So I do 3D modeling and printing as a hobby, and a few weeks ago I designed wheel guards meant to prevent office chairs from running over cables and clothes... or your pet's tail.
I got the idea from cowcatchers old locomotives used to have.
Anyways, yesterday I uploaded the model to Thingiverse, and just hours after uploading it, the Community Relationship Manager of the whole website left a comment suggesting I enter the model into a competition that's currently being held on the site.
So I did... and now it's in third place not even a day later. First place is $500, but the competition still has a month to go.
Then the Community Manager contacted me again, telling me they want to feature my model in an upcoming design promotion.
Just, what is happening? I mostly made this thing for myself in, like, an hour, and now it's suddenly super popular? This is all a little bit overwhelming 😵💫
Other models I worked on for weeks didn't get nearly as popular. I swear, it's impossible to predict what people will like.
Anyways, if you want to print the wheel guards yourself, you can get the model here or here.
I also made a quiet version you can stick furniture felt pads on.
You and Leon have a routine. Your place, his place, injured or unscathed, it doesn't matter. You eat, you laugh, and neither of you says anything about being stupidly in love with the other.
“You really didn’t have to drive me home, Leon,” you slur over your shoulder as the two of you approach the front door to your apartment. The sickly green paint is chipping, and the brass until number below the peephole is hanging on by a single nail. It’s a shit hole, but when you’re out in the field for a third of the time, at headquarters for training or briefs (or medical intervention) for another, there’s really no point in shelling out half your paycheck for a nicer place. “Or walk me to my front door.”
“You’re one limb down,” he says with a toothless grin, gesturing to the sling nursing your right arm as you attempt to fish for your keys in your bag, forgetting that he’s carrying them in the pocket of his leather jacket. He jiggles the keychain in front of your face, your vision slightly blurring as you try to focus on the moving gaggle of brass. When you almost lose your footing, tripping over your own ankles, Leon lunges to steady you with a hand on your elbow. “And apparently still woozy from the pain meds.” With one hand still on your arm, he unlocks the door with the other, pushing it open so he can guide you across the threshold.
An almost immediate wave of relief crashes over you as you step inside, greeted with the scent of your fresh linen laundry detergent, the sight of your overstuffed sofa, the teddy bear propped against the back of it. Thankfully, you got a nasty case of the cleaning bug prior to leaving for the mission, so a pristine apartment welcomes you back, encasing you in the detoxifying smell of lemon furniture polish and freshly-vacuumed carpet.
“Let’s get you some dinner,” Leon suggests. His voice is only slightly muffled by the cotton in your ears, the pain medication you took before they set your broken arm at the tail-end of its effectiveness. “What’s the easiest thing to eat with one arm?” He mumbles to himself, instinctively reaching for the takeout menus you have stashed in a kitchen drawer like he’s done a hundred times before. He knows better than to ask you what you want to eat. He never gets an answer to that question. You’re far too indecisive to work well under such pressure, which is funny, because he’s always saying that he’s never met an agent so quick on their feet as you. Whether it’s true or not, you’ll take the compliment.
You watch from the sofa as he navigates around your kitchen, flipping through the paper menus before settling on one, punching a number into your landline. Your eyes stay affixed to his arms as he holds the phone to his ear, speaking your usual dinner order into the receiver. They’re so, so big. So big and bulging and so incredibly beautiful, as though sculpted from marble by Michaelangelo himself. A perfect David come to life in the flesh of a corny, old-souled government agent with the haircut of a boy-band drummer.
Speaking of, swaths of icy blonde hair fall across his forehead, framing his temples. He blows a few vagrant strands out of his eyes as he turns on his heel to face you, speaking a gratitude into the phone before hanging up the call.
Maybe it’s the drugs, maybe it’s the way he came to your rescue during the mission, wrapping your arm in a makeshift cast before either of you could get medical attention, but you’re suddenly confronted by an internal hurricane of feelings you typically repress. Feelings far too intense to be attached to friendship. Feelings of want and need. Need to confess. Need to confront.
“What’d you get us?” You say instead. Not even the lip-loosening medication can bring those thoughts to the surface.
Leon would never admit it to you, but you’ve occupied most all of his waking thoughts since the monet the two of you started working together. From the time he wakes up in the morning, long before his alarm even has the chance to go off (because he stopped sleeping a full eight hours many moons ago), until he lays his head back down on his pillow to do it all again, he’s thinking about you. Work, eating, breathing, BOWs–all background noise.
No, he’d never admit it, but Leon’s been in love with you since you walked into that briefing room and shook his hand for the first time.
And since then, he’s been attached to your hip like a lovesick puppy, the two of you sharing more meals than not, crashing on the other’s sofa when the drive back home feels impossible, and the idea of sleeping a room over is all too delicious. So, there’s nothing special about tonight, beside the fact that you’re giggling more than usual, and your feet were extra ticklish as he rubbed the ache from them, the two of you lounging together on the sofa, waiting for dinner to arrive.
Totally normal.
He fed you orange chicken, even though you could definitely manage on your own, even with your dominant hand out of commission.
Again, very normal. You’d washed his hair on multiple occasions when a cracked rib or two prevented him from raising his arms. That’s what friends are for.
They come to the rescue when the other is in need.
What they don’t do, however, is kiss the other on the cheek and call him their ‘boyfriend’.
He was in the middle of washing the dishes used during dinner when you came up behind him and pressed your lips to his face.
“You’re such a good boyfriend, Leon.”
Not normal.
You slap your only available hand over your mouth, as if to shove the words back down your throat. But it’s too late. With the faucet spitting water, his hands covered in dish soap, mid-scrub, Leon freezes.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. Or do that–kiss you, I mean.”
Every last drop of that pain medication has now left your system, the situation far too sobering to keep you under a haze any longer, and you see it now, clear as day. You kissed Leon and called him your ‘boyfriend’. A good one too. And by the rosy tint spreading across his face like a bad rash, you think he liked it.
“It’s just all so domestic, I think, and–well, I wasn’t thinking–but you know what I mean.” You swallow hard, your throat suddenly scratchy and hoarse. The bewildered expression on his face, unreadable in its blankness, makes you sick to your stomach. His eyes are as wide as saucers, his lips slightly agape, and for some reason, you think a defensive ramble is the best course of action to take. “We’re just so…close, and lines get blurred, and...I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying, I think I just–”
He cuts you off with a kiss. A real one this time. All-encompasing and electric, tasting like wasted time and mint toothpaste.
His hands grab your face, holding you close, not letting you shirk away, or continue babbling into his mouth. You’re completely and utterly enraptured by his touch, and although there’s no lack of passion tucked into the corners, it’s all care and affection. Three years’ worth.
“Leon,” is all you manage to whisper when his lips detach from yours and he retreats in inch, hands still lingering to cup your cheeks. His pupils are shot, black circles eclipsing the blue of his irises, as piercing and formidable as ever.
“I think I’ve loved you for a long time,” he says, dipping down to press his forehead against yours. “And you might be too woozy to remember this tomorrow, but I at least want you to know tonight.”
You tilt your head upward to capture his lips in another marriage of love and long-earned feelings. It’s cooler this time, not as hot and messy as the first one–far more controlled in its decision. “I think I love you too, Leon. No,” you giggle, bottom lip grazing his. “I’m sure I do.”
“And that’s not the medicine talking?” His brows are cinched together in what seems like genuine concern, and it’s amusing–knowing your own feelings–to think he could even doubt your devotion.
You shake your head, planting a soft peck on the tip of his nose. He smiles wide, flashing a set of perfectly imperfect teeth, beneath the gesture. “Nope. All me.”
After the two of you explore each other’s mouths, making your way to the sofa in the throes of your affection, Leon pulls away, if only for a second to gaze into your eyes. “So…I’m a pretty good boyfriend, huh?”
“my father is a boy and my mother is a girl so i’m mixed” is the funniest possible response to someone asking your gender and it came from 6’5 Viking footballer and notable weird little guy Erling Haaland on a Snapchat
i’m bisexual, i hate my dad, my car is dented to hell, all of my friends have ADHD, i correct people when they pronounce pho wrong, and my phone is always at 20%
to anyone in the areas impacted by the wildfire smoke, my #1 biggest piece of advice as someone whos been dealing with wildfire smoke in the NW united states for years, is build yourself a Corsi-Rosenthal Cube
they perform as well as expensive HEPA air cleaners, and are comparatively VERY inexpensive. all you need is a box fan, 4 air filters, a piece of cardboard, and some duct tape!!!!
i think it took us maybe a half hour to put ours together, if that, and we replace the filters every 3 months. it's really made a HUGE difference, both when the air quality is bad, but also with our allergies
where i am, a box fan and the filters run about $20 each, so if $100 is too much of a stretch at the moment, get the fan and one filter. tape the filter to the intake side of the fan, all the way around. this is also good if your space is small and a 20" cube won't fit.
"ummm actually that wouldn't happen because-" playing!!! i am playing!!! come play with me!!! i even set up the sandbox with extra shovels!!! don't smack the barbie out of my hands!!
we are doing improv!! pick up a blorbo and yes and with me!!
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