all of these names make so much sense though

aconfusedwriter  asked:

So I have a cephalopod question that pertains to their sense of hearing; can cephalopods hear? I ask because I know other vertebrae don't need ears like us, (lizards, tortoises, other reptiles and amphibians,) but cephalopods aren't vertebrae, so do they hear like we do? Or do they even need to hear, being underwater and all? If they don't hear, do they have another sense to make up for no hearing? Thanks! (I'm not a scientist btw, but I love the blog!)

This is not something that we know very much about, but from what we know so far, pelagic squid can hear at least low-frequency sounds, but octopuses don’t seem to be able to hear. I actually did my undergrad thesis on cephalopod hearing! A scientist named Aran Mooney played sounds for squid and monitored their brain activity and they responded to low-freqency sounds but not higher freqencies. I haven’t done a literature search lately though so we might know more now than we did in 2011. I tried to train octopuses to associate a sound with food, but either they didn’t figure out they were associated (and octopuses are pretty good at learning that kind of thing), or they didn’t hear it. Since the results were negative, we can’t really say “these animals can’t hear” we can only say that these experiments showed no evidence of hearing ability. 

In terms of HOW they’d be able to hear, cephalopods have a statocyst in their heads that are accelerometers but may also be important for hearing.

Here’s some more information on that study by Aran Mooney! http://www.whoi.edu/oceanus/feature/scientists-find-that-squid-can-detect-sounds

alright so i know nursey has already filled the writer™ role but what if jack has a journal too

maybe after the overdose his therapist tells him to take up writing. hands him a blank composition notebook and says that if he can’t talk to anyone, maybe he can try writing things down instead. he takes it and throws it under his bed, where it collects dust for a few weeks… until things get bad again. it’s the middle of the night and his hands are shaking. there’s a bottle in the bathroom calling his name. so he reaches for the notebook and a pen, and spends an hour just scribbling into the book. when he reads it the next morning it doesn’t make much sense, all scribbles and shorthand and even some drawings in the margins, but it doesn’t matter. it’s better than doing something destructive.

he keeps doing it, surprisingly. it helps. sometimes, though he won’t admit it, he even takes it out when he’s just bored, writes down a few rambling lines. he forgets about it after a good few months at samwell, leaves it in his nightstand anyway, just in case. and then bittle arrives.

bittle, who makes him want to write paragraphs and sonnets and poems, for god’s sake. the first time bitty looks him in the eye, his hand twitches. he ends up writing down stray lines about bitty almost every day-casual observations, funny quotes. eventually they manifest themselves into real lines and stanzas, twisting and rambling and clumsy, but jack likes them. whatever this feeling he has for bitty is, it’s clumsy, too. jack was never a bad english student, but he genuinely enjoys writing about bitty. like his therapist said: if he can’t say it out loud, write it down.

he breaks, eventually, texts nursey: what does it mean if someone makes you want to write poems about them with no context
bro nursey replies almost immediately. that means u got it bad

a few minutes later: you should show him sometime comes through, and jack thinks, “him.” maybe he’s not as subtle as he’d like to be, though he thinks that maybe this situation is particularly familiar to nursey, too.

3

They call me ‘the scientist’. Well, alright by me, at least it’s gender neutral. And, condescending or not, they are right. I AM a scientist. Obsessed with time and the changes of elements while time passes. I sometimes invent nice futuristic things too, but mostly I just analyse all kinds of materials.

The name’s Nill Fluorescent. I come from a long line of raw white berries, so long that the genetics glitched out at some point and I was gifted with a thing called chameleon syndrome, meaning I can change colors - not the whole me though. Just a splotch of skin on my face and one of my eyes. Special, I know. But just wait, it gets much more special, because I’m going to tell you my story. It might not be the nicest one, and it will definitely not make sense. Who am I kidding! I would have been totally okay with it being half as crazy. But it’s how it is, and I wouldn’t want to change anything now. Not again.