#exorbitant

[words-after-dark]

Have you ever done anything nsfw in public?

No, i haven't, unfortunately, although having one of those remote controll vibrators inside me and someone having control over that during a public gathering or something similar does sound like a lot of fun.

[unscramblerer]

Todays Word Of The Day is: Inordinate

Inordinate originates from Latin inordinatus(disordered). The word combines "in-"(not) and ordinatus(ordered).

[whats-in-a-sentence]

By contrast, the Many Worlds interpretation avoids the whole matter of wavefunction collapse, since in this approach wavefunctions don't collapse. But the price to pay is an enormous proliferation of universes, something that many a detractor has found intolerably exorbitant.¹²

12. There are other controversial issues with the Many Worlds interpretation that go beyond its obvious extravagance. For example, there are technical challenges to define a notion of probability in a context that involves an infinite number of copies of each of the observers whose measurements are supposed to be subject to those probabilities. If a given observer is really one of many copies, in what sense can we say that he or she has a particular probability to measure this or that outcome? Who really is "he" or "she"? Each copy of the observer will measure – with probability 1 – whatever outcome is slated for the particular copy of the universe in which he or she resides, so the whole probabilistic framework requires (and has been given, and continues to be given) careful scrutiny in the Many Worlds framework. Moreover, on a more technical note, the mathematically inclined reader will realize that, depending on how one precisely defines the Many Worlds, a preferred eigenbasis may need to be selected. But how should that eigenbasis be chosen? There has been a great deal of discussion and much written on all these questions, but to date there are no universally accepted resolutions. The approach based on decoherence, discussed shortly, has shed much light on these issues, and has offered particular insight into the issue of eigenbasis selection.

"The Fabric of the Cosmos" - Brian Greene

[weird-things-to-think]

Ahhh yes… Exorbntant... iz like thw moon, yu see? It rise an it set, it comes wen yu least ezpect. Wen yu luk at it, yu think, "dis iz too much, too bieg, too grand!" An yet, iz jus a wrd, a cunjuring of powr, like a wvizrd casting a speel ovur sum price or desire. Too muhc? Perhapss, but iz mor dan dat.

Iz... expnzve, so much dat yu can’t reach, like dat starr yu try tu grabb from da skiee. Yu stretch armz but it far away, "exorbitz" in da distnce. Why dis word hold so much? Cuz, it talkz abouut wat iz outtside da realmz of whut iz ordinarie... like a river overflowin’ its edgges, or a tree that grow too far in da cloudz. Too much for mind tu hold, tu much for hand tu clutch.

Expnsive, yes. But... mor dan dat.

Itz like an elaphant in a shoebox, a sun in a cup of tea.

[you-must-be-held-accountable]

Accountability is a sword that cuts both ways.

We live in a world where excuses flow like rivers, where blame is shifted like dust in the wind. Yet, without accountability, chaos reigns. Without it, we drift into a void where nothing is learned, nothing is fixed.

Holding people accountable is not cruelty. It is the fire that refines us. It is the mirror we must look into to see who we really are.

When we are held responsible, we grow. We become sharper, stronger, better. Accountability demands honesty, it commands growth. And when we embrace it, we are not crushed by its weight, we are lifted by its power.

It is not a burden. It is a gift. One that makes us greater than we were before.

[wurds-fur-nurds]

Exorbitant, the mind perceives the grand, A world beyond the scope of thought’s constraint, Where wealth or want may slip from grasping hand, And dreams, though vast, oft flee from mortal faint.

Yet boundless is the will to still ascend, To break the limits set by fear or doubt. For though the price be high, the heart shall bend, Toward realms where vision maps new paths throughout.

Excess becomes but fuel for the soul, When tethered not to greed but to the stars. In seeking more, we learn to seek the whole— A life transcending what the world regards.

So, dare to chase what others call too much; For in that reach, the infinite you touch.

[so-true-overdue]

Ah, the elegance of human ingenuity: crafting, with meticulous precision, the systematic collapse of the only biosphere in the cosmos capable of sustaining the fragile complexities of life. How sublime it is, truly, that we, in our infinite wisdom, have managed to transform the Earth's delicate climate system into a volatile, uninhabitable cauldron—all in the name of progress and profit, of course.

For centuries, humankind has endeavored to tame nature’s capricious whims, and now, after years of diligent carbon emissions, fossil fuel extraction, and deforestation, we are finally reaping the rewards of our industriousness. Melting polar ice caps, increasingly catastrophic weather events, rising sea levels—it's almost as if the planet itself is applauding our relentless pursuit of short-term wealth over the trivial matter of long-term survival. How magnanimous of us.

The correlation between human-induced climate change and the rapacious exploitation of natural resources is as undeniable as the astronomical sums spent by corporations to convince us otherwise. Yes, it's truly exorbitant. Not the cost of climate mitigation, mind you, but the effort to uphold this capitalist theater of denial, where maintaining the illusion of a "healthy" economy requires the wholesale destruction of the one environment capable of supporting said economy. But who could blame them? It's not like the consequences of unchecked greenhouse gas emissions—such as ocean acidification, mass species extinction, or agricultural collapse—pose any sort of existential threat. No, those are merely trivial inconveniences.

In the end, perhaps we should embrace our spectacular talent for self-sabotage. After all, we are nothing if not consistent: first, we conquer nature, and then, in a dazzling display of irony, ensure that no one—human or otherwise—will live to enjoy the spoils. Bravo, humanity, bravo.

[kick-the-clouds]

Representation in media doesn’t matter at all—unless, of course, you’re a human being with feelings, self-esteem, or an identity.

For years, people have argued that media influences how we see ourselves and the world. But why bother? Clearly, having only one type of person portrayed as the hero, the genius, or the love interest won’t impact the rest of us at all. After all, we all know that it’s totally fine to never see someone who looks like you saving the day, right? That kind of thing can’t possibly affect your confidence or sense of worth. (Spoiler: It does.)

Psychologists have this quaint little theory about “mirror neurons” and how seeing people like us in positive roles can literally light up the brain. Seeing someone like you on screen achieving great things, breaking boundaries, or simply being treated with respect sends a powerful message: you belong. Funny how that works. When media doesn’t reflect this diversity, it sends the opposite message—loud and clear.

Take the movie industry, for example. We’ve spent decades pretending that white men are the default human beings. Fun fact: They’re not. And it turns out, women, people of color, and other underrepresented groups also want to see themselves as more than just sidekicks, villains, or victims. Shocking, right?

The impact? Simple. When people don’t see themselves represented, it’s like a neon sign flashing, “This world isn’t built for you.” It gnaws at their confidence, limits their aspirations, and perpetuates stereotypes. Think about how many girls didn’t think they could be astronauts before "Hidden Figures" came out. Or how long it took before mainstream media decided that people in the LGBTQ+ community deserved more than a tragic ending.

It’s all about what we’re taught is possible for us. Representation shows us that there are no limits—unless, of course, we stick to the same tired portrayals we’ve been fed for years. In which case, enjoy that world where only a select few get to be the heroes of the story. How inspiring.

[faith-in-democracy]

Corporations are not people. Yet, our legal system says they are. This isn't just wrong—it’s dangerous.

When corporations gain the same rights as citizens, they take more than they deserve. Their wealth buys influence, power, and ultimately, a louder voice in politics. Every dollar becomes a vote. Every lobbyist becomes a lawmaker. Meanwhile, everyday citizens—real people—are left shouting into the void. This goes against everything democracy stands for.

Democracy means equal voice. But when corporations are people, the rich speak louder. The wealthy have more votes, more power, more sway.

This precedent isn't just unfair; it's a betrayal of the fundamental idea that every person matters equally. Corporations are profit machines, not citizens. They should not have the same rights as you and me.

To protect our democracy, we must reject this dangerous idea.

[extremely-moderate]

Violence is their weapon, but it’s also their weakness.

Far-right ideologies have long relied on fear and aggression. They stoke anger to manipulate and divide, masking their true goal: control. Yet history shows us one truth—violence is never the solution. It’s a tactic used to dominate, to impose, and to intimidate. But it also reveals their failure to persuade, to unite, or to uplift.

When far-right movements incite violence, they reveal their desperation. Instead of offering solutions, they create chaos. And in that chaos, they seek power—not to better society, but to secure their own wealth and influence. It’s a strategy built on exploiting the very people they claim to protect.

But violence backfires. It only strengthens the resolve of those who fight for equality, justice, and truth. The true path forward lies in unity, progress, and peace. Together, we can reject fear and demand the solutions that benefit everyone, not just a few.

[decoding-narcissism]

Narcissists thrive on control. It’s not just about wanting attention—it’s about demanding more than what’s fair, more than what’s reasonable, more than what’s right. Their desires are exorbitant.

They lure you in with charm. A narcissist will praise you, shower you with affection, and make you feel like the center of their world. But once you’re close, the shift begins. They’ll use guilt. Subtle, small nudges to make you feel you owe them something. Then comes the isolation. “No one else understands you like I do,” they’ll say. They push others away, making you dependent on them.

Soon, you’re giving more and receiving less. They make you question your worth and take advantage of your kindness. They twist the truth, never admitting their faults. All to keep the scales tipped in their favor.

But remember, their demands are not your responsibility.

[churchofnix]

The truth is simple: doubt everything until it is proven.

In the realm of exorbitant ideas and beliefs, it is easy to be swept away by what sounds impressive. But the power of science is clear—it grounds us in reality. The scientific method is not a luxury; it is a path. Follow it, and it will lead you to the truth.

First, observe. The world speaks, and you must listen. Pay attention to details, patterns, and changes. These are the whispers of knowledge waiting to be heard.

Then, question. Ask why. Challenge assumptions. Even what seems obvious can be misleading.

Next, experiment. Test your thoughts. Trial by fire separates the real from the false. What survives the test is truth; what burns away was only illusion.

Finally, analyze. Look closely at the results. Do they make sense? Can they be trusted? If not, go back. No result is sacred until it proves its worth.

This is how you practice restraint in the face of the exorbitant. Do not let wonder cloud your judgment. Keep your feet on solid ground, your eyes clear, and your mind open.

The truth will always reveal itself to those who search with care.

[capitalism-is-a-psychopathy]

Greed takes it all, the poor stay small, Prices rise high, no end in sight, They sell you dreams, but feed the fight.

More for the top, none for the rest, The game is rigged, they claim it's best. Hearts grow cold, the cost too steep, Profit their god, while others weep.

Capital's king, but souls get sold, Exorbitant lies, the story told.

[gutsby]

Stutter

Pairing: Old!Joel x Reader

Summary: Your daughter says her first word.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v (interrupted & brief!). Sibling bickering. Throwing of one (1) sneaker at Uncle Tommy’s head. Mention of thigh riding. Feral!Reader. Pregnant!Reader. Dutiful-and-Viagra-Popping-Peepaw keeps you satisfied through every trimester, always 🫡 You and Old!Joel are having Irish Twins because I said so.

Note: Y’all all know it, but Jolene is a song by Dolly Parton 🤠

Word count: 2.4k

“AAH!”

This was the closest your baby had ever come to talking. It was almost half of a coherent word, though not quite.

Joel was convinced she was trying to say ‘Dada.’

You, on the other hand, couldn’t be persuaded to believe that this noise was anything more than just happy baby babble. She’d been saying much of the same for the last ten months, and not once had her sweet and toothless ramblings ever amounted to a sound that was intelligible.

This was fine by you. Your child was already growing way too fast for your liking, and with each and every day she got bigger or learned something new, you couldn’t help but see it all through a bittersweet lens. You wished that she could stay this tiny forever, but at the same time, you adored watching her blossom into her own little person.

That was partly because she got to be more like Joel everyday. In looks, mannerisms, even how she smiled.

“The two of you are gonna have matching grins soon enough,” Tommy had said to your daughter one morning, chuckling. “You’ll be growing teeth, Joel’ll be losing his.”

From where your old man was stirring formula in the kitchen, he shot Tommy a dirty look. He grumbled.

“Jackass.”

Joel scowled, and your baby clapped—whether from amusement or a desire to be fed, you couldn’t be sure.

If you’d had the energy to do it, you would’ve intervened. But as it was, you were eight months pregnant with your second child, and preventing bickering between brothers wasn’t high on your list of priorities. It was more, like, getting foot rubs from your husband and trying to help your daughter take her first steps, maybe say a word.

No one was more committed to the latter than Joel, though. Even as he fed her, he was trying to teach.

“Who’s givin’ you baba, baby? Is it Dada?” he cooed, hovering the bottle over your daughter’s upturned face.

Hankering for milk and not particularly giving a shit who was handing it over, the infant let out a frustrated cry.

“AAH!”

“Very close, sweetie. It’s ‘Dada’,” Joel corrected gently.

“Give her the Da-damn bottle, man,” Tommy groaned.

“Language,” you chided your brother-in-law. Then, pushing to sit up: “Give her the dang bottle, Joel.”

Your daughter was rewarded with her milk in less than a second. Joel let out a deflated kind of sigh but smiled at his little girl, who kicked her pudgy legs in her high chair like this was the single greatest day she’d lived to see. She drank her milk, Joel watched on, and Tommy had to stifle a snicker. His big brother shot him another glare.

“Relax, Dada.”

“Jackass.”

“Boys.”

Baby babble listening never really stopped, no matter the time of day. No matter what you were doing, whether that was cooking, cleaning, baking a tray full of cookies, taking a walk, or else fucking sideways in your bed, Joel always remained vigilant. This morning was no exception

Joel was just working you up to your climax, spooning you from behind and thrusting rhythmically while you moaned and whimpered into your pillow. You were so close. Your eyes were about to shut in the throes of ecstasy, bliss reaching you at any minute now, when a sound startled you both. It was loud and obnoxious.

A whooping cheer.

“Hell yeah, baby!!”

Of course, that was Tommy’s voice. Who else would it be? Your brother-in-law was almost always over at your place these days, mostly to hang out with your baby and bug his older brother, and you and Joel normally didn’t mind because it meant that you two could have a little alone time before your family grew to four in a few weeks

Today, it meant you wouldn’t get to orgasm.

Joel jumped out of bed and threw on his pants.

You went after him almost as fast—albeit waddling, wincing slightly at the loss of contact between your legs—and you trailed behind him to the living room, having just slipped on a robe to see Tommy and your daughter.

Presently, your child’s uncle was clapping like a maniac.

“She finally did it!” he sing-songed to you and Joel.

“Did she—shit, did she talk?! What’d she say?”

That was Joel, drawing closer faster than you could blink. He was approaching the two of them with wide eyes, expecting news that your baby had finally talked.

While he did that, Tommy pointed.

On the floor, your infant daughter was holding an empty bottle of beer. She peered curiously at Joel, then at you.

“Baby grabbed her first beer! She’s officially a Miller.” Then a shit-eating grin spread wide over Tommy’s features, and he beamed at his brother. Like this was a momentous occasion and something to celebrate.

“AAH!” your baby shrieked, unsure what else to say.

Then she clapped, bottle still grasped in her tiny hand.

Joel narrowly refrained from smacking Tommy upside the head, though you could tell that it was taking effort.

Instead, he did what he always did, and he glared. Hard.

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me, Tomm—” he started.

“Joel. Language,” you half-sighed, half-groaned.

Tommy snickered, and you shot him a look, too.

“Don’t start,” you warned. “I’m not in the mood.”

As you and Joel turned to leave the room, you heard a soft, barely audible laugh. You cast a glance Tommy’s direction, and sure enough, that fucker was smirking.

“Sure sounded like y’all were in the mood before…”

Referring to you and Joel banging, obviously.

At that, as he walked, Joel grabbed the nearest shoe off the floor and chucked it at his little brother’s head. Tommy ducked easily, and it missed by a lot.

“Nice hands, feet!” Tommy called jokingly.

“Jackass,” Joel griped back.

“Language, please.”

You were fewer than two weeks from giving birth.

Whenever you stood, it felt like your knees were about to give out, so you regularly stayed on the sofa. Vegetating. Playing with your baby. Occasionally receiving foot massages from your doting, near panic-stricken Joel.

You suspected if the two of you were to have any more kids after this, he would always be nervous about labor.

He milled frantically about the house, checking the fridge and the cabinets and your hospital bag to make sure that you and your daughter would be well taken care of when the delivery took place—as if your water was about to break at any second, and Tommy and Maria weren’t a stone’s throw away to take care of your child.

“We’re gonna be fine, Joel. Sit down,” you pleaded.

From across the way, in the kitchen, you could see the father of your children comb a hand through his almost completely gray locks, and he exhaled a ragged breath.

If you hadn’t known any better, you would’ve thought he might’ve been the one in his third trimester, pacing around like his backside was on fire or someone just threw on some Nickelback or Creed and he couldn’t make it out to the dance floor on time to sing along.

Typical dad.

You loved him for that.

You also couldn’t stand to see your old man worry, so with a wide-arcing arm, you beckoned him to the sofa.

“Baaaby, my feet hurt,” you pouted, pain exaggerated.

Joel was by your side in no time. He sped so fast he probably almost displaced his hip making his way over, and you had to bite back a little smile. You lifted your arms as if to say, ‘Come here, please, I missed you.’

You’d be making that sweet, peri-geriatric man a daddy at least ten more times if he kept looking at you, and looking after you, like this. He crouched beside the couch, and both of his knees audibly popped in turn.

Your daughter had just started to doze off in her playard.

Thankfully.

You smiled.

It had taken you hours to get her to nap in the afternoon yesterday, and now you had the perfect little window, as well as a golden opportunity to make the most out of it. With your due date so close on the horizon and your hormones going wild at all hours of the day, you wanted Joel at random times. Inconvenient moments. You got one whiff of his Old Spice or the Icy Hot he regularly applied to his old, achy muscles, and you felt feral.

You felt that now, tugging him onto the couch.

In no time at all, thanks to your big, round belly, you had to be the one straddling him. You wasted no time climbing on, gaze raking hungrily all over Joel.

“Aw, sweetheart…” your old man murmured.

You couldn’t quite tell whether it was from appreciation, arousal, or complete exhaustion. He had popped three blue pills this week alone to keep up with your raging libido, and for that, you were indescribably grateful. You wouldn’t ask him to do anymore work this afternoon.

“I’ll—I’ll just ride your thigh,” you stammered, already lifting the hem of your nightdress as you scooted back.

Joel blinked haltingly.

“No, no, I can—” Then his voice broke off in a groan when you pressed yourself onto his leg. Squeezed your thighs tight around one muscular, cotton-clad quad and caused his cock to stir in his pants. He swallowed and looked up. “—I can get hard an’ fuck you real nice. Just gimme five.”

More like ten or twenty, depending on how well he fared without his Jackson-brand of Viagra waiting on standby.

You smiled and shook your head. Started rubbing yourself gently over his leg, knowing how quickly you were likely to climax right now. It wouldn’t take much.

You were so aroused you almost couldn’t breathe, and your baby was sleeping peacefully across the living room. Now was the perfect time to make this happen, and Joel wouldn’t have to lift a finger. You let out a sigh.

Running a soft, delicate touch down the front of Joel’s shirt, you felt a wave of desire wash over you. Whether it was aided by the fact that you were very nearly nine months pregnant by now or simply infatuated with this man, you couldn’t tell. You didn’t care. You started rolling your hips gently, and Joel’s hands moved up your sides.

He liked to feel you. He loved to see you all swollen and glowing on account of how he’d knocked you up with his baby. Joel still couldn’t believe this some days, and he knew he would do anything to keep giving you more.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that, and you’ll be changing diapers for the rest of your days, old man,” you teased.

He didn’t seem to give a shit.

In fact, as you moved your lower half over his leg and started grinding lightly, it was like you could see him picturing the nursery, one crib after the next until you had enough kids to create their very own baseball team.

You were fine with that. You grinded even harder.

And, thanks to the state of your hormones and your never-ending need for the man underneath you, you knew a climax wasn’t far. You let your jaw go slack, and you rode Joel’s thigh without another thought in your mind other than finishing, and giving him a dozen babies

“I’m so close, Joel,” you whimpered. “So, oh…”

“That’s it, sweet pea. Ride daddy’s thigh.”

He coaxed and cajoled you to no end. Rubbed his broad, callused palms over your hips and helped you bounce on him lightly, ignoring the fact that you were both still fully clothed. You were close. Joel was in awe, so wholly in love that he could hardly keep drawing breath without thinking to himself how lucky he was. How perfect it was.

How badly he wanted to fill you up as soon as he—

“Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Joleeeeeeeeeeeeene!”

Fucking shit.

Like an EF5 tornado—destructive and completely unwanted—Tommy Miller shot through the front door.

He was so lost in singing the old country tune that he didn’t even notice you and Joel at first. He just strolled in, taking his sweet time and belting as loud as he could; as he did, you scrambled off Joel’s lap. You cursed under your breath when the next noise that rang out was a wail.

A shriek.

You immediately knew it was your daughter, and could only surmise that it would turn into crying, so you stood.

On two wobbling legs with one ridiculously heavy belly, you pushed to your feet and started after your daughter.

At the same time, Joel was making moves himself—standing and barking at his brother, nostrils flared.

“Ever heard of knocking, Tommy?!”

“Shit, Joel, I’m so—”

“AAH!”

You approached your baby’s playard, where she was currently standing with her round, sweet face perched over the bars of her little bed, and you lowered your voice

“C’mere, sweet girl,” you cooed gently.

And really, you meant to pick her up. It was just that your bump was so big, and the rest of you was still so lightheaded from standing so fast, and you had to take a beat. Meanwhile, Joel was busy chewing Tommy out.

“—she could give birth at any damn minute, y’know—”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Won’t happen again, I swear.”

You were about to chime in yourself, tiredly say it was fine, just be more careful next time, when a new, loud sound caught you off guard. This time, it wasn’t Tommy.

You cocked your head to the side, as did Joel and his brother. The noise shot off again, exactly like before.

Your less-than a year-old baby was clapping her hands together gleefully. But that wasn’t what shocked you.

What snagged the attention of all the rest of you then was the sound that accompanied it—high-pitched. Shrill.

“Jacka!” your daughter giggled, stomping her little feet.

You didn’t know what to say. You couldn’t speak.

Clearly, your baby had no such issues herself.

She gripped the top of her crib and shook the bars, staring directly at her Uncle Tommy and smiling big.

“Jackass!”

Tommy coughed. Joel choked.

For a second, you thought you might go into labor.

Your baby, entirely oblivious to everyone else’s reactions, just stood there and laughed. Uncle Jackass Tommy was here, and that meant she got to play—and maybe crack open a cold one afterward if she played her cards right.

There wasn’t a chance Joel could’ve ever predicted that that would be her first word, so he stood there, stunned.

And when his sweet, tiny, beaming bundle of joy turned a gummy grin to him, he had no choice but to smile back

When she laughed again, Joel laughed with her.

Then you joined, and Tommy followed, fast.

Alright.

‘Jackass’ works.

[nakeddeparture]

Digicel Barbados. The bill went up again for September, 2023

https://youtu.be/NTF1d5F7eww

You have to do something about Digicel and LIME. Regulate the unregulated! Naked!!

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[bigeelwizard]

stores hate stem girlies so so so so much they spit on us they say ptoo pay three dollars for graph paper composition books instead of 75¢ for a wide ruled book you losers. you freaks.