You dive into the undergrowth and see movement in the bushes in front of you. Ordering your Warriors to spread out in order to make yourself less of an easy target, you run towards the bush ahead. A small brown-skinned creature suddenly jumps out from behind it, pointing a long blowgun straight at you. You recognise it as a Blog because of its dog-like head and the shrunken heads that are tied to its belt. Infamous for cooking human flesh in large cauldrons, Blogs are hated and hunted down by all human races. A split second later, a poison dart is flying towards you. If you possess a shield, turn to 73. If you are not carrying a shield, turn to 330.
— Armies of Death, Ian Livingstone, Puffin (1988); Wizard (2003.)
There was a small child, back home for the weekend, getting the better of her mother on the 280 bus yesterday: “I’m not going to just not talk, mummy, I’m not just going to be like, oh, I’m not going to talk, because I’m boring.” “Bu —” “I know that’s what you'd have been like. You'd have been terrible at boarding school. You’d have been the one who always told.”
This parent was truly surprised that a postcard she’d lost someone had put in the post for her: “that’s really weird,” she said, four or five times, and explained twice, “you see, I was having a cup of ice cream, and I left it in the bag of Whole Foods,” and can I just say, leaving behind the horrible specificity of “a cup of ice cream,” no one who shopped in a low-end supermarket would find that all that surprising.
Or then there’s the two Spanish-speaking students who came in hungover 8.45 one Thursday and told me they were no longer to be known as Ilan and Emilio but Tequilan and Tequilio. Thing that seemed weird: all these kids are from families can afford to send them to a £500-a-week language program for months at a time, but a bunch of them thought it amazing I’d spent £10 on a pen, once.
I KNOW THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE SERIOUS BUT I AM FUCKIGN LOSING MY SHIT AT GROK SQUAT
fuck what the chair said
Mm, not bad, but some of these will be too hard for people to start with. Like, instead of doing the knee at an acute angle for the couch stretch, you might want to start with the propped-up leg at a 90-degree angle or so?
You can also do bridging with your legs propped up (unstable surface, like a balance ball, also strengthens the abdominal muscles a bit there, but I think it’s mainly glutes?). But it’s very important to brace before doing it; don’t, and you’re running the risk of straining your back muscles as you over use them.
For reference (I am a flexible person so they’re not too hard for me but I’m always looking for effective stretches I can do while typing on an iPad XD).
Two things that have lately scared me: one, just now, I stepped into the bathroom and saw in the mirror a spider crawling in my face I had been until that point totally unaware of; two, more tellingly, on Sunday, taking pictures of the house for moving-out purposes, I switched to front-facing camera by mistake and panicked at the sight of my own face, thinking someone in the house with me.
As he spoke I noticed, what had often struck me before in his conversations with my grandmother’s sisters, that whenever he spoke of serious matters, whenever he used an expression which seemed to imply a definite opinion upon some important subject, he would take care to isolate, to sterilise it by using a special intonation, mechanical and ironic, as though he had put the phrase or word between inverted commas, and was anxious to disclaim any personal responsibility for it; as who should say “the ‘hierarchy’ of art, don’t you know, as silly people call it.” But then, if it was so absurd, why did he say the ‘hierarchy’? A moment later he went on: “Her acting will give you as noble an inspiration as any masterpiece of art in the world, as—oh, I don’t know—” and he began to laugh, “shall we say the Queens of Chartres?” Until then I had supposed that his horror of having to give a serious opinion was something Parisian and refined, in contrast to the provincial dogmatism of my grandmother’s sisters; and I had imagined also that it was characteristic of the mental attitude towards life of the circle in which Swann moved, where, by a natural reaction from the ‘lyrical’ enthusiasms of earlier generations, an excessive importance was given to small and precise facts, formerly regarded as vulgar, and anything in the nature of ‘phrase-making’ was banned. But now I found myself slightly shocked by this attitude which Swann invariably adopted when face to face with generalities. He appeared unwilling to risk even having an opinion, and to be at his ease only when he could furnish, with meticulous accuracy, some precise but unimportant detail. But in so doing he did not take into account that even here he was giving an opinion, holding a brief (as they say) for something, that the accuracy of his details had an importance of its own. I thought again of the dinner that night, when I had been so unhappy because Mamma would not be coming up to my room, and when he had dismissed the balls given by the Princesse de Léon as being of no importance. And yet it was to just that sort of amusement that he was devoting his life. For what other kind of existence did he reserve the duties of saying in all seriousness what he thought about things, of formulating judgments which he would not put between inverted commas; and when would he cease to give himself up to occupations of which at the same time he made out that they were absurd?
—Come now, it’s time for you to go, my uncle said to me.
I stood up, I had an irresistible desire to kiss the hand of the lady in pink, but it seemed to me this would have been something as bold as an abduction. My heart pounded as I said to myself: ‘Should I do it, should I not do it,’ then I stopped asking myself what I should do so as to be able to do something. And with a blind and senseless gesture divested of all the reasons I had found in its favour a moment ago, I carried to my lips the hand she was holding out to me.
—How nice he is! How gallant! Why, the boy’s a bit of a ladies’ man already: he takes after his uncle. He’ll be a perfect gentleman, she added, clenching her teeth to give the phrase a slightly British accent. Couldn’t he come have a cup of tea with me sometime, as our neighbours the English say? He need only send me a ‘blue’ in the morning.