sqoiler:i’m doing science please answer my brief p

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sqoiler https://sqoiler.tumblr.com/post/665628128613416960/im-doing-science-please-answer-my-brief-poll-3 :

i’m doing science please answer my brief poll <3 https://forms.gle/CmmhXRMKFjuFc9CS8 (Your picture was not posted)

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medicalization of disgust, it's all about conformity baby

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uglymelon https://uglymelon.tumblr.com/post/653349876503052289/why-bmi-is-a-big-fat-scam :

normal-horoscopes https://normal-horoscopes.tumblr.com/post/653342754095710208/the-bmi-was-invented-by-adolphe-quetelet-the-19th :

more-beanies https://more-beanies.tumblr.com/post/650398346816733184/food-is-good-food-is-good-food-is-good-if :

bromantically https://bromantically.tumblr.com/post/649764872920432640:

god i hate how normalized diet culture and shit like bmi and calories are. bmi https://href.li/?https://elemental.medium.com/the-bizarre-and-racist-history-of-the-bmi-7d8dc2aa33bb is based on eugenics. calories https://href.li/?https://lilynicholsrdn.com/6-reasons-to-stop-counting-calories-11-things-to-do-instead/ are a measurement of how much energy something gives u and not at all of how much weight or fat ull gain. diets https://href.li/?https://www.mercycare.org/services/food-nutrition/why-diets-dont-work/ have been proven to be harmful and ultimately unhelpful in actually losing weight. fatness https://href.li/?https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/observations/fat-is-not-the-problem-fat-stigma-is/ has been largely proven to not be inherently unhealthy and doesnt inherently cause health issues.

if anyone has more good links to add on then please do and if anyone knows more on this stuff than me then dont hesitate to correct me!

FOOD IS GOOD. FOOD IS GOOD. FOOD IS GOOD!! if you’re eating, ever, and even/especially if it’s hard, know that i am personally SO SO proud of you

The BMI was invented by Adolphe Quetelet, the 19th century statistician who invented phrenologist anthropometry. He wasn’t just a eugenicist, he was one of the founding fathers of racist pseudoscience. Please do not listen to anything he has to say about your body.

“And get this: While epidemiologists use BMI to calculate national obesity rates (nearly 35 percent for adults and 18 percent for kids), the distinctions can be arbitrary. In 1998, the National Institutes of Health lowered the overweight threshold from 27.8 to 25—branding roughly 29 million Americans as fat overnight—to match international guidelines. But critics noted that those guidelines were drafted in part by the International Obesity Task Force, whose two principal funders were companies making weight loss drugs.”

Source: https://www.motherjones.com/politics/2014/08/why-bmi-big-fat-scam/

Why BMI is a big fat scam https://href.li/?https://www.motherjones.com/politics/2014/08/why-bmi-big-fat-scam/ (Your picture was not posted)

bonus extra story: a meeting

iorveth, eibhear hattori, i know the good part of this was already in the snippet but here's the whole thing for whatever that's worth, meet death sitting, the witcher, witcher 3

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So this is the companion to the second chapter of A Dedication, which I’m just posting now.

(Chapter 2 of A Dedication, on AO3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/34514956/chapters/86274142)

The chapter is largely a flashback to the summer of 1272 (Peace-Tied takes place in winter of 1272), and features these two characters, and this chapter was a bastard to write and I had to scorched-earth-edit it (where you open a new doc and start over and copy-paste nothing) basically every part of it– actually I had to do that with chapter 1 as well– so at one point I lost my mind and just wrote this instead. This is a little 2k short story featuring the first meeting of Eibhear Hattori, a peace-loving and timid blacksmith and dumpling maker, and Iorveth, the legendary and terrifying Woodland Fox of the Scoia’tael.

Yes someone finally helped me and explained that yes it is his right eye that Iorveth is missing.

“This was a bad idea,” Eibhear murmured to himself, near-silently. He’d been thinking it the entire time. His status with the Eternal Fire was tenuous at best, even now that he was making them swords again; he couldn’t hide what he was, and the very fact of it meant the law wouldn’t actually protect him. And as such he’d never felt he could stick his neck out to help anyone else.

But the Witcher had helped him, and he was making a decent living again– better than before, between the swords and the dumplings. If he worked smart he could still do both, and it was steadier than just swords.

Which meant he had money. Which meant his conscience weighed on him unreasonably. He had money, and people were dying, and he could help.

When he’d been poor himself, not helping had just been understandable, had been him clinging to his neutrality, had been unavoidable– all those things had been in balance, and he’d been able to sleep at night.

But now that he had money, him not helping had tipped over into being clearly wrong. He was on the side of the oppressors, if he took their money and hoarded it and did nothing when he had the power to help.

And so, reluctantly, he was helping.

He’d tried just giving money to the people who were doing the work, but of course that wasn’t what they wanted, there was no way for them to turn that money into anything easy. They needed less-traceable assets. And so he had started feeding the suffering. He had a rota now, of people he cooked for. Some could send an emissary to pick up the food, some he had to bring it when he went out. Some were refugees, hiding in camps. Some were shut-ins, hiding from persecution by just never going out.

So far the Eternal Fire suspected nothing. Eibhear hired an assistant just to help with the cooking, and they sold enough to justify her. She was human, and he did not take her into his confidence; she thought the restaurant must be busy in the late nights, which was what he told her to justify the huge amount of food she pre-prepared in the two mornings a week she came by. He made all the dumplings himself, but she made other bulkier dishes, sustaining food for travelers, pots of simpler food; she did the chopping, she started the dough in huge quantities, she did all the preparations, while he did his forge work. As she left, he would come in and wash up and begin his own work.

“When you start your own restaurant,” he told her, when she mentioned that her brother had told her he hadn’t seen a late-night crowd at the restaurant, “remember take-out orders can be a big boost. Most of these, I pack up and deliver to customers so they can eat them at home. It’s the way of the future.”

That seemed to satisfy her. And if it didn’t, well, what could he do?

This was a terrible idea.

Tonight he was delivering a large basket of dumplings and a literal bucket of bigos to a warehouse near the smuggler’s tunnels. That witcher had cleaned those tunnels out a fair bit as well, and Eibhear understood they were seeing a great deal of use now in keeping the fuel away from the pyres, as it were. But it was still a terrible neighborhood, and several patrols of the Eternal Fire had been by, and Eibhear knew he looked shady in this cloak but he would look even shadier, he knew, in his normal clothing, with his ears showing– they’d have found a reason to stop him by now.

He paused, setting the bucket down, and dug out the slip of paper with the address. It was in, of course, the basic substitution cipher, and he wasn’t great at those but he was fairly certain he’d got it right. It made sense, anyway. There was also a little symbol scribbled in the margin, and he was no expert on these things but it looked like an old traditional Aen Seidhe embroidery design, and he knew the Scoia’tael had adopted such things as trail markers. He wouldn’t be surprised…

No, there it was. Someone had scribbled the same design, a stylized star symbol that it was lucky to draw without picking the pen up from the paper, with charcoal on the wall of the warehouse. Eibhear shivered delicately at the thought that there could be any possible Scoia’tael involvement in this– they’d been quiet lately, as the war progressed, and it only made sense as they were allied with neither side at this point– and picked up his bucket.

The knock pattern had been given in dots and slashes, and he did his best with it, and then waited, feeling awkward and paranoid. Finally he repeated the pattern, at a faster tempo this time because someone had just walked by and slowed way down to leer at him before continuing. It wasn’t that he couldn’t fend off an importuning passer-by, so much as– well, Eibhear was a physically imposing person, he knew that, he spent hours a day wielding hammers, but he had never really learned to fight and had no aptitude for it and a lot of his continued survival depended on nobody testing that.

He was about to knock a third time when the door finally clicked as the latch was lifted. It swung inward slightly, and then stopped, clearly braced against a body. Light shone out from a lantern held near the opening of the door.

“What do you want,” a voice said, and then, as the light fell on his face, “Ah! What do you want,” in a milder tone and wildly different accent.

It took Eibhear a moment to recognize that the second sentence had been in Hen Llinge, and he only figured it out when his tongue stumbled over his answer. He hadn’t spoken his native tongue in– a long time. “I’ve come with food,” he said.

“Ha,” said the Hen Llinge speaker in the doorway, “I can smell your credentials, and regret that I am too hungry to be more picky. Surely this is a security risk.” And the door swung open. “Please, come in.”

Eibhear stepped nervously through the door. No one else was visible. The combination of the Scoia’tael trail sign and this person being a Hen Llinge speaker was unnerving; Eibhear had never particularly aided the Scoia’tael, certainly never directly, and knew they bore him and his kind no love. Aen Seidhe who’d stayed peacefully in human settlements and had done whatever they had to in order not to attract attention or buck the order of things? Stood to reason their fellows who’d thrown it all over to live wild in the woods and fight their doomed fight would resent them, and it wasn’t that Eibhear blamed them, but he also was no fighter and had never been able to contribute anything to their struggle. He was sympathetic, but he had never shown those sympathies. And so they bore him no love, nor should they particularly.

He wouldn’t have taken this order had he known it was Scoia’tael.

The person who’d let him in closed the door and leaned against it, holding up the lantern to look at him. “I can’t say how much I appreciate you coming here,” he said, still in Hen Llinge. His accent was soft and lilting– he was coastal, perhaps even local to this region, but beyond that he had the traces of an old household, the old nobility, perhaps even sacred temple guardian heritage in his accent. The light in his left hand caught a beautiful face, fine-boned and sharp, of high breeding– a green eye, a generous mouth, high cheekbones, a hawk nose; he was tall and well-built, taller and broader even than Eibhear.

But as he lowered the lamp, the light caught the other side of his face, and it was– he was heavily scarred, and had a kerchief tied in such a way that it was clear he was missing his right eye. The ends of the scars trailing out from under the kerchief showed that the missing eye had been deliberately and messily gouged out.

There was really only one person that could be, and Eibhear twitched in shock, but did not drop either of his burdens. Iorveth, he thought, but did not say– the legendary Woodland Fox himself, a nightmare that stalked the woods, an ambush predator, merciless, haughty, terrifying, and uncannily deathproof.

The green eye considered him. “You must be Hattori,” he said. “The smith and dumpling expert.”

“Yes,” Eibhear said, finding his tongue. He handed the basket to Iorveth jerkily, in reflex. “I brought bigos too. Hunter stew. The note said there were hungry people here.”

Iorveth took the basket and stared at it, strangely transfixed. “Yes,” he said almost absently, and Eibhear took in a few more details– he wasn’t wearing armor, he was wearing a filthy patched jerkin that fitted him poorly, and his face was gaunt and pinched.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you,” he said, and reached over to pull the lid off the basket.

Iorveth flinched as the stronger scent of the dumplings hit him, and his stomach growled audibly. “I,” he said.

“Here,” Eibhear said, “I’ll carry that,” and took the basket back. “Take one now, there’s plenty to go around.”

Iorveth hesitated just a moment longer, then his hand darted into the basket and came out with a dumpling in it. “Thank you,” he said, still hesitating.

“Eat in good health,” Eibhear said politely, the normal set phrase a Hen Llinge speaker would use when serving at mealtime, and Iorveth’s expression twitched into a smile.

“Here’s to yours,” he answered, the usual polite response, and then crammed the dumpling whole into his mouth like an untidy child.

Eibhear couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of it, the lack of dignity incongruous both with Iorveth’s obvious high breeding and intimidating self-presentation. “You’d better take a second one,” he said.

“Mmmph,” Iorveth said. “Fuck, that’s a good dumpling.” And he took a second one.

“I don’t have a restaurant for no reason,” Eibhear said. “Take a third.”

“No,” Iorveth said, though it clearly pained him, “this isn’t all for me, I’m trying to get a family of dwarves out.”

“Is that what you’re up to now,” Eibhear said.

Iorveth slanted him a look as he pushed away from the wall, leading Eibhear deeper into the warehouse. “You know who I am,” he said.

“I do,” Eibhear said. He tilted his head. “You’ve– it’s a distinctive look.”

“It is,” Iorveth said grimly. “Not much I can do about it.” They came to another door, farther into the warehouse, and Iorveth paused to rap at it in yet another pattern.

“Well,” Eibhear said. “I hadn’t realized your folk were active around here.”

“We’re not,” Iorveth said. “I’m– we split up. There’s a few down in Velen but.” He shook his head. “If there are one or two in Novigrad they’re not in touch with me.” He pulled a face. “Safer that way.”

“Is it?” Eibhear asked. “Well, you’d know better than me.”

“The others can hide what they– were,” Iorveth said. He’d already finished the second dumpling. “But this face– well, I can’t take it anywhere. And I can’t pretend to be anything else.” He shrugged. “It’s not a very good living, and I don’t know that I’m doing much good, but if I can get this family to safety then that’s one family that benefited.” And he shrugged again.

“It’s probably more than your life’s worth to be inside the city limits,” Eibhear said.

“Well,” Iorveth said, as the door slid open. “As it happens, my life isn’t worth much.”

Eibhear handed over the bucket and basket to the skeptical dwarf who answered the door, which had the effect of rendering the dwarf immediately much less skeptical, and then he went on his way, but the last glimpse of Iorveth’s pinched and ruined face haunted him. He’d never contemplated meeting the Woodland Fox except vaguely and with a sense of unease, but that had still somehow managed to be not what he had expected. (Your picture was not posted)

How To Make Tidying Your Room Actually Be Valuable

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I used to tidy my room according to a fairly arbitrary set of rules - namely my parents’ rules. When I was a small child and my parents yelled at me to “tidy your room”, they usually meant something like “make it so we can’t see your stuff”. I could achieve that outcome by stuffing everything into cupboards and sweeping things under my bed, so my brain decided that was “tidying”.

At some point, I noticed that I did “tidying” because otherwise people would shout at me, but it was actually a pointless activity, and fairly destructive to my ability to find stuff and get things done. I’d tidy an item into a bottom of a drawer, and then not be able to find it, because it was at the bottom of a drawer full of other random things. Or I’d tidy an item into a bottom of a drawer, and then just kind of… forget about it. “Tidying” my toothbrush is a great way to guarantee that I’ll forget to clean my teeth.

…so I stopped doing “tidying”, and decided that I was Anti Tidying and that the correct response to the “tidy” meme was to put on some angry rock music and yell about complying with arbitrary systems being soul-sucking.

But it turns out that there is actually value to … if not tidying, at least a tidying-adjacent activity! Which I am about to explain how to do.