2021.10.22 16:46 Eyale111 Where to order korean snacks and candies?
2021.10.22 16:46 stin556 15M, Receding or Maturing? (Hair is wet in this picture)
2021.10.22 16:46 SpacedGodzilla Skyllareich, The First of a Era
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2021.10.22 16:46 dreemkrushr First Mint purchase. So shiny.
2021.10.22 16:46 l_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_l (+74956) It’s actually trafficking.
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2021.10.22 16:46 cgmbgaming03 The update is pretty cool I like it, what is your thoughts?
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2021.10.22 16:46 kreativekiste Love it.
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2021.10.22 16:46 comomangu Getting together and creating a manifesto
Any other democratic socialists wanna get together and create a manifesto? About democratic socialist policies but also within an American context that also touches on race solidarity and decolonization. We can create a discord together and discuss ideas.
submitted by comomangu to DemocraticSocialism [link] [comments]
2021.10.22 16:46 salmonofdoubt12 The Lobster
I’ve never understood people who like eating lobster. They are icky, alien creatures with segmented exoskeletons. If you really think about it, you’re basically dining on giant ocean spiders that crawl around the seafloor eating corpses. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against lobsters; they have their domain in the water, and we have ours on land. No reason we should ever have to meet. So when my wife requested a lobster dinner on Friday night to celebrate our anniversary, it was with no pleasure that I held the squirming arthropod a few inches above the pot of boiling water.
“Sorry,” I said as I lowered it into the plume of steam. Its gills flapped uselessly in the air and its claws clicked in an odd rhythm, a cacophony of sounds that seemed to get sharper with each repetition. The noises almost sounded familiar, even though I couldn’t recall ever being this close to a living lobster before.
The clicking and flapping increased in speed and volume as one of the lobster’s bluish legs touched the bubbling water and started to turn red. Why were those sounds so recognizable? I never even knew lobsters could verbally communicate with each other. For a moment I paused, holding the lobster with one leg submerged as I tried to convince my brain that I was imagining things. A crazy person might believe that the lobster was attempting to form words out of a bunch of squelches and snaps. And I wasn’t crazy. But I couldn’t deny that I recognized honest-to-God human language creaking out of the mandibles and crevices of this creature.
“Fleshhh…” the lobster smacked.
“What?” I asked, holding the lobster up to my face and staring into its black poppy seed eyes.
“Flesh made bone, bone made flesh.”
The production of these sounds appeared to take some effort, as the lobster’s entire body contorted and undulated with each syllable. I turned off the stove so I could hear it better.
“Flesh made bone, bone made flesh. Flesh made bone, bone made flesh. Flesh made bone, bone made flesh…”
The lobster repeated the phrase over and over again, like an incantation. It was undeniable: I was an insane person. I put it back in the small plastic bucket of water I got from the grocery store and the words turned into muffled gurgles. Normal lobster noises, I presumed. Still, I had to be sure. I took a deep breath and picked up the lobster again.
“Flesh made bone…”
I quickly dropped it back in the water with a splash.
I looked at my watch. My wife was working late, so she wasn’t there to confirm that I wasn’t hallucinating. Either way, I wasn’t sure how I felt about boiling something alive that just communicated with me. But I intended to fulfill my promise of a lobster dinner, even if I wasn’t going to feed her this particular lobster.
I pulled out my phone and texted her:
“Change of plans. Meet at Red Lobster in one hour.”
I arrived half an hour early and sat in the car, staring at the huge two-dimensional lobster welded to the front of the restaurant. My own lobster was on the passenger seat next to me in its bucket where I couldn’t quite hear its chant.
A cook in a stained white apron propped open a door leading into an alleyway alongside the restaurant. He was balding and well into middle age, but I was surprised to see what looked like rippling muscles beneath his uniform as he emptied many gallons of lobster shells into a dumpster. When he finished, he leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.
I got out of the car. The parking lot smelled like rotten fish mixed with the sweet scent of buttered bread.
“Excuse me,” I called out as I approached him, lobster bucket in hand.
The cook looked me up and down. His eyes lingered on the bucket.
“Yes?” he said.
“This is going to sound strange,” I asked, clearing my throat, “but has a lobster ever, uh, spoken to you?”
“What did you just say?”
“I said, um, has a lobster ever—”
“I heard what you said. Get in here.”
He grabbed my sleeve and dragged me through the door into the bright, bustling kitchen.
Two dozen cooks and even more servers and busboys speed-walked between long stainless steel counters covered in steaming pots, frying pans, and dough. Above them, computer monitors commanded their movements by flashing orders across their screens. A pair of swinging doors leading to the dining area were in perpetual motion as servers moved in and out of the kitchen, carrying heaping plates of pasta, bread rolls, and seafood.
But I didn’t notice any of that. All I saw was the 1,000-gallon aquarium tank in the back of the room, light refracting out of it and bathing the entire kitchen in a greenish-blue hue. Inside hundreds of lobsters squirmed, scuttled, and shoved to stay on top of a massive pile, knocking their rubber-banded claws into one another. A woman in an apron leaned over the lip of the tank, scooping them out one by one with a net and passing them to cooks who plunked them into pots of boiling water.
As I took all of this in, a harried server shoved past me and nearly knocked the bucket out of my hands. I got my bearings and followed the cook, who still clasped a lit cigarette between his lips, into a tiny back office. He closed the door and the sounds of the kitchen faded.
A single desk took up nearly the entire room, covered in stacks of papers—invoices, bills, order forms. The cook unclipped a crowded keyring from his belt, unlocked a drawer in the desk, and pulled out a slightly curved piece of leather that resembled half of a book cover. At least, it looked like leather. I took a step forward and saw that its surface was smooth and reflective, like a shell.
“Put your hand on this,” he said, holding out the shell. It was hard and cold, with a segmented joint dangling on one side. The water in my bucket started churning faster.
“What is it?” I asked.
“You can feel it, can’t you?” he said. “An exoskeleton is designed for containment. Holds things in, keeps them safe. But it also suppresses, restrains, removes potential.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“Not many do.”
He flipped it over—the joint made a horrible scraping noise—to reveal cryptic symbols scratched into the surface, all straight lines and sharp angles. Most of it was faded, but in the top left corner there was a crude illustration. It looked like a hunched humanoid creature. Its limbs were in the right places but they were bent at the wrong angles.
“One of Red Lobster’s suppliers fished this thing out of the ocean off the coast of Nova Scotia a few decades back, along with a horde of the biggest lobsters I’ve ever seen. This place served jumbo-sized lobster for an entire month with that haul. Management was so happy, they didn’t realize what came with it,” he said. “But someone thought it was weird enough to save, so they brought it to the archaeology department at the university. And lucky me, I happened to be grading papers in the office the day they handed it over.”
He mashed his cigarette into an overflowing ash tray on the desk.
“I was a highly respected scientist researching the origins of humanity. I debunked the aquatic ape hypothesis, and I helped prove that early humans interbred with Neanderthals. But something always bothered me. Prior to about six million years ago, the fossil evidence of human ancestors disappears. Vanishes. We have nothing before that date.
“So along comes this artifact, this shell, and lo and behold, my somewhat controversial method of radiocarbon dating puts it at over six million years old. Best I can figure, the trawler pulled it out of recently-defrosted mud that had laid undisturbed all that time. I knew that whatever was written here would upend everything we know about the history of our species.
“It was a huge breakthrough in my research. It was a step forward for humanity. But when I presented my findings to my colleagues, those quacks took away my tenure. They said I had fallen for the most obvious prank they ever saw. Now I work here, among the lobsters,” he said while waving his hand, his gesture seemingly encompassing the entirety of the world outside academia.
I reached into the bucket and held out my lobster impatiently. Its mandibles gnashed and its segments clicked as it dripped water onto the floor.
“Look,” I said, “I don’t know why you’re telling me this, but I came here because this thing spoke to me. It’s still trying to speak to me. And I don’t know what to do about it.”
I began to hear the incantation again as the water drained from its joints. “Flesh made bone, bone made flesh…” The cook raised his eyebrows a little but seemed unfazed.
“I know. I hear them too, sometimes.”
“What? How is any of this possible?” I asked.
“Lobsters are actually pretty smart—we’re lucky they aren’t smarter. About one in a million bothers learning how to communicate with us, and I run into them pretty regularly. What can I say? We harvest a lot of lobsters. Most people dismiss the noises as coincidence, but every once in a while somebody shows up claiming they found a talking lobster. This one, though…”
“Flesh made bone…” the lobster repeated.
“I haven’t heard that before,” he said.
He laid the shell on the desk.
“All you need to know is that creatures like you and me, with internal skeletons and backbones, we weren’t always like this. I’m no linguist, but from what I’ve gathered from the writing on this shell, and what the lobsters say, at some point we swapped.”
“What do you mean, ‘swapped’?” I asked.
“I’m saying lobsters and crabs and spiders and whatnot used to have bones, like us. And monkeys and rats and people used to have exoskeletons. A long time ago we made some sort of trade. That’s the best way I can describe it. No idea how it happened, but that’s when human evolution really got going. And you see it in the fossils. Like I said, before a certain point, there’s nothing. Then early humans showed up about six million years ago. That’s because the exoskeletons of our ancestors didn’t fossilize correctly. Stuck-in-the-mud archaeologists won’t believe it because there’s nothing left to analyze.”
“Except this shell, apparently,” I said. Talking to a lobster must have messed with my brain, because I wasn’t ready to completely discount what this guy was saying.
“Yeah, exoskeletons are something else,” he said. “Evolutionarily speaking, they are incredibly stable. Lobsters and other invertebrates haven’t changed much in millions of years. They live long lives for their size, up to half a century. But that’s the thing—there’s an artificial cap. Lobsters can’t grow too big because eventually they stop molting. Their exoskeletons hold them in, then fall apart, unlike our bones, which are alive. Imagine being trapped in a prison of your own decomposing skin.”
I looked at the wriggling, clattering arthropod I held in my hands.
“You can see why the lobsters aren’t exactly happy with the arrangement,” he said.
The lobster piped up again. “Flesh made bone, bone made flesh…”
The cook—or disgraced archaeologist, or whoever he was—bent down and looked the lobster in the eye. “My best guess? This guy’s about 30 years old and starting to lose his mind. I think he wants your skin.” He laughed as I instinctively threw the lobster back in the bucket.
“What do other lobsters say?” I asked, wiping my hands on my pants.
“Oh, you know, they complain about their lack of opposable thumbs, or how climate change is warming the oceans, or how the lobster fishing industry is on the verge of exterminating their kind. I used to save all the smartest ones I came across, but these days I boil them on sight.”
“What!” I exclaimed, “How can you kill a clearly intelligent creature?”
“Look, I’ve spent a long time thinking about this and nearly as long being laughed out of my field. If ancient invertebrate humans were able to figure out how to grow internal skeletons, then maybe lobsters will figure out how to get their skeletons back. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to take that risk.”
As I tried to imagine what a fleshy, pink-skinned lobster would look like, the cook positioned the ancient shell under his right arm. It curved around his ribcage almost perfectly, and the joint at the top folded into his armpit. When he released his hand, the fit was so tight that the shell clung to his body.
“You see?” he said, “This is what we were meant to be. We broke out of our confinement and our evolutionary potential became infinite. Our brains exploded in size, our nervous system extended to the surface of our skin, and our fingers became both powerful and nimble. I don’t blame the lobsters for wanting what we have.”
He removed the shell, then untied his apron and pulled off his shirt. Across his stomach and chest were more shells, interlocked in segments, crudely sewn into his flesh. Some were larger, pitch-black pieces, and other were smaller and bright red. I took a few steps back.
“Every few years, another one of these ancient shells shows up in the lobster nets. Usually the fishermen don’t notice, and send them with the rest of the catch to the restaurant. I pick them out of the garbage and add them to my exoskeleton,” he said, lightly tapping his armor. “Lobsters like yours help fill in the gaps.”
I swallowed. After everything I had experienced that evening, a half-naked man covered in lobster scales shouldn’t have surprised me. My brain screamed at me to run, but I just stood there.
“But now humans have reached our peak, and we risk backsliding,” he said, slowly walking toward me. “Allowing vertebrate evolution to continue unencumbered could be disastrous. In many ways we were lucky to develop as successfully as we did—extreme environmental pressures, and natural selection, gave us our gifts. Now that we are the world’s dominant species those pressures are exerting the opposite effect, shrinking our muscles and brains. Within 5,000 years—a millisecond of evolutionary time—we will only have four toes. Four toes!”
I backed up until I ran into the wall, and the cook stopped inches from my face. A scent of smoky brine emanated from his body.
“Just as ancient humans once made the decision six million years ago to acquire a backbone for the betterment of the species, we must now make the decision to return to our natural form and preserve the future of humanity,” he said, gently caressing his shell segments.
“And how are we supposed to do that?” I asked stupidly.
His body slackened and he sighed. “Honestly, I have no idea. With any luck, someday my research will reveal the answer. Until then, I do what I can, collecting artifacts and sharing my knowledge.”
My phone buzzed. My wife had arrived and was waiting for me at our table.
“Look, thank you for your time, and your, uh, theories, but I have to go,” I said. “I promised my wife a lobster dinner.”
“I understand,” he said. He reached toward me and I winced. But he was just opening the door.
I walked back out into the kitchen, ducking as a tray went whizzing by my head. Suddenly a hand reached out and grabbed my bucket, tugging it firmly in the opposite direction. It was the cook.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked. “I’ll cook this up for you and have it out right away.”
“Oh, no thanks,” I said. “Even if everything you said is true, I still don’t want to eat a conscious being, you know?”
I pulled the bucket harder, causing the water to slosh around, but the cook held on tight.
“I’m afraid it’s not in the best interest of humanity to let this one live,” he said. His eyes narrowed. I looked around, but everyone was so busy doing their jobs they didn’t seem aware of our existence.
In one swift motion I snatched the lobster and let go of the bucket, causing the cook to stumble backwards. I squeezed between two counters and moved as quickly as I could toward the dining area without knocking into anyone. It wasn’t fast enough.
As I passed the lobster tank, the cook caught up and grabbed my pants leg. I fell forward, hitting the floor hard and narrowly avoided crushing my lobster. The other cooks and servers were beginning to notice that something unusual was happening, even for the standards of a bustling kitchen. For a brief moment everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at the scene: there I was, lying on the floor next to a lobster while a shirtless cook covered in shells stood over us menacingly. The entire kitchen was silent just long enough for me to make out the swishing, clacking words of my lobster.
“Flesh made bone,” it said, clamping its claw onto an exposed part of the cook’s ankle where he had not yet attached a shell. The cook screamed in pain and blood poured from the surprisingly deep wound.
“Bone made flesh,” the lobster said as it struck again, sending the cook hobbling backward where he fell over the edge of the lobster tank and plunged into the water.
The lobsters in the tank converged on the cook like a school of piranhas, biting into his flesh with tiny mandibles and instantly filling the water with blood. The light reflecting from the tank bathed the kitchen in red. Someone screamed.
In the chaos, I calmly picked up my lobster and dropped it into the tank with the others. Within minutes, as the blood diluted enough to see inside, large portions of the cook’s flesh had been severed from his bones and drifted to the bottom. Lobsters gathered under it happily, pulling it around themselves like a blanket and nuzzling the globs of skin and each other.
I took out my phone and texted my wife:
“Change of plans. Let’s meet at the Red Lobster in Trenton.”
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2021.10.22 16:46 10XEngine How I Created My Email Sequence
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2021.10.22 16:46 TheDelucaBoy I “forgot” my (31M) gf’s (29F) birthday in a conversation
Me (31m) and my GF (29F) of two years were sitting in her car on a parking lot. I was playing her a song from an album I loved as a kid. I mentioned it was released in 1994, a year after she was born. Before being able to correct myself she quickly says I must be thinking about someone else (she was born in 1992, ex-gf in 1993).
She had to drive home since it was getting late so I left her car and went home. I texted her saying I of course know when her birthday is, and that I wasn’t thinking of anyone else, but that I said it wrong. I tend to speak before I think unfortunately. In all honesty, I don’t think about my ex at all, but GF is now furious and don’t want to speak to me. She is convinced I mixed her birthday year with my ex birthday year.
She answered in one of the texts saying “you have been with so many women, I am just another date (birthday) for you. Who cares right”. I know she has trouble accepting my past (which I only ever spoke about when she kept asking me certain things). I feel like this is mostly her insecurity speaking, but I do see that I shouldn’t have said the wrong year. Should I just admit that I mixed them up or stand my ground? I didn’t think about my ex, it all happened so fast. But on the other hand, what if she’s actually right. Maybe somehow I did mix them up even though it was unconsciously.
No matter what I do, she is at least not speaking to me now.
TLDR: Might have mixed up my gf and my ex gf birthday year. Honestly don’t know, but I think I just misspoke. Do I admit something I don’t believe or stand my ground?
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2021.10.22 16:46 New-Treat-9574 Meeting new people after break up
So it’s been a bit over a month since the break up and I’m just feeling lonely as hell. I (M19) think meeting new people would be good for me, either male friends or new girls. During COVID and my previous relationship I stopped making an effort to keep connections and meet new people. So I guess I’m asking for advice on where and how to meet new people? Thanks.
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2021.10.22 16:46 shagged52 Looking for a male friend I live in Belmont work in Charlotte check out my other posts.
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2021.10.22 16:46 BlackITR Found a nice Integra Type R today courtesy of Target…
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2021.10.22 16:46 spacepolicy China’s hypersonic vehicle test a ‘significant demonstration’ of space technology
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2021.10.22 16:46 thevisiblewoman TGIF ⭐
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2021.10.22 16:46 heyrobretro Al Fresco dining?
2021.10.22 16:46 spacepolicy Space Adventures no longer planning Crew Dragon flight
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2021.10.22 16:46 football_fan_0696 Referral code
2021.10.22 16:46 luke_benson1112 So what modes is Lou generally good in? I’m trying to trophy push him and I want to know which modes to stick to.
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2021.10.22 16:46 tomgreen99200 $40 Million Miami, Florida Penthouse Featuring Floor to Ceiling Windows and an Indoor Swimming Pool [5000 × 3333]
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2021.10.22 16:46 420fmx Pizza w pickles & sourcream with a side of coleslaw
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2021.10.22 16:46 joeyLAKAI Darkrai RAID OKDUDESHUTUP 3785 9485 1173 GNARLJOE 1204 2751 7637 ELMOISAWSM 9702 2348 2033
2021.10.22 16:46 ImFlav Anyone can trade Ronaldo against vardy or yashin ?
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2021.10.22 16:46 OlmoLaVergaLavalle Aqui ya andaba bien astral
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