#pitch drop experiment

[prokopetz]

Okay, so here’s the pitch.

[did-the-pitch-dropped-yet]

Did the Pitch Drop fell?

08/12/2023: No.

[conscious-naivete]

you just know that when they finally catch the pitch-drop pitch dropping on camera tumblr will declare a national holiday

[taxi-boi]

call me genderfluid the way i experiment with my pitch drop

[coquelicoq]

if you're wondering what the big deal is about the louis-philippe sentence in les misérables, it is, in the original french, 760 words long. the subject of the sentence doesn't appear until 95% of the way through, at word #711; the main verb is word #712. the sentence contains 91 commas and 49 semicolons and is almost entirely a list of laudatory adjectival phrases describing the erstwhile king of france. this is perhaps especially notable because les mis is, shall we say, not known for being particularly gung-ho about the monarchy.

this sentence copied and pasted into Word takes up more than one page single-spaced. in the 1800-page folio classique edition, it is fully two and a half of those 1800 pages. that means that les mis is 0.14% this single sentence. more of les mis is made up of this sentence than earth's atmosphere is made up of carbon dioxide (0.04%). if the page count of les mis stayed the same but every sentence was the length of this one, les mis would consist of only 720 sentences total.

incidentally, guess who named hugo a peer of france 17 years before the publication of les mis?

[urleoo]

Why do you hate autotune so much?

I don’t hate it i just think it’s lazy

[the-trans-dragon]

Hehehe >:3 got a kissie and some headpats from a pretty girl >:3 muahahahahahaha >:3

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

RATS are NOT your friends at night while you're reading a scary book

[riverofrainbows]

I'm giving myself a little jumpscare every time i talk with my relaxed natural voice which is now noticeably different than before

It's exciting but like i said, little jumpscare each time

I have kind of forgotten that even though I'm excited for it andooked forward to ir a long time and like the change, i still have to get used to it, and then do a little bit more getting used to it for the autism

[violet-dragongirl]

I FINALLY FOUND THE FUCKING SONG THAT WAS IN TWO MEME VIDEOS AND IT TOOK ME AEONS TO FUCKING FIND IT FUCK

[damnbluewires]

princess in a castle

[did-the-pitch-dropped-yet]

Did the Pitch Drop fell?

28/04/2024: No.

[juniperleafdelivery]

* consider. the pitch drop experiment but it's in night vale. somewhere out in the desert are reports of a display case. inside is a glass funnel and beaker. pitch is slowly dropping from the funnel into the beaker — at least we think it'll eventually drop.

* carlos and his team of scientists are actively investigating the pitch drop, trying to figure out if it'll ever drop. cecil talks about it on the radio too

* then one broadcast, cecil is reporting the going ons in night vale as normal, when he has a very important announcement. the scientists currently watching the pitch have exciting news! the pitch is about to drop!

* then something happens that cuts cecil off in the middle of describing this historic event (or maybe the weather happens). when we return, cecil only briefly says that there's yet to be any sign of the pitch dropping, then moves on. it's as if the previous segment never happened.

* maybe the pitch drop is mentioned every once in a while. but every time someone tries to report the pitch falling, something prevents them. all we know (or are allowed to know) is that there's a funnel and beaker with pitch, covered by a display case, somewhere out in the desert.

* tune in next time to hear what pitch sounds like. good night, night vale. good night.

[naisaa]

hi hello psa for my beloved fellow transgenders who are worried about somehow ruining their singing voice by going on testosterone: i’m about 2.5 years on t, my normal speaking voice has dropped about an octave and a half and i just hit the high C ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

[confir]

genderfluid (bitumen)

[luveline]

spencer one shot where he’s angry at somebody else [bc he so does look so kissable when he’s angry >:(] maybe someone at one of the precincts they’re working at said something rude about r and he defends u and maybe he gets a lil kiss <3

im thinking “this is calm and it’s doctor” vibes bc that scene does things to me 😭

ty for requesting ♡ fem, 1.1k

cw for sexual harassment

"Jesus," Spencer says, rushing to stand behind you as you bend over. 

"Mm?" you hum. You're fishing for your dropped change unsuccessfully by the precinct vending machines. "They have your chips, did you see?" 

"Your pants are ripped," Spencer says, hand ghosting your thigh. 

"What?" you ask, shooting up. You turn on the spot to hide, hand leaping back. You feel at the seam. "Where?" 

"Top of your thigh." 

"Shit, really? Can you see my–" 

"Yeah," he says, meeting your wide eyes while you locate the rip. "How did you do that?" He laughs. 

"Don't laugh!" you demand, though you're giggling as you do, hand covering your thigh and the bottom of your butt inefficiently. 

"Do you want my jacket?" 

"Don't cover it up, toots." 

You and Spencer both blink. There's a crowd of grinning beat cops by the door of the cafeteria who've obviously witnessed your misdemeanour. "Toots?" Spencer asks. 

"Sorry, boys, that's the end of the show," you say with a grin. Not because you particularly enjoy having been oggled, but it's always been like this. Men will always make weird comments to you, and you've learned to play nice until they're out of your jurisdiction. 

"Turn back around," one says bravely, though you aren't sure which one. 

Spencer stands in front of you subtly. "Do you know that thirty eight percent of women experience sexual harassment in the workplace?" he asks, quick but measured. "Thirty eight percent, but I'm sure a much smaller number of those women are federal agents, and a smaller number again have the capacity to break your arm. I've seen her give serial killers radial fractures. I've seen her do worse." 

"We were just messing around," one says. 

"No need to get defensive," says another. "Don't get mad, boy." 

"I am defensive, but I'm not mad."

His tone attracts the attention of a precinct sergeant who barks at them to stop messing around and get back to work. "Were they bothering you?" he asks after they've filtered out with their heads down. 

"No," you say swiftly. "Everything's fine." 

Spencer frowns, worse when the sergeant leaves, turning to you to take your hand. A few weeks ago at a company picnic, when the sun was high and your spirits comparatively lower, you'd apologised to him for flirting. You love to flirt and especially with him, puppy eyed Spencer with his head of brown hair and his big brain, but some of the team suggested you were taking it too far. You apologised, but Spencer didn't really get what you were saying sorry for and took your hand to lead you out of the sun. He protects you. 

"You okay?" he asks. 

"I'm fine." 

"You sure?" His voice fries. 

"I'm sure," you say. His hand is an interesting thing on yours. He has long, long fingers that seem to possess their own willpower, moving even as they're sewn through yours. "I don't know what to do about my pants." 

Spencer's eyebrows pinch together. "Well, I'll take care of that. I'll find you something. I can't believe those as–" 

"Oh," you interrupt, taking your hand back in want of a better thing to hold, his cheek a mix of soft and scratchy against your palm. "You're still mad." 

"I'm not mad," he insists, though eventually he relents, "Alright, I'm angry that they'd think it was okay to objectify you." 

"What else?" you ask, letting your voice drop in pitch, the sound smooth as angora silk. 

"I'm thinking about if I hadn't been here." 

"I can protect myself," you murmur, endeared by the heat in his gaze. "You said it yourself, handsome. Radial fractures." 

"You shouldn't have to." 

"We both already know that," you say, the side of your hand slipping down his cheek reverently. He squints gently, his lashes dark triangles, his irises a browned sugar. His jaw clenches under your touch. "You're handsome." 

"Right now?" he asks dryly. 

"Are you handsome right now?" 

"Are you really flirting with me right now?" 

"Why wouldn't I be?" You draw a line under his ear whisper soft to curl a longer strand of his hair around the tip. "You look hot when you're winning." 

"What did I win?" he asks, like he doesn't want to know. 

You grin at him, stickying. "Would you like an itemised list?" you ask, rising on tiptoes to speak into the shell of his ear. "What do you think you deserve, handsome? For such a fearless defence?" 

He's not immune to your whims, but he is used to them, planting his hands on your shoulders to ease you back on sure footing. "I don't want anything. I'll always defend you." 

"Can I give you a small token of my gratitude, at least?" 

His pinking cheeks practically emanate heat. "We don't have time for this," he says regretfully, "I still have to find you a coverup." 

"Just a small token," you say. 

He hums and haws. "Alright. Okay, whatever you want." 

"You sure?" 

He nods once, his jaw working with something unsaid. You touch his neck, fingertips trailing along the underside of his jaw until you're sure it's what he wants before you brace your hands behind his head and press a chaste kiss to his cheek, close enough that the corner of his lips align with yours but don't overlap. His neck is hot in your hands, his hair soft, his breath hooking as you lift your lips just a touch and your nose digs into his cheek. "Thank you, Spencer," you whisper. 

He pulls you closer. 

You shudder as his hand presses into the small of your back, wondering what it is he wants to do. His fingers spread. Your thoughts turn to white noise. Like he can sense it, he breathes out and steps away, but any sense of urgency is gone. 

"As much as I might tease, I really do need some pants," you say. "I'm not very interested in anyone else seeing my panties today." 

He rushes off to find you something and you press the backs of your fingers to your cheeks, feeling the heat there with a resigned embarrassment. He has no idea how much power he has over you, in his stony anger and his eager reception. The phantom of his hand warms your back until he returns, his sweater in hand. "Sorry, this is it." 

"If you want me to wear your clothes, just say so." 

"Hotch is pretty pissed at us." 

"Ah," you sigh, tying his sweater around your waist, "another day in paradise, baby."