happy neil day (20th anniversary edition?!?!!)
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@pythagoreanpentagram
happy neil day (20th anniversary edition?!?!!)
Happy 20th Anniversary of Neil Banging Out The Tunes!!!!!
More rarer images of Neil, my beloved:
20 years.
I find it so beautiful that this little rat's life has been remembered with love for 20 years and will be hopefully for decades to come. Truly a marvel of the internet.
<3 love you Neil!!!!
sometimes people believe optimization is evil, which is wrong, and that seems to lead people to believe evil is optimized, which is even wronger
So Ilya is helping Shane pack up his house in Montreal that summer, that fucking whirlwind summer after they are outed and after their lives end and restart like a fucking heart attack victim being resuscitated and after Ilya finds himself standing in his own backyard and realizing he has a family again, has a husband and parents and brothers. A fucking embarrassment of riches, actually, when the worse parts of his brain can be convinced to look at it straight on.
He's helping Shane, right, because Shane is engaging in the herculean task of cleaning the last decade out of his Montreal condo. So that he can put it on the market, yes, but also so that he can move every single crumb of his life, the one he lived separate from Ilya, into Ilya's house because they are married now--they are a family now--they are starting their lives together in the place where Shane came into the world and it's--
It's been a hard day. Ilya has been doing a lot of lifting and moving, a lot of going up and down stairs. Also a lot of remembering. Here is the couch, which is coming with them to Ottawa but won't ever again be in this exact position where the sun hits it in just this way at three o'clock in the afternoon, and Ilya knows that because he's seen the angle of it on Shane's forehead a million times. Here are the stairs to the lofted second floor, the glass divider against which a younger Ilya Rozanov pressed a younger Shane Hollander and pretended that the words I Love You weren't trying to burst out of his mouth with every feverish kiss. They slid against the divider as they'd clumsily stumbled up the stairs and Shane's bare skin had squeaked against the glass and they'd laughed.
And here is the kitchen, first place aside from the cottage where they'd cooked together. And here is the front closet, where Shane had hidden Ilya's birthday present three years ago only to have it fall on Ilya's head some time in April. And here is the bedroom, where on a night many Octobers ago Shane had looked at Ilya from across the room with a smirk and said No you come here and then he'd let Ilya--
It's been an emotional day.
"Okay," Shane said, standing in the middle of the bedroom with his arms akimbo and his eyes wet. They've been wet off and on for hours now. Ilya has been carting a box of tissues around for the last little while, mostly for himself as he keeps looking up and realizing that his cheeks are wet. His eyelids feel like sandpaper. Shane, as usual, doesn't have wet cheeks--but his voice is soft and nasally, shuddery at times, words slurring very gently on certain syllables. He's saying a lot of okays and yeses in Ilya's accent, which Ilya doesn't even know if Shane realizes he does when words are hard for him to produce and he needs to reach for the comfort of some familiar, easy verbal stim. Ilya has never pointed it out for fear he'll stop.
"Okay," Shane says again, in his fake Russian accent. "Um. Last room tonight, I guess. I'll do the closet. Will you--baby?"
"Huh?" Ilya realizes a moment too late that he's just staring at the empty, made bed. Tonight will be the last night they sleep in it together. There are already enough beds in Ilya's house. Their house. "What?"
Shane pokes his own cheek. "You're...crying again."
Ilya points to the bed. "I fucked you there, Shane Hollander."
"Yeah, you did." Shane looks at the bed, grins, and then wobbles.
"The first time."
"Fuck," Shane sighs. "Jesus Christ. Okay." He closes his eyes and breaths and waves his hands in front of himself and for a minute, he is utterly possessed by Yuna Hollander. "Okay, enough."
Ilya flaps his arms once, briefly, hard at his sides. Shane echoes the movement.
"We're good," Shane says firmly. "Can you go through the nightstands? Just throw it all into a box, we'll look through it in Ottawa. At this point I just want everything empty for the movers in the morning."
Ilya goes into the hall, where a stack of folded boxes and a roll of tape are ready for the last push of the day. He puts one together, which is something he'll probably dream about tonight with how many times he's done it today, and then he puts together a few more before carting them all back into the bedroom. He stacks them against the wall outside the closet, where Shane is rummaging, and takes one to the bedside.
The nightstands have two drawers each, and a compartment directly below the table top that is intended to house books or remotes, things that a person might want easy access to but might not want to leave on the table top if they are, for instance, a Shane Hollander type who doesn't like to let people know he does human things like watch television in bed or read the occasional true crime book.
Shane's nightstand is full of little insights into his life. His spare phone charger, a copy of the key to the safe in the closet, his glasses case, a foil blister pack containing a pair of his single-use contacts, a half-empty bottle of ibuprofen. Odd little knick knacks like a slide puzzle that Ilya knows he used to take on flights just to fidget the tiles back and forth (when complete, it's a picture of the Montreal skyline) and a stress ball with the Metros logo on it. There are condoms here--an almost full box that, if Ilya had to guess, is probably reaching its expiration date soon. Two different kinds of lube, one of which was bought because it does, in fact, taste significantly better than their preferred brand. A bottle of linen spray that Shane uses if he's worried the bed smells like sex even after it's been remade.
Ilya sits on the bed with the box between his feet and systematically loads everything from the drawer into it, resisting the urge to pause and reminisce about every single item. When the drawer is empty--and there go the tears again, a pair of them racing down Ilya's face; this drawer probably hasn't been empty since Shane was nineteen--he hunches down and opens the second drawer.
This is a more eclectic collection of things. It doesn't get opened nearly as much and Ilya thinks it's possible that most of these things got put here on accident. A pair of tiny stud earrings that Ilya wore one singular time and then never saw again--when he finds them, he has the weirdest sense of deja vu and a very very vague memory of tipsily removing them and putting them in Shane's outstretched palm. They are atop the manual for the PlayStation. Here is the remote that Ilya thinks belonged to the television that used to be in the living room back in 2014ish. Here is the dimmer for the overhead light in the kitchen, which every single person in the world is forbidden from even thinking about turning on because even at its lowest setting it makes Shane feel like he's being interrogated. Here is a very small plush bear filled with tiny beads that, for reasons only Ilya and Shane know, has the words I Love Vermont embroidered onto its belly.
Here, in the very back, is a little notebook closed with a piece of elastic.
Ilya has seen these notebooks before. Yuna buys them a half dozen at a time from some Japanese stationary company and divides them between herself and Shane, sliding the stack of them across the kitchen island at the cottage or the house in Ottawa. Yuna and Shane are both prolific note-takers and habitually maintain a collection of these little notebooks to track various aspects of life. Shane has one that serves as a journal of sorts, which Ilya has seen and will sometimes watch Shane write in but doesn't go out of his way to read, because Shane is allowed his private thoughts. There is another where he tracks his workouts and diet (and part of the negotiations with Shane's new therapist is that Ilya is allowed to ask to see that one, but Shane gets to explain) and still another where he keeps track of his own game stats. When he fills one of these notebooks, he always replaces it with the same color.
This one is a different color, looks older. Ilya imagines that it's some version of the workout notebook that has been laying forgotten in this drawer for several years. He doesn't think much of flipping it open, because whatever is in there is several years old at least and it's unlikely that Shane will care about Ilya seeing the record of a workout Shane did on October sixteenth of 2013--
But that is not a workout. It quickly becomes clear that it's not a workout when Ilya sees the word 'anal' and then double-triple takes at the top of the page.
October 16th 2013 Montreal Post-game 2-3 Metros Hollander one goal, one assist Rozanov one assist Sex: Mouth stuff (Look up: ass job? Is that a thing? Google this?) 8/10 Anal 10/10 (Wow.) - On my back 8/10 (Liked seeing his face. Liked kissing.) - On my knees 10/10 (More comfortable. Wow.) Orgasms - Hollander 1 Rozanov 1 Things to remember: Doggy style goes deeper than missionary (Still called missionary if anal? Missionaries don't have anal sex. Google this?) Came untouched. Neck kisses, shoulder kisses 10/10 He stayed inside me after 10/10 (Is this normal? Google?) Feels important to note that Ilya Rozanov took my virginity. Mixed feelings. Mostly good. "Are you okay" so many times. Liked this but also why?
Ilya snaps the notebook reflexively closed, glances into the closet where Shane is loading pre-folded armfuls of clothes into boxes, and then looks back down at the notebook. He opens it, reads the first page again, breathes through his mouth for a second like an asthmatic dog and flips, randomly, to another page.
April 24th 2015 Boston (Rozanov penthouse) Post-game 1-0 Boston Rozanov one goal Bad game Sex: Round 1: Mutual blowjobs Round 2: Anal sex Round 3?: Rozanov fingered me in the shower - Didn't cum but it felt really good Orgasms - Hollander 2 Rozanov 1 Things to remember: Rozanov doesn't like to cum before fucking but he likes it when I do. Asked about equity/fairness regarding number of orgasms. He laughed? He's fucking rude. Why is this hot? Google? Rozanov stood at the end of the bed with one foot up like Captain Morgan. Very hot. Called me his slut. Came right after. How to make him do this again? Fingering in the shower worth mentioning again. Intimate. Russian words (Known): Slut, pretty, bunny (Worth mentioning I know this one? Maybe he'll stop? Do I want him to stop?) Russian words (Unkown): Idiallen (If this means idiot I will end him), youbimy, tibia (Need to figure out how these are spelled. Typing tibia into Google is useless.) "Oh, you found that."
Ilya reflexively drops the notebook into the box at his feet. Shane is standing in the closet doorway, looking flushed but not in any way that couldn't be caused by bending over several dozen times over the course of the last twenty minutes. His hair is a lost cause, sweeping down around his ears and cheeks and completely free of the product he put in it this morning.
"Sorry," Ilya says. "Didn't know what it was. I was just--"
"It's fine," Shane says. He leans against the doorway and Ilya wants him to come over here, wants him to bring himself closer so that he can touch him a little, wants him--wants him. "I knew that it was somewhere around here, I figured it would turn up."
Ilya looks back down at it, innocuously sitting on top of Vermont Beany-Baby. "How long were you...?"
"Writing it all down?" Shane chuckles. "Um, I mean, I sort of never stopped? But it goes in the calendar now, the--"
"Yes, yes." Ilya waves a hand. "I know." The calendar is a synced app in both of their phones. It keeps track of appointments and, until recently, meet-ups. Mutual days off. The stolen moments of time they carved out and into which they attempted to shove entire weeks' worth of kisses, touches, rough sex and lounging together naked and lovemaking and sleeping together and counting freckles and laughter and Shane's sweet begging and say it say it and I love you ya tebya lyublyu je t'aime.
Never enough time. Never again.
Ilya gestures to the notebook. "Most of this doesn't go in the calendar. Those notes are, um. When you write everything...?"
"Thorough?"
"No, I know thorough. It is that, but it's also, eh, dotoshnyy."
Shane pulls out his phone, types, smirks. "Meticulous, pedantic, fussy."
"Meticulous, yes. You wrote down--everything." He laughs. "You wrote down the game scores."
Ilya enjoys one of his favorite sights--Shane's pink blush creeping across his freckles--as Shane says, "I think at some point I was trying to figure out if sex felt better after winning, but then I realized that it wasn't about whether it felt better."
"Oh?" Ilya mumbles, feeling like he's staring over the edge of a cliff and the only thing keeping him there is Shane Hollander's hand. Which is big and strong and iron-like in its grasp and Ilya feels safe. He knows, now, that Shane won't let him fall.
"No, it was..." Shane sighs, choosing his words as he finally comes close. He sits beside Ilya on the bed and butts their feet together. "I was trying to wrap my mind around why I felt what I did when I was with you. And I thought it was sex because--I mean, we were always having sex when we were together back then. So I was writing it all down because I couldn't let myself think that I loved you, so I was just...circling. Like, oh, maybe I feel this way because...I don't know, this position was really hot. Or because you slammed me into the boards that night. Or because--"
"Because I put my fingers in your open hole after I fucked you." Ilya raises an eyebrow. "You really liked that. Maybe I do this tonight."
Shane tilts his head. "Yeah, that'd be nice."
Ilya kisses his neck.
"I used to like things like that because it was the only time--" Shane sighs, and mutters fuck under his breath (because fuck will always, always be his favorite vocal stim) and says, "The only time it felt like i wasn't crazy. Like you were going through it too."
Ilya picks up the notebook, finds the page from April 2015 again and pokes a particular word in Shane's chicken-scratch fucking penmanship. Idiallen, Shane had written, because he'd been leading himself blindly through a language he'd only heard gasped into the side of his own neck. Youbimy. Tibia.
"Lyubimyy," he says. "Tebya. Ideal'nyy. Beloved. You are perfect."
"Oh," Shane whispers. He puts his forehead against Ilya's shoulder, puts his mouth against his bicep, says, "Even then?"
"Even then."
you know what. I think I should be allowed to temporarily turn into a seal and go swimming around in the ocean for a while. just submit a little note to work that says "sorry, I need to take some sick time, I am becoming a seal" and leave for a week
day 1 at the communal puzzle club: i see a puzzle with a sign next to it that says "please help with our communal puzzle" and i say to myself "don't mind if I do" and did the whole thing
day 2 at the communal puzzle club: i get gently reprimanded for not sharing the puzzle experience with the others. in my defense I thought they needed all the help they could get
day 3 at the communal puzzle club: we start a new puzzle and i put one of the pieces in my pocket and save it for later so i can be the one who puts in the last piece
day 4 at the communal puzzle club: the puzzle is almost complete so i reach into my pocket and realize i left the last piece in my other pants which are currently in the washing machine. i feign ignorance
day 5 at the communal puzzle club: the others are suspicious but they have no proof. they check my pockets before i leave but little do they know that this time i ate the pieces
day 6 at the communal puzzle club: i put an entire bottle of miralax in my coffee to get the pieces out of my digestive system but they are too far dissolved to be usable. my stomach is in so much pain and i can't stop shitting but i rinse off what's left of the pieces and make it to puzzle club anyway, only to find out they don't meet on mondays. i am inconsolable.
day 7 at the communal puzzle club: i realized those pieces are incriminating evidence so i slipped them in someone else's pocket. i should be good as long as they don't find residual traces of my dna
day 8 at the communal puzzle club: there is an odd feeling in my gut. i feel as if something has been awoken in me
day 9 at the communal puzzle club: i am in such deep focus that the others are starting to fear me. either that or they are cowering away from the communal puzzle out of sheer respect for my skills
day 10 at the communal puzzle club: i'm getting better and better, i can now do several puzzles in one day. the others are discussing what to do about me in hushed tones. little do they know my laser focus allows me to hear everything they say. they aren't a threat.
day 11 at the communal puzzle club: the club manager unlocked the door but already i am inside. ive been here all night doing puzzles in the dark. they threaten to ban me from the club so in response i pick a 500 piece puzzle at random and complete it in under 45 minutes, just to show them who the real authority is
day 12 at the communal puzzle club: i have been officially banned from the communal puzzle club. in a fit of rage i grab as many pieces as i can and eat them, making sure to thoroughly chew and swallow every single one. if i can't do them, no one can.
day 13 at the communal puzzle club: it's monday again. the club doesn't meet today. it's the perfect opportunity to break in and do as many puzzles as my heart desires, without any of the club's petty drama to distract me
day 14 at the communal puzzle club: i am in jail because the club manager snitched to the cops like the pathetic weakling they are. this is the worst night of my entire life there aren't any puzzles here
day 15 at the communal puzzle club: the judge let me off with a restraining order since I didn't actually steal anything. i show back up to communal puzzle club just to make a show of ripping the order to shreds. no piece of paper will dictate my life, only jigsaw-cut cardboard has that power. nothing else.
day 16 at the communal puzzle club: everyone is so quiet today when I walk in. I eat some pieces in a show of force, just to remind everyone who's in charge. I comment that they taste somewhat like strychnine, they say it's just because Ravensburger has a new method of chemically processing their pieces. sounds plausible. 30 minutes later i am convulsing violently but i beg them not to call an ambulance until i finish the puzzle i was working on. but the bastards don't listen and I'm shipped off to the hospital kicking and screaming.
day 17 at the communal puzzle club: i spent the night in the hospital. a detective comes in and says they're investigating the manager of the communal puzzle club for attempted murder and asks what i know. i tell him honestly that i ain't no snitch and spit in his face. he says they have more than enough evidence to prosecute regardless.
day 18 at the communal puzzle club: the club manager is on trial for attempted murder and i am called as a witness. i tell the judge that i ain't no snitch and spit in his face. i am held in contempt of the court
day 19 at the communal puzzle club: the defense makes a plea of justifiable self defense, citing the restraining order that isn't even 1 week old. somehow the judge buys that flimsy defense. i mean, this is the same judge who didn't even recognize me from that same case despite being the same judge. i think the poor old man has dementia so i make a motion for a mistrial. it gets shot down because the system is corrupt.
day 20 at the communal puzzle club: the judge says i should get jail time but he decided i should be in a mental facility instead. i don't know why he would think that, i have been nothing but sane my entire life. god forbid a woman have hobbies
day 1 in the psych ward: they have puzzles in here this is amazing
day 2 in the psych ward: all the puzzles are missing a few pieces. this is unacceptable. im going to go insane
day 3 in the psych ward: i have been informed that they do not use the word "insane" in here so i take back my previous statement.
day 4 in the psych ward: i need to find those missing pieces i need to find them i need to find them i have been questioning everybody all the nurses all the doctors all the patients all the miscellaneous hospital staff but nobody knows anything. this is hopeless. i will never be able to overcome this trauma. my life is over
day 5 in the psych ward: it's so boring in here. without complete puzzles there's nothing to do except watch tv but the only channel they get is the local news. i begrudgingly watch out of nothing but all-encompassing ennui. but one of the stories is about the communal puzzle club and suddenly i am overcome with nostalgia. turns out there was a series of alleged poisonings attributed to that location. strychnine was found in three people so far, one of whom was myself. but the others didn't survive. this confirms my suspicion that i am in fact the chosen one
day 6 in the psych ward: with a renewed sense of purpose i will attempt to convince the doctors of my "sanity," but i also came to the realization that they don't care about sanity, they only care about sedation. they want to supress my passion, eradicate my truth, condition me to fall in line with the rest of the "sane" people. with that knowledge, i was able to tell them everything they wanted to hear. i acted polite, pretended i was cured, i even feigned complete disinterest in puzzles! it made my stomach boil but i did it, i convinced them, and just like that, i was free.
day 28 at the communal puzzle club: i don't know why everyone was so surprised to see me again, it's only natural that i'd come to finish what i started
(i know this is supposed to be day 27 at the communal puzzle club but day 27 was a monday so nothing happened) like what am i gonna say, "day 27 i sat alone in my studio apartment eating cereal and biding my time"
day 29 at the communal puzzle club: the communal puzzle club has been disbanded, the club manager has been arrested, and the whole place is swarming with cops. i watched as they hauled off a bunch of expensive looking printers and like a billion reams of paper and loaded them onto a big police truck.
apparently, the communal puzzle club was just a front for document forgery and counterfeit cash, and i had been inadvertently sabotaging them this entire time. which is sad because i support both of those things. but it also explains why they met 12 hours a day, 6 days a week and why they had their own building despite having no profit model and also why i was the only one who seemed to actually care about the puzzles. everyone else was too busy making fake passports to care.
in hindsight, i always knew they were all a bunch of casuals. but i didn't mind because they had so many excellent puzzles. I asked one of the officers if i could at least have the puzzles but he said they were already taken and locked away in the evidence room. the thought sickens me- all those puzzles, gathering dust, never to be assembled again. or maybe the pigs just took them for themselves! so they could have all the puzzles they want while the rest of us ordinary, law-abiding citizens have nothing to do except die of boredom!
the moral of the story is that we can never have nice things because of the fucking pigs. fuck the police.
the fuck did i just read?
my local library was having a puzzle swap and there was a puzzle with a sign next to it that said "please help with our communal puzzle" and i thought "wouldn't it be funny if i did the entire thing by myself" and then i did the entire thing by myself while rolling that thought around in my brain and as it rolled it started picking up all the various mold spores and fungus i keep up there. like a katamari
there's actually tons of poor people who don't choose to better their personal material position through slaughtering, either directly or through support, people in foreign nations. in fact the majority of poor people globally are never even given this option in the first place because they were born on the other end of the gun, being themselves inhabitants of the very countries destabilized, impoverished, and brutalized by the US empire. my sympathies will always lie with them over the (minority of) US soldiers opting for rape and pillage as a means of upward mobility
I think I should start bragging about my adopted son’s achievements when people around me start bragging about their kids. Ooooh your child can count to 10 in mandarin? Well, my child found 110 landmines! And he’s only 6 years old!
Could you do a stimboard for my boyfriend who really hates soup
Thank you for your patience, the stimboard will be posted in a couple of days!
Hey anon. It's been nearly 5 years. Hope you and your boyfriend who hates soup are well. The stimboard you requested is still one of the top 3 most popular posts on this entire blog. I've seen it on my own dash a few times and wonder if you have, too. Hope you have a great 2026.
Launching a new social media platform where, in addition to upvoting or downvoting a post, you can also topvote, bottomvote, strangevote, or charmvote it. Each of these extra options does affect the Algorithm, but exactly how is not publicly documented, leaving users to puzzle it out via trial and error.
the devil works fast but ao3 writers work faster.
I was looking for references and stumbled across a series of paintings from 1930s by Soviet painter Alexander Samokhvalov called "The young women of metro construction"
anybody else hate how much it costs just to literally Eat Food and Stay Alive
in honor of the tomatoes I just planted out back 🍅
I know that HRT gives you secondary sex characteristics in one direction or another, but we HAVE to stop telling nonbinary people that they “can’t pick and choose.” Of course, you can’t tell your testosterone that you’d rather not grow chest hair, but there are things you can do!
You could go on T so your voice drops and start shaving so you don’t grow a beard. You could start HRT and then stop once you get the permanent changes you like. You can pursue sterilization instead of bottom surgery. You can get top surgery without being on T. You can go on E and work out a bunch to bulk out your muscles. You can pursue laser hair removal or electrolysis to remove unwanted hair, with or without HRT. You could even just start hormones to see if you like it and then stop if it isn’t to your taste.
Obviously, you can’t order secondary sex characteristics a la carte, but we have to stop being so awful to nonbinary people. We should discuss the options we have, not shut down the conversation with “that’s what you get.”
this 2020 research paper is all about HRT options for non-binary people. it's what convinced me to start HRT, because, indeed, i could "pick and choose".
Introduction: To date no standardized hormonal treatment protocols for non-binary transgender individuals have been described in the literat
Irish Tesco worker nails church acoustics in work stairwell
This is how Gregorian chant was meant to be sung.
the kicking of the handrails is what makes this
This guy knows what’s up.
The echo is supposed to start to fade before you sing the next line, which pausing to kick the handrail does well.
@irishironclad
What the flock?! such smart names!
Science should let more cartoonists name things. That how we got the thagomizer and the Rube Goldberg machines. Anyways! SHERLOCK CROWMES!!!!!
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