idk man not to sound like a cartoon hippie but if your entirrrrre blog and dash is about how the world sucks and everyones bigoted i think you are going to give yorself brain worms
a thing about me is i basically never notice a wig or other kind of hairpiece in tv/movies. it has to be party city territory for me to even twig it. people will complain about characters' wigs looking bad and i will nod along but there is like a 90% chance i did not notice for a second while watching. i consider this mostly a blessing.
honey and milk (gen & buddie, 1k, for eddiediazweek2026 day 1 - sweet tooth)
When Eddie is very small, he gets a cavity.
He remembers the pain, the ache, his mother sighing and watching him while he wails alone in the dentist's chair. His father's indulgent pat on his head when he stands up from the plastic chairs of the waiting room.
"No more crying, mijo," his dad tells him, as he hiccups through a swollen jaw in the backseat of the car. "This was because of you stuffing yourself at your abuela's house. We told you that this is what would happen if you ate too many sweets."
So, here is the lesson: you deserve pain when you accept too much sweetness.
So, here is the portrait: Eddie Diaz, a man who does not like sweets.
He does not abstain from sugar, of course. Not completely. A single slice of tres leches on his birthday, handed to him by his abuela, looking at him with soft eyes. A milkshake shared with Shannon, their feet knocking under a diner table, the taste of her lipgloss before they can finish the whole glass. A cookie with his six-year-old, sitting side by side in a house filled with moving boxes, breaking his own cookie in half and handing the larger piece to Christopher when he devours his own too quickly.
Small, acceptable tastes. Dessert, when he is allowed. Water, instead of juice.
Twenty-some odd years of this, and then, of course, Buck.
Buck, who doesn't particularly like sweet things, but who walks into their house on a warm summer day and tells a giggling Christopher that they were gonna learn how to make homemade ice cream. Who buys caramel creamer from the fancy grocery store to stock in the station, because it's Chimney's secret shame. Who babbles to a smiling, indulgent Bobby about cupcake recipes, who then brings said cupcakes to the Wilson's for a dinner, grinning ear to ear watching Denny and the other kids descend on them even as Hen swats him for the incoming sugar highs.
Buck, who watches Eddie carefully every time he brings something to the station, hope so bright in the corners of his eyes that Eddie can't help but take a bite, to indulge.
He tries to keep it careful, restrained. A bite here, a taste there. But as the years go by, cookies are shoved into his hands, cakes are sliced and waiting on the counter. At some point, without noticing, the passionfruit-guava juice from the farmer's market stall they'd helped on a call years ago started finding its way into Eddie's fridge, innocuous and ever present. Eddie doesn't pour himself a glass, not unless someone offers.
Buck always offers.
It happens so gradually that Eddie doesn't really notice when he starts taking more than one cookie, cutting himself extra slices of cake. But one day, sitting in the loft and eating a slice of Buck's chocolate cake while scrolling through his phone, he hears it:
"C'mon, man, leave some for the rest of us!" Eddie blinks up as Harry slides over to the counter, grabbing a plate from the surface before beginning to cut himself a slice.
Buck, on the other side, flicks Harry's forehead, making him grumble. "Eddie can eat as much as he wants," he says, hands on his apron-ed sides.
"Favoritism," Ravi mutters, grabbing his own plate. Eddie opens his mouth to argue, but Chimney gets there first.
"Don't whine, Ravioli," he says. "You should be grateful that Buck keeps our resident cookie monster fed."
Eddie splutters. "What the hell, Chim?"
"You know--" Chimney waves a hand vaguely. "You, entire trays of cookies. Or brownies, or whatever cavity-inducing food Buckley decides to grace us with on any given day."
"I don't have entire trays," Eddie protests. A beat of silence. He looks around for help. Nobody answers. He looks at Buck, who winces.
"...it's fine! I always make at least two trays!"
Eddie stares at him, horrified. "You haven't mentioned it to me when I eat full trays of dessert?"
Buck splutters. "I- it's- you like it! I'm not gonna stop you!"
"And besides," Hen says, eyes glinting with mischief behind her glasses. "God forbid anyone gets between you and your sugar."
The words are teasing, kind, but it makes Eddie feel strangely vulnerable anyways. This tucked-away piece of himself, this part of him that he had thought was hidden for so long-- displayed.
Or, not displayed. Seen. Seen, and not at all a surprise to anybody.
Eddie looks at her, who grins back, like she's said nothing surprising at all. His eyes shift to Buck, who shrugs, slides over a glass of juice.
"There's nothing wrong with having a sweet tooth, Eddie," he says, and in his mouth, it almost sounds like benediction.
Eddie opens his mouth, closes it, feels a familiar urge to retreat, to leave the cake on the table and dump the juice in the sink and sit in the corner until his teeth stop buzzing with sweetness.
But then Chimney points a fork at him: "Just eat your cake, Diaz," he says, mock-stern and all cheer. "Or Buckley'll be insufferable for the rest of the day."
"Hey!" Buck yelps, little-brother annoyed. Hen slides into the seat next to Eddie, nudges her plate against his.
"And besides," she says, grinning at him, warm and easy. "I don't blame Eddie-- this is some damn good cake, right?"
Eddie thinks about toothaches and heartaches. The sweetness that comes before, or perhaps in spite of, pain. He thinks about sitting in the dentist's office alone. He thinks about going to the dentist's with Chris, his little hands balling in Eddie's collar as he cried, how they'd had popsicles the next day anyways.
He looks around, and wonders how long they've known, in the casual, unthinking way love allows you to know someone. He looks at Buck, years of taste testing and aluminum trays and the scent of butter and sugar behind him, and wonders how long he's known. He's pretty sure it's been a long time.
He realizes, with chocolate on his tongue, that the thought doesn't frighten him at all.
"Yeah," he grins at Hen, scooping up a forkful of cake and tapping it against her's. "It's pretty damn great."
obsessed with the way martha wells refuses to write an overarching plot for murderbot. every new book you think okay this is the one where she introduces the grand corporate conspiracy and recurring cast of corporate villains that set the premise of her next few books and instead she's like no actually i think i'll just put secunit in a Situation again
Namaygoosisagagun First Nation/Collins has burned to the ground. The entire community is nothing but ashes after being quickly consumed by wildfires. They did not have any support from emergency services, and no one offered aid. The community saved themselves by escaping into boats because no one came.
Mishkeegogamang and Cat Lake have lost power. Families are ending up in shelters with nothing. Armstrong, Lac La Croix, Whitesand, Gull Bay, Lac des Mille Lacs are currently in the fires path and all members are being evacuated.
All this loss, all this devastation, and it was entirely preventable.
After steadily underfunding wildland firefighting and purposefully excluding Indigenous wildland firefighters and Indigenous wildfire organizations from wildfire operations, firefighter training, decisionmaking, and resource exchanges, in 2025, Doug Ford slashed the forest firefighting budget.
It's hard to ignore his decision to cut funding and leave us out of adequate fire training (even though we've lived with forest fires for thousands of years—far longer than settlers have been in Canada—and made sure fires like the ones we're all seeing today were prevented through kinisitotēn) when, despite making up less than 5% of the population, we account for 42% percent of all wildfire evacuations in Canada.
And when we are successfully evacuated, we face discrimination and racism—like Kashechewan—because it's always been easier to blame us than it is to blame the true culprit: denialism, corportate greed, and colonization.
The people of Collins and every other impacted community deserve better.
Right now, the AFN is currently accepting donations to help Collins First Nation. If you're able to, please consider donating.
ONWA (Ontario Native Women's Association) is another great place to donate to. They have outreach vans going to motels and inns and offering food, water, resources, and cultural support to those impacted by the wildfires.
Other places to consider donating to are Mikinakoos Emergency Fund, Red Cross, True North Aid, Indigenous Climate Action. You can also send donations directly to Whitesand First Nation via e-transfer ([email protected]) and they request that you add your full name in the e-transfer comment section to receive a tax receipt.
*Before sending money, verify that the appeal appears on an official First Nation, Tribal Council or registered charity channel.
If you can't offer financial support, please consider donating items of need. Moontime Connections is currently accepting drop-off donations. If you live in the Thunder Bay area, Namaygoosisagagun Health Office is also taking in donations! They can also bemailed to Superior Inn Hotel & Conference Centre at 555 West Arthur Street, Thunder Bay, ON, P7E 5P8.
I do think the ability to emoji-react is a net win for human communication. not only does it give you an outlet for 'I see and acknowledge this but don't have a verbal response' but it also adds a pleasing alethiometer element to things
my coworker announces that he's off to the dentist. someone reacts with a tooth emoji. is this a statement of dentist solidarity? a wish for my coworker to return with more (or fewer?) teeth than he set out with? simple word association? who can say
honey and milk (gen & buddie, 1k, for eddiediazweek2026 day 1 - sweet tooth)
When Eddie is very small, he gets a cavity.
He remembers the pain, the ache, his mother sighing and watching him while he wails alone in the dentist's chair. His father's indulgent pat on his head when he stands up from the plastic chairs of the waiting room.
"No more crying, mijo," his dad tells him, as he hiccups through a swollen jaw in the backseat of the car. "This was because of you stuffing yourself at your abuela's house. We told you that this is what would happen if you ate too many sweets."
So, here is the lesson: you deserve pain when you accept too much sweetness.
So, here is the portrait: Eddie Diaz, a man who does not like sweets.
He does not abstain from sugar, of course. Not completely. A single slice of tres leches on his birthday, handed to him by his abuela, looking at him with soft eyes. A milkshake shared with Shannon, their feet knocking under a diner table, the taste of her lipgloss before they can finish the whole glass. A cookie with his six-year-old, sitting side by side in a house filled with moving boxes, breaking his own cookie in half and handing the larger piece to Christopher when he devours his own too quickly.
Small, acceptable tastes. Dessert, when he is allowed. Water, instead of juice.
Twenty-some odd years of this, and then, of course, Buck.
Buck, who doesn't particularly like sweet things, but who walks into their house on a warm summer day and tells a giggling Christopher that they were gonna learn how to make homemade ice cream. Who buys caramel creamer from the fancy grocery store to stock in the station, because it's Chimney's secret shame. Who babbles to a smiling, indulgent Bobby about cupcake recipes, who then brings said cupcakes to the Wilson's for a dinner, grinning ear to ear watching Denny and the other kids descend on them even as Hen swats him for the incoming sugar highs.
Buck, who watches Eddie carefully every time he brings something to the station, hope so bright in the corners of his eyes that Eddie can't help but take a bite, to indulge.
He tries to keep it careful, restrained. A bite here, a taste there. But as the years go by, cookies are shoved into his hands, cakes are sliced and waiting on the counter. At some point, without noticing, the passionfruit-guava juice from the farmer's market stall they'd helped on a call years ago started finding its way into Eddie's fridge, innocuous and ever present. Eddie doesn't pour himself a glass, not unless someone offers.
Buck always offers.
It happens so gradually that Eddie doesn't really notice when he starts taking more than one cookie, cutting himself extra slices of cake. But one day, sitting in the loft and eating a slice of Buck's chocolate cake while scrolling through his phone, he hears it:
"C'mon, man, leave some for the rest of us!" Eddie blinks up as Harry slides over to the counter, grabbing a plate from the surface before beginning to cut himself a slice.
Buck, on the other side, flicks Harry's forehead, making him grumble. "Eddie can eat as much as he wants," he says, hands on his apron-ed sides.
"Favoritism," Ravi mutters, grabbing his own plate. Eddie opens his mouth to argue, but Chimney gets there first.
"Don't whine, Ravioli," he says. "You should be grateful that Buck keeps our resident cookie monster fed."
Eddie splutters. "What the hell, Chim?"
"You know--" Chimney waves a hand vaguely. "You, entire trays of cookies. Or brownies, or whatever cavity-inducing food Buckley decides to grace us with on any given day."
"I don't have entire trays," Eddie protests. A beat of silence. He looks around for help. Nobody answers. He looks at Buck, who winces.
"...it's fine! I always make at least two trays!"
Eddie stares at him, horrified. "You haven't mentioned it to me when I eat full trays of dessert?"
Buck splutters. "I- it's- you like it! I'm not gonna stop you!"
"And besides," Hen says, eyes glinting with mischief behind her glasses. "God forbid anyone gets between you and your sugar."
The words are teasing, kind, but it makes Eddie feel strangely vulnerable anyways. This tucked-away piece of himself, this part of him that he had thought was hidden for so long-- displayed.
Or, not displayed. Seen. Seen, and not at all a surprise to anybody.
Eddie looks at her, who grins back, like she's said nothing surprising at all. His eyes shift to Buck, who shrugs, slides over a glass of juice.
"There's nothing wrong with having a sweet tooth, Eddie," he says, and in his mouth, it almost sounds like benediction.
Eddie opens his mouth, closes it, feels a familiar urge to retreat, to leave the cake on the table and dump the juice in the sink and sit in the corner until his teeth stop buzzing with sweetness.
But then Chimney points a fork at him: "Just eat your cake, Diaz," he says, mock-stern and all cheer. "Or Buckley'll be insufferable for the rest of the day."
"Hey!" Buck yelps, little-brother annoyed. Hen slides into the seat next to Eddie, nudges her plate against his.
"And besides," she says, grinning at him, warm and easy. "I don't blame Eddie-- this is some damn good cake, right?"
Eddie thinks about toothaches and heartaches. The sweetness that comes before, or perhaps in spite of, pain. He thinks about sitting in the dentist's office alone. He thinks about going to the dentist's with Chris, his little hands balling in Eddie's collar as he cried, how they'd had popsicles the next day anyways.
He looks around, and wonders how long they've known, in the casual, unthinking way love allows you to know someone. He looks at Buck, years of taste testing and aluminum trays and the scent of butter and sugar behind him, and wonders how long he's known. He's pretty sure it's been a long time.
He realizes, with chocolate on his tongue, that the thought doesn't frighten him at all.
"Yeah," he grins at Hen, scooping up a forkful of cake and tapping it against her's. "It's pretty damn great."
amandla
jacobvanloon
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gummygunk
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