Red and gold quince dress

San Francisco 49ers: For all things red and gold!

2009.12.15 21:22 timberspine San Francisco 49ers: For all things red and gold!

A community for fans of the San Francisco 49ers. Go Niners!

2010.09.03 02:40 Van_Houten Kansas City Chiefs: Home of the Red, White and Gold

Home of the Kansas City Chiefs Subreddit

2016.10.27 21:27 Hot girls in tight skirts

Hot girls in tight skirts: simple as that. (Tight dresses are tolerated)

2023.05.29 00:43 citizenblind [SOTC] 1 year of collecting

[SOTC] 1 year of collecting
Started watch collecting a little bit over a year ago and this is what I’ve accumulated thus far. The PRX is the first watch I bought, followed by the Planet Ocean, and I just picked up the G-Shock today. What do you guys think so far? What should I get next? I’m thinking some sort of 38-40mm dress piece. I’ve been looking at a Zenith Chronomaster Original and am becoming a huge Zenith fan. I’m also on the waitlist for a Datejust 41 so, we will see if I actually get the call for that.
submitted by citizenblind to Watches [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:43 86_Dignity Came home to find a red bald spot

Could have occurred during a serious case of zoomies, or possibly from itching? Put her down in her crate and when I came back she was missing a clump of hair with a red spot right below her eye.. no signs of bleeding or even really any evidence of a wound besides the obvious.. puppy doesn’t seem phased and hasn’t been scratching or paying all that much attention to it. Any ideas?
submitted by 86_Dignity to AskVet [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:42 ECK-2188 Not even the stupid homeless scumbags on Union Square can bring my happiness down.

So as of late I’ve been kicking ass in recovery.
A year and a half sober and officially 6mos clean.
Today some mentally-challenged homeless dirtbag who didn’t know how to mind his own business made it his point to try and get over on me with a conversation (that he started on his own) making off-hand remarks about my sleeve tattoos and how well I’m dressed (I was on my way to church) needless to say the entire 2minutes of unnecessary dialogue was underwhelming to say the least.
I walked into Whole Foods leaving the prick to his own devices but I couldn’t help but wonder:
“Why am I not as bothered by that as I should be?”
While I was walking down the aisles looking at all the overpriced produce I realized that the work I’ve been putting in staying clean and sober has gotten me to the level of contentment where I am in life right now.
Idk maybe the weather being so nice as of late but it sure feels wonderful not brooding and unwell with myself anymore.
submitted by ECK-2188 to NarcoticsAnonymous [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:42 SungHerSong I turned the Trust Doesn't Rust novelization into an eBook for a friend of mine who's a fan of the show.

I turned the Trust Doesn't Rust novelization into an eBook for a friend of mine who's a fan of the show. submitted by SungHerSong to KnightRider [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:42 Mundane_Scallion3149 SELLING R6 ACCOUNT $500

Selling Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six Siege Account FOR 500 USD
Add Me on Discord Hatcher#5800 for proof of account + live locker tour
Price IS Negotiable

Level 173

All Operators Unlocked

submitted by Mundane_Scallion3149 to GamingMarket [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:41 abondurant21 Update on my missing emojis

Update on my missing emojis
So I made a post about two weeks ago explaining how two of my best (platinum) emojis went missing after switching devices. All other emojis were there, but those two were missing. Since then, I've contacted support. Twice. First time, they were saying they could offer me a max level gold emoji, 5 random emojis, and a credit to my account for all purchases within the last 90 days. Before I could respond, I tried troubleshooting the app by unstalling and downloading the game again. My conversation with the first support guy went away. Second time, they told me to connect to Facebook. My first device had trouble connecting Facebook to the game, and this one was no different. The next time I got a response, they were saying that these things happen when people play on two different devices, so they suggest to play on only one device. They also said that's why they don't restore items that go missing. Um, no. If they can give me all that first person was saying, why can't they restore the two emojis I'm asking for? Literally if it's so easy to give me 6 emojis and a credit for 96 dollars, it shouldn't be so hard to give me back 2 platinum emojis at their lowest level. I sent this support guy a message stating that if there's no way my emojis could be restored, I'd like my purchases for the quest thing to be refunded (not credited), since they were the sole reason I even got those emojis in the first place. I sent screenshots of my purchases, so hopefully I'll see my emojis back soon.
submitted by abondurant21 to disneyemojiblitz [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:41 runawayXdreamer Is there a way to check retired DPCIs?

Former Team Member here. Purely out of curiosity, but I was wondering if there was any way to look up old DPCIs. I found a really old dress bought from Target and I wanted to check the size so I could possibly sell or donate, but the size tag was missing. So I looked on the inseam tag with the DPCI, tried searching the number in the app and online and found nothing. So I was just wondering if it was even possibly to look up old item numbers to identify the product. Totally fine if not, just curious.
submitted by runawayXdreamer to Target [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:41 D4RK_M4R8L3 Wallpaper adjustment

I apologize to whomever I may offend, no offense is intended. I just like the fluffy look.
I'll give gold to whomever can remove the Windows 95 logo and text from the Microsoft 2021 pride 'Windows 95' wallpaper and make it look as close to the clouds as possible
submitted by D4RK_M4R8L3 to GoForGold [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:41 rlyrlysrsly Costas Lapavitsas: The financialisation of capitalism

Costas Lapavitsas: The financialisation of capitalism
In this video, Costas highlights the chances in the last 70 years with regard to the prevalence of credit/financialization for both the working class and elites. This includes mortgages, auto loans, credit cards, stock market trades at margin, etc. The majority of transactions are mediated by banks and financial institutions, to the benefit of the bankers.
My position is that the users on this subreddit would agree with the majority of the conclusions of Marxists analysis, including the pitfalls of globalization, the domination of culture and institutions by a small group of wacky elites out of touch with the majority, and that the consequence of international aid/military support (e.g. Ukraine) is bad news for 99% of Americans and only serves the defense industry and institutional investors.
This post is about the US economy and is unrelated to ESG and other identity politics factors affecting investment decisions. But to be clear, Marxists are also skeptical/critical of ESG/DEI and view it as a distraction from class consciousness which only benefits elites.
JBP has interviewed/"platformed" people who are proponents of the gold standard and similar libertarian positions, but has he spoken about the ways the market has changed in the last 70 years and how it has affected the individual and benefited the banker?
submitted by rlyrlysrsly to JordanPeterson [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:40 RandomAppalachian468 Don't fly over Barron County Ohio.

The whirring blades of my MD-902 throbbed against the warm evening air, and I smiled.
From 5,000 feet, the ground flew by in a carpet of dark forests and kelly-green fields. The sun hung low on the horizon in a picturesque array of dazzling orange and gold, and I could make out the narrow strip of the Ohio River to my left, glistening in the fading daylight. This time of year, the trees would be full of the sweet aroma of fresh blossoms, and the frequent rains kept small pockets of fluffy white mist hanging in the treetops. It was a beautiful view, one that reminded me of why being a helicopter pilot trumped flying in a jumbo jet far above the clouds every day of the week.
Fourteen more days, and I’m debt free.
That made me grin even more. I’d been working as a charter pilot ever since I obtained my license at age 19, and after years of keeping my nose to the grindstone, I was closing on the final payment for real-estate in western Pennsylvania. With no debt, a fixer-upper house on 30 rural acres all to myself, and a respectable wage for a 26-year-old pilot, I looked forward to the financial freedom I could now enjoy. Maybe I’d take a vacation, somewhere exotic like Venice Italy, or the Dominican Republic. Or perhaps I’d sock the money back for the day I started a family.
“Remember kleineun, a real man looks after his own.”
My elderly ouma’s voice came back from the depths of my memories, her proud, sun-tanned face rising from the darkness. She and my Rhodesian grandfather had emigrated to the US when they were newlyweds, as the violence against white Boer descendants in South Africa spiraled out of control. My mother and father both died in a car crash when I was six, and it had been my grandparents who raised me. Due to this, I’d grown up with a slight accent that many of my classmates found amusing, and I could speak both English, and Afrikaans, the Boer tongue of our former home.
I shifted in my seat, stretched my back muscles, and glanced at the picture taped to my console. Both my parents flanked a grinning, gap-toothed six-year-old me, at the last Christmas we’d spent together. My mother beamed, her dark hair and Italian features a sharp contrast to my father’s sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. Sometimes, I liked to imagine they were smiling at me with pride at how well I flew the old silver-colored bird my company had assigned to me, and that made the long, lonely flights easier to bear.
A flicker caught my eye, and I broke my gaze away from the photograph.
Perched in its small cradle above the controls, my little black Garmin fuzzed over for a few seconds, its screen shifting from brightly colored maps to a barrage of grey static.
Did the power chord come loose?
I checked, ensuring the power-cable for the unit’s battery was plugged into the port on the control panel. It was a brand-new GPS unit, and I’d used it a few times already, so I knew it wasn’t defective. Granted, I could fly and navigate without it, but the Garmin made my time as a pilot so much easier that the thought of going blind was dreadful.
My fuel gauge danced, clicked to empty, then to full, in a bizarre jolt.
More of the gauges began to stutter, the entire panel seeming to develop terrets all at once, and my pulse began to race. Something was wrong, very wrong, and the sludge inside my bowels churned with sour fear.
“Come on, come on.” I flicked switches, turned dials, punched buttons, but nothing seemed to fix the spasming electronics. Every gauge failed, and without warning, I found myself plunged into inky darkness.
Outside, the sun surrendered to the pull of night, the sky darker than usual. A distant rumble of thunder reverberated above the roar of my helicopter’s engine, and I thought I glimpsed a streak of yellowish lightning on the far horizon to my left.
Calm down Chris. We’re still flying, so it must just be a blown fuse. Stay in control and find a place to set her down.
My sweaty palm slid on the cyclic stick, and both feet weighed heavy on the yaw pedals. The collective stuck to my other hand with a nervous vibration, and I squinted against the abyss outside.
I jumped despite myself, as the little Garmin on my panel flared back to life, the static pulling aside to reveal a twitching display. Each time the screen glitched, it showed the colorful map detailing my flight path over the ground below, but I noticed that some of the lines changed, the names shifting, as if the device couldn’t decide between two different versions of the world.
One name jutted out at me, slate gray like most of the major county names, appearing with ghostly flickers from between two neighboring ones.
Barron County.
I stared, confused. I’d flown over this section of southeastern Ohio plenty of times, and I knew the counties by heart. At this point, I should have been over the southern end of Noble County, and maybe dipping lower into Washington. There was no Barron County in Ohio. I was sure of it.
And yet it shown back at me from the digital landscape, a strange, almost cigar-shaped chunk of terrain carved from the surrounding counties like a tumor, sometimes there, sometimes not, as my little Garmin struggled to find the correct map. Rain began to patter against my cockpit window, and the entire aircraft rattled from a strong gust of wind. Thick clouds closed over my field of vision like a sea of gray cotton.
The blood in my veins turned to ice, and I sucked in a nervous breath.
Land. I had to land. There was nothing else to do, my flight controls weren’t responding, and only my Garmin had managed to come back to life. Perhaps I’d been hit by lightning, and the electronics had been fried? Either way, it was too dark to tell, but a storm seemed to be brewing, and if I didn’t get my feet on the ground soon, I could be in real trouble.
“Better safe than sorry.” I pushed down on the collective to start my slow descent and clicked the talking button for my headset. “Any station, this is Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, over.”
“Any station, this is Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, requesting emergency assistance, over.”
Still nothing.
If the radio’s dead, I’m really up a creek.
With my hand shaking, I clicked on the mic one more time. “Any station, this is—”
Like a curtain pulling back, the fog cleared from around my window, and the words stuck in my throat.
Without my gauges, I couldn’t tell just how far I’d descended, but I was definitely very low. Thick trees poked up from the ground, and the hills rolled into high ridges with flat valley floors, fields and pastures pockmarking them. Rain fell all around in cold, silvery sheets, a normal feature for the mid spring in this part of Ohio.
What wasn’t normal, were the fires.
At first, I thought they were forest fires for the amount of smoke and flames that bellowed from each spot, but as I swooped lower, my eyes widened in horror.
They were houses.
Farms, cottages, little clusters that barely constituted villages, all of them belched orange flames and black pillars of sooty smoke. I couldn’t hear above the helicopter blades, but I could see the flashes on the ground, along the road, in between the trees, and even coming from the burning buildings, little jets of golden light that spat into the darkness with anger.
Gunfire. That’s rifle fire, a whole lot of it.
Tiny black figures darted through the shadows, barely discernable from where I sat, several hundred feet up. I couldn’t see much, but some were definitely running away, the streaks of yellow gunfire chasing them. A few dark gray vehicles rumbled down one of the gravel roads, and sprayed fire into the houses as it went. They were fighting, I realized, the people in the trucks and the locals. It was horrific, like something out of war-torn Afghanistan, but worse.
Then, I caught a glimpse of the others.
They didn’t move like the rest, who either fled from the dark vehicles, or fired back from behind cover. These skinny figures loped along with haphazard gaits, many running on all fours like animals, swarming from the trees by the dozens. They threw themselves into the gales of bullets without flinching, attacking anyone within range, and something about the way they moved, so fluid, so fearless, made my heart skip a beat.
What is that?
“Echo Four Actual to unknown caller, please respond, over.”
Choking back a cry of shock, I fumbled at the control panel with clumsy fingers, the man’s voice sharp and stern. I hadn’t realized that I’d let go of the talking button and clicked it down again. “Hello? Hello, this is Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot out of Pittsburgh, over.”
An excruciating moment passed, and I continued to zoom over the trees, the fires falling away behind me as more silent forest took over.
“Roger that Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, we read you loud and clear. Please identify yourself and any passengers or cargo you might be carrying, over.”
Swallowing hard, I eyed the treetops, which looked much closer than they should have been. How far had I descended? “Echo Four Actual, my name is Christopher Dekker, and I am alone. I’m a charter flight from PA, carrying medical equipment for OSU in Columbus. My controls have been damaged, and I am unable to safely carry on due to the storm. Requesting permission to land, over.”
I watched the landscape slide by underneath me, once catching sight of what looked like a little white church surrounded by smaller huts, dozens of figures in the yard staring up at me as I flew over a nearby ridgeline.
“Solid copy on that Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot. Be advised, your transponder shows you to be inside a restricted zone. Please cease all radio traffic, reduce your speed, climb to 3,000 feet and proceed north. We’ll talk you in from there. How copy, over?”
My heart jumped, and I let out a sigh of relief. “Roger that Echo Four Actual, my altimeter is down, but I’ll do my best to eyeball the altitude, over.”
With that, I pulled the collective upward, and tried my best to gauge how far I was by eyesight in the gathering night, rain still coming down all around me. This had to be some kind of disaster or riot, I decided. After all, the voice over the radio sounded like military, and those vehicles seemed to have heavy weapons. Maybe there was some kind of unrest going on here that I hadn’t heard about yet?
Kind of weird for it to happen in rural areas though. Spoiled college kids I get, but never saw farmers get so worked up before. They usually love the military.
Something moved in the corner of my eye, and I turned out of reflex.
My mouth fell open, and I froze, unable to scream.
In the sky beside me, a huge shadow glided along, and its leathery wings effortlessly carved through the gloom, flapping only on occasion to keep it aloft. It was too dark for me to see what color it was, but from the way it moved, I knew it wasn’t another helicopter. No, this thing was alive, easily the size of a small plane, and more than twice the length of my little McDonald Douglass. A long tail trailed behind it, and bore a distinct arrow-shaped snout, with twig-like spines fanned out around the back of its head. Whatever legs it had were drawn up under it like a bird, yet its skin appeared rough and knobby, almost resembling tree bark. Without pause, the gigantic bat-winged entity flew along beside me, as if my presence was on par with an annoying fly buzzing about its head.
Gripping the microphone switch so tight, I thought I’d crack the plastic, I whispered into my headset, forgetting all radio protocol. “T-There’s something up here.”
Static crackled.
“Douglas Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, say again your last, you’re coming in weak and unreadable, over.”
“There’s something up here.” I snarled into the headset, still glued to the controls of the helicopter, afraid to deviate even an inch from my course in case the monstrosity decided to turn on me. “A freaking huge thing, right beside me. I swear, it looks like a bat or . . . I don’t know.”
“Calm down.” The man on the other end of the radio broke his rigorous discipline as well, his voice deep, but level. “It won’t attack if you don’t move too fast. Slowly ease away from it and follow that course until you’re out of sight.”
I didn’t have time to think about how wrong that sounded, how the man’s strict tone had changed to one of knowledge, how he hadn’t been the least surprised by what I’d said. Instead, I slowly turned the helicopter away from the huge menace and edged the speed higher in tiny increments.
As soon as I was roughly two football fields away, I let myself relax, and clicked the mic switch. “It’s not following.”
“You’re sure?”
Eyeing the huge flapping wings, I nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “Yeah, I’m well clear.”
“Good. Thank you, Mr. Dekker.”
Then, the radio went dead.
Something in my chest dropped, a weight that made my stomach roil. This wasn’t right, none of it. Who was that man? Why did he know about the thing I’d just seen? What was I supposed to—
A flash of light exploded from the trees to my right and shot into the air with a long finger of smoke.
What the . . .
On instinct, I jerked the cyclic stick to one side, and the helicopter swung to avoid the rocket.
My world shook, metal screeched, and a dozen alarms began to go off inside the cockpit in a cacophony of beeps and sirens. Orange and red flames lit up the night sky just behind me, and the horizon started to spin wildly outside. Heat gushed from the cockpit door, and I smelled the greasy stench of burning oil. The safety belts dug into my shoulders, and with a final slip, the radio headset ripped free from my scalp.
I’m hit.
Desperate, I yanked on the controls, fought the bird even as she spun toward the ground in a wreath of flames, the inky black trees hurtling up to meet me. The helicopter went into full auto-rotation, the sky blurring past outside, and the alarms blared in a screech of doom. Panic slammed through my temples, I screamed at the top of my lungs, and for one brief second, my eyes locked on the little black Garmin still perched atop my control panel.
Its screen stopped twitching and settled on a map of the mysterious Barron County, with a little red arrow at the center of the screen, a few words popping up underneath it.
You are here.
Trees stabbed up into the sky, the belts crushed at my torso, glass shattered all around me, and the world went dark.
Copper, thick, warm, and tangy.
It filled my mouth, stank metallic in my nose, clogged my throat, choking me. In the murkiness, I fought for a surface, for a way out, blind and numb in the dark.
This way, kleineun.
My ouma’s voice echoed from somewhere in the shadows.
This way.
Both eyes flew open, and I gagged, spitting out a stream of red.
Pain throbbed in my ribs, and a heavy pressure sent a tingling numbness through my shoulders. Blood roared inside my temples, and stars danced before my eyes with a dizzying array. Humid night air kissed my skin, and something sticky coated my face, neck, and arms that hung straight up toward the ceiling.
Wait. Not up. Down.
I blinked at the wrinkled, torn ceiling of the cockpit, the glass all gone, the gray aluminum shredded like tissue paper. Just outside the broken windows, thick Appalachian bluegrass and stemmy underbrush swished in a feeble breeze, backlit by flashes of lightning from the thunderstorm overhead. Green and brown leaves covered everything in a wet carpet of triangles, and somewhere nearby, a cricket chirped.
Turning my head from side to side, I realized that I hung upside down inside the ruined helicopter, the top half burrowed into the mud. I could hear the hissing and crackling of flames, the pattering of rain falling on the hot aluminum, and the smaller brush fires around the downed aircraft sizzling out in the damp long grass. Charred steel and burning oil tainted the air, almost as strong as the metallic, coppery stench in my aching nose.
They shot me down. That military dude shot me out of the sky.
It didn’t make sense. I’d followed their orders, done everything they’d said, and yet the instant I veered safely away from whatever that thing in the sky had been, they’d fired, not at it, but at me.
Looking down (or rather, up) at my chest, I sucked in a gasp, which was harder to do that before.
The navy-blue shirt stuck to my torso with several big splotches of dark, rusty red. Most were clean slashes, but two held bits of glass sticking out of them, one alarmingly bigger than the other. They dripped cherry red blood onto my upturned face, and a wave of nausea hit me.
I gotta get down.
I flexed my arms to try and work some feeling back into them, praying nothing was broken. Half-numb from hanging so long, I palmed along my aching body until I felt the buckled for the seat belts.
“Okay.” I hissed between gritted teeth, in an effort to stave off my panic. “You can do this. Just hold on tight. Nice and tight. Here we go . . .”
Everything seemed to lurch, and I slid off the seat to plummet towards the muck-filled hole in the cockpit ceiling. My fingers were slick with blood and slipped over the smooth faux-leather pilot’s seat with ease. The shoulder belt snagged on the bits of glass that lay just under the left lowest rib, and a flare of white-hot pain ripped through me.
I screamed, my right knee caught the edge of the aluminum ceiling, and both hands dove into a mound of leaf-covered glass shards on the opposite side of the hole. My head swam, being right-side-up again enough to make shadows gnaw at the corner of my eyes.
Forcing myself to breath slowly, I fought the urge to faint and slid back to sit on the smooth ceiling. I turned my hands over to see half a dozen bits of clear glass burrowed into my skin like greedy parasites, red blood weeping around the new cuts.
“Screw you.” I spat at the rubbish with angry tears in my eyes. “Screw you, screw you, screw you.”
The shards came out easy enough, and the cuts weren’t that deep, but that wasn’t what worried me. On my chest, the single piece of cockpit glass that remined was almost as big as my palm, and it really hurt. Just touching it felt like self-inflicted torture, but I knew it had to come out sooner or later.
Please don’t nick a vein.
Wiping my hands dry on my jeans, I gripped the shard with both hands, and jerked.
Fire roared over my ribs, and hot blood tickled my already grimy pale skin. I clapped a hand over the wound, pressing down hard, and grunted out a string of hateful expletives that my ouma would have slapped me for.
Lying on my back, I stared around me at the messy cargo compartment of the MD-902. Most of the medical supplies had been in cardboard boxes strapped down with heavy nylon tow-straps, but several cases had ruptured with the force of the impact, spraying bandages, syringes, and pill bottles all over the cluttered interior. Orange flames chewed at the crate furthest to the rear, the tail section long gone, but the foremost part of the hold was intact. Easily a million-dollar mess, it would have made me faint on any other trip, but today it was a godsend.
Half-blind in the darkness, I crawled along with only the firelight and lightning bolts to guide me, my right knee aching. Like a crippled raccoon, I collected things as I went, conscious of the two pallets of intact supplies weighing right over my head. I’d taken several different first-aid courses with some hunting buddies of mine, and the mental reflexes kicked in to help soothe my frazzled mind.
Check for bleeds, stop the worst, then move on.
Aside from my battered chest and stomach, the rest of me remained mostly unharmed. I had nasty bruises from the seatbelts, my right knee swelled, my nose slightly crooked and crusted in blood, but otherwise I was intact. Dowsing every scratch and cut with a bottle of isopropyl alcohol I found, I used butterfly closures on the smaller lacerations that peppered my skin. I wrapped soft white gauze over my abused palms and probed at the big cut where the last shard had been, only stopping when I was sure there were no pieces of glass wedged inside my flesh.
“Not too bad.” I grunted to myself, trying to sound impassive like a doctor might. “Rib must have stopped it. Gonna need stitches though. That’ll be fun.”
Pawing through the broken cases, I couldn’t find any suture chord, but just as I was about to give up, I noticed a small box that read ‘medical skin stapler’.
I tore the small white plastic stapler free from its packaging and eyeballed the device. I’d never done this before, only seen it in movies, and even though the cut in my skin hurt, I wondered if this wouldn’t be worse.
You’ve gotta do it. That bleeding needs to stop. Besides, no one’s coming to rescue you, not with those rocket-launching psychos out there.
Taking a deep breath, I pinched the skin around the gash together, and pressed the mouth of the stapler to it.
A sharp sting, like that of a needle bit at the skin, but it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as the cut itself. I worked my way across the two-inch laceration and gave out a sigh of relief when it was done.
“Not going to bleed to death today.” I daubed ointment around the staples before winding more bandages over the wound.
Popping a few low-grade painkillers that tumbled from the cargo, I crawled wriggled through the nearest shattered window into the wet grass.
Raindrops kissed my face, clean and cool on my sweaty skin. Despite the thick cloud cover, there was enough constant lightning strikes within the storm to let me get glimpses of the world around me. My helicopter lay on its back, the blades snapped like pencils, with bits and pieces of it burning in chunks all around the small break in the trees. Chest-high scrub brush grew all around the low-lying ground, with pockets of standing water in places. My ears still rang from the impact of the crash, but I could start to pick up more crickets, frogs, and even some nocturnal birds singing into the darkness, like they didn’t notice the huge the hulk of flaming metal that had fallen from the sky. Overhead, the thunder rumbled onward, the feeble wind whistling, and there were other flashes on the horizon, orange and red ones, with crackles that didn’t sound quite like lightning.
The guns. They’re still fighting.
Instinctively, I pulled out my cellphone, and tapped the screen.
It fluttered to life, but no matter how I tried, I couldn’t get through to anyone, not even with the emergency function designed to work around having no service. The complicated wonder of our modern world was little better than a glorified paperweight.
Stunned, I sat down with my back to the helicopter and rested my head against the aluminum skin of the craft. How I’d gone from a regular medical supply run to being marooned in this hellish parody of rural America, I didn’t know, but one thig was certain; I needed a plan. Whoever fired the missile could have already contacted my charter company and made up some excuse to keep them from coming to look for me. No one else knew I was here, and even though I now had six staples holding the worst of my injuries shut, I knew I needed proper medical attention. If I wanted to live, I’d have to rescue myself.
My bag. I need to get my go-bag, grab some gear and then . . . head somewhere else.
It took me a while to gather my green canvas paratrooper bag from its place behind the pilot’s seat and fill it with whatever supplies I could scrounge. My knee didn’t seem to be broken, but man did it hurt, and I dreaded the thought of walking on it for miles on end. I focused instead on inventorying my gear and trying to come up with a halfway intelligent plan of action.
I had a stainless-steel canteen with one of those detachable cups on the bottom, a little fishing kit, some duct tape, a lighter, a black LED flashlight with three spare batteries, a few tattered road maps with a compass, a spare pair of socks, medical supplies from the cargo, and a simple forest green plastic rain poncho. I also managed to unearth a functioning digital camcorder my ouma had gotten me for Christmas a few years back, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to do any filming in such a miserable state. Lastly, since it was a private supply run from a warehouse area near Pittsburgh to a direct hospital pad in Ohio, I’d been able to bring my K-Bar, a sturdy, and brutally simple knife designed for the Marine Corps that I used every time I went camping. It was pitiful in comparison to the rifle I wished I had with me, but that didn’t matter now. I had what I had, and I doubted my trusty Armalite would have alleviated my sore knee anyway.
Clicking on my flashlight, I huddled with the poncho around my shoulders inside the wreck of the chopper and peered at the dusty roadmaps. A small part of me hoped that a solution would jump out from the faded paper, but none came. These were all maps of western PA and eastern Ohio. None of them had a Barron County on them anywhere.
The man on the radio said to head north, right before they shot me down. That means they must be camped out to the north of here. South had that convoy and those burning houses, so that’s a no-go. Maybe I can backtrack eastward the way I came.
As if on cue, a soft pop echoed from over the eastern horizon, and I craned to look out the helicopter window, spotting more man-made flashes over the tree tops.
“Great.” I hissed between clenched teeth, aware of how the temperature dipped to a chilly 60 degrees, and how despite the conditions, my stomach had begun to growl. “Not going that way, are we? Westward it is.”
Walking away from my poor 902 proved to be harder than I’d anticipated. Despite the glass, the fizzling fires, and the darkness, it still held a familiar, human essence to it. Sitting inside it made me feel secure, safe, even calm about the situation. In any other circumstance, I would have just stayed with the downed aircraft to wait for help, but I knew the men who shot me down would likely find my crash site, and I didn’t want to be around when they did.
Unlike much of central and western Ohio, southeastern Ohio is hilly, brushy, and clogged with thick forests. Thorns snagged at my thin poncho and sliced at my pant legs. My knee throbbed, every step a form of self-inflicted torture. The rain never stopped, a steady drizzle from above just cold enough to be problematic as time went on, making me shiver. Mud slid under my tennis shoes, and every tree looked ten times bigger in the flickering beam of my cheap flashlight. Icy fear prickled at the back of my neck at some of the sounds that greeted me through the gloom. I’d been camping loads of times, both in Pennsylvania and elsewhere, but these noises were something otherworldly to me.
Strange howls, screeches, and calls permeated the rain-soaked sky, some almost roars, while others bordered on human in their intonation. The more I walked, the softer the distant gunfire became, and the more prevalent the odd sounds, until the shadows seemed to fill with them. I didn’t dare turn off my flashlight, or I’d been completely blind in the dark, but a little voice in the back of my head screamed that I was too visible, crunching through the gloomy forest with my long beam of light stabbing into the abyss. It felt as though a million eyes were on me, studying me, hunting me from the surrounding brush, and I bitterly recalled how much I’d loved the old Survivor Man TV series as a kid.
Not so fun being out in the woods at night. Especially alone.
A twig snapped somewhere behind me, and I whirled on the spot, one trembling hand resting on the hilt of my K-Bar.
Nothing. Nothing but trees, bushes, and rain dripping down in the darkness.
“This is stupid.” I whispered to myself to keep my nerves in check as I slowly spun on the spot. “I should have went eastward anyway. God knows how long I’m going to have to—”
A groan of metal-on-metal echoed from somewhere to my right, and I spun to face it, yanking the knife on my belt free from its scabbard. It felt so small and useless in my hand, and I choked down a wave of nauseas fear.
Ka-whump. Creak. K-whump. Creak.
Underbrush cracked and crunched, a few smaller saplings thrashed, and from deep within the gloom, two yellow orbs flared to life. They poked through the mist in the trees, forming into slender fingers of golden light that swept back and forth in the dark.
The soldiers . . . they must be looking for me.
I swallowed hard and turned to slink away.
Ice jammed through my blood, and I froze on the spot, biting my tongue to stop the scream.
It stood not yards away, a huge form that towered a good twelve feet tall in the swirling shadows. Unpolished chrome blended with flash-rusted spots in the faded red paint, and grime-smeared glass shone with dull hues in the flashes of lightning. Where the wheels should have been, the rounded steel axels curved like some enormous hand had bent them, and the tires lay face-down on the muddy ground like big round feet, their hubcaps buried in the dirt. Dents, scrapes, and chips covered the battered thing, and its crooked little radio antenna pointed straight up from the old metal fender like a mast. I could barely make out the mud-coated VW on the rounded hood, and my mind reeled in shock.
Is . . . is that a car?
Both yellow headlights bathed me in a circle of bright, blinding light, and neither I nor the strange vehicle moved.
Seconds ticked by, the screech-thumping in the background only growing closer. I realized that I couldn’t hear any engine noises and had yet to see any soldiers or guns pointed my way. This car looked old, really old, like one of those classic Volkswagen Beetles that collectors fought over at auctions. Try as I might, I couldn’t see a driver inside the murky, mold-smeared windows.
Because there wasn’t one.
Lightning arched across the sky overhead, and the car standing in front of me blinked.
Its headlights slid shut, as if little metal shades had crawled over the bulbs for a moment and flicked open again. Something about that movement was so primal, so real, so lifelike, that every ounce of self-control I had melted in an instant.
Cursing under my breath, I lunged into the shrubs, and the world erupted around me.
Under my shoes, the ground shook, and the car surged after me in a cacophony of ka-thumps that made my already racing heart skip several beats. A weather-beaten brown tow truck from the 50’s charged through the thorns to my left, it’s headlights ablaze, and a dilapidated yellow school bus rose from its hiding place in the weeds to stand tall on four down-turned axel-legs. They all flicked their headlights on like giants waking from their slumber, and as I dodged past them, they each blared their horn into the night in alarm.
My breaths came short and tight, my knee burned, and I crashed through thorns and briars without thought to how badly I was getting cut up.
The cheap poncho tore, and I ripped it away as it caught on a tree branch.
A purple 70’s Mustang shook off its blanket of creeping vines and bounded from a stand of trees just ahead, forcing me to swerve to avoid being run over, my adrenaline at all-time highs.
This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.
Slipping and sliding, I pushed through a stand of multiflora rose, and stumbled out into a flat, dark expanse.
I almost skidded to a stop.
What had once been a rather large field stood no taller than my shoestrings, the grass charred, and burnt. The storm above illuminated huge pieces of wreckage that lay scattered over the nearly 40-acre plot, and I could just make out the fire-blackened hulk of a fuselage resting a hundred yards away. The plane had been brought down a while ago it seemed, as there weren’t any flames left burning, and I threw myself toward it in frenzied desperation.
Burned grass and greasy brown topsoil slushed underfoot, and I could hear the squelching of the cars pursing me. Rain soaked me to the bone, and my lungs ached from sucking down the damp night air. A painful stich crept into my side, and I cursed myself for not putting in more time for cardio at the gym.
Something caught my left shoelace, and I hurtled to the ground, tasting mud and blood in between my teeth.
They’ve got me now.
I clawed at the mud, rolled, and watched a tire slam down mere inches from where my head had been. The Mustang loomed over me and jostled for position with the red Volkswagen and brown tow truck, the school bus still a few yards behind them. They couldn’t seem to decide who would get the pleasure of stomping me to death, and like a herd of stampeding wildebeest, they locked bumpers in an epic shoving match.
On all fours, I scampered out from under the sparring brutes, and dashed for the crumpled airplane, a white-painted DC-3 that looked like it had been cut in half by a gargantuan knife blade. I passed a snapped wing section, the oily remains of a turbo-prop engine, and a mutilated wheel from the landing gear. Climbing over a heap of mud, I squeezed into the back of the ruined flight cabin and dropped down into the dark cargo hold.
No sooner had my sneakers hit the cold metal floor, and the entire plane rocked from the impact of something heavy ramming it just outside. I tumbled to my knees, screaming in pain as, once again, I managed to bash the sore one off a bracket in the wall.
My hand smeared in something gooey, and I scrabbled for my flashlight.
It clicked on, a wavering ball of white light in the pitch darkness, and I fought the urge to gag. “Oh man . . .”
Three people, or what was left of them, lay strewn over the narrow cargo area. Claret red blood coated the walls, caked on the floor, and clotted under my mud-spattered shoes. Bits of flesh and viscera were stuck to everything, and tatters of cloth hung from exposed sections of broken bone. An eerie set of bloody handprints adorned the walls, and the only reason I could tell it had been three people were the shoes; all of them bore anklebones sticking out above blood-soaked socks. It smelled sickly sweet, a strange, nauseas odor that crept into my nose and settled on the back of my tongue like an alien parasite.
Something glinted in the beam of my flashlight, and my pulse quickened as I pried the object loose from the severed arm that still clung to it.
“Hail Mary full of Grace.” I would have grinned if it weren’t for the fact that the plane continued to buck and roll under the assault from the cars outside.
The pistol looked old, but well-maintained, aside from the light coating of dark blood that stained its round wooden handle. It felt heavy, but good in my hand, and I turned it over to read the words, Waffenfabrik Mauser stenciled into the frame, with a large red 9 carved into the grip. For some reason, it vaguely reminded me of the blasters from Star Wars.
I fumbled with a little switch that looked like a safety on the back of the gun and stumbled toward a gap in the plane’s dented fuselage to aim out at the surrounding headlights.
The old gun bucked reliably in my hand, its long barrel spitting a little jet of flame into the night. I had no idea if I hit anything, but the attacking cars recoiled, their horns blaring in confusion.
They turned, and scuttled for the tree line as fast as their mechanical legs could go, the entire ordeal over as fast as it had begun.
Did I do that?
Perplexed, I stared down at the pistol in my hand.
A large, inky black shadow glided down from the clouds, and the yellow school bus moved too slow to react in time.
With a crash, the kicking nightmarish vehicle was thrown onto its side, spraying glass and chrome trim across the muddy field. Its electro-synth horn blared with wails of mechanical agony, as two huge talon-like feet clamped down on it, and the enormous head of the flying creature lowered to rip open its engine compartment.
The horn cut out, and the enormous flying entity jerked its head back to gulp down a mass of what looked like sticky black vines from the interior of the shattered bus.
At this range, I could see now that the flying creature bore two legs and had its wings half-tucked like a vulture that had descended to feed on roadkill. Its head turned slightly, and in the glow of another lightning bolt, my jaw went slack at the realization of what it was.
A tree trunk. It’s a rotted tree trunk.
I couldn’t tell where the reptilian beast began, and where the organic tree components ended, the upper part of the head shaped like a log, while the lower jaw resembled something out of a dinosaur movie. Its skin looked identical to the outside of a shagbark hickory but flexed with a supple featheriness that denoted something closer to skin. Sharp branch-like spines ranged down its back, and out to the end of its tail, which bore a massive round club shaped like a diseased tree-knot. Crouched on both hind legs, it braced the hooked ends of its folded wings against the ground like a bat, towering higher than a semi-truck. Under the folds of its armored head, a bulging pair of chameleon-like eyes constantly spun in their sockets, probing the dark for threats while it ate.
One black pupil locked onto the window I peered through, and my heart stopped.
The beast regarded me for a moment, making a curious, sideways sniff.
With a proud, contemptful head-toss, the shadow from the sky parted rows of razor-sharp teeth to let out a roar that shook the earth beneath my feet. It was the triumphant war cry of a creature that sat at the very top of the food chain, one that felt no threat from the fragile two-legged beings that walked the earth all around it. It hunted whenever it wanted, ate whatever it wanted, and flew wherever it wanted. It didn’t need to rip the plane apart to devour me.
Like my hunter-gatherer ancestors from thousands of years ago, I wasn’t even worth the energy it would take to pounce.
I’m hiding in the remains of the cockpit now, which is half-buried under the mud of the field, enough to shield the light from my screen so that thing doesn’t see it. My service only now came back, and it’s been over an hour since the winged beast started in on the dead bus. I don’t know when, or how I’m going to get out of here. I don’t know when anyone will even see this post, or if it will upload at all. My phone battery is almost dead, and at this point, I’m probably going to have to sleep among the corpses until daylight comes.
A dead man sleeping amongst friends.
If you live in the Noble County area in southeastern Ohio, be careful where you drive, fly, and boat. I don’t know if it’s possible to stumble into this strange place by ground, but if so, then these things are definitely headed your way.
If that happens . . . pray that they don’t find you.
submitted by RandomAppalachian468 to nosleep [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:40 Niikoda Does This Look Legit ?

Does This Look Legit ?
Looking to get my first bike as an adult. I think I've settled on the Trek FX2 and found this one on Marketplace for $750 CDN. Retail is $970 CDN at my local bike shop. Does anyone who knows what they're doing see any red flags? It's apparently virtually unridden.
submitted by Niikoda to whichbike [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:40 gobananaslugsjk Bored, Lazy, slightly above average, Test-optional Hispanic CS-major Student Goes for Majority Reach Schools

Gender: Male
Race/Ethnicity: Latino (Peruvian Descant)
Residence: Northern California (but not the bay area, its the Sacramento area)
Income Bracket: >50k
Type of School: very average public school (only a few [around 10-15] go to top schools like ucla, uc san diego, uc berkeley)
Hooks: First-Gen, Low income LOL
Intended Major(s): Computer Science/Data Science for UC schools; sociology for most of the private schools on the Common Application
GPA (UW/W): 3.84 UW and 4.19 W at the end of my junior year (this was the GPA I applied as to the UC schools). 3.78 and a 4.16W on my mid-year report sent to the private schools.
Rank (or percentile): 49/585 (although I lost my rank in the second semester of my senior year to a 65/601 and didn't even make the top 10%).
# of Honors/AP/IB/Dual Enrollment/etc.: 4 Honors, 11 AP courses, 7 Dual Enrollment courses.
Senior Year Course Load: AP Spanish Literature, AP English Literature, Computer Programming, AP Microeconomics, AP Government, AP Physics 2, Pre-Calculus Honors (I know, its bad) and Art 1.
Standardized Testing
SAT I: Didn't take the SAT Or the ACT test; Applied test-optional.
AP/IB: 3's on four AP Exams and 4's on two AP Exams. Failed AP Physics 1.
List all extracurricular involvements, including leadership roles, time commitments, major achievements, etc.
#1 National History Day Competition (State Competitor, 11th-12th grade, 4 hours a week, 23 weeks, won local county competition).
#2 City Hall Internship (intern, 10th grade, 23 hours a week, 4 weeks a year, made changes to city website)
#3 Elementary School Internship (Teacher's Assistant/Intern, 11th grade, 20 hours a week during the summer, helped support first-grade students with learning curriculum.
#4 Family Housekeeping Assistant (helper, 8 hours per week for around 34 weeks a year from 9th-12th grade, helped clean homes).
#5 Academic Decathlon Co-Founder (team member, 11th grade, 3 hours per week for 21 weeks, helped initiate after covid-19.
#6 Web Developer for my school's technology academy (11th to 12th grade, 2 hours a week for 20 weeks, informed 100+ people of club and community events & info).
#7 Robotics Team (coder, 2 hours a week for 20 weeks, 9th to 12th grade, made state competitions for the first time ye)
#8 MESA team (9th to 12th grade, 1 hour per week for 30 weeks, learned useful technical skills like python, inventor, fusion 360 and more).
#9 Web Developer for Key Club (11th to 12th grade, 2 hours a week for 15 weeks, no major accomplishments)
#10 Cashier and fast food worker (11th grade, 10 hours a week for 8 weeks, understaffed in many case).
List all awards and honors submitted on your application.
#1 History Day Special Award for Chinese American History (State Level Recognition)
#2 Sacramento County History Day (Local, regional recognition).
#3 School's Technology Academy Leadership Service Award
#4 AP Scholar (LOL)
#5 Honor Roll with Distinction (school recognition).
Letters of Recommendation
APUSH teacher recommendation (8/10): I think I got to know her pretty well and that she was really able to get to know me as a student. She told me she tried to really showcase the strong qualities of myself that really shined through and would serve me best. She also told me she liked how I overcame challenges on the history day competition and how I was persistent/a grit student. I also did try my best in APUSH class and i feel like she probably wrote a lot about that, including about my character.

AP Psychology teacher (6/10): Wrote it in a couple of days, so not sure how strong it was. I feel like she somewhat got to know me in AP Psych class but nothing outside of the classroom. She also didn't know what COMMON APP when I asked her so this was probably a first for her, which is kinda a red flag lol but not anything bad. I feel like it was probably average to above average, but who knows it could have been well-written.
City employee internship advisor (5/10): I got the letter of recommendation after my internship and it was very generic, but i still asked her to fill it out for the community recommender part of the Common app recommendation section. I think she wrote like an extra sentence or two but people have told me it was very generic and didn't really demonstrate extra qualities about myself.
Had 1 alumni interview with Dartmouth College. I would rate it a 7/10. I got along with her pretty well but I did have some hick ups but I really was able to express myself well. I did prepare for it but it wasn't anything extraordinary.
UC PIQ Essays (8.5/10): I spent a lot of time writing/editing my UC personal insight questions. I went to both my AP English literature and AP English language teachers, my counselor, one of my close friends, my APUSH teacher, and online "advisors" who somewhat helped although I did pay them upwards of $400 in total to review/edit. I started writing them on November 1st, but I went through so many drafts. I had like 40 pages of just drafts on the google doc. I did have lots of people go over it (which may have been a bad thing due to an overwhelming amount of different advice/feedback/edits they had). I also did pay for online college advisory services to look over my essays, which wasn't too helpful because they gave very minimal edits/feedback. I think three of my PIQ essays were pretty strong at the point . The fourth PIQ essay I started writing the week of the deadline and it turned out pretty good, but not super strong. I feel like one of my UC essays was especially strong for how well-written it was, how unique it was, and how much it demonstrated my personal values/challenges. I truly do feel like my essays on leadership, overcoming a challenge, favorite academic subject, and community essay shined through on me as an applicant and demonstrated who I was as well as my potential.
Common APP PS essay (7/10): As for my Common App Personal Statement Essay, I started on December 16th (one day after my birthday LOL). I tried being different and writing about an inanimate object I've had since I was young. I wrote about this and basically mixed in one of my strongest UC Essays from above into one really well-written essay. I think it was an alright essay but now looking back on it, it wasn't that well-written LOL. I didn't have a winter break and I remember editing one of my supplemental essays like 10 minutes before New Years LOL. I had like 20 supplemental essays to write and I think some of them were really well-written and insightful, while some were written as if it was written last-minute (because it was). But I really liked my community essay, at that point, it was really polished and well-written so I had that as my basis for all the community supplemental essays. For my common app personal statement and supplemental essays, i spent upwards of $600 for online college essay editing services, which was absolutely not worth it because I feel like i could just relied on my personal feedback and not others. However, I did spend all my winter break applying to like 16 private schools, including writing the supplemental essays and common app personal statement that winter break. The topic of my PS statement was more of a grit story and what I learned after working with my mom a lot with house cleaning and how it has changed my outlook on life.

Decisions: I only applied Regular Decision for all of them.
Amherst College (social sciences major).
Bowdoin College (social sciences major).
Brown University (social sciences major).
Colby College (social sciences major).
Dartmouth College (social sciences major).
Duke University (cs major)
Northwestern University (social sciences major).
Pomona College (social sciences major).
California State University - San Diego (cs major)
Swarthmore College (social sciences major).
UC Santa Barbara (cs major)
University of Southern California (cs major)
Washington University in St. Louis (cs major)
Yale University. (cs major).
Cal Poly San Luis Obispo (SWE major, still waiting to hear back although I don't think i want to commit there ).
Grinnell College (humanities major) declined waitlist offer
Middlebury College (humanities major) declined waitlist offer
UC Davis (cs major) declined waitlist offer
UC Santa Cruz (cs major) declined waitlist offer
UCLA (cs + engineering major) I'm still waiting to hear back; might commit if i get admitted).
California State University - Sacramento (computer science major)
California State University - Long Beach (computer science major)
Pepperdine University (computer science major)
UC Irvine (software engineering major)!
UC San Diego (data science major)!
Vanderbilt University (College of arts and sciences)!!!!
UC Berkeley (Committed!!!) Although I am a data science major and not comp sci, I really do feel like I can learn a lot at Cal!!

Additional Information: Although I only got I would get into mid-tier schools like UC Irvine or something, I am really happy about my results! Despite being rejected from almost all the private schools besides Vanderbilt and Pepperdine, I really did like how Vanderbilt chose me. It was a super difficult decision picking between Vanderbilt CS (intention to switch to college of engineering) and Berkeley Data Science, I ultimately chose Berkeley because of how prestigious it was for the technology sector and how close it was from home (around 2 hour drive). Although Vanderbilt truly did appeal to me with its student social life scene, academic and social life balance, good food, new location, happy student body, and rigorous academics, it was a bit too far from home. However, although I only got into 7 out of 27 colleges I applied for, I am happy that top universities did pick me and that I was able to choose from such excellent universities. Cal is where my next four years will be! Now, that's only if UCLA doesn't get me off their waitlist, but even then I might still choose Cal if I get off the waitlist. go bears!
submitted by gobananaslugsjk to collegeresults [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:40 JackTheBeast1235 Ranking Every Ace Attorney Case #36

I decided that every day I am going to post about a case, ranking them from least favorite to favorite and giving my on the fly reasons so I probably will miss and forget things but thought it would be a fun idea. Also please remember this is just my opinion and I know we all have differing opinions but this is my opinion.
3-5 spoilers in this post
37. Recipe For Turnabout
Overview: Recipe For Turnabout is the third case of Trials and Tribulations. The case takes place at Tres Bien a French restaurant. This case has a colorful cast of characters and is our second battle against the mysterious prosecutor Godot. The case features the daughter of a mob boss, a man who thinks he's Phoenix Wright, and many other strange but unique characters.
Mystery: The case begins with Winston Payne supposedly defeating Phoenix Wright in court. However Wright never partook in this trial and asks for a re trial for the defendant Maggey Byrde who is accused of killing Glen Elg a programmer. The crime was seen by an old man named Victor Kudo who says he saw Byrde put poison in Elg's coffee cup. However it turns out that the crime occurred not once but twice. The real culprit Furio Tigre posed as Elg and the mob boss's daughter Viola posed as the waitress Maggey Byrde leading Kudo to believe Byrde killed Elg. Then Tigre poses as Wright to lose the trial so he can get away with the crime. Tigre had another accomplice the chef Jean Armstrong who was in debt to Tigre and had to do whatever he said. Armstrong helped dispose of the body of Maggey Byrde so the reenactment could occur. Tigre had injured Viola in an accident and needed money to pay for the surgery. He called Elg for help and Elg was going to pay him with the computer virus MC Bomber except Elg won the lottery with enough to pay off his debt but not Tigre's so he desperately poisoned Elg's coffee to get the virus to pay the amount he needed.
Phoenix Wright: Wright is good in this episode. He and Maya have fun banter and he has very funny interactions with Tigre. Wright tricking Tigre with the bottle is one of the most clever things Wright had done in a courtroom and shows how smart and tricky he can be.
Maya Fey: Maya is just as amazing as always in this episode. Her and Phoenix have fun banter and her hiding from Tigre whenever he got angry was funny.
Maggey Byrde: I really don't like her in this episode. Her treatment of Gumshoe in this episode makes me very upset. I understand your mad at him but he doesn't have a choice. Again I get why she's mad but I feel like she was a total jerk to him the whole episode.
Godot: I love how cryptic Godot is. I love how he speaks in riddles and trying to decipher what he means is fun. We learn a bit more about him through subtle foreshadowing for the future cases.
Victor Kudo & Jean Armstrong: I'm lumping them together because they are two of the big problems with this case. They both made me very uncomfortable while trying to enjoy the case. They both are very badly written and really drag this case down.
Viola Cadaverini: She is creepy but I don't mind her too much. Not much to say about her.
Furio Tigre: The star of this case is the culprit Furio Tigre. I am upset they wasted such an amazing character on this awful case. His sprites are amazing and his screams make him very intimidating. Also I love the way he talks and how angry he gets over pointless things. Him threating you because a pigeon pooped on his bike is one of the funniest moments of the case. He is so intimidating that they bring the pressing penalty system back which is way better and makes more sense then Big Top. He carries this terrible case on this back and is one of my favorite culprits in the whole series.
Problems: The problem is similar to GAA-1 it drags. Victor Kudo's testimony feels so long and while we get some useful info out of it, its a complete slog to get through his testimony. Also the fact he's annoying doesn't make it feel any faster. This case has two of the worst written characters in the whole series. I get her daughter is a mob boss but I don't understand why Viola just gets off scot free. She doesn't even testify about anything. Maggey is in my opinion at her worst here. Calling in Mia to dress up as a waitress just to get Kudo to talk is really uncomforting as is his whole waitress "fetish". Also as funny and wacky as it is the fact that no one could tell Tigre and Wright apart is pretty dumb. While I think it's really funny it does need to be a problem that the judge or even Wright's own client couldn't tell the difference between the two. Also the fact that it takes Wright a month to find out about the trial seems very strange. No one came and told him he lost to Winston Payne it wasn't in the papers or anything for a whole month.
Positives: Furio Tigre is one of the best culprits in the whole series. The trick to get him to admit the bottle is clever. I like how much personality and character they gave the victim. Like his gambling addiction, his ear infection, and more about him. He has much more character then most victims in the series. Tigre has an interesting motive and the virus is also very interesting. Also I forgot about her but I like Lisa Basil just kinda being there. I love the Godot foreshadowing with the lights turning off in the courtroom and we see Godot’s mask light up and also him saying there’s not ketchup or whatever it was on the white apron showing he can’t see red on a white background is amazing foreshadowing for the rest of the game.
Final Thoughts: The case has an amazing culprit brought down by pretty much all the other new characters in this case being terrible and the writing of certain characters being really bad. I will forever be mad they wasted Furio Tigre on such an awful case. Any opinions, thoughts, or questions about Recipe For Turnabout would be greatly appreciated.
submitted by JackTheBeast1235 to AceAttorney [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:39 Proof-Bed-6928 [UK] How suspicious should I be about easy applications to funded PhD studentships?

They fast tracked the interview after I told them about an offer from somewhere else that requires urgent decision, told me that the barely 150 word outline of a proposal I emailed them is "basically ready to go" instead of the usual 1500 word document with 15 references, and told me it's "not a big deal" if my referees don't write me the references (after i raised concerns).
My CV doesn't look that great imo. I have a first from a good university and some student projects but nothing else, no real research experience at all. I also spent a month and a half overthinking that proposal which in hindsight could have taken at most a week if I knew where to look.
So I'm a bit confused, here are my theories:
  1. I'm a naive, overly enthusiastic idiot who could be easily exploited for free labour and they see that. (I have mentioned that with both offers I would accept this one)
  2. The topic is so niche that they are not getting many applicants
  3. I somehow struck gold with my proposal
  4. I'm overthinking and the above phenomenon is somehow normal
Please advise
submitted by Proof-Bed-6928 to PhD [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:39 MaximusTheGreat29 WARNO vs Regiments vs SD2 vs Broken Arrow vs WG:RD

WARNO vs Regiments vs SD2 vs Broken Arrow vs WG:RD
Previous post on another Reddit community got deleted b/c of low karma :/
submitted by MaximusTheGreat29 to warno [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:39 ddisploited Cave Gen

Does anyone else kinda dislike the new cave generation? I mean I don't hate it but I kinda miss the old caves. Now there's mobs around every corner and the spawn rate is nuts. I can't even find any iron anymore it's all just gold!! And when I do find iron there's always like 10 mobs that spawn directly behind me
submitted by ddisploited to Minecraft [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:38 I_blame_society [QUESTION] Should I buy this cracked Ibanez Artcore hollowbody?

I found this used Ibanez Artcore on Facebook marketplace for just $100, local pickup. Looks like these sell for ~$300 used, ~$500 new online. Seems like a great deal but this guitar has several huge cracks on the back, side, and soundboard. Seller claims they are cosmetic cracks to the finish only and the wood is in good shape. I've never owned any electric guitar, let alone a hollowbody, so I'm not sure if I can judge for myself how true that is.
-How can I be sure these cracks won't compromise the structural integrity or tone of the guitar? How can I tell if the wood is cracked too?
-What other defects should I be on the look out for? I'm guessing this guitar was kept in bad conditions so should I beware of neck warping, etc?
-Is this a good deal, or am I gonna end up with a crappy sounding hunk of junk? Am I ignoring a major red flag with these cracks?
-I'm fine having an ugly guitar if it plays and sounds good, but is there any (cheap) way to cover up these cracks?
-I've been had my eye on an early 00's Squier SE strat, which is selling for $200. I'm on a very tight budget so saving $100 with this Artcore would be a big deal, but should I bite the bullet and just pony up the cash for the strat?
submitted by I_blame_society to Guitar [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:38 Fun_Manufacturer3389 Bfs (m34) friend showing him nudes of gf (f35)

My bf told me his friend showed him his gfs nude snap Chat the other day... then his friend proceeded to asked to see one of me. He told his friend he had non and swears he shared no personal private pics of me with his buddy.
I was disgusted that he's looking at his friends gfs nudes. And I feel Grose about it and upset. He says in his defense it's like porn so what's the problem, he said he only told me bcuz he tought I'd be happy to hear he didn't show any of me.
Well in my opinion it's different bcuz he knows and met the girl now he's seen her naked.
I have a right to think this is red flag wrong right? He says he didn't ask to see , was just shown then it was too late to un see. Hmm.
I think ppl should have more respect than to show those things to friend or look at other ppl partners private things. What do yall think?
submitted by Fun_Manufacturer3389 to relationship_advice [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:38 mosaic_br0ken_hearts CAD Check; white gold vs platinum prongs?

CAD Check; white gold vs platinum prongs?
My boyfriend and I are having a custom engagement ring made by a local jeweler. This is the rendering we received. It’s exactly what we discussed and we’re ready to move forward with having it made, but I wanted to make sure there aren’t any glaring issues that stand out to someone more tuned into this part of the process. Thanks!
Ring size 6 (really a 5.5-5.75 but having it made a 6 because my fingers swell like sausages at the first sign of heat).
All lab diamonds. Center stone will be a 1.53 F color VVS2 oval. 14k yellow gold band; 14k white gold prongs.
Our jeweler encouraged us to go with white gold over platinum. Is this a good idea? Is there that much of a difference? We had been encouraged to go with platinum prongs by the first consultant we spoke with but ceased working with for other reasons.
submitted by mosaic_br0ken_hearts to EngagementRings [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:37 Lanky_Resort1486 Is it normal to have two periods in one month?

So my cycle is always very regular and it always is about 28-31 days long( I’ve had the Flo app for two years so I can see my statistics). My first period of this month started on the 12th and ended around the 17th, but then this morning on the 28th I woke with blood clots in my underwear. I had work so I put a tampon in expecting not to need any more but I managed to bleed through it within 3 hours.
A few months ago I had a similar experience but it was a light pink red sort of colour and only lasted a day and only needed one of those super thin pads, but todays one was heavy, normal red blood and I had period cramps and I’m still bleeding now at 11pm and I first noticed bleeding at 7:30 am. But is this normal to sometimes get a second period in one month because Google confuses and scares me, but is this something to worry about or is it like a hormone imbalance?
(I am nearly 18, but I’ve had my period since I was 11 but it’s had roughly over 6 years to regulate. Don’t know if age is relevant)
thanks 🤎x
submitted by Lanky_Resort1486 to Healthyhooha [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:37 JoshAsdvgi Traditional Talking Stick

Traditional Talking Stick

Traditional Talking Stick

Traditional Talking Stick The Talking Stick is a tool used in many Native American Traditions when a council is called.
It allows all council members to present their Sacred Point of View.
The Talking Stick is passed from person to person as they speak and only the person holding the stick is allowed to talk during that time period.
The Answering Feather is also held by the person speaking unless the speaker address a question to another council member.
At that time, the Answering Feather is passed to the person asked to answer the query. Every member of the meeting must listen closely to the words being spoken, so when their turn comes, they do not repeat unneeded information or ask impertinent, questions.
Indian children are taught to listen from age three forward; they are also taught to respect another's viewpoint.
This is not to say that they may not disagree, but rather they are bound by their personal honor to allow everyone their Sacred Point of View.
People responsible for holding any type council meeting are required to make their own Talking Stick.
The Talking Stick may be used when they teach children, hold council, make decisions regarding disputes, hold Pow-Wow gatherings, have storytelling circles, or conduct a ceremony where more then one person will speak.
Since each piece of material used in the Talking Stick speaks of the personal Medicine of the stick owner, each Talking Stick will be different.
The Qualities of each type of Standing Person (Tree) brings specific Medicine.
White Pine is the Peace Tree, Birch symbolizes truth, Evergreens represent the continued growth of all things.
Cedar symbolizes cleansing.
Aspen is the symbol for seeing clearly since there are many eye shapes on the truth.
Maple represents gentleness.
Elm is used for wisdom; Mountain Ash for protection;
Oak for strength;
Cherry for expression, high emotion, or love.
Fruit woods are for abundance and walnut or pecan for gathering of energy or beginning new projects.
Each person making a Talking Stick must decide which type of Standing Person (Tree) will assist their needs and add needed medicine to the Councils held.
The ornamentation of each stick all have meaning.
In the Lakotah Tradition, red is for life, yellow is for knowledge, blue is for prayer and wisdom, white is for spirit, purple is for healing, orange is for feeling kinship with all living things, black is for clarity and focus.
The type of feathers and hide used on a Talking Stick are very important as well.
The Answering Feather is usually an Eagle Feather, which represents high ideals, truth as viewed from the expansive eye of the eagle, and the freedom that comes from speaking total truth to the best of one's ability.
The Answering Feather can also be the feather of a Turkey, the Peace Eagle of the south, which brings peaceful attitudes as well as the give and take necessary in successful completion of disputes.
In the Tribe that see Owl as good Medicine, the Owl feather may also be used to stop deception from entering the Sacred Space of the Council.
The skins, hair or hides used in making a Talking Stick brings the abilities, talents, gifts and medicine of those creatures-beings to council in a variety of ways.
Buffalo brings abundance;
Elk brings physical fitness and stamina;
deer brings gentleness;
rabbit brings the ability to listen with big ears;
the hair from a horse's tail or mane brings perseverance and adds connection to the earth and to the spirits of the wind.
If an illness of heart, mind, spirit, or body has affected the group gathering, snake skin may be wrapped around the Talking Stick so that healing and transmuting of those poisons can occur.
The Talking Stick is the tool that teaches each of us to honor the Sacred Point of View of every living creature.
Not only Talking Sticks were used, more objects were used such as: A Talking Feather, Talking Stone, Talking Skin, Talking Shell, were also used.

» When to use the talking stone?
Anytime it is needed to help the listening, and at the start and end of a circle session when we are gathered together at the beginning of a circle activity or closing it.
» Another cool use of the stone in your daily life… it can offer an external support in a difficult communication situation.
For instance, it can be used as an external reminder to keep your cool, stay composed, etc. In that sense, in the moment you need it, the talking stone is talking to you.
It is whispering to you to keep cool, or to not worry…

The Talking stick, used in many Indigenous cultures, is an ancient and powerful “communication tool” that ensures a code of conduct of respect during meetings is followed.
The person holding the stick, and only that person, is designated as having the right to speak and all others must listen quietly and respectfully.
Talking sticks are most frequently used in council circles, ceremonies and at the beginning of cultural events such as potlatches, and in storytelling circles.
Some cultures do not use a Talking Stick per se but use an eagle feather, wampum belt, peace pipe or sacred shell.
A great many schools have adopted the Talking Stick principles in their classrooms as a way to teach children patience, self-discipline and to respect the speaker and his/her words.
The added bonus is the children additionally are learning about First Nation culture in a tangible way.
In terms of First Nation Talking Stick protocols, it is important to remember that each First Nation is unique in their culture, traditions and history so will have their own protocols.
In this article we are speaking of general protocols.
If you invited to attend a meeting that involves a Talking Stick, either ask about protocol in advance and/or follow the lead of others.
Here are some basic rules that if you follow you won’t go far wrong:

If an Elder is present, they speak first
All in attendance are expected to listen
Listen with respect, support, compassion and quietness
Listen carefully - do not repeat information that has already been shared
Allow ample time before your next appointment - do not check your watch
Turn off your phone
Interrupting is not allowed
When the Elder, or whomever, is holding the talking stick has finished speaking, the stick is handed to the next person in the circle
If the receiver does not wish to speak, it is passed to the next person
If you are handed the Talking Stick and wish to speak, introduce yourself first
When everyone who wishes to speak has spoken, the Talking Stick is handed back to the Elder for safekeeping Consider bringing a gift of tobacco for any Elders who may be in attendance
Talking Sticks can be elaborately carved, brightly painted, unpainted, adorned with symbolic items such as fur, leather, feathers or unadorned and simple - the wood, the figures, the colours and the adornments all carry meaning but more on symbolism .
Kinda makes one wish our politicians used the Talking Stick and time honoured protocols to guide their meetings.
submitted by JoshAsdvgi to Native_Stories [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 00:36 occasionalvlog 👗Timeless Elegance, Enduring Legacy✨ ... Every Laura Ashley dress tells a tale, from wedding gowns that sealed vows of love, to 80s originals handed down through generations, echoing stories of family, fashion, and time. 💞 The enduring allure of these pieces makes them as relevant today as they ...

👗Timeless Elegance, Enduring Legacy✨ ... Every Laura Ashley dress tells a tale, from wedding gowns that sealed vows of love, to 80s originals handed down through generations, echoing stories of family, fashion, and time. 💞 The enduring allure of these pieces makes them as relevant today as they ... submitted by occasionalvlog to OccasionalVlog [link] [comments]