anonymous asked:

what might your barricade situation manifesto be called and what might it be about?

The Barricade Situation: How to Unfuck Western Society for 100 Years

Includes: heuristics for identifying false flag gladio ops, pipe bomb schematics, small squad tactics, and self sustaining prepper farm tips


This high-tech farm can grow perfect veggies anywhere in the world

  • The kale of the future will be grown in warehouses. And these warehouses might be anywhere in the world: Antarctica, the Atacama Desert, you name it.
  • Bowery Farming has modernized the foundation of standard farming to create a more sustainable food future. The first farm of its kind, located in an indoor, commercial-sized warehouse in Kearny, New Jersey, can grow produce twice as fast as the traditional outdoor field no matter the weather.  Read more

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don’t look back in anger (otayuri, 2.5k, teen) :: 

 [life lesson: if some dumb-dumb actually tags you in a callout post on tumblr and says shitty, baseless things about you, don’t engage them.  write petty fic about otabek and yuri as grandpas who live on mars instead!!  you’re welcome.]

At age 54, Victor Nikiforov-Katsuki became one of the first successful test subjects for a series of anti-aging surgeries.  At 37, he had a knee surgery and received hair plugs, but the first in a series of operations at 54 gave him joints and muscle and organs of someone forever young.

Yuri had grimaced at the holoscreen when the news broke, having seen too much of Victor’s face to last several lifetimes.  “I bet he has a robodick too.”

“Yura,” Otabek had said, both fond and resigned from across the dining room table where he was dissecting a grapefruit half.  

At age 87, Victor Nikiforov-Katsuki went out in a blaze of glory deep-dicking his husband (“robodick,” confirmed BuzzfeedMars) on a solo flight to their summer home on Venus, when his elbow slipped and he managed to undo the ship’s airlock.  Neither he nor Yuuri had looked a day over 40.

Yuri’s let his body age. He’s still in good shape for 82; he does water aerobics with a group of old ladies every Tuesday and Thursday, and the atmosphere on Mars has naturally benefited his bones for the past three decades.  But he and Otabek have always been purists otherwise, letting nature take its course with their bodies and never giving into the temptation or philosophy of synthetic body maintenance.  There’s a small, petty part of him from his youth that remains, the purest part of himself that celebrates his body as the ultimate defeat of Victor Nikiforov.  He revels in his own skin, and in Otabek’s, and the thought that when death comes to them in old age they won’t have cheated it, but earned it somehow.  Victor and Yuuri’s parts were supposed to last them until 2089, and by then, who knows.  The idea of them fucking their ancient asses all over the goddamn galaxy still stirs something ugly in Yuri.  

Until Otabek gets sick.  Like, really, really sick.  And he keeps getting sick.  Bladder infections and kidney infections and pissing blood and choked up catheters and too many nights in the hospital instead of their estate, and suddenly there’s a question that goes unspoken between them.

“You’re killing yourself,” Yuri says finally after their third trip to the ER that month.  Otabek had a temperature of 40 degrees and collapsed in their greenhouse.  

“Or I’m just dying,” Otabek says.  “I’m old.”

“Bullshit,” Yuri says.  Otabek still skates sometimes on weekdays when the rink is empty, because he was blessed with superhuman cartilage in his knees and the back of a titan.  He just does simple laps to relieve stress while Yuri watches from the stands, long since given up the ice out of self preservation.  But Otabek has never had to, because Otabek has always been healthy and strong.  There’s nothing else to be said or done, because, “bullshit, you’re not allowed to die.”

 “I don’t think that’s how dying works,” Otabek replies.  He’s smiling and there’s acceptance in the smile that feels damning.   

“Fuck you,” Yuri says.  “The doctors have given you dozens of options.  There’s– technology, there’s–there’s–”

 “I thought you didn’t believe in that,” Otabek says.

 “Don’t let my pride kill you, Christ, Beka,” Yuri says, feeling impossibly young even with his knobbed knuckles and crooked fingers wrapped around Otabek’s own, mindful of the saline drip and hiding the biggest of his liver spots.  “If you don’t live through this, I’ll kill you.”

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Harry Cotton tells you all to “Change Your Cotton”

Ive had this weird idea buzzing in my head So

what if after the waynes were murdered Alfred decided to get bruce Out Of Gotham and raised him in like Minnesota for a few years while shit calmed down in gotham and bruce wouldnt be surrounded by his Dead Parents House.

  • And well clark was raised in Kansas right? So hes a Southern Midwest Farm Boy
  •  which is very different from Northern Midwest City Boy bruce
  • they once almost murdered each other over whether its casserole or hot dish
  • Barry made the mistake of voicing his Bad Idea ‘arent they the same?
  • next day were headlines Flash found dead in Miami
  • bruce let slip a Y’all ONCE and has never lived it down
  • the boys will remind him Every Waking Moment
  • the day Alfred says it bruce dies
  • whenever clark pitches a plan to the league bruce will unfailingly comment ‘i mean its an interesting plan’ and its like 
  • *kill bill sirens*
  • bruce once asks clark about farming and growing crops  and clark is just *Touched*
  • when he asks why bruce mentions urban farming programs he’s looking to initiate in gotham
  • clark must physically restrain himself from making out with bruce bcus sustainable farming practices being made more widely available is apparently a New Kink he didnt know he had
  • bruce owns exactly 57 plaid shirts and No One can know
  • the bat kids find the stash one day and dont know whether to never speak of it again or steal them bcuz they are quality midwest plaid and the softest sturdiest shirts available
  • clark and bruce bond over their hatred of iowa
  • a b grade villain stumbles into town so the jl decide to let the younger ones fight for more experience
  • their plan is something ridiculous like planning to flatten all the mountains in the world so that it would be a truly perfect sphere
  • bruce and clark have war flashbacks of driving i94
  • the kids dont get a word in and the b villain is just Obliterated
  • everyone is confused but decide not to ask after the haunted looks on b and c’s face 

and idk probably some other stuff but this is just a self indulgent au feel free to add stuff or whatever


I didn’t realize how valuable this practice is for people who grow their own food.  Preserving Heirloom seeds is also invaluable for keeping species of plants available for future growth.  Their organization is doing remarkable work.  If you want to grow something truly unique and preserve history, look up


Wanted to share these pieces from a project I was working on! It’s for an eyewear company’s collaboration with a charity promoting agriculture and sustainable farming. 

The final version doesn’t have all of the sparkles, but I do like them in the first image. 

A while back, my boyfriend and I were talking about feeling disconnected from our deities. I gave him some advice that I’d like to repeat here.

First, it is not a vital thing to have a deep, exciting, saga-worthy connection to a deity. They do not have to be your bosom buddy, your confidante, or the most important figure in your life. If you never have any deep, personal interaction with them, and all they are in your life is a distant figure whose stories you find meaningful…that’s okay. That’s enough. That’s wonderful, and amazing, and perfect. 

Mysticism does not have to be the backbone of your faith. To borrow a phrase that I heard often growing up Catholic, not all of us are called to spiritual service; most of us will live and die without ever intimately knowing the will of God (or, in this case, gods).

My advice is to make a list of all the things that first drew you to the deity or deities you honor. If it’s more a case of you feel that they called and you were compelled to answer, make a list of the things that made you want to answer.

Make a list of the traits, associations, and behaviors that made you look at that deity and say, “Yes, this is who I want to hold up as important. This is who I look at and am inspired by.”

Then do what you can to honor those things. If you value a deity’s creativity, do what you can to foster creativity in yourself and others. If you value a deity’s connection to agriculture, tend your own garden, support sustainable farming, or just stop to smell the roses. If you value a deity’s knowledge and wisdom, spend time researching and reading about the things you find interesting. Etc., etc.

These things don’t even have to be formally dedicated to that deity, if you don’t want to make them a big deal. It is enough to just do them, and live your life as a reflection of what inspires you.

You do not have to develop a grand, epic, personal relationship with a deity to honor them. You do not have to even fully believe they exist. It is enough to know what it is about them that you find valuable, inspiring, and worthy of emulation.

Headcanons: The companions and their childhoods

Cait didn’t remember a single time her parents had a kind word for her, or when their touch brought comfort instead of pain. Her childhood could be summed up in a single mental image. A red-headed girl with bruises on her cheeks and dirt across her face, huddled under a bed and holding her breath, with a jagged-edge knife in her hand. Watching, waiting, waiting until the adult searching for her was close enough she could stab their ankles.

Codsworth doesn’t really have a childhood. The closest he had to a “youth” was his training and testing in the factory he came from. He remembers, vaguely, talking to dressed-up mannequins as a voice that sounded like his own blasted from speakers above him. Mr. Handy’s could be programmed well enough, but the finishing touches had to be provided by a human.

Curie’s background is similar to that of Codsworth’s. She remembers her first few years of life, floating around the workshop of her creator, accessing terminals, reading textbooks about science and history, and doing basic surgery on frogs and various plasticine dummies. She does think of her creator in a parental sense, but that was very long ago.

Danse doesn’t remember much of his childhood. I mean, of course he remembers, it’s just, not… a lot. He remembers the cool breeze of the Capital Wasteland, of the drab color palettes and the way he scavenged rubble piles for toys or valuable scrap. He knows he had parents. Or, at least, he thought he did. Perhaps it’s just been one too many blows to the head, but sometimes it’s hard to remember his past.

Deacon, oddly enough, grew up in a nice town. High walls, steady trade, sustainable farming. He had no brothers or sisters, and his dad’d fucked off when he was young, but he remembered his mother well. All red hair and shining eyes, telling him wild stories and teaching him how to stitch up the holes in his clothes. He had thought for sure he would end up a normal farmer. Maybe a schoolteacher, given his love for books. But alas. And out of all the people he’s lost or left behind… sometimes he misses his mother most.

Dogmeat might just be a dog, but he is beholden to no master. He was part of a pack of wild dogs in his youth, but got picked up by some human breeders who treated him well enough. Eventually he escaped and went off on his own, traveling from person to person, serving them until he decided to move on. Given that his “childhood” only lasted a year or so, it didn’t have much of note.

Hancock grew up in Diamond City, as the younger, “trouble-maker” McDonough boy, compared with his respectable, well-liked older brother. His brother shared his ambition and penchant for leadership, but John just wasn’t as good at following the rules. A weakness for drugs and pretty girls and boys led him into more than a few bad crowds. By the time his parents passed, he had struck out on his own, eventually stopping at the people and place that would become Goodneighbor.

Nick Valentine doesn’t remember much of his childhood. Switching bodies and living for a century or two tends to make you lose a few marbles. But he remembers a few things. Big roast turkeys on cool Thanksgivings. Playing hopscotch on the playground, and getting roped into tracking down his friends’ lost toys. He recalls, with a chuckle, that he once fancied himself a boy detective. He remembers old women pinching his cheeks and calling him cute. He remembers begging his parents for a dog. Good times.

MacCready grew up in Little Lamplight, a cave full of mold and algae and other runaway brats. They never allowed grown-ups into their town - couldn’t be trusted - and they subsisted on candy and cave fungus, which accounts for his current thin frame and bad teeth. He had been quite the pottymouth, back in the day, and even more aggressive and cranky than he was now. Despite the hardship, he remembers those days fondly. Things had been so much simpler.

Piper remembers her parents more than Nat does. She remembers mom dying, and the day her dad was murdered. She remembers running off with Nat in her arms, wheeling her around in a shopping cart and talking smack at anyone who tried to give her lip. Like a child in her parent’s shoes, she insisted on being precocious, always trying to figure out what people kept from her, and teaching herself to read and write. The world was full of secrets, and by God, she was going to figure them out.

Preston grew up on a cozy family farm, with two parents, three siblings, and lots of relatives who lived with them. Cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents - he grew up with a strong idea of family. Of love, protection, of helping those weaker than you. He was the second oldest - not as accustomed to leadership as his older brother, perhaps, but used to being second in command. Too old to be a baby, too young to be the alpha, but good at being middle-ground and seeing from everyone’s perspectives.

Strong doesn’t remember his past, let alone his childhood. Any memories of humanity was ripped from him after infection of the FEV virus. Super Mutants can be any age upon infection, even children. They have lower survival rates - not everyone survives the transformation after being infected - but some survival nonetheless. For all Strong knows, he is a child. Or, he was.

Coursers don’t have childhoods. X6-88 came fully-formed, built bone-by-bone and muscle-by-muscle. The closest thing to a youth he had was his training alongside other Coursers. Having human contact hammered in alongside his natural programming. Besides, he doesn’t think of it as a childhood. He was made, built, and trained to be a certain entity. Having a “childhood” would mean being a living creature, who grew and changed. That’s a dangerous thought for a synth to have.