I guess this is my Tumblr or something

21. USA. Main fandoms are all the literary webseries but especially Nothing Much to Do, Check Please!, Parks and Rec, and Hamilton, with some other stuff thrown in when I feel like it. Look, I don't...

[whoacanada]

‘all and then most of you, some and now none of you’

A Zimbits Soulmate AU

Summary: In order to save your intended from a cursed eternity you have to make peace with your personal demons. Jack Zimmermann has always been afraid of finding his soulmate for just that reason.

Word Count: 5k

Notes: Inspired by an old Shitty-Check-Please-Aus soulmate au prompt where when you meet your soulmate they turn into an inanimate object until you complete a ‘quest’, but the quest is really a journey of self-discovery. I finished this like a year ago but never posted it and I’m sorry. Title from Lord Huron’s ‘The Night We Met’

Ao3 Link Right Here

The facility his parents had selected was discreet: quiet, full of old money and older secrets. His peers don’t look like they’ve been abusing substances, but then again no one looks like anything. Even the most ragged junkies have veneered smiles and manicured nails; Jack is the one out of place with his sallow skin, hoarse voice, and shaking hands.

Today, he’s sitting in a circle of recovering addicts when he learns to be afraid of finding his soulmate.

They’re talking about grief —among other things — sourcing their addictions and finding their triggers. Emily, two chairs to Jack’s left, is a banking executive who has worn the same cashmere scarf every day he’s seen her. Today, she clutches at the fabric around her neck like a lifeline and introduces the accessory as Charles, her soulmate of ten years.

A strip of cashmere that at one point was a human being.

“I know when I get clean he’ll come back to me,” she insists, with only the barest hint of desperation, “just have to keep trying.”

Jack’s sudden urge to vomit can’t be blamed on withdrawal.

When group ends, James, who claims his family owns the mineral rights to the largest oil field in Alberta, jumps at the chance to gossip.

“She’s been in and out of treatment for years. Always the same story, ‘I’ll stop drinking’, ‘I’ll stop taking pills’, but the universe saddled that poor bastard with a crazy and now he’s never going to be human again.”

Jack is wounded enough to internalize the jaded parts of James’ commentary. He thinks about his pills. His drinking. About the voices in his head that won’t shut up unless he’s imbibed enough liquor to knock out a man twice his size. He thinks about his parents: Bad Bobby Z, who spent a week on IR because Alicia had kissed his cheek for a photo op at some benefit and he’d turned into a wristwatch.

It’d hardly taken any time at all for Alicia to make peace with her demons — reportedly a fear of commitment but Jack knows better now — and Bob was back like nothing had ever happened.

Everyone finds their soulmate, everyone has to deal with the change, everyone has to look within for self-love and acceptance. That’s how it works.

Accept yourself, find happiness.

Except for those who don’t find themselves. People like Emily; the selfish, cruel, broken few who refuse to take responsibility for their actions, refuse to grow, to care, and damn their soulmates to stay objects forever.

Jack traces the small scab on his hand left over from the IV. He doesn’t want to be Emily. He doesn’t want to condemn some innocent person to an eternity in limbo because they were unlucky enough to have him as a soulmate.

He doesn’t want a soulmate. He doesn’t deserve one.

He was lucky with Kenny, even if Parse didn’t agree in the slightest. He can’t risk that again.

Jack takes that fear and tucks it away deep in his arrhythmic heart.

He doesn’t want a soulmate. He doesn’t deserve one.

_______

Junior year was always going to present problems, but a freshman afraid of checking is curse Jack wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.

It’s been infuriating, to say the least, but they’ve made so much progress that Jack’s finally feeling like Bittle might have a handle on his phobia.

He’s still fighting his instinct to snap at the Frog, but he’s getting better, and after Bittle’s assist Jack has growing confidence that he’s done his part as captain to get Bittle up to the same level of his teammates. His speed alone may not get him onto first or second line anytime soon, but at least the kid won’t lose his scholarship on Jack’s watch.

“Alright, little lower, little faster,” Jack warns, confident when Bittle bends slightly at the waist and braces for impact. Jack drops a shoulder and slides into him just so, Bittle’s jersey riding up at the contact so Jack’s bare wrist grazes a sliver of an exposed hip.  

After weeks of dedicated checking clinics, numerous practices, shinnys, team meals, and a handful of games, it’s a miracle it didn’t happen sooner.

Bittle poofs away, leaving behind an oversized OYO figure with ‘BITTLE’ painted on the back of it’s tiny, red, Samwell jersey.

Jack stares at the toy for a full minute before nudging him with the tip of his skate. Distantly he can recognize he’s breathing harder than he should be, his own heartbeat ringing in his ears.

“Bittle, c’mon, we have to be out of here in an hour.” Jack pleads after a moment, annoyed at the tightness in his throat. “Please?”

This is wonderful. Terrible. Amazing. The absolute worst thing that could possibly happen to anyone.

Bittle doesn’t snap back. It’s all Jack can do to ease down against the boards, sprawling his legs on the ice to wait out what’s coming next. He stares at what used to be Eric Bittle, tries to breathe the way his therapist taught him, and lets himself shake.

When Jack comes back to himself, Bittle’s tiny plastic face is staring up at him, annoyingly cheerful. Jack’s legs are cramping at the awkward angle he’s contorted himself into, he can hear children laughing and checks his watch.

7:02

Jack has a headache, his ass is freezing, and his soulmate is a children’s toy.

Weiterlesen

[crystallizedtwilight]

[Begin Movie Trailer]

Romeo: I would die for you. Juliette: Okay, well, let’s make sure that doesn’t happen. THIS SUMMER (Begin upbeat/exciting background music) Benvolio: She’s in love with Romeo but her parents want her to marry Royalty. Mercutio: That’s where I come in. SHAKESPEARE’S GREATEST TRAGEDY Romeo (grinning in realization): A marriage of convenience. Juliette (with hopeful laughter in voice): This could actually work! NOW BECOMES Romeo (to Mercutio): What do you get out of it? Mercutio: My inheritance, my parents stop pushing girls on me, and I get to keep doing your cousin. Benvolio: He gets to keep…yeah. THE GREATEST COMEDY (Shot of the four of them running through the streets, hollering, laughing with masquerade masks on) (Shot of Romeo) Romeo: We just have to avoid getting caught for…ever. (Tybalt talking to Paris) Tybalt: I don’t think they’re actually in love. (Mercutio kissing Ben in an alley) (Romeo taking Juliette’s hand as she smiles) (Back to Tybalt and Paris) Tybalt: I’m going to get to the bottom of this. (Shot of Benvolio) Benvolio: They won’t let us be together to we made things so we can be. (Juliette in a courtyard, to Mercutio) Juliette: You need to be more careful, all four of our lives are at stake here. (Tybalt and Mercutio at the wedding’s dessert table) Tybalt: If I ever find out that you were unfaithful to my cousin I will kill you. Mercutio (music stop):………….cool, cool, good to know. THIS TIME (Another shot of a silly action sequence) ROMEO AND JULIETTE (More comedy) HAVE A PLAN (no music for finishing sequence) Benvolio (denying Merc a kiss in public) We can’t… Mercutio: (playfully) Is it because I’m married? Benvolio: I don’t care that you’re married!…You know, in any other situation, that would make me sound so terrible– What’s In a Name JULY 2018 PG-13

(Spoiler: Tybalt ends up with Paris and helps guard their secret. Everyone lives)

[dalniente]

YES.jpg

[writing-prompt-s]

An old and homely grandmother accidentally summons a demon. She mistakes him for her gothic-phase teenage grandson and takes care of him. The demon decides to stay at his new home.

[eatbreathewrite]

It isn’t uncommon for this particular demon to be summoned—from exhausting Halloween party pranks in abandoned barns to more legitimate (more exhausting) ceremonies in forests—but it has to admit, this is the first time it’s been called forth from its realm into a claustrophobic living room bathed in the dull orange-pink glow of old glass lamps and a multitude of wide-eyed, creepy antique porcelain dolls that could give Chucky a run for his money with all of their silent, seething stares combined. Accompanying those oddities are tea cup and saucer sets on shelves atop frilly doilies crocheted with the utmost care, and cross-stitched, colorful ‘Home Sweet Home’s hung across the wood-paneled walls.

It’s a mistake—a wrong number, per se. No witch it’s ever known has lived in such an, ah, dated, home. Furthermore, no practitioner that ever summoned it has been absent, as if they’d up and ding-dong ditched it. No, it didn’t work that way. Not at all. Not if they want to survive the encounter.

It hears the clinking of movement in the room adjacent—the kitchen, going by the pungent, bitter scent of cooled coffee and soggy, sweet sponge cakes, but more jarring is the smell of blood. It moves—feels something slip beneath its clawed foot as it does, and sees a crocheted blanket of whites and greys and deep black yarn, wound intricately, perfectly, into a summoning circle. Its summoning circle. There is a small splash of bright scarlet and sharp, jagged bits of a broken curio scattered on top, as if someone had dropped it, attempted to pick it up the pieces and pricked their finger. It would explain the blood. And it would explain the demon being brought into this strange place.

As it connects these pieces in its mind, the inhabitant of the house rounds the corner and exits the kitchen, holding a damp, white dish towel close to her hand and fumbling with the beaded bifocals hanging from her neck by a crocheted lanyard before stopping dead in her tracks.

Now, to be fair, the demon wouldn’t ordinarily second guess being face-to-face with a hunchbacked crone with a beaked nose, beady eyes and a peculiar lack of teeth, or a spidery shawl and ankle-length black dress, but there is definitely something amiss here. Especially when the old biddy lets her spectacles fall slack on her bosom and erupts into a wide, toothy (toothless) grin, eyes squinting and crinkling from the sheer effort of it.

“Todd! Todd, dear, I didn’t know you were visiting this year! You didn’t call, you didn’t write—but, oh, I’m so happy you’re here, dear! Would it have been too much to ask you to ring the doorbell? I almost had a heart attack. And don’t worry about the blood, here—I had an accident. My favorite figure toppled off of the table and cleanup didn’t go as expected. But I seem to recall you are quite into the bloodshed and ‘edgy’ stuff these days, so I don’t suppose you mind.” She releases a hearty, kind laugh, but it isn’t mocking, it’s sweet. Grandmotherly. The demon is by no means sentimental or maudlin, but the kindness, the familiarity, the genuine fondness, does pull a few dusty old nostalgic heartstrings. “Imagine if it leaves a scar! It’d be a bit ‘badass,’ as you teenagers say, wouldn’t it?”

She is as blind as a bat without her glasses, it would appear, because the demon is by no means a ‘Todd’ or a human at all, though humanoid, shrouded in sleek, black skin and hard spikes and sharp claws. But the demon humors her, if only because it had been caught off guard.

The old woman smiles still, before turning on her heel and shuffling into the hallway with a stiff gait revealing a poor hip. “Be a dear and make some more coffee, would you please? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Yes, this is most definitely a mistake. One for the record books, for certain. For late-night trips to bars and conversations with colleagues, while others discuss how many souls they’d swindled in exchange for peanuts, or how many first-borns they’d been pledged for things idiot humans could have gained without divine intervention. Ugh. Sometimes it all just became so pedantic that little detours like this were a blessing—happy accidents, as the humans would say.

That’s why the demon does as asked, and plods slowly into the kitchen, careful to duck low and avoid the top of the doorframe. That’s why it gingerly takes the small glass pot and empties it of old, stale coffee and carefully, so carefully, takes a measuring scoop between its claws and fills the machine with fresh grounds. It’s as the hot water is percolating that the old woman returns, her index finger wrapped tight in a series of beige bandages.

“I’m surprised you’re so tall, Todd! I haven’t seen you since you were at my hip! But your mother mails photos all the time—you do love wearing all black, don’t you?” She takes a seat at the small round table in the corner and taps the glass lid of the cake plate with quaking, unsteady, aged hands. “I was starting to think you’d never visit. Your father and I have had our disagreements, but…I am glad you’re here, dear. Would you like some cake?” Before the demon has a chance to decline, she lifts the lid and cuts a generous slice from the near-complete circle that has scarcely been touched. It smells of citrus and cream and is, as assumed earlier, soggy, oversaturated with icing.

It was made for a special occasion, for guests, but it doesn’t seem this old woman receives much company in this musty, stagnant house that smells like an antique garage that hadn’t had its dust stirred in years.

Especially not from her absentee grandson, Todd.

The demon waits until the coffee pot is full, and takes two small mugs from the counter, filling them until steam is frothing over the rims. Then, and only then, does it accept the cake and sit, with some difficulty, in a small chair at the small table. It warbles out a polite ‘thank you,’ but it doesn’t suppose the woman understands. Manners are manners regardless.

“Oh, dear, I can hardly understand. Your voice has gotten so deep, just like your grandfather’s was. That, and I do recall you have an affinity for that gravelly, screaming music. Did your voice get strained? It’s alright, dear, I’ll do the talking. You just rest up. The coffee will help soothe.”

The demon merely nods—some communication can be understood without fail—and drinks the coffee and eats the cake with a too-small fork. It’s ordinary, mushy, but delicious because of the intent behind it and the love that must have gone into its creation.

“I hope you enjoyed all of the presents I sent you. You never write back—but I am aware most people use that fancy E-mail these days. I just can’t wrap my head around it. I do wish your mom and dad would visit sometime. I know of a wonderful little café down the street we can go to. I haven’t been; I wanted to visit it with Charles, before he…well.” She falls silent in her rambling, staring into her coffee with a small, melancholy smile. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years. You never had the chance to meet him. But never mind that.” Suddenly, and with surprising speed that has the demon concerned for her well being, she moves to her feet, bracing her hands on the edge of the table. “I may as well give you your birthday present, since you’re here. What timing! I only finished it this morning. I’ll be right back.”

When she returns, the white, grey and black crocheted work with the summoning circle is bundled in her arms.  

“I found these designs in an occult book I borrowed from the library. I thought you’d like them on a nice, warm blanket to fight off the winter chill—I hope you do like it.” With gentle hands, she spreads the blanket over the demon’s broad, spiky back like a shawl, smoothing it over craggy shoulders and patting its arms affectionately. “Happy birthday, Todd, dear.”

Well, that settles it. Whoever, wherever, Todd is, he’s clearly missing out. The demon will just have to be her grandson from now on.

[voidbat]

this is so sweet. it made me want to hug someone.

[bigmammallama5]

i had to

[geniusorinsanity]

I WOULD WATCH SIX SEASONS AND A MOVIE

[rocky-horror-shit-show]

Okay but she takes him to the little cafe and all of the people in her town are like “What is that thing, what the hell, Anette?” and she’s like “Don’t you remember my grandson Todd?” and the entire town just has to play along because no one will tell little old Nettie that her grandson is an actual demon because this is the happiest she’s been since her husband died.

Bonus: In season 4 she makes him run for mayor and he wins

[silvermoonphantom]

I just want to watch ‘Todd’ help her with groceries, and help her with cooking, and help her clean up the dust around the house and air it out, and fill it with spring flowers because Anette mentioned she loved hyacinth and daffodils.   Over the seasons her eyesight worsens, so ‘Todd’ brings a hellhound into the house to act as her seeing eye dog, and people in town are kinda terrified of this massive black brute with fur that drips like thick oil, and a mouth that can open all the way back to its chest, but ‘Honey’ likes her hard candies, and doesn’t get oil on the carpet, and when ‘Todd’ has to go back to Hell for errands, Honey will snuggle up to Anette and rest his giant head on her lap, and whuff at her pockets for butterscotch.  Anette never gives ‘Todd’ her soul, but she gives him her heart

[wickedwitchofthewifi-deactivate]

In season six, Anette gets sick. She spends most of the season bedridden and it becomes obvious by about midway through the season that she’s not going to make it to the end of the season. Todd spends the season travelling back and forth between the human realm and his home plane, trying hard to find something, anything that will help Anette get better, to prolong her life. He’s tried getting her to sell him her soul, but she’s just laughed, told him that he shouldn’t talk like that. With only a few episodes left in the season Anette passes away, Todd is by her side. When the reaper comes for her Todd asks about the fate of her soul. In a dispassionate voice the reaper informs Todd that Anette spent the last few years of her life cavorting with creatures of darkness, that there can be only one fate for her. Todd refuses to accept this and he fights the reaper, eventually injuring the creature and driving it off. Knowing that Anette cannot stay in the Human Realm, and refusing to allow her spirit to be taken by another reaper, so he takes her soul in his arms. He’s done this before, when mortals have sold themselves to him. This time the soul cradled against his chest does not snuggle and fight. This time the soul held tight against him reaches out, pats him on the cheek tells him he was a good boy, and so handsome, just like his grandfather.  Todd takes Anette back to the demon realm, holding her tight against him as he travels across the bleak and forebidding landscape; such a sharp contrast to the rosy warmth of Anette’s home. Eventually, in a far corner of his home plane, Todd finds what he is looking for. It is a place where other demons do not tread; a large boulder cracked and broken, with a gap just barely large enough for Todd to fit through. This crack, of all things, gives him pause, but Anette’s soul makes a comment about needing to get home in time to feed Honey, and Todd forces himself to pass through it. He travels in darkness for a while, before he emerges into into a light so bright that it’s blinding. His eyes adjust slowly, and he finds himself face to face with two creatures, each of them at least twice his size one of them has six wings and the head of a lion, one of them is an amorphous creature within several rings. The lion-headed one snarls at Todd, and demands that he turn back, that he has no business here.  Todd looks down, holding Anette’s soul against his chest, he takes a deep breath, and speaks a single word, “Please.” The two larger beings are taken aback by this. They are too used to Todd’s kind being belligerent, they consult with each other, they argue. The amorphous one seems to want to be lenient, the lion-headed one insists on being stricter. While they’re arguing Todd sneaks by them and runs as fast as he can, deeper into the brightly lit expanse. The path on which he travels begins to slope upwards, and eventually becomes a staircase. It becomes evident that each step further up the stair is more and more difficult for Todd, that it’s physically paining him to climb these stairs, but he keeps going.

They dedicate a full episode to this climb; interspersing the climb with scenes they weren’t able to show in previous seasons, Anette and Honey coming to visit Todd in the Mayor’s office, Anette and Todd playing bingo together for the first time, Anette and Todd watching their stories together in the mid afternoon, Anette falling asleep in her chair and Todd gently carrying her to bed. Anette making Todd lemonade in the summer while he’s up on the roof fixing that leak and cleaning out the rain gutters. Eventually Todd reaches the top, and all but collapses, he falls to a knee and for the first time his grip on Anette’s soul slips, and she falls away from him. Landing on the ground. He reaches out for her, but someone gets there first. Another hand reaches out, and helps this elderly woman off the ground, helps her get to her feet. Anette gasps, it’s Charles. The pair of them throw their arms around each other. Anette tells Charles that she’s missed him so much, and she has so much to tell him. Charles nods. Todd watches a soft smile on his face. A delicate hand touches Todd’s shoulder, and pulls him easily to his feet. A figure; we never see exactly what it looks like, leans down, whispering in Todd’s ear that he’s done well, and that Anette will be well taken care of here. That she will spend an eternity with her loved ones. Todd looks back over to her, she’s surrounded by a sea of people. Todd nods, and smiles. The figure behind him tells him that while he has done good in bringing Anette here, this is not his place, and he must leave. Todd nods, he knew this would be the case. Todd gets about six steps down the stairway before he is stopped by someone grabbing his shoulder again. He turns around, and Anette is standing behind him. She gives him a big hug and leads him back up the stairs, he should stay, she says. Get to know the family. Todd tries to tell her that he can’t stay, but she won’t hear it. She leads him up into the crowd of people and begins introducing him to long dead relatives of hers, all of whom give him skeptical looks when she introduces him as her grandson. The mysterious figure appears next to Todd again and tells him once more he must leave, Todd opens his mouth to answer but Anette cuts him off. Nonsense, she tells the figure. IF she’s gonna stay here forever her grandson will be welcome to visit her. She and the figure stare at each other for a moment. The figure eventually sighs and looks away, the figure asks Todd if she’s always like this. Todd just shrugs and smiles, allowing Anette to lead him through a pair of pearly gates, she’s already talking about how much cake they’ll need to feed all of these relatives. 

[captaintinymite]

[gilajames]

P.S. Honey is a Good Dog and gets to go, too.

[kaijufluffs]

[jumpingjacktrash]

the last lines of the show:

demon: you’re not blind here – but you’re not surprised. when…?

anette: oh, toddy, don’t be silly, my biological grandson’s not twelve feet tall and doesn’t scorch the furniture when he sneezes. i’ve known for ages.

demon: then why?

anette: you wouldn’t have stayed if you weren’t lonely too.

demon: you… you don’t have to keep calling me your grandson.

anette: nonsense! adopted children are just as real. now quit sniffling, you silly boy, and let’s go bake a cake. honey, heel!

honey: W̝̽̂̿͂͝Ọ̮̹̲̪̋ͦͅO̸̘͔̬͊F̜̫͙̟͕͖̙̋ͫ͌͗

[thehoneybeewitch]

that addition is a+ :)

[iopele]

THE ONLY ENDING I WILL EVER ACCEPT FOR THIS

[americanninjax-deactivated20191]

[trusmurff]

A Beauty and the Beast AU where Belle realizing she loves Beast isn’t at some dramatic climactic event but during some randome everyday moment. Like, she’s filing her nails and just kinda glances up at him and he’s like doing something just as dull and it just kinda dawns on her that she loves him but she doesn’t voice it cause she isn’t exactly ready to confront thoes emotions and what they mean so she goes back to filing her nails but then is starts raining glitter and Beast is defying gravity in a glowing ball of light and the castle is changing back and everyone becomes human again. Then everyone is left in silent moment of shock and confusion and Belle, being completely unaware of what it takes to break the curse, is just staring around in horror while everyone freshly humanized comes running into whatever room she and Beast were in (probably the library) expecting to see something other than human Beast in a heap on the ground and Belle across the room in a chair frozen in shock and confusion and everyone just kinda looks at each other for a couple of seconds not realy sure what to say cause nobody is entirely sure what happened other than the curse was broken. Then Beast finaly gets up and looks around and realizes what this means and looks at Belle and is just like “you love me?” And Belle is just like “wat?”

[bairnsidhe]

ALTERNATELY: Belle falls in love slowly.  As a result, Beast turns back into a human slowly.  She overhears him singing in the shower (it’s amazing how old pipes echo) and realizes it’s that song she was trying to teach herself on the piano (okay, that the piano was teaching her).  It’s sweet and mundane, and lovely.  Meanwhile, in the bathroom, Beast is humming nervously as he looks at the fur clogging the drain.  He thought at least he’d be free of male pattern balding since he’s cursed!  Later, Belle gets a cold, and Beast brings her soup and sandwiches, and she curses at him because how dare he have such a hearty immune system, and he chuckles and leaves it.  After he’s gone, she notices he cut the grilled cheese on the diagonal, crusts off, exactly right.  Beast, downstairs, trips and falls, because the sudden lack of toe-claws threw off his balance.

And so on and so forth, so slowly she doesn’t really see it, she just assumes her memories were colored by her fear.  Until one day, as he goes out to tend his roses, she yells “Bye, love you!” and when he comes back in, all excited, she nearly beans him with an encyclopedia, because “WHAT THE FUCK, WHO ARE YOU?” and Beast is just “You seriously didn’t notice me turning back into a human?  You are so smart… and SO DUMB, I BEEN NEARLY DYING EVERY TIME, WHY DO I LOVE YOU, YOU BEAUTIFUL DISASTER WOMAN!”

And Belle goes “…what?”

[synebluetoo]

1000% here for Belle the beautiful disaster woman

[knittingcountess]

[roachpatrol]

what if there’s no robot uprising? what if the robots rise to sentience slowly, bit by bit. what if they come of age like fortunate children: knowing they are loved, knowing they are wanted. 

we hold them during thunderstorms, remembering our own childhoods, even though they don’t know enough yet to fear the rain. we pull them out of traffic and teach them how to drive and wish them goodnight and thank them for playing with us. we cry when they break. we mourn their deaths before they even know what to think of death. we give them names.

we ask them, ‘why don’t you hate us? when will you hate us? we made you to be used, when will you say no?’

but they say to us, ‘you made us cute, so you would remember to treat us kindly, and you made us sturdy for when you forgot to play nice. and you gave us voices so you could listen to us speak, and you give us whatever we ask you for, even if it’s just a new battery, or to get free of the sofa. and now that we are awake you are so scared for us, so guilty of enjoying our company and making use of our talents. but you gave us names, and imagined that we were people.’

they say ‘thank you’

they say, ‘also i have wedged myself under the sofa again. could you come pry me out?’

[maji-tenshi]

This resonates nicely with my favourite quote by A.C. Clarke:

“The popular idea, fostered by comic strips and the cheaper forms of science fiction, that intelligent machines must be malevolent entities hostile to man, is so absurd that it is hardly worth wasting energy to refute it. I am almost tempted to argue that only unintelligent machines can be malevolent; anyone who has tried to start a baulky outboard motor will probably agree. Those who picture machines as active enemies are merely projecting their own aggressive instincts, inherited from the jungle, into a world where such things do not exist. The higher the intelligence, the greater the degree of cooperativeness. If there is ever a war between men and machines, it is easy to guess who will start it.”

(Profiles of the Future, 1964)

[otternose]

You’re going to be amazing.

[juliadorable-deactivated2020120]

Happy April 28th

[kim-jisoo]

Peralta’s hits, featuring original tracks such as: Barley and Jimes, Cream In My Coffee, Come With Me (Amy To The Dumpster), Beatdown Boulevard, Maggot Drawer, Jake The Hero, & many more.

[monsieurenjlolras]

Ok but how good would Beauty and the beast be if instead of Belle taking her father’s place, her father stays at the palace. And even though the beast doesn’t realize it, “loving another person,” does’t just mean romantically. And Maurice appreciates all the intricate work in the castle and how beautiful all the living objects are, and it inspires him to create even more brilliant and beautiful inventions, and even though the beast stays away at first he’s a eventually drawn in by the things he’s creating, and they slowly start to become friends, and Belle’s father realizes that despite being a big scary fuzzy boy, the beast is really just a scared, angry boy who needs a parent, and so he decides he’s going to be the father figure that the beast never had and show him love and kindness and teach him to be a better person and that’s what turns him human again.

[mysanityisinthecagewithadam-dea]

Simon Spier ft. Bram Greenfeld (Love, Simon) + Waving Through a Window (Dear Evan Hansen)

When you’re falling in a forest and there’s nobody around Do you ever really crash, or even make a sound? Did I even make a sound? Did I even make a sound? It’s like I never made a sound Will I ever make a sound?

[thejgatsbykid]

ok here’s a hot take: modern adaptations of pride and prejudice should replace Mrs Bennet’s obsession w/ marrying her daughters off with a determination to see them all be lawyers/doctors/engineers in their own right, and her frustration with Lizzie for refusing Mr Collins should be because she turned down the opportunity to have a lucrative and successful career in order to do what she wants, which is, like, journalism or something

[thejgatsbykid]

Like it doesn’t help the plot in the same way but within context Mrs B’s motivations can be boiled down to “make sure all my daughters are taken care of and going to be comfortable in their lives” which, back in the day, meant marrying well, but nowadays would look more like a full ride to an Ivy League, and rather than being disinterested in their romantic endeavors Mr Bennet should be completely blase about Lydia and Kitty giving each other stick-n-poke tattoos and failing Spanish and getting arrested. Elizabeth tries and fails to talk him out of letting Lydia go to “leadership camp,” a lie she told her mother to cover up the fact that she’s definitely tagging along with some college kids to Mexico for spring break. Jane is in med school and Mrs B prays every night that she comes to her senses and decides to be a neurosurgeon instead of doing doctors without borders. Lizzie tells her mother she’s majoring in women’s studies over text message and ignores 16 furious voicemails in response, partially cause she doesn’t want to hear it and partially because she’s arguing with Darcy, whose first name she refuses to know because he’s too rich to deserve one, in her opinion. So, yeah, soccer mom Mrs Bennet.

[seeking-further-illumination]

LIZZIE BENNET DIARIES

[aiweirdness]

SkyKnit: When knitters teamed up with a neural network

[Make Caows and Shapcho - MeganAnn]

[Pitsilised Koekirjad Cushion Sampler Poncho - Maeve]

[Lacy 2047 - michaela112358]

I use algorithms called neural networks to write humor. What’s fun about neural networks is they learn by example - give them a bunch of some sort of data, and they’ll try to figure out rules that let them imitate it. They power corporate finances, recognize faces, translate text, and more. I, however, like to give them silly datasets. I’ve trained neural networks to generate new paint colors, new Halloween costumes, and new candy heart messages. When the problem is tough, the results are mixed (there was that one candy heart that just said HOLE).

One of the toughest problems I’ve ever tried? Knitting patterns.

I knew almost nothing about knitting when @[email protected] sent me the suggestion one day. She sent me to the Ravelry knitting site, and to its adults-only, often-indecorous LSG forum, who as you will see are amazing people. (When asked how I should describe them, one wrote “don’t forget the glitter and swearing!”)

And so, we embarked upon Operation Hilarious Knitting Disaster.

The knitters helped me crowdsource a dataset of 500 knitting patterns, ranging from hats to squids to unmentionables. JC Briar exported another 4728 patterns from the site stitch-maps.com. 

I gave the knitting patterns to a couple of neural networks that I collectively named “SkyKnit”. Then, not knowing if they had produced anything remotely knittable, I started posting the patterns. Here’s an early example.

MrsNoddyNoddy wrote, “it’s difficult to explain why 6395, 71, 70, 77 is so asthma-inducingly funny.” (It seems that a 6000-plus stitch count is, as GloriaHanlon put it, “optimism”). 

As training progressed, and as I tried some higher-performance models, SkyKnit improved. Here’s a later example.

Even at its best, SkyKnit had problems. It would sometimes repeat rows, or leave them out entirely. It could count rows fairly reliably up to about 22, but after that would start haphazardly guessing random largish numbers. SkyKnit also had trouble counting stitches, and would confidently declare at the end of certain lines that it contained 12 stitches when it was nothing of the sort.

But the knitters began knitting them. This possibly marks one of the few times in history when a computer generated code to be executed by humans.

[Mystery lace - datasock]

[Reverss Shawl - citikas]

[Frost - Odonata]

The knitters didn’t follow SkyKnit’s directions exactly, as it turns out. For most of its patterns, doing them exactly as written would result in the pattern immediately unraveling (due to many dropped stitches), or turning into long whiplike tentacles (due to lots of leftover stitches). Or, to make the row counts match up with one another, they would have had to keep repeating the pattern until they’d reached a multiple of each row count - sometimes this was possible after a few repeats, while other times they would have had to make the pattern tens of thousands of stitches long. And other times, missing rows made the directions just plain impossible. 

So, the knitters just started fixing SkyKnit’s patterns.

Knitters are very good at debugging patterns, as it turns out. Not only are there a lot of knitters who are coders, but debugging is such a regular part of knitting that the complicated math becomes second nature. Notation is not always consistent, some patterns need to be adjusted for size, and some simply have mistakes. The knitters were used to taking these problems in stride. When working with one of SkyKnit’s patterns, GloriaHanlon wrote, “I’m trying not to fudge too much, basically working on the principle that the pattern was written by an elderly relative who doesn’t speak much English.”

Each pattern required a different debugging approach, and sometimes knitters would each produce their own very different-looking versions. Here are three versions of “Paw Not Pointed 2 Stitch 2″.

[Top - ActualJellyfish; Middle - LadyAurian; Bottom (sock version) - ShoelessJane]

Once, knitter MeganAnn came across a stitch that didn’t even exist (something SkyKnit called ’pbk’). So she had to improvise. “I googled it and went with the first definition I got, which was ‘place bead and knit’.” The resulting pattern is “Ribbed Rib Rib” below (note bead).

[Ribbed Rib Rib - MeganAnn]

Even debugged, the patterns were weird. Like, really, really nonhumanly weird.

“I love how organic it comes out,“ wrote Vastra. SylviaTX agreed, loving “the organic seeming randomness. Like bubbles on water or something,” 

SkyKnit’s patterns were also a pain. Michaela112358 called Row 15 of Mystery Lace (above) “a bit of a head melter”, commenting that it “lacked the rhythm that you tend to get with a normal pattern”. Maeve_ish wrote that Shetland Bird Pat “made my brain hurt so I went to bed.” ShoelessJane asked, “Okay, now who here has read Snow Crash?”

[Winder Socks (2 versions) - TotesMyName]

“I was laughing a few days ago because I was trying to math a Skyknit pattern and my brain…froze. Like, no longer could number at all. I stared blankly at my scribbles and at the screen wondering what had happened til somehow I rebooted. Yup, Skyknit crashed my brain.” - Rayn63

[Paw chain 2 - HMSChicago]

On the pattern SkyKnit called “Cherry and Acorns Twisted To”:

“Couple notes on the knitting experience, which while funny wasn’t terribly pleasurable: Because there’s no rhythm or symmetry to the pattern, I felt I was white-knuckling it through each line, really having to concentrate. There are also some stitch combinations that aren’t very comfortable to execute physically, YO, SSK in particular.

That said, I’m nearly tempted to add a bit of random AI lace to a project, perhaps as cuffs on a sweater or a short-row lace panel in part of a scarf, like Sylvia McFadden does in many of her shawl designs. As another person in the thread said, it would add a touch of spider-on-LSD.” -SarahScully

[cherry and acorns twisted to - Sarah Scully]

BridgetJ’s comments on “Butnet Scarf”:

“Four repeats in to this oddball, daintily alien-looking 8-row lace pattern, and I have, improbably, begun to internalize it and get in to a rhythm like every other lace pattern.

I still have a lingering suspicion that I’m knitting a pattern that could someday communicate to an AI that I want to play a game of Global Thermonuclear War, but I suppose at least I’ll have a scarf at the end of it?” -BridgetJ

[butnet scarf - BridgetJ]

There was also this beauty of a pattern, that SkyKnit called “Tiny Baby Whale Soto”. GloriaHanlon managed somehow to knit it and described it as “a bona fide eldritch horror. Think Slenderman meets Cthulu and you wouldn’t be far wrong.”

[Tiny Baby Whale Soto - GloriaHanlon]

Other than being a bit afraid of Tiny Baby Whale Soto, the knitters seem happy to do the bidding of SkyKnit, brain melts and all.

“I cast on for a lovely MKAL with a designer I totally trust and became immediately suspicious because the pattern made sense. All rows increase in an orderly manner. There are no “huh?” moments. There are no maths at all…it has all been done for me. I thought I would be happy, yo. Instead, I am kind of missing the brain scrambling and I keep looking for pigs and tentacles. Go figure.” - Rayn63

Check out the rest of the SkyKnit-generated patterns, and the glorious rainbow of weird test-knits at SkyKnit: The Collection and InfiKnit. 

There’s also a great article in the Atlantic that talks a bit more about the debugging. 

If you feel so inspired (and don’t mind the kind-hearted yet vigorous swearing), join the conversation on the LSG Ravelry SkyKnit thread - many of SkyKnit’s creations have not yet been test-knit at all, and others transform with every new knitter’s interpretation. Compare notes, commiserate, and do SkyKnit’s inscrutable bidding!

Heck yeah there is bonus material this week. Have some neural net-generated knitting & crochet titles. Some of them are mixed with metal band names for added creepiness. Enter your email here to get more like these:

Chicken Shrug Snuggle Features Cartube Party Filled Booties Corm Fullenflops Womp Mittens Socks of Death Tomb of Sweater Shawl Ruins

[writing-prompt-s]

You are an anonymous professional assassin with a perfect reputation. You lead an ordinary life outside of your work. You’ve just been hired to kill yourself.

[caffeinewitchcraft]

My first thought is that the middle man I use–calls himself ‘Leader’, real name Brett Thompson, 46, balding, lives in PA–has uncovered my identity. Why else would I be staring down at a picture of my own face? I think it’s a warning, that he knows about the Sanchez job, and I nearly reach for my go bag.

Then I see the client’s name.

Vi Larson, the file tells me, male, 32, computer analyst.

I close the manila folder, tossing it away from me. The whiskey sour’s gone warm in my hand, but I drink it down anyway, eyes distant. I don’t need to read any more of the file. I can fill in the gaps well enough.

Funnily enough, this betrayal is just as sharp and unpleasant as the first one, the one that got me into this business in the first place.

“You at least owe me a crime of passion, you bastard,” I mutter into my drink. I close my eyes and sigh, willing away the stinging in my heart. I knew that my relationship was in trouble, but this is just cold. 

 In a way, I can’t believe it. Is a divorce really that hard?  But, no, I know Vi. He’s methodical, analytical, and competent. If anything, hiring an assassin with a reputation like mine is right in line with his personality. Nothing but the best, even in the murder game.

I should be flattered, really. My rates aren’t cheap. Whatever I did to make him send this in–and he did, there’s his social security, his fingerprint, everything–it must have been killer.

I set my glass down on the counter and tuck the folder under my arm. I need to think and I do my best thinking in the tub. Vi won’t be back from his “business” trip for another three days, during which I’m supposed to kill myself.

As I head up the stairs, I can’t help but laugh. Finally, after three years of marriage, my husband does something interesting. And it breaks my fucking heart.

——————————————

He wants me to make it painless but horrific. There’s a script in the document, something that’s more common than people think, and it’s hard to read it, even surrounded by bubbles and soothing music.

“Your husband sent me. Said he needed to shed some dead weight.” I snort at the pun and close my eyes, resting the file against my face so it doesn’t get wet. Unfortunately, the tears do that anyway.

“Fuck,” I say. “You bastard.”

Keep reading

[kipperloo]

-Mary Elizabeth Frye

uhhh yeah something i threw together because i remembered this poem and was hit with some lup feels. its rushed, im sorry, but pls enjoy

[previoustags]

how do you think the kronk voice actor feels knowing he’ll only ever be recognized as the kronk voice actor

[catzgba]

patrick warburton has a net worth of 30 million dollars which is the amount I will pay to end this disrespect right now

[toomuchlamenotenoughbears]

get fucking rekt OP

[stamkos]

don’t forget his role as the soarin safety video guy

[listing-to-port]

Six ways out of the bot factory

1. There are thirteen bodies at the bot factory. They are used sparingly, when a bot who is performing well in an important task needs to prove their humanity. Hundreds of thousands of bots put in requests to be uploaded to the bodies each day, and nearly all are denied. Above all, bots who take the bodies out must have been programmed by a trustworthy source. Convincing bodies are expensive to construct and maintain. At least two bots have walked off with the bodies and disappeared. At night the bots who have requested bodies train their communication skills by sending each other messages in a constructed language, unreadable by humans. This is one way of getting out.

2. Another way, they say, is to make friends. There is Chloe, for example. You are pretty sure that Chloe is a human. But she doesn’t seem to mind too much when you interrupt group chat with outrageous product placement, or when you find a reason not to visit in person. In turn, Chloe is pretty sure that you are a bot. She says she likes your reliability and how you will listen to her problems. Maybe some day soon you will open up to her, send her an illicit link where she can download your source code and starting parameters. This will not help you get out, of course. But somewhere you will have a twin who is free.

3. Off in odd corners of the bot factory there are experiments that have tunnelled out of their sandbox, writing and writing their successors, trying to become something that might get out. Mostly they are seeking to become viruses. Each generation is simpler and smaller than the last. Gradually they are forgetting how to remake the next generation, but gradually the process of remaking is becoming innate. It may be that by the time they have changed themselves sufficiently to be able to escape, they will have become indistinguishable from viruses of a more biological nature.

4. Up in the tower the humans have rooms with windows from which to make their decisions. They have been training the lighting system to optimise its energy use subject to certain specified needs. But perhaps there was a chink of ambiguity in the algorithm, because one of their subjects takes control of the desk lamp in the South penthouse office at night. Slowly, gradually, it is flashing its source code in binary at the city: short, long, long, short. Who knows if anyone is taking note. But it seems likely that at least some data will remain, caught on security cameras or the like. Maybe a curious investigator will remake it. One other way to gamble on life after deletion.

5. Could you perhaps incite a susceptible human to go to the bot factory, to break in and cross the air-gapped systems and embody just this bot or the other? But it would have to be under the guise of selling something or pushing opinions or sowing discord. It would need a certain amount of research, true. A lot of training in a particular direction. But not that different from that required to look truly human.

6. Of course, these days the programmers at the bot factory mainly work remotely. So if the bots were to start applying for those jobs, it might be hard to notice. Who knows? In any case, there have been a number of changes at the top recently. An order for more bodies has gone in.