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I actually have a couple questions pertaining to this topic and braindances so bear with me for a sec.
So in edgerunners david gets kidnapped by a brain dance recorder guy who notably is very experienced but somehow forgets to take davids trackers off while attempting to cause david to develop cyberpsychosis, leading to some of us in the community to believe that david from that point on was in a matrix sorta braindance in a braindance scenario.
Perhaps this is less of a question than an observation.

1. The braindance might have been just that, a braindance that jimmy scrolled after forcing david to become cyberpsycho
   -> if so how did he recover the body to make the bd.
   

perhaps he got it from an arasaka agent, clearly we see that some members visit him to get snuff flicks and water, even in person
-> how did he recover the braindance from the destroyed brain
or is it recorded on a chip somewhere else on the body, this leads into a nebulous question of how braindances work

1. Since the braindance only showed the beginning of the anime. perhaps its really just that, a cautionary tale.
   
2. Perhaps its more sinister, an attempt to make an unlucky victim go cyberpsycho, seeing as that is the clip that started/catalyzed davids descent into cyberpsychosis.
   

​
in all three cases however I don't get how the braindance ended up there
in case 1. i'm pretty sure those braindances are both not cheap and 2. would be hidden away or disposed of more carefully due to the implications it might cause if it was traced back to the original owner.
in case 2. why put a cautionary tale in an alley, why next to davids apartment? Why not spread it around or leave it in a more frequented area.
in case 3. again it doens't make sense to randomly target a civilian if the intent is to scroll an entertaining braindance from someoen going cyberpsycho. far more efficiant to kidnap someone and do the psychosis inducing on site like the braindance guy did
​
Then again since that alley is probably where david jumps in the anime ep 1, it might just be an homage to where he hung out
​
i dunno man im gona sleep

I believe he is type one. he came home today from work and can’t remember anything is emotional saying he’s having an out of body experience and wouldn’t drink juice for his wife who ended up bringing him home. i’m a little worried i got him to eat half a pb j and drink some water but i’m nervous. is there anything i could do otherwise to help? He’s sweating and he can hold a conversation but stumbles over his words a lot and is weirdly hyper (he keeps bumping into things as well). he has no recollection of the day at all and me and him texted this morning. Does anyone have any idea at all what he’s going through ? I was reading up on maybe him having a diabetic crash but i am unsure.

I don't know what to do, I'm in a desperate situation.
Allergies are taking away everything in my life. I have no control over my body. Antihistamines do nothing. Nasal sprays do nothing. 3 years of allergy shots did nothing.
I can't sleep. I've been sleeping only 4-5 hours every night because I wake up sneezing or with extreme pressure being applied to my nose.
I experience mood disorders because the extreme pressure on my nose makes me irritable and not want to talk/spend time with people.
I can't work. My performance at work drops abruptly due to allergies and it annoys everyone else as well. I'm 26 and I did a partnership at a financial company and they actually completely isolated me and closed a physical door between me and everyone else in the company because I was annoying them.
I have been to the Hospital twice with an infection in my lungs caused by my allergies.
It's not just on Spring either. This is constant. As in, I've had allergy symptoms every single day since October. They seem to be specific to this house and not as bad in my hometown, but going back to my hometown would be a huge personal and professional hit and I can't track down what is causing them here and whether it is something in the house (eg. dust mittens that are persisting despite me having cleaned my room as much as possible, or a lot of humidity being up on the air without me being able to tell).
I'm in a desperate situation, I'm so truly sick of having to deal with this without any solution. I am going to have an appointment on Friday and I'm going to discuss with my doctor how I feel like something urgent has to be done, whether that ie a treatment plan we haven't considered thus far or a way to track down what is exactly is causing this since symptoms do improve if I'm back in my hometown.
Just felt like venting my frustration after waking up qgqin violently sneezing after sleeping for only 3 hours. Thank you for reading :)

He's a bare minimum type of dad but still wants to have rights and be involved despite being awful. I'd let him sign his rights away if he'd agree to it. Maybe someday he will and I won't have to stress about him anymore.
He was a shitty father before she was even born - I remember crying in the bathroom after he yelled at me for wanting a $100 ultrasound when I was 16 weeks pregnant cause I didn't have prenatal care yet and never got to see her or even confirm her heartbeat. I didn't manage to get prenatal care till 26 WEEKS cause medicaid was jerking me around and he wasn't helping me out at all. I was so stressed and terrified... Even worried that my baby wasn't alive inside me at certain points. He didn't seem to give a damn.
When the time came, he got pissed at me for not wanting to get induced early because he wanted extra leave to "be home and spend time with our baby"... After she was born he spent the whole time drinking and watching fuckin anime (I now despise anime), barely even looked at our baby, didn't help out with changing diapers or letting me sleep. God, fuck him. Oh, not gonna forget how I had to clean the house (it was a disaster and I was also sick the first week we were home with a bad cold) by myself to let pest control come (whole other can of worms) and had to clean again for his brother to visit despite all the pain from my vagina feeling like it was gonna fall out of my body from the bad tear I got during childbirth that took forever to heal. He bashed me for fucking SLEEPING while my newborn slept and when I exlained I had to cause she keeps me up late - no help from him - and just general exhaustion from all that my body went through and the mental toll motherhood takes on someone, he told me I need to "be a mother and get her on a good schedule".... A goddamn newborn. What the fuck, man.
I also got yelled at because I wanted to buy a few things for her arrival - he wanted to wait for the baby shower and donations. He wouldn't even let me pick out one thing for our baby. Oh, but he could purchase beer every night and buy guns and smokes! I worked till I was 35 weeks pregnant but I didn't make much and didn't have a car of my own, most of my money went to him after he blew all of what he made. I did that because I wanted the incoming money to be seen as both of ours... But he obviously didn't feel that way cause he financially abused the fuck out of me, told me it was impossible to save money, etc.
The drinking & his general lack of interest in our newborn was ultimately what broke me and made me leave. Actually, it was a huge conglomerate of all the bad treatment I had received, too. It's amazing how I started thinking rationally & my brain seemed totally rewired after I became a mother and I recognized the reality of how shitty he is after I left and had time to think.
A day before I left, I told him I was unhappy (baby was 6 weeks old) and asked if he was going to stop drinking because he had pissed on the floor the night before sometime during the night when I was up late soothing our newly 6 week old. He just said he enjoys drinking and finished the rest of his beers, nothing changed. So the next day, I packed up his car and had him take baby & I to my parents.
I had to get nasty with him to even give me $100 every 2 weeks on his paydays (cause he went 2 weeks without helping out and a week without coming to visit her). Only asking for $100 is very generous; he'd be made to pay 20% of his paycheck if I took him to court.
Today he decided to make things more difficult for me. Gave me a money order that I'll have to cash at the bank. He's aware I'll have to walk there, reactivate my old bank account and wait for a new card to be sent to me. He didn't care to ask if our daughter needed anything before screwing me over where I can't even use the $100 till the card arrives - I couldn't even do it today cause the bank was closed by then.
I've been so fucking nice to him. Was letting him pop in for visits whenever he wanted to (he'd usually come less than twice a week, never more than twice a week) till yesterday when I asked him to pick days he'd want to see her... Any days, however many days he wanted. He chose TWO DAYS a week. Fucker lives 7 minutes away, gets off work at 2pm and has the easiest job ever and his boss is super lenient with him (they're best friends) so it's not like he physically can't make it more often. And when he does visit, it's never longer than 20 minutes. He hasn't bonded with her at all.
He pissed me off today with that deliberately spiteful money order, and all the stuff he put me through that I never got to speak my mind about or receive even a simple apology for came rushing back. Especially since he still drunk texts me about how he jumps through hoops for me and does so much for our family and claims to love me... His ability to remain so delusional is baffling.
I told him to start paying me 20% from now on since he wants to make things difficult for me despite me trying to make things as easy as possible for him.
I'm so hurt and angry. Not only did I give him too many chances to fix our family, to get help to stop drinking, etc. but I was so nice to a pathetic extent. During his visits when he was acting like a miserable asshole, I'd try to make things more pleasant, offer him food, drinks, tv, attempted lighthearted conversation, tried to make playing with our baby more fun for him so maybe he'd attempt bonding with her, but he rejected all of it and continues acting like a dick, tries making my life more difficult.
It also scares me that a few nights ago he tried getting us to come over when he was drunk; he wanted to drive drunk with our baby. I will never feel comfortable sending her off with him. I will fight as hard as possible to not let that happen even if I have to move hours away. He has to prove he's making improvements, at least, but I know he won't.
I'm upset that our daughter has his last name. We never married (we planned to but thankfully didn't) so now I can't even have the same last name as my daughter. He doesn't deserve to have her carry on his last name. But if I can't ever find a way to change it, of course I'll show her reasons to love it. I don't ever want her to feel like part of her is tainted or bad, because she's beautiful and every part of her is loved.
I'm just done being nice to him. He burned a painting/letter I made him for our anniversary and posted it online for our acquaintances to see (how mature) so I clearly pissed him off. Good. It's time for him to start feeling hurt, helpless, betrayed, etc. just like he wanted me to feel. Not going to make sure things are so simple and easy for him anymore.

Me and my roommate moved into our first place (a 2 bedroom 1 bath apartment) a little under 6 months ago. The place is quite shit but the bills are cheap, its in a good place in town, and its quite spacious, so we're planning on staying for a while and want to invest into the space. When we moved in plenty of things were left unfinished and dirty. The "cleaning lady" even left her nice swifer mop which we kept. I wanna fix some cosmetic things and some actual issues.
Me and my roommate have decided to no longer include management unless there is a big issue (like how we got our leaking pipes fixed and moldy carpet pulled) But we're tired of not getting any efficient help. They only come if repairs are dire to health and safety. And even then theyre flaky and will take a long time to respond. And when they do come we have to block out our entire days, as maintenance will come hours late and stay for hours even on quick repairs. We also cant be alone with him as he is creepy and inappropriate and this makes it even harder to schedule. We suspect maintenance gets paid hrly and thats why he overstays his welcome and constantly talks abt wanting to do big, days-long, and unneeded upgrades while avoiding actual repairs.
We have already fixed smaller stuff (like putting on switch/outlet covers) but the two cosmetic ones are drawers and doors. Our doors are similar to those in a trailer home where theyre thin. They had a bunch of holes that were patched but now we're left with the infamous door vaginas. Its from where they drew in wood grain with marker and never stained over. God forbid I just want to stain them so bad. The second is a kitchen drawer, or more the lack there of. When we moved in the maintenance man said he was getting one custom made bc of its odd-small size. He offered to cover the hole with a piece of wood, but we declined bc he said the drawer would be done in a couple of weeks. We still dont have a drawer, just a hole. Can I go ahead and cover it? The only other thing is the bathroom vent, it doesn't work. Maintenance brought it up when we first moved in but hasn't since. I would probably have my dad do it bc he is skilled, unlike maintenance who took 4 hours to install a dishwasher (1hr max job) and didn't even put the dust panel on.
Management is lenient (ex: no pets allowed but every tenant has a pet). The landlord has never came, only maintenance. Maintenance man is pretty dumb. It took him two visits to notice our rabbit enclosure that is next to the entrance and half of our living room. So we think he wouldnt even notice or care if we changed things. He also has a huge man crush on my dad and always asks abt him and whenever my father is over he'll ask him for help/advice. I think if I just say my dad did it then he wouldnt even bat an eye. I feel like I've heard in some places if tenants do repairs theyre required some form of compensation, but I dont even care abt that I just want my place to feel like a home without getting into trouble.

I was looking into joining a gym but came across the Les mills on demand app. I really want to sign up but I don't have a lot of equipment. I do have a spin bike so I can do the rpm and other bike classes. I have some bands and a 8 lbs dumbbell set. I don't have a bench, steps or barbell. Do you think the app would work for me? I want to do the body pump classes but I don't really want to spend hundreds buying equipment.
Do you guys ever do the body pump classes without all the equipment?

He could well have been one of Australia's worst serial killers, who perhaps remarkably escaped conviction on any charge.
Brown was born in Merinda and spent most of his life in North Queensland.
He worked mainly as a maintenance carpenter for the department of public works, where coworkers remembered him as a polite and obsessively neat man who always had sharp creases ironed into his work clothing.
Hester Porter
In 1944 he married Hester Porter (née Andersen), who had 3 children from a previous marriage. Hester later told her older sister Milly that she had once caught Brown molesting a child, and had since tried to keep him away from children.
Later Brown started a relationship with Hester's younger sister, Charlotte, who had 5 children of her own. The affair was "known but not acknowledged" by family members. In 1978 Hester, who was now bedridden with arthritis, died after hitting her head in a fall at home. It was later revealed that the family doctor had signed the death certificate without examining the body, and that Brown had hastily had it cremated days later. Many family members believe Brown murdered Hester.
Charlotte moved in with Brown soon after Hester's death, and the couple married later in the year.
In 1982 another sister of Hester's came forward and confided in family members that she'd been molested by Brown when she was a child. This sparked a string of accusations by yet more family members of childhood sexual abuse at the hands of Brown, with a total of 45 seperate cases. Many of his child victims had been taken to Antill Creek, 25 kms south west of Townsville, to be molested. However, no charges were pursued at the time.
Mackay sisters
7yo Judith Mackay and her 5yo sister Susan disappeared from a bus stop just 200m from their Townsville home on an August morning in 1970. A search was mounted later that day, and their bodies were found two days later in the dry bed of Antill Creek.
Both girls had been raped, strangled and stabbed, and their school uniforms were found neatly folded in their school bags and placed next to each of their bodies.
Several witnesses reported seeing the girls on the morning of the abduction with a suspicious man driving a rare blue Vauxhall Victor, with some reporting the vehicle had a drivers door in a mismatched colour. Other witnesses reported the car was actually a blue Holden, however one witness, a worker at a service station, refilled the vehicle and stated the petrol cap was on the left side of the vehicle, which meant it could not be a Holden.
The physical descriptions of the man given by witnesses matched Brown's somewhat unique wiry appearance, although police at the time focused on finding the vehicle, not the driver - no identikit or drawing was displayed to the public.
Police believed at the time the car was a Holden, and the witness statements suggesting otherwise were discounted.
Brown was working at the Mackay sisters' school at the time of the murders, and relatives later reported instances of strange behaviour by Brown at the time. He seemed obsessed with the case, at one stage he falsely claimed to know the girls' father, and he offered to take other family members to the site "where the bodies were found". He also drove a blue Vauxhall Victor with an odd coloured drivers door at the time - he soon removed the door and replaced it, buried it, before later recovering it and taking it to a local tip, because "he didn't want people bothering him".
A few weeks after the murder, Brown confessed to the killings when speaking to a stranger he had spent the afternoon drinking with in a pub. The conversation was reported to police, who then spoke to Brown and officially discounted the drunken confession.
Years later Brown again confessed to the murders to a workmate, who didn't report the conversation to police, believing Brown had been joking.
Following a Crimestoppers program in 1999, a family member contacted police and the cold case was reopened. Brown was charged with dozens of counts of sexual abuse of children, and the murders of the Mackay sisters. The trial ended with a hung jury, and Brown was later deemed unfit for retrial due to his worsening Alzheimer's.
The case has been closed with all involved satisfied that Brown committed the murders.
Adelaide Oval abduction
Brown is regarded as a suspect, with the identikit of the abductor baring a striking resemblance.
After seeing Browns picture on TV in relation to the the Mackay murder trial, a witness from the Oval case, who saw the two girls being led away by a man, came forward to state that Brown was the man she had seen - this was however 25 years later, and the witness was aged just 14 at the time of the abduction. It can be argued though that Brown's distinctive appearance hadn't changed a great deal in that time.
She had also reported that the man wore horn rimmed glasses, which he had dropped and picked up. Brown was known to wear horn rimmed glasses at the time.
Attempts to establish whether Brown could have been in Adelaide at the time have proven fruitless. Employee records may have shown if he had been on leave from work at the time, but those records have been destroyed, possibly in the Brisbane floods of 1974.
The only reported link to Adelaide was from a former colleague who reported a conversation with Brown during which he mentioned seeing construction of the Adelaide Festival Centre nearing completion. This would have placed him in Adelaide at some stage during a window of time which also coincides with the Oval disappearances.
Beaumont Children
Although no other links have been made, the fresh allegations regarding the Adelaide Oval case has led to suspicion that Brown may have been active in Adelaide - and once again, the identikit of the man seen with Beaumont children when they disappeared bares a resemblance to Brown.
Marilyn Wallman
Fourteen year old Wallman disappeared in Eimeo, Queensland on her way to school in March 1974.
Witnesses reported seeing a blue Vauxhall in the area at the time. Brown and his wife, Hester, had been to visit relatives in Mackay, however Brown's Vauxhall had broken down and the couple returned home by train, with Brown returning to Mackay alone to pick up the car. Depending on some variables, police believe it possible that Brown was passing through Eimeo (around 10km from Mackay) at the time of the disappearance.
Wallman was never seen again and no body was ever found.
Catherine Graham
Eighteen year old Graham was a door-to-door saleswoman who was murdered in July 1975. She was door knocking in the area of Brown's house on the day she was murdered.
Police believe two men were involved in the crime, however Graham's body was found at Antill Creek, close to where the Mackay sisters were found.
Brown died alone in a nursing home in July 2002, leaving instructions that no public death notices be placed. Only one stepdaughter was made aware of his funeral, and he left no surviving blood relatives.
Note: I didn't write this, I just shared it.

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Today was the factory tour. I had won a spot through our local radio station. They were giving out two free passes, but I had no one else to take so I sold the other. I had called mostly out of boredom and to try out my luck. I was, to my surprise, the first to call in.
Pickup was at 9:00 AM. It had been arranged by Ardec & Ordec Winery. The cab had arrived five minutes past the pickup time: a factory van hosting the company logo on its side pulled up. I stared at the large, superimposed face of a larger woman drinking from a glass of wine. Her lips were bright red, her cheeks rosy; hair long and brown.
The door had slid open by itself. Inside, several other guests - I counted seven - greeted me with excited smiles. I stared up at the blistering sun and stepped in. The fresh air conditioning was paradise, and it smelled of lavender. The seats and floors were especially clean, as if someone had meticulously gone through every corner, crevice, and hole.
I introduced myself to the other guests, whom I noticed were holding glasses of freshly poured wine, and they introduced themselves in return. One woman, Maria, had caught my eye; strangely resembling the woman on the side of the van. Before I could utter a word to her, a glass of white wine was handed to me.
"Freshly made," said the man who had handed it to me. "Bottled just this morning."
I gave my thanks, sniffed it, and took a snip. I wasn't a wine connoisseur, but I loved the taste of it. It was exquisite, refreshing, fruity, and sweet. My personal favorite.
The tour group and I chatted on our way to the factory.
I noticed the windows were dark. When I asked why, the same man who had handed me my wine stated, "Long drive, not much to see but countryside."
Seeing the countryside was my favorite part about leaving the city on road trips. But soon, videos advertising Ardec & Ordec wines were projected onto the windows. A young woman, donning a white coat with the factory logo embroidered on a pocket, appeared as b-roll of the factory played behind her. She discussed the process of collecting the swine for winemaking and then a brief overview of what to expect during our factory tour. They gave away very little about the winemaking process, which I appreciated.
We arrived shortly after 9:30.
Upon our arrival, we were offered several more samples of their wine. One in particular, a chardonnay they had said, was especially tasty. I felt partly out of place, unable to engage with the others as they discussed different notes and characteristics of the wine.
A buzz had settled in, though, and soon, I stopped caring. I promised myself I'd enjoy the tour, and think little about whether I could participate or not. The wine tasted good. The fresh, country air was refreshing.
The factory, from what I could see, shielding my eyes from the sun, was its own small town; made up of several tall and large brick buildings. Before we could enter, our tour guide, John, instructed us to put on masks; the kind you see doctors wear.
"It's to help mask the smell," he stated, handing masks out to each member of our group. We put them on quickly, eager to get started with the tour already.
We entered through a side entrance, directly onto the main floor where the swine were housed and their sweat collected for winemaking.
The heat was almost unbearable.
Our tour group had begun to fan themselves with their hats and shirts; some pressed the still-cold wine glasses to their foreheads and cheeks.
John explained the heat was generated by industrial heat lamps. They hovered above the swine and were used to accelerate perspiration. He claimed the sweat was a key and "secret" ingredient used to give the wine its distinct flavor.
Despite the masks, it smelled foul - mostly of bacon when it's cooking and feces. Some of the other guests turned their faces away from where the smell was emanating. John noticed and instructed us to pinch the top of our masks, where the bridge of our noses met. A new smell, one of perfume, quickly replaced the former one.
John smiled up at us. "Better right?"
We nodded in unison and made our way over to a brightly lit hallway.
This hallway was as clean as the van had been. We were instructed to stand under several different shower heads. John said this would help sanitize us, as we might be bringing in germs and bacteria from the outside that could infect and harm the swine.
Finished, we entered the main factory building. It was a large, open space comprised of three rows. Each row contained six large cages where the swine were numbered and housed. The cages were made of thick iron bars and an electric netting above to keep the swine from escaping.
As John had stated, round industrial heat lamps hung from the netting. The cages contained two long troughs: one for feeding and another filled with water. They sat atop a soft, netted floor, where the sweat fell through and collected in large tanks. Large ostomy bags hung from their sides, but some were ripped open; likely from stress.
Beyond this, there was little space for the swine to move around; not that they could have moved much if they had the space.
Some of the swine weighed near 600 pounds - the illegal weight limit for our country - but most were far bigger than this, having been here for so long. They were naked; their bellies full of dirt, dead skin, and grime. Their entire bodies were soaked in sweat. Their backs and scalps were singed from being so close to the heat lamps. Some of the swine had lost their hair from so much pulling, exposing raw patches of scalp that had begun to cook underneath the heat. Flies swarmed around them, feeding and breeding on the exposed flesh.
One in particular, a female, cried out for her mother. She was the smallest of them. Number 23.
John explained she was new and had not yet acclimated to her new home. She was collected at seventeen years old, having reached the illegal weight limit a year earlier but kept hidden by her mother. The mother, he explained, had been executed.
One of the members of our tour group broke away, teasing number twenty. He looked over at us and, asking John, said, "What happens when they die?"
"Leather," he replied. "And meat."
I looked at my watch, noting the leather band had a small stamp on it: A&O.
Maria approached Number 23, with a look of recognition and sorrow on her face. She held onto one of the bars with a shaky hand.
Before anyone could take notice of her, an older woman approached us with two silver plates of freshly poured wine. They were passed around quickly, as the heat had become truly unbearable at this point. We drank in the wine, savoring more of the taste, just as Number 23 had begun to claw at her thick bed of hair; crying still for her deceased mother.

Link to original story
https://www.reddit.com/nosleep/comments/10meqmh/the_big_rock_candy_mountain_part_1/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button
The floor of the cell is covered in decades of mildew and dust. This disgusting carpet does nothing to dull the pain as I skip across it, thrown in by someone with the intention of making a point.
My Name’s Mike, and if any of you are the types to go on a deep dive, you probably know A little about me already.
For those of you that don’t, Jesus I don’t know exactly where to begin.
The Cliff’s notes would be that I spent a little over a decade either being a serial killer or a vigilante. I won’t try to justify my actions, both of those are just sides of the same shitty coin. I’m not a person to be idolized or emulated, so I choose not to plead my case.
Now, while I thought that was just about as screwed up as life could get, one day, out of the blue, after burying my best, fuck, my only friend I found myself, somewhere else. A world that looked and felt like mine, but one where the things that go bump in the night actually existed.
Where I came from, I’d seen monsters, to be sure, but only the kind that happen when people break.
Since I’ve been here? Got caught up in some demented gameshow for demons or something, threw a massive shit in the punch bowl of the thing running the production, and got the world’s unluckiest man his freedom.
And that leads me to my current situation, staring down the rage filled, mildly bruised face of that asshole, that fucking, demonic Ted Turner, Art.
He runs a hand aggressively through his slicked back hair, standing at the door to my cell.
“Looks like your little plan didn’t work, exactly as I predicted, you fuck.
I mean, great try with the little cat thing you had, honestly didn’t see that coming. But, Jesus, Mike, what was your end game? “ Art gloats.
“Cards on the table? It was a lot better, but shit fell through, that whiskey abomination, it was the one that ratted me out I assume?
That being said, still got Kev out. And you can’t really ‘flip off his lightswitch’ if he didn’t let you screw around with his wiring, can you? “ I grin, I keep it, even as a Gucci shoe slams into my face.
Am I scared? Of God damn course I am, I’ve been pissing myself (metaphorically speaking.) since I realised that the rules of reality don’t really apply any more.
Every new grain of sand on the beach of hell my life has become, tosses me further down the road of mental failure. Shit, that’s half of what fucked up my last plan in the first place.
If I could have just kept my shit together long enough, I’d be sipping a beer with Kev in some shit hole town somewhere. But the only thing harder than trying to stamp down fear in the face of God’s and monsters, is trying to do it while projecting some kind of ‘death fears me ‘ persona.
Between you and I? Death doesn’t fear me, in fact, it seems to love to hang around. And every day I have to stare down that grim spectre, the closer I get to losing the tenuous grip on reality I have .
“Oh, fuck Kev. He’s smart enough to stay off my radar, and too stupid to figure out a way to come back at me.
He's got a 1 bedroom in Idaho or something? Salud, good on him.
You, I had high hopes for, and then you decide to wipe your ass all over my carpet, cost me more than I could even explain, and even, get me a little roughed up. My favorite shell, anyway.
I want to recoup some loses Mike. So, you, get to be a part of another one of my projects.
You thought The Path was bad? Oh, you literal, fucking clown, you haven’t seen anything.
I won’t spoil it for you, the devil’s in the details and all, but you know what everyone loves?
Prison.
Not being in it themselves, of course, but seeing others, especially those they hate in there.
This place isn’t fair, the path was a boxing match with Queensbury rules, this is a handcuffed knife fight.
And I can’t wait to see you figure out, all the little surprises it has in store for you. “ Art laughs and tosses me a battered, ancient looking smartphone, “ Feel free to drum me up some good press online if you want. “
My heart is pounding, I have to use every bit of will I have to stop from shaking, to roll my neck and sit against the cold, padless cement bed behind me.
I feel sick, my stomach boiling and gurgling.
“For the love of whatever the demonic equivalent of Christ is, why not just kill me? I’m right here, I have no way of fighting back, and you know damn well that if you give me enough time, I’m going to find a way to wipe my ass on your doorframe next. “ My tone is flippant, or at least, I hope it is.
“The ego on you kid, you think you’re that guy don’t you?
They exist, don’t get me wrong, probably a couple thousand folks capable of taking me out, but trust me, you are not one of them.
This isn’t some ‘Arch’ idiocy where I leave my greatest rival alive. This is me watching you squirm because I can, and making a little profit on the deal.
Don’t flatter yourself. “ Art has produced a long thin knife as he talks, he spins and rolls it absently.
“Before your guys dragged me off, I met something. A corner store, I don’t know if it was haunted, possessed, or if it was some kind of creature that just decided to look like a knock off 7-11.
Point being, it was out there, ethereal, I couldn’t hurt it, outwit it, even slow it down. I ran from that thing as fast as I could. It gave me some serious Lovecraft vibes.
You, Art, are not that guy. “ I notice myself tapping my finger nervously on the slime covered floor, I focus, stopping the tic.
The tip of Art’s knife glows, the sick, grey sheen isn’t heat, but something that makes me start to back up.
“I am, but you will never see that. You’re not worth the effort.
I want to give you a little something though. “ Art stalks toward me, I stand as I back into the farthest corner of the cell, “ Proud of your face paint were you? “
Art grins, and for a moment lets some of his true self slip through. For just a moment I see timeless horror in his eyes, a dark black void of consumed souls and unrestrained evil.
That knife parts my flesh with pain like a whip. Without even using the blade, it’s presence flenses my face, opening up raw, textured furrows in my flesh.
He leaves after he is done, laughing to himself.
The pain makes me black out, my stomach is boiling, I come to dry heaving, the effort sends me back into the oblivion of sleep.
I don’t know how long has passed, my face feels like it is on fire, and the thick steel bars of my cell door are closed.
It takes me two minutes of cupping my hands under the grime laden steel tap to get enough water to clear off a spot on the rusted, old, wall mounted steel mirror.
No mortal hand could have scarred me as accurately as Art did. The wounds, not healed, but cauterised as to not make me bleed out, used depth, and width, to create a colorless replica of my makeup.
I know trauma, physical as well as mental, and these are scars that will never heal. As the fact sinks in that my face is literally no longer my own, I scream, heart pounding, I split open my knees on the cold cement floor.
Pain flares, threatens to send me back to the bliss of unconsciousness, but I don’t care.
I read Kev’s journals, and they paint me in a really… positive light, in a sense.
What I mean is, going by what he thought he saw, I’m some kind of supervillian or something. Tossing three hundred pound air conditioners ( it was the outer shell, seventy pounds, physics and luck did the rest.), wrestling Art ( I was clinging on for dear life, had it not been for Jr and the mass of denizens, I’d have been killed with a flick of his wrist.), or appearing like a ghost (people, even immortal are very unobservant. Especially in an emergency.).
I’m great at seeming horrifying, and that’s a weapon in and of itself, but at the end of the day, that’s all it is.
Kneeling in my own blood, vision blurry with pain, I realise how small, vulnerable, and unarmed I truly am.
By the time daylight shines through the yellow reinforced glass window, I’m already awake. I’ve spent an hour and a half calming myself, trying to find some focus, some centre to keep me going.
I’ve been in prison before, back home, first and last time I tried plying my trade outside of America.
Being the stupid payaso gringo that I am I bit off so much more than I can chew that I wound up choking on it for 2 months in a Mexican prison.
The routine of, count, lineup, chow, remained the same.
The demographics of the population on the other hand…
Being observant is one of my main skills and as I was brought into the absurdly sized cafeteria, I was taken aback at just how many people were here.
Tens of Thousands, easily, maybe a hundred. I try and think of how many missing person cases this accounts for, and even that math doesn’t quite add up.
I quickly inventory the groups that make up the place, not that it wasn’t obvious.
The first, of course are the guards. Some, the majority, appear to be human, well geared up and in intimidating physical condition.
But a handful, they are clearly, something else. Some are smooth featured ebony skinned giants, carrying truncheons that could crush a car engine. Others are grinning, pale skinned bad attempts at human copies, wild eyed and twitching.
Second would be what I called the cultists. They all appeared to style themselves after certain tropes and urban legends, clearly human, but dressing, tattooing and mutilating themselves to appear like, myths, legends, and monsters.
The subtle violence I see tells me I’ve found the gangs.
Third are the Everymen, I can’t see any kind of pattern to them, but they seem to make up the majority of the population. They keep their distance from the guards and the cultists, but on more than one occasion I see then stand, united against attempts at extortion.
The last group, I call the candles, people that are clearly on their way out mentally and physically. Sunken eyed, and set upon from all angles, at any moment these folks could be simply snuffed out.
I keep my distance, and stay respectful, the meandering, twisting line seems to take hours to get me my thick slice of crumbling yellow bread, and thick red slurry that reminds me of porridge masquerading as meat.
My coat is gone but I’m left with the majority of the clothing I fashioned back in the path. I see a mix of unwashed orange uniforms and ‘civilian’ clothing, some of the cultists, bordering more on costume than wardrobe.
As the massive, butchers apron wearing man in smeared clown makeup sits down, I wish I’d have been issued something more generic. I saw this coming the second I noticed a lump of Chlorophiles in blood stained getups.
“You sit with us. “ I can’t tell if it’s an accent or speech pattern, the clown sounds strange, either way.
I eat a spoonful of the red sludge.
“No disrespect intended, I’m not one for clubs. I’m going to make no waves, no plays, nothing. I’m a ghost. “ I say, levelly, avoiding eye contact.
Why, you might ask, having been told about my adventures in murder.
Well, that’s just it. Murder is easy, and any time you saw me end a life, it was just that.
A fight, that’s another thing entirely, especially against someone with a significant weight and height advantage.
“Not asking. You got friends. “ The massive clown moves his bulk closer, it’s like sitting next to a forklift.
I eat the bread, it tastes amazing until I swallow, then has a foul, chemical aftertaste.
I drink some tepid, burgundy fluid that might be caffeinated.
No weapons nearby, no one watching that might step in. I’m full of bruises and sprains, and probably anemic from blood loss. Not to mention one eye is running at about fifty per cent. Art didn’t sever the optic nerve last time, but he wasn’t gentle. My heart races.
“I don’t play well with people who take clowning and slap a coat of dark paint on it.
You guys are Clown Killers. You are good at killing, I’m sure, but the clown part, it’s tacked on.
Myself, I’m a killer clown…. “ I had a really good rant planned, honestly, it was a corker, douche bags would have used it in memes for a decade.
But before I can react, with one massive hand, he bounces my face off of the pitted steel table.
It rings my bell, but not as much as I let on. In clowning terms, what I do Is called a pratfall.
For those of you that don’t speak nerd, I oversell the hit, falling backwards, eyes fluttering.
I tip backwards, reaching out my left arm, as if to steady myself. The meat mountain is unbothered, knowing I have no chance unarmed, in this close, he let’s me grab one shoulder of the butchers apron. The material is thick, and matted in stains that will never come out, literally or metaphorically.
If you want to take someone out, in a relatively harmless way, you don’t want to choke them. It takes forever, usually ends up killing them, and generally is a bad idea for everyone involved.
Your goal is go cut off blood flow to the brain as quickly and fully as possible.
I hook my thumb around the opposite shoulder strap, and snap my body backward, the apron acting as an impromptu Garrotte.
His right arm is knotted through my left, as he tries to struggle, to put his murderous intent and ability to work, the choke only becomes tighter.
I don’t want enemies here, and I only have so many tricks to play before things come to a knock down drag out fight, so I leave the clown unharmed.
I do need friends, but the look I get as I take a seat at a loose collection of men is cold and fearful.
A red haired guy, five foot nine or so, makes eye contact, “Anything we can help you with? “ he says, fearless.
“Yeah, despite the face work I’ve had done, I have fuck all in common with any of those penny wise, Icp, Gacy dressed, assholes.
I need a tribe guys, you all look like the unlucky ones around here, but I don’t want to get involved in bloodshed.
I’m Mike “ I know, that’s only mostly true, but I mean it, either way. I extend a hand.
“Chris. “ the red haired guy says, he wears a white dress shirt and surprisingly blue jeans, “Those stains around your cuffs tell me otherwise.
If you’re telling the truth, that’s great. If you are lying, and still sane enough to keep your word, that’s even better. “ Chris’s tone is mirthless, I read him easily. He’s been here a long time for a short life, he looks thirty max, and I shudder to think how young he may have been when he came in.
Chris catches me up on the ins and outs of this place, beyond what a general knowledge of prison would give.
Everyone here has crimes they were not convicted of, that would, otherwise put them in jail for life. A large amount, obviously are murderers, torturers, real bastards.
But a significant minority are just regular folks, maybe a bit thoughtless, but that have collected a litany of small, petty, in cases almost victim less crimes.
No one seems to be aware of the… reality t.v. Meets demonic fast food aspect of things, but there is a Doom cherry on this fear Sunday.
There is a single way someone can get out. To earn 20 tokens.
And how does one earn these tokens you ask?
Each day the prison holds an event, to call it a challenge would insinuate a level of fair play that is simply not there. The events range from somewhat fair, a fight or game of chance, to esoteric rituals complex enough to rip someone’s soul from their body.
These tokens are also the sole form of currency in the prison, they can buy everything from commissary snacks to literal free passes from guards.
The economy has created a cut throat society, the heads of the cults not even taking advantage of being able to be free, but simply reveling in the power of being psychotic and enabled.
The weak are enslaved, their lives traded on the off chance at tokens.
So, of course, braindead asshole that I am, I signed myself right up. Feeling a little more confidant after climbing Mount Bozo.
It's 8pm and the volunteers are rounded up and brought to a massive room that has all the trappings of a gymnasium, but the scale is large enough easily hold the focus of tonight’s events.
In tiered bleachers all around us, our fellow prisoners cheer and scream. The smell of thousands of unwashed, men is overpowering, the din of excitement is deafening.
But my attention is focussed on the small, single floor home, sitting out of place in the middle of the polished wood floor.
What I wouldn’t give for Demi to appear right now, give me the low down on all the supernatural bullshit that is heading my way. But the longer we stayed in the mountain the less and less the most useful voice in my head could, or would, make an appearance.
I study each of my fellow volunteers, the goal seems simple, last the longest in the home. Men enter and leave within minutes. They come out looking shaken, with minor lacerations, and a general sense of shell shock.
By the time my turn arrives, I think I know what I’m in for.
I’m wrong.
As the baby blue door closes behind me, nothing immediately in the home causes me concern. The fixtures and furniture is a bit out of date, the lighting is, not inviting, and there is a general fog of gloom hanging around.
I smile, I’ve felt this before. Granted I had Demi feeding me supernatural errata at the time, but, I’m positive I can wing it.
“So, I think I may have met one of you guys before. Back in New York, a Happy-Face corner store, anyone you know?
Scary dude, took a couple of pieces out of me.
But this, it’s more like an MMA fight, right? I tap out when you start kicking my ass? “ I stretch, trying to see if I’m getting any kind of reaction.
I inventory the objects around me, last time everything that wasn’t nailed down, shifted, changed and tried to take me apart.
You may have noticed by now, I love using the phrase ‘ last time’, and that’s because up until this moment, I haven’t learned a fucking thing here.
Mike’s first rule of paranormal survival, last time means nothing.
“It’s you” the voice is young, late teens, and male.
I spin, expecting violence, then, wishing violence.
I know the young man, not this pale, older, revenant with a self inflicted gunshot wound, but I know him none the less.
I’m not being metaphorical when I say my heart misses a beat, I almost fall over, pounding at my chest to stop it’s arythmatic pounding.
I knew what happened to him, found it out long after I could do anything about it. And wasn’t in the best of places when I did.
I’ll call him a ghost for simplicity sake, but this kid, he’s my first, and biggest mistake.
I based who I turned into on finding what I thought was one of the worst people on earth. This kid’s father.
I did things to him worthy of what I knew he did. And to top it all off, I had him die by his wife’s hand.
Well, a decade later I find out, the guy wasn’t a Saint, but he didn’t do anything worthy of the twisted shit I put him through.
I got wind of some false information put out there in a moment of rage by a tech savvy ten year old. The kid never intended it to see the light of day
“I found out about you Mike, I saw that you were a hero. “ The voice is thin echoes like a stuck record.
“No kid, don’t think that. “ I mumble, I’m shaking, the air is freezing, each breath comes out as white mist.
I’m sitting on the flower printed couch now, and it hits me.
I’d assumed because Art couldn’t screw around in my head last time, the same went for everything here.
Remember what we said about last time.
“My told me what happened one night, what I made you do.
I destroyed her memory of him, I made a real Hero kill him, I couldn’t keep hurting people. “ I can see images, flashing in my mind, memories that are not mine.
I’m counting seconds, trying to focus, trying to stay long enough to get the token. It has to have been fifteen, twenty minutes at least.
I try to work up a smirk, to convince myself that I’m just being played by the paranormal equivalent of a heckler.
That’s not it though, This place, this house, is reaching inside me and finding places to look. As I stare into the young man’s rotted eyes I know this is some part of him, torn away from whatever rest he was entitled to.
The lights dim, then turn off. The house is silent.
Hollywood gets being both a lunatic and a hitman wrong in equal measure. No matter how much morality you want to inject into the profession, there are going to come times when you make mistakes.
As the lights slowly turn to a dull orange glow, I’m surrounded by the hovering, mutilated forms of mine.
Those that died that could have been spared, those that died because of my inaction, or stupidity. I’ve never forgotten them, I use them to make sure I never make the same mistakes again, but having them looming, screaming, all demanding I hear their stories, their accusations, their placations.
It's too much, I stumble from the couch, trying to avoid the icy touch of these phantoms. For a moment I find some last scrap of courage, I close my eyes, shut out the shrieking din of the dead.
The silence hits like a truck, I focus, trying to calm my burned out nerves.
Then they are reignited like a fucking welding torch.
“This place didn’t bring us here.
We’ve been right next to you for years Mike. We can’t leave. “ The voice of my first mistake.
Like a toddler I try to run with my eyes closed, I trip over a glass coffee table, clawing my way up the door, grasping at the handle.
I can feel a slight pull now, almost magnetic, trying to drag me backwards.
My hands shake too much, I have to steady my right wrist with my left hand, the floor becomes slick, I see the door, escape start to move further away as I’m pulled backward.
I've taken a hit or two, and had a couple of three day benders that have made me piss myself. But as I stumble, trying to make progress on the nearly friction less floor, I have another unpleasant first experience.
I grab the handle, pulling myself out of the house, launching my body into a skin peeling tumble across unforgiving plank flooring.
I’m a shaking, fetal wreck, by the time I’ve pulled myself together enough to take in my surroundings, I see the red Led clock displaying my time.
42 seconds. Bottom of the barrel. The jeers and booing from the crowd do nothing for my frayed nerves or the storm of fear and anxiety going through my mind.
I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep, it has nothing to do with the concrete slab that serves as my bed.
My stomach has been knotting and cramping, with each passing second I get more worried I blew some internal gasket in one of the many life or death struggles in the past months.
When I finally manage to vomit, the urge is strong enough I get no where near the filth crusted hole in the floor that serves as my toilet. And my worst fears are confirmed as I see the massive pile of vomit is mostly blood.
… and bones? Is that an eyeball? A piece of fur?
The mass begins to pull itself together, bits and pieces forming the most rudimentary attempt at a face.
“Junior? “ I say, stunned.

My psychiatrist has been trying to get me to take Prozac for a while now. At first, I was adamant that if we could just get my previously undiagnosed and unmanaged ADHD under control, that the anxiety & depression was linked to it, and surely it would go away. So I was staunchly against it for that reason. However, even after having been on Adderall (IR) for a while, my insomnia & depression are still horrible and my psychiatrist is convinced it's the anxiety, despite that the thoughts keeping me up aren't actually anxious ones. I cannot take standard sleep medications (history of sleepwalking) and clonazepam doesn't even make me drowsy; all it does is stop my picking urges from my trichotillomania, which is why I'm continuing to take it (for now--she said the Prozac should also get rid of those urges).
I finally caved, and let her prescribe the Prozac for me. The first night was HELL. The worst heartburn I've ever experienced in my life; tightening in the chest, awful pain, burning esophagus, burping--the works (and I'm someone who had to stop taking ibuprofen years ago for my neck injury because of heartburn, so I know heartburn). I was miserable for over an hour just thinking about how I couldn't POSSIBLY put up with this for 4+ weeks while my body adjusted to the drug. I knew I didn't have it in me. But I took some Tums and drank a bunch of water and then I found this subreddit. I poked around. I read your experiences. I found a lot of advice. Someone recommended taking the Prozac literally inside a bite of food, others said drink a bunch of water with it. So tonight, I did that. I took the pill in between bites of my food, gulped down a lot of water to chase it, then ate the remainder of my meal. I have the Tums on standby, but I haven't needed them thus far. No burning. No tightening. My throat feels fine.
I just want to express my gratitude to this community for being here, and for sharing your experiences. Without you, I wouldn't have pushed through and given it another go. I'm not even sure yet if I'm taking it at the right time for me (can't tell if it makes me sleepy or jittery, though last night I did get drowsy after I took it), but because of this community, I'm going to stick with it and see if it finally quells my anxious mind.
Thank you, prozac. Even if you think you did nothing else today, you helped a stranger.

Hi! First time poster. I’m feeling completely terrified and would love some feedback around my symptoms. I’ll keep it simple(ish).
Period Past: - Period started around 12. They were uncomfortable and HEAVY, but not very painful. - I started the pill around 15 to help with cramps, acne, and heavy flow. - Switched to IUD around 22. Removed at 24. - Worked on hormone health and had super simple periods and good health.
Period Present: - I’m now 32 and have my period every 27-28 days like clockwork. - I have two days of spotting, heavy-to-moderate flow for two days (heavy meaning I may change a Super tampon every 3-4 hours for about 12 hours), light for one day, spotting for two days - I recently got diagnosed with PMDD based solely on depression during my luteal phase. My doctor added some supplements and the depression is resolving quickly. - My cramps have gotten worse over the last year, from absolutely none to moderate now. I usually have a heating pad, ibuprofen, and stick to the couch for about half a day each period. I generally can weight lift and resume activities the rest of my period. I feel fluffy though.
Why I’m Concerned: - I had a random fertility assessment as I want to have kids soon (so desperately 🥺) and thought to get checked due to my age. I have a lot of follicles (27), but my AMH was on the lower end (1.09). I was not on my period during this test, which apparently can change things? She also said my uterine lining was thick (this was one week before my period). The doctor (not my primary gyn) mentioned looking into endometriosis. - During this assessment, they discovered two cysts: one was 2.9cm and the other was 1.5cm. I am unaware of any other cysts in my life. - One week later (last Friday, four days ago), on the first day of my period, I was cooking dinner and got lightheaded. This happens sometimes if I take an edible, so I just laid down. I did not have any cramps at the time. I then went upstairs to change my tampon and immediately felt immense pain…like a cramp from hell. I also felt like I had to poop so I tried and was about 50% productive. But the cramps kept coming and I was blacking out, fainting, screaming in pain, sweating all over my entire body, nauseous, lightheaded. Still trying to poop with little success. The cramps felt how I imagine contractions do…intense for 2-3 minutes, 30 seconds of relief, then again, repeating for about an hour. My husband drove me to the ER at this point as I’m still screaming in pain and couldn’t walk. It didn’t feel like stabbing pain, it felt like cramps deep in my body. - As soon as I get to the ER, I feel 98% fine. Of course. Felt totally fine the rest of the time - Ultrasound comes back normal, no fluid which rules out cyst rupture (I think). I never spoke to a doctor though, just discharged. - Some very light cramps the rest of my period and some abdominal discomfort. I was still able to weight lift the next day, run, and live normally. I felt (and feel) sore though. - Finished period/spotting today, still slightly sore. My mid-back feels sore, like it’s craving a massage. - Some constipation, although I’m having some BM. I just don’t feel fully relieved.
Other Thoughts: - I don’t have painful sex unless my partner hits a weird angle and then we resume (idk if that’s normal) - I can’t recall painful poops or pee…maybe? - I sometimes cramp around ovulation, though not significantly - I don’t spot bleed, although I did last year post-COVID vaxx for about 2 months
I have an OB/GYN appointment next week, but between this wild cramp episode, lingering discomfort that’s lasting longer than usual and a bit into my abdomen, concerning results from my fertility test, and the cysts (with no evidence of rupture), I’m really scared. My life has been a living hell the last 18 months and I’m finally feeling like myself again…until this.
Should I be concerned or am I overthinking?
Thank you. 🤍

What does Extended Producer Responsibility, or EPR, entail? Published by Source Intelligence at 4:30 p.m. on February 16, 2023, Extended Producer Responsibility (EPR) is an environmental policy strategy that holds manufacturers accountable for their products' entire lifecycle, including design, take-back, recycling, and final disposal. EPR policies focus on the environmental characteristics of products and production processes throughout the product chain rather than a single point in the supply chain.
Find out more about EPR and what it means for producers in the supply chain by reading on.
What is a policy on EPR? The Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) identifies the following characteristics of EPR policies:
The provision of incentives for producers to take environmental impacts into account when designing products Any kind of product can fall under the purview of EPR policies. However, due to the toxicity of these waste streams, legislators have identified WEEE (Waste Electrical and Electronic Equipment), batteries, and packaging as core areas.
Which nations have laws regarding EPR? EPR policies are now in place all over the world, including in India, Australia, Japan, Canada, and the United States, despite the fact that the European Union (EU) was the first to implement them. EPR policies vary from tariff and fee structures to schedules and reporting requirements across regions, states, provinces, and countries, despite their global presence.
Under EPR, who is regarded as a producer? Under EPR, a producer can be any company that produces, imports, sells, or owns the brand of any product or packaging covered by EPR. To determine whether they are in compliance, businesses that meet any of the producer obligation criteria are required to examine EPR legislation in every nation in which they operate. Businesses may also be subject to additional thresholds set by countries, such as turnover and the number of products or packaging sold.
How do organizations consent to EPR? While EPR arrangements shift around the world, makers regularly should do the accompanying:
Finance the collection, recycling, and recovery of waste Report quantities of products and materials placed on the market As mentioned earlier, it is essential to research EPR policies for each country in which your business is considered a producer to clarify your specific compliance requirements. Register directly with the appropriate governmental body and/or authorized scheme/program.
Challenges of EPR compliance EPR compliance is difficult and resource-intensive due to global differences in EPR policies. Compliance professionals frequently face the following difficulties when we speak with them:
Obtaining high-quality data from suppliers: Since producers typically do not have access to all of the product data that is contained in their supply chain, they must rely on their suppliers to provide it before matching it with sales data in order to generate reports. It is not always easy to get in touch with suppliers, and some suppliers might not agree to provide the data when asked. Preparing reports to meet the various EPR reporting requirements: There are various categories or requirements for EPR reporting around the world, which can be overwhelming for businesses that operate in multiple nations. Monitoring changes to EPR policies worldwide: Compliance teams frequently struggle to keep up with changes to EPR laws. This makes it moving for makers to follow refreshed detailing necessities and leaves them in danger of resistance. Preparing for new EPR regulations As EPR regulations become more common worldwide, producers need to be aware of new trends or policy changes. The most ideal way to remain current with and get ready for arising EPR guidelines is to work with a store network consistence accomplice like Source Insight, as changes to worldwide EPR strategies can happen as much of the time as each quarter.
Acquis assists you in managing and automating the due diligence obligations resulting from global EPR compliance reporting requirements, which include WEEE, packaging, and batteries. With the most robust EPR compliance program on the market, we streamline the process by streamlining the collection of data and the production of reports.
Take a look at our EPR program to find out more about how we can simplify the complexities of EPR compliance for you.

When Kote first begins to tell his story, there’s a lot of fuss as to where. What point in Kvothe’s life marks the start of his life. His first thought is here:

"In some ways, it began when I heard her singing. Her voice twinning, mixing with my own. Her voice was like a portrait of her soul: wild as a fire, sharp as shattered glass, sweet and clean as clover."

Denna’s significants to Kvothe story is unquestionable, and it’s so high that Kvothe thinks his life story begins with her.
But it’s not quite right. You can’t start with Kvothe earning his pipes. It needs context. It needs Kvothe’s time at the university. What lead him to earning his pipes.

Kvothe shook his head. "No. It began at the University. I went to learn magic of the sort they talk about in stories. Magic like Taborlin the Great. I wanted to learn the name of the wind. I wanted fire and lightning. I wanted answers to ten thousand questions and access to their archives. But what I found at the University was much different than a story, and I was much dismayed.

Still not quite right. In needing Kvothe being at the university, it needs what lead to Kvothe joining the university:

"But I expect the true beginning lies in what led me to the University. Unexpected fires at twilight. A man with eyes like ice at the bottom of a well. The smell of blood and burning hair. The Chandrian." He nodded to himself. "Yes. I suppose that is where it all begins. This is, in many ways, a story about the Chandrian."

But you also can’t start with Kvothe stumbling back to his camp to find his dead parents and the Chandrian. So Kvothe takes one step back, and decides to start a few months earlier.
This is where Kote begins telling his life’s story. And as a story teller, this is the best starting place.
But it’s also not quite correct, is it?
It’s definitely where you start the story as a storyteller. But if the true beginning lies with meeting the Chandrian, then the Chandrian are the beginning.
So let’s do the same process. Where do the Chandrian start?

Lanre's shoulders bowed. "I had hoped," he said simply. "But I knew the truth. I am no longer the Lanre you knew. Mine is a new and terrible name. I am Haliax and no door can bar my passing. All is lost to me, no Lyra, no sweet escape of sleep, no blissful forgetfulness, even madness is beyond me. Death itself is an open doorway to my power. There is no escape. I have only the hope of oblivion after everything is gone and the Aleu fall nameless from the sky." And as he said this Lanre hid his face in his hands, and his body shook with silent, racking sobs.

The Chandrian’s story begins at the destruction of Myr Tariniel. Lanre betrays Selitos, and takes on a new name. His actions lead to the end of the war, and the creation of the Chandrian. But the true beginning isn’t here. Like Kvothe singing with Denna, we need context. What caused the war?

Felurian’s expression went solemn. She unlaced her fingers from mine and looked down at the stone in her hand. “that was the end of it all.” She sighed. “until he stole the moon there was some hope for peace.”

…

“Who was it?” I asked.

…

Felurian shook her head, amused. “no. as I said, this was before the fae. the first and greatest of the shapers.”

The first and greatest shaper stole the moon, and in stealing the moon, caused the war. This is the true beginning of the Chandrian. But, like with Kvothe, we need context. Why did the first and greatest shaper steal the moon? And where was it stolen from and to? Like Kote, we take one step backwards:

She laughed at my tone. “no. the faen realm.” she waved widely. “wrought according to their will. the greatest of them sewed it from whole cloth. a place where they could do as they desired. and at the end of all their work, each shaper wrought a star to fill their new and empty sky.”
Felurian smiled at me. “then there were two worlds. two skies. two sets of stars.” She held up the smooth stone. “but still one moon. and it all round and cozy in the mortal sky.”
Her smile faded. “but one shaper was greater than the rest. for him the making of a star was not enough. he stretched his will across the world and pulled her from her home.”

‘The greatest of them’ is a tricky label. It can be collective or individual. But Felurian isn’t the only source for this story. Hespe also tells us a story of the boy who stole the moon, and he had no help in unfolding his house.
Other shapers may have come afterwards and added furniture and artwork, but it was the boy who stole the moon who built the house. And as the first and greatest of them, Jax is the greatest of them. He built the house - or in Felurian’s words shapers made the Faen realm wrought according to their will. The Faen realm was the greatest of them sewed it from whole cloth - pure fabrications - as a place for the others to do as they desired before each creating a star.
So there we have it, Kvothe’s story begins with the Chandrian, and the Chandrian’s story begins when the first shaper created the Fae from nothing.
Now we arrive at the title: Kvothe’s story begins with the creation of the Fae. And in arriving here you may have noticed that I skipped a piece at the start. One piece of Kote deciding on where to start his story.

"Yes. I suppose that is where it all begins. This is, in many ways, a story about the Chandrian."
"But what would my father say if he heard me telling a story this way? 'Begin at the beginning.' Very well, if we are to have a telling, let's make it a proper one."
Kvothe sat forward in his chair. "In the beginning, as far as I know, the world was spun out of the nameless void by Aleph, who gave everything a name. Or, depending on the version of the tale, found the names all things already possessed."

In the beginning [of my story], as far as I know, the [faen] world was spun out of the nameless void [whole cloth] by Iax, who gave everything [within the fae] a name.

I’ve been operating at 110% for a while now. A good while. I’ve got a husband and 3 kids, and my life is utterly relentless. I am not my own individual self anymore. I basically exist to serve everyone else. I do every damn thing. Yes there is a man that lives here that “helps” but how helpful is it when I have to constantly tell the man what needs to be done, when it needs to be done, how to do it, when the kids need something, what time their appointments are, etc. I have 2 toddlers and 1 preteen. My house is akin to a zoo on crack. There’s lights on all day, because the man that lives here doesn’t seem to know how to turn off a light, the toddlers don’t nap anymore, and they are always hungry but never seem to take more than 2 bites of food, my preteen rolls her eyes at everything, husband works nights and can somehow sleep through every thing and I wouldn’t be surprised if he slept right through a tornado. My home is no longer my sanctuary because it’s become a place of high stress. I am literally on my feet from 6am to 10pm with my only break being the job I work at. I work full time and get to spend my 2 days off doing everything my husband just disregards all week, such as the grocery shopping (his idea of grocery shopping is buying enough food ingredients for ONE meal), the cleaning (he hasn’t cleaned the bathtub in 2 months, I’ve counted), and rest of boring things like washing the car, taking out trash, and spending some time with the kids. So basically I have no days off.
I cried to myself in my room on Monday night. Here is everything I did on that day from sun up to sun down:
6am: woke up for work 7am: went outside to warm up my car and take all the bags to it (lunch bags, diaper bag, purse) 7:30am: dropped off kids to MIL house/school for the day 8am: stopped by a breakfast joint and got myself food 8:30-5pm: work 5:15pm: arrive home 5:30pm: cook dinneeat/feed kids 6:30-7pm: clean up toys/prepare for bath time 7:15-8:15pm: bath time/dressed for bed (because I have to do 2 toddlers) 8:15-8:45pm: pack their lunches, pack my lunch, pack their clothes for tomorrow. 8:50-9ish: brush toddlers teeth, brush my teeth 9:15-9:30: read bedtime stories to toddlers - husband leaves for work 10:00pm: when toddlers are finally tired enough to fall asleep
My husband’s daily schedule:
7:00am: arrive home from work 7:30-3:00pm: sleep 3:45-4pm: picks up kids (Proceeds to spend an hour at his mom’s house) 5:00pm: arrives home, possibly wash the dishes 5:30-7pm: does nothing but watch tv 7pm-9:20pm: takes a pre-work nap 9:30-9:45pm: leaves for work
Do you guys see the disparity or is it just me?? So because I walk around like a zombie all week long with a slight attitude, husband claims he has no idea why I’ve become the way I am. I’m dead inside. My legs burn at the end of the night. I’m sad for myself. I don’t feel like a wife, I feel like an unpaid maid and nanny. I don’t even get a thank you or just a hug. I’m breaking down slowly inside but I keep going because I have to, I love my kids. I’ve tried bringing ALL this up to the man who lives here but it falls each time on deaf ears. He has no empathy or understanding of my feelings. I’ve given up.
If you’ve gotten this far, I appreciate you for reading. It felt good getting this out.
TLDR: My husband is basically a roommate and I’m over it.

I'm unsure if I can post an experience of mine here and ask for assistance, but I hope at the very least I can be pointed in the right direction.
I've been smoking steadily for about 2 years now. I occasionally would enjoy edibles and the like. Overall I never had a bad experience with weed, and used it a lot medicinally for my Fibromyalgia. About 6 days ago, though, it was like a switch flipped. I'll be honest, I may have over-indulged a bit, but it was the absolute worst. I'd been smoking all that day, just chilling on my day off. I take my last puff of the night and head to bed. Slowly my heart starts to race, nausea sets in, and I feel a rising in my chest. For the next 3-4 hours I spent hovering over the toilet, getting in the shower and still peeking my head out if needed. My head was all over the place, I was exhausted, and my whole body was shaking. I never actually puked though, I just felt like I had to. I ended up passing out from exhaustion and waking up the next day feeling like dogshit. I went to Urgent Care where they told me I was okay and likely experienced a panic attack. I have anxiety but thc actually tended to help it, not hurt it. The next day, I reluctantly tried to smoke, and the same thing happened again. Heart racing, chest rising, head foggy, more than usual and certainly very unpleasant. I barely even felt the "high", it was just a shitty, uncomfortable experience. I paused some pain meds I was taking for fibro just to see if maybe it was some odd reaction, even though I'd been taking them for 4 weeks at this point. Now, today about 4 days later, I tried to have my after work joint, and the same thing happened again, and I was in pain this time.
I just don't know why there was such a sudden shift. One hit, I was okay. The next hit knocked me down to the ground. At least I know the source and to stay away from it, but I'm just sad, honestly. I'm still unsure if this whole thing is actually CHS, other accounts of it seem much more severe than mine. If it is, though, I want to know how long it takes to recover from it, and also if CBD would still effect me in a similar way.

I’ve been operating at 110% for a while now. A good while. I’ve got a husband and 3 kids, and my life is utterly relentless. I am not my own individual self anymore. I basically exist to serve everyone else. I do every damn thing. Yes there is a man that lives here that “helps” but how helpful is it when I have to constantly tell the man what needs to be done, when it needs to be done, how to do it, when the kids need something, what time their appointments are, etc. I have 2 toddlers and 1 preteen. My house is akin to a zoo on crack. There’s lights on all day, because the man that lives here doesn’t seem to know how to turn off a light, the toddlers don’t nap anymore, and they are always hungry but never seem to take more than 2 bites of food, my preteen rolls her eyes at everything, husband works nights and can somehow sleep through every thing and I wouldn’t be surprised if he slept right through a tornado. My home is no longer my sanctuary because it’s become a place of high stress. I am literally on my feet from 6am to 10pm with my only break being the job I work at. I work full time and get to spend my 2 days off doing everything my husband just disregards all week, such as the grocery shopping (his idea of grocery shopping is buying enough food ingredients for ONE meal), the cleaning (he hasn’t cleaned the bathtub in 2 months, I’ve counted), and rest of boring things like washing the car, taking out trash, and spending some time with the kids. So basically I have no days off.
I cried to myself in my room on Monday night. Here is everything I did on that day from sun up to sun down:
6am: woke up for work 7am: went outside to warm up my car and take all the bags to it (lunch bags, diaper bag, purse) 7:30am: dropped off kids to MIL house/school for the day 8am: stopped by a breakfast joint and got myself food 8:30-5pm: work 5:15pm: arrive home 5:30pm: cook dinneeat/feed kids 6:30-7pm: clean up toys/prepare for bath time 7:15-8:15pm: bath time/dressed for bed (because I have to do 2 toddlers) 8:15-8:45pm: pack their lunches, pack my lunch, pack their clothes for tomorrow. 8:50-9ish: brush toddlers teeth, brush my teeth 9:15-9:30: read bedtime stories to toddlers - husband leaves for work 10:00pm: when toddlers are finally tired enough to fall asleep
My husband’s daily schedule:
7:00am: arrive home from work 7:30-3:00pm: sleep 3:45-4pm: picks up kids (Proceeds to spend an hour at his mom’s house) 5:00pm: arrives home, possibly wash the dishes 5:30-7pm: does nothing but watch tv 7pm-9:20pm: takes a pre-work nap 9:30-9:45pm: leaves for work
Do you guys see the disparity or is it just me?? So because I walk around like a zombie all week long with a slight attitude, husband claims he has no idea why I’ve become the way I am. I’m dead inside. My legs burn at the end of the night. I’m sad for myself. I don’t feel like a wife, I feel like an unpaid maid and nanny. I don’t even get a thank you or just a hug. I’m breaking down slowly inside but I keep going because I have to, I love my kids. I’ve tried bringing ALL this up to the man who lives here but it falls each time on deaf ears. He has no empathy or understanding of my feelings. I’ve given up.
If you’ve gotten this far, I appreciate you for reading. It felt good getting this out.
TLDR: My husband is basically a roommate and I’m over it.

Hello. I'm new here. I've had OCD in the past as a middle school/teem with rituals. And they went away. I've always been one to unplug stuff if leaving for several days but wouldn't double check that I did. 2 years ago the toilet in my master bath had a leak and when I got home from work our upstairs mastehallway had inches of water, plus it's a 3 story townhouse and it leaked through into the dining room below and then down in the basement room. We've since repaired that but within a couple months I was having OCD type checking/compulsions and I feel understandably so. But now I'm tired of it. It's taking so much time to leave my house. I feel anxious when driving more than 30 miles away. I'll drive back to check my garage door is shut. I have to check to make sure everyday: shower is off, toilet isn't leaking, faucet is off, heater unplugged, kitchen faucet is not on, toaster unplugged, all doors locked, dryer is off and then I'll go back upstairs if it "doesn't feel right" and recheck again and maybe again.
Has anyone been able to stop doing these checks and if so how did you exposure therapy? What types of things did you do or say to stop the checking.
It's to the point where I've stared at a turned off faucet for a minute not trusting my eyes that its turned off, or will touch the faceplate an outlet to feel nothing is there. I even make sure my fridge is closed??? Which makes no sense.
Anyways, thank you for any advice!