Heel lift inserts near me

I am 23 years old, turning 24. I have one child who is 4. I got pregnant when I was 18, and the guy (my now husband) was 32.
I’ll just say that our marriage is near irreparable. I think I am here because I am afraid of leaving, afraid of coparenting with him again, afraid of my horrible health issues, and financial reasons. The “love” I feel for him is nothing more than an awful trauma bond. I do logically understand true love doesn’t make you feel unsafe, and give you PTSD.
I was diagnosed with C-PTSD by 2 mental health professionals from things my husband did during my pregnancy. I won’t go into it all due to the fact it’s extremely distressing and hard for me to even talk about.
Since then, he has invalidated my feelings, there’s been physical abuse on both ends, and I am still hurt over things 5 years ago.
I have never had a father, he was just not around. Seen him a handful of times and he’s like a stranger to me.
I have no brothers or sisters or family except my grandma/grandpa.
I cut contact with my mother, so did my grandparents. She is extremely narcissistic and starts drama, makes up lies on everyone, does manipulation constantly.
An example would be lying to me about not having any money (she hasn’t worked in years, grandma supports her) and then asking me for money for a bill my grandma paid. She would get mad and send me long texts and voicemails because she would randomly come to my home when I was busy and I didn’t answer the door. She didn’t respect any boundaries.
I remember being told at 7 or 8 years old by her how much she wanted an abortion of me, hated me, etc.
Needless to say, I will never talk to her again.
I have several health issues that are making my quality of life horrible. POTS, something causing my blood sugar to drop into extreme dangerous levels such as 30. I have an endocrinologist appointment the end of June, and I’m hoping to get some answers.
I never feel good. I have constant headaches, severe bad periods (PMDD) that make me feel horrible for about 2 weeks out of the month, low energy levels and high cortisol levels. The peak was in 2020 when I became completely agoraphobic and couldn’t even leave my driveway.
I haven’t drove alone in over 3 years. I used to be happy. I never had these health issues. I drove everywhere by myself, I was happy in college and had friends.
I don’t even recognize myself anymore.
My grandma is old, almost 80. I know time is running short with her and when she goes, I have nobody left except my son.
My job is to be there for HIM though. I’d never place the burden of making him help with my emotional needs, on him.
I feel like I have nobody left and nothing really to look forward to.
My health problems are preventing me from getting out and doing anything or making a financial plan for myself. I am so depressed I feel like I’ll never get out of this hole.
Any advice would really help

I’ve made an attempt before. A very serious one. I mean serious. Probably 12 years ago now.
Some life events have happened recently where I’ve started to think along the same lines. Like it’s a good option. What’s the point etc…
It makes sense to me. It really does.
And last time it did too. So much so I had a very well thought out plan and very nearly pulled it off.
I want to keep all of this under wraps and tucked away. I also am worried that this “it makes sense” thing will grow. Like it did last time.
I’m a Reddit user and haven’t read through this forum. I haven’t spoken to a person. I can’t. I guess this is me looking for help so please be kind.
Help? Suggestions? Next steps?

This post is part of a series looking at the massive amount of 'rhyming' (and occasionally rhyming) recursivity I believe exists between (a) the homecoming of Petyr Baelish to the Fingers and (b) the homecoming of Theon Greyjoy to Pyke.
While this series/post can be read simply as a study 'for its own sake' of the curious recursion between these storylines, it is my belief that the 'rhyming' explored here between the stories of Petyr and Theon exists (at least in part) to foreshadow that, like Theon, Petyr Littlefinger, is (among other things) a scion of ironborn kings, because Petyr is Hoare-ish: I.e. because Petyr's blood is (in some part) the blood of the ironborn kings of House Hoare of Orkmont and, later, Harrenhal.
You can find an index of every post I've made on the topic of a Hoare-ish Littlefinger [HERE].
Even if I'm wrong about Littlefinger's lineage, the 'rhyming' recursivity between the homecomings of Theon and Petyr detailed in this series remains, and certainly merits attention.
NOTE: In what follows, all uncited quotes are from ASOS Sansa VI, which describes Petyr's homecoming to his "Drearfort" tower of the 'Smallest Finger', or ACOK Theon I, which describes Theon's homecoming to "drear" Pyke.
As in past posts, I sometimes use "→" as shorthand for "prefigures" and/or "informs" and/or "is reworked by" and/or "finds a recursive 'rhyme' in".
As in: ACOK Theon I → ASOS Sansa VI.
This post picks up straight-away from where Part 7 left off. You can read Part 7 [HERE].
If you want to begin at the beginning, Part 1 is [HERE].

Smallfolk Who Do Not Know Them

What about the rest of what we read about Petyr's sight-seeing field trip with Sansa? What about that fact that most of Petyr's smallfolk do not "know him"? And what about that hermit? I submit that all of this—

Farther inland a dozen families lived in huts of piled stone beside a peat bog. "Mine own smallfolk," Petyr said, though only the oldest seemed to know him. There was a hermit's cave on his land as well, but no hermit. "He's dead now, but when I was a boy my father took me to see him. The man had not washed in forty years, so you can imagine how he smelled, but supposedly he had the gift of prophecy. He groped me a bit and said I would be a great man, and for that my father gave him a skin of wine." Petyr snorted. "I would have told him the same thing for half a cup."

—is a masterful kaleidoscopic reworking of several aspects of Theon's homecoming chapter. I'll explain.
As Theon approaches Lordsport, he thinks of a few faces he thinks he might find waiting for him, including one Sylas Sourmouth:

As the Myraham made her way landward, Theon paced the deck restlessly, scanning the shore. … [S]urely his father would have sent someone to meet him. Sylas Sourmouth the steward, Lord Botley, perhaps even Dagmer Cleftjaw. …

We'll see shortly that Sylas is a dead, smelly wino, just like Littlefinger's hermit.
When Theon makes landfall at Lordsport, none of the "smallfolk going about their small business" know him, nor does he know them:

[Theon] saw no familiar faces…
[The captain:] "I've brought your heir back to you."
The Lordsport men gazed on Theon with blank, bovine eyes, and he realized that they did not know who he was. It made him angry. He… strode down the gangplank. "Innkeeper," he barked, "I require a horse."
"As you say, m'lord," the man responded, without so much as a bow. … "Where would you be riding, m'lord?"
… The fool still did not know him. He should have worn his good doublet, with the kraken embroidered on the breast.

When he later enters Pyke castle, Theon again knows no one and no one 'seems to know him', so to speak, save the "old crone" who keeps the castle for Balon:

The gates stood open to him, the rusted iron portcullis drawn up. The guards atop the battlements watched with strangers' eyes as Theon Greyjoy came home at last.
A pair of gaunt children and some thralls stared at him with dull eyes, but there was no sign of his lord father, nor anyone else he recalled from boyhood. A bleak and bitter homecoming, he thought. …
A bentback old crone in a shapeless grey dress approached him warily. "M'lord, I am sent to show you to chambers."
"By whose bidding?"
"Your lord father, m'lord."
Theon pulled off his gloves. "So you do know who I am. …" … "And who are you?"
"Helya, who keeps this castle for your lord father."

So clearly the smallfolk of Pyke "did not know" Theon, whereas he is at least recognized by Helya, the "old crone" with a position in Balon's castle. It's easy to imagine "Prince" Theon bitching:

"Mine own smallfolk, yet only the old crone who keeps Pyke for my father seems to know me!"

That entirely true statement would, of course, neatly prefigure what's said about Petyr and his "own smallfolk" during his sight-seeing 'field trip' with Sansa:

"Mine own smallfolk," Petyr said, though only the oldest seemed to know him.

Note the recursive use of the term "know" there:

• Theon: "They did not know who he was"; "The fool still did not know him"; "So you do know who I am" → Petyr: "Only the oldest seemed to know him"

And note that we don't see Petyr having any more idea who any of his smallfolk are than Theon does who his are (or who Helya is): Yes, "the oldest seemed to know him", but as with Theon, there's no sign he knows them. (Maybe he does, in-world, but the text is silent.)

Recognition & Barnyard Eyes

Meanwhile, Theon being recognized by Helya — an (a) old crone and (b) Balon's castle-keeper — seems to be reworked when Petyr makes his landfall at the Drearfort, when he is verbatim "recognized" by all save the youngest of his castle household:

Servants emerged from the tower to meet them; a thin old woman and a fat middle-aged one, two ancient white-haired men, and a girl of two or three with a sty on one eye. When they recognized Lord Petyr they knelt on the rocks. "My household," he said. "I don't know the child."

GRRM's odd choice here to write, "When they recognized" him…" rather than e.g. "When they saw Lord Petyr…" or "When they realized it was Lord Petyr…" makes sense if we 'know' that GRRM is writing a 'rhyming' 'song': Theon was at least recognized by Helya, and this nods to that, even as the warm greeting and mutual recognition Petyr receives from and shares with his household is otherwise the yin to Theon's yang.
Note that Petyr doesn't know (and isn't known by) "the child… with a sty on one eye". This conflates and reworks (a) Theon being unrecognized by the "gaunt" — i.e. decidedly un-pig-like (see: "sty" as in pigsty) — children of castle Pyke, whose eyes are flawed in their own way—

A pair of gaunt children… stared at him with dull eyes…

—and (b) the "blank, bovine eyes" of the Lordsport men who "did not know who [Theon] was":

The Lordsport men gazed on Theon with blank, bovine eyes, and he realized that they did not know who he was.

This seems intentional: Eye styes can be spelled "sty" in the singular, as GRRM does here, but "stye" is preferred to differentiate from "sty" meaning a pig pen. The choice to spell it "sty" gives the girl who doesn't know Petyr a livestock-evoking eye and thus recursively riffs on Theon's homecoming, in which the men who "did not know who he was" had cattle-evoking eyes. The 'rhyme' is patent.

Sylas Sourmouth & Petyr's Hermit

Getting back to Theon's homecoming and its prefiguration of Sansa's 'field trip' with Petyr… Having been recognized by Helya, Theon asks her about Sylas Sourmouth, who he'd remembered when sailing into Lordsport:

"Sylas was steward here. They called him Sourmouth." Even now, Theon could recall the winey stench of the old man's breath.
"Dead these five years, m'lord."

So Sylas was a foul-smelling wino who is "dead these five years". He thus prefigures Petyr's dead, foul-smelling wino-hermit, who "had not washed in forty years". But he's not the only character in ACOK Theon I who seems to have inspired the story of Petyr's hermit.

"Sylas" Marner

The name "Sylas" shores up the fact that there's a connection between Theon and Petyr, if "only" via the 'rhyme' between Sylas and Petyr's hermit, as it's surely a reference to [Silas Marner by George Eliot], the plot of which massively resonates with Petyr's story.

• Silas is accused of embezzling funds. (See Littlefinger.)
  
• The evidence against him is a knife. (See Littlefinger.)
  
• Silas loses his fiancee to a rival. (See Littlefinger.)
  
• Silas goes to live in the middle of nowhere and loses all faith in God. (See Littlefinger.)
  
• Silas hoards and loves gold he earns from weaving. (See Littlefinger hoarding/loving gold and weaving his webs of lies. See also the "woven leathers" on the Myraham, which 'rhymes' so comprehensively with the Merling King. This also jibes with elpadrinonegro's conviction that the Vale story is riffing on Midsummer Night's Dream, with its weaver.)
  
• Silas adopts a daughter sired by a highborn man and found on a snowy night, her mother dead in the snow. He names her after his deceased mother. (See Littlefinger, and AGOT's first chapter.)
  
• The daughter "grows up to be the pride of the village" (as Sansa is set to be the pride of the Vale?).
  

There's more but those are the highlights. Note that the daughter ultimately redeems Silas from his fallen ways, and continues to treat him as her father even after her 'real' family emerges. Will Sansa 'fix' Littlefinger, as well? Or is life indeed not a song?
One more point of immediate interest to the hypothesis being explored here: "Marner" means sailomariner. If Petyr is in part a riff on Silas Marner, this could be yet another suggestion that he's Hoare-ish and thus ironborn.

Aeron & Petyr's Hermit

Sylas has something in common with the one person who does 'greet' Theon when he lands at Lordsport: Aeron, who we're quickly told twice is "sour", just like Sylas Sourmouth, the stinky dead wino who we already 'rhymed' with Petyr's hermit:

He is as mad as he is sour. Theon had liked what he remembered of the old Aeron Greyjoy.
Mallister… was a more amiable riding companion than this sour old priest that his uncle Aeron had turned into.

Indeed, it's clear that the "sour" Aeron of ACOK Theon I & II and Sylas Sourmouth are mashed up and rejiggered into Petyr's hermit story (repeated here for reference):

There was a hermit's cave on his land as well, but no hermit. "He's dead now, but when I was a boy my father took me to see him. The man had not washed in forty years, so you can imagine how he smelled, but supposedly he had the gift of prophecy. He groped me a bit and said I would be a great man, and for that my father gave him a skin of wine." Petyr snorted. "I would have told him the same thing for half a cup."

Consider that Petyr's hermit was a drunk who "had not washed in… years", who "supposedly… had the gift of prophecy", who received a "skin of wine" for telling Petyr's father Petyr "would be a great man", and who died some unknown number of years ago.
That all 'rhymes' with the Aeron we meet during Theon's homecoming in ACOK. To wit…
Aeron's thin physique, uncut hair and "untrimmed beard" make him look like a stereotypical hermit, but where Petyr's hermit was given a "skin of wine", Aeron carries a "waterskin":

Tall and thin, …the priest was garbed in mottled robes of green and grey and blue…. A waterskin hung under his arm on a leather strap, and ropes of dried seaweed were braided through his waist-long black hair and untrimmed beard.

The seaweed braided in his beard evokes the beach, where dwell… hermit crabs, who likewise pick up and make use of beach detritus.
That Aeron is a priest is also consistent with his prefiguring Petyr's hermit, in that being a 'proper' hermit is a religious calling. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hermit)
Aeron echews the comforts of a castle, refusing Theon's offer to "stay the night and share our meat and mead":

"Bring you, I was told. You are brought. Now I return to our god's business." Aeron Greyjoy turned his horse and rode slowly out beneath the muddy spikes of the portcullis.

This prefigures Petyr's hermit being a cave-dweller,
Where the hermit was a wino, Aeron's a former drunk—

The priest's manner was chilly, most unlike the man Theon remembered. Aeron Greyjoy had been… fond of… ale….

—who is now "drunk on seawater and sanctity":

"Aeron is drunk on seawater and sanctity. He lives only for his god—" - Theon (ACOK Theon II)

That phrase neatly prefigures the juxtaposition of the seawater-shooting blowhole with the boulder chiseled with the sign of the Seven, which we see just before the show-and-tell around Petyr's hermit.
Where the hermit "had not washed in… years", Aeron is called "Damphair", as if he's just bathed—

As the man approached, the smallfolk bent the knee, and Theon heard the innkeeper murmur, "Damphair."

—and he greets Theon by giving him a bath:

"Bow your head." Lifting the skin, his uncle pulled the cork and directed a thin stream of seawater down upon Theon's head. It drenched his hair and ran over his forehead into his eyes. Sheets washed down his cheeks, and a finger crept under his cloak and doublet and down his back, a cold rivulet along his spine.

We're also told twice that Aeron was "washed" in the ocean. The first time foregrounds "memory" and letter-writing, which prefigures Littlefinger the letter-writer recounting his childhood memory of the hermit to Sansa:

A memory prodded at Theon. In one of his rare curt letters, Lord Balon had written of his youngest brother going down in a storm, and turning holy when he washed up safe on shore. "Uncle Aeron?" he said doubtfully

The second time paints Aeron as a dry drunk again, even as Aeron tells Theon that the man Theon knew as Aeron "drowned", implying he died some years ago, as the hermit did:

"And what of you, Uncle?" Theon asked. "You were no priest when I was taken from Pyke. I remember how you would sing the old reaving songs standing on the table with a horn of ale in hand."
"Young I was, and vain," Aeron Greyjoy said, "but the sea washed my follies and my vanities away. That man drowned, nephew. His lungs filled with seawater, and the fish ate the scales off his eyes. When I rose again, I saw clearly."

Finally, where the prophet "supposedly… had the gift of prophecy" and used it to tell Petyr's father that Petyr "would be a great man", Aeron offers a prophetic interpretation of the red comet:

[Theon, to Aeron:] "They say the red comet is a herald of a new age. A messenger from the gods."
"A sign it is," the priest agreed, "but from our god, not theirs. A burning brand it is, such as our people carried of old. It is the flame the Drowned God brought from the sea, and it proclaims a rising tide. It is time to hoist our sails and go forth into the world with fire and sword, as he did."

Everything we subsequently read about Aeron only reinforces the 'rhyme': In AFFC it's spelled out that he was a drunk, he calls himself "the prophet", and we learn that he was molested by Euron, thus 'rhyming' with Petyr being "groped… a bit" by the hermit. Then, in The Forsaken, he has an apocalyptic vision of the future while tripping on special wine.

Groping, Bragging, Snorting

But what about when GRRM wrote ASOS Sansa VI? Were there already things in Theon's ACOK homecoming prefiguring Petyr's quip about getting "groped" by the hermit?

"He groped me a bit and said I would be a great man, and for that my father gave him a skin of wine." Petyr snorted. "I would have told him the same thing for half a cup."

Or for that matter prefiguring Petyr snorting and/or his quip about "doing the same thing for half a cup" and/or the hermit saying he "would be a great man"?
Naturally.
One of the first things we see Theon do is 'grope' the captain's daughter. A lot.

Theon agreed, squeezing her breast…
Theon's finger circled one heavy teat, spiraling in toward the fat brown nipple.
"As I have," he said, rolling her nipple idly between his fingers.

And how does Theon get her to let him grope her? With the same thing with which Petyr's father paid the hermit: wine!

The captain's daughter… had come to his bed willingly enough all the same. A cup of wine, a few whispers, and there she was.

(I guess Theon couldn't find a girl who'd let him do it "for half a cup.")
So where Theon gropes the captain's daughter for a "cup of wine", Petyr, "for half a cup", would have been willing to say, as the wino hermit did, that he'd be "a great man"… which is not coincidentally what Theon in effect tells his just-groped captain's daughter (for free) when he implies that he's going to be a king:

"As many times as I've fucked you, you're likely with child. It's not every man who has the honor of raising a king's bastard."

Theon still more unmistakably prefigures Petyr's hermit (saying Petyr would be "a great man") when, during his ride back to Pyke from Lordsport with "Esgred" a.k.a. Asha in ACOK Theon II, he says he will be verbatim "a great man":

[Asha:] "A grievous thing when a great man grows old."
[Theon:] "Lord Balon is but the father of a great man."

What is he doing when he says this? Making even more like Petyr's hermit by 'groping' her, too:

When they were well beyond Lordsport, Theon put a hand on her breast. Esgred reached up and plucked it away.
[Theon] slid his hand back up to where it had been. Her breasts were small, but he liked the firmness of them.

In reply to Theon's groping and flirting and declarations of greatness, Asha… "snorted", just like Petyr when he talks about the hermit:

"I like a woman with a good tight grip."
She [Asha] snorted. "I'd not have thought it, by that wench on the waterfront."

Thus it's hardly a stretch to imagine that this—

"He groped me a bit and said I would be a great man, and for that my father gave him a skin of wine." Petyr snorted. "I would have told him the same thing for half a cup."

—was written as a recursive, kaleidoscopic riff on Theon's homecoming.

Qalen, Wendamyr, & Petyr's Hermit

There remains one detail regarding Petyr's hermit that is as yet unmoored/un-'rhymed':

There was a hermit's cave on his land as well, but no hermit.

The hermit having a cave "on his land" but the cave having "no hermit" is a 'rhyming' rejiggering of what Helya says after Theon (having heard that Sylas Sourmouth is dead) asks her about a Maester Qalen:

"And what of Maester Qalen, where is he?"
"He sleeps in the sea. Wendamyr keeps the ravens now."

"He sleeps in the sea" is clearly a euphemism for being dead. The words "he sleeps in the sea" thus prefigure Petyr talking about a dead hermit who once lived "on his land". (sea → land)
Note that it makes sense that Qalen should prefigure Petyr's hermit, as the name "Qalen" recalls [Hermetic Qabala].
Meanwhile, the rest of Helya's answer prefigures Petyr having "a hermit's cave… but no hermit", as the line "Wendamyr keeps the ravens now" invites us to think this untitled Wendamyr fellow might not be a maester, but rather a 'mere' raven-keeper (a la Chett and later Sam at the Wall or Pate in Oldtown), which would mean there's a maester's tower, but no maester.
Yes, the appendix clears this up, but in the narrative itself it's as if there's now only some rando dude named Wendamyr who isn't a maester but who "keeps the ravens" so Balon doesn't lose access to rapid communication, even if (we might infer) he doesn't want those pesky maesters around now that he's brought back the Old Way.

The Abandoned Mine

That said, there is another piece of the puzzle. About two pages before Helya tells Theon about Sylas and Qalen and Wendamyr, he sees the abandoned workings of a mine during his ride to Pyke:

They kept a steady plodding pace, past a shepherd's croft and the abandoned workings of a mine.

An abandoned mine pretty clearly prefigures Petyr's hermit's cave with no hermit.
Moreover, given that that passage comes but one page before Theon is pointedly unrecognized by the people of Pyke castle, I suspect GRRM deliberately recycled the word "mine" into the odd way Petyr talks about his smallfolk just before he shows Sansa the hermit's cave:

"Mine own smallfolk," Petyr said, though only the oldest seemed to know him. There was a hermit's cave on his land as well, but no hermit.

(The "abandoned workings of a mine" formulation, meanwhile, foregrounds the work done at a mine, such as chiseling through rock, and thus prefigures the place on Petyr's lands where the Andals "had chiseled the seven-pointed star of the new gods upon a boulder" before abandoning it to become the desolate place it 'now' is.)

Slyas Sourmouth & Jon Arryn

Just one more thing regarding Theon's exchange with Helya, in which we read that Sylas and Qalen are dead, while someone called Wendamyr "keeps the ravens now":

"Sylas was steward here. They called him Sourmouth." Even now, Theon could recall the winey stench of the old man's breath.
"Dead these five years, m'lord."
"And what of Maester Qalen, where is he?"
"He sleeps in the sea. Wendamyr keeps the ravens now."

Petyr's smelly wino-hermit aside, what does Sylas the Steward — a verbatim "old man" with terrible "breath" who died five years ago — evoke if not Lysa's complaints about the "stinking" and "foul breath" of Jon Arryn, who was, she thought when she wed him, "such an old man, how long could he live", and whose breath smelled like "bad cheese" (of the sort a "Sour" steward might serve)?
Note the 'perfect' pairing of their breaths: sour wine and bad cheese.
To be sure, Lysa voices these complaints in the Drearfort during Petyr's homecoming chapter, the morning after she weds Petyr, whose breath, she says, "is always fresh", thus creating another strong thread of connection between ACOK Theon I and ASOS Sansa VI. But there's something else going on here.

Petyr Pan & Wendamyr Darling

Noting that we're told about Sylas and his breath just before we're told about Qalen and Wendamyr, surely we might say something like this:

• Where Pyke's former keeper of the cheese, the wine-breathed "old man" Sylas the Steward, is 'out' and where Wendamyr is 'in' as raven-keeper at Pyke… the cheese-breathed "old man" Jon Arryn is 'out' and the fresh-breathed Petyr is 'in' at the Eyrie.

So:

• much younger Petyr & Wendamyr have replaced the old men Sylas/Qalen and Jon Arryn.
• Petyr & Wendamyr ≈ Peter and Wendy
• Peter Pan and Wendy Darling → Petyr & Wendamyr

There's great resonance between [Wendy Darling] and Sansa: Wendy is about 12 or 13, on the cusp of adolescence/adulthood. She loves story-telling and fantasizing. She has two younger brothers, who become "Lost Boys". In Peter's realm of Neverland, she is forced to take on maternal tasks. (See Sansa in Petyr's Eyrie vis-a-vis Sweetrobin.) The parallels are plain.
It's worth noting that after getting caught up in Peter's world and enjoying herself for some time, Wendy remembers who she really is and decides to return home, bringing her brothers with her.
On a totally different note: Does the foregoing suggest that Wendamyr might somehow 'belong' to Petyr?

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 9: "Cargos, Slatterns & Butchery" with Helya & Grisel.

I am visiting goa with my family in last week of june (staying near candolim beach) Please recommend me good places and restaurants to visit and also i have heard water activities and many more stuff will be shut during that period of time ( correct me if i am wrong) So please Recommend what i all i can explore and what stuff is possible to do so our days in goa don’t go to waste btw i will be staying for 4 days

I fell in love with this girl I met on a summer afternoon at a debate competition last year. We spent that evening walking, talking about college life and enjoying the evening rain. She seemed very sweet and nice, she was perfectly humble, very smart, and yes, of course, beautiful. I can still picture her childish laugh, her soft bangs adding to the innocence. She left after dinner that day, but luckily, I saved her contact no. We chatted for a few days, I got to know her better. By the end of that week though, sadly, I came to know about her boyfriend. She volunteered that information herself, starting with "we're just friends right?" I was heartbroken. I couldn't cut myself off completely, so I talked to her as a friend for the next few days. I couldn't stop falling for her no matter how much I tried to stop myself. The fifteen minutes she would chat on text with me every night was something I craved for the whole day from the moment I woke up. I started stalking her and tried to find ttried to find the guy. I always made sure to leave her a text everyday so that she wouldn't forget me. I was completely, head over heels obsessed with her. Slowly, after two months, I decided to let go. I confessed to her on text and told her to block me so that I could work on myself. And she obliged. It was very hard the first few days, I would crave for photos with her on it, I would crave for her sweet humour, her smile. A video of her frekin hair moving with the wind was enough to make me lose myself. A few weeks in I forced myself to stop that. Worked out, studied better for my sem exams, spent time with my friends to distract myself. I was getting over her, and I was happy. Until last week. I went out to drink after a long while and I couldn't help remembering that evening. That smile, that laughter. Those bangs. That rain. I spent the night stalking her again. I finally found the guy though, this time. He was a research undergraduate of a premier institute in the country, and seemed so far off better than me. Jealousy was burning in my soul. Couldn't stand that guy's photo anymore. So I did it. Called her. (She had unblocked me by then) Twice. Then she picked up. I screamed at her, I told her how badly I wanted us to be together. How that guy would never want her as much as I did. How hard it was to get over her. She didn't say anything. She just interjected "please" or "yes" and cut the call. I feel very bad about that call. I've been crafting an apology text for a while now, but since she had blocked me again I wasn't able to send it to her. I don't know how to move on. But I don't want her to hate me for the rest of my life. Or maybe I do, because it would get easier to move on. I'm just tired of feeling stuff. I'm tired of the pain. So. Damn. Tired.

Hi everyone! I'm mid 30s, 5'1, 169 lbs, prediabetic and suspected but not diagnosed PCOS. Doctor has me on 500mg 1x daily metformin and I'm also taking an oral contraceptive and multivitamin.
I'm down 19lbs from my highest weight of 188lbs in about 6 months, but have been stuck at 168-169 for around 4 months now. I've been running and recently started biking, and just "graduated" from a c25k running program. I'm currently running 2 miles twice a week, and 3 kiles once a week, and biking 1-2 miles on the days in between. I'm focusing on cardiovascular health/endurance/reducing insulin resistance at the moment, just trying to get healthier. The cardio isn't for the purposes of weight loss but I'll take it if it helps. I haven't been lifting weights (no gyms locally and don't really have to room in my house for anything other than a few dumbbells). My legs are much more muscular since I've been running and biking.
Now that I'm in a routine with the running and biking, I need to address my food intake. I know weight loss occurs mostly in the kitchen. I love veggies, fruit, fish, etc, so I don't have any issue with eating healty foods, but I hate cooking and have a killer sweet tooth. I know I could easily drop at least another 10lbs fairly quickly if I cut out the snacking or replaced the chips and granola bars with raw veggies.
I tend to naturally do intermittent fasting. I don't do it intentionally, I've just never been a breakfast eater. Most of my food consumption happens between 1pm and 10pm, coinciding with my work schedule. The snacking happens mostly from 7pm to 10pm, between my lunch hour and the time I get out of work.
Anyone have any advice or ideas, or even experiences to share?

Since I've begun reading some american literature, I am very fascinated with Hunter S Tompson, his work Fear and Loathing and his Style of writing.
To share my love of his work I am working on a book called "The Feathered Starfish" using his style or GONZO style journalism.
This work is 60% an auto biography if not more, most of the things you will read happened, the drugs consumed, the happenings, the psychosis induced meth stupors, the near death experiences, the memories, they are all real experiences coming from myself- Michael Worthy Duke, and my best homie Josh Carr.
I do add many quotes of Hunters into the book, just for fun, he'd a legend in my eyes.
I have just did my first revision of chapter one, and I will post it on reddit to gain some constructive criticism.
Any and all criticism is welcomed this is my first time writing anything.
Chapter 1: Aufbruch
In the desolate confines of a decrepit apartment in Buckhannon, West Virginia, Duke slouched over his grimy desk, a faint glimmer of hope piercing through the darkness that engulfed him. The rain pelted relentlessly against the windowpane. "I really hope this one does it, man, I don't know how much more of this shit I can take"- Duke whispered with a mix of desperation and anticipation. With trembling hands, he carefully emptied six stamps of fentanyl into the tarnished spoon. Carr, his weary companion, cast a skeptical gaze upon Duke "Well you're not going to die if that's what you want. It's just not how GOD or SATAN works, or maybe I'm thinking of manifestation. Either way, they're both going to make us suffer, I doubt we'll get off that easy, as much as I want it to end, you're just wasting good dope, but go ahead, I won't Narcan you this time"
"You know? You're right, that makes a lot of fuckin sense dude, it's like each time there's something in the way. I always thought it was the LORD SAVIOR, SATAN, or maybe one of his DEMONS hoping I would strike some sort of deal with them to get off of this godforsaken ride" Duke's hands moved with a mixture of determination and trepidation, crushing a few clonidine tablets into a fine powder, adding it to his lethal concoction. The raindrops continued their relentless assault on the window, their rhythmic patter a cruel symphony accompanying their dark ritual. As the orange powder melded with the white, Duke drew back the plunger of the syringe, his eyes fixed on the swirling fusion of drugs and vodka. The amber liquid, held the weight of his hopes and fears, this white-orange liquid could very well be his out. "That's not what I meant, though hat's off to you if it works," Carr says.
In the ethereal glow of uncertainty. Duke's heart raced as he prepared to plunge into the abyss, the needle poised to deliver a bittersweet release. The rain outside intensified, its melancholic symphony matching the intensity of their clandestine act. As the raindrops continued their melancholic descent, Duke pressed the needle against his skin, the moment of truth inching closer. The world held its breath, suspended in the eerie stillness before the storm. The needle was dull and has been used many times before, but Duke hopes this will be the last time. He pressed, and with hesitation, it severed the skin between this world and the world unknown. He pressed on the plunger and as the toxic elixir coursed through Duke's veins, time seemed to distort, stretching into an abyss of darkness. His consciousness is on the verge of oblivion, teetering between life and death. A kaleidoscope of vivid hallucinations painted his mind, a swirling maelstrom of distorted images and fragmented thoughts of fear, abandonment, lost love, and the unforgettable regret of his life so far.
Hours turned into eternity as Duke slipped into a state of unconsciousness, surrendering to the unforgiving embrace of his drug-induced slumber. The world outside carried on, oblivious to his internal struggle.
When Duke fatefully awoke, his surroundings were shrouded in a haze. The dim light filtering through the tattered curtains cast a somber glow over the room, revealing the remnants of his despair. His body ached with a dull ache, each pulse a testament to his fragile existence.
A sharp knock on the door shattered the fragile silence, jolting Duke from his dazed state. His heart raced, the sound reverberating through his chest like a war drum. Slowly, he reached behind the couch and grabbed a pistol, he then stumbled towards the door, uncertainty gripping his every step.
Carr remained peacefully asleep on the sofa, unaware of the potential danger that lay ahead. If the stranger turned out to be a threat, Carr would have to confront the aftermath and dispose of the bodies. Meanwhile, Duke envisioned a scenario where he would paint his doorstep red. In this grim scenario, Duke's action would likely be repeated twice, burdening Carr with the task of disposing of not one, but two bodies upon waking up.
Duke muttered something like "How the fuck did you evoke second-stage manic psychosis on a goddamn Tuesday morning at 7:32 AM? Incredible," Duke grumbled under his breath. His grip tightened around the cold, steel frame of his .357 Magnum-Rhino, resting firmly at chest level, as he cautiously flipped open the peephole. With a deliberate motion, he placed his index finger on the trigger, a well-spoken prayer escaping his lips. "Oh, twisted universe, In this blurry dance between life and death, my words resound: To the enemy of the state lurking beyond this door, I offer this plea. Reveal thyself, if foe you be, let your presence be known, As adrenaline courses through my veins, May my aim find purpose, In this grotesque theater of existence, may the forces that guide us grant me strength in this dark hour, Should the door reveal an adversary, may my aim be swift and true, Grant me the resolve to protect what I hold dear, Yet let mercy temper my actions, even in fear. May peace find us all, in this realm or beyond."
As his heart raced and his vision blurred, he stood firm, bracing himself for any sign of movement. Suddenly, a thunderous knock shattered the silence, echoing like a gunshot. Startled, Duke's instincts took over as he pulled the trigger, blasting a hole through the door. Convinced he had vanquished his adversary, he hastily returned to the living room. In a corner, wild-eyed and gripping an Avtomat Kalashnikova, stood Carr, poised to unleash a barrage of bullets upon Duke's entry. With a swift stop at the coffee table, Duke muttered, "Weird heroes and mold-breaking champions exist as living proof to those who need it that the tyranny of 'the rat race' is not yet final."
In that intense moment, Duke proceeded to lay out two substantial lines of schneef, while Carr discarded the AK, preparing for their habitual morning routine.
Schneef takes the lead, followed by the ritualistic sipping of coffee with a few swigs of dirt-poor vodka or rum followed by another round of Schneef. As the haze thickens, They indulge in a flurry of cigarettes, punctuated by yet more Schneef. Duke then meticulously prepares a 1-0z plastic med cup, a concoction of SOMAs, a 100mg Ghost, and a dose of 40mg Adderall. And then, a 3.5-gram blunt of the finest, high-grade cannabis. A choice between PurplePunch #1, GratefulXChemdog #6, or an obscure local strain only known as BaileyRidge.
With his morning muscle relaxant held loosely in his lips, Duke leisurely strolls towards a weathered shelf adorned with cherished relics. Each plastic circle, steaming with echoes of bygone eras. In a deliberate gesture, his hand reaches out and retrieves a Stevie Ray Vaughan vinyl record, the album "Texas Flood". Duke places the disc upon the turntable, maneuvering the needle to land on the tenth and final track, titled "Lenny."
In the sounds of crackling vinyl and bluesy vibrations, Duke and Carr find a quiet moment, merging the intoxication of sound with their morning ritual. The melodic tendrils of "Lenny" intertwine with the smoke-filled air, creating a harmonious sanctuary within the confines of their dwelling.
Carr begins, his voice etching with concern, "Duke, you know I love you dog, willing to go any length for you. But there's a real possibility that one day you might mistake an innocent stranger at our door for something else entirely." Duke, frustrated by the untimely disturbance, retorts, "Damn it, it's 7 AM on a Tuesday morning. Who the hell would be knocking like an undercover agent if they weren't an enemy of the state?" Carr counters with a hint of humor, "Well, maybe it's just some friendly girl scouts trying to sell us cookies? Or perhaps the postman delivering a parcel?" Duke scoffs, as he brandishes a rattle crafted from turtle shells, wearing a Booger Mask made up of wood and hornets nests. Duke's deep connection to his Native American heritage is evident, as these artifacts are believed to possess the power to repel evil spirits.
Carr, chewing on a mouthful of pepperoni roll, springs to his feet and marches toward the door, eyeing Duke as he sets fire to some sage and palo santo, engulfing the space in smoke. Duke traversed the apartment with purposeful strides, occasionally stopping to shake his turtle shell rattle and speak to the Great Spirit. Meanwhile, Carr reaches the door, peering through the gaping hole in their door.
To his surprise, there are no dead undercover agents, no bloody girl scouts scattered amuck, nor fallen postal workers. Stepping outside, Carr scans the surroundings, his gaze darting left and right. With a sudden surge of curiosity, he sprints toward the mailbox, chirping birds echoing in his ears. The alluring scent of fresh grass beckons him, and he wonders why they don't venture out more often, even just to bask in the scent of blooming flowers. Reaching the mailbox, he momentarily forgets his purpose.
A bird chirps once more, its call now transformed into unmistakable human words, "Post." Carr offers a nod of gratitude before tearing open the mailbox, revealing a vibrant yellow letter adorned with a starfish-shaped white wax seal. Hesitation grips him, recognizing that this could be the perfect weapon to subvert him into an unwitting insurgent—its contents potentially laced with deadly anthrax, capable of bringing an end to both his and Duke's tumultuous existence. Yet, deep down, the knowledge that they have been flirting with death for what feels like an eternity seizes his hesitation. With anticipation, Carr seizes the letter, a glimmer of defiance in his eyes, and heads back toward the door. Before retreating, he tosses a ball of bread to the friendly bird that aided him, a small token of gratitude.
Inside the apartment, Carr's voice breaks the silence, "Looks like we've received some mail. You lucky bastard, you better thank the Great Spirit that you didn't blast a hole in the mailman. You know, if you witness someone offing a postal worker, and then turn in some sort of evidence to help with the arrest and conviction for their murder, there's a $100,000 reward waiting for you." Duke chuckles and with a hint of mischief says, "Oh, come on now. You wouldn't have ratted me out for 100 grand, would you? Is that all I'm worth? Although I must admit, that kind of cash does sound tempting." A grin spreads across Duke's face. "How about this: We order something to be delivered to the unsuspecting folks down the road. I'll take aim with my hunting rifle and wait for the mailman wearing a camouflage ghillie suit, while you capture the entire spectacle on camera. We'll scoop up the reward money and ride into the wind. What do you say?"
The room's energy takes a sudden 180-degree turn as Duke witnesses Carr's eyes widening. Duke, his paranoia deeply ingrained with thoughts of the enemy of the state, mutters "Who the fuck is it? Burn after reading, always. No exceptions. I don't care if it's a letter from my dead mother." Carr responds, "Dude, it's Allicent." Duke's heart skips a beat as memories of the girl who got away rushed to his intoxicated mind. His eyes well up with tears as he stammers, "Not a funny joke, not funny at all." He hastily prepares three consecutive lines of schneef on the coffee table. "She's been missing for four damn years. The last time we spoke, she despised me, despised us. She wanted nothing to do with us ever again."
Allicent was a vision of perfection, encapsulating everything desirable in a woman. Endlessly driven, she possessed an insatiable thirst for adventure. Her smile radiated warmth, except when met with condescension. She was a genius—a basement chemist, mycologist, historian, free-thinker, a natural-born leader amongst so much more. Her beauty was unparalleled, captivating anyone with her deep blue eyes, flowing blonde hair adorned with random braids, and forgotten dreadlocks. Painted with hand-drawn sacred geometry tattoos, her flawless body was a canvas of her own expression. She effortlessly glided through life, this woman could gracefully execute a gazelle flip off a half-pipe and then lay down a wicked bassline on a head full of acid. In their eyes, she embodied the true essence of beauty.
Their minds raveling in disbelief, An unopened letter from Alicent clutched tightly in Dukes hands as he Loomed over the worn wooden desk. His fingers traced the edges, his eyes scanning over the envelope that bore the familiar flourish of Alicent's handwriting... A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, its smoke twisting upwards in the gloom of the room. He scanned the room, his eyes shadowed under the heavy weight of exhaustion and intoxication. Carr sprawled across the ragged sofa, a joint lazily balanced between his fingers as he rustled his nostril trying to clear the ketamine out of it.
An oppressive silence clung to the room, disturbed only by the ramblings of the TV. The voice of 'Gonzo' from "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" echoed through the air, "Jesus, did you see what GOD just did to us, man?" They had been sitting like this for what seemed like an eternity, suspended between anticipation and apprehension, caught in the throes of a drug-induced stupor.
Finally, breaking the silence, Carr exhaled a cloud of smoke, its pungent scent blending with the stale odor of spilled beer and unwashed clothes. He ran a hand through his unkept hair and glanced at Duke with a mix of impatience and curiosity. "So, are we gonna read it or just fuckin' stare at it all day?" he drawled, nodding towards the letter on the table.
Duke blinked, emerging from his daze, and cautiously tore open the envelope, revealing Alicent's familiar handwriting sprawled across the pages. Alicent's familiar handwriting sprawled across the pages, each word etching a growing unease into their hearts.
"The pursuit of happiness..." Duke muttered, reading Alicent's message aloud. Her words painted a vivid picture of a place far removed from the choking grasp of the modern world, a commune nestled amidst nature's bounty. She spoke of the hills of the feathered starfish, a place of tranquility and kinship, a sanctuary from the greed and hatred that plagued society — this was a stark contrast to their own reality.
Yet, amidst her words of contentment, a chilling reference to the "day of the light" sent a shiver down their spines. Alicent's words held an ominous undertone, her tales of happiness tainted with the subtle hint of finality.
Turning over the letter, Duke's gaze fell upon a picture of Alicent, standing on a mountain with rolling hills in the background, dotted with tepees and yurts, bathed in the soft hues of a setting sun sprawled behind her. Her face held a serenity they had never seen, a serenity that seemed to belong to a world far removed from theirs.
Carr leaned over to study the picture. "This place...It doesn't look like anything I've seen before. Where the fuck is she?" he mused, his fingers tracing over the photograph. A deep frown etched itself onto his face as he fell into deep thought.
Duke sat back, his gaze shifting between a typewriter in the corner of the apartment and the picture of Allicent, "The edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over." a tale of a voyage into the unknown. He could feel it in his bones, the gnawing curiosity, the deep-seated desire to uncover the truth of where she was and why she decided to write to them after so many years. His gaze fell onto the typewriter, each key echoing "A man who procrastinates in his choosing will inevitably have his choice made for him by circumstance."
A sense of determination replaced Duke's initial bewilderment. He stood, moving towards an old gun safe, he quickly dials in 0 4 1 9 0 4 1 9, an old suitcase was tucked beneath boxes of ammunition and firearms.
"We had 9 grams of schneef, 120 European Cadillacs, a vial of JORs long lost #5, a knee-high tank of nitrous oxide, a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers... and also a quarter of opium, a ball of speed, 2 oz of mushrooms, enough weed to serve the east coast, and a zip lock bag of substances we were either too high or didn't care enough to label. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.”
Carr nodded, stubbing out his joint in the ash-tray. His eyes held a spark of determination, his usually laid-back demeanor was replaced with a newfound sense of purpose. The impending journey already stirring his usually placid demeanor. They knew what they were signing up for, the journey wouldn't be a walk in the park, but Alicent was worth the ride.
As the day began to fade, they started packing. The room was soon filled with the buzzing of zippers and rustling fabric, each item selected for their journey. The once quiet room now bursting with anticipation. Their adventure had begun, but will their determination to DIE fade away as they start this new journey? Will the promise of reuniting with Allicent be enough for them to go on one more day?
Duke paused, his eyes scanning the room, its walls painted with stories of disturning happenings and shenanigans. Among the clutter and graffiti, a worn-out green balloon caught his eye, its faded letters spelling out the haunting words, "RIP Mya...."
A twisted grin curled on Duke's lips as he muttered to Carr, his voice with a hint of madness. "Fuck, man, Remember when you found this in the woods?"
A smirk tugged at Carr's lips. He ran his fingers through his hair before letting out a big sigh, his eyes reflecting a hellish nostalgia. He let out a deep sigh, releasing a cloud of smoke that hung heavy in the air. The memory stirred within him. "Are you joking? I'll never forget that night," Carr began, his voice tremoring with blend of fascination and dread. "I recall being up for days on meth after a witch performed some black magick on me, I heard the loudest crash I've ever heard, almost like a god-damn plane crashed in the woods 35 feet away. I walked into the woods letting curiosity get the best of me.
Duke leaned in, his eyes wide with anticipation yet again even though this was the hundredth time he had heard this story. Carr continued, his voice dropping to a low, ominous tone. "I then saw a bright flash of green light in the distance, but as I got close enough to see what it was it was only that damnned busted balloon on the ground that said "RIP Mya" an 8yr old girl who had passed away. Carr's voice trembled as he recounted the aftermath. "The next day, fate took a hellish turn. Mya, my faithful companion, died without reason or explanation. And then, my young cousin, only eight years old, whispered something that sent me into full-blown psychosis...you shoud've taken the witch seriously, this is just the beginning, when you hear 3 knocks, just know the devil will be waiting"
They shared a nervous laugh, then collectively thought this was somewhat nice reminiscing in their hellish nature, yet hoping this new adventure would bring positive memories to replace all of the dark ones that brim their minds.
Duke turned back to their suitcase, and popped it open to reveal a secret compartment. There, tucked between 2 firearms, was a small amber jar, containing some of the most sought-after cocaine in the world. Miss Pinks's Cocaine, Duke was only 14 when he was able to navigate the Dream Market, Oasis, Hansa, Alphabay, many DarkNet markets on the web, to secure some of the most wanted drugs known to man.
Now this is not your ordinary schneef, this is genuine staghorn, not your cheap knockoff stepped-on monticorn staghorn, this schneef was carefully manufactured in a top-of-the-line German laboratory. Miss Pink uses the finest cocoa leaves, she makes small batches to ensure quality, and most of all, using anhydrous acetone, she washes each batch of these nose beers 15 times. Then an additional 5 times with chloroform. It is truly a testament to the dope feind, this is 98% pure, with a 2% cut of Vitamin B12, to, ya know balance shit out, you gotta take your vitamins.
With practiced ease, Duke poured a small mound onto the glass top of the coffee table. Using a battered ID card, he carefully shaped two neat lines. Carr watched, tapping his fingernails at the speed of sound against the table, Duke has only brought this stuff out once before, who knows when he will again. The illicit substance represented more than just a chemical high—it was their means of escape, a vehicle of dissociation and derealization they so desperately needed.
"Carr," Duke began, offering him the rolled-up Benjamin, "To old times, and to the journey ahead if we end up dying- at least we fed the head."
With a nod, Carr accepted the note, leaning over the table. He snorted the first line, the sharp sensation sending a shudder through him. After a brief moment, he screams "Jesus Christ this shit is jet fuel!" he passed the note back to Duke, who quickly followed suit.
Duke rips the line with ease, then swabbed the remaining powder for some scoobysnax. Carr, who is now blaring techno and dancing says "Bro we should start a go-fund-me, or go build a school in Nepal, fuck I just want to run, Do you think I could outrun an emu? I heard they can run like 30 MPH, I think I could run 30 MPH, idk man I would probably need better shoes-, Duke interrupts and says "Dude you are literally yakked out huh" - "I'm literally yakkychan" -"I'm the lead singer of the yak street boys" they both laugh for a while and lit up a cigarette.
This buzz coursing through their veins, its effects immediate and potent. An electrifying energy pulsed within them, and their senses heightened. They exchanged a look of understanding.
Hours passed as they packed the remainder of their essentials, the room now resonating with the focused hum of their preparations. With every item tucked away into their suitcase, they were a step closer to finding Allicent and the hills of the Feathered Starfish.
As Duke loaded the last of their belongings, he took one last glance around their apartment. The battered furniture, the stained carpets, the spilled beers and unwashed cloths, the dirty needles scattered everywhere. – it was a melancholic farewell to a past that had shackled them for too long. It was time for a fresh start, time to go in a new direction for once and for all and leave this version of themselves behind.
They stood at the precipice of an extraordinary journey, their hearts fluttering with a mix of anxiety and excitement. As the dusk painted the sky with hues of purple and red, they packed up their belongings into Hallii, Dukes' 1991 Mercedes-Benz 420 SEL, they gassed her up and took her down Route 50 towards OHIO blasting the song "KoKo by E.VAX".
To be Continued...

Everything listed is tested and working.All cart games are loose unless noted All disc based games are CIB unless noted.Game will ship USPS first class. More expensive items will ship priority. Please message me for combined shipping.Note: Will be adding more soon!NintendoNES* Millipede CIB $30* Pinball Quest CIB $35* Wrath of the Black Manta $5
Super Nintendo SNESConsoles / Controllers* OEM Controller CIB $60Games* Super Metroid $70
Nintendo 64* Army Men Sarge's Heroes (game and manual) $20* Blast Corps (game and manual) $25* Namco Museum $7* Ridge Racer 64 $12* Super Mario 64 $35* Tarzan $15* The Legend of Zelda Majora's Mask (game and box, missing manual, excellent) $160
GameCube* LEGO Star Wars (disc only) $5* Lego Star Wars II The Original Trilogy (disc only) $5* Shrek 2 (disc only) $5* Shrek Superslam (disc only) $5* Spider-Man 2 (disc only) $5* Tak 2 The Staff of Dreams (disc only) $5
WiiConsoles / Controllers* Wii White Consoles + AV and Power Cords (x7) $50 EachGames* Big Brain Academy Wii Degree $5* Cabela's Survival Shadows of Katmai $5* Def Jam Rapstar $5* Geometry Wars Galaxies $8* Ghost Squad $8* Hasbro Family Game Night 2 $6* Lego Star Wars The Complete Saga $6* Mario Kart Wii $26*Mario and Sonic at the Olympic Games $10**My Word Coach $5* New Super Mario Bros Wii (x2) $20 each* Nights Journey of Dreams $10 each* No More Heroes $15* Okami $10* Rayman Raving Rabbids $5* Rayman Raving Rabbids 2 $5* Rock Band $10* Rock Band 2 $10* Samurai Warriors 3 $10* Samurai Warriors Katana $10* Super Mario Galaxy $15* Wii Sports Resort $30
Wii UConsoles / Controllers* OEM GameCube Controller Adapter $40Games* Captain Toad Treasure Tracker Amiibo Bundle NEW $50* Paper Mario Color Splash NEW $90* Yoshi's Wooly World Pink Amiibo Bundle NEW $80
Nintendo SwitchConsoles / Controllers* Blue and Red Joycon Console CIB $220Games* Just Dance 2019 $15* Monster Hunter Generations Ultimate NEW (x2) $20 each* Super Smash Bros Ultimate $36
GameBoy* Bart Simpson Escape from Camp Deadly $10* Bomberman GB (Box and Manual only) $50* Double Dragon $15* Double Dragon II The Revenge $15* Earthworm Jim $15* Gauntlet II $15* Home Alone $5* Metroid 2 Return of Samus $32* Pipe Dream $5* RoboCop $12* Tetris $10GameBoy Color
Console
GameBoy Color Atomic Purple (works, needs new speaker) $65
Games* Aladdin (Game and box, missing manual) $60* Gex Enter the Gecko CIB $45* Powerpuff Girls Bad Mojo Jojo CIB $25* Spider-Man $10* The Simpsons Night of the Living Treehouse of Horror $15GameBoy Advance* Risk / Battleship / Clue 3 pack cart $5* Stuntman $5* Texas Hold Em Poker $5* Top Gun Firestorm $5* Yu-Gi-Oh Ultimate MastersNintendo DS* Battleship NEW $10* Bejeweled 3 $5* Brain Age $5* Club Penguin Elite Penguin Force $5* Flash Focus Vision Training $5* Garfield's Fun Fest (cart only) $5* Ghostbusters The Video Game (cart only) $5* Gremlins Gizmo NEW $20* Lego Batman 2 (cart only) $5* Lego Battles Ninjago (cart only) $5* Lego Harry Potter Years 1-4 (cart only) $5* Lego Indiana Jones (cart only) $5* Lego Lord of the Rings (cart only) $5* Lego Marvel Super Heroes (cart only) $5* Lego Star Wars the Complete Sage (cart only) $8* Lego Star Wars III The Clone Wars $5* Mario Cart DS CIB (x2) $15 each* My Amusement Park (cart only) $5* My Word Coach $5* Namco Museum $7* Paws and Claws Dogs and Cats Best Friends (cart only) $5* Petz Hamsterz Life 2 (cart only) $5* SimCity $10* Spectrobes (cart only) $5* SpongeBob SquarePants Yellow Avenger (cart only) $5* SpongeBob SquarePants Plankton's Robotic Revenge (cart only) $5* SpongeBob's Boating Bash (cart only) $5* Trash Packs (cart only) $5* Ultimate Spider-Man (cart only) $13* UNO 52 (cart only) $5* Wall-E $5* Wario Ware DIY NEW (small tear in cellophane) $35* Zuma's Revenge $10
Nintendo 3DS* Cartoon Network Punch Time Explosion (cart only) $10* Disney Magical World (cart only) $10* Goosebumps The Game (cart only) $5* Hyrule Warriors Legends NEW $50* Lego Batman 3 Beyond Gotham (cart only) $5* Lego Legends of Chima Lava's Journey (cart only) $5* Lego Ninjago Nindroids (cart only) $5* Lego Ninjago Shadow of Ronin (cart only) $5* Mario & Luigi Bowser's Inside Story + Bowser Jr's Journey NEW $85* Mario Party The Top 100 (cart only) $15* Regular Show in 8-Bit Land $15* Snoopy's Grand Adventure (cart only) $5* Steel Diver $5* The Sums 3 Pets (cart only) $20* Wario Ware Gold NEW $60
Amiibo* Sephiroth NEW $25* Kazyua NEW $15
SEGASega SaturnConsoles* Sega Saturn Model 2 Console ( installed TerraonionMODE + 2TB Sandisk SSD w/ full console library) $600Games* Alien Trilogy (disc only) $35* Christmas Nights Into Dreams $70* Daytona USA (disc only) $10* Mr. Bones $120* Myst $20* Myst (disc only) $10* NHL 97 (disc only) $5* Nights into Dreams (3D Control Pad Bundle, includes controller + all inserts) $150* Panzer Dragoon $75* Panzer Dragoon II Zwei $120* Panzer Dragoon Saga $1,050* Road Rash (disc only) $25* Sonic 3D Blast (disc only) $25* Virtua Cop (disc only) $5**Virtua Fighter 2 (disc only) $7
PlayStationPlayStation 2Consoles* Black Fat Model (x2) $60 eachPlayStation 3* AC/DC Live Rock Band Track Pack $7* Air Conflicts Pacific Carriers $10* Asura's Wrath (missing manual) $40*Atelier Ayesha The Alchemist of Dusk $25* Atelier Escha & Logy Alchemists of the Dusk Sky $25* Atelier Meruru The Apprentice of Arland $22* Atelier Rorona The Alchemist of Arland NEW $30* Band Hero $7* Beowulf The Game $7* BlazBlue Continuum Shift NEW $15* Brothers in Arms Hell's Highway $6* Buzz! Quiz TV $10* Call of Duty Black Ops II NEW $30* Call of Duty Modern Warfare 3 game + steelbook $15* Catherine NEW $25* Civilization Revolution $10* Conflict Denied Ops $7* Dark Sector $7* Dead Space 2 $13* Defiance $5* Dragon's Dogma $7* Enchanted Arms $15* Eternal Sonata NEW $35* Eye of Judgement PS EYE Camera Bundle $65* EyePet $5* EyePet & Friends $5* FaceBreaker $10* Final Fantasy XIII-2 NEW $25* Guardians of Middle Earth (case and insert only, game was bought with a code)* Guitar Hero Warriors of Rock $12* Kingdom of Amalur Reckoning $8* Kung Fu Rider $5* Last Rebellion $30* Leisure Suit Larry Box Office Bust $20* Lost DImension NEW $90* Lost Via Domus $8* MAG $5* MLB 07 $5* Madden NFL 10 $5* Madden NFL 11 $5* Madden NFL 13 $5* Medieval Moves Deadmund's Quest $5* Naruto Shippuden Ultimate Ninja Storm 2 $7* Record of Agarest War 2 $20* RockBand $20* Rocksmith $15* Sacred 3 $10* SingStar $10* Sorcery $5* Sports Champions $5* Star Trek NEW $10* Start the Party $5* The Club $6* Trinity Souls of Zill O'll $50* Wonderbook Book of Spells $10PlayStation 4* Agents of Mayhem $5* Batman Arkham VR NEW $15* Battleborn $5* Call of Duty WWII Valor Collection NEW $50* Crash Team Racing Nitro Fueled NEW $20* Evolve $5* Extinction $5* Jak II Limited Run $90 + T-shirt $50* Lord of The Rings Middle Earth Shadow of War NEW (x3) $10 Each* Rayman Legends (PlayStation Hits) NEW $15* Shenmue 3 + Steelbook NEW $30
PlayStation 5* Among Us Impostor Edition NEW $35PSPConsoles
* PSP 1000 console (loose disk tray, still working) $50Games* Crisis Core Final Fantasy VII (UMD Only) $10* Darkstalkers Chronicle The Chaos Tower $20* Dynasty Warriors (UMD Only) $5* EyePet $5* Final Fantasy Tactics The War of the Lions (UMD Only) (x2) $10 each* God of War Chains of Olympus $20* Iron Man (UMD Only) $5* MLB 09 THe Show (UMD Only) $5* MVP Baseball (UMD Only) $5* Madden 2006 (UMD Only) $5* Madden 2008 (UMD Only) $5* Marvel Nemesis Rise of the Imperfects (UMD Only) $7* NBA Live 2008 (UMD Only) $5* Neopets Petpet Adventures The Wand of Wishin (UMD Only) $10* Rapala Trophies (UMD Only) $5* Ridge Racer (UMD Only) $7* Sonic Rivals (UMD Only) $10* SpongeBob SquarePants The Yellow Avenger $10* Star Wars Battlefront Renegade Squadron (UMD Only) $7* Syphon Filter Dark Mirror (UMD Only) $5* Syphon Filter Logan's Shadow / Killzone Liberation Dual Pack NEW $20* Untold Legends Brotherhood of the Blade $8* Untold Legends Brotherhood of the Blade (UMD ONLY) $5* Untold Legends The Warriors Code (UMD Only) $5PS Vita* Hot Shots Golf World Invitational (cart only) $10* Lego Harry Potter Years 5-7 $10* Lego Marvel Super Heroes Universe in Peril $10* Lego Marvel's Avengers $17* PlayStation All Stars Battle Royale $15* Sonic & All Stars Racing Transformed (cart only) $20
XboxOriginalAMF Bowling $5Batman Dark Tomorrow $18Big Mutha Truckers $6Big Mutha Truckers 2 $6Blackstone Magic and Steel $42Castlevania Curse of Darkness $23Codename Kids Next Door Operation VIDEOGAME $10Conflict Desert Storm $5Conflict Vietnam $5Disney's Extreme Skate Adventure $20Dr. Muto $10Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone $54Kingdom Under Fire Heroes $8NHL2K6 NEW $10Need For Speed Carbon $7Need for Speed Underground $10Need for Speed Underground 2 $15PGR $5PGR 2 $5Scaler $10Shark Tale $5Star Wars KOTOR $10Tron 2.0 Killer App $12Test Drive off Road Wide Open $7The Hobbit $10Tiger Woods 2004 $4Top Gear RPM Tuning $7Totaled $9WWE Raw 2 $20Whiplash $15Worms 3D $10Zapper $10

--- Table of Contents ---
Interlude 2 - Wind
Winter 4984, Halakon
“I’m afraid that might be more than just rain…” the head steward's face was a mask of calm despite his words of worry as he stared into the horizon.
Allowing the silk to slide from the drying line into his waiting hands, Vinrin looked up, following the steward’s gaze to the east. Black clouds. As if night had decided to wash over the desert without waiting for the sun to set.
The dunes that covered most of Halakon could be seen in the distance, many miles away. A heartbeat later, they were gone. Wind brushed Vinrin’s cheeks, pulling stray red hairs from his braid. The eastern sky had become two-toned, black on top and tan below.
Run. The voice shot through him like lightning, causing his heart to skip a beat, then race to make up for lost time.
Vinrin flinched, gripping his head and chest, the cloth blowing away before it could hit the ground.
The Steward leaned over Vinrin, steadying him and whispering softly in his ear, "Young master, is everything alright?”
No, everything was far from alright. Green flashed in the distance and Vinrin looked up with a gasp mirrored by the steward. Lightning traced across the black clouds. Jagged lines of green, purple, and red set the sand below aglow but did nothing to light the darkness above.
“Run…” Vinrin breathed.
“Hurry girls, the shutters!” the Steward cried to the servant girls, urging them to take what laundry they had and rush back to the manor. To button it up for the oncoming dust storm. It wouldn’t be enough. Not this time.
“NO! Run!” Vinrin cried, suddenly desperate. He wrenched a basket of sheets from a passing servant, tossing it to the ground, “Run!”
“Young master the manor-” the steward started, befuddled, at the fourteen-year-old heir, now shoving servants away from the door and towards the road.
“Get everyone out of the house! Make for the rift!” Vinrin screamed, his voice cracking as the wind tried to blow his words away.
The rolling blackness covered the sun and the first bits of sand blown ahead of the storm wall pelted them like so many bug bites. Alone they would be inconsequential, but together they would eventually flay any exposed skin. And worse was yet to come.
Vinrin struggled through the wind to grab the Steward by the arm, screaming into his ear to be heard, “Please, hurry, run!”
Blessedly, the Steward nodded, rushing for the manor, his pace quicked further by the wind at his back. Vinrin pulled his hair back as best he could, looking around in horror as the nearby houses began shuttering their windows from the inside. Preparing to weather the dust storm as they had so many others. Couldn’t they see the lightning now right overhead? Couldn’t they feel the wrongness in the air?
“The rift…” his whisper was stolen by the wind.
He ran, shouting to the houses, banging on the doors, and forcibly turning people around who were trying to head the wrong way, back to their homes, towards the terrible storm. Not enough followed.
He dashed down side streets and allies, yelling until his voice was hoarse and beyond. He zig-zagged through the streets, trying to gather as many as he could. Not nearly enough.
Vinrin ushered all he could towards the Rift, a canyon that divided the city of Zaha into two halves, connected by multiple stone bridges. Stairs were carved down the Rift's faces in sharp switchbacks. Leading towards the ancient Temples built into its walls.
The air was thick with sand that pelted painfully against his skin, filling his mouth, nose, and eyes. He could hardly see the stairs, already crowded with people too far from home and seeking shelter. Or perhaps they'd felt the wrongness.
He'd just reached the head of the switchbacks when screams could be heard as if from a great distance. Spinning around, he ducked just as a roof torn from a nearby building flew overhead. It nearly spanned the rift before crashing down on a bridge. Stone crumbled, and more people screamed as a structure that had stood for hundreds, if not thousands, of years fell into the canyon, taking at least fifty people down with it.
He could hardly see, hardly think. A woman tried to shove past him, but a burst of wind pushed her too far. She tumbled into the canyon, her screams indistinguishable from the rest.
Pushing against the wind just to stay upright, Vin-rin nearly lost his footing as someone grabbed him by the hand and pulled him down the steps. Gusts whipped about the canyon, sometimes pulling, sometimes pushing. He held tightly to the hand of his rescuer, unable to see them through the sand that had become his entire world. They struggled their way down the switchbacks, crouching to keep themselves as close to the ground as possible. More screams trailed from above to below as people fell from greater heights. Had he been wrong? Would they have been safer in their homes?
No. He knew, knew, the city would be lost in this storm, buried by the dunes that had only ever existed on the horizon.
The hand pulled him one last time, and he nearly fell again, stumbling towards the canyon wall only to be wrenched through a doorway he hadn’t seen. Into the safety of the Temple of Hengist. People shuffled and sobbed in the darkness, but the grand entrance to the chapel wasn’t nearly as full as it should be.
The Steward let go of Vinrin’s hand. He was hardly recognizable, caked in sand and blending in with all the other faces huddled together for comfort.
“My family, Maze, tell me!” Vinrin cried, tears turning to mud on his cheeks.
“Safe, young master, they are here.” His whisper sounded loud, despite the roar of the storm so close it shook the natural stone walls of this cave-turned sanctuary.
Safe… they were safe… but how many had he failed to save above? What would be left of the second-largest city in Halakon once this storm from the hells themselves passed…
Vinrin collapsed in a heap on the floor and sobbed. Relieved, and grieving.
--- Table of Contents ---
Any comments or communication would be welcome.

So I'm looking at going to uni either next year or the year after. I've found out I'd get nearly 10,000 in student loan. But rent would cost me about 8,500 a year. How can you possibly live on what's left over? How are you meant to have a job when you've got all that uni work to be doing? Sorry about my ignorance in this, I'm only just learning about uni life and uni in general.

I don't know what I did with my first one that you get from the journal scrap, but I'm trying to 100% the game and need to ship an Ostrich egg. I've been grinding the volcano dungeons for nearly a whole season in game and none of the rare chests give me one. Is there anything else I could do to get one? I'm on a switch if that's relevant :(

Disclaimer: This question is NOT intended to start a religious debate, nor to criticize and cast judgment. It is a question I wanted to ask based on my own anecdotal experience, and should not be misconstrued as an assertion or statement of fact.
Skip to last paragraph for TL;DR version.
The purpose of this question is just to satisfy a personal curiosity. For more than a decade I have been fascinated by religious beliefs and the psychology behind it, including Terror Management Theory (TMT).
Part of why it's a topic of interest is because my lack of religious belief was just "one more thing" that made me feel different from my peers as both a child and adult. I thought something was wrong with me because of it. So in my late teens I began reading the Bible and studying other religions believing "surely I'll connect with one of them". It was a confusing time in my life.
It wasn't until my late 20s/early 30s that I TRULY accepted it was OK not to be religious or believe in supernatural or paranormal phenomenon. But I was also scared to identify as atheist (even though that's what I was) because I didn't need another reason to stand out and look different as I had my entire life. However, I eventually got over it lol
Anyway, I'm 42 now and was not aware that I was autistic until this year. So I've been on a mission as of late to shift my focus from learning what makes me different from neurotypical people to what similarities I might share with autistic people. But in really narrow, possibly obscure areas. For example, I recently polled autistic women on their preferred sleeping position and was blown away by the homogenous responses. Nearly all of them slept on their stomachs or in fetal positions.
This time, I'm curious about autistic people and their religious beliefs, or lack thereof. I hypothesize that a correlation exists between autism and atheism just due to the logical and factual way our brains operate. Obviously, I'm over-generalizing here and understand that everyone is on a spectrum: whether it's autistic or allistic.
This is just me being curious and wondering if the responses by autistic people will be as diverse as it would be for neurotypical people, or if the answers reflect homogeneity. Keeping in mind, of course, that whatever the outcome, it is in no way evidence or "proof" of anything. But hopefully it'll be enlightening.
..............................
TL;DR: By "atheism" I mean in its literal sense in that it is a "lack of belief". Not to be confused by "agnosticism" which is "lack of knowledge".
Most people fit into one of 4 categories:
gnostic atheist: (I don't believe in god(s) and know for certain there are no gods).
agnostic atheist: (I don't believe in god(s) but don't know for certain there are no gods).
gnostic theist: (I believe in god(s) and know for certain God (or gods) exist).
agnostic theist: (I believe in god(s) but don't know for certain that God (or gods) exist.
Which one are you? Is there another category I missed that you identify with more? I'm really looking forward to reading your responses!

My husband is at work and just got yet another ambush phone call (that he did not answer) accompanied by a ‘we need to talk’ voicemail from his father and my MIL. We have been mostly No Contact with both of his parents for nearly a year now after debilitating levels of abuse from the both of them that effected our marriage, mental health and home. There are still monthly texts that range from harassment, triangulation, threatening, guilting/shaming and angry word salad, to manipulative complaints/poor-me’s and even ‘you’ll be welcomed back with open arms’ messages. This came after relentless aggressive abuse that was everything but physical (despite threats of invading our home which likely would’ve lead to that). It is legitimately nauseating. It is legitimately unhinged & scary. It’s overwhelming. It causes my husband and I to both be constantly on guard & made physically sick when their names pop up on his phone (I have them blocked, my husband is unable to fully block them because of them being the co-sign on his vehicle which he is unable to get out of financially right now). They have committed literal felonies to break boundaries and harass us. The father literally drove a woman to attempt taking her own life once? They have illegally entered their other son’s ex-girlfriend’s dogsitters house once in an attempt to, I guess steal back?, the dog that was shared between their son and his ex. My MIL apparently hired a private investigator to ‘monitor us and see why we are so distant from theme’. They have money and friends in supposedly high places so they operate as though they are untouchable and it’s genuinely exhausting to deal with their severe level of intensity and enmeshment. When my husband texted me about the random phone call today and the voice mail, I instantly felt this overwhelming feeling of like trauma vertigo. MIL texted my husband “we need to talk, this [no contact] has gone on far too long”. I know this is because Father’s Day is fast approaching and they are so crazy about public perception that they cannot handle the questioning from confused friends & family about why we are once again not involved in their painfully forced family photos and events.
I already have PTSD, a severe anxiety disorder and other mental health issues from a grossly traumatic past and I’ve had over 19 years of different therapies, medications and coping techniques. I have been more than able to manage in recent years with the exception of certain flare-ups and waves where it is harder to pull myself out of fight or flight. Since these people have entered my life, I have been in the hospital on 4 separate occasions for the physiological damage the gangstalking, threats, accosting and constant drama has caused - I am a cardiology patient who just had a high risk pregnancy that resulted in an emergent PPROM induced delivery of my second born at only 31 weeks because they’ve made it their personal mission to cosplay as the mafia and make me feel as stressed as possible for not submitting to their demands. We have a special needs child (that my husband adopted, from my last marriage) and a newborn and my husband works a high pressure specialty job that requires he is away from home nearly 60% of the year so I am too exhausted and too overwhelmed to also deal with this. I am running out of ideas on how to emotionally carry this and my husband has done all he can boundary wise to protect us but they are literally trying to force compliance by any means necessary and I have no idea what to do.

Assuming there are charging tables and usage is allowed.
I sometimes need to work away from home to focus, but the problem is, my laptop dies when it's not plugged in.
Sorry for the newbie question.
I'm in the province and eyeing Starbucks, CBTL, or Bo's since these are what I know to be near me that would likely have customer-usable outlets, but feel free to include other cafes for others' reference.

Hi I’ve been trying to find information online or a book that orders the Set Classes in consonance.
Here are the set classes ordered in Joseph Straus’ book and by chord family in Michael L. Friedmann’s book
Chord family 3 -> 3-12 (048): augmented triad 3-11 (037): major or minor triad 3-10 (036): diminished triad
Chord family 2 -> 3-9 (027): stack of perfect fourths or fifths 3-8 (026): whole-tone and tritone 3-7 (025): diatonic trichord 3-6 (024): two whole-tones
Chord family 1 -> 3-5 (016): semitone and tritone 3-4 (015): semitone and perfect fourth 3-3 (014): major and minor third combined 3-2 (013): nearly chromatic 3-1 (012): chromatic trichord
What confuses me is the general idea is that augmented chords are rather dissonant as well as diminished chords but are they really? Major and Minor are probably what people consider the most consonant and it’s clear by how often they are used but so are diminished and augmented. And sus chords have an i(2) but 2 perfect 5ths so shouldn’t they be considered one of the most consonant chords?
Here’s a little chart of intervals:
3-12 ~ 3 M3/m6 ~ 4 4 4
3-11 ~ 1 m3/M6 1 M3/m6 1 P4/P5 ~ 3 4 5

3-10 ~ 2 m3/M6 1 dim5/aug4 ~ 3 3 6

3-9 ~ 1 M2/m7 2 P4/P5 ~ 2 5 5
3-8 ~ 1 M2/m7 1 M3/m6 1 dim5/aug4 ~ 2 4 6
3-7 ~ 1 M2/m7 1 m3/M6 1 P4/P5 ~ 2 3 7

3-6 ~ 2 M2/m7 1 M3/m6 ~ 2 2 8

3-5 ~ 1 m2/M7 1 P4/P5 1 dim5/aug4 ~ 1 5 6
3-4 ~ 1 m2/M7 1 M3/m6 1 P4/P5 ~ 1 4 7
3-3 ~ 1 m2/M7 1 m3/M6 1 M3/m6 ~ 1 3 8
3-2 ~ 1 m2/M7 1 M2/m7 1 m3/M6 ~ 1 2 9
3-1 ~ 2 m2/M7 1 M2/m7 ~ 1 1 10
I’m gonna spend some more time trying to order these myself but if anyone has any insight on online information or a book that already orders them in consonance let me know! Thanks!

SW: 407 CW: 391
I had a VSG surgery when I was 383 pounds. I lost weight for a short time but my lowest was only 299. I didn't change my diet or exercise habits. It's my own fault. I gained weight steady throughout the pandemic and found myself at 407 pounds, higher than my surgery weight. I felt so ashamed, what is wrong with me? I recently talked to my doctor about losing weight again, I told her how much I struggled sticking to a diet because of how hungry I felt all the time. She suggested that I try WeGovy as it has been approved for weight loss. It cost me a lot of money out of pocket and will continue to cost me a lot but if it helps like it's supposed to, I will adjust my budget to accommodate it.
I'm about to finish my first week of it and so far I've had great results. The thing I struggle with most I think is food noise. Constantly thinking about food, planning my day around what I'm going to eat etc. This medicine has helped the food noise in my head quiet down and I find myself hungry a lot less. I joined a gym over the weekend and did my first lifting workout in 3 years. My diet has significantly changed and improved. The food I am eating right now is literally fuel to get me through the day and not mindless junk I'm putting in my mouth.
I had a moment last week where I really slowed down and enjoyed my food, I savored it. I can't remember the last time I've done that, or if I even ever had.
All this to say, it's not a miracle drug, I have to put in the work and eat right for me to lose weight. But having that food noise calm down has done wonders for me, mentally.

I think android automations are really awesome, and I have a lot of them, but I really hate making them.
While all the apps, especially MacroDroid are full of features, the actual act of programming is always painful for me.
Maybe it's not fair. I'm a programmer by trade, and text editors and ides had decades to evolve by the people who love to be lazy.
Touch screens are relatively new, and are much less efficient than kb and mouse. Since textual programming is practically impossible, we have to use visual programming which is again underdeveloped and basically requires anyone to start from scratch.
With that being said, I think Macrodroid (and other apps, have much much room to grow in the ux field before we talk about integration and features.
Here are my pain points, of course as a programmer I know how hard it is to actually implement new features, this is just something to think about.

1. Undo/Redo Oops I accidentally deleted a block with lots of config What can I do? Well, if I haven't saved yet I can discard my changes and maybe save it at the cost of my other work. That's not great.

Undo and redo should be a base feature to every program that encourages you to experiment. It saves time and saves code 2. Version control Like undo/redo, but for everything. Every programmer today uses it. being able to travel through history, branch, see when what happened and why.
We have backups, which I guess are better than nothing but just aren't enough.
I'll go a step further and say that since macrodroid programs, even huge ones, are so relatively small in size that literally every change should be a "commit" (in addition to normal named commits). Full history in all directions

1. Long press is useless Long pressing should be quick edit. or entering selection mode, or have it be configurable. instead it opens the help menu, which is maybe useful for beginners,but since the input grammer is touch or hold touch, it's just wasteful and inefficient. I find myself holding it excepting it to do something, but it never does.
   
2. multiple selection not much to say here. hate doing things one at a time. let us select multiple blocks and delete or move or anything them as one
   
3. expressions In macrodroid you have magics to insert to replace variables and you have some operations you can do, but it could be much more.
   

Doing simple ops in text, like a ternary operator, combining string operations, etc can save so many blocks that are annoying to use one at a time
This is something that automate does pretty well: https://llamalab.com/automate/doc/expression.html
I think it should be taken further, and have a small embedded language for those things. similar to how mustache or jinja templates are

1. so many clicks want to edit an if? well press it scroll to configure press the inner block scroll to configure again finally

having to go through all of the menus every time you edit something it's just friction

1. text editing I said that programming textually on a phone is not good. that's still true. but often it's so much easier to tweak a small thing with a text editor.

Ideally we will have a documented format to work with, but even if not, just letting us do it behind an advanced flag or something could help. right now its doing a back up, editing, and restoring.
that's what I have for now I'll probably make a similar post for automate soon tasker is beyond help IMO
I wish there was an android automaton thing where I feel like the app helps me rather than hinders me
I was thinking about node red maybe, but the interface is unusable on mobile so I'll have to develop a responsive theme or something
Share your thoughts

Don’t know where to start. I’ve noticed I had white, cottage cheese like discharge for the last 7-8 years, since I was a teen. I don’t have a good relationship with my mom and at the time was too afraid to say anything. It has smell, but not too strong. It doesn’t itch. But ofc I can’t be intimate w/anyone because of that and this is the first time in like 5 years that I’ve tried inserting a normal size tampon and it hurts, and I’m not sure I can fit it there like I could in hs. I’m afraid, I might have some swelling or growth in there. My mind just goes on imagining decay and failure of ovaries or tubes or smth like that. I didn’t find the courage in me to ask my friends to go or tell anyone. I’m horrified of going to the gyno and hearing the diagnosis, but more so ashamed because I’m an adult who let it go such length and hear the doctor scold & judge me. Anyone been in a similar situation? Any tips on how to force myself to finally go?

February 5, 1995
On May 8, 1991, seven years after her father's death, a graying, impeccably groomed former Miss America named Marilyn Van Derbur walked to a podium in a small auditorium on the University of Colorado's Denver campus. Announcing a family gift of $260,000 to a university research program on child sexual abuse, the onetime Outstanding Woman Speaker in America said that her late father, Francis—a millionaire philanthropist whose name was inscribed on the local Boy Scout building—had repeatedly violated her between the ages of 5 and 18.
Van Derbur said she had no conscious memories of what her father had done to her until she was 24. She had coped, she said, by somehow splitting herself. A high-achieving "day child" skied, played the piano and studied hard—utterly failing to incorporate any awareness of a mute, terrified "night child" whose legs, she said, were repeatedly pried apart in the darkness by her father's insistent hands.
Van Derbur thought she was speaking only to the people in the room that night, but a reporter was there taking notes. Her secret—the kind once taken to the grave or contained in the female domain of gossip—was about to cross the border into the public realm and become news.
Within a day or two, radio talk shows were debating whether she was lying, deluded or telling the truth. Her total "forgetting" of repeated horrors for many years seemed to defy common sense.
Three days after the speech, Marilyn Van Derbur's oldest sister, Gwen, an attorney in Hillsborough, Calif., told the Rocky Mountain News that she, too, had been molested by their father—but she had never forgotten. With that, most questions about Marilyn Van Derbur's credibility and memory ended, and last year her father's name was removed from the Denver Boy Scout building.
But the floodgates had been opened. If power consists in part of determining whose stories will be told and whose believed, the balance of power was shifting. After nearly a century in which many psychiatrists—most of them [cis] male—dismissed such reports as hysterical fantasies, women and men who were sexually abused in childhood lost patience with being spoken about and began to speak for themselves. It was as though Lolita had taken the pen from Humbert Humbert's hand.
The revelations began in the 1980s at 12-step meetings for Adult Children of Alcoholics; they were whispered to a new generation of mostly female therapists whose clients were financially independent women. By 1994, more than 800,000 women had bought a self-help book called The Courage to Heal.
A window had opened, letting in darkness rather than light. Never before in history had so many women accused so many seemingly respectable men.
Little attention has been paid to the feelings of parents accused of abuse—either the innocent or the guilty. Now a comforting counter-explanation for the nation's wave of [incestuous abuse] revelation is being advanced: The problem is not abuse so much as an epidemic of false memories of it, fomented by therapists who suspect it when none has occurred.
The most formidable intellectual champions of this view are cognitive psychologist Elizabeth Loftus, the author, with journalist Katherine Ketcham, of The Myth of Repressed Memory, and Pulitzer Prize-winning social psychologist Richard Ofshe, the author, with journalist Ethan Watters, of Making Monsters. Both argue that an [incestuous abuse] recovery culture—purveyed in self-help and pop psychology books, on TV shows and by reckless therapists—has induced thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of women to falsely accuse their parents.
Loftus, a cognitive psychologist and an eminent memory researcher at the University of Washington, is not a therapist but a hard scientist, an expert on the malleability of memory. She is skeptical of all therapeutic theories (such as the concept of "repression") that have never been scientifically proven and skeptical of "recovered memories" of abuse because, as she writes in her book, she was secretly molested by a male baby-sitter when she was 6 and has never forgotten.
Her concern for the falsely accused has been shaped by nearly 20 years as an expert witness in criminal trials. As she described in a previous book, Witness for the Defense (1991), she tells juries that memory is not a pristine videotape, but subject to distortion, reconstruction, over-dubbing and erasure from stress, retelling, suggestion and the passage of time.
As she recounts in the current book, Loftus began in 1991 to apply her research to the incest debate. She got five university students and colleagues—about 20% of those who tried—to get a younger relative (in two cases young children) to report a mildly traumatic "false memory." They did it by mixing accurate details with a false event—mentioning a familiar shopping mall, for example, and then "reminding" the subject of being lost there until rescued by a fictitious stranger. Based on such limited studies, Loftus speculates that traumatic "memories" of [incestuous abuse] have been implanted unwittingly by therapists in thousands of women.
This view is supported by about 16,000 parents who have contacted the False Memory Syndrome Foundation of Philadelphia since 1992 to say they have been wrongly accused. Their daughters (and some sons), they say, developed "false memories" after reading The Courage to Heal, joining an [incestuous abuse] recovery group or being hypnotized or encouraged to draw or write about their childhoods by their therapists.
[...]
Making Monsters also uses case studies to build a broad attack on all therapy centered on the past. Therapy, Ofshe and Watters argue [...], is less a science than a system of influence, suggestion and belief. In the office, clients construct "narratives" of their lives that usually highlight what the therapist thinks is important: childhood trauma, perhaps, rather than present time. Do women benefit, he asks, from a life lived through a rearview mirror? It's a provocative argument, though it seems overstated: What happens to us affects us, after all.
[...]
That said, their books are not the dispassionate work of scientists. In Ofshe and Watters' book, the [incestuous abuse] recovery movement—composed primarily of women who have never forgotten memories of garden-variety abuse—has "morphed" into the "recovered memory movement," a quasi-cult of hysterical women devoted to explaining away all present problems by dowsing for a traumatic past.
[...]
While decrying as "pseudoscientific" the credulity of [incestuous abuse recovery] therapists, both Ofshe and Loftus seem remarkably uninterested in the vagaries of memory of those who have sexually abused children. Psychotherapists who work regularly with such men and women report that they frequently have alcohol problems that affect memory, or deny what they've done and admit or remember it months or years later.
Loftus makes only a glancing reference to Marilyn Van Derbur, and Ofshe does not mention her at all; nor do they discuss many other cases that might contradict these books' central article of faith. Loftus, curiously, does not include any reference to a scientific study she co-published last year in the Psychology of Women Quarterly; in the study, which would appear to contradict the title of her own book, more than half of the 105 women questioned at a substance abuse center reported having been sexually abused as children, and almost a fifth of that group reported a period of total forgetting, after which their memories returned.
Ofshe, for his part, tells readers that by "conservative estimate" 15% of "recovered memory therapy" cases eventually involve allegations of ritual abuse. That statistic is as unscientific as the wildest overestimates of incest; it comes from a voluntary survey of 500 members of the False Memory Syndrome Foundation, the support group for accused parents.
Almost all of Ofshe and Watters' case studies are hidden behind pseudonyms from independent inquiry, forcing the reader to trust the writer's conclusions rather than see how they were reached. The looseness with which he treats the material is evident in Chapter 6 of Making Monsters. Here he tells the story of "Jane"—a Washington state woman called Lynn Crook who has identified herself in a letter she circulated to the media disputing Ofshe's account. In Ofshe's account, Crook was led down the garden path by self-help books and therapists until she fabricated horrible memories of sexual abuse by her father, a respectable physician. Two of her sisters, apparently caught up in the hysteria, supposedly then interpreted vague and ambiguous memories as signs that they, too, had been abused. Crook sued her father (both Ofshe and Loftus appeared as expert witnesses at the trial) and, reportedly to "empower" herself, sought out a local newspaper reporter. As the chapter ends, she appears headed into the delusionary territory of satanic ritual abuse: She recalls seeing a crowd standing around a bonfire in masks, robes.
Although this chapter is told as though Ofshe and Watters can read Crook's mind—her "heart races" at one point—they did not interview her or the sisters who testified on her behalf. The tale is an embellished reconstitution of the court records, and discrepancies in the details do not inspire confidence in Ofshe and Watters' contention that Crook's memories were caused by reckless therapy and the reading of self-help books. The authors have fiddled with the timeline, making it appear that Crook read and positively reviewed The Courage to Heal before, rather than after, she recovered memories of abuse. Crook, in fact, never told anyone that she had informed a local reporter of her suit against her father to "empower" herself; she responded to a phone call from a reporter who ran across the legal filing. One of Crook's sisters supposedly testified that her father had once told her to close her legs; the book, however, omits the last half of the father's reported sentence—"or I'll think you want me." And while Crook's therapist's notes did refer to a frightening memory of people standing around a bonfire in masks, the reference to robes was invented, making the memory sound more indicative of the delusions of satanic ritual abuse that Ofshe seems eager to find everywhere.
Ofshe omits from this account any reference to his own role in the lawsuit. In the court records, Judge Dennis D. Yule comments: "Just as (Ofshe) accuses (therapists) of resolving at the outset (to find) repressed memories of abuse and then constructing them, he has resolved at the outset to find a macabre scheme of memories progressing toward satanic cult ritual and then creates them."
Inaccurate reporting like this takes a book like Making Monsters beyond polemic to backlash.
Sadly, we live in a world that produces its share of Jeffrey Dahmers, Ted Bundys, John Wayne Gacys, Susan Smiths and Francis Van Derburs; the public face people turn toward the world may have little relation to the one expressed in private. Yet if these authors have ever met guilty parents, they haven't written about them. They seem to accept most protestations of parental innocence at face value, even those as half-hearted and ambiguous as "I don't remember doing this" or "I don't think so."
They write movingly of the anguish of parents whose daughters accuse them of horrible crimes, but seem remarkably insensitive to sexually abused children. Families in which [sexual abuse] charges surface are described as "shattered"; but families in which [sexual abuse] really happened were secretly shattered long before anyone brought the truth to light.
[...] the danger is that books like Making Monsters and The Myth of Repressed Memory will once again silence women and men from speaking—and being believed—about very real abuse, and will create a new breed of experts who will once again presume to know the truth.

My dog died almost a week ago. We live in a small house, so that means wherever I go in this house I can’t really NOT see my dogs box of ashes and his toys and leashes next to him. It’s right across from the kitchen, and it’s just so hard to eat now. He used to sit next to me while I eat and just stare at me the entire time. And now he’s just in a fucking box, and I want him near me so badly and I want to give him at least something but I can’t and it’s so heartbreaking. My boy can never eat with me again. He loved human food so much. Im scared I’m going to drop some of my food and expect him to pick it up, and when I don’t hear for see anything that might actually be my slay straw Honestly im scared to walk anywhere around the house today because I feel like a ticking time bomb