Life update

Recently, I’ve been all about my cosplay. I’ve thrown myself and two soon to be three paychecks into cosplays I have planned in the coming months. I’ll be posting pictures soon, once they’re all completed.

I’ve also discovered a new form of cosplay that I find really exciting and important. Cosplaying for a protest! Yours truly will be a handmaid inspired by Margaret Atwood’s book and the popular show on Hulu at a formal protest of Judge Kavanaugh’s nomination to the Supreme Court by Trump, because of his views on Roe V. Wade. Honestly, I don’t think that him or Trump will succeed in overturning it, but a slight threat is a threat nonetheless.

At this moment, I feel it is imperative that women stand up for their reproductive rights, before they are taken from us. I will not be forced into motherhood because the government and religious fanatics start putting their noses where they don’t belong, namely my ovaries. My ovaries are private property. I could go on and on about this topic, but I don’t want to turn my personal blog into a rant page for feminazi anger posting. I’m super excited to be cosplaying for a cause this time! Even more so than my Wizard World comic con outfits!

In other news, I hate my job. Weird, right? Since in October I took a trip to the NYC Public Library and found this new zeal for it? Yeah, well, I don’t live in New York City, though I wish I did. I found that my small town library is full of bull shit conservative politics and that years of loyalty and service can be shit all over in an instant, that positions that you’ve trained for are then given to someone else, slapping you in the face. My library is a place where creativity and self expression are silenced because having purple hair and tattoos is upsetting to the Republicunts that live in this podunk town, and God forbid we upset the conservative old people!!! Not to mention the fact that I’ve applied twice to full time positions and been shot down twice, and not having any type of advancement in the years that I’ve worked there. Not having advancement opportunities is infuriating to me, and it means I just do the same thing, day in, day out, like a robot. I’m tired of being a robot. I am in the business of creating, not doing the same mundane tasks every day, month and year without end!  I believe that libraries should be place of celebrating self expression, art and creativity instead of stifling it. Where people from all walks of life can assemble and feel creative currents flowing through the stacks, spilling onto the tables where conversations and inspirations can happen. We should be trailblazing and challenging, not catering to the political and social norms of a backwoods community. I believe THAT is the true essence of the Library. My library, however, is none of those things. It has lost it’s way, and I don’t see any of the recent management changes that have been made as heading in that direction. I hope I’m wrong.

Until a new opportunity presents itself, I guess I’ll just fake it until I make it. I don’t know what it will be but I’m on the watch for it. As long as it’s somewhere my talents will be appreciated, I don’t care.

Anyway, that’s my life right now. Here’s to us, all of us miserable fuckers in jobs we hate. May we all find work we love, and drink until we do!



The Voice of Me

Sometimes I wonder what happened to me. Looking back on all that I’ve done, all the hard work I poured into my work in what seems like decades ago, how my creative voice used to throb inside my head like a migraine, some desperate creature trying to claw its way out. How in my early years of college, I was so full of hope and confidence that I would become a great fantasy writer, the American Tolkien. (I hadn’t heard of George R.R. Martin back then.) Inspiration seemed to be something I could pluck from the air, words flowing forth from my mechanical pencils into journals that to this day remain unfilled.

What the hell happened to me? What have I become, because I’m certainly not a writer. Not for at least three years.

A college friend told me that working mundane jobs let your creative mind run free and helps generate fresh ideas. I rue the day I listened to him. (You know who you are, you bastard. Fuck you for ever saying that to me. K, luv u, byeeee.)

A mundane job doesn’t let your creative mind wander, it shackles it, neuters it, lobotomizes it, unless you actively and diligently pursue creative things outside of work. I tried for a while, but I lack discipline, something I’ve always despised about myself. And I think another arrow to my creative knee was that working around books all day, I lost my desire to crack one open on my own. Book slinging does that. I guess being a slave to books makes you sort of despise them, or at least feel indifferent toward them. For this book slinger at least.

Not only does my mundane, book slinging job neuter my creative mind, but it also limits my creativity in appearance. I’m no stranger to bright and colorful hair dyes. I like looking different in any way I can as a straight, white female. I don’t like to fit a mold or label. My library has recently made a dress code rule that forbids “unnatural” hair dye colors, because it is unprofessional. To which I say, “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!” It’s bad enough that I have to suffer the patrons of this backwater, ignorant, Republican, racist town, now you’re going to muzzle me and tell me what I can do with what grows out of MY HEAD?!!! Fuck your rules.

But I digress. Things are only as bad as I make them. I can’t control what people do, only how I react to them, and rather than go straight out and dye my hair purple and get my happy ass fired, I decided to wait until I find a more open minded place of work. Which is a shame because I work for a library. It should be an open minded place to be, in a perfect world.

So, to sum up, I’m jerking a knot in my own tail. I’ve allowed myself to be shackled for far to long. I’m breaking free, even if I have to claw and scratch my way out of my own depressed and undisciplined mind to do it.

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum, bitches.


New character bios

Dear readers, I can explain. That’s assuming I have any.

My extended hiatus and neglect of this blog can only be attributed to two things in varying degrees and intervals: extreme business and extreme laziness. I’m sure I don’t need to explain this to other writers, but it takes large amounts of discipline to make oneself write, and despite my attempt at discipline in other areas of my life, such as fitness, it’s not quite as easy with writing. Most of the time my muse seems mute or damn near dead, which doesn’t help. I’ve also tried three writing prompt books which get the ball rolling, but never seem to be what I want to write about. The only thing that seems to get my fingers typing these days is Dungeons and Dragons character backstories, which honestly isn’t a terrible way to spend my creative energy. The only thing that will suck is waiting for the opportunity to actually use the characters in gameplay, but I digress.

So, my latest characters are quite a unique pair. I’ve been inspired by characters who are complete bad asses despite a disability they have. This is Etain, from a movie called “Centurion”. I highly recommend it. She is mute from having her tongue cut out. She is a badass character, tragic, vengeful and almost mystical in her abilities in tracking, hunting and killing.

I played around with the idea of a mute character and using sign language while playing dungeons and dragons. So, I created these two “brothers”, the mute and his interpreter. I look forward to playing the mute.

Bond of Brotherhood

The story of Tihomir Mooncrest is not an easy tale, nor one that he could tell you himself. I am his brother, Bevin Mooncrest. I hale from the Bay of Dancing Dolphins, from a region known as Dambrath. Pretty plain region, mostly humans, with some Drow and half Drow.

I lived most of my life with my parents who were local tradesman and artisans. I travelled often with them, learning the trade that would one day be mine to take over. On one such trade excursion, when I was about seven years old, our travelling caravan came upon a grizzly scene. A Drow family had been overtaken by a roving gang of cultists, or so we assumed. We found a symbol of Loviatar in the severed hand of one of the adult Drow, though we couldn’t rightly say whose hand it was. We assumed all were dead, when a gurgling sound caught the attention of my father.

Underneath the whipped and torn asunder flesh of his parents was a Drow elfling, seemingly about my age. He was bleeding profusely from his neck and we feared he may not live, but my mother insisted on taking him to the nearest village where he could be healed. His flesh mended with much scarring, but his voice was lost forever to him. Seeing him in such an orphaned and wounded state grieved my mother, and my father consented to us taking him as our own. I think they were unable to conceive another sibling for me as I was born to them late in their child bearing years, so this seemed the natural solution to both their grief and Tiho’s. I call him Tiho, but whether he lets you call him that is up to him. He communicates through signs with this hands, and I’m the only one who understands him, now that we are grown and my parents are passed on.

My cousin now runs the trade business, and I remain in the field looking for items to sell. Tiho seeks revenge on the cult of Loviatar, and I will follow him until he finds it, and send back whatever tradable goods we can sell to my cousin. Tiho more than makes up for what I lack in stealth. We’ve even acquired some standing with the thieves’ guild or two in various cities. You got a job, we’re ready, willing and able, until something better comes our way.

Human and Drow males

Tihomir Mooncrest — Rogue

Bevin Mooncrest – Class TBD

There and Back Again: A small town girl’s tale of weekend in the Big Apple.


I’ve only just returned to my “normal” life after a whirlwind weekend in the Big Apple, and my eyes have finally returned to normal size, and my feet have recovered from over 20,000 steps. I was attending a wedding in the Long Island area on Sunday, and Saturday was all mine to explore what I could of the city and I made sure not to waste the opportunity. My hubby was good enough to take me around the city. (Love you, baby!)

The highlight of the trip for me was, of course, the New York City Public Library. Some of the country’s most rare collections are stored there, only to be viewed and used by scholars of high credentials. Works and notes from such famous authors of T.S. Elliot, Jane Austen, Mary Shelley, and even drafts of the Declaration of Independence written in Thomas Jefferson’s own hand! I’m told he has very neat penmanship.

The library has over 11 million materials, some available to check out, but mostly reference materials and rare collections that can only be used “in-house”. Touring the library, I could feel my eyes go to saucer size when I was told scores of impressive facts about the library, like it’s seven basement layers of stacks of books, and the marble used in its construction was the same marble that composes the Parthenon!

I found myself asking pages and any library staff I happened upon if they loved their job, and the unequivocal answer was yes, and it was the most genuine yes I’ve ever seen. I told them that I also worked for my local library and was enthralled by the enormity of theirs, to which they merely smiled and laughed. Just a normal day for them I suppose, with thousands of titles coming to and fro on their state of the art dumb-waiter. One page was even dressed as a Ghost Buster, complete with proton pack, as this library served as the exterior for the original Ghost Buster movie.

At the end of the tour, a person asked the question of the tour guide that I was happy to chime in about. He asked, “Do you see libraries not existing in the future because of digitization of books?” My tour guide answered with a resounding “No.” “Google has already tried to do something like that, and it was squashed,” she continued. “There are some things of intrinsic value that you can’t just scan and post on the internet. There are notes on our original library catalogue cards written by librarians from many years past that are not available for public view. There are our rare collections of books that can’t be scanned and can barely be touched without the utmost care and special conditions. Such things could not survive a digital transition.”

After she finished, I chimed in. “In addition to that, libraries provide services that aren’t necessarily available online, and for people who still don’t have internet access and computers. Voter registration, programs to help people work on resumes to get employed, a place for the homeless to come and find ways to make their lives better. These are things that aren’t always available online.”

All of this to say, libraries aren’t just where books live. They are where information lives, and this makes them priceless, irreplaceable pillars of our society.

Such a trip to such a large city, as a girl who grew up in small town, rural Ohio, could make one feel small, and I did, but only in stature. In other ways, I felt bold, like Bilbo on an adventure. And I felt reinvigorated to return to my small branch of my public library. Because a life is small, doesn’t mean it isn’t valuable, and I found that I have fallen back in love with my life recently, and especially in love with what I do.

My name is Brittany, and I’m a proud circulation assistant at my local library.

Have a great day, everyone!


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Dungeons and Dragons Character Backstory.

I recently started playing Dungeons and Dragons with a great group of people. I’ve wanted to play for a long time, and now I finally had the opportunity, and it’s been a great ride so far. I wrote my character’s backstory before our first campaign and I’m rather fond of it so I thought I would share. Here it is.

The Nature of Duty
She had another name once, a beautiful name, and a feared one. When the other elves spoke it, their voices hushed in  reverent awe mingled with a tinge of fear and desire. She didn’t walk in the footsteps of greatness, she was greatness. The peak of elven battle prowess, at the height of a career forged in battle and service to her king. King Balcharan. Her lord, her master, the man whose trust was placed in her. At age one hundred and fifty, Niniel Galanodel was appointed as high guard to the king, a very young age for an elf to achieve such distinct, lofty position. King Balcharan at the time had a wife, Queen, Naerdiel who had just been delivered of a son, Prince Arphenion. When the blessed event came to pass, the king summoned Niniel to the royal nursery. The elf princeling lay cooing in his crib while the king watched him fondly, smiling, a sight not often seen in the halls of court.
Upon entering, Niniel took a knee.
“Your servant, my king.”
“Rise in my favor, servant.” Niniel obeyed, eyes remaining on the floor out of respect
“You are how old?” Among elves, this is not such a rude question as it is among humans..
“One hundred and fifty years old, majesty.”
“Young, for our kind, but your worth has been more than proven in my service. You’ve fought in the army, campaigns all over Faerun, climbed the ranks quickly, and now you’re here. Loyalty such as this should be rewarded, do you not think?”
She had not noticed but but her king had moved uncomfortably close, his finger hooking under her chin, raising her gaze to his. Her apprehension showed clearly on her face so he retracted and waved his hand back  toward the crib.
“My child, my only offspring so far. He is everything to me. I need you to protect him. You shall be from now on my personal guard. Arantira.”
Niniel’s eyes widened. There had not been an Arantira for hundreds of years. Many in Faerun believed it to be a curse to declare an Arantira, for declaring such often brought the doom of those they were sworn to protect. However, to question her king’s judgement was not an option.
“I shall serve you with all of my strength in this matter, my king. And if I fail you, may the sword that failed to bring you justice pierce my heart and end my dishonorable life. This I swear, by the goddess Ehlonna.”
“Well spoken, Arantira. And I shall not forget this vow, nor fail to reward that which is given.”
And thus the new Arantira began her duties. Night and day she watched the child, the comings and goings of the staff who took care of  him, remaining ever vigilant. A year passed by swiftly. That’s when the shadow fell on the castle, and it’s name was Shivras the Abomination.
It was close to the witching hour one summers  night when a sudden cold front swept down from the mountains. Storm clouds began to form rapidly in the valley. Thinking this not unusual weather, everyone carried on about their business. Niniel closed the doors to the terrace of the nursery just as the rain began to pelt the windows violently. Little Arphenion grew afraid of the foul weather and began to wail. Niniel picked him up to soothe him until one of his nursemaids returned. What she could not have seen was a shadow slipping into the nursery, liquid and black as pitch. The princeling could sense the evil presence but could only wail. Lightning struck, thunder clapped,  Niniel turned around and before her stood the beast, the Abomination, the evil Sorcerer himself. To describe his malevolent horror to you is to bring one to the very brink of insanity, and his form can change at his will, so what he may be to one person may not be what he is to another. What Niniel herself saw will forever remain a mystery, shrouded in darkness and terror. Lightning flashed  again, and she turned from the dreaded horror to scream for the alarm, but her voice was drowned out by the thunder’s clap. Suddenly she was aware that something held her still, a grasping touch  on her head, tight like a vice, and a feeling of life draining from her. She clutched the screaming prince with all of her might until darkness overtook everything.
Dull sounds echoed in her ears, as voIces heard thru a wall. Her eyes fluttered open but her eyes could  not see. What’s happening?
“Wake up, you fucking bitch!” A guardsman shook her violently, striking her face hard.
“What’s happened?”
“What’s happened she says? I’ll tell you what’s fucking happened! Shivras has kidnapped our prince and it’s all your fault!”
“No …. Gods no ….” Niniel shook her head, her vision slowly returning.
“Yes, you bloody worthless Arantira, he did, and you’ll be torn to million pieces, if that’s not too good for you!” The guard elf spat in her face.
Staggering, Niniel stood up, suddenly realizing her hands were bound. Another guard was beside her, but within moments he was down, felled by a punch to the back of the head. The other was not as easily subdued, but she managed to leave him still breathing. Before more guards could spring upon her, she was out on the nursery terrace and scaling down the side of the castle walls. The rain pelted her mercilessly, but all she could think, all that was in her was to run, and she did until darkness took her again.
She awoke again, keenly aware of the smells of an animal hovel. A smithy was nearby, shoeing his horse. He saw her awaken, but said nothing, only watching her.
“Where am I?” Niniel groggily asked.
“Falcons Hollow.”
She knew the place, and it was a human settlement many many miles away from the kings castle. A hell of a start, but word and a kings justice were swift. She must leave soon, but her destination was unclear. Only one thing remained to her and to her dying day she would seek it out … vengeance!
Niniel, regaining her senses, soon traded her eleven armor for studded leather armor, and traded all of her other eleven attire for common weaponry from the blacksmith.. “Don’t sell that until at least a year has gone by. Hide it, or melt it down, but if they see you with it, they’ll torture you and kill you for information.”
Catching a glimpse of herself in the glass, she could hardly believe what she saw. Instead of her long red hair that had graced her head before, now her hair was platinum silver with strands of black scattered throughout. Whether this was a side effect of the spell Shivras had put on her or a response to the stress of the dark events that had happened, Niniel did not know, but if the eleven king was looking for a red haired elf maiden then he’d already be looking for the wrong elf. A false name would help too.
Slowly and with great pain,  Niniel made her way towards the towns inn to stock up on supplies for her journey.

Inspiration can come from anywhere. Even your ipsy bag. 

So I’m an ipsy subscriber. Have been for about a year now. If you’re not familiar with ipsy, it’s a monthly subscription. For 10 dollars a month, they send you makeup samples, face creams and other beauty products to try. It’s a great little thing. Every month I get a pink envelope with all sorts of goodies in it. 

This month, for Halloween, there was this little paper inside. They usually say something witty and try to get you to share images of yourself on social media using the cool products they send you. I usually don’t do that, but this month it had this nifty little quote on it that got my creative mind to buzzing and I liked it so much that I put it on my fridge. 

So, with the season of mystery and the supernatural is upon us, and this quote tickling my brain, I wrote this little snippet. I’m not one for werewolf fiction, and frankly it’s been done (a lot), so I don’t imagine I’ll be writing any more of this, but it was a fun little exercise to get my creative juices going. Thanks ipsy peeps!

“In my defense, the moon was full and I was left unsupervised.”
“Child, what have I told you time and again?! Go on, say it!”

“When the moon is full and no one is home, I lock myself in my room and wait until you come”, I sang in an exasperated voice , like a boring old nursery rhyme.
“Yes,” said my father, just as exasperated. “And now we’ve got a hell of a lot of explaining to do, like why the neighbors cat and THREE dogs are lying in a bloody clump in their back yard!”

“The mastiff started it,” I said with a slight smirk.

The slap startled me, and stung like a cloud of angry bees.

“If I hear one more god damned excuse come out of your mouth, so help me I’ll send you to Artemis herself!”

I held back a scoff. Dad still worshipped the old gods, which was absurd for a werewolf in the year 2017. Those old myths held nothing but superstitious nonsense for a modern werewolf, and fucking rules. As if I didn’t have enough of those already in this house.

I may have surpressed the scoff, but a low growl came out anyway and my back bristled, or felt like it did. When I’m pissed it’s hard to tell which form I’m in.

“Got something more to say?” He asked, ready to tear into me again.

“No, father.”

“Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready to go out tonight. Somebody needs to explain your mess away and a “coyote sighting” nearby is the only thing that will do. Do you realize it’s my hide you’re risking when you do this shit?! I’m the one who will be dodging buckshot tonight, not you. Or maybe you just don’t care.”

All I could manage was a whimper.

He came over and knelt down in front of me and nuzzled my face. “I know. I know you do. It’s not been the same since your mother ….” He trailed off. I could see the clump in his throat he tried to swallow.

He got up and moved to to door of my room.

 “Da …”

He turned to look at me, his face weary with sad memories.

“Will I ever be in control of this?”

“You will one day, or at least more in control. And by that time you’ll be ready to be pack leader. But until that time, you’ll do as I ask. Got it?”

I sighed. “Yes, Da.”

Confessions of a part time Disney princess.

So, I went to a renaissance fair. I’ve been an off and on Disney cosplay princess for about 3 or 4 years. I don’t do it for profit … yet. Thus far I have only done it for fun. And boy is it fun! There’s nothing better than seeing the kids’ face light up when they see me. The parents are also super appreciative and even adults like to take pictures with me.

It was Highland Weekend, so naturally I went as Merida from the Disney Pixar movie Brave. Thus far she is my only princess cosplay, because cosplay an expensive hobby. The outfit you see me in probably set me back 300-400 dollars, including accessories and wig. But it’s totally worth it to see so many happy kids. The parents often ask me if my hair and/or accent is real. Hair is a wig, I’ve bought two since starting this character, each about 30 bucks, which is really not bad for the quality of wig. The accent is of course not real. I wouldn’t dare do the accent around some of the musical performers at the event who are actually from Scotland. I’d be “taking the piss” for sure. My usual response to such questions is, “I’ll never tell!” Days when I’m Merida are definitely the best of days. Nothing better than making other people happy, and for them to meet their favorite Disney Princess, it’s a good thing.

In the pictures above you’ll see, I met some friends that day! Beautiful Ariel and I locked eyes across from each other, and there was much screaming with joy as two red headed Disney Princesses collided in hopping, squealing, fangirling delight! She was so sweet and her friend’s kids were just as excited to see me. I love meeting my fellow cosplay brothers and sisters, though I don’t see them as often as I would like, save for such events. Captain Jack even bought us both roses. Such a typical pirate, wanting red heads. “We want’s the red head!” There might have been a little touching of my “larboard side”  during photograph taking, but I would expect no less from a pirate.

Best weekend ever! I’m blessed!

On finishing “The Handmaid’s Tale”

I finally finished it. It took me a lot longer to finish because I’ve suddenly started a bad habit of reading more than one book at once, some of which are borrowed from the library, others are borrowed from friends, and others I own. I can’t tell you how long I’ve been in the midst of Voyager by Diana Gabaldon. Library books take precedence in my mind, since I only have 28 days in which to read them, not including renewals. 

Some things I noticed when reading the book, having it out on my desk at work. It’s a conversation piece. Comments ranged in variety from a pastor who found it interesting (which considering the content I was surprised he had even read it) to someone who said his wife called the book and the tv series “feminist garbage”.

Another thing I noticed is while the language of the narrator is simple, she dwells on words and phrases from time to time, almost as if she’s savoring them. I suppose when one is as restricted as Offred, savoring words in her own mind was one of the few activities she could engage in to keep herself sane. You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone, and in Offred’s world, women were not allowed to read or write.  Would that we all could savor and appreciate words in such a way while we still have them.

One thing that came up when I introduced my husband to the television series was he could not figure out who had the power in the Waterford household, the Commander or his Wife. I said I wasn’t sure, but maybe the book held some answers about that. It did, and it’s an incredibly nuanced one.

In the back of the book there is a section called “Historical Notes”. This section provides a sort of transcript of a seminar in which the events in the rest of the book are discussed as a part of history that actually happened, a clever way for Margaret Atwood to break the fourth wall and make her story seem more real. It seems the culture of Gilead is described as “patriarchal in form, occassionally matriarchal in content … As the architects of Gilead knew, to institute an effective totalitarian system or indeed any system at all you must offer some benefits and freedoms at least to a prifileged few, in return for those you remove.” This was actually in reference to the Particicution in which the Handmaids are allowed to rip a man apart because he was accused of raping a pregnant woman. In that instant, the girls are allowed the freedom to take out all their frustrations with the system under who’s heel they’ve been subdued on a man who for all they know is innocent of the crimes he stands accussed. But they do it anyway, because this one freedom is all they have.

However, if I had to picture the authority of the Commander and his Wife, it would be two conjoined circles and in the middle would be Offred, among other things. Her scope of authority is limited to the household, while the Commanders has authority outside the household, in the workings of Gilead’s government. The only times these spheres intersect is when the Commander is at home. At home, he seems diminuative, less imposing, as Offred’s scrabble games with thim suggest, and why it is such an affront to Mrs. Waterford when she finds the items from Jezebels in her house, and the makeup on her cloak. The Commander upset the tenuous status quo of the household’s rule.

This is the kind of delicate balance in a work of fiction that just floors me and really sells the realism of the book.

Way to go, Margaret.

The Emmys

I’m absolutely ecstatic today, because I found out this morning that one of my favorite TV shows, and current read as I mentioned in a previous post, won several Emmy’s last night. The Handmaid’s Tale, a book written by Margaret Atwood in the 1980’s, was made into a t v series by Hulu, and has since taken the world by storm and brought new attention to Atwood’s original work.

One of the highlights of the night, according to this article I found, said that Margaret Atwood received a standing ovation as she took the stage with the cast of the show. As a fellow writer, I’m incredibly happy for her, though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tad bit jealous. But a victory for one of us is a victory for all. Writers rarely get such widespread acclaim and vocal praise, and for her to receive a standing ovation is not only a great achievement for herself, but also inspires the rest of us to reach for such lofty heights. I offer my heartfelt congratulations to all of the cast and crew members of the Handmaid’s Tale and to Margaret Atwood, the one who started it all.

I was particularly struck by something Atwood said during the event, as quoted by the article I mentioned above.

Reflecting on the show’s success, Atwood said, “The handmaids have escaped – they’re out there, and they’re coming to you again in season two!” She also emphasised that her harrowing story had a basis in fact. “One take-away would be ‘never believe it can never happen here,’ which was one of the premises I used for the book. Nothing went into the book that people hadn’t done at some point in time, in some place.”

Never believe it can never happen here.

That’s the great and terrible burden we bear, isn’t it? We dare to imagine the unthinkable disaster that could never happen, has happened.

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