#micro learning

[sales-business-ireland]

Micro Sales Lessons Online

Mirco sales lessons online can be very powerful. Video and multi-media innovations have enabled salespeople to achieve results by using more efficient means. For example, remote meetings, virtual seminars, video emails etc. The mobile phone was once a big block and only used for calls, but now they are slim enough to fit inside a pocket plus offer high end cameras, music, news, and thousands of…

[thedigitalsalesinstitute]

Micro Sales Lessons

Mirco sales lessons can be very powerful. Video and multi-media innovations have enabled salespeople to achieve results by using more efficient means. For example, remote meetings, virtual seminars, video emails etc. The mobile phone was once a big block and only used for calls, but now they are slim enough to fit inside a pocket plus offer high end cameras, music, news, and thousands of…

[so-very-small]

tiny who is a online content creator with a moderate following

call that a microinfluencer

[ms-march]

Kendrick when he has Samuel L Jackson dressed as Uncle Sam call his medium “too ghetto” to be performed at the Super Bowl DURING said event’s performance criticizing America as a black man >>>>

[letitbehurt]

Whumper forces Whumpee to punish themself when they break a rule; kneeling on rice or glass, maintaining a stress position, even using whatever object happens to be within reach to inflict pain. Eventually, Whumper doesn’t have to tell them to do it. It becomes a programmed response to Whumper’s disapproval—the slightest frown, a pinched brow, a warning tilt of the head.

When Whumpee is rescued, Caretaker has to learn this the hard way.

[dawnthefluffyduck]

Central Control Area, Seaside

[definitelymanitoba]

thinking about how i used to Obsess over getting the Perfect Label For Me and like. i needed a label to perfectly describe how i felt and so i was *deep breath * a neptunic demiromantic greysexual genderflux person who used they/fae/he/xe pronouns and there’s nothing wrong with that (and honestly i’d still use genderflux if it didnt mean explaining myself every single time and about once a year i throw fae/faer back in my pronoun set for the fun of it) but now its just like. Sometimes i’ll just call myself a lesbian and other times i’ll call myself bi. I’ll call myself a trans guy and then turn around and make a post about being nonbinary. i’m asexual and aromantic but im also head over heels for my romantic partner. I use he/him for myself most of the time but tell people i use they/them pronouns because my own pronouns change so much its easier to tell someone one set. most of the time i’m just Queer. and like yes i know there’s a hoard of people ready to be like RAHHH NONE OF THIS IS VALID but like. I don’t really care? This is how i feel and like. honestly I’m comfortable enough in my identity now to just Be Queer and i Just Think Thats Neat

[varpusvaras]

Flashbacks to my third-grade English book that told us that the proper translation for a laptop is sylimikro. Lap microvawe. Our teacher did not accept kannettava tietokone as an answer. Lap microvawe.

[pastelchad]

Sekaiichi hatsukoi is so much fun bc the tyrannical boss who takes their job way too seriously and the new employee who doesn’t know a damn thing is such a relatable concept and you can plop the entire cast into whatever au you want and it would still work just as well

[jis6n]

summer productivity challenge ; day 6

met my water drinking goals

woke up early & picked up breakfast for my family

listened to fernanda ramirez’s podcast about self perception 🤍

Bible reading

finished editing & uploading my video for tomorrow (youtube channel here)

language study 🇯🇵🇳🇬🇫🇷

washed my hair

practiced speaking in french with ash <3

created another to-do list for tomorrow

washed the bathroom & tidied the garden

photos from pinterest.

[dracrownian]

Also 46 (shimmer) with Rei if it pleases you

This took me much longer (and is longer; the concept of 'micro' may have gotten away from me) than I thought it would, but here we are.

(for the micro stories ask game)

46. shimmer // Rei (no warnings necessary for this one)

For the first couple of days, they don’t have an incubator at the safehouse, so Bourbon carries the egg around with him all day like it’s his child, wrapped in a baby sling Akemi had picked up, or nestled in blankets in the bathroom while he showers.

Rye makes the mistake of chuckling at the sight exactly once – as much as he enjoys needling Bourbon, the earful he’d gotten for it this time isn’t worth the repeat experience. He’ll stick to daring to take one step past the entryway in his boots or crowding Bourbon’s personal space; he’s somewhat less likely to be eviscerated for those grievances.

On the third day, Sherry drops by to check in on her sister and the three dumb men she’s keeping in line, takes one look at the situation, calls them all idiots and leaves. She returns a few hours later with her lab’s incubator, clear of any tracking devices, and helps Scotch set it up.

Bourbon sleeps in the living room with the egg after that, ever vigilant.

Several days after Sherry brings the incubator, Rye drags himself out of the bedroom where Akemi and Scotch are still sleeping (and it’s only a weird situation if he thinks about it too much) to find Bourbon still dozing on the old, worn couch, face softened in his sleep. He looks so peaceful that Rye doesn’t have the heart to wake him, but he also finds it difficult to look away.

So, he quietly pulls up one of the kitchen chairs and sits down to keep an eye on both Bourbon and the egg.

Half an hour or so later, Bourbon stirs. “Are you watching me sleep, you weirdo?” he grumbles, eyes still mostly closed, his voice rough with sleep. Rye debates whether it would be worth it to lose a limb by telling Bourbon how cute he is.

“I was watching the egg,” he replies instead.

“Liar.”

A soft noise interrupts any further comment from Rye, and both men immediately turn their attention to the egg wiggling slightly in the incubator.

“Go get a few towels,” Bourbon orders, sitting up and moving closer.

When Rye returns, towels in hand, Bourbon has pulled the egg from the incubator. “Hold this for a second,” he says, carefully taking the towels from Rye and handing over the egg. “Don’t drop it.”

Rye snorts, but obliges, holding the warm egg gently but securely, while Bourbon makes a bed of towels on the floor to place it on.

Hatching takes nearly the full day. The first crack comes minutes after Bourbon’s preparations are complete, but it’s a slow process after that. By the time the baby dragon finally fully emerges, the sun has gone down, and Scotch is in the kitchen cooking dinner, with Akemi flitting between him and Bourbon, who has barely moved from his position at the egg’s side.

It’s strangely endearing – but Rye needs to be careful to keep his feelings in check; Scotch has given him knowing looks more than once already.

The dragon, once Bourbon has taken care to wipe away the remaining fluids and clean it up, has ivory scales that seem to glitter golden, even in the dim safehouse lighting, as if lit by magic from within.

To be fair, it just might be. To the general public, dragons are a creature of fairytales; who’s to say magic isn’t also real? (He can practically hear Sherry, miles away, scoffing and telling him that magic is just science without context or something.)

Rye watches them for a while, Bourbon and the hatchling. Bourbon’s enamored by the creature, smiling freely in a way Rye has never seen before, as the dragon takes its first steps on shaky legs, exploring its surroundings with chittering noises of curiosity.

The sight is enchanting, something he never thought he’d ever witness.

(And the dragon is cute, too.)

[hansolosyou]

I remade that Tracy drawing from almost a year ago, plus some other silly steve sketches He's so odd I love this guy

[doyouknowthisjewishcharacter]

Do you know this Jewish character?

[realestateinvesting001]

How to Start Investing with Little Money: Easy Steps to Build Wealth for Beginners 💸✨

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[quirkle2]

who wants zombie au writing. don't answer that ur getting it anyway (1.6k words)

His shoes knock against the old flooring of the house, wood creaking under rubber soles that slide over the woodgrain. He drags them a bit, lifts his limbs up no more than he strictly has to, and they lead him to the nearest sittable surface.

The couch is old and dusty and has likely gone untouched for months, much like everything else nowadays, so he watches the thin cloud of dust billow off the cushions largely with disinterest. He collapses into the fabric heavily, feels the whole thing scoot back an inch and hit the wall behind him. The sound echoes, carried by lifeless rooms, while he unceremoniously drops his backpack to the floor by his feet.

The breath he lets out is slow and methodical and born of pent up muscles, aimed at the ceiling where he rests his neck against the back of the couch and relaxes every limb one by one. It’s a process he forces himself through, if only to rid the constant ache beneath his skin.

Slow, sweeping footsteps meander around the room in front of him, and Ritsu angles his gaze down from his craned back position to look at his brother. He wanders, like he so often does—seemingly aimless, but there’s something procedural about it that he’s convinced he just hasn’t figured out yet.

Shigeo’s empty eyes crawl along the hearth of the fireplace, explosions of ash sprayed out across the red brick. His head tilts up to trace his attention around the angular lines of the television, hung on the wall and screen grey with dust. He flits back and forth between the roundness of the bricked mantle and the sharp edges of the screen, like he’s taking notes.

Shigeo paws the television. Four lines of muck are cleared. The zombie blinks, paws at it again with dusty, curious fingers. Ritsu watches him make a mess of the television screen in silence, blinking tiredly.

He almost closes his eyes, but he fights against the urge and moves his fingers down his lap to reach for his bag. His middle hooks around the loop at the top and he lugs it up and into his lap, where he unzips it and peers into the shadowy contents.

Ritsu fishes out the water bottles. He finds the one with the messy R scribbled along the cap in sharpie and takes a big swig of it. It’s warm going down, constantly insulated in a bag of old, sweaty clothes. He feels like he can taste the odor in it, but it clears the grain in his throat from stomping all over dirt roads today, so he’s still grateful.

He holds out the one labeled S to Shigeo. “Thirsty?”

Shigeo looks at him from where he’s crouched down to the floor now, inspecting the soot along the hearth. Unfortunately, he sees handprints in the black already, and when his brother reaches a hand out to take it, his palm is covered in soot.

He lets him have his fun and settles his own bottle back in the mess of tangled clothes and rolls of bandages. Ritsu rakes his fingers through their stock with no real purpose—he knows exactly what’s in here, and none of it is useful.

They’d been searching all day; Ritsu doesn’t really know how far they’d walked, but it had to be a lot of miles. In and out of stores, up and down empty houses, weaving between warehouses—they didn’t really stop for a break. Not when Ritsu can hear Shigeo’s stomach from here and he himself has shaking hands. They can’t afford a break.

Nothing, though. Not a single goddamn thing worth taking. A settlement must have come through here long ago and swept the highway. They’re in the countryside, where houses are spaced out acres from each other and there’s entire cow pastures between properties. And yet every house they’d seen and entered provided nothing.

Ritsu stares into the negative space in his bag where there should be supplies. His stomach cramps and if he smells another whiff of that godawful sweaty, bloody sweatshirt he still carries, he’s going to throw up bile.

He leans away from the open pouch, eyes wandering to his brother who draws… something into the soot of the hearth. His water bottle sits on the floor, abandoned and still unscrewed. Ritsu leans forward with great effort and a grunt, leaning over his bag to grab at the top of it.

It takes him two tries to get Shigeo’s attention, and one more for an answer on where the cap is. It’s then placed in his palm, covered in soot and also saliva. Ritsu swallows down the nausea that rolls up his throat and wipes it off with his frankly already disgusting sleeve, and screws it back on.

He leans back again, succumbing to the urge to let his eyes rest, and he listens to the very subtle swipe of his brother’s hands across brick. There’s birds outside, chirping, and even though it’s still very much a common occurrence, Ritsu cannot help but feel nostalgic about it.

If he ignores the awful hum of silence, and the distinct lack of an electric thrum throughout the walls, and the fact that this is a stranger’s couch and not his, he can almost imagine normalcy. He can almost say this feels like those quiet moments after school, when he settles on the couch and scrolls through his phone in a house that only holds him and his brother because their parents simply aren’t home yet.

He can almost hear the creak of wood from Shigeo walking around his room upstairs. He can almost tap his fingers on the couch cushions to the pattern of his brother making his way down the steps. He can almost hear the fridge opening, and the sound of milk being poured into glass.

Almost. But Ritsu listens to sharp silence instead, and he tries not to think too hard.

He drifts for a while, feels himself truly sink into the couch and let the cushions claim him, and he thinks about nothings because if he doesn’t, then he’ll lose it. He carefully sifts through the nothingness of his mind, through the passing thoughts that have no bearing, and he focuses on that, on the lack of substance. His head is too full of things that have too much substance.

He misses boredom. He tells himself he misses boredom—the complete insubstantiality of it—because if he lets himself think of what he really misses, it’ll drive him insane.

The cushions move, and Ritsu peels his eyes open and lets himself get pulled from liminal mindspace. The cotton in his head recedes, and he blinks, and then he’s swiveling his head to look at his brother who sits in the cushion right next to him.

His hands and the cuffs of his hoodie are smothered in black. Shigeo sits hunched, gaze still wandering even when there’s not much decoration in this house to look at. He studies the off-white walls, the chips in the paint, the holes drilled in where there maybe used to be photos hung.

Ritsu gazes at him quietly, chest instinctively rising and falling to match his brother’s rhythm. He watches the expansion there, under his hoodie, in the subtlety of the folds and the way they warp over the movement. It’s slightly quicker than what he’s used to, but Ritsu knows his brother’s heart rate is much slower. He’s felt it before. He’s listened to it before, with his ear against a chest.

Ritsu’s attention moves to his eyes, and the heavy bags underneath them, and the paleness of his pupils and the ghostlight of him underneath that. He stares into them, looks for stray, familiar thoughts that might enter his head. Looks for old memories that might shine through in the form of recognition when he sees furniture layouts, and candy wrappers, and ads for soda.

Ritsu looks for it all the time, that glint of familiarity. And he finds it, sometimes. And really, he thinks that’s keeping him going more than food ever will.

Shigeo turns his head, and looks at him. Sometimes, when his brother looks at him, there’s not much there. No substance, no anything. And Ritsu finds it a bit evil that he craves silence in his own head, and yet noise in Shigeo’s, and often times it is the other way around.

His brother looks at him now, though, with that comforting recognition. That growth of the pupils, that softening of the hard edges of his face where unknown stressors have gotten to him. Ritsu wonders what zombies get stressed out. He figures it’s the same deal with humans, considering they’re largely alike.

Ritsu wonders if Shigeo knows he’s sick. He wishes he could ask him. He wishes for a lot of things. Silence in his own head is one of them.

Ritsu swivels his head away and stares at the ceiling, if only to force the thoughts to pause. He studies the popcorn ridges above them, traces the peaks with his gaze. It calms him, gives him something to focus on. He looks for patterns in the shadows they make.

Shigeo shifts next to him. And then he shimmies down, settles into the cushions, and plops his head right down on Ritsu’s shoulder.

Static roars in his mind and his heart stammers. Ritsu swallows the lump in his throat but that just makes it bigger, so he clamps his mouth shut and breathes carefully through his nose.

The tears cut through the grime on his face. He plops his own head down against his brother’s, and lives in the noise.

[omegaphilosophia]

The Philosophy of Occhiolism

Occhiolism is a neologism—coined by John Koenig in The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows—that refers to the awareness of the smallness of one’s perspective in the vastness of the universe. Though not a formal philosophical doctrine, occhiolism raises deep existential, epistemological, and metaphysical questions that overlap with many areas of philosophy.

Core Themes in the Philosophy of Occhiolism:

1. Epistemic Humility Occhiolism encourages a sense of humility about what we can truly know. Our vantage point is infinitesimal, both in space and time, and our understanding is shaped by limited cognitive, cultural, and perceptual tools. This resonates with:

Skepticism, which questions the possibility of certain knowledge.

Phenomenology, which explores how our subjective experience constrains our grasp of reality.

Postmodernism, which challenges totalizing narratives and embraces fragmentation.

2. Cosmic Perspective Occhiolism echoes themes from cosmic nihilism and existentialism, emphasizing the overwhelming scale of the universe in contrast to individual human lives. The feeling it inspires is akin to what Carl Sagan described in the “Pale Blue Dot” – a simultaneous awe and insignificance.

3. Ontological Modesty Occhiolism suggests that no single view of reality is complete. It points to a layered and pluralistic ontology, where human categories are just one way of slicing the real. This idea aligns with metaphysical pluralism and perspectivism, the latter notably explored by Nietzsche.

4. Existential Vulnerability Realizing how small our perspective is can lead to ontological anxiety or angst, a theme explored by Heidegger and Kierkegaard. This confrontation with the unknown or unknowable can either paralyze or liberate, depending on how one integrates it into their worldview.

5. Wonder and Reverence Despite its disorienting nature, occhiolism can foster a renewed appreciation for life, complexity, and the interconnectedness of things. It may lead to an ethical stance rooted in care and respect—not from power or dominance, but from a deep awareness of interdependence and fragility.