#that’s 45 degrees Celsius

[sophisticatedswifts]

swiftie moment (it feels like the gates of hell have opened up in my front yard)

[cryinginthedeep]

matthew tkachuk - florida!!! (also uploading on tiktok later, might be the first and last vid i'll ever post there lmao)

[maukuja]

today's work includes coming up with a recipe based on other people's recipes

[incorrect-blind-channel]

I promise that I want to post more but I am actually freezing to death up here you know how it is

[jorjin]

I will never ever ever stop raging at Taylor Swift after the shitshow (literally, for the latter part of the word) she did in my own country. You pay 100 thousand dollars to someonr who got shot at the superbowl that had nothing to do with you and yet you did NOTHING to the family of the fan who died from the heat during your Brazilian tour.

It all just feels incredibly racist to me. This poor brown woman deserves nothing even after PAYING A THOUSAND BRL to go to your fucking show, something she had to plan ahead for months. You take a picture with her extended family and that's all she deserves to you.

Americans truly see us as nothig but street mutts.

[famousblueraincoatmp3]

i turn 24 tomorrow !!!!

[yuneu]

also obviously i couldn’t get my phone in for pictures but the nuclear power plant was sooo interesting and cool

[blueprint-han]

i'm good!!!! school is out for summer now <3 hru??

I'm doing alright too :") just some general life issues but nothing that can't be dealt with aksnksn also man ur so lucky!!! College doesn't leave us for 2 more months sadly ;-;

[allthegeopolitics]

Delhi recorded an all-time high temperature of 52.9 degrees Celsius (127.22 Fahrenheit) on Wednesday (May 29) as extreme heat conditions gripped the north and western parts of India, causing students to faint in schools and drinking water taps to dry up. A heat wave alert has been in place for large parts of India since last week but on Wednesday the temperature in Mungeshpur, a densely packed corner of Delhi, crossed the 50 C mark, the weather office said. The Indian capital has had temperatures of over 45 C in previous years but never gone as high as 52.9 C.

Continue Reading

[antiquitiesandlabyrinths]

Imagery from Khonsu’s Temple within the Karnak Temple Complex in Luxor, Thebes.

The Karnak complex is massive and it’s temples ornately decorated despite their age. I took these photos near the end of July—it was over 45 degrees celsius, so there were few people there. The experience, especially because of the lack of people, was richly unique and beneficial to the soul.

[aingeal98]

We need a batman villain who's power is causing heatwaves. He dials it up so high that most of the batfam are out of commission and it's up to Damian (raised in a hotter climate) and Cass (raised in a hotter climate but also just Cass) to team up and save their family from death by heatstroke. Bonus points if Talia shows up to help and silently judges Dick for his choice of skintight kevlar in 45 degrees Celsius weather

[mindblowingscience]

The deadly heat wave that hit Africa's Sahel region in early April would not have occurred without human-induced climate change, according to a study by the World Weather Attribution (WWA) group published Thursday. The West African nations of Mali and Burkina Faso experienced an exceptional heat wave from April 1 until April 5, with soaring temperatures above 45 degrees Celsius (113 degrees Fahrenheit) triggering many deaths. Observations and climate models used by researchers at the WWA showed that "heat waves with the magnitude observed in March and April 2024 in the region would have been impossible to occur without the global warming of 1.2C to date", which scientists attribute to human-induced climate change.

Continue Reading.

[andorerso]

And then the jacket had to be worn in Jordan at 45 degrees Celsius. I mean, it was impossible to wear it.

HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN and DIEGO LUNA on Actors on Actors

[nevadancitizen]

-> SEEING DOUBLE

synopsis: könig thought he was the only one that could hear and see you for a while. that is, until horangi mentions someone singing.

word count: 1.8k

characters: könig, horangi, player! reader, reader's unnamed friend

trigger warnings: mention of canon-typical violence, mentions of/thoughts of relapse (horangi’s past gambling addiction), hornagi is like obsessive too lololol (also forgot to add STILL insp. by/referencing @simp4konig 's self-aware könig piece)

notes: uh pov switches from omnipotent third-person könig to omnipotent third-person hornagi. oops lol also the temp. is in fahrenheit in celsius it would be ~26 degrees

König thought he was the only one for a long while. All these operators around him were only given minds through their code and pixels – König was the one with an actual brain in his skull. 

That was, until another operator heard you. 

You – and, someone else, maybe a friend from your world? – were singing along to some song unknown to König, mumbling the parts you didn’t know so well and bursting with energy at the parts you knew by heart.

König was waiting for the mission time to arrive in the armory, quietly listening to you and your friend. He felt some warmth from you – a small percent of what you’re capable of making him feel. Just enough to know you’re there, that you have eyes on him, to know the singing isn’t a delusion.

Horangi was also in the armory, his footsteps light as he peruses the wall of firearms. He plucks a Fennec 45 from the wall before turning it over in his hands and inspecting it – though he seems distracted while doing so. 

He turns to König and adjusts his sunglasses. “Do you hear that?”

König looks up from the stray skid mark on the floor he was looking at. “Hear what?”

“The…” Horangi gestures vaguely around him, then taps his earpiece. His voice drops to a lower volume, like he didn’t want anyone else hearing. “The singing. Do you not hear that?”

König stays silent for a moment. He checks over his shoulder to make sure no one else is in the armory before turning back to Horangi. “I hear it.”

Horangi breathes a sigh of relief, but doesn’t say anything else. He settles his ass on one of the thick, plastic ammo crates, fiddling with the Fennec 45, repeatedly pressing the magazine release before pushing the magazine back in. 

The singing stops, leaving only the music playing. Then, a voice is heard – “I’ve never seen Horangi do that. What is he, nervous?” 

And then, your voice – “Hey, don’t bully him!”

Horangi’s back snaps straight up as he looks around the armory. “What was that? Is someone else in here?”

König pulls at his hood so he can see Horangi better. “You’re really hearing them?”

“Yes.” Horangi looks at König. “Where are they?”

König shakes his head. “It’s best if we discuss this later.” In reality, König was dying to discuss this with another person – it was as if this heavy burden had been lifted now that he could talk to someone about you, about this video game they lived in, about everything while actually having something to back him up. 

Only a few seconds later, the siren sounds and it’s go time. Footsteps hit the ground and operators rush to the rooftops to be taken away to the hot zone. 

When both Horangi and König are secured on the helicopter, they don’t talk for a while, only sharing occasional glances (silent promises that no, the other is not insane, and no, this is not the start of a mass hysteria outbreak).

When boots hit the ground, König feels that oh-so-familiar warmth flood his body, blooming like a lotus from his chest to his limbs. He nods to Horangi to stick close. 

The music was turned down and all focus was on the battlefield – your silent guidance gave König commands to carry out, while your friend did the same with Horangi. 

Commands are barked out by the operators, you and your friend give excited praise, and the battlefield is a mess of noise. Bullets fly every which direction, sprays of brrrrrr-AT! echo off the abandoned buildings, some of which were still in the process of being built. 

This is urban warfare. 

As a SpecGru operator turns the corner, König pulls Horangi back behind a concrete half-wall (half because the rest of the wall had been sloughed off by explosions). To König, the touch is nothing, but to Horangi? Oh, that touch felt like bliss. 

It was you, striking a match and tossing it into the full burning barrel that was his lungs. Horangi pumped air into them like he was having a goddamn panic attack so that when his lungs caught fire, the rest of him did too. Your fire was slow, yet burning and hot all the same. It made him want to collapse in your white-hot flame and be consumed by you and not even care that he was ash and –

The feeling was gone, and Horangi was normal again. As normal as he could be when shivering in full tactical gear while it was eighty degrees out. 

König’s voice breaks through the haze. “Horangi?”

Horangi shifts so that he’s sitting with his back against the concrete half-wall. “Yes, sir?”

“You solid?”

Horangi presses the magazine release and pushes the magazine back in. “The voices… our voices. The ones…” he gestures to his earpiece. “I heard them. And then I had a hot flash when you touched me.”

“Focus,” König hisses. “There’ll be time for that later.”

Horangi presses the magazine release and pushes the magazine back in. He peeks out from behind the concrete half-wall, then ducks back behind it. 

“Ready, sir?”

“When you are.” 

The battle is easy for König and Horangi when a benevolent being and a lesser one are controlling their every movement. It doesn’t hurt that the warmth serves as adrenaline, a body high that keeps them both alive and bold. Battle chatter fades into the background when that song and your rushed praise fills their ears and makes them feel warmer than you already make them. 

When the last opposing operator falls, the message is relayed until every KorTac operator is back at the helicopters. 

“Wheels up in two!” the pilot calls out. 

König and Horangi move together up to the cabin of the helicopter and silently sit next to each other, hands working deftly to buckle themselves in. 

Horangi tilts his chin up and lets the back of his helmet hit the headrest. He takes his sunglasses off and wipes them of dust and a spurt of blood. His eyes wander over the ceiling of the helicopter, quietly listening to you and your friend celebrate. 

“Who are they?” he quietly asks König. 

König leans closer to Horangi, the hem of his hood brushing Horangi’s shoulder. His voice is quiet. “I call them players. I know the one who told the other not to bully you. We… I don’t think we exist on the same plane as them. I think of them as a god. They help me – us, now.”

Then, König leans closer and whispers your name like a single-word prayer. 

And, fuck, how Horangi wants to fall back into gambling so he could whisper your name into his cupped hands while he’s shaking the dice just as he rolls that blessed seven. His breath falters for a split second as he thinks of the divine luck you’d bring him at the craps table, your fingers – assuming you were even human, or humanoid – trailing down his arms, touching his wrist to imbue his hands with your power. He’d happily worship you if it meant feeding that rush when the payout is high, and… shit. Hornagi takes a deep breath before he quickly corrects his thoughts and directs them elsewhere. 

He doesn’t even know where those thoughts came from. Well, he knows where the thoughts of relapse come from, but he doesn’t know where the thoughts about you stem. He’s barely felt your warmth, yet in your presence, he doesn’t want to be the big bad tiger – he wants to be the housecat that rubs up against your legs and gets away with knocking pill bottles off the counter. 

“Can you feel them?” König asks in a hushed whisper.

Horangi nods. Your fire is a dull thrum in his chest, but your heart is beating right next to his nonetheless. “Yes.”

König knocks his knee against Horangi’s. “Focus on something small. Circular. Like a light. That’s how I see them.”

Horangi hums and looks at the ceiling. He focuses on a small red indicator light, his eyes unfocusing as he keeps eye contact with the tiny LED. And, slowly but surely – just as König said – something else came into view, slowly creeping into his peripheral vision. 

It was a small bedroom – a shoebox, really. Dimly lit by fairy lights. A bed, a desk, a dresser… Someone was on the bed, and the other person was in the desk chair. They were both holding game controllers, facing each other. Talking. 

“We need to play their Thanksgiving album,” the person in the chair says. 

“To what, pregame for Thanksgiving?” the person on the bed laughs. “That’s months away.”

And with that angelic laugh, Horangi knows that’s you. The person laying on their stomach on the bed, with your perfect smile, perfect fingers holding the game controller. 

You reach for your phone and unlock it, the screen lighting up your face. You tap at it a few times before too-loud music starts playing – a man yelling about how dangerous gas station tweakers are.

“Ay, turn that down!” your friend protests. 

You grunt and turn it down a little. The music is hard funk-trap, and you and your friend sing along. It’s something like – “Closed casket funeral, but Imma have to peek in; tryna get real, like, sorry, I was sleepin’!”

Hornagi quietly listens to the rest, keeping his eyes still so he can keep you in his sight. You and your friend prattle off the rest of the song, even going as far as vocalizing the instruments. 

When the song ends, you roll on your side and face your friend. “We should listen to their Halloween album next. Then their Christmas album. Then their Valentine’s Day single. And then start up their Thanksgiving album again.”

God knows how Horangi would let you. He’d love to watch you do anything – even if you’re doing nothing. He’d do anything just to reach out and touch you. Run his hands over your face and watch your nose scrunch up at his touch, your eyes squeezing shut. Your smile would be just like the one you’re wearing right now, accentuating the apples of your cheeks perfectly. 

And he’d love to sit with you as that artist’s Halloween album, Thanksgiving album, Christmas album and Valentine’s Day single play, even if he didn’t understand the slang the men used. He’d rub his hands up and down your back – anywhere he could touch you, really – as you explained what they meant when they said they were gonna “pop a thirty an’ get real sturdy.”

And maybe one day he’d make that a reality.

[sgiandubh]

A kick in the hornets' nest - take 3

It is unusual for a commenter proven wrong to be back with más y mejor, but hey - the woman insists:

March 24th, 2024 was Palm Sunday. Not Easter, which I did celebrate, as a good Catholic, one week later. Along with many of you. Christ, I even wrote about it:

But hey, this being a shipper blog, maybe those people will deny the obvious, flat Earther style. Perhaps CBS would be more credible?

Sorry, pumpkin: no Easter eggs rolling on that particular day, at least on Planet Earth. Yours - I don't know. You tell us. I just enjoy seeing you getting more and more apoplectic, by the minute.

Also, any good meteorologist would tell you March 24 is already Spring, no matter how hot or cold it might be outside. Here:

Measured local temperature, in GLA, on that fateful Palm Sunday was around 45 F around 8 am and 53, 6 F around 1 PM. Obviously was in his garden during the afternoon, madam. For us, Europeans, 53, 6 F makes for about...

12 Celsius. I would not call it freezing/winter temperature for that particular climate. Hell, I would not call 7 degrees Celsius (about 45 Fahrenheit) a freezing/winter temperature, either and it all depends on how it's felt, also. Just in case you'd begin cackling that I am hiding stuff : never did, never will.

Unless you were in that park, at that moment, you have no positive clue about:

a) what the weather really felt like

b) what that child was wearing.

I am pretty sure you are a local, which makes your insistence even more lame btw. But for the whole bunch of us who aren't, here is the winter and spring measured average temperatures in GLA, in 2024:

Also, a conservative general winter estimate:

If you are determined to post a turd, it would be a good idea to brush it for minimal credibility, before hitting that send button. Also, for a Scot, I am underwhelmed to see how easily you're triggered, when confronted.

'Dense'. I couldn't agree more.

I am sensing a repeat, here:

🪃

And, just before I post my findings, you truly feel the URGE to insist:

Careful with that 🧠. Indeed.

Couldn't agree more.

PS: The clue was on the Web or on his face? Pick your tools wisely. Just sayin'.

[whencyclopedia]

Daily Life in the WWII Desert Campaigns

The desert campaigns in North Africa during the Second World War (1939-45) provided soldiers on all sides with a set of particular challenges. Scorching day temperatures, freezing night temperatures, sand and flies getting everywhere, the rationing of water, a poor and monotonous diet of tinned food, and the serious risk of being killed or injured by a projectile fired by an enemy one could not even see were just some of the challenges that had to be endured.

The desert theatre of war was also unique for the almost total absence of civilian involvement; who else would choose to be here? The harsh conditions did ensure a certain camaraderie developed as everyone faced the double challenge of surviving the war and whatever the desert could throw at them. In this article, we look closer at daily life in the North Africa campaign through the words of those who experienced it.

Afrika Korps Soldier

German Federal Archives (CC BY-SA)

Desert Conditions

Temperatures in the desert could reach up to 50 degrees Celsius (122 Fahrenheit) – one could literally fry an egg on any metal part of a vehicle exposed to the sun – but the nights could be freezing, and men died of exposure. Soldiers were warned to stay out of the sun, indeed, in the British Army, not wearing a shirt and getting sunburnt was a punishable offence. With few natural features to hide behind, troops had to become adept at camouflage and concealment, especially to avoid enemy aircraft or mobile patrols. Away from the coastal towns, there were no people except occasional groups of Bedouin nomads.

It was not easy to know where one was or where one was going in the often featureless desert – here more often than not hard-baked flatlands strewn with small rocks and a thin layer of sand rather than the giant sand dunes of the Sahara Desert further south. It was just the sort of terrain to play havoc with a vehicle's tyres. Sand was everywhere, and when the wind blew, there was no escape from it. Vehicles and aircraft had to be fitted with special filters to try and keep the sand from entering and damaging the engines. Sandstorms were, of course, the worst, and these could last from two hours to two days. Sand thrown about in high winds could wear away the skin and literally sand-blast vehicles clean of their paintwork. Men escaped the fury as best they could, as here described by Private Tom Barker:

One bloke who had been cleaning his gun hurriedly put it all back together and others who had been chatting suddenly grabbed trench spades and shovelled at the sand like gophers desperate to get away from a predator. Once they had a hollow dug that would accommodate their body they dug into their pack and got out their cardigans to act as an air filter, then pulling a groundsheet over themselves they hunkered down to wait for the sandstorm.

(Layman, 20)

British Soldier Shaving in the Desert

J.T.Silverside - Imperial War Museums (CC BY-NC-SA)

Troops, or at least somebody within any one group, had to be able to navigate using a compass, the sun, and the stars. Maps did improve as the war went on and numbered barrels were used to help identify the otherwise unidentifiable stretches of desert tracks that criss-crossed North Africa. The sheer scale of the area of battles and lack of recognisable landmarks baffled many of the participants, even confusing such figures as General Erwin Rommel (1891-1944), who once wrote to his wife back in Germany:

I have no idea if the date is correct. We've been attacking for days now in the endless desert and have lost all idea of space or time.

(Allen Butler, 215)

While fighting could be intensive, it was often of short duration. At other times, especially for those troops in defensive positions, overcoming boredom became the greatest challenge. Italian Lieutenant Emilio Pullini remembers:

There were some things we did not like very much, flies mainly and a very hot sun which was above us all day long. It was very uncomfortable to spend all day lying in foxholes from sunrise to sunset just covered in flies and doing very little else because we had no chance of doing anything else.

(Holmes, 271)

British Soldiers in North Africa, 1940

Imperial War Museums (Public Domain)

The British writer Laurence Durrell (1912-90) recalls the feeling that the fighting was always somewhere else in the vast expanse of the desert:

It's a very funny thing, a battlefield, it's extraordinary how inanimate the whole thing seems. There was a little bit of an action going on in the right-hand corner of some sort, for the rest there were people lying about smoking. It's one of the very singular things that films and books don't bring out…where nothing seems to be happening, the action is always somewhere in another corner and it's a decisive thing. And then they ask you if you were there.

(Holmes, 275)

Continue reading...