These may be my last words or the last time I write a post, so I will not forgive anyone who sees this post and does not support me with a single word and ignores me.
I write these words in great pain, my eyes brimming with tears. I can no longer bear this situation. I am exhausted by hunger, severe anemia, my father's cancer, and the exorbitant cost of the medications he needs.
All I care about is getting rid of the cancer my father is suffering from and the constant pain. Please help me buy his medication so his body can recover and he can resume his life, and to save me, my entire family, and my young niece who is suffering from malnutrition and anemia.
Nader's father needs pain relief. Donate what you can. This is campaign number 4 on the @gazavetters account. I personally assure you that your donations will go directly to Nader, his family, and his ailing father.
Friends, our last donation was a day ago, and our lives depend entirely on your donations and assistance. Please donate now and give what you can to help us. Please donate now.
These may be my last words or the last time I write a post, so I will not forgive anyone who sees this post and does not support me with a single word and ignores me.
I write these words in great pain, my eyes brimming with tears. I can no longer bear this situation. I am exhausted by hunger, severe anemia, my father's cancer, and the exorbitant cost of the medications he needs.
All I care about is getting rid of the cancer my father is suffering from and the constant pain. Please help me buy his medication so his body can recover and he can resume his life, and to save me, my entire family, and my young niece who is suffering from malnutrition and anemia.
Nader's father needs pain relief. Donate what you can. This is campaign number 4 on the @gazavetters account. I personally assure you that your donations will go directly to Nader, his family, and his ailing father.
Friends, our last donation was a day ago, and our lives depend entirely on your donations and assistance. Please donate now and give what you can to help us. Please donate now.
Friends, please don't hesitate to support us and donate. You are our hope. Please don't stop. Our entire lives depend on these donations. Please donate, I beg you.
Please continue donating. We need these funds for survival in Gaza to buy food and medicine. Please donate now. We need 450 euros to reach 3,000. Please donate now.
Please continue sharing this post and donating. We're almost there! We need 134 more to reach 3000. Please, please, let's collect them today! Donate whatever you can, my friend, please!
If my page suddenly stops posting one day, know that my sister has died. I will never forget the people who saw her bleeding, suffering, and begging for help, yet chose silence and continued scrolling.
I feel completely broken and deeply ashamed begging strangers for help every day, because this suffering has turned me into a sister forced to sacrifice even her dignity just to keep her family alive.
I want nothing from this world except seeing my sister walk and laugh again. Please donate so I can buy medicine and bandages instead of expired drugs and torn clothes to clean her wound.
I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.
...I might need to back up a bit.
My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.
They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.
Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.
My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.
Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.
It's a Great Van.
Very easy and comfortable to drive.
Stunningly good MPG for it's size.
The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.
It's just also.
Quirky.
Mischievous, even.
---
If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.
It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.
My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.
On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.
Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.
---
As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.
The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along.
Sometimes, they fight for Dominance.
The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.
Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.
I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song-
The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors
-is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.
You all know this song already.
...but in case you've forgotten the tune:
Yeah.
The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.
It does not play this song at a normal volume.
Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.
Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.
...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.
---
So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.
It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening.
I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window.
My feet are up.
There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv.
-But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage,
including,
among other valuable possessions,
the keys to her car.
...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.
There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.
Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.
Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.
I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.
The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.
It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.
I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic.
It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.
While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.
Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.
I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.
I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.
Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.
It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.
I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.
The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.
We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.
I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.
The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.
I look down at myself.
In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:
Flip Flops.
Not matching.
It's below freezing outside.
That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.
Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time.
It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.
The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.
A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal.
It is also Bright Red. with black accents.
The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.
The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.
My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge.
It is ALSO bright red.
A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.
The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.
I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:
The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.
This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes.
So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.
The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.
I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.
"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"
The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.
$6.66
"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.
I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.
It also turns on the music player.
I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.
Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.
---
If you enjoyed this story, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi or Pre-ordering my Family Lore Funny Stories book on Patreon
Sooo was anyone gonna tell me that butterfly pea flowers are called CLITORIA and look like THAT?? Or was I just supposed to find that out while googling this in front of my mom
the charlie kirk news is currently competing for coverage with news about a school shooting in colorado, by the way. don’t allow that dickhead to overshadow this.
i hate when something violent happens to a right wing politician and every left leaning pundit and politician gets on their soap box about how "violence isn't the answer" as if the right wing ideology doesn't inherently encourage violence.
"his son just had his first birthday" they're separating families. they're attacking trans people. they're building concentration camps. they send "thoughts and prayers" for school shootings and don't enact real change to prevent others. they have stood by israel, which is bombing nurseries. they stormed the capitol and physically harmed others. and i'm supposed to be sad he got shot at?
try and tell me literally any one of these would not fit above a short story about two wholly random men from the MCU fingering each other, or possibly 12 chapters of one or more characters from a CW show being in high school while having a photogenic but terminal kind of cancer. try.
reposting from bsky, but heres a cheat sheet for how to properly send a message to payment processing companies over the recent highly conservative shift in where youre allowed to legally spend your money
because i'm obnoxious i wanted to run some additional numbers on this to see just how much of an impact sans specifically had on this. the total amount of m/m in the undertale tag is 20,917 fics, with the amount of f/f sitting at the bottom with only 5,926 fics. if i sort the tag by fics tagged m/m, sans/sans comprises 43% of the fics, sans/papyrus comprises 14%, and sans/reader comprises 9%. those are the three most written-for ships in that tag. needless to say, that's already pretty bleak. but it gets bleaker.
if i sort the tag instead by f/f, what are the three most written-for ships? alphys/undyne, predictably, is at the top, comprising 51% of the tag. the second is, inexplicably, sans/reader, which weighs in at 23%. and last is toriel/asgore, making up 11% of the tag. (in case you're wondering, sans/sans makes up 7%.)
daily reminder that there is absolutely nothing normal about being expected to waste a majority of your life at a corporation to survive instead of indulging in better life experiences ✨
In the 1960s it was a common speculation that by 1980 the typical work week would consist of 4 days. And by the year 2000 we’d be working no more than 3 days a week.
Because of computerization, automation, and better efficiencies in workflow.
Aya Abdalsalam is a woman who recently began a campaign to help get herself and her young daughter, Sophia, out of the nightmare in Gaza.
Their campaign is still young and they could really use some extra support! They currently have only €64 out of their €25,000 goal.
Aya's campaign was brought to my attention by my friend Nader @abdalsalam2000 (vetted #4 by @gazavetters)
From Beneath the Rubble: A Mother's Cry for Her Daughter’s Life
M… Aya Abdalsalam needs your support for Help Aya and her family to surv
Young children like Sophia are especially endangered by the man-made famine in Gaza, so anything you can give will give Sophia the food a developing child needs.
Please, share and give what you can to help Aya and her daughter! Thank you! 💚
being a teenage girl between 2010 and 2015 must have been the shit. lana del rey dropped born to tie and ultraviolence. the arctic monkeys dropped am. justin bieber. one direction. u had tumblr and weheartit. u post a black and white pic of a cigarette and u get like 20k notes. pretty little liars, vampire diaries and glee were all on tv. twilight was still really popular. all around it must have been fun
