Yeah quiet quitting is great and all but have you tried chaotic working?
Like. I remember back in my grocery store cashier days I did so much crazy shit.
When WIC (Women, infants, and children voucher program to help low income mothers/families with children) people were in my line I would pretty much know who they were. Before the cards they had to tell us upfront they were WIC and show us their vouchers for what they were allowed to get (it was awful some times. Like. 2 gallons of milk. $4 worth of vegetables etc etc). They’d always have items hanging back, waiting to see what the total was and if they would have to take it off the belt.
I began to place the fruits/vegetables a certain way on the register scale so that like 1/2lbs of grapes read as like .28lbs or something. Then act shocked when I said that they still had X amount of lbs left. They got all their fruit and vegetables.
I think it started to kinda? Catch on to the women? Because I would have the same moms in my line month after month. And even after they switched to the cards (they worked like food stamp cards?) I’d still do the same thing. They were able to get more produce for whatever shitty max amount Indiana gave them.
@tvarchive‘s TV Appreciation Week, Day 1: TV show I wish everyone would watch
Foyle’s War | 2002-2015|Starring Michael Kitchenand Honeysuckle Weeks
This show uses self-contained murder mysteries as an excuse to present a sophisticated social history of the WWII home front. It is full of beautiful footage of England’s south coast. It is a revolving door of British character actors, but also features some of your favorite leading men before they were famous. But the heart of the show is DCS Christopher Foyle, the perfect fantasy of a morally-pure police officer, pulling faces and looking great in a fedora. You won’t regret it.
stating to think there’s an inverse correlation between how good media is and how easily fandomizable it is 😁
good media should make you stare at wall for 2 hours instead of immediately starting shippings wars and coffeeshop au and slowburn fics
no no you’re not wrong but also
there’s a reason for this.
My personal theory is that if Media is REALLY good, there isn’t really… space, if you will for fans to add or change perspectives on it. Too dense, too complete. Like how coral won’t grow on plastic because it’s too smooth
Whereas some half-baked hot garbage has got ALL KINDS of plot holes, incomplete characterization, warped timelines, missing worldbuilding and other Spaces for fans to colonize, like coral growing on a sunken battleship.
And then if a series just sucks too much, it’s not fun to interact with at all, and people won’t fandomize it because it’s toxic. Like how coral won’t grow on sunken piles of burnt-out tires.
“you do not owe friends instant responses to every social message, and anxiety over not receiving the same is something for the anxious person to work on, not your responsibility to totally change for”
AND
“you have to put some effort into friendships, which can include open communication with your friends about how to make both of you comfortable re: messaging. expecting other people to do ALL of the work ALL of the time, in terms of getting in touch and carrying on the conversation, may make them feel ignored and/or and leave”
I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon. I will get a new and better job soon.
Sometimes Granada Holmes is unintentionally so funny.
Holmes will be like “yeah Professor Moriarty was a tough battle but I’m like soooo good at bartitsu.” and then it cuts to him just picking Moriarty up and throwing him.
Yeah, my dude, this really looks like a specialized Japanese fighting style. You’re going to throw your damn back out like that.
And then he’s immediately like “I know it’s been 3 years, but do you plans tonight? I was thinking we could whisper to each other in a dark room while admiring the profile of my wax figure.”
Peter Pevensie was a strange boy. His mind is too old for his body, too quick, too sharp for a boy. He walks with a presence expected of a king or a royal, with blue eyes that darken like storms. He holds anger and a distance seen in veterans, his hand moving to his hip for a scabbard that isn’t there - knuckles white. He moves like a warless soldier, an unexplained limp throwing his balance. He writes in an intricate scrawl unseen before the war, his letters curving in a foreign way untaught in his education. Peter returned a stranger from the war, silent, removed, an island onto himself with a burden too heavy for a child to bear.
Only in the aftermath of a fight do his eyes shine; nose burst, blood dripping, smudged across his cheek, knuckles bruised, and hands shaking; he’s alive. He rises from the floor, knighted, his eyes searching for his sisters in the crowd. His brother doesn’t leave his side. They move as one, the Pevensies, in a way their peers can’t comprehend as they watch all four fall naturally in line.
But Peter is quiet, studious, and knowledgeable, seen only by his teachers as they read pages and pages of analytical political study and wonderful fictional tales. “The Pevensie boy will go far,” they say, not knowing he already has.
His mother doesn’t recognize him after the war. She watches distrustfully from a corner. She sobs at night, listening to her son’s screams, knowing nothing she can do will ease their pain. Helen ran on the first night, throwing Peter’s door open to find her children by his bedside - her eldest thrashing uncontrollably off the mattress with a sheen of sweat across his skin. Susan sings a mellow tune in a language Helen doesn’t know, a hymn, that brings Peter back to them. He looks to Edmund for something and finds comfort in his eyes, a shared knowing. Her sons, who couldn’t agree on the simplest of discussions, fall in line. But Peter sleeps with a knife under his cushion. She found out the hard way, reaching for him during one of his nightmares only to find herself pinned against the wall - a wild look in Peter’s eye before he staggered back and dropped the knife.
Edmund throws himself into books, taking Lucy with him. They sit for hours in the library in harmony, not saying a word. His balance is thrown too, his mind searching for a limp that he doesn’t have, missing the weight of his scabbard at his side. He joins the fencing club and takes Peter with him. They fence like no one else; without a worthy adversary, the boys take to each other with a wildness in their grins and a skillset unforeseen in beginner fencers. Their rapiers are an exertion of their bodies, as natural as shaking hands, and for the briefest time, they seem at peace. He shrinks away from the snow when it comes, thrust into the darkest places of his mind, unwilling to leave the house. He sits by the chessboard for hours, enveloped in his studies until stirred.
Susan turns silent, her mind somewhere far as she holds her book. Her hands twitch too, a wince when the door slams, her hand flying to her back where her quiver isn’t. She hums a sad melody that no one can place, mourning something no one can find. She takes up archery again when she can bear a bow in her hands without crying, her callous-less palms unfamiliar to her, her mind trapped behind the wall of adolescence. She loses her friends to girlishness and youth, unable to go back to what she was. Eventually, she loses Narnia too. It’s easier, she tells herself, to grow up and move on and return to what is. But her mourning doesn’t leave her; she just forgets.
Lucy remains bright, carrying a happier song than her sister. She dances endlessly, her bare feet in the grass, and sings the most beautiful songs that make the flowers grow and the sun glisten. Though she has grown too, shed her childhood with the end of the war. She stands around the table with her sister, watching, brow furrowed as her brothers play chess. She comments and predicts, and makes suggestions that they take. She reads, curled into Edmund’s side as his high voice lulls her to sleep with tales of Arthurian legends. She swims, her form wild and graceful as she vanishes into the water. They can’t figure out how she does it - a girl so small holding her breath for so long. She cries into her sister, weeping at the loss of her friends, her too-small hands too clumsy for her will.
“I don’t know our children anymore,” Helen writes to her husband, overcome by grief as she realizes her children haven’t grown up but away into a place she cannot follow.
me: oh man im starving but im not sure what i should make for dinner……
the spirit of a 12th century templar knight that died a horrific death due to torture that started haunting me after i found a sword in the middle of the woods: spaghetti once more, prithee?
Finished this piece! It’s a study of a scene from ‘Lupin III’ but with a Good Omens twist. Recently I was reminded of the movie again, and ever since I saw that little yellow car I’ve been thinking about recreating it with the yellow bentley instead.
ALT
