sweetspudd
Australian, 25, she/her/they/them Be Kind To Each Other
88 posts
Latest Posts by sweetspudd
Hey since TERFs buried the original, higher quality recording, here’s the only surviving recording of trans activist Sylvia Rivera’s infamous “Y'all Better Quiet Down” speech, along with full transcription, now free and open on Archive.org. The transphobic fucks can try their best to scrub us from history, but we’re not going anywhere.
The last days of the petition against conversion therapy are FASCINATING to watch. I have been following it pretty closely for almost a year now, and the progress was, above all, steady. There was this jump when some algorithm in Finland picked it up, but even that was local.
And now, everyone is panicking.
Which really shows.
These past three or four days, multiple countries have reached the threshold. Even more notably, the number of signatures in total, the ones that we need to get one million of, are growing rapidly. There are only 400'000 signatures missing. Two days ago, it was closer to 600'000.
You can see the progress here:
Consider joining the fun by making everyone around you sign it!
📢📢📢
Ally’s poem in episode 07 x 03 of Game Changer
I think a lot of what pro-AI people are really wanting is stuff that already exists but they don't know it's out there like
can't format a work email? templates
don't know how to write a resume? templates
writing a thank you card or a condolences card or a wedding invitation? templates templates templates
not sure how to format your citations in MLA or whatever format? citationmachine.net
summary of something you're reading for school/work? cliffnotes.com
recipe based on ingredients in your fridge? whatsintherefrigerator.com
there's a million more like, guys, we don't need AI, we never needed generative AI
YouGov did a whole official poll on Americans' views of the middle ages and I’m obsessed
good….let the spite flow through you….write the new chapter just to take a stand….
Spread the word.
(guy who isnt beating the ocd voice) i know! maybe if i spend all night ruminating on something i feel guilty about until i’ve considered it from every possible angle and made myself physically ill, then i can finally forgive myself and i’ll feel better! 99% of morally abhorrent people stop self punishing right before they’re Absolved
look I know it’s supposed to be a joke but that “irradiated wasteland” is the unceded homeland of the Paiute and Shoshone peoples and consists of fragile Mojave and Great Basin desert ecosystems that are actively being exploited and destroyed by mining interests who utilize the perception of desert as wasteland to justify their destruction of indigenous lands and communities. the joke's not funny. fuck off with this.
WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS
WHO IS USING THIS
AN APP??? THEY HAVE A FUNCTIONING WEBSITE
THE LAST FUNCTIONING WEBSITE
wearing sky-colored shoes to hide from the devil. earth colored hat to hide from god
Girl what do you mean there’s a goal to sex? You’re literally naked, get a grip
Oh ok so it turns out ive been borrowing grief from the future ! it turns out ive been preparing to lose the things i love rather than basking in the light of them while they last. Maybe i should nt do that
Saddest thing ever is reading an academic paper about a threatened or declining species where you can tell the author is really trying to come up with ways the animal could hypothetically be useful to humans in a desperate attempt to get someone to care. Nobody gives a shit about the animals that “don’t affect” us and it seriously breaks my heart
Something I keep repeating over and over again.
You must cultivate your relationships.
It sounds silly. It sounds like something that should be common sense. But I feel like I have had to tell so many people that you need to give as well as be open and recieving.
Your relationships with the Divine (and anyone) must be tailored gently. "I saw this thing and it reminded me of you" so you send a link or a photo to someone you care about? Yeah that principle applies to the Divine, too. A rock. A photo. A piece of art. You bring them.
You also sit and talk. Have a coffee. Have a drink. Water. Dinner. You share a meal. You hold conversations. You hang out and bask in an afternoon setting sun and admire the birds.
If you are not doing this, That's why your relationships with the Divine feel flat and empty. It is not just about going through the motions, lighting a candle, offering incense. It isn't just about routine and saying the words. Your work with the Divine isn't your 9-5 job. And it doesn't deserve the same cold detachment you treat your job. It isn't to pay your bills. It's for spiritual and personal enrichment and growth.
it is so important that you are a little bit ugly. please get comfortable with having unplucked eyebrows and nonexistent jawlines and wrinkles. let your blue hair grow out into an uneven pale green and your clothes be old and mend them and modify them until they’re unique to you. wear lipstick which doesnt compliment your skintone and mismatched outfits which went out of fashion 5 years ago. be a little bit too loud and a little bit too passionate and as weird as you can be because oh my god there is nothing more disturbing to me than perfection. beauty is manufactured and sold to us and you need to realise that you are a fucking animal to live a joyful life I am so serious. you cant obsess over aesthetics forever please just live messily and make your body your home however you please.
if you dont do it for you, do it for all the teenagers who will see u in the street and know that they are not obligated to be attractive
"Do you ever dream of land?" The whale asks the tuna.
"No." Says the tuna, "Do you?"
"I have never seen it." Says the whale, "but deep in my body, I remember it."
"Why do you care," says the tuna, "if you will never see it."
"There are bones in my body built to walk through the forests and the mountains." Says the whale.
"They will disappear." Says the tuna, "one day, your body will forget the forests and the mountains."
"Maybe I don't want to forget," Says the whale, "The forests were once my home."
"I have seen the forests." Whispers the salmon, almost to itself.
"Tell me what you have seen," says the whale.
"The forests spawned me." Says the salmon. "They sent me to the ocean to grow. When I am fat with the bounty of the ocean, I will bring it home."
"Why would the forests seek the bounty of the oceans?" Asks the whale. "They have bounty of their own."
"You forget," says the salmon, "That the oceans were once their home."
I had a patient come in the other day because she wanted her IUD replaced. It was at the end of it's life and she loved having her IUD, this was her second one. My MA let me know that the patient was very anxious about getting the IUD replaced, she'd had painful experiences in the past with her other replacements and was dreading this visit for that reason.
I spoke with the patient and she was literally shaking with anxiety. I asked her to describe her prior experiences as well as what she liked about her IUD and what she didn't like. She said that she wished she didn't have to get it replaced so often, so I recommended we place a Mirena instead of just inserting a new Kyleena IUD. She was nervous about this because she didn't want an IUD that was big. I explained that the Mirena and Kyleena are essentially the same size but the Mirena lasts 3 years longer and would likely bridge her to menopause given her age whereas with the Kyleena she'd probably need another replacement to get there. She was okay with trying the Mirena.
I then talked to her about pain control during the procedure as this was what she was most worried about. I asked about her prior experiences and then laid out what I wanted to do to try and improve her experience during this procedure. I told her I planned to give her prescription strength ibuprofen, a heating pad, and a very dense anesthetic block in her cervix to hopefully make it a better experience. If she had had someone to drive her home I would've also given her an ativan because we have studies that show patients who report higher rates of anxiety surrounding a procedure also report higher rates of pain associated with it.
She was down for this plan. I gave her a very dense block, she only felt three small injections and then nothing else. She was shocked when I told her that her old IUD was out and the new one was in. She didn't believe me when I told her it was over.
I don't tell this story because I wanna brag about how amazing of a doctor I am because I'm not. I tell this story because this is the way IUD insertions SHOULD go and I want people to know that IUD insertions do not need to be traumatic. And I want other providers who may insert IUDs to know that a paracervical block should be your standard when it comes to IUD insertions.
When people find out I'm an OBGYN, complete strangers, acquaintances, etc. , the two things they like to tell me immediately are their horrible birth trauma story and their terrible IUD insertion story and I'm trying to at least make the latter one a little less common.
If you place IUDs and aren't doing a cervical block, you need to start. This should be the standard but over 90% of OBGYNs in the US aren't doing them and it's unacceptable. We are traumatizing people and it's entirely avoidable. We are scaring people away from one of the most effective and long lasting forms of birth control in a time when people are losing their ability to end unwanted pregnancies all for no justifiable reason.
"It takes too long:" No it doesn't, that visit took me 20 minutes with a highly anxious patient from start to finish.
"It's not worth it for such a short/small procedure." It's worth it for the patient.
"It's too expensive." You can do a paracervical block with just normal saline. You don't even need lidocaine if you use a generous amount of volume. And if you place Nexplanons I know you stock lidocaine in your office, stop being fucking cheap at the expense of women's pain.
"Patient's don't need it, they'll get over it." I'm telling you they do need it and they aren't getting over it as evidenced by literally everyone wanting to tell me about their terrible IUD insertion experience as soon as they find out I'm an OBGYN.
We should do better. The cervix has nerve endings, stop acting like it doesn't.
Make cervical blocks your standard of care, there's no excuse not to.
me holding a gun to a mushroom: tell me the name of god you fungal piece of shit
mushroom: can you feel your heart burning? can you feel the struggle within? the fear within me is beyond anything your soul can make. you cannot kill me in a way that matters
me cocking the gun, tears streaming down my face: I’M NOT FUCKING SCARED OF YOU
It's so cool how current research into mycorrhizal networks talks about plants and fungi communicating, making decisions and engaging in "dialogue" because there is really no other way to describe it
They each have so many, like potentially hundreds, of different chemicals produced as signals to their symbionts
what really fucks me up though is the paper i read this morning talking about plants' decision making in balancing their immune response against pathogens vs. their need to form symbiosis with beneficial organisms. Basically plants have to distinguish between helpful symbionts and parasites and they have to actively initiate symbiosis with one while producing an immune response against the other. The paper was saying that this decision making process would have to be like a series of logic gates. excuse me are you saying that PLANT is COMPUTER.
peace and love on planet earth
the thing is that childhood doesn't just end when you turn 18 or when you turn 21. it's going to end dozens of times over. your childhood pet will die. actors you loved in movies you watched as a kid will die. your grandparents will die, and then your parents will die. it's going to end dozens and dozens of times and all you can do is let it. all you can do is stand in the middle of the grocery store and stare at freezers full of microwave pizza because you've suddenly been seized by the memory of what it felt like to have a pizza party on the last day of school before summer break. which is another ending in and of itself
The 1969 Easter Mass Incident
Content Warnings: Religion, food, symbolic cannibalism, symbolic gore, penis mention, Blasphemy, SO MUCH BLASPHEMY, weapons, war mention. Mind the warnings and your health always comes first. Its a HILARIOUS story, I promise.
As always, all the names have been changed to protect people’s identities. This is a long one, so Press J now if you want to skip it.
When my dad was a young man and still a practicing catholic, he participated in a small church communion that nearly got him and six other people excommunicated.
Father Patrick ran a small church outside of California Polytechnical and tended to be… rather more liberal in his interpretations of scripture than most of the church was, which made him something of a hit with the local students and liberally-inclined populace. Pat went to all manner of civil demonstrations, condemned the shit out of the vietnam war and the politics that lead to it and so on. In January of 1969 a series of incidents lead him to start exploring “nontraditional” means of holding Mass as a means of reaching out to his community and exploring his own faith, which ultimately culminated in the 1969 Easter Mass Incident.
For those of you who weren’t raised catholic, Communion is this ritual where you become one with Jesus by eating a really horrible bland wafer cookie and taking a shot of wine (called hosts), which then *literally* become the flesh and blood of jesus in your mouth, allowing him to become one with you. It’s big McFucking deal, and you have the opportunity to take communion at every mass. All this had to be explained to me second-hand because after this and Dad’s 51 days in the army, Dad decided he wouldn’t inflict religion on any children he might have in the future.
*
“Hey dad,” Six-year old me asked the first time he told me this story after my practicing friends were talking about getting wine at church. “Isn’t that cannibalism?”
“We’re getting to that.” He waved.
*
The First Incident in January when, due to a serious cock-up by the church, all the hosts Father Pat received were moldering and spoiled and probably would have killed someone if he’d actually fed anyone them. But it was the first mass of the year, when a peak number of people came in after vowing to got to church more for new year’s. He couldn’t NOT have communion.
“I’ll bake.” offered Maria, the parish secretary and probably the best baker in the county. “So we have hosts. Jesus will understand.”
Father Patrick, not one to pass up the chance at Maria’s cooking, immediately agreed.
A Host is supposed to be composed solely of unleavened wheat flour and water, which is why they taste terrible. It’s a theological point of some importance relating to Exodus or something but Maria had an important theological counterpoint: Jesus both divine and loves all his children, ergo, Jesus would neither be a nasty bland cracker nor want his children to suffer as such and so instead, she made Mexican wedding cookies.
They were a SPECTACULAR hit. Many praises were heaped upon father patrick for the Much Better Wafers and that they’d be sure to show up next week as long as Maria kept making them. Father Patrick figuring that hey, anything that gets people in the doors is good and really, if it was turning into Jesus once inside the parishioner, did it really matter what the wafers were made of? So he continued to let Maria bake the Hosts, and encouraged her to try out new flavors, like nutmeg and cinnamon.
This went on swimmingly for a few weeks until The Bishop showed up for a surprise visit the same week Maria decided to experiment with rainbow sprinkles.
Dad remembers hearing the bishop through the windows roaring “THE HOLY BODY OF CHRIST DOES! NOT! CONTAIN! RAINBOW! SPRINKLES!”
The matter went clean up to The Archbishop, who decided that while Pat was probably right to not feed spoiled hosts to his parish, he should attend some remedial classes to remember what Communion was all about, so that if it happened again, he’s come up with a more suitable substitute.
Father Patrick returned in late March, full of spite and some fascinating new ideas.
*
“Is this where the Cannibalism happens?” Six-year-old me asked, eager to get to the good parts.
*
At his remedial classes, the teacher had stressed the importance of transubstantiation, aka “That bit where the wafer and wine, Actually, Literally, become the flesh of Jesus Christ and we expect you to swallow.” Also on the syllabus was understanding the importance of Christ’s suffering and sacrifice.
“So, I was thinking about Easter Service.” Said father Patrick one afternoon while dad was doing his computer science homework at the church because his dorm was a barely-standing fire hazard and the library was where you went to have sex.
“Well, we do re-enactments for christmas. Why not on easter? Why not re-enact the crucifixion of Christ right here? Make it real for everyone. Trauma’s great for bonding a community together.”
“Who’s playing Jesus?” asked Maria, always one for a good laugh.
“That’s the thing- A Host, it doesn’t look much like flesh, right? Doesn’t look like much of anything, really. Not great for reinforcing one’s belief.
What if, instead, we- and I mean you, Maria, I can’t cook to save my life- make a man-sized loaf of bread, maybe in the shape of a T, and we have some of the boys dress up as romans and whip the bread and we pour the wine on so it’s bleeding and them- then we make a big wooden cross and actually nail the bread to it with, I don’t know, railroad spikes, more wine all over. And we raise the cross, all while telling the story of the crucifixion.”
He paused to take a drink, Maria slowly crumpling onto the floor in horrified laughter and Dad now thoroughly distracted from his homework.
“Then we lower the cross, and invite everyone who wants to take communion up to tear a hunk of Jesus off. Just descend into his corpse like vultures. I think that’d really be a good bonding experience for the church.” he nodded thoughtfully. “The hard, part, I suppose, will be finding enough romans.”
“I WANNA BE LONGINUS.” bellowed my father, barreling into the room.
And so, the plan was hatched. Dad hit up every other guy in the Church and eventually rounded up four more romans, three of them from the Education Department of Cal Poly, and one guy from Chemistry, who just liked to watch things burn.
This, being a play, naturally meant that there was a rehearsal, and test Bread jesus. Maria had decided that if they were going to start being extra-literal, she needed to make the most lifelike Bread jesus possible, and made a distressingly buff and human-proportioned Jesus by Advanced bread-braiding, complete with plaited hair, quail’s-egg-and-raisin eyes, bready muscle groups, and an eight-pack because why not make the lord completely shredded?* She also made the important theological decision that since Jesus loves everyone and was happy to die in spite of all his suffering, he should be smiling, and had a toothy corn-kernel smile. He was Wonderful and Terrifying all at once.
“Maria,” asked Father Patrick after a few minutes of delighted and horrified cooing over Jesus’ toothy grin and abdominals. “Why is he wearing a tea-towel?
“Well, he’s the Son of God. A Man. With all that entails.” She said, pointedly staring at Father Patrick while everyone stared at the suspiciously lumpy tea-towel. “And he might have… burnt, slightly.”
Everyone nodded and agreed that the tea-towel was the best course of action. The rehearsal goes splendidly and everyone agrees that this is the most delicious Jesus they’ve ever had.
*
Easter Sunday arrives and the Church is PACKED, from the more lapsed Catholics showing up for a high holiday, parents visiting for spring break and a whole horde of newcomers who had gotten wind that something was up and they ought to come.
Dad is a lanky as hell 21-year old composed mostly of technical jargon and acne but he is STOKED to be playing Longinus, the roman that speared Jesus on the cross, because he gets to do the BEST technical effect in the whole parade. Since he came in at the end me missed a good portion of the sermon, but did hear the “oooh” from the crowd as the massive cross was dragged in by the other Romans, followed by horrified gasps and high screams and a discernible “What the FUCK” as they brought in Bread Jesus 2.0, whipping him enthusiastically, and hammering him into the cross, the sound of wine splashing onto the floor loud in the terrified silence of that Parishioners.
Finally Father Patrick gets to the part about Longinus, and Dad comes sprinting down the aisle as hard as he can, because in order for Bread Jesus to be seen by everyone, his middle had to be about 10 feet off the ground, so Dad had to run, shrieking latin curses, down the length of the church, with a big honking spear and take a flying leap at Jesus in order to spear him in the gut.
Please take moment to imagine you are some normal god-fearing catholic who has decided to visit little bobby or maybe patricia at college and you’re all going to church together like a nice family and this Fucking madman has decided to go all Silence of the Lambs on mass and now there’s some sort of underfed translucently pale man in ill-fitting Roman armor and cape flying at a horrifying glutinous effigy of your lord and savior, with an actual fucking spear, screaming like a madman. Don’t you feel yourself drawing closer to God already? Defensively, perhaps, like an octopus trying to ooze itself into a crevice against the horrors of the ocean.
However, two things happen that were not planned on
1. Dad misses. In his defense, Bread Jesus is close to but not quite the size of a man- more like the size of a doughy teenager, and his middle is a small target 10 feet up in the air and dad is has a computer science minor, not an athletics scholarship. He misses by about 8 inches and instead very solidly stabs Bread Jesus right through the groin, leaving a big hole in Maria’s tea-towel and the spear jutting out at a decidedly… attentive angle, as Bread Jesus’s Bread Dick drops to the floor with a splat. Nobody notices this, however because
2. In rehearsal, Dad had managed to get the spear right in jesus’s navel but neither Father Patrick nor the other romans could get the wine up there to make his middle appropriately bloodied.
Maria come up with the Genius solution that since wine is made of grapes and Jam is made of grapes, she could make a jelly-filled Jesus for Dad to stab. There was a normal-sized test loaf and when dad stabbed it on the table, it had a nicely gooey dribbling effect.
However, this time the loaf was torso-sized, still hot from the oven and upright, so when dad speared the very end of the loaf, all the steam-pressured jam had collected at the bottom and a spray of lukewarm smuckers exploded out from bread jesus, turning the first three pews into a splash zone of symbolic entrails.
There was a hot, sticky minute of complete silence in the church after that.
Then, Father Patrick indicated it was time for the cross to be lowered, and continued on with the normal preparations of the Host, he himself covered in hot smuckers, as though nothing particularly ordinary was occuring, quietly kicking the bread-dick under the altar. At the end of it all, Father Patrick and invited everyone up with the Last Oration:
“Thou, O God, has kindly allowed us to have a part in this Holy Sacrifice; for this we give Thee thanks. Accept it now to Thy glory and be ever mindful of our weakness. Amen.”
…And everybody came up, shuffling like terrified zombies, pinching off tiny bits at first but then the madness took them and they began tearing apart bread jesus by the handful, weeping as they partook, scattered prayers and begging for forgiveness. The whole congregation was kneeling about the altar, tearful and united in their guilt and their need for God.
*
“IS CHURCH ALWAYS LIKE THAT?” six-year-old me asked, absolutely stoked. I’d convert on the spot if I got a show like that.
“No, it’s normally bland wafers and lots of chanting in latin.”
“Well that’s boring as hell.” I remember muttering and Dad snorting the coffee he was drinking out of his nose.
*
As people filed silently out of the Church to a gloriously sunny California afternoon, faces wan and smeared with wine and jam, Father patrick turned to Maria and asked “You don’t think that was too much, do you?”
“No.” Said Maria with a sarcastic deadpan so intense it was hard to tell from sincerity.
It was the exact same tone she used when the Archbishop and Six other high clergy showed up, clutching a letter someone had written, Livid and almost foaming at the mouth, demanding to know if such blasphemy had transpired.
“No. That’s crazy.” She said, staring down the archbishop like he was an idiot.
“Such imaginations some people have!” Said Father Patrick, much less convincingly.
“And you- you didn’t… Spear an effigy of our lord and savior?” the archbishop demanded of my father.
“Do I look like I can jump that high?” Dad asked, having in the interim been drafted for 51 days then nearly died of pneumonia from it, and therefore no longer afraid of the Church, the Law or God.
Somewhat relieved that he’d only received the extremely detailed ramblings of a doddering parishioner, the Archbishop sat down and complemented Maria on her most excellent Mexican Wedding Cookies, may he please have another plate for his nerves? Perhaps the ones with sprinkles?
Dad went on to help build the internet, Father Patrick converted to Buddhism and Maria became a Nun.
*For those of you wondering, Jesus was made of Challah.
If you got a laugh out of this, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi or subscribe on Patreon, Thank you very much and I hope you enjoyed it!
"You don't know me. I'm not the same person anymore."
"That's okay. I'll get to know you again."
insane how sexism damaged how we research (and what we know about) animals. did you grow up being taught that only male birds sing? you may be entitled to financial compensation