#queue substitution

[smath-or-pass]

a klein bottle

[ghosty-schnibibit]

my opinion about the watcher news basically boils down to this:

watcher is screwing over a huge portion of its fanbase with this move considering how many people within it are teenagers who may not have access to streaming services, low-income adults who can't afford yet another streaming service (if any), and international fans who couldn't sign up for a US based streaming service even if they wanted to. it's okay to be angry about this, especially if you're one of those people who now can't support shows you loved or will be unable to see any of those shows going forward because of it.

and

youtube's payout to creators has dwindled in recent years to the point that it is impossible to fund the kind of productions watcher makes purely through it, and in order to sustain a company of 40+ people they need a more stable source of income not reliant on ads from outside companies and patreon, which, in this case, means a pivot to streaming. it's okay to be upset that creators you like have to turn to such methods to continue funding their work, whether you have the means to support them through these avenues or not.

and

if the early reactions to this move are any indication, watcher will probably not get the fan buy-in they anticipated and in all likelihood the new streaming site will either fail within a year or two because it isn't making enough money and take the company with it or they'll be bought out by a larger company and have their shows archived or deleted for tax purposes like what's happened to roosterteeth. it is okay to be scared by that potential future and seek to preserve as much content as you can before that happens.

are all statements that can and should coexist

[daily-hanamura]

[probablygayattorneys]

The name on the cover of this book is Steve Cavanagh, but I think that must be a pen name for Kristoph Gavin.

[deathssubstitute]

@mezkesmuses asked: ❝ hang on a second, i'm gonna record this — ❞ | Zangetsu @/mezkesmuses

"Like hell you are, you little gremlin!" Ichigo would practically hop over the table that was between them, coughing in-between movements. His instincts had spiked his instant ramen when he wasn't looking. An incredibly spicy flavor that held no bars for it's impact on his tongue. "Give me my phone, it's mine! I should have never let you have it to play games on."

[anipgarden]

Ani Reviews: A Step-by-Step Guide to a Florida Native Yard

I promised you guys a review and here it is. I've never really done a book review before but I'm doing my best to make this Coherent and Helpful.

[Photo ID: a book, titled A Step-by-Step Guide to a Florida Native Yard by Ginny Stibolt and Marjorie Shropshire.]

Out of all the books I checked out from the library this round, I started with this one because it was the shortest out of all of them--if we don't count the appendix and index, its 101 pages long. You can read where I sort of live blogged a portion of this read here.

I think its a pretty good read! It's definitely a lot more relevant if you are the home owner and most directly in charge of landscaping decisions and such. It gives a bit of advice on how to handle making similar changes in an HOA neighborhood, and provides pointers and resources to other books that can also be helpful in the journey to make your landscape a wildlife-friendly habitat. It focuses on Florida specifically, as denoted by the title, and will frequently remind the reader that gardening in Florida is vastly different from gardening anywhere else. So whether you've been a Florida resident all your life, or are planning on making a move on down here, this book can be a helpful resource if you want to transform some or even all of your yard into a habitat.

After the introduction, the book is separated into seven major sections referred to as Steps. There's Assess Your Property, Plan for Drainage and Stormwater Sequestration, Install Trees, Plant Shrubs, Working with Herbaceous Plants, Build a Wild or Natural Area, and Create Spaces for Human Use. If you're more interested in one part than the others, you can definitely skip around to find what you're looking for. I will say, the Drainage and Stormwater section made my head spin a bit.

I will say this: I don't know if the writers ever fully decided if they wanted this book to be targeted towards those who are already gung-ho about native plants and itching to transform their landscape, or to people who are just beginning to dip their toe into the idea. Overall though, it was a nice and informative read, and the illustrations inside are lovely.

[mythvoiced]

@stillresolved | ♥

"Babe, you're the only fashion designer I like. I will endorse you as often as possible, what's stopping me, the law? Your brother?"

[deathssubstitute]

@aftapati

my bleach obsession coming back again cuz of the new eps lmfao

[teaboot]

Okay so like. You know your own name as a kid, right?

You remember how it sounds, how your parents say it, how your friends say it- you learn how to spell it, and maybe even what it means and why it was given to you, and it's yours.

It's not a tangible, physical thing, like your hair or your fingernails, but it's yours. It belongs to you.

So, like. Imagine there comes a point in life where everyone gets their name tattooed to their forehead, or something.

Could be when they're two. Could be when they're twenty. Hell, it could be when they're eighty, or ninety-nine, or whenever. But it's everybody, and it's inevitable, and it happens.

Now imagine the time comes for you, and you get up after and look in the mirror and realize they spelled it wrong.

And you have to go outside and live your life in a world where everybody is so totally used to knowing people's names on sight that not a single person second-guesses that your parents named you Susam, or Ahley, or Benjabib.

And you know it's wrong, every time you hear it, but you can choose to explain every single time- every time you're called in a coffee queue, every time a teacher picks you in class, every time you meet a new person or bump into a stranger or are greeted on the street, by children and employers and door-to-door salesmen and your fucking waitress- or you can kind of just learn to grit your teeth and ignore it.

You still notice, of course- maybe you learn to accept it, maybe you hate it every time, but whether you do anything about it or not, you still know. You know people have the wrong word for you in your head.

You know they still mean YOU, but it's not you.

So what's your solution?

Do you shrug, decide it doesn't matter, and go about your life?

Do you smear the typo over with foundation, pencil in new letters every morning?

Do you stare into the mirror sometimes and think, "wow, I should really get that fixed"?

Maybe you save up your money and get it removed, or covered up, or changed to something else. Maybe the whole damn thing was wrong, and you've been a Jacob running around as a Hailey this whole damn time.

That's the best way to explain it. It's not an easily-provable thing, or a demonstrable thing, or a feeling I can one-for-one substitute as something else-

but that's what it's like to know you're not a girl.

[smath-or-pass]

Fourier transform

[eriquin]

I need to preserve @tinytalkingtina's tags:

#steve please go to therapy#I'd like to imagine steve dumped all of this on a hot clerk in a gay bookstore in chicago when he took robin to learn about her culture#and the guy suggested steve get fucked by a bear to get over Hopper's death#which is how steve and Robin leadned what bisexuality was

Steve being unable to distinguish parental love from romantic feelings because he doesn’t know what it’s like to love your parents lead to him going up to Eddie one day like, “Hey, man. I don’t think we can hang out anymore because I’m in love with your uncle.”

Eddie has a blue-screen of death moment years before he’ll even learn what that is and is just like, “What?”

Steve is just like, “yeah, sorry. It sucks because I like hanging out with you and everything.”

Then he goes on to describe how Wayne makes him feel warm and safe. One time, Wayne said he was doing a good job and that he was proud of him, “And I smiled for days after that. It was crazy.”

“Right…” Eddie says slowly. “I don’t think you’re in love with my uncle…. I think you’re just experiencing what it’s like to have a good father figure.”

Steve just blinks at him, “Oh.”

Then he turns around and yells into the back of family video, “Robin! I don’t have bi thoughts, I just have bad parents!”

Robin yells back, “You have both!”

[deathssubstitute]

@mezkesmuses || cont from x ( Orihime )

There's a smile that comes out on his features. Of course she would insist that he get some sleep. He wanted to sleep believe him. He wanted to fall to the ground beneath her feet and simply fall asleep under her watch. But alas he had reaper duties that kept him awake at all hours of the night and day. He had to be ready to jump into action no matter the cost to his personal self. But in this moment as he sat beside Orihime, he wanted to fall asleep so badly. He wanted to fall asleep beside her and have her watch over him. Like she always seemed to do.

"I know I know." He would play it off cool though. "I need to catch some sleep one of these days. But you tell that to the soul society." He would hold up his phone and stare at all the notifs he had answered the night previously. "So many different sightings I don't think I've even slept a full night's sleep in the past couple of days." he would stretch his arms for a second. "You know what would make me feel better though? if you and I had a cup of tea together."

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter two

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: your day off opens in a quiet, comforting way. errands and small talk feel almost enough to keep the world steady. but scattered signs—disturbed spaces, cryptic messages—suggest unseen eyes on you.

⤿ warning(s): stalking

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 1.9k

Your first day off in twelve shifts begins the way small miracles do: with sunlight, silence, and the smell of good food.  

You stand in the kitchen, spatula in hand, watching thick‑cut slices of bacon curl and pop in the cast‑iron. A pot of full black beans simmers beside them, spiced with a dash of chipotle, and sourdough toasts slowly in the oven. The kettle whistles; you pour the water over loose‑leaf tea—then carry everything to the coffee table.  

You sink into the couch, remote in one hand, plate balanced carefully on your knees. The History Channel flickers to life on the TV—some World War II documentary already mid-narration. A gravelly voice drones about tank strategies and bitter winters while you dig into your breakfast: bacon, beans, toast, and two sunny-side-up eggs. When the video ends you queue another—street‑food vendors in Oaxaca—then another—an eight‑hour lo‑fi playlist you’ll never finish. Breakfast stretches into morning, warm and unhurried, crumbs gathering on your pajama pants.  

By ten you’re upright, mug refilled, windows cracked to let in crisp river air. You sweep, wipe counters, toss sheets into the washer, and chase a rogue dust bunny across the hallway with the broom. Domestic quiet feels luxurious, almost decadent.  

Suddenly, a sharp voice drifts through the open window. “Again?! Seriously?!”  

You peer through the window and down into the courtyard. Mr. Donnelly—gray beard, Steelers cap—stands by the communal trash corral, hands on hips. Black bags are shredded, cardboard flaps torn open, and yesterday’s takeout containers scatter like confetti. The mess is worst around your bin: coffee grounds, chicken bones, a tea packet glinting foil in the sun.  

You lean on the sill. “Everything okay, Mr. D?”  

He looks up, exasperation softening when he sees you. “Raccoons, maybe cats. Little bandits had themselves a buffet!”  

“Roger. I’ll be right down.”  

You pull on jeans, an old hoodie, and rubber gloves. Downstairs you and Donnelly work side by side, scooping refuse into fresh bags, tying double knots. He mutters about city pest control; you crack jokes about raccoon Michelin ratings.  

Halfway through, he wipes his brow with a sleeve. “Hey—off topic. My daughter mailed me a bottle of turmeric pills, swears they’re good for my joints. That true, or is it Facebook nonsense?”  

“Turmeric can help a little with inflammation,” you say, cinching a bag, “but it’s no substitute for your prescription NSAID—and it can mess with blood thinners, so clear it with your doc first.”  

He nods—ever since you spotted that odd, pearly mole on his temple last year, the one he thought was just an age spot until the biopsy came back melanoma, he treats your word like gospel. “Good to know. She also sent me a link about apple‑cider‑vinegar cures, but I figured that was bunk.”  

“ACV is great on salad,” you dead‑pan, hefting another sack, “and terrible for curing anything else.”  

Donnelly barks a laugh. “Knew it.”  

It’s odd that only your bin is mauled, but he chalks it up to the smell of your bacon‑grease jar and you let the theory stand. When everything’s tidy you hose the concrete, angle the spray under the bins, and he grips your shoulder in a grateful squeeze.  

“You’ve saved my hide twice now—first the cancer, now the critter fiasco.”  

“Just doing the neighborhood rounds,” you reply, stripping off your gloves.  

“Still. I owe you. If you ever need a ride anywhere, you call me.”  

“Deal.”  

You thank him again, head back upstairs for a shower, and let the steam rinse away trash‑day grime—and the faint, nagging thought that raccoons rarely prefer bacon grease to everyone else’s leftovers.  

Upstairs, you kick off your shoes and head straight for the bathroom. Steam is already fogging the mirror by the time your hoodie hits the hamper. You stand under a scalding spray until your shoulders unknot, grit swirling away in ribbons. Shampoo, coconut body wash, a quick exfoliating scrub over the calluses that surgical gloves never let your skin forget—small rituals that reset your head as much as your body.  

Fresh out, you wrap yourself in an oversized towel, pad to the bedroom, and let the day‑off uniform choose itself. You massage lotion into your hands—cuticles forever dry from incessant scrubbing—then slip your phone from the charger to check the time.  

11:58. Perfect.  

In the kitchen you pack a canvas tote: your wallet, a couple of mesh produce bags, the prescription bottle that needs refilling, and that one pair of trousers with a busted hem for the tailor. You make a quick mental note to add swing by the thrift store to the list on your phone; you’ve been meaning to hunt for a new lamp for a good month now.  

Just as you bend to lace your boots, the phone buzzes. The screen lights with a photo: Jack's hand—broad knuckles, faint surgical nicks—cradling a steaming ceramic mug. Beneath, his caption:  

4‑minute steep, no boil. 👍  

A laugh snorts out before you can stop it. Jack, with the earnest proof‑of‑completion energy of a dad texting his first selfie. You thumb a reply:  

Gold star, Doctor. Welcome to the leaf side.  

Before you hit send, another buzz stacks above Jack’s thread. The preview text looks like a cat walked across a keyboard: ahsdklfhasdklfhaskl hi.

No name. No profile pic. A number you don’t recognize.  You swiftly block the number without opening the message.  Probably just spam.

Outside, the hallway smells of floor wax and warm laundry tumbling in the communal dryer—normal, safe scents. You lock the apartment, test the knob twice, then head for the stairwell, reciting the grocery list in your head like a mantra: eggs, oranges, rice and a sweet treat, maybe two or even three.

By the time your boots hit the sidewalk, sunlight on your face and the city’s Saturday hum around you, the odd text and the midnight raccoons have folded into a corner of your mind labeled later. Today is still yours, and you intend to spend every mundane minute of it.  

. . .  

When you swing past the Riverfront Market, the parking lot looks like a disaster drill—SUVs circling like vultures, carts jammed in every corral. You mutter a tactical retreat, swing back onto the boulevard, and promise yourself groceries will be the final stop. And so, you knock out your errands with efficiency: trousers dropped at the tailor (“two centimeters, blind hem, please”), prescription refilled, and lastly, a quick victory lap through the thrift shop where you score a tiffany desk lamp for five bucks.  

An hour later, you roll into the same lot to find it blissfully tamer—maybe half‑full, the Saturday rush already migrating to lunch. Perfect. You snag a space near the cart return, grab your canvas tote, and head inside.  

The produce aisle is crisp with the scent of misted greens when a familiar voice rings out behind you. “There she is—my favorite surgical saint!”  

You turn as Dana—her sharp blonde bob swinging over her shoulders—eases her cart into yours with a playful thunk. Her niece, a round‑cheeked toddler in star‑print leggings, claps at the gentle collision, squealing when you reach out to give her belly a quick tickle, thumb and forefinger pinching her marshmallow cheeks just enough to earn a giggle.  

“Hi there!” you laugh, straightening as you look up at a beaming charge nurse. “I thought your day off was reserved for sweatpants and true‑crime podcasts.”  

“Tiny tyrant wanted blueberries,” she says, ruffling the toddler’s hair. “And my daughter wanted thirty uninterrupted minutes, so Nana came to the rescue.” She drops a pint of berries into her cart, then peers into yours. “Real vegetables? Bakery bread? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a functioning adult.”  

“Shh,” you whisper. “I have a reputation to ruin.”

You angle your cart toward the tomatoes; Dana falls in beside you, matching your lazy pace. Her niece lunges for every bright piece of produce, and Dana buys temporary peace with a steady drip of bunny‑shaped crackers. Between grabs you trade life bulletins: you ask with genuine interest about how Benji’s woodworking side hustle is faring—“He finally sold that live‑edge coffee table,” Dana crows, “and now he thinks he’s Etsy royalty”—and she fires back, wanting to know if you ever sent in that application for the citywide cook‑off. You confess you chickened out at the last minute, then admit you’ve been taking weekend pottery instead, which makes her whoop loud enough to startle the toddler. “Look at us,” she says, snagging a ripe Roma, “two adrenaline junkies pretending we have hobbies like normal people.”

Halfway through the avocado display, Dana’s tone slips to mock‑casual. “So,” she drawls, examining you like a crystal ball, “rumor is our favorite former combat medic traded sludge‑grade coffee for—” she waves at the tea section up ahead “—fancy tea.”  

Heat blooms at your ears. “Abbot can drink whatever he wants.”  

Dana’s blue eyes sparkle. “ Just Abbot, huh? Funny—heard you called him Jack on the radio last week.”  

Your mouth opens, shuts. “Slip of the tongue.”  

“Sure,” she teases, easing a grin. “There’s a betting pool, you know. Odds on why the caffeine king is suddenly brewing leaves.”  

“You people will gamble on anything.”  

Dana parks the cart and crosses her arms. “Current theories: secret detox, midlife crisis, or”—she lifts her brows—“a certain pretty surgical nurse’s influence.”  

You snort. “Please. Nothing’s going on. Just two over‑worked fossils hydrating.”  

“Nothing she says, using his first name like a lullaby.” Dana winks. “Spill it.”  

You bag a head of romaine. “He’s…nice. Listens. That’s all.”  

“Uh‑huh. Well, when Jack starts smuggling in single‑origin Darjeeling, I’m cashing out.”  

Before you can reply, Dana’s niece launches a blueberry skyward; it splats harmlessly on Dana’s sleeve and she plucks it off, unfazed.

“Speaking of chaos—yesterday in The Pitt? One guy comes in with a nail‑gun through his boot and tries to livestream it. Robby has to confiscate the phone while Collins hunts for tetanus history. And—get this—one of the med‑students faints into the sharps bin. We’re calling him Porcupine now.”  

You laugh so hard you nearly drop your lettuce. “Porcupine! That’s savage, even for you.”  

“Pitt rules: if you pass out, you earn a nickname.” She scoops animal crackers into her niece’s hands. “Anyway, enjoy your day off. And remember, the house cut on the Abbot‑tea pool is twenty percent.”  

“Fine,” you sigh, pushing your cart. “But if you win, I’m taking half and buying enough loose‑leaf to convert the whole unit.”  

Dana salutes with a blueberry. “I’ll hold you to it, Jack‑whisperer.”  

You roll your eyes, but the name lingers sweet on your tongue as you both trundle toward the bakery—two nurses off‑duty, carts bumping, hearts lighter than any official chart will ever note.  

. . .  

By late afternoon you’re back in the apartment, juggling your against your ribs while your new lamp shines prettily near the entrance. You drop everything on the kitchen table and reach for your phone to tick “groceries” off the to‑do list—only to find three new notifications from the another strange number.

The previews are nonsense again—random consonants, stray emojis, one line that looks like Morse code smashed by a cat. You thumb through, equal parts annoyed and curious, until you hit the most recent message:  

Green suits you, pretty girl.  

A pulse hammers once, hard, in your throat.  

You set the phone down very carefully, as though it might explode, and listen—really listen—to the apartment. The fridge hums. Upstairs pipes clank. No footsteps, no voices, but suddenly every shadow feels occupied.  

Groceries forgotten, you sweep the place like you would on the trauma bay: bedroom closet first (just winter coats), bathroom cabinet (towels and aspirin), hall linen closet (sheets, vacuum hose), kitchen pantry (cereal boxes, nothing human). You kneel to peer under the bed, heart pounding like you sprinted stairs, then check every window lock twice, tugging to be sure.  

Finally you drag the spare dining chair across the floor and wedge its back under the doorknob—an old trick your grandmother swore by. It won’t stop a battering ram, but it buys time. Time feels like oxygen right now.  

Only then do you remember the milk on the counter, sweating through the carton. You shove perishables into the fridge on autopilot, not taking the care to arrange it like you usually would, hands trembling just enough to clink jars together. The phone stays facedown on the table, screen black, as though eye contact might invite more.  

Night falls, the apartment settles.

You brew the strongest sleep‑blend tea you own—valerian, chamomile, skullcap—and pour it into your largest mug. Scissors from the junk drawer go onto the vanity beside your bed, blades half‑open like a steel moth. Overreacting? Maybe. Under‑reacting because you haven’t called the police? Possibly. What you know is this: control is a ladder, and tonight every rung you can hold matters.  

You sip the smooth brew, crawl beneath the duvet, and stare at the ceiling until the tea’s heaviness drags your eyelids down. The phone is silenced, the chair braces the door, scissors glint in the street‑lamp glow. It isn’t much, but it’s a perimeter—thin, improvised, yours.  

You let the darkness take you, counting breaths, willing morning to hurry.

divider credit

[smath-or-pass]

The Mayer-Vietoris Sequence :))

[daily-hanamura]

[fiamat12]

What do you think of Chatgpt? Here's a link that explains how it's generated and it's limitations. I like it for some things, it's like a group think but nothing replaces all of us OGs who have sat through the Lukola saga and understand the nuances of being there.

https://guides.library.txstate.edu/c.php?g=1321038&p=9718369#:~:text=to%20human%20conversation.-,How%20does%20chat%20GPT%20work?,describe%20them%20in%20natural%20language.

Well, there's a reason robots haven't replaced humans yet lol. Nothing can substitute for the human experience. I saw a Chapgpt on Lukola using A for PR and it didn't allow for two truths - like using her to divert attention (like when N gave birth to BN) since Luke had to do the NDA obligations anyway. Or N's PR team posting on Polin day and using a Lukola coded pic; Netflix Queue used a WT pic. so why not use that to their advantage? It's killing two birds w/ one stone or for A, making lemonade out of lemons.

So, I use it as additional support for a theory or Ask but not as my primary source of info. My primary source is all the critical thinking I've done w/ my partner and all the other Lukola OGs over the past year. Indeed, Anon, nothing can replace that! 🙌

N's PR team Polin Day post ⏬️

The article Anon links ⬇️