I am also in the "phone calls freak me out." Admittedly, I like them as an easy way just to talk to someone, but it's really hard for me to do unless I know the person. Like, I can't see their body language and, outside of tone of voice, have no real cues. Kinda gotta a little to reliant on text messages just because I don't quite feel as terrible talking through them as phone calls.
I guess I'm weird; I didn't like making phone calls when I was very young but I haven't had a problem with them in a long time. It's texting that I really don't like.
You are the end result of a “would you push the button” prompt where the prompt was “you have unlimited godlike powers but you appear to all and sundry to be an impetuous child” – Zero, 2022
The only time I had trouble with texting was during my internship. Some days my boss would text me and say something like "I'm going to be at the other office, so you'll have to let yourself in." But she'd send the text after I was already on the way there and I wouldn't see them until I'd arrived at the office...so do I respond or not? ._.
I don't text fast, or write fast, and it always freaks me out that I've only just sent a text and then I get another back. Like how the fuck.
I always deliberate over every word, because I worry that it might be taken the wrong way somehow. I do the same online, actually, but it feels like I'm under less pressure online.
Although now I actually think about it I'm not sure why that is, since more people will see stuff I post online. Hm.
One of the priests (history has not recorded their names) explains to the Archbishop that Montesecco had bailed out when he learned that the assassination was to take place in a cathedral. "God will see me there," Count Gian Battista de Montesecco had said. However, the priests are happy to take his place. The symbol to strike, they tell the archbishop, is the ringing of the bell to signal the elevation of the Host. Everyone will be praying. What better time to strike than when a man is bowed down, with his eyes closed, and suspecting nothing?
I should have bailed, thinks Archbishop Francesco Salviati, like Jacopo di Pazzi did.
Perhaps the priests can read Salviati's thoughts, for they give him the news: Jacopo di Pazzi, the old patriarch of the Pazzi family, has changed his position on the plot. He had said that he would never join without Papal support, so it seems Pope Sixtus and Jacopo have thrown their lots in against the Medici. Surprising, considering that Jacopo's Nephew is Lorenzo's brother in law.
The support is stronger than Salviati knows. There is now an army outside of Florence, on the side of the Conspirators.
The small town of Imola really should have been inherited by Girolamo Riario, the Pope's nephew, who was by all rights the true heir. Lorenzo di Medici had bought the town and claimed it as his own, claimed it as a part of Florence. Girolamo was furious. Girolamo had a nephew, the seventeen-year-old Raffaele Riario, who was a Cardinal Pontiff, the Son of Pope's Sixtus's neice.
However, Raffaele Ririo knows nothing of the conspiracy. He's supposed to be returning to Rome from his duty, and then to his home town of Pisa. As fate would have it, the innocent Pontiff heard that his uncle Girlamo would be in Florence on Easter sunday, and has decided to visit. Nobody realizes this.
Meanwhile, Francesco di Pazzi glomps Guiliano di Medici, and pats Medici's sword belt, where a sword should be but isn't. They are now about a block from the Duomo, and mass will begin in a few minutes.
'Yeah? On whose authority?' Vimes swung his crossbow up. 'Mr Burleigh and Mr Stronginthearm,' he said, and grinned. The two guards exchanged glances. 'Who the hell are they?' said one. There was a moment of silence followed by Vimes saying, out of the corner of his mouth: :'Lance-Constable Vimes?' 'Yessir?' 'What make are these crossbows?' 'Er... Hines Brothers, sir. They're Mark Threes.' 'Not Burleigh and Stronginthearm?' 'Never heard of them, sir.' Damn. Five years too early, thought Vimes. And it was such a good line, too. 'Let me put it another way,' he said to the guards. 'Give me any trouble and I will shoot you in the head.' That wasn't a good line, but it did have a certain urgency, and the bonus that it was simple enough even for an Unmentionable to understand.
'Yeah? On whose authority?' Vimes swung his crossbow up. 'Mr Burleigh and Mr Stronginthearm,' he said, and grinned. The two guards exchanged glances. 'Who the hell are they?' said one. There was a moment of silence followed by Vimes saying, out of the corner of his mouth: :'Lance-Constable Vimes?' 'Yessir?' 'What make are these crossbows?' 'Er... Hines Brothers, sir. They're Mark Threes.' 'Not Burleigh and Stronginthearm?' 'Never heard of them, sir.' Damn. Five years too early, thought Vimes. And it was such a good line, too. 'Let me put it another way,' he said to the guards. 'Give me any trouble and I will shoot you in the head.' That wasn't a good line, but it did have a certain urgency, and the bonus that it was simple enough even for an Unmentionable to understand.
night watch is probably the best of the city watch books, i think
'Yeah? On whose authority?' Vimes swung his crossbow up. 'Mr Burleigh and Mr Stronginthearm,' he said, and grinned. The two guards exchanged glances. 'Who the hell are they?' said one. There was a moment of silence followed by Vimes saying, out of the corner of his mouth: :'Lance-Constable Vimes?' 'Yessir?' 'What make are these crossbows?' 'Er... Hines Brothers, sir. They're Mark Threes.' 'Not Burleigh and Stronginthearm?' 'Never heard of them, sir.' Damn. Five years too early, thought Vimes. And it was such a good line, too. 'Let me put it another way,' he said to the guards. 'Give me any trouble and I will shoot you in the head.' That wasn't a good line, but it did have a certain urgency, and the bonus that it was simple enough even for an Unmentionable to understand.
night watch is probably the best of the city watch books, i think
's far as I know, there's no cows in night watch. You must be mistaken, sir.
'Yeah? On whose authority?' Vimes swung his crossbow up. 'Mr Burleigh and Mr Stronginthearm,' he said, and grinned. The two guards exchanged glances. 'Who the hell are they?' said one. There was a moment of silence followed by Vimes saying, out of the corner of his mouth: :'Lance-Constable Vimes?' 'Yessir?' 'What make are these crossbows?' 'Er... Hines Brothers, sir. They're Mark Threes.' 'Not Burleigh and Stronginthearm?' 'Never heard of them, sir.' Damn. Five years too early, thought Vimes. And it was such a good line, too. 'Let me put it another way,' he said to the guards. 'Give me any trouble and I will shoot you in the head.' That wasn't a good line, but it did have a certain urgency, and the bonus that it was simple enough even for an Unmentionable to understand.
night watch is probably the best of the city watch books, i think
's far as I know, there's no cows in night watch. You must be mistaken, sir.
I theoretically could write about theremins, if I were actually capable of writing about theremins, and if I could in some way link them to the theme of death in a way that wasn't too transparently bullshit.
School is something where one's presence is forced and one need not say anything other than what is demanded. It is like being a part of a machine. A phone call is more dynamic.
They can be good or bad, but mostly they're bad. It's a form of punishment that's meted out for doing something dumb but not so dumb that you have to go stand tall in front of the colonel. Page 11's can fuck up your chances for promotion and other things.
They can be good or bad, but mostly they're bad. It's a form of punishment that's meted out for doing something dumb but not so dumb that you have to go stand tall in front of the colonel. Page 11's can fuck up your chances for promotion and other things.
But, I'm still getting to write about theremins. Do you get to write about theremins? No, no you don't.
This is my blessing and my curse.
i, too, could write about theremins if i so wished. instead i write about things like people getting shot, hacked off fingers, young children, kindly Indian grandmothers, drumming and kebabs. and thats one 22-line poem
I feel like I'm awkward on the phone because I don't have a way to gauge the feeling they're trying to convey as well since voices aren't as predictable as, say, faces or text.
I mean, someone could be speaking the same way they normally do but their face shows that they're pissed off or something-- believe me, I do it all the time. On the opposite side of the spectrum, taking the facial aspect of conversation away from the voice renders my own thoughts to be something I have to express by speaking, and that makes me feel like I've got to make every nook and cranny of my thought process known immediately, as opposed to writing, which is a little more clear because I get to analyze my thoughts a little more before letting them out.
Comments
I always deliberate over every word, because I worry that it might be taken the wrong way somehow. I do the same online, actually, but it feels like I'm under less pressure online.
Although now I actually think about it I'm not sure why that is, since more people will see stuff I post online. Hm.
I should have bailed, thinks Archbishop Francesco Salviati, like Jacopo di Pazzi did.
Perhaps the priests can read Salviati's thoughts, for they give him the news: Jacopo di Pazzi, the old patriarch of the Pazzi family, has changed his position on the plot. He had said that he would never join without Papal support, so it seems Pope Sixtus and Jacopo have thrown their lots in against the Medici. Surprising, considering that Jacopo's Nephew is Lorenzo's brother in law.
The support is stronger than Salviati knows. There is now an army outside of Florence, on the side of the Conspirators.
The small town of Imola really should have been inherited by Girolamo
Riario, the Pope's nephew, who was by all rights the true heir. Lorenzo
di Medici had bought the town and claimed it as his own, claimed it as a
part of Florence. Girolamo was furious. Girolamo had a nephew, the
seventeen-year-old Raffaele Riario, who was a Cardinal Pontiff, the Son of Pope's Sixtus's neice.
However, Raffaele Ririo knows nothing of the conspiracy. He's supposed to be returning to Rome from his duty, and then to his home town of Pisa. As fate would have it, the innocent Pontiff heard that his uncle Girlamo would be in Florence on Easter sunday, and has decided to visit. Nobody realizes this.
Meanwhile, Francesco di Pazzi glomps Guiliano di Medici, and pats Medici's sword belt, where a sword should be but isn't. They are now about a block from the Duomo, and mass will begin in a few minutes.
Vimes swung his crossbow up. 'Mr Burleigh and Mr Stronginthearm,' he said, and grinned.
The two guards exchanged glances. 'Who the hell are they?' said one.
There was a moment of silence followed by Vimes saying, out of the corner of his mouth: :'Lance-Constable Vimes?'
'Yessir?'
'What make are these crossbows?'
'Er... Hines Brothers, sir. They're Mark Threes.'
'Not Burleigh and Stronginthearm?'
'Never heard of them, sir.'
Damn. Five years too early, thought Vimes. And it was such a good line, too.
'Let me put it another way,' he said to the guards. 'Give me any trouble and I will shoot you in the head.' That wasn't a good line, but it did have a certain urgency, and the bonus that it was simple enough even for an Unmentionable to understand.
I remember liking Sourcery a lot. And Guards! Guards!
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
making phone calls, things like that etc. are kinda stuff you end up having to learn to do
i used to get nervous about them but now i pretty much dont. you get used to it
And then Duck and the fan DIED.
...not dead like Lottie, but dead like the blinkered mildew on a cloistered honeybumpkin in starfield on a rendered cupmitten.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
But, I'm still getting to write about theremins. Do you get to write about theremins? No, no you don't.
This is my blessing and my curse.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
I've never liked phone calls, although I can do it if necessary.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
When I hear "theremin" I think of Led Zep's "Whole Lotta Love" and that is all
Now touch the wet hippo.
I demand to know
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead