beep beep huge nerd alert

  "aww yiss look at all these social media sites my friend is forcing me to participate in i'm so thank" - said the owner of this blog, probably. you're welcome, humble citizen. you're welcome.

Last update
2020-07-13 23:57:34

    <>Here’s some fun facts about one of my favorite stories being told in Hamilton: this is Ariana Debose, who plays a special role within the ensemble known as The Bullet. She’s killed for suspected espionage right after You’ll Be Back, and is the first one to die (not counting Hamilton’s mother or cousin who hangs himself).

    After this moment, she becomes an omen of death. At the beginning of Stay Alive, she carries a shot that narrowly avoids hitting Hamilton. In Yorktown, she helps Laurens kill a redcoat, shakes his hand, then Laurens is the next to die. In I Know Him, she’s the one bringing the message to King George about John Adams and symbolically heralding the impending doom of Hamilton’s political career. During Blow Us All Away, she’s the one who tells Phillip where to find George Eacker, (and flirts with him! Phillip is literally flirting with death!) then Phillip is the next to die. In Your Obedient Servent, she brings the desk on stage and hands Burr the quill to write the first of several letters that will eventually lead to Alexander Hamilton’s death. During the final duel, she again catches a bullet (fired by Burr), and if you watch her, she gets closer and closer to hitting Hamilton while he’s doing his soliloquy until Eliza pops onto stage. At this point, The Bullet is stopped by other members of the ensemble, the time freeze is abandoned, and we all know what happens‬ next. (soure: JC Payne)


    An Actual Real Person my Dad knew. Pretty sure he worked as a bush guide. When someone asked the time he’d pull off his hat - some kind of broad brim - and use to take a few measurements of the sun’s position relative to the horizon. Then he’d declare the time.

    He was accurate to the minute.

    Fvvdvddsfdssdhnvfh you get back here and say this to the rest of the crew

    Narcissus taking a selfie is the ACTUAL best.

    The parasol and flowers/mask one is fascinating to me. What a commentary.


    Is Google Docs bad? Do you know of a good / safer, free, word processor? Thanks!

    All Google products are bad!

    There is an EXCELLENT free desktop office suite called Libre Office that you can download and install by clicking here: https://www.libreoffice.org/

    If anyone reading this is a college student and thinking about purchasing microsoft home and student or an office 365 subscription please just install Libre Office instead. It is WONDERFUL.

    If you’re looking to do something browser-based you should check out CryptPad, which is a zero-knowledge, encrypted online office suite with document storage and a spreadsheet maker and a complete boner for security. It allows for collaboration like gdocs does but it doesn’t track your data or store information about you because it *can’t* because all of your work is encrypted. Check out cryptpad here: https://cryptpad.fr/

    And, as usual, if you want to ditch gmail check out protonmail.

    Also maybe the best, easiest, and most important way to cut Google out of your life is to stop using chromium-based browsers because people using non-chromium browsers are the only reason that Google isn’t setting every single modern web standard and the fact that MOST internet users use Chromium browsers means that Google is de facto setting every single modern web standard.

    Here’s how to migrate from chrome to firefox: https://www.howtogeek.com/333047/how-to-migrate-all-your-data-from-chrome-to-firefox/

    (and yes, Opera and Brave are chromium browsers and I think it’s worthwhile to stop using them because SERIOUSLY everyone is using fucking chromium and Edge just switched over to chromium and please, please, please just install firefox)


    Android users install Firefox and add the ublock origin extension; iOS users install Firefox Focus.

    And reset your default search option in your browser. Other search engines do not return the same results and sometimes that’s frustrating but if you get used to just using duckduckgo as your first option and Google if that doesn’t give you an answer as a second option then you’re still doing a great job (because seriously, how many of your searches are just for basic information like spelling or history that will pop up on wikipedia or dictionary.com - DDG will totally do that even if it isn’t ideal for current news searches)

    BTW the reason I’m recommending *most* of these things is because they’re open-source, which is one of the reasons I prefer LibreOffice over WPSWriter, but another reason is features.

    Here’s what you can get in LibreOffice:

    whereas WPSWriter has only the equivalent of those first three features (which in both products are “Word” “Excel” and “PowerPoint”)

    Disclaimer: my hatred of geologists is purely theatrical, but if I did have to kill one for some reason, it would be very easy.

    I’d brandish my obsidian knife at them and they’d be compelled to approach. “That’s very cool,” they’d say, confident in their superior strength and endurance from all the rocks they carry around at all times. They’d shower me with very interesting facts about obsidian and hover just out of range of the cutting edge, waiting for me to exhaust myself. “But as it is volcanic glass, it’s very fragile, you see, and isn’t well-suited for use as a weap—” and then I’d hit them with the wooden baseball bat in my other hand, which they would not have noticed because geologists can only see rocks and minerals.

    Showed my Geologist dad a picture of the obsidian knife you had and he nearly said this exact thing word for word. I can’t believe my own father would fall prey to this. Clearly you know thine enemy

    I work too closely with geologists not to have a contingency plan for eliminating them.

    As a geologist, I find this highly offensive as this is exactly what I would do

    Don’t worry, I have formally ended my feud with geologists. I now am trying to decide whether my chief nemeses should be lighting techs or Ultimate players.

    There’s no need to feud with lighting techs; they are, as a species, well-equipped to be their own worst enemies.

    Ultimate players, on the other hand….

    Throwback thursday to when I was like 12 and I was putting out new writing DAILY...... Like entire Chapters of my then-current wips just, over an afternoon. What the fuck was I on


    Me, age 12, just started drinking coffee:

    I drew 14 pictures during the day, and wrote 32 pages a night. Now I can’t do shit.

    A huge part of this is because you've gotten better! And now, when you're drawing/writing/doing whatever creative task, you're not just mindlessly throwing thoughts at your paper, you're thinking as you do it. Children can churn out a lot more work because it's not yet refined, but when you're older and have more practice, you work with all these thoughts running through your head about form and shape, color palettes or word choice. Now, you're making a dozen decisions with every moment of work, and you're also questioning the decisions you've just made, wondering if you can do it better. Don't beat yourself up about producing less work now than you did back then, because every sentence or shape involves a lot more effort for you now, than it did when you were ten and brand new to this hobby.


    Hello hello! If you don't mind my asking, is there anything similar between interactions with Luffy and Shirahoshi and Ace and Luffy? I feel like I've seen them being compared before, so I was wondering if it looked like Luffy was taking cues from his big brother :V

    First of all, good god, this is a cute question. Also this made me realize the age difference between Luffy and Shirahoshi is the same as between Ace and Luffy (three years) which made me stop and have an emotion for a second. 

    Anyways: yeah! I’m glad you asked because I was actually thinking about this earlier today because of Luffy’s use of the word 弱虫/yowamushi (weakling/scaredy-cat) as a nickname for Shirahoshi, because it’s a word Ace used to use for Luffy in their backstory.

    There’s one line that’s functionally identical, actually-

    Ace says to Luffy, after rescuing him from Porchemy: うるせェな、いつまで泣いんだ! おれは弱虫も<>き虫も大っ嫌いなんだよ!/ususai na, itsumade naitenda! ore wa yowamushi mo nakimushi mo daikkirai nanda yo!

    (“Shut up! How long are you going to keep crying<>? I hate weaklings and crybabies!”)

    Luffy says to Shirahoshi, shortly after meeting her: でっけーくせに弱虫で泣き虫なん<>… おれお前嫌だな!<> あははは/dekke kuse ni yowamushi de nakimushi nante… ore omae kirai da na! ahahaha!

    (“Even though you’re hu<>ge, you’re a weakling and a crybaby… I don’t like you! Hahahaha!”)

    Ace is harsher than Luffy is- daikirai is the stronger form of kirai, ‘hate’ rather than ‘dislike,’ which checks out with their personalities. In general Luffy is a lot gentler/more playful with Shirahoshi than Ace was with him when they were younger. But either way, yeah, I feel like Luffy is definitely parroting Ace to some extent here. 

    yall know eggplant is more English than that other word right? right? I just hope you know that

    norman conquest had the french influencing us to use french words in everyday language, it’s why we also say lingerie and brunette…

    tbf, our whole language is just a bastardised melting pot of european languages, lmao.

    what i think is interesting is that, generally, english uses french loan words for meat vs livestock. so we eat beef, not cow. mutton, not sheep. pork, not pig.

    so, the question is: do the brits think eggplants are animals?

    Considering what they think is food, anything’s fair game here.

    woah now, the people famous for string cheese and corn syrup don’t get to call people out like this

    Have you had string cheese though? It’s good.

    Did you just call American cheese good?

    Full disclosure, it’s been over 20 years since I ate a string cheese.

    string cheese and corn syrup are better and much less horrifying than literally any sausage

    Feel free to ignore but I’m an etymology nerd

    The reason meat words are french is because the nobility spoke french and ate more meat than the poor people, and weren’t in contact with animals (except perhaps horses. And horse meat is just called horse…)

    English people call it an aubergine bc we got the purple ones from Spain and France, who got them from the middle east, and Arabic is al-badinjan, whereas eggplant is because the white ones look like goose eggs, and they were known as eggplants (in various north European languages)

    This an eggplant

    and this an aubergine or purple eggplant

    I welcome any and all explanation for grapefruit or the dozens of berries that are not technically berries.

    The reason for the dozens of berries that are not technically berries is that the technical definition of “berry” is an artifact of scientific classification that was made, in many cases, centuries after the fruits themselves were named. The scientific/botanical term and the culinary term are the same word but don’t mean the same thing at all. (I’ve talked about this divide before.)

    Honestly I kinda feel like botanists should have just made up another term and left “berry” out of the technical nomenclature entirely, because now we have a situation where a whole lot of fruits that have always been called “berries” aren’t considered berries, and a whole lot of fruits that nobody ever calls berries are. It’s not helpful.

    Meanwhile, grapefruit are called grapefruit because they grow in clusters that are reminiscent of grape clusters: 


    In Hebrew, the word for grapefruit is eshkolit, from the word eshkol which means cluster. It sounds nicer in Hebrew than “clusterfruit” would in English, so on the whole I’m glad they went with “grapefruit” as a name.

    (Also I don’t think I’ve ever seen a white eggplant in real life and I love them.)

    …… im a native Hebrew speaker and i literally never realised what אשכולית actually means. i just had an identity crisis kgdgdkdhkgs

    I love how far out of control this post went, so far it came back with actual awesome knowledge.

    I have little to add, but I LOVE WORDS! Though I guess there’s something to be said that the Norman invasion made French the prestige language, so French words for law and fancy cooking terms stuck.

    This is all amazing, especially the grapefruit, but I am low-key pissed that people dropped the ball on the grand opportunity to call eggplant eggfruit.


    “make the princess speak and you will have the crown of kings.”

    my knees hurt, as usual, from scrubbing. technically i’m too high of Maid Station to help out with these things, but i like seeing what happens when you clean. the development of things. how a lot of effort can make something. i like learning and trying and working hard to get towards something.

    and i’ve seen them, from the back of pillars, from behind cracked doors, from beside her (on the best days) the way they talk to her. oh beautiful won’t you just look at me. oh darling. if you speak i’ll be your prince. if you speak i’ll be your king. 

    the princess, i know, finds the lines of suitors boring. it’s in the way her hands are always moving. she hides yawns, leaves early, we make her apologies. once, a man comes and tries to startle her into screaming. she rolls her eyes and looks directly at me. i have to hide my smile behind my sleeve. he is taken away while still screaming.

    by accident, i find her once, crying. when we imagine princesses, they always cry daintily. hers is hoarse, angry, and something in it breaks me. in my station i should apologize and bow and leave. instead i am frozen, watching her shoulders heaving.

    she looks up and spots me, her cheeks ruddy. i know i should go but instead i make a big show. i act as one of her princes. i make grand gestures and speak in deep voices. i frantically offer her handkerchiefs and trip over my own two feet. a smile crawls up over her, slowly. i dab my sweat away and offer her the used rag. i feign a fluster, turn a terrible cartwheel, make shadow puppets. the sound of her laugh, raw and rusty, sends shivers through me.

    for a while, i do not see her after this. but then i am called to her chambers. she is crying again. i offer silly gifts, pebbles and dusting rags and a candlestick from her own kitchen, pretend to steal it, use it as a hat, rock it as a babe. she laughs more easily this time, gladly, and when she laughs i am taken by more important maids, thereby officially Excused.

    it goes like this for months. the winter comes. i rarely see her. i spend my week thinking about ways to please her. i knick interesting cookies, show her shiny buttons, learn to cartwheel in a full skirt, and then promptly how to make it look foolish again. i learn how to juggle hot bread and dance as a man would, i learn how to balance on a ball and how to fall down without hurting myself, how to fake a fight with my own body, which colors she likes and which don’t please her.

    i show up on a cold eve with a knotted line of scarves hidden down my sleeve, worried and breathless, wondering why she’s been crying. the door opens and she is sitting there, happy. at first i’m confused, but she waves me in. next to her is her small dessert, in two containers. i’m not sure how to respond, so i fake a fall to hear her laugh, and then sit at her feet. she gives me ice cream - so rare a treat. i know what went into making it - the hours of shaking. it’s smooth and tasty. i don’t feign my reaction, but she laughs anyway, kindly. 

    it goes like this. i see her more frequently. she likes giving me new things, watching me discover i hate kiwi and love oranges and would die if it made her laugh breathlessly. i’ve made her keel over with cackling and she’s put a fire in me. sometimes we just sit there, quietly, enjoying each other’s company. 

    it’s in her hands, always moving. little things i thought were just her, fidgeting. here’s how she says she’s thirsty, this is what her hands do when she needs a second to think, here’s how she shows she’s happy. this is how i learn to speak back to her. around her i spend much of my time smiling. i feel every visit is a gift. a new part to unravel. i find out she doesn’t respond to spoken things, that she needs to be looking in order to know you were speaking. sometimes she has me talk and she holds her hands to the base of my throat, her eyes wide and wondering. sometimes she just looks at me and i forget that i’m her jester in chief. i get caught up in her eyes, in how expressive they are when she’s happy, in how when she’s sad i feel like i’m drowning.

    i never see the king or queen, but i know when she’s had a visit with them, because she never comes back happy. two winters i have known her, two winters and now we dine frequently. i am often called to stand beside her, to whisper translations of her desires into the ears of someone more important than i, someone who gets to be the voice of royalty. i can’t decide if i’m her friend or her plaything, but i don’t know i care much of the distinction. every moment i’m near her is a moment free of friction. i take stock of suitors and curtsy to them in daylight only to mock them in the candle’s eye later.

    she asks me one night to stay. it has been a bad day. it’s completely not okay. i cannot say no but i cannot, by my station, stay. but she begs with her eyes and her hands and i know i’ll take the punishment. 

    we lie beside each other. i make sure to turn to her when i speak. in the dark she can’t see me, so i move my hands in the way i’m learning. she asks if i am ever lonely. i cannot tell her that i am always lonely without her beside me, so instead i say i think all people are very lonely and just are pretending. she laughs a little at that and says she thinks her parents are the two most lonely people that ever met. her mother was like her; broke a fairy curse and talked, just once, although nobody knows what she said. well, excepting her father, who was the only one around, and who won her hand in marriage.

    from her mother she learned the art of hands, of speaking without words - from her father she learned that who she was included a curse. that she just wanted someone who would make her open like a rose - someone who could fix her. how she stared out into the royal garden and wished on flowers to be what her kingdom needs.

    she fell asleep pressed against me. i couldn’t breathe. i was still awake in the morning. 

    the punishment never came. we spent nights like this. the handmaidens had grown to know me. whenever their princess was stubborn, i worked magic and made her lovely.

    it was a terrible thing. i did too good a job, i think. the princess glowed too much or shone too brightly - or at least, i saw it that way, so who knows what the truth is. every day it felt like we were being rushed with princes. 

    her father’s temper at hosting failed. it was the day before her twenty-first birthday and first time i’d ever seen him. he stormed in at the end of the session. “just speak!” he said, “it’s not that hard! do for others what your mother did!” 

    “tomorrow is your last day of this,” he warned her, “either you pick a prince or i pick for you. i’m done with it.”

    he stormed off. she was left shellshocked and trembling. that night she didn’t ask me to come, but i waited outside, just in case she changed her mind. i understood why she needed space. either she’d speak and be married tomorrow or she’d be married shortly. i heard her crying and it took everything in my power not to rush in and hold her, cradle her gently. but i cannot come into a room of a royal person without being invited. i stayed there, tears in my own eyes, thinking of treason.

    the next day was a huge festival. what had been a birthday celebration was turned into a day about princes. i watched her shake her head. i tried to cheer her up. i tried everything. i frequently came inches from causing public humiliation, toed the line of mocking and failing to acknowledge my station. she wouldn’t smile. not once. not even for anything.

    the day was long. the bonfire wore down. i watched her crumple into herself. i was out of ideas. i knelt at her feet. her eyes barely looked at me. just wait, i said to her with my hands, i’ll be right back. i took off running.

    the price of stealing is losing my hands. these things that i spoke to her with. these things that mattered so much to me, that helped with my comedy and cleaning. 

    i didn’t think of them. i bloodied my fingers when i ripped the royal roses from their stems. and then i ran, as fast as i could, back to her feet. i picked them to show you, i said, as she gasped, looking at my treason, they’re beautiful and nobody told them to open to reveal their secrets to the bees. they are unbroken. as you are. as you always will be. 

    she fell off her throne and for a second i was beyond speaking, worried something had happened, or she’d fainted, or i’d said the wrong thing. but then she was on her knees, her arms around me, and i heard it. i heard the soft croak of her speaking. just one word, and it sent shivers down me. my name, in her voice, awkward and unwieldy, but full of love and passion, burning fire through me.

    i felt a hand on my shoulder. i was pulled away from her. they already had me in handcuffs while i struggled to get back to her, to tell her i loved her, to beg her to run off with me or maybe just hold me around her, maybe just have her for a moment, because i couldn’t live without her for a moment longer.

    they put me in the cells. i rotted in there, for a while or for no time at all, i’m not sure. the thorns scarred my palms. i watched the scabs build up and flake off. every time someone came down, i flinched, wondering if i would be the next to be taken and chopped into bits.

    but one day the light was different. not the smoky torch of the jailer, instead a bright light in a lantern. at first when i saw her, my breath caught in my throat, mistaking her for my princess.

    but she was my queen. at first we stood in silence. and slowly, i moved my hands to speak. is she married? is what came out, even though i should be more worried about me myself and me.

    she is not. she bit her father on the arm when he tried to make her. then she fought him. and then ran away. it took us a bit to find her, i’m afraid. she threatened her own life and the life of everyone in this place. the queen was smiling. i was told there was a young woman who could make the princess speak, whom she would die to save, who brought roses to her feet. someone in a cell, rotting. are you her?

    the memory of her voice rang through me. i’m she.

    yes, her hands said, for even now, aren’t you speaking to the silent Queen?

    she opened the door. come, she said, let’s get you cleaned up for the ceremony.

    the crown of kings. when she wraps her arms around my neck and laughs next to me, i am royalty. when she smiles or makes a joke or asks to see my cartwheel again, i’m lost in her. i kiss her whenever i can, which is often. we have roses in a vase at the base of our bed, and for all of the kingdom, i’d give my hands if it would keep her laughing.

    the next time she spoke was just once, at our wedding, where she said the two words i do to bind us for eternity. she had learned from me, from holding her hands over my voicebox, the way i learned from her how to use hands to speak. sometimes at night she says my name, just because she likes what it does to me.

    i’m more blessed than a king. every day i spend with her is a day i spend happily. 

    <>Me: *Removes my cat from my lap to do something else.*

    <>My cat: Father is…evil? Father is unyielding? Father is incapable of love? I am running away. I am packing my little rucksack and going out to explore the world as a lone vagabond. I can no longer thrive in this household.

    The spiritual successor to Miette

    Might I also add

    May i add the piece from artist Verbal Vomit

    Glad to see we’re all in agreement that cats talk like disparaged victorian children


    I am so incredibly glad we finally moved on from “i can has”. Cats are clearly smart enough for advanced sentence structure and dumb enough to draw entirely incorrect conclusions about what they’re talking about.

    My cat, banging the cabnet door over and over and over: bang bang bang

    Me: you will not earn what you desire by banging the cabinet door.

    My cat: This is a test of wills, is it not? We shall see if your ability to put up with my incessant banging outlasts my eternal lust for snackie treats. Years of conditioning have hardened me for this purpose. bang bang bang

    Me: ksst!

    My cat, throwing herself to the ground like she’s been shot: Oh! Oh I have been assailed in my own home! Have mercy, have pity! Surely in the cruel darkness of your heart there is some mote of goodness that might stay your hand! Do not strike me, I pray you!

    Me: ok

    My cat, after waiting about 3 minutes: bang bang bang

    Can haz snackytreat

    Diaspora, Immigration and Identity in "Avatar: the Last Airbender"

    (aka another reason this show is my fave and you should all watch it)

    <>cw: genocide


    This post has been marinating for a while now. As a diasporic WOC there are certain themes in AtLA that resonate very strongly with me, and it’s led me to consider how the story and its characters affirm immigrant/diasporic experiences, the inevitable upheavals of imperialism and the kinds of resilience and strength it takes to survive that. So I’m gonna talk about the diasporic/ immigrant narrative thread I find in each character and the Four Nations at large. 

    Keep reading

    “But now I shall never get out,” said Floralinda, in tears, “there is no solution to my problem that isn’t a prince, and I’m all out of princes, and I don’t want to jump out of the window and die. This is the worst conundrum I ever heard of.”

    (rolls down a dusty hill through open window) Boy! Not much has happened since I last posted on Tumblr (laugh track) but every so often I amble on to tell you, three followers and my boyhood friend Christopher who still hasn’t read any of my God damned books and yet makes fun of me ceaselessly, about all the wild things occurring:

  • Gideon the Ninth is now available in paperback.This provides warm nesting material for winter, and also contains a new appendix of material, including an in-universe essay about how thinking the cavalier-necromancer relationship is ‘horny’ is an evil idea that nobody should ever commit to in fiction, which is how you know that in-universe fiction commits to it constantly; it also has a dossier compiled by Cpt. Judith Deuteros about how Coronabeth Tridentarius is NOT a babe. Talk about a challenger for Tolkien’s appendices
  • Harrow the Ninth arrives in less than a month. I received my hardback copies of it (author’s privilege) and flipped through it. It landed open at a scene where Harrow gets told the whole plot of a romance novel. I write only the hardest action scenes
  • My novella, “Princess Floralinda and the Forty-Flight Tower”, has been announced for November 2020! That’s this year, if we live! It’s a VERY long novella. My first reader, whose name rhymes with “A.K. Farkwood”, described it as “Enid Blyton meets Slay the Spire”. If you were forced at gunpoint as a child to read “Pip the Elf” and wished dreamily that Pip would fall off a cliff already, this is for you! It’s about an awful princess who meets an awful fairy, and their adventures in being forced into the same small space together eating the same damn meal over and over (NOTE: I wrote it BEFORE lockdown).
  • Subterranean Press specialises in very beautiful hardback editions and the end physical product will be very specific and lovely, but for those of us with limited shelf space it WILL also be out in ebook (that’s just not available to pre-order).

    I’ve received lovely messages and questions and one day I’ll get to them. Until Alecto is done, however, forgive me for that day not being today; soon. Thank you so much for all the support.

    I'm NOT gonna say it again

    <>SEASONINGS include herbs and spices, along with minerals and chemicals used to season food!!!! Salt, citric acid, and MSG, are all examples of seasonings that are NOT herbs or spices!

    <>HERBS are flavorful leaves. Only. Leaves. Doesn't matter if its dried, fresh, whole, or ground, if it is a leaf, it is an herb

    <>SPICES are flavorful parts of plants that are NOT LEAVES. These include seeds, berries, stems, bark, roots, flowers, buds... NOT LEAVES


    Things are heating up in the cooking fandom.

    That's how cooking works

    I have an honest-to-god physical urge to hug this paragraph.

    #a wild thing about these stories is that although they are fiercely of the 1920s #you can also absolutely and with 0 extrapolation required imagine Bertie googling things #‘i dont know something about a lark snail god in heaven? is that anything?‘ #his brain is so perfectly built for it #…yes thank you I HAVE just reverse-engineered fucking Ask Jeeves in real time via tumblr tags jesus goddamn oh no [spatscolombo]

    I’m losing it