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Braille's Cortex

@braillecortex / braillecortex.tumblr.com

Random BS wheneverly

i like working at plant store. sometimes you ring up someone and there's a slug on their plant and so you're like "Oh haha you've got a friend there let me get that for you" and you put the slug on your hand for safekeeping but then its really busy and you dont have time to take the slug outside before the next customer in line so you just have a slug chilling on your hand for 15 minutes. really makes you feel at peace with nature. also it means sometimes i get to say my favorite line which is "would you like this free slug with your purchase"

@holyknuckled you get it. lterally what are we here on earth for if not to occasionally impose gastropods upon unsuspecting customers. this story is delightful

oh? my god???

yeah, Exactly like that

long-distance mech pilots don’t need to worry quite so much about traveling light. when you’re walking around in several tons of metal, especially one built to wander, you aren’t quite to the point of needing to choose which of two keepsakes you have room in your bag for— there’s plenty of space for both.

Things are different for interstellar knights.

You see, whether wandering alone or setting off on some quest for their lord, a knight’s only home is their armor. Anything they bring with them, they must carry within that armor, even through battles— and as such, every gram and every cubic centimeter can make the difference between life and death, and every calorie chosen to replace a keepsake can make the difference between survival and starvation. As such, a knight’s inventory is heavily optimized— and so is their armor itself. What matters more, the heating system or the EVA boosters? The extra fuel storage or the emergency release mechanisms? Pick one, and you’ll have no room for the other unless you can cut corners somewhere else. Every single element of a knight’s armor is there because they made the conscious decision to put it there. Every weapon they’ve attached to their shell had to replace some traditional aspect of a life support system. Every inch of their shells are packed full of every system that can fit until it’s tight against the pilot’s skin to leave them bruised whenever they exit their shell.

it doesn’t take long for them to realize which superfluous components are the weakest link.

They start small, at first— often as simple as a haircut to help a tighter helmet fit better. Some try to lose weight, but quickly regret it when they find themselves near starvation on some distant moon. The ones that survive past their first year are the ones that are willing to take things a bit further— the toes on both feet, to make room for a slight jump booster. One of their ribs, perhaps— replaced with a battery that connects to the armor through a cable that winds around bones and muscles. It’s only a matter of time before they do something about those bones and muscles too.

those who have only heard the stories will say that a knight’s armor is their home. Those who have met one, seen them exit their armor and seen just how little is left of the body inside— they will say that a knight’s armor is a part of their body. Integrated into them until they cannot survive without it. Both are wrong. Even some knights cannot pin down the true answer— what they really feel as they connect their armor to the components of it that they have placed inside of them. The best ones do, though. They know it well.

A knight’s armor is not a part of their body. Their body is a part of their armor— their home, to be renovated and optimized as they see fit. To be replaced, improved, amputated and eviscerated so that it can be remade into the glorious works of art that the heroes of the galaxy become as they charge into battle and become a story worth remembering.

As the armor learns to reach into your veins, pulling oxygen from the carbon dioxide you exhale and weaving it back into your blood, the space once taken up by inefficient organic lungs becomes the home of the heating system, warming you from within no matter what part of the void between stars you find yourself in. As it recycles amino acids into proteins again and infuses them back into what tissues remain, you’re free to remove your old digestive organs and find a home for your armor’s main computer, kept safe at the center of your shell. Many knights choose to put their own organic brain down there next to it, incidentally making room for more optical systems in their skulls.

Your armor is no longer simply “a part of you” and you are no longer simply “a part of it.” It is you. You are it. Your bones, its power cells, your organs its systems. You are its brain and its CPU in equal measure and its beautiful exterior plates, painted with the symbols of the lord you serve or simply the cause you stand for, will inspire others to take up arms themselves and let themselves become part of it.

your body, your home, your masterpiece

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Oh my god Italy got hit with 20% tariffs, but Vatican City didn't. Some cardinal is about to become a global leader in microchip imports.

Our commander in Chief has thoughtfully prepared a hands-on, interactive demonstration of the effects of tariffs and mercantilism on a modern, developed economy. I hope everyone has their notebooks out and is ready to learn, as this will likely be the most expensive lesson in economics ever produced for an American audience.

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if tumblr dies remember u can find me at high altitudes in the himalayas ruminating on grass and herbs and shrubs and such.

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saintsatellite-deactivated20240

i hope everyone is ready to celebrate International Down With Cis day on April 4th.

happy 9 years to the Down With Cis bus!

happy 10 years to the Down With Cis bus!

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The man who previously owned our house works at the post office. He knows I live at his old place because he sees his own old address on the mail I bring in. We have mentioned it once or twice, but it's strangely awkward, so I have never asked any of the questions I want to ask.

I have a lot of questions.

Why was there a hot tub in the house? Did you own parakeets, or were they cockatiels? Why didn't you paint any of the rooms except for one flat hunter green wall in your son's bedroom? Did you mean to leave that horseshoe here or do you want it back? Did the fact that the master bedroom doorway is much narrower than the doorway into the en suite bathroom ever bother you? Did you lie in the master bedroom staring at the beautiful big windows, silently tortured by the fact that they were 6 inches off center? Are you still mad about the big beam that traverses the 15 ft living room ceiling and how it too is maybe 3 inches off center? You lived there for 30 years and didn't install a single drawer pull; why?

But there's one question that haunts me. Every time I go to mail something it's there, threatening to jump right out of me if I'm not careful.

What the fuck is that tiny spot on the living room ceiling?

It's a 3/4" circle, probably about 11 ft up (the living room has a 15 ft peak). It is brownish. I've stood on a short step ladder and taken a picture of it and examined it as closely as I am able. It looks like gravy, slightly thinner in places, with what might be specks of seasoning in it. It is the only mark on the otherwise pristine white ceiling. It was in fact the only spot of dirt in the entire house when we moved in. Place was immaculate.

This stupid spot has haunted me since, sometime in the week after moving in, I looked up and first noticed it, right above where I sit.

I have genuinely considered having it chemically tested, paying for somebody to do fancy science to it until they can tell me exactly what it is. I've considered even just getting a taller step ladder and scraping off a sample and getting it wet to see if it has a smell.

It's definitely not poop since there's absolutely no way they would have left it up there. It's definitely not paint as the room was originally white. It's never grown or changed color, it's not mold, there is nothing above it in the structure of the house at all. It is nearly perfectly round, yet still obviously not a deliberately placed mark. There's no other spots around it. It stands alone. It must have been made from directly underneath.

And the thing is, the guy knew it was there. He absolutely knew it was there. There's no way in hell he did not know it was there. I could ask him and he would know what it was.

I'm deeply afraid I'm going to die without knowing. But how do you even begin to ask somebody, after fifteen years, about the single mysterious TINY stain they left in the entire house?

I just don't know. I just don't know.

What are you?!

In the closeup, it looks like it might be a scorch mark.

What the fuck? You know what? It kind of does. New possibility unlocked: barely-averted Christmas tree fire. The former residents were extremely into Christmas, evidently.

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