Apr. 18th, 2017

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dolly-bassett:

missbuster:

dolly-bassett:

My mother recorded my takeoff at Kemble airfield dodging rain showers

YOU! ARE! FLYING! THAT! PLANE!

INDEED! IT WAS HELLA GREY!

I WAS ROCKING THE PRINCESS LEIA BRAID CROWN

Descending into the circuit into Kemble:

Truly excellent braid crown!!! Also that’s AMAZING IN GENERAL. 
via http://ift.tt/2oQkkYT:stripped-to-glimpses replied to your post “i am so bad at being sick. See, i feel like I’m playing hooky and…”

I know that guilt! My coworkers had to force me to go home a few weeks ago because I sounded terrible and they thought I would get them sick, and I was like, “but but I’m not dying? Won’t you think I’m a slacker????”

The only other guy in my department doesn’t call in sick. He admitted that he doesn’t really take vacation days either largely because he wouldn’t really wind up doing anything, so he might as well come in.

Last week he got food poisoning, was up all night throwing up, but came in the next morning, sounding like hell and looking worse, because well, he wasn’t contagious, and he could keep water down, so he might as well.

He hasn’t ever given me shit for calling out but oh my god, with that kind of baseline set I just don’t feel like I can. 

I don’t get paid for sick days, so if I stay home I’m doing them a favor– they don’t have to pay me to drag my lame carcass in and be ineffective all day– but I just feel like such a personal failure if I don’t tough up and show up. 

I probably would have been okay today, I didn’t eat until dinner but I managed to putter around just fine. But– why? Why should I? I’d’ve been miserable and uncomfortable the whole day, and we’re not that busy, there’s nothing I’m working on that couldn’t be postponed just fine.

I’m still gonna feel guilty all week, though.
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noooo i successfully ate dinner and was happy and all was mostly good and then dude reminded me that we bought special ice cream sandwiches at the custard place the night before last and so i ate one and it was so extremely good and even as i was eating it i was like “this is a bad idea” but it was so good i ate it anyway (it had sprinkles and a tiny sugar daffodil on it and instead of ice cream it was frozen custard in the middle and it was amazing) but for real, it was a bad idea, my tummy hurts real bad, i have made a bad choice

why am I such a fool for ice cream

i am an incurable fool for ice cream
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cassohwary:

mikkeneko:

neshtasplace:

jemeryl:

I have bipolar mood disorder and I get worried that I’m too reliant on my medication especially if the dosage goes up

Then I realized

NEUROTYPICAL PEOPLE ARE JUST AS RELIANT on the neurochemicals in my medication, it’s just that their bodies produce it and mine doesn’t, it’s not that I’m a bad person and idk this realization seems to have really helped me understand and not feel so bad about it?

Exactly!

#if you can’t make your own neurotransmitters storebought is fine  

Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes

My experience of this, though, is that access to healthcare is such a tenuous thing, liable to be cut off or become unaffordable at any time, that any medication you develop a dependency on is a frightening liability, because you never know when you’re going to have to cold-turkey off of it.

So, while on the one hand, I’ve managed to accept that using medication to achieve normalcy is morally correct, and so on, I still can’t stop being constantly worried that even if I finally find a medication that’ll fix my problems, it’ll still suck donkey balls to abruptly have to get off it. The kind you can cut in half and taper off is less sucky, but the last time this happened to me I was on something in time-release capsules or whatever, so I couldn’t cut it in half, and I had brain zaps for almost two weeks and it was a living hell.

So like. Yes, if you can’t make your own neurotransmitters, storebought is fine, but you can’t just buy those anywhere, and they’re not cheap.

So I gotta do the calculus, beyond the normal “will this shit do anything at all for me?” that already goes into mental health medication [intermittent bonus surprise answer: wow this makes everything way way worse and your followup is three more weeks out, what do?!], of “does this shit help my anxiety enough to make up for my anxiety about what’ll happen when I abruptly have to do without?”

I know that theoretically somewhere out in the world there are people who have their shit together enough that they always know they’ll be able to see a doctor when they want to, but I’ve spent my entire adult life not really sure of being able to access any kind of consistent medical care, so this isn’t one of those cases of my anxiety coming up with disasters– no, this is repeatedly-lived experience.
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heartofoshun:

Another journalist is shot dead in Mexico

By Kate Linthicum (Los Angeles Times, 16 April 2017)

MEXICO CITY — Another journalist has been killed in Mexico — the fourth in just six weeks.

Authorities said reporter Maximino Rodriguez Palacios was shot dead outside of a shopping center Friday in La Paz, a coastal city in the state of Baja California Sur.

* * *

Mexico is the world’s third-most dangerous country for journalists, after Syria and Afghanistan, according to Reporters Without Borders. Since 2000, 124 journalists have been killed, according to Mexico’s human rights commission.

I thought I’d do a little research, mainly just for myself, online, only to pick up some numbers. I worked for a while in Mexico as a journalist and left in the mid-1990s. It was well known then that journalists in Mexico had a dangerous job (lunatic that I was—and a mother with a young child—I can’t, looking back, figure out why I was thinking that was a good idea?). Not sorry now.  We all survived and I learned a lot. We each do what we feel we have to do at any given moment in our life. My research today was short-lived. Google produced what I needed with its first hit.

List of journalists and media workers killed in Mexico - Wikipedia

– it tracks journalists killed in Mexico doing their jobs from 1860 to the present: 405 listed through today.
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safarikalamari:

i don’t know

(anyways a v happy birthday to @sexbombur!!!)
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boxoftheskyking:

Sometimes I look at my Facebook feed or my Tumblr dash and I think
“Damn. Some of yall separate your whites and colors

What’s that like?”

Tumblr ate this and wouldn’t let me reblog with it, but I typed this whole thing out, so I’m going to reply with it. I’ll tell you exactly what that’s like.

I separate my clothes by whether they’ll bleed vs whether they won’t, and then further subdivide that into what temperature I’ll wash them at and how much agitation. Less-durable clothing gets cold and less agitation. Clothes that won’t bleed get hotter water and longer agitation and sometimes a soak (my washer, 30 years old or so, is great for this because if you leave the lid up, it’ll fill and agitate, then sit and wait until you come and deal with it. So I come down and re-set it to the beginning, then close the lid; an extra agitation after a long soak does wonders to really get dirt out). Then I wash in an order so that the whites (since dude switched to black socks i rarely have a proper load of whites so it’s usually pale blues mostly) come after the darks (bc lint sometimes gets in the washer and it’s gross when your black t-shirts are coated in white mung) and so I’ll have two loads in a row containing things like socks and towels that need to go in the dryer or they’ll be stiff. Almost everything else gets hung up, but in the winter sometimes I’ll tumble things like t-shirts and Dude’s button-downs until damp, so that when I hang them they don’t have creases. He has a couple of nice shirts that really ought to be ironed, but he doesn’t iron and doesn’t care if he looks like an unmade bed, but I’ve found that if I half-tumble them they turn out acceptable so it doesn’t give me fits the whole time he’s walking around in them. I’m not going to iron them. I guess unless I’m ironing other things, which I only ever do for sewing projects. Which I guess I don’t really do anymore because I’d have to, you know, do them.)

I also like to wash darks first to hang them dry so I take them off the line promptly, and then whites go up and can stay up long after they’re dry to bleach in the sun.

I also can’t not do these things, can’t not think of them, and if I half-ass the process at any point, I get very despair-y and lose all motivation and do things like leave the clothes in the washer after they’re done so long that they smell off and i have to re-wash them and now they’ve bled on one another and I have blue tights with red streaks on them.

What’s it like? What’s it like? I think it’s probably like any other OCD-spectrum behavior. I wish it actually meant I was a Person who was Together, but I haven’t actually put my clothes away in several years. I dress out of piles– but by god, those clothes are Properly Clean.
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A customer over in the retail part of the store just said “I’m a complete nutjob about watersports” and I am twelve and can’t stop giggling.
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tobermoriansass:

Continuing with the rewatching rogue one theme, man that post galen’s death scene is this poignant moment if rage for Cassian yes but also this terrible moment of aloneness that is carried in him saying “I don’t need to” to the question you can’t talk your way around this and in him snapping “anybody else?” as though he’s demanding their excoriations so he can fight, so he can narrativize it, so he can voice the things he’s carrying inside him and string it along in a way that can reassure him. But they don’t give him that. So he’s just there, deeply alone and on the outside.

… which ofc begs the question how much of his life has cassian spent feeling like an outsider, dislocated and disjointed and vaguely out of place, on the other side of, well, everything?
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I’m at a weird cross-point in writing at the moment where I’m super deep into a chapter I’m working on and really sucked-in and can’t stop thinking about it and where I’m going next, and simultaneously convinced that what I’ve written is fucking terrible and has no pacing and is unreadable, and also convinced that nobody’s going to read the fucking thing when I finally post it, but I’m so into writing it, I really can’t stop.

I guess I should embrace that last bit– I’m really sucked into writing this, it’s a story I have to get out and tell. It doesn’t matter if almost nobody reads it, clearly it’s a story I have to write, and it’s not like it’s a story that absolutely has to exist in the world, but it’s a story that I have to get out before I can really do justice to anything else, clearly. So I should enjoy the bit where I’m writing it, I suppose, and not worry about the rest. 

It’s just sort of… lonely, really, and it’s a bit dark and the emotional payoff is really far in the distance and I just have to push through. 

So uh I guess I’m just going to obsess about it a lot.

There are approximately three dozen people still reading the Lost Kings as far as I can tell, so rest assured, I won’t let you down. Chrissake, it’s an 85,000-word, seven-part epic about a pair of characters from prequel comics, that’s an enormous audience.  Plus they’re characters of color being written by a white lady, so I’ve managed to cut down on potential audience on at least two axes, there. 

So. I guess I’ve cheered myself up. Back to the mines!
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magickedteacup reblogged your post and added:

I had the thought: for fortunate children, they don’t take care of this, their parents do. Their parents set up the doctor and medication routine, and ideally the foundation and accessibility follows into adulthood. I think this really underlines the enormous impact and importance of having support systems in caring for each other as a community. In the ideal situation, it’s not “people have their shit together enough” it’s “we’re all in this together!!! 💖😭💦💖✨”

Yes, that is the ideal. Even if I had other household members who’d advocate for me or help me… but without consistent access to healthcare, which isn’t guaranteed at all in this country unless you’re affluent, it’s all pretty moot.

But yes. If my parents had even been aware that mental health was something one could get medicated… well that would have been a start.

But even that– here’s an example of a disease my parents did help me with. My asthma was extremely well-managed through my whole childhood, but since I’m old, I got kicked off my parents’ insurance promptly upon graduation from college (staying on until 27 is something you can thank Obama for!), and haven’t had consistent access to asthma maintenance medication since then. The few times I’ve had health insurance, they haven’t covered the cost of the prescriptions, which exceeded my entire gross income in monthly cost. My dad has taken to saving up his extra inhalers to give me, which is… not optimal, since his condition isn’t identical to mine, but. I tapered myself off maintenance meds for asthma too; I just can’t count on them. 

The plan I’m currently eligible for, but not on because I failed to understand the application process, would cover them, but I don’t want to start them again in case I get “spoiled” by them and then can’t go back to doing without. I know that’s not how it works, but I’m so scarred by literal decades of spotty-at-best access to healthcare, I’m too afraid.

How’s that for 21st century American values? I can’t access the medical technology that saved my life in 1981.
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I used to write entirely for myself! I was an audience of one. And that was enough for me. I dreamed in the abstract of publication someday, but I wasn’t hung up on it. 

I’ve just found, is the thing, that I write much better when I know someone’s reading it, because I then realize that the thing has to make sense on its own, not just as a recounting of internal processes that I already have the necessary context for. And external validation is a powerful, powerful motivating factor, especially if one is relatively unfulfilled in other areas of one’s life. (I don’t mean I’m sad and lonely, exactly, so much as I mean that I’m never going to amount to anything professionally.)

So it’s hard to keep the faith, and there’s always the niggling thought that I could probably write something else and get more attention. But I mean, there’s never a guarantee of that, and in the meantime I need to tell the story I need to tell. 

Plus, I mean, I do mean it– 40 whole people left kudos on the last installment, I undersold it– and, that one’s a WIP, no less. That is a lot of people, really; if they were all in one room I’d have to leave it, LOL. And I know some of those people like it a lot, so that’s certainly not nothing. I hope I didn’t come across as sarcastic or ungrateful, I genuinely do appreciate that. 

I just feel alone in the dark etc and that’s what I get for writing angsty fic! 

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