What is the aim of an ARP spoofing attack?
Refer to the exhibit. The exhibit shows a small switched network and the contents of the MAC address table of the switch. PC1 has sent a frame addressed to PC3. What will the switch do with the frame?
Which statement describes the treatment of ARP requests on the local link?
What statement describes the function of the Address Resolution Protocol? .Under which two circumstances will a switch flood a frame out of every port except the port that the frame was received on? (Choose two.)
Refer to the exhibit. PC1 attempts to connect to File_server1 and sends an ARP request to obtain a destination MAC address. Which MAC address will PC1 receive in the ARP reply?
Which destination address is used in an ARP request frame?
Which term describes a field in the IPv4 packet header that contains a 4-bit binary value set to 0100?
RTR1(config)# interface gi0/1 RTR1(config-if)# description Connects to the Marketing LAN RTR1(config-if)# ip address 10.27.15.17 255.255.255.0 RTR1(config-if)# no shutdown RTR1(config-if)# interface gi0/0 RTR1(config-if)# description Connects to the Payroll LAN RTR1(config-if)# ip address 10.27.14.148 255.255.255.0 RTR1(config-if)# no shutdown RTR1(config-if)# interface s0/0/0 RTR1(config-if)# description Connects to the ISP RTR1(config-if)# ip address 10.14.15.254 255.255.255.0 RTR1(config-if)# no shutdown RTR1(config-if)# interface s0/0/1 RTR1(config-if)# description Connects to the Head Office WAN RTR1(config-if)# ip address 203.0.113.39 255.255.255.0 RTR1(config-if)# no shutdown RTR1(config-if)# end
Refer to the exhibit. A network administrator is connecting a new host to the Payroll LAN. The host needs to communicate with remote networks. What IP address would be configured as the default gateway on the new host?
What are two potential network problems that can result from ARP operation? (Choose two.)
What is the effect of using the Router# copy running-config startup-config command on a router?
What will happen if the default gateway address is incorrectly configured on a host?
Hide and Save PT Open the PT activity. Perform the tasks in the activity instructions and then answer the question. Which interfaces in each router are active and operational?
What property of ARP causes cached IP-to-MAC mappings to remain in memory longer?
Within a production network, what is the purpose of configuring a switch with a default gateway address?
When transporting data from real-time applications, such as streaming audio and video, which field in the IPv6 header can be used to inform the routers and switches to maintain the same path for the packets in the same conversation?
Which statement describes a feature of the IP protocol?
How do hosts ensure that their packets are directed to the correct network destination?
What is one advantage that the IPv6 simplified header offers over IPv4?
What IPv4 header field identifies the upper layer protocol carried in the packet?
What is a basic characteristic of the IP protocol? Refer to the exhibit. A user PC has successfully transmitted packets to www.cisco.com. Which IP address does the user PC target in order to forward its data off the local network?
Refer to the exhibit. Consider the IP address configuration shown from PC1. What is a description of the default gateway address?
,What are two functions of NVRAM? (Choose two.)
Match the configuration mode with the command that is available in that mode. (Not all options are used.)
The global configuration command ip default-gateway 172.16.100.1 is applied to a switch. What is the effect of this command?
Match the command with the device mode at which the command is entered. (Not all options are used.)
What happens when the transport input ssh command is entered on the switch vty lines?

I've been thinking about aging a lot, and what that means for me as an AMAB enby. So far I haven't tried HRT, and while I don't always love my appearance, I can tolerate it. I try to dress androgynously, wear women's cuts of shirts and pants, dye my hair, and on good days I think I pull it off. But I'm approaching 30. My hair line is receding ever so slightly, the wrinkles in my forehead are growing more pronounced, my gut is more obvious... And if I think too far ahead about what I might look like in 20+ years, I know that inevitably, I'll just look kinda like my dad. The term "twink death" gets thrown around with negative connotations a lot, but that's kind of what it feels like. I feel like my window for being able to appear "cute" or androgynous to the world is closing.
I find myself thinking, when my skin starts to sag, will I still be able to keep up my identity? Has this all just been a charade, a phase of fashion and aesthetic that I have no choice but to let pass? Will I still bother calling myself nonbinary, or will I drop it as I see less of that person in the mirror, and ultimately reclaim my identity as a "man"? What would detransitioning even mean?
The thought of HRT scares me in part because of this indecision. It could stave off some of the side effects - the hairline, at least, maybe improve my skin and body shape if I'm lucky. I know I don't want breasts, so my options are limited. The cocktail of hormones I've heard AMAB enbies report taking on here sound unpleasant and very hit or miss. And I start to wonder too - do I really want to take these drugs for the rest of my life? Do I actually want this because it would affirm my gender? ...or am I just afraid of getting older?

My other neighbor A vindictive narcissist has been harassing me at his door for six month and the property manager allows this. He says I must prove it, even after there being cameras rmti support my complaints. I admit I had got into some problems with meth but I hate meth and could resolve my addiction inspire of his haunty arrogance and gas lighting trick he ever so craftly hit me with. It's fair seeming to say that I hurt my bridge at this apartment and I am moving on and I am not nearly as insecure about the aversion I have and this addiction the overpowered my rational mind. Henceforth, I pay my rent on time and have never missed a payment. And I payed despite all the trouble that he has been causing, among other problems in my life. My predicament has been sabotage by some Crooked people and the management is amongst this. They belied in opposition what really was going on and just wanted me to move but didn't have the balls to be anything other then treacherous in allowing for such criminal activity which went against what I believed was our American right. I still paybe while they corrupted my livelihood, and it's mental health, supportive housing! I want to know whether or not they can legally do this to someone while taking thier money and human rights when thier stating that I have human rights? Should I sue them and wish upon a compensation? Or what can I do to settle the score and avenge my fucked affair?

Recently had a small "bitch" undergrounder appear on my nose up by my eyes (I wear glasses), it was annoying the hell out of me and so I tried to pop it since it felt hard, I picked at it to remove some skin off it and try to force it up, and while it's not a huge hole, it is leaking a clear substance and I'm worried about it, how can I make it heal the fastest? I'm 16 years, male, currently have no drivers license or a job if it helps.

This is a weekly thread for discussing leaving the field of social work, leaving a toxic workplace, and general venting. This post came about from community suggestions and input. Please use this space to:

• Celebrate leaving the field
• Debating whether leaving is the right fit for you
• Ask what else you can do with a BSW or MSW
• Strategize an exit plan
• Vent about what is causing you to want to leave the field
• Share what it is like on the other side
• Burn out
• General negativity

Posts of any of these topics on the main thread will be redirected here.

Going to therapy or getting professional help is not always an option, getting help may also take some time. To help you to better understand and address BDD by yourself, we have compiled a workbook that you can do by yourself. It contains information and tasks which will help shine a light to why BDD is the way it is and how you can deal with the symptoms. All chapters are based on an official workbook by the Centre for Clinical Intervention.
The BDD workbook:

• 01 What is body image?
• 02 Could I have body dysmorphic disorder?
• 03 Negative impacts of BDD
• 04 What are the causes of BDD?
• 05 Appearance assumptions
• 06 Triggers
• 07 Appearance preoccupation
• 08 Attention training [a coping tactic]
• 09 Checking and approval seeking
• 10 Reducing unhelpful checking and approval seeking [a coping tactic]
• 11 Negative predictions
• 12 Avoidance and safety behaviour
• 13 Reducing negative predictions [a coping tactic]
• 14 A new way of operating
• 15 Dealing with set-backs
• 16 Maintaining gained progress

I've been thinking recently about how subsystems can affect the pacing of a game. An example of this is in games that have a resource management aspect, the players tend to conserve resources until they reach the end at which point they feel free to use up any remaining resources. If (and this can be a big if sometimes) the players realize they've reached the end, they can go all out creating a climactic final situation. D&D's spell system tends to work this way.
Another way that mechanics can influence pacing is if they cause a death spiral. A death spiral can cause players to feel more cautious and desperate as the game goes on.
Blades in the Dark has Stress, early in a heist players feel free to push their rolls, but as they run low they start accepting more and more Devil's Bargains.
How do your mechanics influence the pacing of your game? What are some other mechanics you've seen that affect the pace?
In my WIP I have abilities that can be used once per session, and players have a limited resource called Effort that they use to activate abilities. This will likely result in players saving a lot of their Effort until they near the end of a session, so I had an idea for abilities that if used in the first half of a session refund the Effort expended at the half way point. My hope is that this will make these abilities feel "free" to use early in a session.

I did not see many posts about this, only people asking if they were candidates and others immediately saying no, because it is a trend to hate on buccal fat removal these days.
First of all, I want to dispel a few myths:
1) buccal fat does not get smaller with age, so the same buccal fat pads you have at 20 will be there at 70, do with that what you will.
2) this is not very new, it's been around 30+ years, only now we are starting to know about it. a lot of the people say we don't know how it will look 10-20 years down the line, but actually there are patients who have had this done years ago.
3) this can only address extra volume in the lower mid face, it cannot address jowls or perioral mounds, or your neck etc. Before getting anything done, consider what you want to target.
In deciding whether I should go ahead or not, Dr Jonathan Zelken's YouTube channel has been a huge help, so I've linked a few videos of his here. From what I can see, the results are usually very subtle, and yes there are some botched examples from celebs but they were probably not good candidates to begin with and had too much removed.
Now, on to the part about my journey. I am a 25 year old female, I've always had very chubby cheeks, I've had people squeezing my cheeks as far back as I can remember, and have always been quite slim. I also naturally have a lot of collagen in my skin, the skin itself is very thick and bouncy, but I also had quite full cheeks.
I got my surgery today, it was under local anesthesia, performed by a maxillofacial surgeon at the dentist's office, and it took probably 5-10 mins on each side. I was shaking like crazy before the operation, I was incredibly nervous, and I continued to shake even after it was all over, so I'm glad I had a big breakfast. Before the operation, I had some pictures taken, and my face measured from various different angles, to track post-op progress.
The surgeon did the incisions with a laser, found the fat pads immediately, and took out 2/3 of the buccal body (as per my request). I told her I did not want all of it to be removed, I wanted to lean on the conservative side. She took out 4 cc on each side, but said she could have easily taken out 5.5-6 cc's. She stitched the incision sites up and put a gauze in. I then had my head wrapped in a compression garment, which I will be wearing 24/7 for the next 2 days.
Upon leaving the office, I went to a nearby hospital to get 2 injections that were prescribed to me, these were methylprednisolone (a glucocorticoid for post-op swelling) and tenoxicam for pain. I am currently icing my face, and have taken my antibiotics. The anesthesia in my face has not completely worn off, but I do feel a dull deep pain in my face. I've been given painkillers (dexketoprofen - NSAID), antibiotics, and a mouthwash. I'll be going in for a control tomorrow, the day after, and in a week.
Feel free to ask me any questions!

I love my father.
He sits in his yellowing, threadbare sofa with its many patches and spill stains that bloom like misshapen ochre flowers and watches the television, chuckling along whenever the blonde man with his blinding teeth teased into a smile cracks a joke that tickles him, shaking his head in amusement. He brings a biscuit to his mouth, absent-mindedly brushing away the crumbs that fall off the side. His hand shudders.
I walk towards him, and he turns to face me. His eyes crinkle into a smile as he grins up at me, empty patches of darkness where he has lost his teeth. I smile back at him softly, nudging forward the medication I have neatly placed on a plate, and his smile falters, his eyebrows creasing into a frown. It pains me as much as it pains him, to wait in agony, unable to do anything as his dementia eats away at his once brilliant brain, rotting away his memories inevitably. As the days flick by, it is more of a rarity now that he looks at me with warm familiarity in his eyes, rather than the cold terror, gazing at not his daughter, but a nameless stranger.
I wonder sometimes about the things he remembers, and the memories that left without a goodbye. Does he still recall those times when he rocked me to sleep as the stars watched us from behind the curtains of clouds, held my hands gingerly as I walked stubbornly with my podgy legs, ran after me while I cycled shakily for the first time, beamed at me proudly as I attained my first job? Does he remember the daughter he raised single-handedly, the daughter who blossomed into the vibrant flower she is today?
I am selfish, I know. He is all I have left, and I his. On the days he looks at me guardedly, shaking in fear, I try to soothe him, jog his memories, bring him down the long-winded memory lane. The time that elapses as his memories click in and he recognizes me once more has been slowly, but ever so persistently, increasing. I sometimes want to scream at him, for how can he forget his own daughter? His own pride and joy? But it is not fair to him, not fair that the most basic of tasks make him flustered and dazed, not fair that his daily activities limit to only watching brainless television and dogmatically following my orders, not fair that the memories of his daughter is reduced to one of the many feathers tickling his brain, just out of his reach.
My father frowns tiredly, picking up the chalky red pill right in front of him, and with a moment’s hesitation, pops it into his mouth, swallowing it down with the water I brought to him. I hold back a fatigued sigh of relief, quietly rejoicing that I did not have to force him to take his medicine. Dementia is resilient. It rushes in, like a tidal wave, biding its time, before abruptly gathering speed and crashing devastatingly onto shore. The red pill tries its best to hold it off, but it will not matter one day. Eventually dementia will win, taking my father’s mind along with it like a morbid war prize, pushing him into the beckoning arms of Death knocking on his door.
My father looks at me with watery eyes. “I still remember, you know,” he takes my hand in his own gnarled one. “I remember that tomorrow is your birthday.”
I love my father. How can I not, as I look at him, and he looks back with all the love he holds in his eyes? His love that has enveloped me over every day, from the moment I was born till now. My father, who struggles to piece together his own name, but cherishes me in his heart, refusing to let me go, refusing to relinquish me into forgetfulness. I smile back at my father, softly holding him up and bringing him to his bed. I tuck him into his worn blankets and wait till his eyes droop and his breath steadies into deep, rhythmic pulls before I convince myself he will live through the night before finally tiptoeing back to my own bed, falling into a restless, interrupted doze of my own.
My dreams shift in flashes of color and nothing more. I wake sleepily, eyes still gritty from sleep and instantly, like always, my heart seizes with anxiety. The silence is always deafening in the morning, and I have to pray that my father is still asleep soundly in his bed instead of wandering in a disoriented blur outside our house. I make my way shakily to his room, my bare feet growing numb on the cold tiles of the floor. Creaking the door open, I nudge my head into his room, my eyes slowly getting used to the faint light from the cracks of dawn peeping through the windows.
The bed is empty. Blankets and covers are rumpled into an untidy heap in one corner, and the gaping absence of my father in his bed mocks me, punishing me for my carelessness and disregard for his fragile safety. I am sure I left the door locked, but panic seizes me like a taut rubber band, and I rush downstairs, flying two steps at a time, my dress hampering around my legs as I burst into the kitchen, only to find my father sitting on the dining chair, nursing a hot cup of coffee. He smiles at me in warm greeting, only for it to dim ever so slightly as his eyes travel over my haphazard state and the wild frenzy blazing in my eyes.
No matter how many times I remind my father that life is unkind and unjust, that it is not, and will never be, his fault if he does something like this, it pains him to think of himself as a burden for me to constantly worry and fret over. I have to tell him over and over that there is nothing he can do that will make me resent him. Ever. Yet he always looks at me forlornly, his disbelief set like a cold and heavy stone. Time passes in a hazy cloud, and he falls deeper and deeper into the gallows of his diseased brain, and I wonder who it is I am trying to convince more, my father or myself.
Guilt and shame harden his eyes, but I interrupt him before he can open his mouth to offer his heartbreaking apologies for causing me such trouble, choosing to instead focus on making him breakfast, fussing over him as he eats slowly, savoring each mouthful of his pitiful meal of whole grain bread. It is only then I consider his tired eyes, still droopy from sleep, his wrinkled clothes, smudged with dirt and what looks suspiciously like mud.
“What’s all that on your clothes?” I try to keep my voice light, hoping he takes the tremble in my voice for mere prying curiosity rather than shaky fear. I swallow the lump on my throat, trying to stop all the qualms roaming around my head, screaming at me all the deadly things he could have done, or that could have happened to him. I quickly scan for any injuries on his body, but other than dirt accumulating under his fingernails and the small yellowing bruise from a couple of days ago when he bumped his head on the sofa, my search comes up clear.
My father smiles at me, his lips turning up into his achingly familiar kindly smile, eyes crinkling into its fine lines. He seems…happy. Really happy. This makes me soften my demeanor, relaxing a little. It has been so long since I have seen my father truly, genuinely happy. Not forced laughs at my pitiful attempts at making jokes, not soulless guffaws at the numerous TV shows flashing in neon all night, and certainly not the little chuckles from observing the antics of our neighbors next door with the raucous kids giggling barefoot around in their overgrown backyard. I grin back at him, wishing this moment could stretch on to infinity, so that time will not creep on us and steal this rare burst of joy away.
“What is it?” I ask him, a teasing note in my question as I begin sweeping away the little brown crumbs that have dribbled out of my father’s mouth as he finishes his tasteless bread. “I got you a birthday present,” his smile widens. I straighten up, my heart swarming with all kinds of emotions. I consider, fleetingly, if the fluttering in my stomach is excitement, but it is cold trepidation instead.
“I invited your sister to come today for your birthday,” he grins, quiet triumph making his eyes glitter. My heart clenches and I freeze, trying to comprehend his words, unraveling them slowly like delicate silk. “W-what?” I splutter, trying to search my father’s oblivious face for any grasp of information. It cannot be. It simply cannot. My father nudges his head in the direction of our living room. His smile grows wider still. “See for yourself.”
I cannot get my body to move at first, so resolute it is in warning me that danger is lurking in the living room, in the shape of my sister’s complicated, twisted soul. But I manage to shuffle slowly in the right direction. The hallway seems to stretch to eternity, looming and ominous, shadows lengthening and taunting me with its mimicry of fabled devils. The television is turned on, as though my father just fell asleep in front of it like always. Static blares out, interrupted by snatches of words from forgettable broadcasters. I stand at the entrance, forcing myself to look at the silhouette framed by the light from the television on the battered sofa.
My sister looks back at me, her teeth widened to a lopsided smile.
“I thought she might like to watch something nice while I talked to you about your surprise,” my father appears noiselessly behind me, making me start. His breath tickles my cheek, making the hair stand up on its end, erect with alarm. I watch him as he meanders his way through the labyrinth of carefully folded stacked clothes that have fallen gently to its side and towers of newspaper my father has hoarded where you can see his manic scribbling in aged crossword puzzles and stands over my sister’s overly relaxed form, gingerly patting her head fondly. “I told her you would be excited that she came by,” he adds nervously, his eyes flicking from the top of my sister’s head and at my frozen state. I tear my disbelieving eyes from my sister and gaze back at my father. I watch his nerves wreaking havoc in him, looking at me with plea, like a child begging their mother for a forbidden toy. I try to relax my face, hoping my half-hearted smile abates his anxiousness. I cannot watch him despair at my expense. “Of course it’s ok,” I say, the strain in my voice not as hidden as I thought it would be. I screw my eyes shut and stumble back to the kitchen, resting my head against the cool granite counter, wishing for my heart to stop racing and my mind to quieten. My father’s happiness and peace of mind...that is all I wish for now.
I love my father. And in the beginning, so did my sister. We loved him when he raised us by himself, working tirelessly to make ends meet, put a roof over our heads and kept our stomachs full. We grew together, just the three of us, a tiny, wounded family, my sister and I taking shelter from the many insurmountable hurdles that life threw at us behind our reliable father. My sister was the life of the party– sparkling, bursting with color like a crackling firecracker. She was always the star of the show, commanding the stage with nothing but brazenness and sheer optimism. She was electric with life.
That was until the day my father was diagnosed with early onset dementia. The day the doctors sombrely told us that there was nothing we could do but watch our beloved father spiral into fugue dreams. The day we knew the father we knew-the brilliant, hardworking, intelligent, selfless man- will never be the same again. The signs were always there, tiptoeing towards the diagnosis. He had begun to forget the days of the week, misplacing everyday items, taking too long to answer our questions, gaping at us blearily as we repeated ourselves painfully. But my sister and I danced around the issue, never quite bringing it up, treating it like a curse, neither of us wanting to break the tranquility, until the day my father woke up and did not remember where he was.
My sister fell apart, like a puppet with its strings ruthlessly cut. She was old enough to remember when our mother had died tragically, and she could not bear to see the loss of another parent, one whom she loved so deeply. I woke up one morning to see her bed empty, her blanket still crumpled, hanging off a corner, her wardrobe doors held ajar, stripped bare. I was not surprised. She did not even leave a note explaining her flight. She simply disappeared.
While my father spiraled, I heard whispers. People in our neighborhood offered sympathetic smiles or avoided their gaze and did nothing more. Their hushed whispers turned more sinister, darker as time ticked by like a sullen clock. Innocent speculations as to where my sister had run off to turned into filthy, dirty rumors that she was living on the streets, begging strangers for money, shooting herself up and living in a cloud of hazy drugs. I listened quietly, knowing the stories were all true. I knew they were, because my sister, in the five months she had run away, had only called once, high as a kite, asking for money to cover her expensive drug habits. I hung up on her while she was still talking, her unnaturally shrill voice ringing in my head. With my sister gone, I knew I had lost my family, and only my father remained to me.
I look at her now, still grinning up painfully at me, and a stabbing pain shoots through me. She smiles like she was there all those times our father wandered through the streets barefoot, and I had to tear through the town frantically calling out for him; those times he asked about her, wondering where she was, and I lied through my teeth that she was just away and would be back soon. My father holds her by the hand and brings her to the kitchen, beaming with utter joy. He looks so happy. I sigh and drag myself into the kitchen, where my father has already pulled out my birthday cake that we made together the previous day from the fridge and placed it in front of my silent sister. I stare at the icing on the small, slanted cake. My father had insisted on decorating, and his almost illegible, childlike writing of ‘Happy Birthday, Daughter Dear,’ had made me feel a rush of affection for my father, but now fills me with quiet, cold dread. Like someone had walked over my grave.
My father pushes the knife into my hands. I hold it as he bursts into the birthday song, his voice warbling with emotion, tears running down his face as he wraps his arm around me and gave me a kiss on my temple. I try to feign a smile at him, but my stomach rolls over at the sight of my sister sitting behind my father, her empty eyes gazing directly through me, and I read the unspoken accusations in them, the utter hatred and disgust. I swallow and pull myself out of my father’s loving embrace and shuffle away. “Aren’t you going to cut the cake?” My father turns to look at me, puzzled. I pause for a moment before slicing the cake slowly with my trembling hands. I pull a slice of the gooey mess onto a plate and slide it over to him, and after he discretely nudges his head towards my sister’s eerily still self, I give her a plate too. For a few minutes, there is nothing but the sound of spoons scraping against the flimsy paper plates as we tuck into the slightly bitter chocolate cake, until my father notices my sister’s untouched meal.
Concern makes him grab her wrist, his fingers easily encircling her small frame. “Haven’t you been eating? Look at how small you’ve gotten!” He exclaims, feeling her spindly, twig-like arms and fragile fingers. I say nothing, my eyes trained on my food, my stomach churning like a pack of worms, but my father has other plans. “Don’t you think your sister is too skinny?” He asks me, and I shrug non-committedly. I feel him glaring at me, his eyes burning holes through me. As I get up to throw my plate away, he grabs me and brings me into the empty hallway.
“Don’t you think it’s about time you stop this silly fight with her?” My father says wearily. I look into his tired, anxious eyes, and I want to scream at him. Does he not remember what she did? All the awful, awful things that had happened? I restrain myself and force my lips to turn up into a smile. Don’t snap, that is the first rule when dealing with dementia patients. “I’ll talk to her,” I promise him, the lies easily falling from my mouth like all the others I had fed him over the past few months. He relaxes, and snakes his hand along my shoulder, enveloping me in a tight side-hug, whispering a muttered ‘thank you’, before heading back to the kitchen and uproariously inviting my sister to watch television with him.
I do not go with them. I hide in the kitchen as long as I can, cleaning all the dishes slowly and methodically, as my thoughts race faster than I can comprehend them, tumbling over one another, wrestling to take control. I toss my sister’s uneaten cake into the trash. Even through the walls separating us, I hear snatches of many commercial breaks, punctuated by my father’s hearty chuckles. Whatever he thinks my sister is telling him must be very funny indeed. I sit on the cold kitchen table and watch the clock, willing time to fly quickly and throw me into the embrace of the future.
The yellow rays of the amber sun fade to make way for the gloom of the night to settle in. Already I hear the crickets singing to their hearts’ content from our garden. Wiping my hands on my clothes, I make my way through to the living room, my mind made up, calm and collected. My sister sits upright on the couch, facing the television impassively. My father is sprawled on the sofa next to her, his head lolling on the armrest, soft snores drowned by the television still turned on. A tense silence settles between my sister and I, somehow louder than the crickets and the television combined. She avoids my gaze and resolutely watches the screen flashing. My hands curl to fists, but I tiptoe to my father.
“I think it’s time for her to go, don’t you think? It’s getting late.” I whisper in his ear. My father shifts, bloodshot eyes blearily blinking up at me. “Tell her goodbye for me, won’t you?” He mutters, his eyes screwing shut again. I do not have to wait long until his breaths become full and steady once more, and without a word, I hold my sister by her hand and bring her out of the house. She offers no resistance, like as though she knows where she is going. Her defenses are down, like someone who has given up.
The garden is a handiwork of my father, and my father alone. The doctor recommended me to let him create a hobby for him to exercise his mind and keep it alive as long as possible, a tiny shred still linking him to reality for when his mind wanders too far away from our reach. He spends whole days pottering around, watering freshly sown seeds and admiring the pretty kaleidoscope of flowers. A slice of heaven on earth, he calls it. In the winter, it has shriveled up, protecting itself from harsh winds and pelts of snow, but my father is certain that the garden will nurse itself back. The resilience of life. We stand there, side by side. The moon looms over us, and I spot two small stars winking down below. I like to think that one is for either of us. I stand there with my once lovely sister until the coldness wraps me like a freezing blanket and numbs my fingers, and then I bring her to the back of the garden to the tulip patch.
Tulips have always been my sister’s favorite flowers. My father, as much as he has forgotten, still holds on to this like sacred knowledge. The tulips have withered, hiding their faces in shame with what is left of their dull petals. There is a big hole right beside it, hastily dug. My father must have referred to this when he mentioned he was gardening earlier today. The shovel leans on the mound of soil next to the gaping hole. I push my sister down and bury her for the second time.
I love my father. I know what you are thinking, but I assure you, everything I have done, and everything I ever will do, is for him only. I want him to be happy, I always have, something any dutiful daughter would say. I did not know I would have to sacrifice my sister for that.
Last month, after I received a call from my drugged out sister trying to persuade me for money and I had hung up on her unceremoniously, I went back home from work like I always did. The door hung ajar, the lock twisted off, and I knew something was wrong. My father must have wandered out again, somehow managing to pry open the lock and fled to the streets wrapped in his delusions. But then I realized the floor was slippery, and the soles of my shoes stained a deep red. Fear clamped onto me like a starving beast, I do not remember what happened next fully, only in snatches of pictures then run in my head like an endless loop of film. Blood that splattered the hallway, leading to the living room. My father sobbing, his hands clamping his mouth, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, riddled with guilt. The bloody knife that shook in his tight fist. My sister lying stiffly on the floor, her own blood pooling around her, oozing from her wounds. Her eyes unseeing, her body tinged with blue. The smell of copper so thick it hung like a heavy curtain, and I could almost taste it in the back of my throat. My father asking me, “Who is she?”
My brain had instantaneously locked into survival mode. I thought of my father when I tore the shower curtain and wrapped my sister’s corpse in it, tying it with knots of fraying string and duct tape. I splashed bleach all over the house until it tingled my eyes and nose and rubbed furiously at the splashes of blood that had begun flaking like dust. I tossed my father’s splattered clothes into the washing machine where they spun in a muddy mess, but the stains remained, so I threw them into the fire I set in the backyard. I washed my hands raw, scrubbing my skin until my fingers bled.
I found bloodstained money in my sister’s backpack. I knew at a glance it was mine and she had come to the house for this very reason after I had rejected her plea. The bag contained nothing else other than a packet of tissue, with pinpricks of blood, a small syringe, cotton wool and the laminated driver’s license of my once beautiful sister. When I looked at her old photo of her, I saw the secrets in her smoke and mirror eyes. They all went into the fire, bleeding into each other until they curled up into charred remains. I waited for night to enshroud us with shadows before I dragged my sister’s corpse outside to the garden, and I began to dig, flinging mud until my arms ached and my body shuddered with something more than coldness. I dug until I could go no more, my body racking with quiet sobs, the soil turning dark with the tears that rolled off my face. I cried for my sister, the one who was with me in my darkest moments, the one I prayed every day would return to us, to complete our family of three. I cried as I rolled her body into the grave and I cried more when I shoveled the earth onto her face, her agony of the last throes of death still etched on her gaunt face, her empty eyes staring up at me.
When I finished, I looked up to see a shadow by my father’s window, watching impassively down at the garden. I could not face my father, the man who killed my sister, so I sat near my sister’s grave and wished her goodbye.
I never went to the police. My father was all I had. I could not let him go to prison, waking up everyday to unfamiliar prison guards roughing him up, to bars of steel to protect others from him. I quit my job and stayed home to take care of my father, flinching at every knock on the door, every ring of the doorbell, expecting the police to swarm the place and ask for my sister reported missing. But they never came, and slowly my unease left, though the guilt never did. She had disappeared off the face of the earth; my father had erased her off, like she had never existed. The day after I buried my older sister in my garden, I watched my father plant tulips near her grave.
I hide the shovel this time round. My father had never once mentioned my sister after the incident. I had hoped against hope this was due to his failing memory, but I know now that in some deep recess of his mind, he must have known the answer would have haunted him, as much as it haunts me. I used to envy that his mind was failing him, for I so wished to forget. Instead, I woke up almost every night gasping, shaking, from nightmares, of images of bloody hands dragging me into the fiery pits of hell, of my sister’s maimed body crawling after me. I make my way back into the house. My father has not moved since the last time I saw him. His snores reverberate around the cramped room, his hand still clutching onto the remote. I watch him, wanting to enter his tricky mind, wanting to know what he is thinking. This man who stayed up at night when I fell ill. This man who posed my sister’s corpse around the house, so that she could leer at me with flesh rotting off of her face. Did he think digging my sister’s body up will give her life again? That she would walk and talk and laugh like she used to? I spot the kitchen knife inches away from his hands, on the cluttered table, along with remains of the cake. When he wakes up, will he greet me with a smile like always, or will he lunge for the knife? It is always a guessing game with him, every chance a risk, every choice leaving me breathless with fear. I dangle from a tightrope on the precipice of a cavern that is his brain riddled with his dementia, his forgotten memories and the illusions he create for himself.
I move the knife away from his fingers and grasp onto it tightly and look down at it. A month ago, my fingers were stained with my sister’s blood. Now, they are gritty with filth and soil from her makeshift grave. I wish to give her a proper burial someday, in a decent grave, with a nice headstone, finally at peace.
My fingers tighten on the blade. My repressed memories flood in, drowning my thoughts with all my pain and hurt. I see my sister’s death immortalized on her face. Her remaining eye sewn shut, swarming with maggots. My father whimpering as his daughter lay bleeding at his feet, his shame rolling off of him in desperate waves. My father beaming at me, pruning his lovely tulips, each leaf falling gently on the grave below his feet.
I love my father, but I wish he were dead.

the smaller movements and the increasing option interest let one assume mayor movements are ahead ! !
premium for options paid are as high as back in january 2021 , for example the 60 usd strike jan 2025 calls sell for 470 each. they had been like 30 usd a month ago .
but back in january 2021 people bought on reddit like crazy and some 500 usd investment suddently became millions ..
i however prefer the long term invest in stocks because then im not under time pressure or buy LEAPS on the stock ( 2 year +-). thats less gambling . short dated options are risky
GME is a bullish stock , wether a investor is bull or bear , the increase from 10 to 80 is a bullish sign, people are interested in pay way more , than the actual market price .
those who see the pre earnings as bearish , the estimated what was it ? 20 mill loss ? gme makes their most money in q4 guys , last q4 gme produced 63 mill profit and made the whole year profitable.
since our new CEO gets 0 shares or money compensation, thats even more than the 20 mill loss.
the cash gme sit on earns more interest than the 20 mill loss.
how can a 20 mill estimated loss causing 35% market cap crash , that was like 2 billion wiped off. i was like lol, real circus . they tried to imply gme got nuked or whatever lol. sure short seller try to scare people off
in the last few years i check GME every time drop on earnings, for the news to spin it bearish , but the company is now profitable and bankruptcy off the table.
even the sudden pre earnings , some GME board member like LC became more vocal, let me believe they cook something good.
long term GME BULLISH

New job, after a long period of unemployment due to disability - so especially important I keep this job.
On the first day we had an induction, that was it - myself and the other newbie on reception have been left to our own devices. We've been given online training that has little to no relation to our role, and had some shadowing. I feel we weren't taught how to do the job and are missing some vital things from our knowledge - but it's not the best environment to ask when stuck, we're expected to know what to do and get patronising or sarcastic responses at times too. It's not a bad place, but not newbie friendly.
Furthermore my shifts are a mess. I've expressed to my manager that this is causing anxiety because I'm often unsure when I'm supposed to be in the office - he also knows I'm Autistic, I could argue that my employers letting me know my shifts is a 'reasonable adjustment' but actually it's just a plain reasonable!
Next month my rota should be set but the lack of communication so far bothers me.
Last week I had to email my manager to confirm shift pattern this week because I hadn't been told, he answered but then later asked me to swap out Monday morning for Wednsday afternoon - fine, although nothing on paper, via email, or on the shifts app to reflect this which made me anxious.
Today there was a team meeting, but no one told me to come into the office- I'd hope I'm not expected to come into work for one hour for a meeting, and I hope I hadn't been expected to come in today but just not told. My manager wasn't in the office yesterday to ask him to confirm, I've not had a message from him yet - the other new receptionist messaged asking if I was in today, the senior receptionist said yesterday all receptionists are normally at the meeting, so I've been anxious since yesterday and likely will be until work tomorrow.
I'm not sure I'm working enough hours either; it's supposed to be 21 hours but during the past few weeks it's been closer to 29 hours, I did two hours overtime but I'm not sure if that was even counted as overtime, and this week it's only 16 hours.
I've also yet to get the training for the admin side of the job, and yet to be given shifts for when they want me to work - thus why it's only 16 hours this week, I guess, as admin makes up some of my hours due to funding. I've been here a month and training for half my job hasn't started, which is a worry.
I don't know if I'm just being anxious or if that anxiety is justified with this lack of communication and training. I don't know how to navigate this. I've not been told off for anything yet or missed a shift, I'm just terrified in case I do and walk into the office one day thinking all is good just to be ambushed.
Can anyone offer any advice?
Edit: just had an email the meeting was rescheduled until tomorrow as there were only four members if staff present - I think there are seven of us in total. So I don't know if that's okay, or if I'm still going to be scolded tomorrow for not being in today.

Colostrum capsules are dietary supplements made from colostrum, the first form of milk produced by mammals (including humans and cows) immediately after giving birth. Rich in antibodies, growth factors, and nutrients, colostrum provides newborns with essential immune support and developmental benefits. Colostrum capsules, typically derived from bovine colostrum, harness these properties to offer a wide range of health benefits to people of all ages.
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1. Immune System Support: One of the primary benefits of colostrum capsules is their ability to boost the immune system. Colostrum is rich in immunoglobulins, particularly IgG, which help neutralize pathogens like bacteria and viruses. This immune-boosting property makes colostrum capsules particularly beneficial during cold and flu season, or for individuals with weakened immune systems.
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In summary, colostrum capsules offer a convenient and effective way to tap into the myriad health benefits of colostrum. From bolstering the immune system and enhancing gut health to supporting athletic performance and skin health, these supplements provide a natural and holistic approach to improving overall well-being. As with any supplement, it's advisable to consult with a healthcare provider before starting colostrum capsules, especially for individuals with specific health conditions or allergies.

To start I have a doctors appointment scheduled with a dermatologist but it is months out, but if there is a cream or something I can try while I wait I will. This started showing up after I lost a bunch of weight. And my skin is kind of loose here. I would have no clue they are there if I didn’t check, because they don’t feel like anything. They don’t itch or hurt and most of them just feel flat. My initial doctors appt tested me for std’s and all of it came back negative so now I’m waiting 6 months on a dermatologist. I am 28, a trans woman, medications I’m on are adderall, estradiol, spironolactone, busbar, and lamotrogine. I am 5’8” and about 170lb. My weight loss began about a year and a few months ago, but I didn’t start noticing these spots until September. They started forming around the time I noticed stretch marks from weight loss combined with looser skin in that area. I have no know preexisting medical issues

Jordan Cores, Human Male, Part-Time Security Worker?
“A job?” I ask, genuinely confused by the sudden offer.
Triwt seems to be lost in her thoughts for a moment before seemingly regaining her senses and shaking her head before looking at me.
“Yes, a position as one of my security officers. Standard shifts are between 4-5 hours.”
“Huh… That’s actually a lot less hours than my old job.”
“A lot less? That’s right around the galactic standards as anything longer will wear anybody out.”
“I’m used to working around 8.5 hours per day.”
I think I heard a cup drop as someone started coughing up whatever they were drinking.
“I’m sorry, but 8.5 hours?! How are you not fatigued from such a drastically long work life?!” Triwt more of demands than asks while she grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a slight shake.
“Um… that’s just a normal work shift on Earth. I sometimes get to work 40 hours a week, but my bosses would always make me work a few weeks of 30 or 27 hours so they wouldn’t have to enroll me as a full-time employee.”
“What kind of work did you do for such long work hours?” Cerelia asks as she is now becoming interested in the conversation herself.
“I was a part-time security worker. Unarmed position, patrol the building I was assigned to, do camera observations, write reports, those kinds of things.” I shrugged my shoulders before continuing, “Uh, I would talk to normal employees at those places, so I managed to recognize who should and shouldn’t be at the place or in certain areas which was useful with people trying to be sneaky.”
The room is pretty quiet, before someone speaks up. They’re wearing a labcoat like Lys and kind of looks like a bird. “That doesn’t explain how you can talk about doing those types of shifts so easily.”
“Well I would take two 15 minute breaks and a 30 minute meal during an 8.5 hour shift. The meal is unpaid so I only get paid for 8 working hours.”
“Our breaks are usually 30 minutes, Jordan.” Triwt cuts in, “The meals are also paid for as well, but as of right now I’m pretty sure the scientists here are more interested in figuring out your physiology.”
I look at the small huddle of scientists staring at me, Lys was also amongst them, and then I stare back at Triwt and Cerelia.
“Um… this is kind of a lot all at once.” I take in a deep breath before letting it out, “But I’ll take you up on that offer. Might give me something to distract myself with as I’ll have something to focus on. I always say that the scariest thing for a man is to be alone with their thoughts.”
Cerelia takes the chance to speak now, “I see…” There’s an expression of worry or disbelief on her face.
She’s either mad or worried about us.
Well clearly she pities us.
She doesn’t pity us! Maybe. I think.
I ignored my thoughts as they were turning against me again as I let out a soft sigh while I returned myself to focus on reality, not my mind.
“Well, the next concern is where you’ll be sleeping since it seems that you already have some experience as a security officer.” Cerelia states as she types something into her… watch? Wrist tablet? All the while as Triwt nods at her before looking at me.
Uh oh, I think I missed something important.
Clearly.
I look around the room once more and it seems that mostly everyone has left in the time this conversation has started. They either went to sleep or went back to work, though I don’t really know what you would do on a spaceship in your free time.
I think I would mostly sleep. I always wondered what it would be like to sleep in zero gravity. But, this place seems to have artificial gravity so there goes that venture.
Focus! People are talking to you!
Right, right.
I cleared my throat real quick with a slight cough as I raised my hand to my mouth. “Um, I’m fine with sleeping anywhere really. Just uh, one question.”
“What is it?” They both asked at the same time which was unexpected.
“Is there any way to get me some more clothes? I like these clothes and all, but they’re covered in my blood now. Probably not a good idea to keep wearing it.” I say as I look at myself, probably for the first time since everything started.
My hoodie has blood all over it, and I can feel that my shirt is just absolutely sticking to my body with dried blood. Now that I’m really able to sit and take things in I wish I had an extra pair of pants as these just feel weird to be wearing.
Who knew blood made everything feel sticky? Also the smell. I swear I'm going to have it stuck in my nose for like a week.
“That is a fair point… We will have to get your measurements when we land on Verglas. It’s only a [day and a half] away.”
Lys steps forward for a moment, “If it means anything, I think Jordan might be able to fit in my old clothes. We can offer him those.”
It’s true that he is taller than me, but not by that much so I might be able to fit in those… I just don’t know how to feel about a hole in the pants for a tail that I don’t have.
“Um sure, I’m fine with that. Anything to really put on something not covered in my blood.” I reply as I slowly get down from the medical bed.
“So, we never got your answer on who you’ll be bunking with until we can get a room installed for you.”
“Huh?”
“Yes, well… How do I say this?” Cerelia pauses before rubbing the back of her head. “You kind of terrify everyone who knows about you besides a select few. Triwt, Lys, and I aren’t exactly scared of you due to our longer exposure to you, but please keep in mind that you… you know… brutally killed an Alcoranth after basically defying death.”
Right… yeah I would be scared too if I saw what I did.
Probably concerning that you yourself don’t remember it.
You say that like you remember.
I do.
"Well," Lys’ voice brings me back to reality once more, “He should probably bunk with me. I know mixed rooms are allowed on this vessel, however, I feel like it might not be appropriate due to the situation.”
Oh he has a fair voice of reason.
“You’re just saying that because he generates heat like a heat lamp, but better.” Triwt butts in, sounding fairly annoyed.
“Okay, and? Not like you thought of the same thing.”
Ah. They’re cold blooded like I thought.
“You both can wrap yourselves around him on Verglas, but he’ll be bunking with me cause I know I can behave.” Cerelia says with a stern voice, canceling out their small argument as they both sighed after a few moments and agreed with her.
“What about sleepovers?” Triwt asks, trying to sound innocent.
“... That’s acceptable. ONLY if he agrees to it though.”
Something tells me I want my own room as soon as possible. Also it seems I don’t get a choice in the matter, but she is the Captain, so I may as well listen.
I slowly walk to the door, just mindlessly wandering as I have no idea what I’m really doing. I just feel the need to walk and stretch my legs.
A shower sounds really nice right now...
Cerelia, Altrin Female, Captain of The Opal Star
Somehow I managed to convince those two to let Jordan bunk with me in my quarters.
Just one issue. There is no second bed in my quarters.
I can deal with that when we get there. Worst case scenario, I make him sleep on pillows on the floor.
I notice that Jordan is walking around the medical room mindlessly making his way to the door. Once he steps out I decide to just follow him. Turns out I’m not the only one as Lys and Triwt come along as well.
“Um, Jordan, would you like to see where you’ll be sleeping?”
“Huh? Oh uh, sure. Sounds like a good excuse to properly stretch my legs.”

While we were making our way to my quarters, Lys stopped by his room and Triwt would eventually go back to her work center, leaving just Jordan and I as we approached his current sleeping quarters.
His temporary sleeping quarters.
“This is where you’ll be bunking with me until we can get a room installed for you on the ship. It shouldn’t be too long as this ship was built modularly with the idea of more rooms needing to be installed for a growing crew. Next to my room is Triwt’s and a little further down the hall is Lys' which is why this corridor might seem familiar. We are relatively close to the command helm as well. I assume Triwt will be assigning you to the security center near there for relative ease.”
I remain composed and calm as I explain everything trying to avoid some of the more embarrassing thoughts in my head.
“Wait, how many security centers are there in this place? It sounds like there’s multiple.” Jordan suddenly asked me, which I will gladly use to distract myself for the moment.
“50 to be exact, but technically 207 if you include the sleeping quarters of the security personnel as they have the same amount of access as the centers. 208 once yours is built and installed since you agreed to work for Triwt.”
Jordan’s face seems to go awestruck as he processes that information.
“Uh, just how many people live on this ship?”
“Last log entry from about [3 months] ago said we have 4,964 crew members, security included, and around 36 passengers, with about 2 people in each sleeping quarters save for myself, Triwt, and my little brother Lys. So that means there are 2,503 sleeping quarters aboard this ship. There’s 16 cafeterias which can hold up to 300 people each. Each quarter has a restroom, but there’s also 500 public restrooms around the ship because we don’t expect people to walk all the way back to their rooms to use their restrooms.”
“A city in space…kind of like how a modern US aircraft carrier is a city on the seas… How big is this ship exactly?”
“[2,184 ft / 665 m] in length [500 ft / 152.4 m] in height and roughly [512 ft / 156 m] wide at the largest area.”
“That’s…very specific…and also twice the size of an aircraft carrier.”
“I had to have it memorized due to how many times we’ve had to go through [customs] while traveling. It’s annoying when it’s literally on the datapads we give them, but they insist that I tell them instead.”
I accidentally let out an annoyed sigh, “They love to make a big fuss when there’s more people on here when some of the crew decide to start a family and we have some newborns. We had to install a nursery and schools after the first [14 months] when I got this ship because of that, but I won’t stop people from falling in love, I just have to work around it and be accommodating for them.”
“Part of the crew, part of the ship? Like, some people are here for so long that it is their home.”
“Never heard of that saying, but yeah kind of.” I reply as I rub Jordan’s hair like I did earlier.
I really can’t help myself, as his hair is so soft while he is just so short and cute. He kind of reminds me when Lys was younger.
“Now, go take a shower. I’ll have some food ready when you finish and then you can go to sleep afterwards.” I say as I usher him towards the bathroom before letting him go in by himself and closing the door.
I then let out a sigh as I tried to figure out what to do next while I got some [microwave meals] started.
Now…how do I explain to him about the bedding situation?
Jordan Cores, Human Male, Newly Hired Security Officer
I stare up at the handle for the water temperature in the shower that is above my head.
At least I can reach that…
Well, it is a shower for an 8ft lion lady.
Yeah…
With some slight effort, I reached up and turned on the shower, relieved to find out it worked just like my shower at home and let the warm water drown out my thoughts as I relaxed and had my first shower in probably 500 years.
And that is Chapter 11! I'll be honest, I haven't felt the best about this chapter because to me personally, I feel like it could be better, but I'm still new and I'm going to make mistakes. This is probably just me rambling, but that's what I like this little end section for. Explaining some of my thoughts.
Next chapter, we should hopefully be arriving on Verglas for some much needed deep cleaning and disposal of bodies, getting Jordan some more clothes, and maybe visiting some other things for some fun adventures. Maybe Jordan will pick up an old hobby of his now that his new job has much shorter shifts?
Please let me know your thoughts, I greatly appreciate it. Now if you excuse me, it's nearly 5 AM and I haven't slept yet.
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Tamgong Nelzellhut checked his restraints one more time, once again regretting volunteering as a liaison to a Terran ship. A Terran ship, he was reminded as he looked around at the humans strapped into their acceleration couches, which either had faulty internal dampeners or which routinely manoeuvred so hard it outstripped the capabilities of its compensators. And right now the ship was manoeuvring harder than normal, as it darted around the searing beams of pure energy that was lashing out from the much bigger ship behind them.
“Tactical,” the captain said casually as she swivelled her seat to face her tactical officer, “situation?”
Tamgong was, despite his unease at the current situation and the manoeuvring, impressed with both the relaxed demeanour and how many questions the captain managed to put in a single word.
“Eh,” the Terran lieutenant said as he did the thing with his shoulders that Tamgong could only think of as a human tentacle wiggle, “not great, not terrible. We’re more manoeuvrable, but they are faster.”
The captain glanced at Tamgong before returning her gaze to the young lieutenant, inviting him to continue.
“Simply put Captain,” he went on, “what we lose on the straights we gain on the turns.”
“Suggestions?”
Again Tomgong was impressed with how much meaning the Terran captain couple put in a single word. The lieutenant glances up towards the overhead as he pondered, a gesture that reminded Tamgong of when his own brood were trying to come up with an explanation for mischief.
“We’re not at war with the, ^{uhm, where is this ship from... ah,} Crer'qok at the moment,” the lieutenant said after a few heartbeats, “heck, we don’t even have diplomatic relations established. So - if we’re to follow the book - we can’t just… no? Very well… I recommend taking out the sensors on that dreadnought so we can get far enough up this gravity well to fall back to a more defensible position.”
“Very well,” the captain said as she swivelled her chair to face another member of the crew, “Gunny? I know you been itching for this.”
“Aye Ma’am!” the young terran sergeant replied as she cracked the joints of her manipulatory digits, a motion Tamgong found unsettling close to a bully knotting and unknotting their tentacles before turning violent.
Silence reigned on the bridge for the next few minutes, only punctuated by the whine of the internal dampeners, the hum of the coil gun recharging, the gurgling in Tamgongs guts as he fought the motion sickness, and the calm voice of the sergeant alternating between “target acquired” and “target vaporised”.
Finally, just before Tamgong was certain he was going to regurgitate his last meal, the sergeant looked over at the captain.
“It’s no good Ma’am,” she said softly, “they keep popping out new sensor heads as fast as I can knock them out.”
The captain, who had spent the quiet time looking through some paperwork on her console looked up.
“Hm? Oh. Tactical?”
Again Tamgong noticed how much was unspoken in the question.
“Well Captain” the tactical officer said after glancing on his console, “Plan B?”
“Plan B.“ the captain agreed, “Gunny?”
“Aya, aye Ma’am,” the sergeant said gleefully as she uncovered a row of guarded switches, “preparing Alpha Strike.”
Tamgong’s unspoken question was so loud the Terran Captain heard it and swung her seat to face him.
“An Alpha Strike, Mister Nelzellhut,” she explained through a barely concealed grin, “is when we fire every weapon we have at once.”
Tamgong felt his skin grow cold and clammy as he though about some of the armament ha had been shown down on the battery deck.
“Every weapon?”
“Every single weapon, Mister Nelzellhut.” the captain confirmed, “so expect the lights to be out for a few…”
Before she finished talking, klaxons started wailing as darkness descended.
“...seconds.” the captain finished as the light came back on and alarms were silenced. “Tactical?”
“One moment… getting sensors back online. Mhmm..”
The lieutenant looked up and shook his head.
“Sorry Ma’am. They’re still trying to close with us.”
The captain chuckled. The sound made Tamgong’s lobes crawl across his back.
“Why don’t we oblige them? Plan C?” The tactical officer looked at his console for a few heartbeats.
“Plan C,” he agreed as he grinned, “just like the old days.”
“Indeed.” the captain agreed as she trend to the most junior member on the bridge, “Helm? Ramming speed. All hands prepare for impact.”
"Hell yes!" the helmsman exclaimed, "er... I mean, aya-aye Ma'am!"
Tamgong looked around in amazement, as he felt the growing weight pushing him into his acceleration couch. The Terrans looked gleeful, despite their ship - and him with it - towards certain doom.
“Mister Nelzellhut,” the captain said as she turned to face him, “did you ever get the tour of the bow?”
Tamgong just shook his head in the human fashion, the weight of his body to much to say anything.
“The whole bow is reinforced. The reinforcements are reinforced. And the whole thing is reinforced some more. We’ll be fine.”
Tamgong tried to nod.
“But what,” he managed to croak, “will you do if this madness do not work?”
The captain showed her fangs as she took out and brandished her sidearm.
“Plan D is that we’ll board their ship, defeat the crew, hijack their ship, find out where their capital is, go there, and topple their empire.”
Tamgong stared at the Terran captain as she carefully stowed her sidearm again.
“All that,” he managed to say at last, “just like that?”
“Just like that,” the captain said as she looked at the Crer'qok dreadnought filling the viewscreen, “I mean.. it worked out just like that the last five times we did it.”

Every relationship I had so far was started because she really liked me and I enjoyed the closeness of a relationship. I was never truly happy and naturally that caused a lot of hurt for everyone involved.
So I was certain to never do it again.
Problem is I just feel absolutely nothing with most women. I honestly dont think most men care about physique and looks to that high of a degree but I do - for both me and my partner. None of my previous girlfriends seemed to care all that much about my looks either but I was always driven to work out. I just enjoy looking nice for myself. Still at times it feels like im some weird relic in a world that has moved past beauty standards.
I also experienced how amazing it is to have a partner with similar interests and matching kinks. I know how fun it is when you can tease each other and flirt because they got some confidence and energy. So naturally I wouldn't want to miss any of that but all these factors combined seem like an impossible find.
In the last three years there was only 3-4 women who really made me feel something and of course everyone was unavailable due to some bad luck circumstances. She had to catch an 11 hour flight home back home two days later .. another one I met only a single evening as she was visiting my friend over the weekend. Not enough time to even really get to know each other.
Weirdly it seems like recently I have a thing for american women, which is also perfect because Its one of the last places I would ever want to move to..
Now my 20s are coming to an end so I'm running out of time. I have been lucky so far and never got rejected outright but ofc they also need to like me and aging+ balding probably won't help.
Maybe it's silly to complain about this but I do feel a bit hopeless at times. Being alone forever or not having children sounds equally horrible to having to pretend I'm sexually attracted to someone I'm not actually fully attracted to for decades to come. Its horrible for the other person too ofc.

In a stunning turn of events, a single ticket has claimed Australia's largest lottery jackpot, winning an astounding $150 million in the Powerball draw. The record-breaking win has set the nation abuzz with excitement and curiosity, as the identity of the lucky winner remains shrouded in mystery.
The winning numbers, drawn on Thursday night, were 7, 17, 11, 28, 30, 32, and 2, with the Powerball number 12. This combination proved to be life-changing for the holder of the single ticket, who now stands to collect the entire prize of $150 million. The Australian lottery operator, The Lott, confirmed the win shortly after the draw, marking it as the largest individual lottery prize ever awarded in the country.
An Unprecedented Win
The magnitude of this win is unprecedented in Australian lottery history. Previous record-holding jackpots have seen multiple winners share the prize, but this singular win marks a new chapter. The Lott officials have urged the ticket holder to come forward and claim their prize, emphasizing the importance of safeguarding the ticket and seeking professional financial advice before making any public announcements or major financial decisions.
"Winning such an enormous amount can be overwhelming, and we encourage the winner to remain calm and take the time to plan their next steps carefully," said Matt Hart, spokesperson for The Lott. "Our team is ready to support the winner through the prize-claiming process and provide guidance on how to manage this life-changing windfall."
A Surge in Ticket Sales
The lead-up to the draw saw a surge in ticket sales, with millions of Australians dreaming of becoming the nation's next multimillionaire. The excitement was palpable across the country, as hopeful participants lined up at lottery outlets and purchased tickets online in droves. The Lott reported that more than one-third of Australian adults purchased a ticket for the draw, highlighting the widespread appeal of such a significant jackpot.
In the hours following the draw, social media platforms were flooded with posts from hopeful participants checking their numbers and sharing their anticipation. The announcement of a single ticket winning the entire prize quickly became a trending topic, capturing the imagination of the public and sparking conversations about what they would do with such a fortune.
Financial Advice for Lottery Winners
While the identity of the winner remains unknown, financial experts have been quick to offer advice for managing such an unprecedented windfall. The immediate recommendation is to seek professional financial planning services to ensure the prize is managed wisely. Experts suggest setting up a team of advisors, including a financial planner, tax advisor, and legal professional, to navigate the complexities of handling such a large sum.
"It's crucial for lottery winners to take a methodical approach to their new-found wealth," said financial planner Michelle Thompson. "The first step is to secure the ticket and keep it safe. Next, it's important to think long-term and consider the impact of taxes, investment opportunities, and charitable giving. This win can provide financial security for generations if managed correctly."
A Dream Come True
For the lucky ticket holder, this win represents a dream come true and the beginning of a new chapter filled with endless possibilities. Whether they choose to travel the world, invest in businesses, support charitable causes, or simply enjoy a life of comfort and luxury, the $150 million prize will undoubtedly transform their life in ways they may have never imagined.
As Australia waits for the winner to step forward, the story of this historic Powerball win serves as a reminder of the power of hope and the life-changing potential of a single lottery ticket. The excitement and anticipation surrounding this win will be remembered for years to come, inspiring countless Australians to keep dreaming and taking a chance on the next big draw.

I just seen a back king on the item shop that allows you to put your owned stickers on it. I was wondering whether there are items that you can change the color using wraps you own. It can be a glider, pickaxe, backbling or skin it doesn’t really matter. I want to know if there are any that can do that and what the names are, if there are any.

My compression garment from my surgeon I was put in on the table has a zipper on one side, it’s indenting and can’t stay completely flat and when I took it off to change my bandage that side of my hip was the same weird shape as the garment.
Is this normal? I got lipo go my hips and I assume he wouldn’t give out these garments if they actually caused permanent shape changes? The other side that has no zipper looks great and smooth!
I bought lipo foam to put in today when I shower to help, is that enough?