my eyes, my heart stops when I register what I am face to face with.

Void like black eyes stare emotionless in my direction. With skin so grey and smooth, I'm almost tempted to run my hand across. However, the hundreds of sharp teeth keep me at bay. There's a shark in the pool, King Shark, to be exact... and he's not happy about the wrestling match going on above. Typical Gotham. Funny enough, I checked the attendance log this morning. Nanaue canceled his membership months ago, but that's none of my business.

From the corner of my eye, I vaguely make out the faint outline of the drowning boy wonder. The kid’s head is above water for now, but the heavy plated Robin suit cannot be easy to swim in.

Sometimes, King Shark confuses the lifeguards for poolside snacks. Easy mistake really. Cobblepot had warned us previously of the last guard who got eaten. Unzipping my fanny pack, I fumble for my saving grace: a small tuna packet from my morning lunch. Offering it to the shark, I await his response. That must have been the right move because a smile emerges with hundreds of teeth barring all at once.

Pressure and panic spreads throughout my body from the lack of oxygen. Crawling to the surface, my lungs gasp for air while I assess the current situation. Eddie's conscious, yet even with the raft his lips are still tinged with blue from his underwater adventure. Robin's fighting with less vigor than before. He doesn't have much time. Killer Croc is in his element. And Batman? Well, like any Florida man wrestling with their local wildlife: he's doing his best. His sluggish movements are showing how much the cape and his weaponry are weighing him down.

Considering my options, I make the dumbest split second decision of my life: I ask for help. Diving under the oncoming waves, I gesture towards King Shark with as much pleading as I can muster. I don't speak Shark, but I motion to my fanny back to insinuate their would be more fish ahead. Nananue slowly nods his head before circling the water around me.

For a second, I think my life is over. Maybe my parents were right to throw a fit when I announced my acceptance into Gotham U. I'm sure Metropolis Lifeguards’ don't have to make bargains with their local trespassing aquatic life.

To my relief, King Shark doesn't bite my head off. With an impatient shimmy, he waits for me to hold on. I shrug before crawling on his back. We cut through the waves with such ease that I find myself in awe of the cartilaginous fish. If I swam like that, I would bum off Oswald Cobblepot too. The Riddler and his life raft tug loosely behind due to the harness around my waist.

Checking my watch, I frown.

Tyler was supposed to take me off stand ten minutes ago. That bastard. From the empty pool deck, I bet he left work early again... for the 3rd time this week.

Speeding past the giant iceberg in the center of the pool, King Shark reluctantly slows down once we near the frail looking teenager. Before I can hoist the kid up, Nananue eyes the young boy with interest.

"Don't even think about it. If you eat Robin, I have to explain to Cobblepot how you've been staying here for months without paying for a membership."

With an exaggerated sigh, the Shark man allows me to hull the kid half way out of the water. Somehow, Robins mask managed to stay on during the kerfuffle. His wet black hair sticks to his forehead. He's got a pulse. He's breathing. Reaching the pool deck, Robin’s limp form is proving ridiculously lofty to move.

Across the pool deck, Batman somehow managed to tranquilize Killer Croc. His damp armor makes a hilarious ~squish~ noise with every step. Eddie sprawls on his back muttering something I assume to be riddle associated. Robin's starting to regain color.

Thank goodness, I didn't have to do CPR; I do not want to be the one responsible for breaking the Boy Wonders ribs.

One eye flutters open, then the other. The intensity of his blue eyes catches me off guard.

"Instead of saving my life," He rasps with a mischievous grin, "Can you save my phone number?"

Very original.

I briefly consider shoving him back into the pool. If I hadn't spent the last 20 minutes trying to save his life, I would have. Instead of responding, I make eye contact with his Guardian.

"I'm going to need to ask you two to leave." I elaborate gesturing to my watch, "The pool closes at 9."

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

By Joanne Silberner

April 8, 2024

A hug, a handshake, a therapeutic massage. A newborn lying on a mother’s bare chest.

Physical touch can buoy well-being and lessen pain, depression and anxiety, according to a large new analysis of published research released on Monday in the journal Nature Human Behaviour.

Researchers from Germany and the Netherlands systematically reviewed years of research on touch, strokes, hugs and rubs. They also combined data from 137 studies, which included nearly 13,000 adults, children and infants. Each study compared individuals who had been physically touched in some way over the course of an experiment — or had touched an object like a fuzzy stuffed toy — to similar individuals who had not.

For example, one study showed that daily 20-minute gentle massages for six weeks in older people with dementia decreased aggressiveness and reduced the levels of a stress marker in the blood. Another found that massages boosted the mood of breast cancer patients. One study even showed that healthy young adults who caressed a robotic baby seal were happier, and felt less pain from a mild heat stimulus, than those who read an article about an astronomer.

Positive effects were particularly noticeable in premature babies, who “massively improve” with skin-to-skin contact, said Frédéric Michon, a researcher at the Netherlands Institute for Neuroscience and one of the study’s authors.

“There have been a lot of claims that touch is good, touch is healthy, touch is something that we all need,” said Rebecca Boehme, a neuroscientist at Linkoping University in Sweden, who reviewed the study for the journal. “But actually, nobody had looked at it from this broad, bird’s eye perspective.”

The analysis revealed some interesting and sometimes mysterious patterns. Among adults, sick people showed greater mental health benefits from touch than healthy people did. Who was doing the touching — a familiar person or a health care worker — didn’t matter. But the source of the touch did matter to newborns.

“One very intriguing finding that needs further support is that newborn babies benefit more from their parents’ touch than from a stranger’s touch,” said Ville Harjunen, a researcher at the University of Helsinki in Finland, who also reviewed the study for the journal. Babies’ preference for their parents could be related to smell, he speculated, or to the differences in the way parents hold them.

Women seem to benefit more from touch than men, which may be a cultural effect, Dr. Michon said. The frequency of the touch also mattered: A massage once every two years isn’t going to do much.

Several studies included in the review looked at what happened during the height of the Covid pandemic, when people were isolated and had less physical contact with others. “They found correlations during Covid times between touch deprivation and health aspects like depression and anxiety,” Dr. Michon said.

Touching the head appears to have more of a beneficial effect than touching the torso, some studies found. Dr. Michon couldn’t explain that finding, but thought it could have to do with the greater number of nerve endings on the face and scalp.

Another mystery: Studies of people in South America tended to show stronger health benefits of touch than did those studies that looked at people in North America or Europe. Dr. Michon said that culture may somehow play a role. But Dr. Boehme said the studies showing the differences between countries were too small to be definitive. “I think the mechanism behind this is biological,” she said. “I think that’s hard-wired and will be the same for all of us.”

In 2023, Jeeva Sankar, a pediatrics researcher at All India Institute of Medical Sciences, and a colleague published a rigorous review of skin-to-skin care for newborns. The analysis concluded that touch therapy for preterm or low-birth-weight infants should start as soon as possible and last eight hours or more, a recommendation that the World Health Organization adopted. Dr. Sankar said the new review was important because touch is often neglected in modern medical care, but it was too broad. He would have liked it to focus more on how various forms of touch could be integrated in medical care.

Dr. Michon stressed that the types of touch considered in these studies were positive experiences to which the volunteers agreed. “If someone doesn’t feel a touch as being pleasant, it’s likely going to stress them out,” he said.

A version of this article appears in print on April 9, 2024, Section A, Page 4 of the New York edition with the headline: Reviewing Studies, Scientists Find Hugs Are Good for You. 

[changingplumbob]

Romero Household: Chapter 1, Part 10

Honeymoon wraps up and we head back home.

CW: Light sim spice

Marta’s first language is Spanish so she is teaching Keira (and me) some common Spanish words/phrases Bueno: Good, fine, okay Buenos días: Good morning Carino: Term of endearment for a loved one Cómo estás?: How are you Gracias: Thank you Qué?: What? Si: Yes Te amo: I love you

Keira: Did you have a good day

Marta: It’s not over yet is it

Keira: No, we’ve got another day here

Marta: I’m more interested in the night

Keira: Are you now

Marta: Come to the couch, I’ll give you a preview

Giggling the women lay down on the couch and have a good old fashioned make out.

Marta: Te amo carino

Keira: I love you to sweetheart, te amo

Marta: Shall we play chess again

Keira: You really want to

Marta: I think I’ve got the understanding of it now

Keira: Okay

Marta: Remember, don’t go easy on me, play properly

Keira: I promise

It’s the shortest game of chess I’ve ever watched, it’s all over in less than half a sim hour! Keira is the winner of course. After chess it's time to check out the hot tub.

Marta: This is nice, I feel so relaxed

Keira: Me to. I wonder if it’s powered by geothermal energy

Marta: Que?

Keira: Oh, like if they harnessed the heat of the volcano to heat the water

Marta: People can do that

Keira: Si. It’s a renewable energy resource. We don’t need to create anything to get our power, we use what the earth is already doing

Marta: I love how smart you are

Keira: I’m not that-

Marta: You ARE smart carino, it’s okay to say so

Keira: Get over here, I want to snuggle my sweet wife

Marta: *giggles* as you wish. Are you enjoying the honeymoon? I was worried you wouldn’t like it since you’ve lived in Sulani

Keira: I love it! It’s uninterrupted time with you, nothing could be better

Marta: What did you say before… when in Sulani?

Keira: *fake shock* Mrs Romero are you propositioning me for hot tub woohoo

Marta: *smiles* Yes Mrs Romero I am

Giggling again the two women disappear beneath the surface and show off how good they are at holding their breath underwater.

Marta: Buenos días carino. Cómo estás?

Keira: Estoy... bien. What would you like to do today?

Marta: I was thinking… maybe you could show me the ocean

Keira: I’d love to! What about it would you like to see

Marta: Pretty fish. Oh and cute dolphins!

Keira: Deal. But remember sweetheart, dolphins are wild creatures. We shouldn’t approach them, only interact with them if they interact with us

Marta: *smiles* My wife the marine biologist

Keira: I’m more a professional marine mammal feeder at the moment but gracias

Cute honeymoon pics? YES. Then off we go to swim to the reef where we can snorkel.

Marta: You’re such a good swimmer

Keira: I’ve just had practice. Surely you swum in Cuba

Marta: Si but I enjoyed playing in the sand more

Keira compensates for Marta and every so often stops swimming to let Marta catch up and overtake her before swimming another short distance. Wives stick together.

Marta: *squeals*

Keira: Are you alright sweetheart

Marta: *quietly* Carino I see a dolphin *happy noises*

Keira: Just remember, let it approach you

Marta murmurs agreement and continues following Keira to the buoy. The dolphin swims right alongside them playfully blowing bubbles. Keira is happy to see it looks in good health while Marta is ecstatic that she’s able to be this close to one.

The dolphin did not come alone, it brought two friends with it! They stick around while Keira and Marta snorkel around the reef to Marta’s delight. She wishes Keira had brought her underwater camera to capture the cuteness but the event will just have to live in her memory.

After snorkelling the women head to a nearby patch of sand and trees. After surveying the view Marta surprises Keira with a gift.

Keira: What is this

Marta: I found a fossil yesterday while you were getting the pineapple and thought you would like it

Keira: Gracias sweetheart, ohhh a raptor claw! Just like Jurassic Park! I love it, te amo

Marta is swept up in the romance today and serenades Keira after she draws her a sand heart. Marta’s voice is Keira’s favourite sound and while she listens, she thanks the watcher for letting her hear it for the years to come.

After some semi scandalous sunbathing the women both get tans, proof that they’ve been on honeymoon! After an afternoon of chatting with the lifeguard and resting on the beach it’s time to head back to the lodge and pack for home. Goodbye Sulani, it’s been beautiful!

Back to San Sequoia. First things first, unpacking all our Sulani collectables and arranging the wedding/honeymoon photos. We also display the wedding topper by the computer, and the playful wooden sculpture Keira finished the morning of the wedding. It’s a seal, how perfect is that?

Marta: Welcome home Mrs Romero

Keira: Gracias for having me

Marta bursts into giggles and Keira sweeps her close for a kiss. After a quick dinner the pair head upstairs for some more woohoo, I guess jetlag isn’t a sims problem. This ends the Romero household for this rotation. It was a big one but there’ll be more to come as they figure out what they’ll do about having kids.

Previous ... Next (Pancakes)

[jedibinx]

I know that some people think fanfiction is a waste of time and is not real writing, and that's fine, but don't then come to me and tell me I should think that because the fact of the matter is, the only thing stopping me from falling into an abyss that I will never return from, is my writing.

Nobody actually knows just how close I am to that edge, but I have a writing schedule and unfinished stories and people who have used my writing as their own way of helping themselves in their own lives so nobody tell me its not real writing when it is literally the one thing keeping my mental health buoyed just enough to keep the air in my lungs.

If that ain't real then nothing is.

[brainwormcity]

I don't want to be sitting here being angry because of Taika's ignorance, I want to be reading fics and making edits and rewatching the kiss from episode 8 over and over again but I can't. In the years past, I've had to swear off jelly belly jelly beans, cracker barrel, shein, harry potter, chik fil a, and home depot. That's just the brands; more importantly to me, I've given up on Jensen Ackles, John Mulaney, Thomas Middleditch, and more than I can possibly think about right now. I have long since learned my lesson in regards to parasocial relationships and hero worship.

Media and art are so extremely important to me as both a coping mechanism and a source of representation and OFMD checks so many boxes for me. It's one of the few unsanitized, non-eunichized queer shows with adult characters, POC, and trans folks and I'm so brutally sad that it's hampered by the actions of one person's lack of social awareness and hypocrisy but I can't in good conscience indulge knowing that when celebrities endorse things like this stupid fucking letter (however well-meaning and done out of ignorance) they normalize this sort of callous thinking.

I'm not sure how to proceed, going forward. I'm pointedly not streaming the show and using my platforms to make other fans aware of these circumstances, as well as sharing information from other indigenous folks who are feeling hurt and betrayed Taika's contribution to all of this. I don't know if it's okay for me to even engage with fan content. I'm not willing to compromise my values by consuming Taika's works without a retraction and it sucks because I am desperate for something to buoy my mental health. Interested to hear how others are coping with this. Anyway, free Palestine.

[grapeautumn]

tolys reads to me as someone with thick, dry hair the consistency of hay but it's surprisingly sturdy because it's not bleach-damaged. otherwise kept to a minimum state of hair health through immunity from every application of his 10-in-1 men's shampoo

feliks has thin blonde hair and has no idea how that guy is doing it. his is soft, it's buoyed by a lot of product. it's a luxury he's not gotten to have all his life. he reaches his fingers to rake through Tolys' hair and it feels like fur or pelt. he thinks: I need to, like, introduce him to conditioner or something. but knows deep inside that if he does it's not going to be the same

tolys thinks about breaking feliks hair. he has thick, calloused fingers and when they're carding through it he wonders if it'll catch in them and he'll pull a chunk out. but he never does bc he remembers it too used to feel like freshly-threshed wheat once