“X bodily fluid is just filtered blood!” buddy I hate to break it to you but ALL of the fluids in your body are filtered blood. Your circulatory system is how water gets around your body. It all comes out of the blood (or lymph, which is just filtered blood).
“Okay but why is it always so chemically roundabout and unnecessarily complicated” well buddy, that’s because your blood is imitation seawater. See? It’s very simple.
Buddy if anything is living in your blood (except for more parts of you) in detectable amounts then you have a serious microbial infection and need to go to the hospital.
Humans are seawater wastelands kept sterile of all but human cells, with microbial mats coating their surfaces.
Picture this: you are a Thing That Lives In The Ocean. Some kind of small multicellular animal a long time ago, before proper circulatory systems existed. “Wow,” you think, metaphorically, “it sure is difficult to diffuse chemicals across my whole body. Kinda puts a hard limit on the size and distance of what specialised organs I can have. Good thing I have all this water around me that’s the same salinity as my cells (they have to be that way so I don’t explode or shrivel up) so I can diffuse and filter chemicals with that.”
“Wait a minute,” you say a couple of generations later, because you’re not actually a small animal but an evolutionary process personified and simplified to the point of dangerous inaccuracy for the purposes of a Tumblr post, “instead of losing all these important chemicals to the water around me, how about I put it in tubes? I can keep MY water separate from the rest of the world’s water! Anything I want to keep goes in my water! Anything I don’t, I dump back into the outside water! I’m a genius! An unthinking natural trial-and-error process that’s a GENIUS!”
“Wow,” you think a great many generations later, “being able to have such control over such high concentrations of important chemicals is so great. Look how big I’m getting. I even have a special pump to move my seawater around, and these cool filter systems to keep the chemicals in it right, and that control and chemical concentration has let me grow so many energy-intensive, highly specialised organs! Being big is so hard. I need special cells just to carry my oxygen around now, to make sure my enormous, constantly-operating body has enough of it.”
At this point you are embodying a fish, and eventually, fish start straying into water with different pressures and salinity levels. (I mean, they do that since befor ehty’er fish, but… look, I’m trying to keep things simple here.) “What the FUCK,” you think. “My inside water is at a different salinity and pressure to the outside water?? How am I supposed to deal with that? I can’t have freshwater inside my seawater tubes! My cells have a set salinity and they would explode! I need to start beefing up my regulatory and filter systems so that my inside seawater STAYS SEAWATER OF THE CORRECT SALINITY even if the outside water is different! Fortunately, adding salt to my seawater is a lot easier than removing it, and I want to be saltier than this weird outside water.” At this point you beef up your liver and urinary systems to compensate for different salinities. (Note: the majority of fish, freshwater and saltwater, have a fairly narrow band of salinities they can live in. Every fish doesn’t get to deal with every level of salinity; they are evolved to regulate within specific bands.)
You also, at some point, go out on land. This is new and weird because you have to carry all of your water inside. “It’s a good thing I turned myself into a giant bag of seawater,” you think. “If I wasn’t carrying my seawater inside, how would I transport all these important chemicals between my organs and the environment?” As you specialise to live entirely outside of the water, you realise (once again) that it’s a lot easier to add salt to water than to remove it in great quantities. Drinking seawater in large amounts becomes toxic; your body isn’t specialised for removing that amount of salt. Instead, you drink freshwater, and add salts to that. The majority of your organs are, at this point, specialised for moving your seawater around, protecting it, adding stuff to it, or taking stuff out. You have turned yourself into an intelligent bag for carrying and regulating a small amount of imitation seawater, and its salinity (and your commitment to maintaining that salinity) is based entirely on the seawater that some early animals started to build tubes around a long time ago.
Because at some point, operating along lines of logic that worked out perfectly so far, you did decide to be a mammal.
A mammal is a machine for adapting to Circumstances. A mammal is a tremendously resilient all-terrain life-support system, with built-in heating, cooling, respiration, and incubators for reproduction. Mammals internalise everything (grudges, eggs) and furthermore are excessively, flamboyantly wet internally. Sure, everyone’s a bag of chemicals; but mammals slosh. Mammals took the concept of an internal ocean and took it in an unnecessarily splashy direction, added aftermarket mods and a climate-control system,
and just to show off, you leaned across the metaphorical gambling table and said: “my internal ocean is so good-“
“Bullshit,” said the shark, keeping it salty (ha)
“My internal ocean is so brilliantly resilient, more so than any of YOURS,” you said, holding their attention with a digit held aloft, “that for my next trick, I shall artistically recreate the ballad of evolution as a performance. I shall craft a complex chemical ballet depicting the origin of multicellular life – using some of my own material, of course-”
“Oh, ANYONE can lay an egg,” yodel the fish, and the ray adds: “ontogeny does NOT recapitulate phylogeny!!”
And you’re like, “yeah no, it’s an artistic rendition, not a literal thing. Basically I’m going to take some cells and brew them up-“
“Like an egg.”
“Like an egg. An egg but internally.”
“Yeah,” said the viviparous reptile, “yeah, like, that can work really well. I’ve always said it’s the highest test of one’s chemical know-how. It’s a lot of work. And forget about support from your family – forget about support from your PHYLUM – all you get is criticism.”
“I’m gonna do it on purpose forever,” you said. “The highest chemical, thermoregulatory, immunological, everything-logical challenge. It’s gonna be my thing.”
“I’m with you,” said a viviparous fish, stoutly. “Representation.”
You kindly don’t point out, once again, that you’re planning to do this outside the ocean, in a range of temperatures; carrying the dividing cells in a perfect 37.5• solution of saline broth in all terrains, breathing oxygen in a complicated matter, you know, bit more difficult; but you need your allies.
“It’s solid,” says the coelacanth.
“But is it metal?” says the deep-vent organism.
“Oh, it’s metal. I will feed the young,” you say, magnificently, “on an echo of the mother ocean. The first rich feast of cellular matter, the first hunt for sustenance, the first bite they sip of our liquid planet-”
Everyone waits.
“Will be a blood byproduct. My own blood byproduct.”
Everyone looks uncomfortable.
“But,” a hagfish says carefully, “don’t you outdoorsy guys still need your blood?”
You cough and explain that if you stay wet enough internally and hydrate frequently, you should be able to produce enough blood byproduct to sustain your hellish new invention until they can eat your peers.
The outrage that follows includes questions like “is this some furry shit?” And: “milk has WATER in it?”
And you won the bet. “My inner ocean is such a perfect homage to the primordial soup that I can personally cook up an entire live hairy mammal in it. And then generate excess blood byproduct from my body and give it to the small mammal until it gets big.”
That is an absolutely bonkers pitch, by the way, and everyone thought you were a showoff, even before the opposable thumbs. When the winter came, and the winter of winters, and the rain was acid and the air was poison on the tender shells of their eggs and choked the children in the shells; when the plants turned to poison, and the ocean turned against you all; when the climate changed, and the world’s children fell to shadow; your internal ocean was it that held true. A bet laid against the changing fates, a bet laid by a small beast against climate and geography and the forces of outer space, that you won. The dinosaurs fell and the pterosaurs fell and the marine reptiles dwindled, and you, furthest-child, least-looked-for, long-range-spaceship, held hope internally at 37.5 degrees. Which is another thing that humans do, sometimes.
Tags:
#I have been wavering on whether to reblog this for several months #I am not altogether comfortable reblogging something that self-describes as‚ quote‚ ”dangerous inaccuracy” #but think of it as something more like a creation myth #storytime #biology #that one post with the thing #(…I think the 37.5 degrees bit is *trying* to evoke a post-luteal body temperature) #(but I run cold and 37.5 is *definitely* a fever) #(anyway) #this probably deserves some warning tag but I am not sure what #discourse cw? #unreality cw? #body horror? #unsanitary cw?
why get a self driving car when god has given u the humble horse you stupid fuck
they will stop when smth in front of them or go a different direction(so no crashing), u cant get locked inside a horse, and many more pros 2 this etc etc
cars don’t poop
another thing modernity has taken from us
Tags:
#a little while ago on Discord I made a similar point but taken in a very different direction #self-driving cars are horselike (derogatory) #I went horseback riding once and it really gave me a new appreciation for the mindless obedience of a (circa-2010) car #cars don’t pull over to refuel against their driver’s will #(certainly not when they just ate not that long ago) #cars don’t speed up and pass other cars because they felt like it #cars don’t shy away from crossing ankle-deep water #the categories ”tools” and ”entities with minds” should not mix #and it’s such bullshit that we’re regressing back towards using animals for things just because those animals are silicon-based #disappointed permanent resident of The Future #discourse cw?
What is it about fics then, where characters always, ALWAYS, have a spare toothbrush conveniently just hanging about in bathroom cupboards for that time someone is, usually unexpectedly, staying the night?
I have lived a few decades now, and I have never known anyone who keeps spare toothbrushes. Is it really common??
if you are the kind of just-in-case clutter goblin who does not throw things away, and you live in a country where it is standard practice for the dentist to give you a free toothbrush every time you go, then it is extremely possibly to have several years-old unused “spare” toothbrushes of extremely cheap but basically functional quality stashed away in your bathroom whether or not you visit the dentist at the recommended frequency
Don’t people buy multipacks of toothbrushes? I use an electric now, but back in the day I got the ones from my dentist and also bought the 8 pack of toothbrushes then I’d forget about my spare 5 toothbrushes in my cupboard when I see the multipack on sale again and then – you get the idea.
There are people who don’t keep spare toothbrushes??
What if you fumble your toothbrush and it falls onto the toilet plunger, do you then just *not have* a toothbrush?
What if you go to the store–for any toothbrush-replacement reason, fumbling or otherwise–and they’re out of toothbrushes because it’s the 2020s and a store is always out of an absolute minimum of three things on your shopping list at any given time?
*please* let me give you a toothbrush from out of my gallon bag of spare toothbrushes, I am *begging* you, you do not have to live on a knife’s edge
i don’t think i’ve ever unexpectedly lost a toothbrush
but also i think you seem to consider ‘you don’t have a toothbrush’ as… more of an emergency than I do?
if i lose my toothbrush and don’t happen to have spares and it’s too late to go buy a new one what would happen is i would not brush my teeth that night or the following morning, and i’d buy one the next day. and this seems basically fine to me. obviously an inferior outcome to the one where i do brush my teeth, but not a serious problem.
Maybe it seems like more of a hassle if one normally goes shopping fortnightly. Almost any loss of sole toothbrush would require making some sort of special arrangement, going out of my way to do something or convince someone else to do it.
And even if it’s not a *serious* problem, it’s satisfying to be able to simply make a problem Not.
Relatedly, I consider household-inventory buffers to be a good idea by default: with how cheap and small and indefinitely-shelf-stable and inevitably-useful-sooner-or-later toothbrushes are, I would basically need a good reason to *not* have some spare toothbrushes. It’s all just part of keeping a household running smoothly, from my perspective. I store them next to the 20-pack of bar soap I bought at Costco.
Tags:
#reply via reblog #101 Uses for Infrastructureless Computers #domesticity #medical cw? #unsanitary cw?
What is it about fics then, where characters always, ALWAYS, have a spare toothbrush conveniently just hanging about in bathroom cupboards for that time someone is, usually unexpectedly, staying the night?
I have lived a few decades now, and I have never known anyone who keeps spare toothbrushes. Is it really common??
if you are the kind of just-in-case clutter goblin who does not throw things away, and you live in a country where it is standard practice for the dentist to give you a free toothbrush every time you go, then it is extremely possibly to have several years-old unused “spare” toothbrushes of extremely cheap but basically functional quality stashed away in your bathroom whether or not you visit the dentist at the recommended frequency
Don’t people buy multipacks of toothbrushes? I use an electric now, but back in the day I got the ones from my dentist and also bought the 8 pack of toothbrushes then I’d forget about my spare 5 toothbrushes in my cupboard when I see the multipack on sale again and then – you get the idea.
There are people who don’t keep spare toothbrushes??
What if you fumble your toothbrush and it falls onto the toilet plunger, do you then just *not have* a toothbrush?
What if you go to the store–for any toothbrush-replacement reason, fumbling or otherwise–and they’re out of toothbrushes because it’s the 2020s and a store is always out of an absolute minimum of three things on your shopping list at any given time?
*please* let me give you a toothbrush from out of my gallon bag of spare toothbrushes, I am *begging* you, you do not have to live on a knife’s edge
Tags:
#reply via reblog #101 Uses for Infrastructureless Computers #domesticity #is the blue I see the same as the blue you see #medical cw? #unsanitary cw?
A Review of The Way Of The Shadow Wolves: The Deep State And The Hijacking Of America by Steven Segal
Alleged rapist and human trafficker, cop groupie, washed-up action movie star, and personal friend to Vladimir Putin, the paradox of Steven Segal is how he manages to stick around despite being –by damn near every account– a universally unpleasant vacuum of charisma. I could go on, but I feel that no introduction of Steven would be complete without the tale of the headlock. Legends tell of Steven’s conflict with legendary martial artist and hollywood stunt coordinator “Judo” Gene Lebell. Allegedly, the two fell into an argument on the set of the film Out For Justice. The crux being Steven’s claim that he was “immune” to being choked unconscious. Allegedly, LeBell called his bluff, and put the actor in a headlock. A headlock that resulted in Steven losing consciousness, and control of his bowels. Steven denies the story. He also wrote a book.
The book is garbage, but garbage in a way that can be easily overstated. I wanted to take a page from other reviewers of this book, and call the text what it is; a fever dream of exhausting mediocrity, swaddled in delusions of grandeur. I wanted to whale on it. I wanted to denounce it like some ridiculous fire-and-brimstone preacher of internet literary criticism. But this does not capture the core, the essence of Way of the Shadow Wolves. There is a paradox at the heart of this text, a contradiction that even now I struggle to describe. Because despite everything, despite the balls-to-the-walls premise, the disastrous prose, and the buckwild plot, this book is deeply and powerfully boring. To call it a fever dream is to imply that it might be exciting.
Some books are bad in a way that must be experienced firsthand. This is not one of those books. In a way, I feel that you’ve already read this book. You know Steven Segal. You met him in elementary school, when he told you he has “every black belt.” You met him in college when you tricked him into smoking a bag of oregano. You met him at your most recent family gathering, where you were trapped in an awkward one-sided conversation about “those people.” The bad-ness of Steven’s work is deeply familiar.
We have our boots. We have our waders. We have our shovels. But, before we wade into the shit, there is one more thing we need to get out of the way: The Shadow Wolves are real. In 1972 the United States government agreed to the Tohono O’odham Nation’s demand that border enforcement agents patrolling their land have at least one quarter native ancestry. The result being the specialized unit of Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers known as The Shadow Wolves. In the 2020 Sonic the Hedgehog film, Dr. Eggman states that they are who trained him in the art of tracking.
WAY OF THE SHADOW WOLVES
Let us cook Way of the Shadow Wolves from scratch. Think of every dogshit C-list action movie you’ve ever seen. Ideally, you want the trash cuts of post-9/11 hysteria marbled with ex-cia heroes and vaguely arab villains. Drop it all into a stockpot. Next, roughly dice some comic books and kung-fu movies, the more racist the better. Now add some datura, it doesn’t matter if it’s edible or not, because you saw a native American in a movie make something like that once and you’re totally 1/64th Cherokee. Add a whole can of Qanon and a whole can of racism. Boil until you have pacing thicker than mud.
Way of the Shadow Wolves is a police procedural meets a spy thriller, a fast-paced action drama about elite agents on the fringes of the law who have the huge sweaty meaty balls to do what needs to be done for our country. It is Steven’s attempt at the action schlock he embodies as an actor. Our hero is John Gode: Shadow Wolf. Reservation-born native American tracker, ICE agent, and Kung-Fu master. I believe he might have been described at one point. If he was, I do not care. Steven does not care. It does not matter. John Gode is Steven, and he’s the most badass dude to ever not be gay. He is: Special Agent Shaman Cop. He’s gonna beat up the deep state. That’s all you need to really need to know. In fact, it is shocking just how little you need to know about this book.
We begin in a movie theater, where our protagonist is alone, watching the end credits of a movie about the atrocious treatment of native Americans on behalf of the united states government. When the film finally ends, John says to himself “It’s about time.” He gets up to leave. The chapter immediately ends. My compliments to the chef. A delightfully bland apéritif of a character introduction. Steven uses the essential point of first contact with our protagonist to tell us vital information like “He doesn’t like it when movies are long.” or maybe “He didn’t like this movie about the trail of tears.” It is unclear. To quote English-Albanian philosopher Dua Lipa, “Go girl, give us nothing.”
I have been dancing around the quality of the writing. It seems impossible to approach without the footing of a new paragraph, an opponent that requires full-focus, an all-out assault. It is nigh-incomprehensible. I hate comparing bad writing to drugs. It feels too easy. But there is a specific air to Way of the Shadow Wolves. There is a distinct cadence, simultaneously manic and lethargic, that comes from attempting to write while day drunk on over-prescribed amphetamines. And make no mistake, if Steven was not entranced by the muse of Too Many Uppers And Downers At The Same Time, if he wrote this thing stone sober, that is worse. Small quotes will not do the writing style justice, you must see for yourself how sentences flow into each other:
“The desperado’s mind went back in time to a small town in Mexico twelve years before, where he first met his two cohorts when they were thrown together by a tragic set of circumstances. Their parents had been gunned down by a cartel who was at war with a competing cartel for control of the area, which was a pathway to the American border near Nogales, Arizona. All three had been shepherded to a local mission where they were being cared for by the Franciscans, who were becoming overwhelmed by the growing number of children left homeless due to the rampant killings by the warring cartels …”
Labyrinthine. A paragraph structure that would feel more at home with Calvino, or Garcia Marquez at his most experimental, though stripped of its deft control and musicality.
Segal will regularly change temporal perspective in the middle of sentences. A single run-on sentence will begin in the past, have a middle clause in the present, and then return to the past by the end. There is a downright massive cast of characters for a 200 page book. Damn near every chapter introduces three or four more names, and we are lucky if Steven describes them before discarding them entirely. This book is a slog. I find myself losing patience with Steven.
—
Some time has passed since I began writing this review. Originally, my approach was surgical disassembly. I was going to go over the plot, summarize its anatomy, pick apart its flaws with surgical precision. But the more I cut, the more I felt as if I was the butt of a joke. I was performing an autopsy on a clown, pulling sheets of colorful rope from its gut, and the cadaver was laughing at me.
There is a moment, about halfway through. A woman approaches John at a bar. An assassin, who later attacks John in the parking lot with karate. A furious series of crescent kicks, effortlessly blocked by John Gode, who punches her in the ribs and knocks her to the ground. Realizing that her martial arts are defeated, she draws her gun, but John Gode is too fast. He fires his own weapon before she can get the shot off, killing her instantly. “Her round went upward toward the sky as she fell backward with eyes wide open, seeing nothing.”
This scene stuck with me. It illustrates one of the critical flaws at the heart of Way of the Shadow Wolves. Nothing hurts John. Nothing even gets close. He does not struggle. He does not sweat. He does not bleed. Steven clearly intends this scene to be badass, a moment where his self-insert hero defeats a dangerous enemy without trying. This book is an action movie, but John’s untouchability makes every action scene read as a moment of profound and boring cruelty. This was not a contest of master martial artists. This was an adult kicking a child in the throat.
I find myself losing patience with Steven. I am running out of humorous ways to describe this vapid tripe. This is, in my mind, the greatest condemnation of bad writing. There is no hell lower than being boring to mock. I see myself as a sort of sommelier of the awkward and disastrous. I will be the first to tell you “Wait! Don’t throw that out! There are things to be learned!” But Steven repeatedly proves himself to be a sort of Alchemist of Shit, capable of transmuting theoretically interesting bullshit into just fucking nothing. If this book deserves credit for anything, it is its miraculous ability to squander its own premise.
Why write this? Any of this? Steven clearly does not read. Or, if he does, he seems to subsist entirely on a diet of comic books about monkeys that do kung-fu. Why write this? At some level it all comes down to “because Steven wanted to” right?
Right?
But I cannot shake the feeling. To call this book masturbatory is to imply that Steven might have enjoyed it. There is a desperation to the power fantasy here. To be feared by men, desired by women, revered by all, yaddah yaddah yaddah, all the same trite excretions of blunt masculinity. But there is something else. Steven wants the same thing that every conspiracy theorist wants; a simple world. A world he can understand. Steven is exhausted, overwhelmed with a world he feels he can neither effect nor understand. I am exhausted.
I fear my earlier allusions to expressionist novels may have been more spot on than I imagined. Way of the Shadow Wolves has a plot in the sense that Sunny-D contains fruit juice. Its presence is a formality, a ceremonial hat worn for tax purposes. The plot is there, but it is unimportant. This is not a text that can be debated with. Because within the world of the text, politics is not complex. It is not actually a web of interconnected groups, each with their own interests, rivalries, alliances, and historical contexts. Behind all of it is two things: Good guys, and bad guys. The good guys are all working together, and the bad guys are all working together.
I find myself losing patience with Steven. I fear my earlier allusions to expressionist novels may have been more spot on than I imagined. Way of the Shadow Wolves has a plot.
John Gode finds a human tooth in the desert. It belongs to a body, a body of a woman described in lurid detail. Nearby, he meets a young native American man, a man who calls himself Sweet Tooth. The body is missing teeth, missing hands, missing feet. A trademark cartel killing. A young native American man. “I’m gonna be like, your assistant right?” A buddy cop dynamic. Meeting the task force. Tailing an ICE van full of cartel soldiers. A hostage situation. A shootout in the desert. Far away, faceless men in suits with masonic ranks plan a mass killing. Some sounded like they had Arabic accents. Freemasonry. Interrogation with a snake. The corpse was a woman. The woman was a reporter. She had the evidence on a flash drive, evidence that proved the existence of the deep state. What if its all connected? A sex scene, or almost a sex scene. A sex scene interrupted. A shootout in the desert. Kung Fu assassins at a bar. A cartel defector. A shootout in the desert. What if its all connected. They’re working with the Jihadists. The USA is already “half latino.” The government is paying the cartels to ship Jihadists north across the border. They’re well-trained and well armed. You can’t trust anyone. A terrorist defector who hears the voice of the prophet. The ghost of John’s grandfather. The sun sets over the Sonora. A shootout in the desert. They kidnapped John’s mother. Bring them the flash drive. They’re planning to bomb the casino. A shootout in the desert. The police chief was a traitor. The Catholics are in on it. Its all connected. A shootout in the desert. Assault by night. Rescuing the hostage. A knife dipped in pigs blood. A pit of vipers in the sonora.
Steven ends a chapter with the line. “They had functioned like a well-oiled machine that had just saved two innocent lives. All lives matter. Do they not?”
I am tired. I find myself at a neighborhood block party, trapped in a conversation I’ve had a thousand times. This time the man on the other end is a sweaty divorcee in range glasses who looks like a sunburned thumb. Last week, it was a woman with a necklace of crystals and blonde hair bleached blonder. “Haha yeah” I say, looking down at my phone. “Burgers look good this year huh?”
#reactionblogging #racism cw #politics cw #rape tw? #murder cw? #unsanitary cw? #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #(my favourite line is ”Way of the Shadow Wolves has a plot in the sense that Sunny-D contains fruit juice.”)
#anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #bugs #unsanitary cw? #death tw? #(I’d never heard of spotted lanternflies before) #(I looked it up and apparently my area’s winters are right in the grey area where spotted lanternflies can kind of sort of maybe overwinter) #(so I may or may not be seeing them soon) #((apparently they are known to fuck up apple trees‚ grapevines‚ and stonefruit trees))
#food #god there is so much here #it just keeps unfolding #it costs $5.99 in 2015!USD #it’s a liquid measured in pounds #warning: this product has not been pasteurized and‚ therefore‚ may contain harmful bacteria #later on the label calls it a ”juice” #(which implies they’re selling *other* things that *are* unpasteurized juices) #((since otherwise why would they have had the form letter lying around)) #(did they not learn anything from the Odwalla incident??) #Vox’s food-focused subsidiary contacted Whole Foods for comment and was told that ”the product was made incorrectly” #unsanitary cw?
When I was asleep, I dreamed about a popular tumblr post that went something like this:
I’m incredibly jealous of fishes why? It’s because icebergs are a thing for them
As a human you will never get to witness a gigantic mythical ice creature descending from the heavens It’s so awesome it can only happen in fiction But for antarctic fishes, it’s just like “yep” “that’s wednesdays for ya”
They don’t know how good they have it! If I saw a Leviathan Frost Dragon manifest in the skies I’d pass out from excitement And yet these fuckers are just jaded to such happenings.
This has been your annual repost from the best of Dreamworld Tumblr, enjoy.
Oh, also the research session on the dream internet turned up the fact that dream icebergs are all shrouded in a miniature storm system with spectacular lightning and snow. And also that, off the coast of Brazil, some of these iceberg mini-storms have become self-sustaining even though the iceberg has melted, and they bring immense fertility to the seas below, by churning up the nutrients, so a whole bunch of fish follow them around to feed on the plankton bloom. Sadly, they’re hazardous to visit if you’re a fisherman. This is because the storm is so warm and full of nutrients that it snows mold. The legendary mold-storms of Brazil, responsible for their vast fishing exports.
Tags:
#…Dreamworld Tumblr has a fucking point #icebergs #unsanitary cw? #dreams
if it’s really important I’ll put bean sprouts or maybe an egg on it but i also think that prairie oysters are a good idea but a little much for the modern age whereas many people tend towards revulsion
if i’m nauseous i’m probably already drinking lots of water and gatorade so honey tea is just adding more liquids to already too much liquid, i’m confused and mildly turned off of milk[1] tho hot milk is the best way and i would *love* to be able to have serving size heavy cream for warming some of that up, and rice reminds me of descriptions of large znttbgf (rot13’d because I don’t like looking at the word)
blt is simple, if i don’t feel like grain, i just eat the rest like a salad (easy on the gut) or i might take off some tomato (too acidic); bacon and bread are easy on me, mayo only as long as i don’t make the sandwich myself (weird but w/e)
[1]: i had frozen milk for my school milk too many times in a row, then one day i was desperate for cereal, only to find that the milk at home had frozen. I rarely drank milk after that (occasionally if i overshoot on spice but that’s hard to do, i’m not averse to lattes but prefer warm to hot milk and as creamy as they can get).
I’m pretty much with anon here: I did not know how much variation there was in anti-nausea foods, and it’s fascinating.
Bacon is one of the *worst* things for me to eat if I’m already not feeling well: greasy foods give me stomachaches. I don’t use honey tea or hot milk, but I can kind of see those (in theory I can also see white rice, but yeah I do sometimes struggle with the appearance).
I like mint for acute anti-nausea. (Usually just peppermint oil on a cotton ball for the smell, but occasionally edible mint.) For longer-term “halfway through a 300-hour stomach bug and trying to get some calories into me”, [popcorn popped in moderate amounts of canola oil] and to a lesser extent graham crackers.
Tags:
#reply via reblog #is the blue I see the same as the blue you see #food #disordered eating? #in which Brin has a food poisoning phobia #unsanitary cw? #illness tw?
The only episode I’ve seen involved a woman slowly poisoning her boyfriend who had gold allergy with gold that she snuck into the hospital in her vagina.
House caught her by rubbing his hands with special sauce that changes color in reaction to gold and grabbing her hands outside the stall before she could wash her hands, it was insane.
Me: I watched House straight through and don’t remember that. Surely dasha-aibo dreamed it *googles* not only does this episode exist, I remember other things from it. But the vaginal gold smuggling was just not that memorable.
House is crazy enough that I might just do a rewatch to document the crazy shit he does per season
Tags:
#House #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #this probably deserves some warning tag but I am not sure what #unsanitary cw? #poison cw?
Brinens and Things 