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On Seeing without SightPATIENT 1 - a young boy of ten-twelve years; was discharged from hospital one week after operation. He is in his bedroom, surrounded by wooden objects and shapes on paper.
BOY: Depth? What is depth?
DOCTOR: Depth is the third dimension, other than length and width. (motions with hands)
BOY (bemused): Dimension?
DOCTOR (holds drawing of square and a wooden cube): This drawing has two dimensions: length and width. This wooden cube has three, including height.
BOY (struggles to reach wooden sphere): This is depth? (holds sphere with both hands, ogling)
DOCTOR: No, that is roundness. The sphere has depth, though.
BOY: I don't understand.
PATIENT 2 - a young male slightly older than Patient 1. He is in a hospital bed, preoperative.
DOCTOR (presses wooden cube and sphere into patient's hands): Can you tell what these shapes are?
Pokemon Rant on PaulWhy I Hate Paul
The Paul I am referring to is a character in the pokemon anime, who is currently Ash's primary rival while the group is in the Sinnoh region. Paul is really a varied character: on the Serebii.net forums, the Paul character discussion thread has, at the time of writing, nearly spans twenty pages, though most of it is saying how "awesome" he is. However, I do not think he is awesome. I hate him more than I hate Harley from the same show. I want to strangle Paul and break one of his limbs. Most probably won't know why I feel this way, so I will explain.
First, Pokemon are sentient beings in this setting. As Linkara pointed out in his review of "Captain Planet and the Planeteers #3," if animals were truly intelligent enough to make their own decisions and follow orders, animals would easily be given rights. Considering that many pokemon in this setting are shown to be smart enough to qualify, pokemon should have a bill of rights. In the real world, Paul's trea
[One-Sided!Romano x Reader] I want to be in pain.Lovino bit his lip, pulling at some of his hair. Damn it, why did it have to hurt so much?! He thought about everything that had happened the past few months. Your introduction, caused by his stupid brother Feliciano; your kind smiles, which you'd always show him no matter how rude he was; every single memory you shared with him.
Ludwig raised a brow at the Italian man's actions. He noted something down on his notepad, about his behavior recently. Right, even though he wasn't actually a psychiatrist, he still wanted to help the brother of his best friend. Besides, it wasn't like a psychiatrist had that hard of a job, right? Right? Ludwig was smart enough, wasn't he?
"Ahem. Anyway… what – or rather, who, do you think caused this destructive behavior in you?" he asked. He had a pretty good feeling it was you, but he didn't want to point any fingers yet.
"Che diavolo… don't pretend you don't know, potato eater. It's… her. [F/N]."
Ludwig coughed in his fist, and noted it down. So fa
Halloween MisadventuresHalloween Misadventures
How did I let myself get talked into this? I've always had a hard time saying no to people and this time I let things go too far. I sit in silence and glance shyly up at my dad as he drives me home from the police station. Ironically, I'm dressed as a slutty cop. My boobs are front and center for all the world to see, as are my legs and midriff. I sit with my legs crossed and look at my reflection in the mirror. My makeup is smudged and my long blonde hair is a mess. My dad says nothing as we pull into the driveway and go inside. I know he is going to say something eventually, but for now he is quiet. My mom hugs me as we walk in and takes me to the bathroom to get me cleaned up. She helps me take off my jewelry, remove my makeup, and brush out my hair. Since all of my clothes are at my apartment near the university, she gives me one of my sister's nightgowns to wear to bed. I take off my knee high boots, fishnet stockings, miniskirt, t
CurtainThe rich old man was going to die. Somehow, he knew. It was as if the silk curtains floating in from the summer breeze had whispered this secret into his ear, a billowing angel. Sunlight streamed into the room, lighting the dusty interior with golden rays, but the old man's vision was failing, and he could only see the blurriest of shapes.
“Please,...” he whispered. “Please, someone...”
A figure slipped into the room.
“Oh, good. Good. Please, come sit with me.”
The figure came and sat, guiding a chair to the bedside with precise movements.
“Listen to me, please. I think I'm going to die very soon. I just wanted someone to talk to. I haven't had anyone to talk to for months.” The old man tried to gesture with a sallow, bony arm. “When you're as old as I am, you'll want someone to talk to, too. I've had my to tell for years, but no-one to talk to.”
The figure gazed down at the old man with cold eyes.
“I remember when I was
The 13 Blessings of SheogorathFor Our Lord Sheogorath, without Whom all Thought would be linear and all Feeling would be fleeting.
Blessed are the Madmen, for they hold the keys to secret knowledge.
Blessed are the Phobic, always wary of that which would do them harm.
Blessed are the Obsessed, for their courses are clear.
Blessed are the Addicts, may they quench the thirst that never ebbs.
Blessed are the Murderous, for they have found beauty in the grotesque.
Blessed are the Firelovers, for their hearts are always warm.
Blessed are the Artists, for in their hands the impossible is made real.
Blessed are the Musicians, for in their ears they hear the music of the soul.
Blessed are the Sleepless, as they bask in wakeful dreaming.
Blessed are the Paranoid, ever-watchful for our enemies.
Blessed are the Visionaries, for their eyes see what might be.
Blessed are the Painlovers, for in their suffering, we grow stronger.
Blessed is the Madgod, who tricks us when we are foolish, punishes us when we are wrong, tortures us
I'm sitting at the kitchen table on Friday afternoon eating a bowl of cereal while my parents scramble to pack their bags for their weekend trip to Vegas with the neighbors. I try to hold back my anticipation for them to leave so that I can spend the next two and a half days indulging in my secret hobby. Don't worry I'm not into drugs or drinking and I'm not planning to invite my girlfriend over to have sex nor am I planning a wild party. My hobby is dressing up as a girl. Now before you ask, no I'm not gay. I have a girlfriend and I don't dress up to meet guys. I enjoy crossdressing because I like the way I look as a girl. I don't want to be a girl, I still enjoy being a guy and doing guy things. This is just something I enjoy doing as a hobby, much like my dad enjoys golfing or my mom enjoys painting.
It all started when my older sister, who is currently away at college, dressed me up for a video project she had to do for school. While I proteste
To Build A Human
I wonder if I died last night.
I once wondered if I had died the night before. And that's not even the strangest thought I had that fateful day. But perhaps I should start from the beginning
I had been thinking about the troubling philosophical issue regarding the hypothetical teleportation device that uses quantum entanglement to instantaneously transfer data, then uses that data to exactly replicate the individual in the new place and simultaneously destroy the original. The new copy is like a twin with all the same memories of the original, right up to the event of the teleportation, creating a perfect illusion of transportation to everyone, including the replicant, who would have first person memory of the lifetime of the original and therefore believe himself to be the original. The only party for whom this fax machine from hell fails is the original, who is stifled by nonexistence.
So how can one be certain of this tragic flaw without experiencing it fi
What Is Fixed RomanoxPrussia‘ I-a fucking hate life! No one ever-a pays attention to-a me, only him! It is-a always
about-a Feliciano this, and-a Feliciano that! No one-a ever cares to-a hear about Lovino,
the second rate-a twin. Well-a, if they-a don’t care, then-a I should just-a go! They-a
already tell me-a to go die, maybe I-a will!’
On a large, grassy hill far behind Gakuen Hetalia Academy, Lovino Vargas stood, transfixed, at the large knife he grasped in his right hand. It glint dangerously in the
setting sun, and was placed against smooth, tanned skin, being forced down slowly, until a thin slit of red appeared. Tears streaming down the elders face, as he continued to push
the blade, watching with a morbid fascination as blood began to bead at the tip of the knife, falling to the ground in silent drips. His lips twitched in a sad smirk, and he
began to press harder, blood collecting quicker, a small puddle beginning