toxoplasm

Jul 26

cicadas:

patrolling the mojave almost makes you wish for a nuclear winter 

ghostbongweedofthesamurai:

heyreallygiger:

ghostbongweedofthesamurai:

"wishing upon a star" is perfectly true and scientifically valid, except that wishes are limited by the speed of light like everything else, so picking any random star will see you long since dead by the time the wish makes it back to you. that being said if you have a star chart and dont mind waiting 8-10 years you should go hog wild

whats the rule for planets. can i wish upon a mars

t-d-x:


this is the astronomical explanation for that song that goes “can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars, i could really use a wish right now”

the narrator needs a wish to come true right now, and wants a wish target that would make the light-speed turn-around time as quick as possible

any object can be “wished upon” but high-energy sources like stars are generally your best bet to get a wish to stick. wish success also scales depending on the size and output of a given star; i.e. a quasar vs. a gas giant or rocky planet.

wishes aimed at solid surfaces display reflective properties in much the same way as other frequencies in the electromagnetic spectrum, which can be taken advantage of (“bouncing” a wish off the moon toward a closer, more powerful star below the earth’s horizon, etc)

wishing on the sun is possible but not recommended in accordance with the “genie’s gambit” law of reciprocal irony

ghostbongweedofthesamurai:

"wishing upon a star" is perfectly true and scientifically valid, except that wishes are limited by the speed of light like everything else, so picking any random star will see you long since dead by the time the wish makes it back to you. that being said if you have a star chart and dont mind waiting 8-10 years you should go hog wild

[video]

xmaslemmings:

I have vague potential. I’m accepted at Red Building Academy and leave in the fall, mom and I sobbing clutching hands in the driveway. In my dorm I share a four poster with a boy named Daniel who’s immediately yammering about video games, nerdy yet loquacious and overbearing rather than shy. I collect books and papers from the dispensary and climb the flights back up (the elevator having malfunctioned.) When it’s apparent neither of us are sleeping I make a clumsy proposition: what would he do if I was his robot? In the mornings I discover that self directed learning is a chance to do nothing and I look for dark places with WWW access. The carpets are plush (aggravating my allergies) and they’re woven with intricate intertwined piping and geometric blooms from doorway to doorway in the too-wide halls where girls are passing in their socks and their skirts. Could I fake my way through a project on Neon Genesis Evangelion, peddling it as the zeitgeist to too-eager profs clinging to shreds of artistic relevance? It has to be bulletproof, and here my closet status becomes capital: if I wrap half-developed observations on Shinji’s queerness and the Eva as a metaphor for bodily discomfort and dissonance within an outpouring of emotion for my own body and queerness I might be unflunkable. I take lunches with Kate and Cheryl and Michelle, insinuating myself gently into the circle, laughing at their filthy jokes and joining them in excited talk re: Buffy, surprised this is coming so easily. Then I lie in darkness for two months. I handle expulsion badly and I plot to remain on the grounds for as long as possible, hiding in empty rooms and empty hallways where no one ever goes, keeping crawlspaces packed with rotting food. It doesn’t last. When a wave of murders sweeps the student body I’m reading it off a screen in a room in my mother and father’s house with a window looking onto a concrete surface covered with kudzu.
I’m driving by and decide to hop the wall. The building’s been shuttered ten years and is largely a ruin. I break a window. The inside is dank. It looks smaller. Signs of struggle have faded with age but here, here, there, and here are barricades where survivors made camp and waited the week for help—for anyone—stumbling in the dark on the bodies of adults and listening in the daylight for footsteps. There’s blood here, shattered stained glass and mirror and crystal and gnarled rope and metal shavings. Here is the room where I slept the days away. What did they do at night?
I’m driving. It’s forest from here. Gates to parks are closed. The car is filled with trash. There are no streetlights. Power lines cut across the moon. The moon is obscured by trees. It’s hard to see. The road turns dirt. There are hills in these woods. The car is running out of gas. I drink soda. The car is out of gas. I get out to piss. I can’t see the ground. I piss. I can’t see the car. I slide down a hillside. My jacket is snagged by branches. The teeth on a jagged hollow stump catch my belly. I am wet. I reach for my phone but my arm is held by brambles. My head is held by brambles. The lock screen appears. I swipe to unlock it. The home screen appears. I have many apps to choose from. I open the tumblr app. I need to post about this. I read my dash. There’s this girl, Crystal Castles. She’s 23. She named herself that. She’s writing about sex. She says that she’s switchy. I send her a private message. I say I’m bleeding to death in the woods. She’s alarmed and she says she’s sorry to hear that. I say it’s cool. I say I don’t know why I’m venting. I say she has her own problems to deal with. She does. I wonder: are our experiences going to be so different that we at some point become mutually incoherent. I open the camera app. I take a picture of my black-tipped fingers poised atop the brambled wood protrusions shredding my guts. I post it to tumblr. It takes a while to upload. Crystal faves it. She replies: :(. It’s supposed to look kind of witchy. It’s not working. This needs better lighting than a camera flash. When I was 23 I had years of food service and immobilizing depression ahead of me. I wonder how it will be for her. Retail, maybe. Driving home every day to “The Waitress” by Tori Amos. It was kind of funny but also kind of cathartic. Then there’s a live version of “The Waitress” where the lyrics have changed. They indicate that Tori’s grown as a person and become more compassionate and perhaps spiritual. I found that very comforting.

jerkcityhd:

the moon

jerkcityhd:

the moon

collaterlysisters:

there is apparently some evidence of hemodynamic adaptation to zero-g via diuresis and increased left ventricular filling: http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/11541656

this is hard to interpret given the length of the experiment, and the fact that no one was asking them about their boners. those poor brave souls.

I trust this experiment more, and there’s full text available: http://lib.med.tottori-u.ac.jp/yam/yam46-1/46_001-008.pdf

what this tells us is that there’s a transient increase in blood volume and velocity followed by a compensatory vasodilation, decreased CO and blood flow velocity, and pooling of the blood in the extremities. So again, sympathetic constriction of the arterioles to maintain MAP (sympathetic activation independently inhibits erection/promotes PE through direct neural mechanisms) and dilation of the venous system, which is basically erectile Kryptonite.

collaterlysisters:

spacetwinks:

crowdfund my homemade rocket to achieve my lifelong dream of sucking dick on the moon

apparently its real hard to get it up in zero-g

go on…

(Source: whateveryoulove-youare, via foie)

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freemasonic-yowl:

Members of a paramilitary unit hired to murder workers trying to unionize bottling plants

(via ghostbongweedofthesamurai)

gendertrashfromhell:

glad to know i can always turn to tumblr when im all alone and need to see? skeletons? milhouse?

lesfleursdelart:

Sarah Bernhardt dans son salon (1890)

lesfleursdelart:

Sarah Bernhardt dans son salon (1890)

(via vonmonsta)

Jul 25

[video]

another feral kitten fact is that she has jumped into the toilet about five times and shows no signs of slowing down