Beaumains1

you don’t hate people. you hate the concept of your finite time being “wasted” as a result of someone else’s actions. someone takes too long at the checkout. someone’s too slow crossing the street. someone doesn’t go when the light turns green.

the forest you’re missing in this case is that is the definition of your time being wasted as a result of someone else’s direct actions is: employment.

and what makes it worse is that not only is your time - your precious time that you cannot spare even a minute of for the sake of your fellow humans comfort - being stolen in the literal sense by the number of hours you commit to work, but also at a much larger scale. the stress of your employment or, maybe better yet, the stress of simply being employed can take years off of your life. even if you’re working a white collar job, the impact on your mental health can be devastating.

this is why there is so much value in being able to pursue your passions and what you love and being afforded the opportunity to do so. this is why it’s better to embrace the people around you and ask them what they love so they can feel inspired to chase that feeling. and you should feel empowered to do the same thing.

I'm quite sure nobody is missing the forest. we're all VERY aware that the reason why the minutes of our life wasted waiting behind that dipshit with the lottery tickets are so valuable is because there's SO FEW minutes left in the day after work.

the thing is, work is not optional. the fucking dipshit with the lottery tickets is.

chasing your passions is something many people don't have the privilege of even dreaming of. but if they did, they'd still have to work, and they'd still be waiting in line behind the rich asshole with the lottery tickets.

i get this frame of thinking and i empathize with the frustration, sincerely. it's very easy to feel like there's no other option but to conform to this model of labor that's been handed down to us for generations, like it's a concrete law of existence. but just for funsies, for my own mental health, let's try to reimagine what it could be. the truth is, it's not really about the dipshit with the lottery tickets or the rich asshole, or even work itself. it's about how we perceive work, value, and time. under the current system, we've been conditioned to see work as something we do to survive, rather than a way to grow, learn, contribute to society, or even just enjoy our lives.

imagine, just for a second, if we could unlearn that and adopt a framework where our time isn't viewed as a commodity, but rather a gift that we can choose to spend on what we love and are invested in one where people aren't valued based on their profit margin for capitalist interests, but their contribution to the communal good.

in this scenario, your neighbor isn't a rival competing for resources, but a comrade working with you to ensure the well-being of the community that you both play a part in.

this is the general theory behind an anarcho-communist society, for the record.

the point made you about "privilege" is a fantastic one. but consider this: isn't the system that keeps you tethered to the grindstone the same one that makes "chasing passions" a privilege rather than a basic right? if we changed the system, wouldn't that be the real game-changing development? we'd all have the opportunity to pursue our passions without the constant fear of survival hanging over our heads.

the idea is not being against labor, but against being forced into labor that steals joy and adds stress to our lives.

it's nice to do all this armchair philosophy. but my food isn't free, bills still need to be paid, and if i ever would want to do something for my personal enrichment, that will also cost money.

what's the point of thinking about all this shit when you know you'll be working until you die? i mean maybe you get something out of these thought exercises. yeah, i guess so, you say, "for funsies, for my mental health". thats nice. like, I'm genuinely happy for you and a bit envious that these thought exercises give you some kind of positive feedback.

but I don't. and most people don't. most folks get mildly annoyed to pissed off to various degrees by this, because thinking about the 'could be' and the 'what if' of an imaginary better world is aggravating to the exhausted, overburdened, the hungry, the hurting and the despaired. it's like dangling a cut of meat in front of a chained up starving dog. your better world isn't going to happen, and I'll be standing for the rest of my life behind the guy with the lottery tickets, wanting to go home so that i can lie down, close my eyes, and drift away from this hell on earth.

So you're just going to give up, then? Let the system make your life miserable, and your children's lives, and your grandchildren's?

If you're a chained up dog, at least be angry at the chains.

I believe I've just created a hard pic of all time..,,. feel free to screenshot,.,,,.

@gmanweatherreport

dont ask me about the context for this, there is context i just think its funnier without any

I am lost without you

the problem is that if 1 is a prime number, then no number is. One of the definitions of a prime number is that it’s a number that is evenly divisible by no prime numbers other than itself.  Well, if one is a prime number, then EVERY prime number is divisible by one, because anything divided by one equals itself, so nothing is prime, which... kind of defeats the point of having a category of “prime numbers” in the first place. Secondly, a fundamental idea of math is that any number can be broken down into a unique string of “prime factors” - for example, 69 (haha) is evenly divisible by 3 and 23.  42 is made by multiplying together 2, 3, and 7.  5040 is constructed by multiplying 2*2*2*2*3*3*5*7.  You take a string of prime numbers, any string of prime numbers, and you will get exactly one composite number that can only be broken down into exactly that one string of prime numbers. If 1 is a prime number, you can add as many 1s as you want onto the list and make it a different unique string that still becomes the same number in the end.  This breaks a fundamental rule so important it’s literally called The Fundamental Theorem Of Arithmetic, so... breaking it is Kind Of A Big Deal, as a whole bunch of other more specific mathematical proofs are built upon the idea that the Fundamental Theorem of Arithmetic is true.

TL;DR: 1 is not a prime because math breaks in a couple Very Important Ways if we call it prime, so instead 1 has its own very special category (The Multiplicative Identity) and then all the prime numbers can Be Prime and let things just work.

Letting 1 join the prime club wouldn't break anything! Lots of historical mathematicians included it. It's not hard to define primes in a way that includes 1 and keeps the rest of the list intact: natural numbers with no proper divisor other than 1. The definition taught in schools now carefully excludes 1 because it's hard to explain to kids why we don't count it as prime.

History could have landed on the side of prime 1, but it didn't - not because the foundations of math depended on it, but for convenience. The Fundamental Theorem of Arithmetic may be written, "Every natural number greater than one can be uniquely represented as a product of prime factors, excluding 1." Same for lots of other theorems about primes - just tack on "excluding 1" if it doesn't work for 1. We can still use the theorems. They're fine. Mathematicians (a famously lazy bunch) just got sick of writing "excluding 1" and decided it would be less work to exclude 1 by default and kick it out of the club.

(and I think Red knows all this, and she's expecting all the math nerds here to get mad because we are too lazy to write "excluding 1" on all our proofs, dammit! no matter how much sense it makes to let 1 be prime!)

I think I'd prefer to be explicitly not part of the group, then to tag along and pretend I belong when the rest of the group clearly doesn't like me- as proven by all the times they don't invite me to their events.

1 needs a community, not people it can technically exist alongside.

And it's got a tight knit friend group with 0, i, and other identities. The 3x3 identity matrix is super chill.

Prehistonic the hedgehog

sonic fandom canonically the first and oldest video game fandom

mentally I’m here

Cuz I need more post war slice of life moments

Whoever made that tag doesn’t realize how much we love 80s Synthwave Numb Bob Fan Dance in this home

WHAT HAPPENED TO BOB??????

cat 9/25/22

patreon: early access, sketches, adopts, full res, and more! kofi: support me on kofi! redbubble: i’m slow at uploading here, tell me if there’s a design you want me to add! twitter: i guess i’ll still post here until it dies!

Getting all the sages in TOTK

On their wedding day, he put his hand to her cheek and called her the most beautiful woman in the world.

He could have been correct, from an objective standpoint. Truly, she was one of the beauties in town. Her curls always in perfect order, her smile plump and joyous, her figure comely, even hidden modestly beneath clothing. From an objective standpoint, he was wrong, as nothing about beauty is objective, but none in the town would have disagreed with his assessment.

They spent several years together, in loving bliss. They built their house together, they planted their garden together, they grew together.

And then came the day that a hole in reality opened beneath him. Without thought, she jumped in after, a bare half second after he vanished.

When she opened her eyes, she was somewhere else. The stars were different, and wrong. There was the wrong number of moons, and the sun was the wrong colour. But the worst, most egregious wrong was that he was not there next to her. This, she could not abide.

She had nothing to her name besides her labour, but that she had in abundance. She travelled, from town to town, trading hours of work for food and board. She taught herself to draw, and she drew her love. Over and over, she drew him. In the dirt, on walls, on her own clothes. Asking, always asking, if any had seen him. Eventually she acquired paper and ink, and drew her husband again. Her inquiries became easier, more frequent, although the answers never changed. For none had seen her love.

She learned many things as she travelled. She learned how to fix a carriage wheel. How to tend to livestock and how to weed a garden far larger than the one she had known. She learned to shape a bowl from clay and to chop timber and to carve wood. She learned to fight off brigands who would take from her her sparse money, her life, or worse.

She learned other things, about this place she was in. It was a place where many came, and few left. A nexus one called it. A refuse heap, another said. But the method of arrival was always the same. One moment in the familiar, the next falling into the strange. But the people were the same, for all that they were often of alien appearance. Some looked down upon her dirt covered hems and worn boots. Some ignored her. Most were willing to at least listen to her question, to look at her picture, so carefully drawn. To keep an eye out, and pass on a message should they find him.

Time passed, and passed, and passed. The world she came from did not have things such as magical crystals or soul mates or wizards, or if it did they had none of the power that those here did. Regardless, one town she stayed in recommended she find the local witch, for they specialized in red strings of fate.

And so she did. The witch gave her a bowl of stew and a comfortable chair, and then listened when she spoke, and looked carefully at the drawing. It was a different one. She had drawn many, over the years, as the old ones wore out, and as her skill increased. And the witch said that they did not know if he was indeed her soul mate, but if he was, then the red string of fate that they revealed would lead her right to him. She need only follow it.

It was not an easy ask. The witch wanted a blanket woven by her own hands in payment. And so she stayed in the town, longer than she had stayed anywhere. She traded her labour and her art for thick wool, and weaving lessons. It was near winter before she had a result she was pleased with, carefully folded in her arms to be presented to the witch. The blanket was unfolded immediately upon delivery, shaken out to its fullest extent. The blanket was scrutinized, for quality of the weave or for something else that she could not fathom. Finally, the witch nodded their head. They turned back to their cottage, moving to close the door. She protested, concerned about her end of the bargain, but needn’t have worried. For around her finger was tied a red string which hadn’t been there before. The end led off, through the woods.

And so she followed it. She followed it through fallen leaves. She followed it across rivers. She followed it through snowbanks and through melt waters and through hot summer sun. Finally, she followed it into a clearing on a mountain. And fell to her knees in despair. For in this clearing was nothing but moss, and the end of the string, fading into nothing.

She did not have long to weep however, as a hole in reality opened above her, and down he fell. Without thought, she moved to catch him.

He was just as he had been on the day she had left him. And as he opened his eyes, she suddenly felt ashamed. For he was here, perfect and whole and young. But it had been years and years for her. Her hair was frizzy and knotted. Her lips were thin, her hands were rough, and her figure both hard and flabby at once.

But he opened his eyes, and he called her name, and she nodded. And he smiled at her, and called her the most beautiful woman in the world.

On a truly objective standpoint, he was incorrect. Both because beauty was not within the realm of objectivity, but also because there were many women who could be called more beautiful, subjectively.

But she also knew that he was speaking nothing but the honest truth. For he loved her. He loved her, he loved her, he loved her. He loved her hair, frizzy as it was. He loved combing it free of knots, and helping her braid it in the mornings, and loved tucking flowers into it, to surprise her when she looked in the mirror. He loved her smile, and loved seeing it, and loved being the cause of it. He loved it when she spoke to him, when she told him of the things she had done, and what she had learned. He loved her art, even as he blushed darkly at being her only subject. She taught him what she knew, and delighted when he found particular pleasure in pottery. They travelled, to find a home that suited both of them. The first time she defended him from brigands had been a terrifying and yet exhilarating experience for them both.

And they built a house. With a room full of paper and clay. And a garden, and a loom. And always, forever, she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

my main problem with totk is I cannot pick up my nephew & give him a hug

would you still love me if i was a worm?🔅

i fucking hate everything.

a major reason why we need piracy sites. now that physical media comes secondary to digital streaming, piracy really is the only way to keep movies/shows like this from disappearing entirely

I don't think I'm well informed enough to fully understand this video but I love it all the same.

FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT HITBOXES THAT'S BULLSHIT CHESS YOU CAN'T TELL ME I GOT HIT THERE THIS LATENCY CRAP IS COMPLETELY UNFAIR

(guy who only has a hammer) getting a lot of "nail" vibes from this