Send a symbol for my muse to tell yours whether or not they would ...
Tell a serious lie to someone they cared about
❤ Break someone’s heart
Put a curse on someone who crossed them
Hurt someone out of jealousy
Be unfaithful to a lover
Commit a crime because they were challenged to
▼ Try to scare or startle a friend/loved one
Ruin someone’s day out of spite
Steal something precious from someone else
Commit a murder in cold blood
Kill in self defense
❦ Spread around someone else’s secret
Threaten or terrify someone weaker than them
Vandalize someone’s property
Betray a friend for their own personal gain
Abandon someone who relies on them
Refuse someone’s kindness or affection
Kill someone close to them for the greater good
Blame their wrongdoings on someone else
Become obsessed with someone they admire
☻Torment someone as a spirit after death ❣ Do something they promised a loved one they would never do
▢ Lose their humanity and embrace a wicked side
Punk has to do with Robert Merton’s Strain theory.
Back in the 1950s as criminologists began to more seriously explore the sociological causes behind crime, Robert K. Merton put forth his perspective through strain theory. Merton argued that mainstream society holds certain culturally defined goals that are dominant across society. In a capitalist society, the dominant goal that most people aim for is accumulating wealth. Merton further argued that this goal of becoming financially wealthy was so powerful that the goal of getting rich itself had become more important than the means by which one attained wealth. In other words, whether you got rich via conventional/legal means, or via unconventional/illegal means, it didn’t matter, as long as you got your coin. For Merton then, there was anomie (normlessness) regarding the means.
Merton furthered this perspective by providing a framework by which sociologists could typologise criminals and non-criminals – strain theory. Strain theory argues that one must consider if an individual rejects or accepts (1) society’s cultural goals (wanting to make money), as well as (2) the institutional means by which to attain those goals.
To this end, five typologies were established:
Conformists, who accept the culturally defined goal of financial success, as well as the institutional means society defines as appropriate to reach that goal (e.g., advancing one’s education, steadily working, saving money). Conformists follow rules and believe doing so will pay off financially.
Innovators, who also accept the culturally defined goal of financial success, but do not follow society’s rules (i.e., laws) in their pursuit of attaining wealth. Innovators may not have the means to attain financial wealth (e.g., not enough money to further advance education), and/or simply not believe in the law. Hence, innovators turn to crime.
Ritualists are those individuals who do not believe they can attain the culturally defined goal of accumulating financial wealth or who do not value this, but who continue to do so through society’s acceptable cultural pathways simply because they are supposed to (e.g., going to work and school, despite feeling such actions will never pay off).
Retreatists are people who reject the goal of financial wealth, as well as the means society deems acceptable to get rich. Hence people in this group escape, or retreat from society, often times through substance use.
Rebels are the last group who redefine society’s goals and create new institutional means of pursuing their unique goals. Rebels work outside of the established system.
Punks are either Innovators, Retreatists, or Rebels.
if you extrapolate the theory to be not just about financial wealth, but about any kind of currency (social, spiritual, etc), then this is doubly so, how ever cyber punk still tends to center around finance as its microcosm for all the societal issues that it explores using these five roles or strains.
in ghost in the shill, you could argue that Motoko and the rest of section 9 are Ritualists dealing with innovators and rebels.
they don’t really buy into the values that are thrust on to them by society, but they go through the motions anyways, because they feel like they have to, because its all they know, they can’t think of any worthwhile alternative.
this is thing that is funny about cyber punk, the main charectors don’t need to be the punks, so long as the punks (the innovators, rebels, and retreatists, are what the story is about, what you are supposed to contemplate)
a common motif in cyber punk, is to show the divide between the haves and the have nots expanding as corporatism expands through the use of society, as sky scrapers get taller, slums get wider.
this is where the confusion comes with “The Last Night”, it is absolutely a cyber punk story, but people are confused, because rather then relying on corporatism’s interaction with capitalism to show case the values that culture puts forth and its flaws (as to be punk is to be counter culture, and to be counter culture is to criticism mainstream culture), it uses corporatism’s interactions with socialism facilitated by technology. people think that the fundamental component of cyber punk is capitalism, because they confuse capitalism with corporatism, and because capitalism and corporatism are so regularly used in cyber punk. but its really just about societal critique of mainstream culture using cybernetic technology to exaggerate the societal factors that are present in the modern day to a lesser extent that you are criticizing.
The Last Night isn’t necessarily saying that working for wealth and to survive is the only noble or worthwhile method to have meaning in your life, or even that it is noble or worthwhile at all, it is merely suggesting that perhaps, even if you didn’t have to work to survive or to have wealth, that if you could instead just consume what ever you want, and live life like a game, that perhaps that isn’t so noble or worthwhile either. that there would be punks even in this world, who would resist and reject the mainstream gamification and consumption prevalent in society, and search for something else, that Innovators, Retreatists, and Rebels would still exist.
thats why wild wild west is not “steampunk”, its just steam tech fiction. because there are no punks. innovation in this context doesn’t mean inventing things, it means not following societies rules, but the maincharectors do follow societies rules, and they believe in them, and they believe in the values that society puts forth, and the movie doesn’t put forth things intended to provoke you to question this.
anything with “punk” in it is about Robert Merton’s strain theory, if it isn’t, then its not punk. cyberpunk without questioning societies value system and rules, is just cybertech fiction.
so The Last Night is cyberpunk, just not in a capitalist framework.
Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum (Weston, West Virginia)
ADDRESS: 71 Asylum Dr, Weston, WV 26452
COORDINATES: 39.038548, -80.471764
The Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum was constructed between 1858 and 1881, and is the largest hand-cut stone masonry building in North America. It was designed by the renowned architect Richard Andrews following the Kirkbride plan, which called for long rambling wings arranged in a staggered formation, assuring that each of the connecting structures received an abundance of therapeutic sunlight and fresh air. Changes in the treatment of mental illness and the physical deterioration of the facility forced its closure in 1994. This inflicted a devastating effect on the local economy, from which it has yet to recover.
The building, which is also a National Historic Landmark, has been featured several times on shows like Ghost Hunters, Ghost Adventures, and Forgotten Planet. Needless to say, the building is regarded as extremely haunted. Although practices such as hydrotherapy, electroshock therapy, and lobotomies were commonly used, the real problem was overcrowding which lead to violence. There were several cases, both reported and unreported, of patients killing other patients. In one instance two patients hung one of their fellows using a set of bed sheets. When he did not die, the pair cut him down and used a metal bed frame to crush his head. In another instance, a nurse had gone missing one night during a late shift. Her body was found hidden two months later at the bottom of an unused staircase.
Liches are permanently stuck in the clothes they turned into liches in, that’s canon. So Lydia and Edward were in dark robes, and Lup and Barry were wearing their full hooded IPRE ones. It was dawn when they did the ceremony, maybe it was chilly. Maybe they just wanted to really commit to the lich aesthetic.
But, like, imagine if they’d been wearing crop tops, or if they’d gone through it in matching double denim. What if on a whim Lup suggested they cut holes in sheets and turn into liches while looking like some classic cheap ghosts. Psychological warfare, everyone’s afraid of a charmingly floral patterned specter right out of your Halloween daydreams.
“Well, we call them the red robes. In reality, it’s possible you might need to look out for them in other forms as well…. ah, we have records of liches in coordinating pajamas. If you see them, just run.”
Hey :> I’ve wanted a penpal for a while, and now seems about the right time to do it. I’m kinda quiet and awkward when I first talk to someone new, but I warm up quickly 😅 I will say though that I cannot start conversations well, so if you want to start it that might be better.
I enjoy everything to do with nature and the outdoors, night hiking, the stars and crystals especially. I’m big into videogames, sci-fi and anime too, but haven’t had time to catch up for a while. I like art and writing, and I read too, but not really too much to count. I love animals and have quite a few myself, but crows and sharks would have to be my favourites.
I also live for everything spooky and unusual. I can talk and rant about ghosts, aliens, cryptids, conspiracies and unsolved mysteries for hours 👽 I live for long conversations about this stuff, so if your into this that’s a plus lmao
I’m an INTP, and so I love going in depth about literally anything. History, religion and psychology is great conversation fuel for me too. The only thing is though is please don’t talk about politics, I’m black and white with this sort of stuff and all too often these conversations end in fights, so I’d rather avoid that… other that that though I’ll talk about anything
Preferences: I like snail mail, but I’d rather talk online first. Under 20, no racism, sexism, homophobia or ableism. Just be respectful please
the fact that Edward used Oswald’s father and not his mother for his little scheme has really stuck out to me and I’m taking it as proove for Edward not really wanting to “destroy” Oswald. Edward knew how important Gertrude was to Oswald and that using her would have affected Oswald even more. Edward clearly wants his slightly petty revenge but by choosing Elijah over Gertrude he shows a flicker of something that implies that there is a line he won’t cross
For those who are unfortunate enough to suffer from sleep paralysis, a whole range of terrifying, humanoid hallucinations can appear. One of the most common, are “Static People” as illustrated by a sufferer above. When sleep paralysis occurs, you cannot move or speak, making it impossible to scream out for help. It is recommended that you DO NOT open your eyes, as seeing these scary figures can send you into a frenzied panic that both physically and mentally exhausts you.
A sharp ringing echoed in his ears as he sat upright. Blurred vision coupled with a dull grogginess provided an absence of sensation to him while he attempted observed his surroundings. Vague shapes and beams of light slowly came into focus, and by the time Marcel could see he was in the backseat of a car, the pain in his chest began to sting.
He pulled up his shirt, and looked at his abdomen, devoid of any markings or bruises. Confused, and understandably startled, Marcel ran his hands through his hair. Not a single strand was out of place. He wasn’t disheveled or unkempt. There was no smell of booze or weed. The only thing he could sense was the absence of any noise. He looked out of the car window, only to see a fog-laden gate, covered in a tanglement of brown, dead vines.
“Hey…” he muttered, massaging his aching temples. “I must have passed out. Where are…” It was then he noticed the emptiness of the car. There was no driver. No passengers. The car was pristine, the beige leather interior didn’t even have so much as a scuff mark. A glance at the fuel gauge dampened any thought of escape, as the small rod sat locked on empty.
The peculiarity of the situation settled in, as Marcel grew more concerned with his current predicament. He racked his brain, trying desperately to grasp onto any shred of memory that could explain where he was. The effort was fruitless. Deep breaths became short, shallow breaths, increasing in speed. His shaking hand shot into his pocket, grabbing a hold of the small cylindrical container within. He pulled it out and swallowed the two small white pills, waiting only seconds for them to comfort him. With his fears suppressed, and feeling comfortably numb, Marcel gathered up his strength and opened the car door.
The air was thick, and cold to the touch. Fog shrouded the imposing wrought iron gates, the swirls and intricacies of the craftsmanship were lost in blurred chaos. Marcel approached with caution, weary of his decreased ability to see what hid in the shadows. While the main gates were shut tightly, wrapped in thick chains and a rusty padlock, the side entrance sat wide open. He pushed the smaller iron door open, and began to walk down the blurred gravel road.
A dense forest of unidentifiable trees surrounded the road on either side, creating a canopy of dark leaves, cutting off any sight of the sky. Marcel shuddered at the feeling of eyes watching him from all sides, hoards of silent killers hiding in the mist. However, after years of practice and performance, he sustained his bravado, appearing to anyone or anything watching to be completely unphased.
The road continued for what seemed like hours, as it twisted and turned through winding hills and hairpin turns, until the trees gave way to a clearing in the distance. Marcel stood transfixed on the sight before him, staring in awe.
It was a house: a spectacular sepulchre of marble and glass looming over the unkempt gardens. The magnificent structure emanated a startling sensation of unease and foreboding, as if the very soul of the house was now watching him as a bird of prey. The forest seemed more welcoming now, and the thought of returning to the derelict car sat heavy in Marcel’s mind. Though, be it a strange magnetism or the human necessity for shelter, he began to walk toward the mansion.
The road winded around overgrown boxwoods and ruined fountains, past crumbling statues and roseless bushes. A sound finally met Marcel as the subtle creaking of the house was audible even from outside. With every breath, the house seemed to draw Marcel in, until he stood astute at the doorstep.
Marcel reached out and pressed the ivory doorbell. The house responded, screaming with ear-piercing bells ringing in announcement to his expected presence. Moments passed, each growing in tension and weight, until the heavy mahogany doors slowly creaked open.
The dim light of a oil lamp gave the much anticipated illumination that Marcel desperately desired, and introduced the visage of a middle aged man. He loomed significantly taller than Marcel, with long, spidery arms grasping the crystal lamp. He had kind eyes, sunken into his weather-beaten face, long bereft of pleasantries. The man spoke almost in a whisper, just loud enough to be heard.
“Mr. Albemarle. We had expected you at sundown. Are you quite alright?”
“I’m sorry, I think my car broke down by your gates… You were expecting me?” The man furrowed his brow in bewilderment.
“Of course we were expecting you. Marcel Albemarle, am I correct in assuming?” Marcel was perplexed. He had never seen this place before, let alone received an invitation. He had no memory of this man, who clearly recognized him.
“I mean, yes. I am Marcel Albemarle.”
“Well then, if you are Marcel Albemarle, then you are expected here at Hollowsmoor this evening. Please, won’t you come in?” For a solitary moment, Marcel considered running away- an unfamiliar concept to him, but an option with rapidly growing promise. Yet, for the second time since he’d arrived, Marcel was drawn to the mystery and intrigue. He took a step forward, and entered the house.
The front door opened into a small, octagonal vestibule. The room was lit solely by candlelight, reinforcing the sense of dread that radiated from the house.
“You have no bags, sir?” The man softly shut the door behind them, and began to engage the many locks upon the doors.
“I don’t. Although, I didn’t check the trunk of the car. I was in a bit of a hurry.”
“There is no need to get them tonight. We will retrieve them in the morning. My name is Bradshaw, I am the butler here at Hollowsmoor.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Bradshaw.”
“The pleasure is mine, sir. However, I’m sorry Mr. Albemarle, the master hasn’t arrived yet. Like you, we expected him earlier today, but he hasn’t arrived yet.” Bradshaw walked somberly across the room entering the large hallway, with Marcel in tow. The room opened up to a large gallery, with a grand staircase as the centerpiece. The light from the lamp met the glistening rays of moonlight shining through the glass dome above them, refracted from the sparkling crystals of a monstrous chandelier.
“I hate to ask you this Bradshaw, but who is the master of Hollowsmoor?” The butler stopped and lifted a spindly finger, pointing to a massive oil portrait hanging on the wall on the landing. A young man stood proudly with ambition and confidence in his eyes, his arm resting on what appeared to be a woman. Her face had been scratched out, leaving a torn hole where her head would have been.
“Josiah Ellesmere is the master here, sir.” Bradshaw responded as if the question didn’t surprise him. As if he knew that Marcel had no knowledge of his master. He carried on, leading Marcel up the stairs, and around the balustrade. Down narrow corridors, and past twisting corners, they arrived at a single door. Bradshaw opened it, revealing an expectedly ornate bedchamber. A canopy bed, mahogany vanity, intricate armoire, an alabaster fireplace; the room was fit for royalty. “I hope your accommodations are to your liking. We will see you in the morning, when the festivities begin.” Bradshaw closed the door, leaving Marcel alone in the room.
Overwhelmed with information, and still lightheaded, Marcel fell back onto the soft mattress, taking a solemn moment to rest his mind. His fractured memory screamed to be revealed, to be discovered, and every second that passed was a lifetime of agonizing blindness. No past, no future, just the enigmatic now. The more Marcel allowed it to cloud his mind, the more exhausted he became. His eyes became heavy, his limbs like stone, and just as the cusp of sleep draped over him, a quiet noise began to echo in the room.
Starting just as a pitiful annoyance, it grew in volume until Marcel could no longer ignore it. It was scratching. Horrendous, incessant scratching. Marcel shot up from his comfortable position, and eyed the room, looking for the source. With every footfall, the scratching grew louder and more erratic- this was no rat or mouse, large, clawed talons were causing this clamor.
He drew ever closer to the source, and eventually tracked it to the wall behind his bed. Not on his wall, but within it. He put his ear up to the dark scarlet plaster and listened. The scratches were unbearable now, and most certainly coming from the room next door. Covering his ears, Marcel burst through the door, and made his way to the adjacent bedchamber.
The door was open. A dim flicker of light just barely shone out, and a shadow loomed from within.
Tune in on November 29th for the second installment of Hollowsmoor. Spread the word, and decipher the mystery together!
Hey guys, I wanted you guys to know me a little better or if you have any questions or advice, feel free to message me. I will answer any questions you want, there’s no limits to the amounts of questions you can ask me.
How to Make Toxic Interpersonal Superglue: Mix Extreme Adoration and Extreme Contempt
Dr David Hawkins discusses some of the post-traumatic symptoms of narcissistic victim syndrome. He touches on the role of trauma bonding, which keeps targets stuck in emotionally abusive relationships, and also fixated on and emotionally attached to their abusers long after they’ve been narcissistically discarded.
I’ve also included some clips of Richard Grannon and Meredith Miller, in which they talk about trauma bonding.
Hi everyone. I’m a junior in high school that currently finished AP
exams and that opened up a lot of free time. I also stumbled upon this
page and decided to take the fulfill my lifelong goal of having a pen
I’m an INTJ. I ramble about philosophy, psychology, and science. Current
events is a great starting point, but please don’t talk about Trump I’m
honestly sick of talking about him. (I mean you can, but I feel like
everything that literally can be said about him has already been said.)
I also read a lot of books, but non-fiction or essay types. Any fiction I read is surrounded around Ayn Rand or Murakami.
I also like anime and manga, my favorite being ghost in the shell,
psycho pass, and tatami galaxy. I also read a lot more manga than anime.
Also, memes are my jam and I laugh at the most inappropriate of jokes.