Happy birthday!!!!!!🥳🥳🥳
sarina bolden scores the first-ever goal for the philippines at the world cup | 25 july 2023
LET'S FUCKING GOOOOOOO
do note that this will probably mean US phones will follow this standard as well, as manufacturing streams are much easier to maintain as streamlined as possible, and having two separate standards like this makes it more of an expensive hassle for a company
this is also known as the Brussels Effect, where a regulation in one part of the world (usually the EU) results in new global standards.
please let this jump to laptops and tablets and everything else
via reddit.com
correlation is not causation, ghosts are drawn to poison and weakened minds
“Oh that animal doesn’t LIKE you it just TOLERATES you”
…..So? If that’s the most a non-social organism can feel towards you isn’t that just as special an honor as whatever it is you think affection means??
“This creature with no natural social instincts outside of mating allows me to freely interact with it, while causing it little stress” is fucking DOPE AS SHIT
also… are you SURE? like, we’re still finding out so much about animals. Wolverines fathers, who we thought were not involved in caring for kits, turn out to travel around and collect all their kits from multiple mothers and take the whole group out on camping trips. Some spiders have tiny frog pets (!) or group up to communally raise their young. Wild sharks, crocodiles, and snakes have formed strong, documented relationships with people.
this man Gilberto (Chito) Shedden nursed this crocodile back to health after it was shot in the eye, and they were best friends for the rest of the crocodile’s life.
this python came in out of the wild as a baby snake and curled up next to the family’s infant, Oun Sambat (or Oeun Sambat?) and they were inseparable for 12 years
Cristina Zenato removes hooks from sharks and they let her stick her hand down their throat to do it and they even bring other sharks who need help to see her.
It’s a relationship that goes beyond a single helpful interaction. For example one of the sharks that would show up when she first started swimming with them was a shark she called Foggy Eye who really didn’t like to be touched. One day, Foggy Eye showed up with a hook in her mouth that Cristina Zenato removed, and ever after, Foggy Eye cuddles when she visits, putting her head in Cristina’s lap and enjoying some petting
We don’t know SO much. Some wolf spiders will adopt unrelated orphaned spiderlings and raise them. We recently discovered that the ant-mimicking jumping spider (below) produces “milk” and suckles its young until they are nearly fully grown.
SO. Don’t assume we know all about what creatures do or feel or whether or not they form social connections or bond with others.
We’re told octopuses are solitary.
That’s the story.
They live alone. They die alone.
Except for Octopus City where they live in a social collective.
Except that I watched with my own fucking eyes a giant Northwest Pacific Octopus who my friend social for an aquariums interact. He hadn’t seen her in a year. He reacted to meeting us and to getting treats? But all he wanted to do was see her, touch her, show her his enrichment items. After a year he recognized her and the response was “YOUR BACK AUNTIE YOURE BACK I MISSED YOU LOOK WHAT I WAS DOING WHAT DO YOU THINK BUT YOURE BACK hi nice to meet your friends YOURE BACK.”
Fucking yeah ok 👍 solitary nonsocial. Idk. If it acts like it loves you then it does. In its way.
The guy who literally wrote the book on wolf social hierarchies realized like pretty soon after publishing that he was completely wrong because he had only been studying animals in captivity, but the erroneous information on “alphas” captured men’s imagination so they still cling to it despite it being just flat out wrong - according to the guy who CAME UP WITH THE THEORY so you know it’s legit.
Europeans who first encountered the platypus assumed it was a hoax.
Knowledge is seeking the limits of our species’ understanding of the universe
Wisdom is looking PAST the limits of our knowledge and staying fucking humble about everything we don’t know.
Since birth you could see a counter above people’s heads. It doesn’t count down to their death. It goes up and down randomly. You’re desperate to find out what it means.
You learn that other people can’t see the counter when you’re around five, and ask your mother what it means because hers just dropped suddenly to three and you don’t know why.
She looks confused, the number slowly ticking up and down, and asks what game you’re playing. She seems distracted, and now you’re confused too, because you’ve been telling people their numbers for years.
You can’t see your own, not even in a mirror, and the fact that everyone gave you different answers wasn’t all that odd since you couldn’t see a pattern in how their numbers changed.
It does explain why you sometimes got answers in the millions though, when you never saw anyone else with a number higher than a few hundred. And here you’d thought you were special.
You’re more circumspect when asking if other people see them after that year, because while your mom was nice, the kids on the playground weren’t. You had to pretend it was a game, and they were stupid for not playing along.
You reach your teen years, get really into all those romantic ideas about a countdown to death, and it makes you scared of watching the counters drop for a few years.
But you comfort yourself that it’s clearly not a countdown, every time a friend hits one, or zero. It goes up and down, by jumps and starts, and seems so random.
Of course you become obsessed with math. You watch your one friend, a girl with yellow hair whose number jumps more and faster than anyone you’ve ever met. You track the numbers, log them for days and weeks, and try to find an equation to explain them.
There’s nothing, of course. Even when you think you see a pattern, it breaks in a matter of hours.
You look for the slowest changer instead, factor in the time between switches, and it’s still no good. You’re an irredeemable nerd now, but you need to know.
You get yourself a scholarship, pursue calculus and theoretical math, and your fellow students are almost as passionate as you. But none of them can see the numbers, none of them have the mystery you’ve never solved.
The scholarship doesn’t fully cover the cost of textbooks, so you take a job as a barista nearby. That’s interesting, because you see so many people all at once and can do more little studies of the numbers.
The answer definitely isn’t “time since last meal”, or “last cup of coffee”.
The presence of such a large and diverse sample lets you spot new things you hadn’t considered before too; you always knew most peoples’ counters changed at different speeds, but you’ve never seen anyone consistent before.
There’s a kid with green hair and piercings all up both ears and brows, and their number is never lower than twenty. They’re never rude, but they’re loud in spite of themselves, and you find yourself liking to see them.
A control for your experiments, a regular and reliable face.
There’s an old man who sits in the back whose number never changes and who never speaks. He hands you a napkin with a coffee order every time, and some of your coworkers are scared touching the napkins will make you sick.
You aren’t. The old man might be homeless or might not be; none of you actually know. He sits bundled in coats all through the summer, always has the same red scarf, always has the same seven sat above his head.
You’ve never seen him sat or napping in the street, but he’s never pulled out a key and you haven’t followed him to see if he goes to a home.
Whether he’s unhoused or not, you’re not about to treat him like a plague rat. He’s just quiet, and for all you know he’s fully mute.
You talk slowly and clearly back, making sure your mouth is easy to follow because you can’t be sure he can hear you in the first place. He watches your lips instead of your eyes, never replies, but always pays in exact change, and then puts the exact same tip in the jar.
One day, on a whim, you join a sign language club at university. It takes some practice to get the signs down, and you have to ask for some specific phrases, but a week later you try wishing him a good day in ASL.
His eyes light up, a tremulous smile half hidden in the scarf. He doesn’t sign back, but you know the secret now. He just doesn’t have much to say, but he was happy you made the effort.
His number is eight now.
You wondered if it might have been changing all along and you just didn’t notice, but it doesn’t go back down. Or up any further.
You have the strongest feeling you are that number eight, but you can’t prove it. It didn’t change while you were watching, or while he was in the store.
You take statistics class, get permission from your manager to run out a few projects at work. Things like two tip jars, each with a different sign and a note behind them explaining the project.
That gets much more results than a single tip jar, as you expected, people are firm in their opinions and pick sides quickly.
The other baristas insist on keeping the two jar method even once you’ve gotten an A on your findings. They’re for competing sports teams on game days, music genres over the summer when the concerts come through, silly things like “cake or pie” when nothing more serious is going on.
There’s no correlation between the counters and how much people donate, or which side they choose.
You don’t realize that other people don’t have your memory for numbers and faces until you comment that your dear regular always donates to the jar on the left. Your coworker looks surprised and asks how you know.
Apparently other people don’t really keep numbers in their heads, but it’s second nature to you by now. You don’t always have time to grab the notepad you used to track them in.
University is interesting, and you find your way to chaos theory, which is fun in so many ways. One thing you do notice is that the numbers of your professors are almost always in motion, ticking up and down by tens at a time.
It doesn’t match the attendance sheets, you checked, with some excuses from your statistics class. You’re taking a seemingly random array of math specialties, but they all help each other.
The puzzle continues, all through your degrees (two full masters, and neither of them help). You learn to think of the world, of numbers, in a different way. You leave the cafe, move on to a couple of think tank positions.
You’ve never found anyone else who can see the numbers either. That’s okay though; you don’t want to just be given the answer anymore. This is a challenge now, a test of your worth, a constant companion.
Crunching numbers, applying analytics for work is good practice and keeps you sharp, but it isn’t your passion. Your passion is the mystery, but now you have access to the kinds of computers you can start running a broader analysis on.
You have decades of data now, and you feed it all in after work. Set the machines analyzing, using as much information about each person as you have, looking for variables.
It runs for months, but you’re not exactly surprised by the results; you need more data. No correlation detected.
It’s still a disappointment, and for a few days you feel down. You stop thinking about the counters. Just focus on your work, doing your job, making a play at socializing and reminding yourself you have a life outside your quest.
Kind of.
And then one day you’re in a coffee shop, grabbing a hit on your way to morning classes, and the cashier is a real sweet looking kid with earnest brown eyes and neatly tied back cornrows.
He looks conflicted as you make your order, you’ve been coming here since he started but you’ve never really talked. He takes your order, takes your money, and you move back.
You’re expecting someone else to bring you the drink, but he switches out and leans over the counter to give you the cup and cookie you definitely didn’t order. You’re confused; you didn’t pay for it, there’s no promotion.
He gives you a small empathetic smile.
“You look like you need it. Your…. Uh…. Your colour’s washed out,” he says in a hurry, clearly expecting you to think nothing of it, but your heart stops.
He doesn’t mean your face. You know that. If anything, your natural tan has gotten darker now that you spend more time outside. Just. Sitting in the park. Pretending you’re not thinking about the numbers.
But the way he says it, the furtive glances, the way you suddenly realize he’s been looking just a little above your face almost every time you see him.
You don’t grab his hand, even though you desperately want to. He’s already turning, rushing back to work, and you need to know.
“Wait,” you call as quietly as you can, and he stops. Glances back.
There’s something in those brown eyes now, a wariness and a kind of squashed down hope you know you’re showing too.
Wetting your lips you try and work out how to ask. What to say. It isn’t numbers, clearly. But you’ve never known your own number, always desperately wondered, and if there’s even a tiny chance…
“What… what colour was I?” You ask quietly, and he takes a quick glance around.
It’s not busy. You came after the rush, not wanting to be overwhelmed by counters you just can’t figure out.
He gives you a thoughtful look, from that spot on your forehead down to your eyes, still guarded but hoping.
“Blue,” he says softly, coming back to lean on the counter, “but it was very bright. Cyan, almost glowing. You’re… more grey now. Powder blue.”
You take a moment trying to think about the difference, then pull your phone up to look. He stifles a chuckle, then pulls himself up. Looks at you cautiously, hopefully.
“You don’t see them, do you?” He asks softly, watching you examine the two colours. It snaps you back and you look up, a small smile on your face.
“Not colours. I see counters. Not like, death counters,” you add quickly when he looks suddenly alarmed, wondering how to make it seem reassuring. “They go up and down and I’ve spent my whole life trying to work out what they’re for, but it’s definitely not that.”
You pause for a moment, looking at him with a slight frown on your face. His isn’t especially high or low, and he did tell you what he saw.
“Yours is forty-six,” you tell him softly, and stifle a laugh when it promptly changes. “Fifty-two.”
It seems to settle him a little, his eyes tracking your face, noting where you’re looking. You meet his eyes again.
“Do you know what the colours mean?” You ask softly, and he gives an awkward shrug.
“Not really. Just… never seems to be a good thing when they’re fading. Most people stay in one colour but change hue and saturation.”
They’re not terms you’re super familiar with, you’re not an artist, but you know in your heart that this is it. Your big break. A second data point.
All you have to do is not scare him away.
“I finally finished running a full computer analysis on all the counters I’ve seen,” you admit softly, gaze slipping down to the free cookie. “It didn’t find anything.”
He makes a soft, sympathetic noise, and the first smile you’ve actually felt since tugs at your lips. You give him a hopeful look.
“If you wouldn’t mind… you could email me the colours you see, and I could add them to the dataset? No names or anything, just…” and suddenly you realize that this project is creepy as hell, and super invasive, and he looks surprised and you should definitely leave.
This time he calls you back, glancing around the mostly empty store. And he quietly tells you the colours he sees above each head, and you note that along with their counters.
You’re already thinking of possible connections, maybe something in the precise wavelength of light, it’s wonderful that he’s so specific and knows so many colour names.
He’s an art student. Of course he is. And he agrees to help, if you come in at the end of the day he can finish out his shift and tell you all the colours he sees of the people still there.
Finally, finally, you have some help. Someone who understands, even if they don’t see what you do. And sure, you’ve got about fifteen years of life over him, but you always wanted a little brother.
He gawks at your work laptop when you bring it in; it’s big enough that it looks a century out of date, but that’s because you built it yourself to run like a supercomputer. Its fans roar like engines when you boot it up, and you have a whole gaggle of fascinated baristas by the time closing comes.
It can’t handle the full scope of the data set, but it connects on a private VPN to the big computer at work and can handle chunks at a time.
And convert video to 3D, but that was just to see if you could.
Your friend’s name is Dillan, and you give him yours because it’s not his fault you don’t wear a name tag. He’s got a good head for data analysis, and you know if his art doesn’t pan out he’ll do well anyway.
His art is wonderful though; reminiscent of time-lapses of cityscapes lit in blurred headlights and neon, but you know each soft line of colour is a person. He does smaller spaces too, a room, a corner of the park.
Portraits sometimes, peoples faces painted in the shades of their colour as it changes. It’s almost perfectly photorealistic, and you know he’s a prodigy in the same way you are.
You hope he can make the art he loves forever, even when he’s frustrated that a piece isn’t coming out quite right.
There isn’t an easy answer, even with his help and your new data sets. It takes years, with monthly meetings first in his coffee shop, and then at the library when he moves on.
You help with any homework that involves math, and once with a sympathetic shoulder and gentle advice when a TA is trying to drive his grades down. You know first hand how unforgiving the education system is to kids of colour, but you also remember how older students protected you.
There’s channels to report, if you know for sure they won’t take the TA’s side. There’s evidence gathering, witnesses, making sure you aren’t alone with them.
His family is far away, his parents unable to stand in his corner, so you pose as a distant cousin when he decides to make the complaint. Having an adult there, especially one with your qualifications, cuts the whole process off at the knees.
Seeing the TA’s eyes widen as you walk in in your best suit sends a little thrill through the kid in you who once sat in Dillan’s seat. Their counter jumps three times during the meeting, and this time you’re certain it’s not a good sign for them.
With the evidence Dillan and his friends have collected, the TA loses their position and gets a month of mandatory bias training. It might not change them, but you don’t care.
Dillan bounces like he’s walking on the moon as you leave, his own counter ticking steadily higher in a way you’re just as sure can’t be bad. His counter ticks up and down for the next few days, seemingly at random, and while he doesn’t know his own colour any more than you can see your counter, something in your heart tells you he’s a bright sunshine yellow.
His parents are a little concerned, of course. You meet at Dillan’s graduation, especially since you’ve got him an intern position at your work to keep him on his feet while he looks for work he actually loves.
They’re grateful, a pair of large Black men whose whole stance is a challenge for you to comment. You’re half expecting a shovel talk of some kind, and ready for it, when Dillan leans in eagerly and whispers that you’re the one who sees the numbers.
His father’s eyes soften, though his dad is still wary. You tell them both their own numbers, the only way you can try and prove it.
His father’s younger sister saw the numbers, you learn, and your heart stops all over again.
Someone else. A third person.
But she died long ago, and you’re startled to learn that she saw decimals. You never thought about it, never really wondered, but your counters are always whole numbers.
Dillan’s father doesn’t know all of the details, but he seems to feel better speaking about her. She never knew what the numbers were either, and he doesn’t know if she ever recorded them, but it fills you with relief.
You’d stopped looking for anyone else.
Told yourself you didn’t want to just be given the answer.
Liked being the only one to solve the puzzle.
But now that it’s possible, that you really know there are other people, first one and now two and who knows how many more?
It settles around your shoulders like a blanket, and Dillan is grinning at you in a way that tells you something has happened to your colour. You’ll add it to the dataset later.
No one else in Dillan’s family really see anything, on either side, but that’s okay. You have a goal now, and Dillan finally convinces you to do the one thing you’ve always avoided.
His dad’s a web designer. You spend about a month together, the two of you and occasionally Dillan when he isn’t painting, working out how to pose the invitation. What to show, how to format the site, how to filter out the false replies that always kept you from trying before.
Dillan does a bunch of art for the site too, pictures of what he sees that you can hardly believe aren’t just photos of people with a small circle of colour just around the hairline.
Pictures of what you see, the plain white numbers floating just above their heads. Gifs that show the way they change, the number ticking up and down like those old fashioned flap cards they used to roll through at ballgames before LED screens replaced the analog.
It’s always been funny to you, how archaic your counters are. Outdated before you were born, and the only reason you know the flip cards existed is because your mother showed you when you tried to explain what you saw.
But the white numbers fold themselves in half to show the new number unfolding down just like that, and Dillan laughs about it with you while you make the gif.
You spend long minutes with Dillan and his dad once it’s all ready, just looking at the button that’ll send the whole thing live.
Are you ready?
There’s a new email address just for this, but you know it’ll keep all three of you busy if enough people find the site. There’ll be people making fun of you, just like when you were little, and people pretending to feel special.
But there might be someone else too, someone as lost and confused as you were. What else might others see? Shapes? Scribbly lines that get more and more jagged like your counter climbs?
You can’t even imagine it, and it steals the breath from your lungs.
Dillan steals the mouse and hits the button for you, then runs away with it so you can’t panic and undo it. His dad laughs until tears run down his cheeks as you do indeed panic, leaping up to chase your little brother.
But it’s done now, and you can breathe again.
You still don’t know the answer. You know that at the end of it all, Dillan’s colours may have nothing at all to do with your counters.
But you’re not alone.
You saw your shadow in this sweet, funny kid, reached out the way you wish someone had reached for you, and now you’ve both reached out to the whole world.
It’ll be a pain in the ass sorting it all out, but you have work friends who can make you a program to filter the openly aggressive messages.
Because somewhere in the world, there’s a five year old kid who was just told no one else sees the world the way they do, and they’ll be able to see that it’s not true. They’re not alone. Someone will help them solve the mystery.
You’re no closer to the answer than you were as a fresh graduate yourself, can’t imagine what it could be.
But it turns out you were wrong, back when you were the fresh graduate who wanted to solve the world all alone. Answers aren’t as important as not being alone.
no offense to anyone personally but I think we are way too used to and comfortable with weekly releases and if that wasn’t already bad enough, it seems like most of you aren’t even patient enough to wait for the official release date my point is this industry moves way too quickly
The way that people treat with the medium of manga is interesting and sad because a lot of mangaka are disabled and becoming disabled because of the intense workload. The grace extended to legendary author-artists like Togashi should be how all these artists are treated, and more. Your favorite artists are destroying themselves to create the pages you consume and make judgments on and they deserve to take the time their bodies need to recover from these efforts. The weekly release schedule is literally hurting artists.
What’s worse is how they’re expected to do extra work unpaid like exclusive bonus illustrations for retailers and are expected to pay for assistants themselves. Licensing deals with adaptions are fucked up Gureishi is not the only one who has said an anime adaption did nothing for them financially Hideaki Sorachi of Gintama fame has also been open about how little money he has made from the hugely successful Gintama live action projects. Its so fucked up out there for them with no safeguards when their health fails them aside from living off of royalties, and this is an “improvement” from when publishers were fully okay roping manga artists into doing more than one serial at a time or lock them up in hotels with no sleep until they completed their manuscripts
Netflix is so unbelievably over we're tubi girls now. They have fucking everything on there, For Free. Insane that anyone pays for streaming services anymore when tubi exists. "Ooh they have fuckingg idk the show of the week on hbo max or some shit" don't care. If I want to see better call the last of the yellow jackets I can pirate it
Incomplete list of good shit (I haven't seen all of these but they sound interesting or I've at least heard other people like them) you can find on tubi:
- Columbo
- A Lot of sherlock holmes adaptations including tplosh and some really old ones from like the 30s iirc
- All three reanimator movies
- Repo! The genetic opera
- Like a LOT of horror actually
- Including nbc hannibal
- How it's made
- Project runway
- Electric dreams (that movie the computer fuckers are really into)
- The green knight
- A lot of old cartoons
- They have a film noir category I've been meaning to get into
And, last but not least,
- All the goofy B movies your heart can desire. They got birdemic and shit. They have like, evil bong 2. Goofy B movies that have grown followings and goofy B movies you've never heard of. All the weird shit they can get the rights to
& this is probably skewed by what I'm personally looking for! It's great! It's free! Go use tubi. Fuck netflix everybody hates netflix
They also have basically all of Transformers up to Prime, most of GI Joe, some old Kamen Rider bad Super Sentai shows, The Last Unicorn, most of Lupin III, and Jem and the Holograms.
Oh yeah, Tubi is the best actually. It's got everything that I've been wanting to watch. Especially the cheesy B movies.
And Pacific Rim. That's on there too ;)
if you have a fondness for italian slashers, there is an insane amount of giallo on there as well
oh this is evil
What is that?
discord is adding parental surveillance. as nerdskii's tags pointed out its a ridiculous measure that doesnt help anyone because apps like Signal exist for actual illegal/sketchy activity and this just hurts lgbt teens looking for somewhere to be themselves and have resources especially with conservative parents
I use android. this is my secure folder, which was built into my phone. it has a customize option, so I've made it look like some bland fitness app. when you open it, it asks you to enter a password or unlock it in any other way you've set it to unlock before it lets you in
inside of this folder is like a 2nd phone almost, I can hide apps in here or have different accounts on apps I've already installed. I have a separate discord and tumblr inside of my secure folder (which I moved this blog to recently)
there are similar third party apps, usually disguised as a calculator that you set a certain number or calculation as the password to unlock. that's a lot more inconspicuous if opened, but also more well known, and parents might be looking out for any suspicious calculator apps
also, be careful what 3rd party apps you download, especially when it's concerning things like your accounts and data! make sure you're downloading something safe and secure
this isn't foolproof, depending on how far your parents are going to track you. if they've installed anything or had you install anything on your phone or computer, or had the chance while you weren't there, be careful for spyware. some apps report how long you look at each app, or can record sound from your phone on demand
also important: a good VPN can secure what you're looking at from the router, which parents may be able to access information from, but this also isn't guaranteed to work if the parental controls are set to block VPNs
another one, if your parents are tracking your location but not your app usage: download a GPS spoofer. you don't necessarily need to root your phone for this, as long as it's supported in developer settings. a lot of them are branded as tools for pokemon go, which can be helpful for plausible deniability
parents reading this: these are things I've learned from constantly having my shit taken and looked through as a teen. you aren't protecting your kids, you're ruining any chance of them trusting you with anything. if something goes wrong, you're going to be the last person they tell, because someone who goes to these lengths to see any little thing isn't going to be chill when something actually bad happens if this is how you act when literally nothing is happening
[Image ID: The first image is a screenshot from discord reading as follows:
What are connected parents able to see?
Recently added friends - Names and avatars
Servers joined and participated in - Names, icons, and member counts
Users messaged or called in direct or group chats - Names, avatars, and times of last message or call
The second image is a screenshot of what appears to be a fitness app with a smiling heart as an icon. End ID]
Y'know, I've been thinking a lot about Disco Elysium and its portrayal of alcoholism. Over the years, I've often joked that alcoholic blackouts turn you into a detective of your own life, both victim and perpetrator.
Here's an example: let's say you're investigating THE CASE OF YOUR MISSING WALLET. You return to the scene of the crime (no joy at the club's lost and found); search for clues (your card's most recent transactions are all for double vodka lemonades, which you vaguely remember ordering but, honestly, everything's a bit of a blur after drink #11); interrogate any witnesses ("well, you kind of disappeared for a bit, so we left and found you virtually passed out on the sidewalk" [...] "yeah, then so-and-so took you home in an Uber to make sure you got back safe and didn't, like, die in your sleep or anything"); and, finally, weigh up all available evidence (you likely dropped your wallet or had it stolen while you were lying unconscious in the street -- either way, it's probably gone for good now. nice one, dickhead.) Case solved! Now it's time to do damage control (laugh it off, laugh it off, laugh it off), downplay the whole thing and make your apologies ("I'm so, so sorry you had to deal with that, it won't happen again, I swear!*") *it will, you're not fooling anybody these days
At its surface, Disco Elysium is a murder mystery RPG. However, the murder investigation quickly becomes secondary to the *real* mystery of Harry du Bois (that's you, the player character). In the game's opening scene, you emerge hungover from a three-day bender to find, not only are you an actual goddamn detective in charge of a murder investigation, this is no ordinary drunken blackout you're dealing with but total retrograde amnesia. So, who is Harry, why is he like this, and what exactly precipitated his epic meltdown?
Early on, you're tasked with tracking down your badge and your gun, which involves speaking to potential witnesses and retracing (what can be inferred of) your steps the previous weekend. Even if you focus all your efforts on police work, per Kim's single-minded professionalism, most leads end up revealing far more about Harry and his past than the murdered man or any potential suspects. And although Harry had nothing to do with the murder he's been called on to investigate, you (as Harry) can speculate about your alibi and even accuse yourself of the crime.
The way the game forces you to work backwards and piece together the few precious shards of memory you can salvage from wreckage of your life really struck a chord with me as a (newly recovering) alcoholic. During my first play-through (at which time I was categorically Not in recovery), I didn't disclose the full extent of Harry's memory loss to Kim until Day 5. I guess by then it was such a familiar routine -- the drinking, forgetting, making panicked attempts to save face (hey, look, Harry can deflect with humour as well!) -- that I slipped all too easily into my old M.O. Honestly, it's kind of darkly funny to reflect that a lot of actions and dialogue choices in Disco Elysium were written because it's the Alcoholism Game™, created by a bunch of self-professed alcoholics, and not because they're the real life default for most players.
Tacking more thoughts onto this because apparently it's Emotional About Disco Elysium hours...
I'm hardly the first person to point this out, but it makes me so crazy that "find booze and drink it" is one of the first tasks you gain upon waking up and it never. goes. away.
You can play Harry sober from Day 1, but the task will remain in your journal throughout the game as a nagging reminder, an unchecked item on the to-do list. It's also one of the easiest tasks to complete (I mean, you have to actively *try* not to), while promising a sweet +35 XP reward (for context, finding the bullet and determining the hanged man's real cause of death only grants you +30 XP).
There's something deliberately unsatisfying about choosing not to complete a task in a game where so much hinges on completing tasks and pursuing different side quests. And you can pass up each opportunity to drink, but there'll *always* be another temptation on its heels, another chance to tick that box:
I realise this makes DE sound awfully bleak, which is an unfair representation of something that's brought me so much... well, maybe *comfort* isn't the right word. But for balance's sake, here are some dialogue/thought snippets regarding Harry's alcoholism that saved my life a lil bit:
You might think that I'm joking when I say that we need cyborg rights to be codified into law, but I honestly think that, given the pace of development of medical implants and the rights issues raised by having proprietary technologies becoming part of a human body, I think that this is absolutely essential for bodily autonomy, disability rights, and human rights more generally. This has already become an issue, and it will only become a larger issue moving forwards.
No but seriously we need cyborg rights, in case you don't know how many people count as cyborgs here are some examples;
- People with cochlear implants are cyborgs
- People with pacemakers are cyborgs
- People with insulin pumps are cyborgs
There are even edge cases revolving around how much electricity and integration into the body are necessary to make someone a cyborg.
- People with replacement hips or other bones are by some definitions cyborgs
- People with implanted medical devices such as artificial valves or stents are by some definitions cyborgs
- People with prosthetic limbs are by some definitions cyborgs
- People with ostomy bags are by some definitions cyborgs
- People in wheel chairs, electric or not, are by some definitions cyborgs
The list could go on but I think I made my point that cyborgs are a lot more than just people with robot arms, they are the disabled deserving of the rights to the technology their lives literally depend on.
This is needed.
Earlier this year, a woman was forcibly deprived of a brain implant that was treating her epilepsy because the company that made the implant went bankrupt. Here's a link to one of several articles about it:
This story happened back in the 2010s according to the first article but is still relevant. Also if my cochlears were repossessed by the company for some asinine reason I would literally stop being able to do 80% of the things I do and my future would be ruined. Cyborg rights are necessary and should have been codified decades ago
This was in 2020, and the patients weren't even informed of it - one day their eyes just stopped working because the company that made them went out of business.
THE WRITER AND ACTOR’S STRIKES HAVE SUCCESSFULLY PAUSED THE PRODUCTION OF 4 MARVEL MOVIES!!!! thank you striking creatives.
I must not buy. Buying is the purse-killer. Buying is the little-dopamine that brings total bankruptcy. I will face my wishlist. I will permit the limited time sale to pass over me and through me. And when it has expired I will turn the inner eye to see its impulses. When the mania has gone there will be nothing. Only $ will remain.
Needed this thank you