☝️🤓 it’s because the further you move toward the earth’s poles, the lower the angle of the sun is at the hottest parts of the day, meaning the radiation hits your whole body, causing it to feel 10-20 degrees warmer than the thermometer reading will tell you. People from tropical climes, aka close to the equator, are used to the sun’s radiation hitting a much smaller target- their head and shoulders.
Also the further you move toward the poles the more pronounced the difference between the length of day and night is. Worst part of a far-north (or south) heatwave is it doesn’t get dark long enough for meaningful cooling.
People keep saying the humidity, and yes a humid heat is a specific kind of misery and can be dangerous… but critical to remember, many many tropical climes are humid as well.
Infrastructure and citified heat islands also very much play a factor. And here the angle you’re at on earth also makes it worse. The sun being lower on the horizon can double the amount of solar energy affecting your house. The sun beating through your windows for 16+ hours a day when you have a house built for cold and no AC adds to the misery.
But what I’m talking about here is how hot you feel in your body when experiencing solar radiation from a lower angle. On the upside the sun’s rays have to pass through more atmosphere, weakening the UV strength, hence why populations that migrated north eons ago lost melanin (you still need SPF though). And in general the warming effect on the atmosphere is lessened. The warming effect on your body is magnified. To the tune of 10-20 degrees (yes Fahrenheit) above ambient. Winter gear prioritizes insulating your torso because that’s where all your vital organs are. It follows that the sun beating on your chest and back warms you up fast and with little relief except to get in the shade.
Visitor to Alaska are often surprised at how warm temperatures in the 70°s and 80°s feel. Read about how this phenomenon occurs.
My eye doctor also told me living in Alaska made you more likely to get cataracts younger because the low-angle sun gets directly in your eyes in the summer (unless you’re big on sunglasses) and the snow and ice in winter reflect a lot of UV back up, doubling your exposure. Though the prevalence of cataracts in Alaska and other far-north locales is contributed to by other factors, notably poverty and the resulting lack of medical care. And is still not as likely as in people who live in equatorial climes or high altitudes and get the super-strength UV exposure all year round.
it’s really interesting how the guys that fight against paying child support the hardest are the ones that could afford to do it. these dudes will quit their well paying salaried job with benefits just to avoid their pay getting docked and potentially going to reimburse the mother of their child for buying their kid new shoes. they’ll leave their child without health insurance and work under the table jobs because they really hate their child and former S/O that much.
They believe that their role is to provide and protect the ones they choose to; it's not a responsibility (though they'll frame it like it is to sound better), but a power that they hold over others. Child support is emasculating because they see it as being forced to provide for someone who isn't "theirs" any more. They don't see it as supporting a child that they have ongoing responsibility for because they believe that they should have the right to withdraw that responsibility at any time, that unconditional responsibility for a child is the woman's role. They see it as being financially cucked.
#these men like the power that being a provider gives#they like the idea that you are dependent on them and that they could take it away from you at any moment#but mandatory child support doesn't really give you that choice or any power over the child/ex#you can't leverage it the same way to get what you want
I have an irrational anger against how Rachel reid treats the closet. Like the reason many queer people choose to stay closeted is bcoz theyre cowards or whatever. like its the hetero trope of the asshole boyfriend asking his gf to keep their relationship a secret. Like. Thats not what the closet is. Some of us get hate crimed.
This is actually the biggest reason why I ended up hating the books so much. They display such a contempt for being in the closet. Scott and Shane are both condemned by the narrative for their desire to stay inside of it. Happiness comes when you Come Out and Live Your Truth 🌈🏳️🌈✨ in the most public possible way. Wanting to be in the closet is treated with such little compassion to the point where it’s borderline a moral failing. Even if all of the bad things that you were afraid of happen, you’ll still be happy, because you are Out and Living Your Truth 🌈🏳️🌈✨
I grew up in a space where it wasn’t super okay to be queer. The first few times I tried to come out to people went kind of shitty. And I had much better experiences than some of my friends. One of my friends told the wrong person that he was bi and that guy decided to try to beat the gay out of him.
To be frank, I am very angry at these books. I think its dialogue around the closet is devoid of compassion for the people in it. I think its treatment of outing is dangerously callous. And I’ve seen its mindset towards both be adopted by a lot of the people in this fandom. It makes me fucking mad.
When you’re a naturally nosy person who decides to become ignorant, the first few months of never knowing just what the fuck is going on can feel uncomfortable and strange but stick it out and before you know it you’ll be able to shrug off and dismiss most discourse like a telemarketer calling about your extended warranty. Do not disturb time forever baybee!
i genuinely can't fucking deal with the larger internet anymore holy shit what the fuck are you people TALKING about. i am at my limit with this stupid bullshit. who the fuck cares if a man is hired to draw medical diagrams for young girls jesus christ we're pearl clutching about medical illustrations now? next you're gonna tell me male pediatricians shouldn't advise parents on their kids' vulva issues? male surgeons shouldn't be in the room when performing a procedure where a woman's breasts or vulva might be exposed? male researchers shouldn't conduct gynecological medical research? sure. better for men to live in ignorance and NEVER ally themselves with us to expand access to sexual education and reproductive healthcare i fucking guess. Twenty thousand likes. i hate it here KILL ME
also this is part of a disturbing but sadly not uncommon attitude that progress = women (specifically women most of the time) showing more skin. because not showing skin is "following irrational religious modesty mandates" like the man on twitter says
somehow being progressive and secular automatically means putting women's bodies on display (although of course these people would shame women showing that much skin because they chose to). gee, I wonder why...
(to be clear, religious concealing clothing should also be respected as long as it's voluntary!)
Boxers for women piss me offff there’s no reason for them to be that expensive fuck you but the “just buy mens” advice doesn’t work because they have too much fabric in front and not nearly enough in back for this ass 😤
As he drives home from Evan's loft for what is apparently the last time, Tommy feels like he's driving from the backseat in a body that isn't his. There's a road in front of him but he doesn't know which one, or why he's taking a left at the stop sign or running through an intersection to beat a yellow light. Everything feels so far away. It's like he's on the moon. Maybe he drove off a bridge and just floated upwards. If he rolls the window down, maybe he'll suffocate.
You're in shock, a little voice whispers in the back of his mind.
He's been in shock before, but every time feels like the first time. He's read that some people get used to it, that it makes a home in their bodies, but he's never figured out how. His autonomic nervous system just kicks in and takes over. It's easy to let it.
That's probably why he doesn't register the hulking creature that darts into the road until it's practically splayed over his hood.
The impact knocks him out of the fugue state and, when he slams on the brake, into the steering wheel. Gasping, he looks up and finds himself staring into the familiar dead-eyed stare of something that should no longer exist. It bares its soil-caked teeth at him in a hissing growl, then pushes off the bumper and goes lumbering across the street into Plummer Park.
Every ounce of adrenaline Tommy possesses enters his bloodstream at once, which is also a familiar feeling. Undoing his seatbelt, he wrests control of his body away from his nervous system and chooses between fight or flight.
He kicks open the door and takes off after it.
Thankfully it's late enough that there's hardly anyone in the park, except for a group of screaming kids in the basketball court who try to get their phones up to film as he runs by. He picks up the pace.
His legs are screaming. They're on fire. He can practically feel the lactic acid building up in his muscles, which are splitting open in tiny tears with every step. It's been a long time since he's been forced to sprint like this. Running isn't part of his usual cardio regiment anymore. It was never fun when he wasn't with a group. His team. It's a weak-ass excuse.
In the back of his mind, he hears the memory of a voice cheering, "Go, go, Tommy!"
Sucking in air, he pushes himself impossibly harder.
After what feels like a decade and with the help of a man shouting in Russian and pointing in a specific direction, Tommy finally starts to catch up. By the time he sees it, he also sees Santa Monica Boulevard.
Somehow, he manages to find one last burst of energy and overtakes the thing before it can hit the south parking lot.
Of course, it's anticipating that, and just as he launches himself at its back, it turns on its heel and slams a stone fist right into his gut, sending him careening into the side of a car. It crumples under him and starts blaring its alarm, which is exactly the kind of soundtrack this nightmare was missing.
Grunting, he starts pushing himself to his feet and throws up an arm just in time to block another blow, then sweeps his leg out to knock it off balance. The move buys him enough time to stand, but not enough to put him on the offense. He twists to avoid a stone punch and jumps back, dodging an immediate second. He doesn't manage to avoid a third, catching it right in the eye. The bone cracks and he goes down hard.
Tommy breathes through the pain and rolls the bulk of his body to the side, onto his belly, then slams his palms into the pavement and heaves with all his might. He springs up, then jumps back to put a little distance between them.
Sliding into the old stance is like greeting a long-lost friend. He crouches down and twists his waist ever so slightly, while bringing his arms up, palms out, fingers curled into claws. Powerful, light, and quick. They used to give him such shit for it.
"Look at crouching tiger, hidden dragon over here."
"More like slouching panda, sitting duck."
As funny as the pose is, they never could argue with its results.
When it comes at him again, he's ready.
Tommy loses time when he fights. Always has. It comes so easily to him. The back and forth, the push and pull—he fucking loves it. Muay Thai is fun, but it's nothing compared to this: a no-holds barred, drag-out fight for survival. His blood is singing an aria so high it's got to be shattering windows somewhere.
He has no idea how long they've been trading blows when he finally sees an opening, striking out with one hand to slap down its attempt to hit him and using the other to punch straight through the mud and clay caking its chest. His fingers curl around a cold, solid, pulsing thing, then he jerks his hand out as hard as he can. The heart he's holding gives one last lurch before he crushes it to dust.
With a whimper, the creature collapses to the ground, crumbling into wet soil.
Panting, Tommy stands there for a moment to try and get his bearings, but his eyes start watering. He wishes it was from the pain of what is almost certainly a fractured socket, but everything's hitting him all at once.
He broke up with Evan tonight. Sitting in the loft and watching the future he'd envisioned for them crumble as Evan called him cruel for leading Abby on, it became very clear that Tommy would never be able to tell him the truth about his past. If Evan ever learned that Tommy almost ended the world, that there had been a real chance Evan would never have lived to see the fourth grade because of Tommy, "cruel" is the kindest thing Evan would call him.
Getting that stupid parking spot out front made him think that maybe the universe was trying to throw him a bone. It had been: it allowed him to make a fast getaway.
But to have run into a putty in Los Angeles on this unimaginably awful night is just hilariously shitty luck, even for him.
Tommy blinks a few times to clear the tears from his vision so he can look at the mound of wet dirt and rocks at his feet.
Sometimes it astonishes him that a group of kids managed to take these things down, considering how easy it was to create them. Earth is a terrestrial planet. There's rock and soil and stone and clay everywhere. There was an endless supply for what could've been an army of putties—if one fell, ten more could've risen up in its place. He doesn't know why they only ever fought four or five at a time. Rita never utilized them the way he would've.
Panic starts fluttering in his marrow, but he tries to ignore it. It was only one. He hasn't seen or heard anything about putty sightings until now. It could be a straggler that somehow escaped Angel Grove and managed to make its way down the coast over the course of thirty years. It could be a complete coincidence.
It could be.
He looks around the empty parking lot, searching for a cold, bright gaze and a blinding smile in the shadows. He strains to hear that awful cackle. He closes his eyes and waits to feel the press of talon-like nails into his wrist as a burning-hot hand wraps around it, pulling him into familiar darkness. But all he hears is the sound of traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard.
Opening his eyes, Tommy sniffles a little, then presses the heel of his hand to the edge of his eye socket. He thinks about how gently Evan would touch him there. He flinches, and not just from the pain.
After a while, it's clear that Rita's not coming for him. Sucking in a shuddering breath, he turns around and limps back into the park. With any luck, his truck is still in the middle of the road where he left it.
+
For the uninitiated, putties are mass-produced, golem-like foot soldiers under the control of Rita.
