Hello guys, I am a fellow player who has been playing since end Draenor-beginning Legion, had achieved around 38k achievement points, 3 gladiator mounts, few cutting edges and gold farm for the brutosaur, I have done most of the content the game could offer me. But nowadays PVP is the only thing I enjoyed doing and the Mythic20's for the portals. Unlocking 13sets 1.8k pvp rating on every spec was the only thing motivated me to log in every day. But nobody plays pvp, mmr is horrendous, almost 4k arena rating players playing at 1.8 with alters, and soloshuffle queues are around 30-40' for DPS classes.
I feel meaningless, I have achieved things yeah... but I feel nobody cares (included Azeroth's Champion FoS I am proud of this one). Honestly, I feel wow retail is not fun for me, I log in, nobody talks to me, I get bored and I log into hardcore, Wotlk or other game. I used to farm dungeons for tmog to complete my female dwarf shaman Firenanajkm everything on her, but is not the same anymore, why?
In Legion I was heavily inspired by Asmongold & Anniefuchsia to get all the achievements, mounts, toys, pets, got my Loremaster achievement, The Chosen titles, got 40 characters to max level on both alliance and horde but they keep adding things to the game and none of them are relevant anymore.
I grew up so much from Cdews guides to arena, Skill Capped guides to pvp, casual guys making achievements videos to achieve them myself, gold videos from a lot of youtubers and streamers (Thanks for your effort, time and dedication you made me scape from reality and save my life in a way).
But at the end of the day none of that gives me power in the game, you either go for power or account cosmetic progression, and the power got reset every season feels pointless... :'(. Got over 700 mounts but only use 2-3, got thousands of mog but don't care anymore. I don't know, if any of you guys can give me any reason to try retail in a different way I will try but right know retail is not my game anymore :(.
https://www.dataforazeroth.com/characters/EU/Dun%20ModFirenanajkm I wanted to become number 1 but the amount of time and effort I need to put won't be rewarded, I started to play late that's all good luck to the rest of the fighters, I cba.

When I was brand new to NovelAi I had no idea how 2048 tokens really looked as text. So for anyone looking at the tiers, trying to decide how many tokens they want for Clio with the new update, I've tokenized Part of The Great Gatsby by Scott Fitzgerald (public domain since 2021).
That way new users can more easily visualize what the AI's maximum context is for each tier. According to the UI Clio uses the NerdStash Tokenizer, as different tokenizers will convert text to tokens their own way.
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In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”
He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.
And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.
I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.
The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.
It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.
“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.
I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood.
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.
It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.
I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.
Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.
Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.
Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.
And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.
He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.
His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.
“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.
We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.
“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.
Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.
“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”
We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.
The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.
The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.
The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.
“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”
She
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laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)
At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.
I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.
I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.
“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.
“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”
“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”
“I’d like to.”
“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”
“Never.”
“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”
Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.
“What you doing, Nick?”
“I’m a bond man.”
“Who with?”
I told him.
“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively.
This annoyed me.
“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”
“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”
At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.
“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.”
“Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.”
“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.”
Her host looked at her incredulously.
“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.”
I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.
“You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.”
“I don’t know a single—”
“You must know Gatsby.”
“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”
Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.
Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.
“Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.”
“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.
“All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?”
Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.
“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.”
We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.
“You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—”
“I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.”
“Hulking,” insisted Daisy.
Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.
“You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?”
I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way.
“Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?”
“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone.
“Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.”
“Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—”
“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.”
“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.
“You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.
“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?”
There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned towards me.
“I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?”
“That’s why I came over tonight.”
“Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—”
“Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker.
“Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.”
For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.
The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.
“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”
This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.
Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.
“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began.
“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”
“Is something happening?” I inquired innocently.
“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.”
“I don’t.”
“Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.”
“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly.
Miss Baker nodded.
“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?”
Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.
“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety.
She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”
“Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.”
The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.
The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.
Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.
“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”
“I wasn’t back from the war.”
“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”
Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she
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didn’t say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.
“I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.”
“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”
“Very much.”
“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’
“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated—God, I’m sophisticated!”
The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face, as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.
Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the Saturday Evening Post—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamplight, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.
When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.
“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table, “in our very next issue.”
Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up.
“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”
“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow,” explained Daisy, “over at Westchester.”
“Oh—you’re Jordan Baker.”
I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.
“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you.”
“If you’ll get up.”
“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”
“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—”
“Good night,” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”
“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let her run around the country this way.”
“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.
“Her family.”
“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of weekends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”
Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.
“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.
“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white—”
“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?” demanded Tom suddenly.
“Did I?” She looked at me. “I can’t seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know—”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,” he advised me.
I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called: “Wait!”
“I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.”
“That’s right,” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were engaged.”
“It’s a libel. I’m too poor.”
“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. “We heard it from three people, so it must be true.”
Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn’t even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old friend on account of rumours, and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumoured into marriage.
Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he “had some woman in New York” was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.
Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red petrol-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight, and, turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbour’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.
I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.
II
About halfway between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.
But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to
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There are some deeds, some crimes and horrors even our Mother, the Universe itself, loathes beyond all. And when this is the case, neither time, nor space, nor reality itself can deny her vengeance.
Because time is a flat circle... and we all dance on its twisting disk. - kwong879, Pukan philosopher, Post Second Precursor War Reconstruction Era
For three days and three nights did the Lady Lord of Hell, the Detainee herself, in all of her fearsome matronly glory, tempt the First Biological Disciple, Daxin Freeborn, Enraged Phillip.
And for three days and three nights did he deny her.
And thus did he pass into memory and legend. - The Book of Telkan
And before I took the lives of the damned, He did appear before us and commanded my hand still.
His glowing blue form a radiant mercy. For us.
For them. - Glory, Failure, Temptation, & Redemption, Magnus Oathsworn
There is no doubt of the fact of malevolence. The very universe itself reaches out to crush what she has birthed in an eternal struggle of hatred. There are, however, some sins which even in the face of annihilation cannot be countenanced. Some acts which even this malevolent universe will not tolerate. Protect the infants at all cost, for they are survival, and to sacrifice survival for the sake of survival shall bring only suffering and doom. - Wisdom of the Traveler, Tribulations, Chapter 5 Verse 1.
In the Age of Paranoia, Humanity's leadership ordered terrible things done. Not because they knew they were necessary, but because they might become necessary. Never realizing that the existence of those terrible things would drive them to find a reason to use them. — Prof. Kuruka N'anga, University of the Sacred Bough, Terra Nuevo
While many things enrage the Lady of Hell, in fact most things seem to, certain crimes and sins earn her personal wrath. The many men who took everything from her. The idiotic creatures who thought themselves masters of everything. And those who commit cruelties upon the innocent. For she sees all of mankind's many many sins and knows very few are clean of them. Wise beings fear when cold gray eyes turn upon them.
We were desperate, and in our desperation we reached for things that will haunt me for all eternity. We could have stopped at anytime, we should have stopped before it was too late. We ignored the warnings, in our hubris we were assured that what we were doing was necessary. We were right, but it was still wrong and there is not enough time in the universe to pay for what we did. We ignored all the warnings and applauded ourselves on our success...only moments later the shouts of joy and celebration became screams of terror as the gray-eyed one illustrated why the warnings of these dark sciences should be heeded. --Words found in a blood-soaked journal at dark site research station, this was the only document recovered. Site glassed and all traces of the research were redacted.
It was misty, with a little bit of rain. The anomaly was hidden behind artificially generated cloud cover so that it looked more like an overcast sun than the strange globe of psuedo-reality it was. The starwalk station was empty, no bones, no shades, no scars from the furious fighting that had taken place after the Glassing had driven the SUDS personnel insane.
Holos flickered, some advertising restaurants or stores, others with directions, some with safety warnings, and still others with just public service holograms. The mist made the holograms flicker and fade in and out as the focused laser systems were scattered by the tiny water droplets suspended in the air.
There was a beep and the gate opened, allowing Surscee to step from the starwalk to the platform. She was wearing revealing leathers, a bustier, a short skirt with copper strips for reinforcement, tight weave fishnet stockings, and polished black leather boots with silver buckles. Around her shoulders was a gauzy sheer cape that shed the moisture even as it gleamed and sparkled.
She stopped to examine a few of the public service announcements. Some making her smile, others making her shake her head.
"You are a window to the world of my ancestors, nine thousand years gone," she said softly, touching the base of the holo. She moved to another and watched it. "We are not so different, you and I," she said, her voice full of wonder. She watched a PSA to remind everyone not to bring plants from Earth in case of seed contamination. "Your lives were full of danger that eventually became mundane," she said softly.
"That's humanity in a nut shell," the voice from behind her was low, rough, a woman's whiskey and cigarettes voice.
"Although ever changing, thus, we are," Surscee said, straightening up. She turned around and looked over the short matron in her dark charcoal gray skirt and blouse. "Greetings, fearsome one."
"Greetings to you, sorceress," the Lady Lord of Hell said. She looked Surscee up and down slowly. "Huh."
Surscee raised an eyebrow.
"Nice to see the Great Value Red Sonja look isn't just an act," the Lady Lord of Hell said, turning and walking into the mist. "Magic, science, mysticism, technology, all the same to the ignorant." Her voice faded as she walked away.
Surscee watched the short woman walk away, then turned and went back to following the path.
She was startled to discover that the vending machines were not VI driven, but just mechanical with a few holograms.
One of the vending machines that normally dispensed energy drinks and fizzybrews was ripped open, like someone had hacked on it with a blade. Surscee noted that most of the Liquid Hate was gone.
She got a lemon-lime fizzypop and followed the softly glowing holographic line of the ground until she finally came to a small park.
She stopped at the playground, leaning against a cement post, and stared at it.
The swings moved slightly back and forth at the almost unfelt breeze that stirred the mist. Droplets of water ran down the slide. The swinging rings just rocked slightly in the air current. The seesaw and the spring horses, the jungle gym and the wooden playhouse all sat quietly, damp from the mist.
Surscee closed her eyes, cocking her head slightly, listening for any echoes of happiness gone by.
"I would bring them here to play, once I had soothed their trauma to where they could interact with one another, to the point they could do more than run and scream and claw at themselves," the voice of the gray eyed matron sounded behind Surscee.
The sorceress turned, seeing the darkly clothed matron standing under a tree, barely visible in the fog, lighting a cigarette.
"I recreated it in Hell, just for them. To let them be children again, to remember," her voice said. She took a drag off her cigarette and Surscee saw the stern planes of the smaller woman's face illuminated for a moment. When she exhaled smoke, Surscee could still see her gun-metal gray eyes.
"I set fallen angels to watch over the park with sword of burning sin and tridents of icy treachery," she said, then turned and walked into the mist.
Surscee frowned as the matron vanished into the mist.
She waited a moment, but the other woman was gone.
Surscee moved on, making no sign of effort as she brought up her defenses. Her fingernails twinkled slightly as the microscopic piezoelectric systems came online. The targeting reticles and the HUD elements appeared in her vision. She brought up the passive acoustic mapping and changed the hardness of the heels of her boots so that her boots clicked with each step.
The fog muffled the acoustic map slightly, the water droplets absorbing and redirecting sound, making the map fuzzy here and there.
She passed by a vending machine and smelled cigarette smoke. The onboard systems broke it down for her, putting it up in the tiny window beyond her left hand peripheral vision. No manufacturer signature, no trace elements from other worlds. Her onboards told her that it was Old Earth brand, the tobacco lacking any genetic engineering and the cigarette containing nothing but an asbestos filter, paper, and tobacco. No flavors, no genetic smoothing, no flavor enhancements. No record in the database she always carried loaded.
She frowned slightly.
"You are unmoved by human suffering, making you suitable for this task," a tired sounding man said from just past a set of benches. He was leaning against a fountain. He had shaggy cut dark hair, a simple pair of pants and shirt without decoration, and dark circles under his eyes.
Two steps and the figure vanished.
The echolocation acoustic mapping told her that there was a solid bipedal humaniod form there for a split second but it vanished just when she got in range of it.
Surscee followed the arc of the path, curiosity filling her.
She knew if the being that had manifested as a five meter tall demon with bat wings and a whip of burning warsteel links woven with barbed wire, or the short matron with the nasty steel knife, wanted to kill her, the being simply would.
Surscee was curious what the purpose of this was.
"Enemies never rest. That's why they're called the Enemy, you blithering morons. I swear, dealing with the two of you is like dealing with particularly naive and ignorant children who are shocked, shocked I tell you, that they can't ziptie a plastic bag around their head and dance in the middle of the Interstate during rush hour," the matron's voice was cruel and full of disdain. "Of course millions are dying, that's what happens when you act like atomic weapons are no more dangerous than sparklers."
Surscee didn't bother to look around, her onboard bioware systems letting her know that the point of origin for the voice kept moving and shifting.
A trivial trick with nanites and one she had used often to confuse and harry foes.
"Your weakness disgusts me," the woman's voice hissed from between two food vending machines. "If you spent less time crying and more time fixing the system you'd be done by now, you pathetic puling weakling."
Surscee smiled slightly.
The voice reminded Surscee of her mother mocking her lessers.
There was a small basket with berries and small fruits sitting on a bench and Surscee's smile got wider. She moved over and sat down, picking up the basket and setting it on her lap.
If the being wanted her dead, she would be dead, simple as that.
The berries were blackberries, strawberries, and raspberries. Clean, sweet and tart.
After a moment the matron came walking out of the fog, opening a breast pocket to remove a pack of cigarettes and a flint-steel lighter. The woman sat down, crossing her legs at the knee and smoothing her skirt. She then lit the cigarette, the flare of the lighter lighting her face with the warmth of the flame without making the face seem any warmer.
Surscee slowly chewed a blackberry as the cigarette was lit, puffed on, and the lighter clinked shut. The pack and the lighter went back into the top pocket, the matron's fingers nimbly buttoning up the pocket.
They sat there for a long moment.
"All of that power, all your knowledge and mastery of exotic and esoteric disciplines, and here you sit eating freshly picked berries and fruit," the matron said.
"I am a simple woman who enjoys simple pleasures," Surscee said, smiling.
"I could use someone like you on my team," the matron said, exhaling smoke. "Power, the will to dominate, the means to achieve the goals I set out for you."
"An enticing offer," Surscee said carefully. She picked up strawberry and bit off the tip, chewing slowly.
"With your brother as one of my Hell Knights, you would make an excellent Hell Storm," the matron said.
This time when she exhaled the smoke was tinged with a slight tang hot freshly spilled blood and a taint of brimstone.
"Acting as the agent of the Lady Lord of Hell herself," Surscee said. She picked up a black cherry and looked over it. "Empowered, strengthened, by the Lady Lord of Hell, to punish the wicked for their sins."
The matron nodded slowly.
"With you as the judge, myself as the jury, and my brother as the executioner," Surscee said, still smiling.
"At times," the matron said. She exhaled smoke and glared at the mist that surrounded them. "Do you know what sin mankind has fallen into?"
Surscee shook her head. "Pride, perhaps? My mother often spoke of sloth and gluttony, perhaps that?"
The matron shook her head. "No. Far far worse."
"I would hear your words, fearsome one," Surscee said, making sure her voice was respectful.
"An anecdote," the matron said. She sighed. "Later, in my life, as more and more people became enamored with being ethical, more for status than to be truly ethical, philosophers and those who called themselves ethecists began posing questions, providing answers, each of the seeking to be recognized as the pinnacle of ethics and morals that would guide humanity into a Golden Age."
"That smack of wickedness," Surscee said. "Of pride and arrogance."
The matron nodded. "One question, posed by academics to students, always enraged me. Asked by academics who had never traveled beyond their ivory towers or guarded enclaves, asked to pampered students who had spent their lives dwelling in luxuries beyond imagination to the people of my youth."
The matron reached down into the mist that covered her feet, lifting up a bottle of beer and popping the cap with a talon that immediately returned to a manicured nail.
"The question, put forth, involves a situation. I will explain it thusly: You are at a village in a war torn nation. A warlord arrives with his men, intending on killing the village. The reasons do not matter. However, the warlord makes you an offer, handing you a gun with a single bullet. Shoot one person, of your choice, and he will spare you and the survivors. Kill him, and his men will kill you, and allow the village to survive. Kill none, and he will order his men to kill all the villagers, man, woman, and child, but leave you to live," the matron said.
Surscee frowned. "A terrible choice."
The matron snorted. "The academics and ethical philosophers then asked their students: What is the most moral choice?" the matron looked at Surscee. "Care to make a guess?"
Surscee thought for a long moment. "Shoot one of his men. He did not say you had to kill a villager."
The matron laughed. "A choice fitting for a Great Value Red Sonja," she laughed. She shook her head. "But, you would be wrong. You see, you make the unethical choice to take a human life."
"Then what?" Surscee asked.
"To stand aside. That you do not make a choice. The philosophical correct answer was to stand aside, that the warlord and his men make their own decisions and it is not your responsibility nor your moral failing whatever they choose to do," the matron looked out at the mist, taking a swig of her beer. "Do nothing, let the trolley kill five, because for you to decide who lives and dies is unethical."
Surscee snorted. "Choosing to make no choice is a choice in and of itself. You should always seek to do the least harm and the greatest good."
The matron nodded.
"The cowardice disgusts me," the matron said. She took another swig of her beer and then a drag from her cigarette. She exhaled smoke tinged with blood and brimstone. "I need those who will not back down, who are willing to get in the mud and the blood and the beer to get the job done."
The matron held up a red apple. "Take the apple, accept my offer. Be my Hell Storm to your brother's Hell Knight."
"Your offer humbles me," Surscee said. "It does not matter if my brother took your offer, I am Oathsworn to Lady Nakteti the Traveler. My duty is clear, it lies with my sworn liege."
"But what of your duty to your people?" the matron asked. "What of your duty to humanity?"
"I represent humanity wherever I go. Shall my actions, my decisions, lead the people's of the galaxy to believe that humanity are oath breakers? That our word, our bond, our oath, carries no meaning other than to further our own aims and goals? That we will abandon them, no matter what oaths we swear?"
The matron was silent.
"I am tempted by your offer, but I must, respectfully, refuse," Surscee said.
"Very well," the matron said. She blew on her fingertips and the apple dissolved. She stood up, taking a moment to smooth her skirt and tug the cuffs of her sleeves.
"You would have made an excellent Hell Storm," the matron said, exhaling smoke.
When it cleared, she was gone.
Surscee closed her eyes and heaved a great breath.
"I have passed the test, I hope," she said softly.
Only the dripping of water in the mist answered her.
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Hi folks. Quick question - I've only just started dabbling in mods for Factorio now that I have all the achievements (genuinely blown away by how in-depth some of these are!), and I've gotten going with Space Exploration & Krastorio to start.
I've never really messed with wiring too much before, but it seems almost required here, so I'm jumping into it. You'd think with a background in development I'd have a better knack for this stuff. I'm following the cannon circuitry guide from the wiki here, but I don't appear to be receiving a signal. Screenshots of each part of the setup can be found here.
I've got the chest connected to the combinator & signal transmitter (and pole) in orbit, with the input set to 500 minus the iron quantity. From what I can see, it's currently transmitting that full 500 value on network 25. The channel for the transmitter and receiver is both set to 'Test', and these are my only two. However, no signal is being received, and my inserter is on network 55. Would anyone be able to help me figure this out by chance? Does the order in which you apply the wires matter? I know color does, they're all red.

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The Air Jordan 2 Wings Honors Howard H. White Drops This Week
Jordan Brand is set to drop a brand new Air Jordan 2 in June with the arrival of the Air Jordan 2 “Wings”. Part of the annual Jordan Wings Program, this Air Jordan 2 honors Howard “H” White, Vice President of Jordan Brand for Nike, Inc., and founder of “Believe to Achieve,” a national Nike youth movement.
Taking on a simple and clean color combination of White, Malachite, and Black, this Air Jordan 2 features a White leather construction all over the upper which is then joined by Black accents on the eyelets, laces, inner liner, and midsole. Malachite (green) is then seen on the heels and Wings logos on the tongues as well as on the outsole. Standout details include side panels made to resemble a pair of wings covered in feather print, a translucent heel piece with an “H” to pays tribute to Howard “H” White, as well as more “H” logos on the insoles. To cap off the look the sneaker comes with extra sets of laces with “Power” and “Belief” printed on the tips.
The Air Jordan 2 “Wings” is currently expected to release on June 10th for $210 via SNKRS (North America, EMEA and Greater China), and will be available in W 5/M 3.5 – W 19.5/M 18. For a complete guide including official photos, release dates, pricing and where to buy, visit: Air Jordan 2 Wings.
In release news, will you be going after the Air Jordan 1 High OG Washed Black on June 10th?
ABOUT THE RELEASE: As a founding figure of the Jordan Brand with deep ties to the game, Howard “H” White is uniquely part of the Jumpman DNA. He was a key voice in challenging the formula that there was no brand without the man on the court – that the limits of Jordan Brand could only be defined by our own vision for excellence. And, while his journey with basketball may have started after building his own homemade hoop from trees in his Hampton, VA backyard – it was his commitment to inspiring the next generation that laid some of the earliest foundations for the brand’s community programming – including Jordan Brand Wings. Now, he’s known as the inimitable legend and multi-generational mentor who helped Air Jordan — and countless others around the world — take flight.
DESIGN INSPIRATION AND DETAILS:
• The shoe has been crafted to the original 1987 design specs, including the shoe’s shape, fit, and sock liner
(which is fully molded for enhanced comfort).
• The color inspiration for the shoe: White/Green/Black is inspired from the Kecoughtan High School
basketball team in Hampton, Virginia, where Howard “H” White famously started on his first basketball
team (becoming an All-American and eventually an NBA draft pick).
• The heel counter is constructed with a translucent finish with a gold foil “H” logo, representing both
Howard “H” White’s iconic college jersey and setting a gold standard for oneself.
• The upper quarter panel is crafted with a hand sketched wings graphic (designed by Israel Mateo, Jordan
Brand Special Projects Footwear Designer). This is both a nod to the Jordan Brand Wings program, but
also to the belief it requires to take flight.
• The lace tips contain the words “Power” and “Belief” on each respective tip, inspired by “H” and what he
has brought to the Jordan Brand (and new generations).
• The shoe will come in the original 1987 Air Jordan 2 packaging.
• The lower quarter panel and upper are crafted in all premium leather.
• The heel collar is constructed with a green metallic finish, with a white NIKE logo.
• The internal collar and tongue lining is constructed with a satin finish.
UPDATE (6/6): Here is another look at the Air Jordan 2 Wings. There are set to drop on June 10th for $210 via SNKRS (North America, EMEA and Greater China), and will be available in W 5/M 3.5 – W 19.5/M 18.
images: Nike

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Chat us on +44 7593880762 (Telegram/Whatsaap) if you are interested in Anthony Gallo - 14-Day Filmmaker.
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- Affordable Equipment: Discover how we started with a Canon 70d and a $50 lens and still achieved outstanding results. You don't need a massive budget to create amazing videos.
- In-Depth Training: Dive deep into the art of filmmaking as we guide you through the entire process, from shooting to editing and everything in between.
- Master Camera Techniques: Learn how to shoot like a pro, compose captivating shots, and choose the perfect camera settings to bring your vision to life.
- Create Dynamic Movement: Discover techniques for creating fluid and captivating camera movement that adds a cinematic touch to your videos.
- Masterful Storytelling: Harness the power of storytelling to engage your audience and create compelling narratives that leave a lasting impact.
- Seamless Editing: Unleash your creativity in the editing room as you learn how to craft polished videos that stand out from the crowd…
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Reddit DM to u/CourseAccess
Email: silverlakestore/@/yandex.com (remove the brackets)

[This is adapted from a comment here, but I thought it would make a good post.]
The quality of a fundie homeschool education is typically terrible. We all saw the ATI booklets in the docuseries. Some of us are intimately familiar with the quality of ATI, ACE, Abeka, Bob Jones, etc. So how do these Joshua Generation kids end up at Harvard, clerking for Supreme Court justices - positions that are hard to get even for well-educated, upper-class people?
Because there's a system set up for them.
This was alluded to very briefly in the documentary, when the Christian Homeschool Speech and Debate League was brought up. But they didn't really explain what was going on. So I'm going to do my best to explain it. However, I wasn't actually raised in this community. I was raised adjacent to it. People who lived it, please correct me or elaborate.
Not all fundie homeschoolers totally neglect their children's educations. Many fundies are first-generation converts who have real educations and successful careers outside the home. They may not be well-equipped to educate children, but they do understand what children need to know to succeed in the real world. Part of the reason the Duggar kids are so uneducated is that JB and Meech are also not well-educated. But that's not always the case. Some homeschool kids end up getting pretty rigorous educations, at least by fundie homeschool standards. Especially earlier-born boys. The Jeub family is a good example of a family that is like this. They're highly involved in homeschooling and homeschool speech and debate circles. They produce curriculum and run summer camps. Or at least, they did. Most of this seems to have been scrubbed from the internet, and the Jeubs now run a "glamping" business and don't about Christian homeschooling or debate at all anymore.
Many homeschooling families don't stick strictly to one curriculum. They might use a primary one, but they'll supplement with others they feel are stronger in certain subjects or for certain age groups. One thing they often supplement with, and that is emphasized in some curriculums, is a "classical education." This is an education that emphasizes grammar, logic, and rhetoric. It usually uses classical literature, philosophy, and theology to support this education. Math and science are not emphasized. In a classical education, math focuses on arithmetic, algebra, and geometry. Science is usually limited to the history and philosophy of science, rather than scientific concepts themselves. You might learn about Isaac Newton, you might even read his writings, but you're not actually gonna learn physics or calculus the way you would in a typical education. History is often not explicitly taught, with the justification that the curriculum itself is a historical education.
This emphasis on rhetoric and logic - always contextualized within a Christian philosophy and theology - is where you get Christian homeschool speech and debate. It's very similar to public school speech and debate. Here is the NCFCA's resolutions for LD and Policy debate this year. At a glance, these seem like normal topics. The LD resolution seems pretty typical. You can see where that emphasis on a classical education comes in, but that's not unusual in LD. What sticks out to me are the recommended resources under the policy resolution. They're almost all right-wing think tanks. The other thing that sticks out to me is that they just hand you everything. Topicality, background, relevant sources, and arguments. Even when they're pretending to be promoting logic and reasoning, they're telling you how to think. Think critically - but only within these narrow confines.
The kids who participate in this kind of thing are college-bound. And there are colleges set up to receive them. One such college is Baylor University in Texas. Baylor University is a private Baptist university. It is a "real" college, an R1 research school, and a fairly prestigious one. It is very welcoming to Christian homeschoolers. They have pages on their website guiding homeschooling parents through the process of application, including providing a "transcript" template. (Their example of a completed transcript includes an "apologetics" credit.) They accept the Classical Learning Test in lieu of the SAT or ACT. The CLT is a standardized test based on a classical education, described above. Here's an example test. If you ever took the SAT or ACT, you might notice that this looks a lot easier.
Baylor University caters heavily to this demographic. Their core curriculum includes chapel requirements and courses on theology and scripture, but notably does not include math or hard sciences. They have a "formal reasoning" requirement that can be fulfilled with an Intro to Logic class. It can also be fulfilled with a broad-review "theory of math" class that focuses on mathematical concepts for politics and business, like "the mathematics of elections," population growth models, and compound interest. Their "scientific method" requirement does require science classes, but there's no requirement for hard sciences like physics, chemistry, or biology. You can fulfill it with classes like "Exploring Environmental Issues" or "Earthquakes and Other Natural Disasters." (By the way, that "earthquakes" class is also offered at most public universities in Texas, where it is famously a blow-off class. It's basically just a NatGeo documentary about earthquakes and volcanos stretched across a semester.)
Baylor is a legitimately good school. It is a top choice of school for students interested in going into law. They have a nationally competitive policy debate team, a huge and highly supportive pre-law program, and their own law school with a direct-feeder program. Baylor pre-law students often end up at prestigious law schools, including Harvard and Yale. They also have a large network of highly involved, highly successful alumni. Check out their list of notable alumni on Wikipedia and notice just how long the "politics" section is.
If you are a Christian homeschooler looking to move into the world of law and government, Baylor is gonna give you that opportunity. They will give you the prestigious education necessary to move into that world without ever challenging your religious beliefs or setting you up to fail because your Baptist homeschool education never actually taught you how to do fractions.
I'm using Baylor as an example here because I know it best. There are quite a few universities like this. Wheaton, mentioned in the documentary, is one of them. I'm also using Baylor as an example because it's one of the biggest and most mainstream. You can't throw a rock in Texas without hitting a Baylor graduate. Plenty of normal people, even people who aren't religious, attend Baylor for the quality of the education. Baylor can be a gateway from the insular world of fundie homeschool into the real world.
Baylor is not an option for a lot of fundie homeschoolers. You are probably not gonna survive at Baylor - or even get into Baylor - if your only education was ATI wisdom booklets. (It also has exorbitantly expensive tuition.) But this is a viable way to get slingshotted into the halls of power with nothing but a fundamentalist homeschool education and a Christofascist political agenda.

About Me
Hey there, my name is Shelbion and I've been an avid League of Legends player for over a decade. In Season 4, I reached Challenger for the first time and even considered pursuing a professional career. However, after much reflection, I decided to pursue other challenges within the game itself.
Some of my notable achievements as a player include:

• Reaching Challenger on multiple positions.
• Participating and winning in numerous SR and 1v1 tournaments.
• Playing for various teams(Amateur and Semi-Professional).

Community
In addition to my experience as a Player, I am also the Founder of Noxus Coaching - a rapidly growing, educational community on Discord. Our community is a great place to find new friends to play with, have a good time, and most importantly, improve your skills.
We hold various events on a weekly basis, including 1v1 & 5v5 tournaments, meme contests, and more. There are plenty of rewards to be won, including free coaching sessions with me. To join our community, visit https://discord.gg/TuTZAeRbx5 and message me upon joining to receive your role.
Coaching
As a coach with over 6.500 hours of experience, I have a passion for helping others improve and reach their goals. By studying the techniques of renowned coaches such as LS and MagiFelix, I have developed my own unique coaching approach that has helped countless individuals and over 20 teams advance their competitive play across 5 different continents, including members of various College and University E-Sports Teams.
Some of my notable achievements include:

• Assisting a Diamond 2 player reach Challenger in just five weeks.
• Helping a Silver 2 player climb to Platinum in three weeks.
• Guiding a Diamond 3 player to Grandmaster in six weeks.

I am dedicated to continuously honing my skills and providing the best coaching experience possible to all of my clients, regardless of their rank or location.
How Does it Work?
We will schedule an initial Interview during which we can discuss your goals and I can provide a more detailed explanation of my coaching services. This interview will typically last for 3-5 minutes.
The First Session is designed to assess your current level of gameplay and identify areas for improvement. After conducting an analysis, I will create a Personalized Coaching Plan tailored to your specific needs. This plan will outline a series of sessions designed to maximize your improvement.
The Coaching Plan may include various session types, such as:

• Theory sessions: These sessions will cover key concepts such as wave management, vision, decision making, and more.
• Practical sessions: These sessions will either be VOD reviews or live games, and will be used to put theoretical knowledge into practice and analyze gameplay.
• Reviews: These sessions will occur periodically and will be used as checkpoints to track your progress and identify any additional areas for improvement.

All sessions will be personalized and created specifically for each student's needs. By following this plan, you can feel confident that you are taking the most effective steps to achieve your goals.
Personalized Support (Available 24/7)
In addition to the structured coaching sessions, I offer personalized support to my clients on a 24/7 basis. Whether you have a specific question or just want to debrief after a tough game, I am always available to help. Simply message me and I will respond as quickly as possible.
AvailabilityPricesPayments
I am able to cover any server and any timezone! Rates for both Private and Team coaching are negotiable. We will easily get the sessions to fit your budget and your needs. Payments are usually done through PayPal, however other forms of Payment such as Direct Transfer can be discussed.
Contact?
Main form of contact is Discord on which you can find me at Shelbion#8832
Feel free to message me either on Discord or through a Direct Message on Reddit and I will come back to you as quickly as possible.

Mina Miller Edison lived an incredibly inspiring life. She thrived in numerous aspects. Especially since she played many roles throughout her impressive lifespan. Highly educated, confident, ambitious and determined represent the characteristics that describe Mina.
She displayed a deep committed to her family. This includes being the loving wife to inventor, entrepreneur and American icon Thomas Edison. She was also a loving and dedicated mother.
In addition, Mina demonstrated a strong passion for her community with the endless organizations that she contributed a tremendous amount of time and energy.
Mina was born into an entrepreneurial family on July 6, 1865. As the Miller family continued to grow, Mina was the seventh of eleven children born to inventor Lewis Miller and Mary Alexander. Her parents had a love for education. Mina attended and graduated from Akron High School in Ohio. After high school, she went on to study at a home and day school in Boston.

Mina’s Father the Inventor and Founder

Mina Miller Edison was born into a family that was used to being in the spotlight. Lewis Miller was a successful inventor. He also became one of the founders of Chautauqua Institution. The Miller family spent summers in their home along Chautauqua Lake. Her families love for Chautauqua was passed down to Mina. Therefore, when she had a family of her own she brought them to her family home at Chautauqua Institition.

Mina’s father and husband both had a passion for inventing. However, what they chose to invent was different from one another. While Thomas concentrated on technology and electronics, Lewis focused on farm equipment. They shared the common goal of making life easier with their inventions.

Chautauqua Institution

Chautauqua Institution sets on the shores of beautiful Chautauqua Lake in southwestern New York State. The Institution was originally called the Chautauqua Lake Sunday School Assembly. It was founded in 1874 as an educational experiment in out-of-school, vacation learning by industrialist Lewis Miller and Methodist Bishop John Heyl Vincent. Hence, a place where spirituality meets continuing education.
“The original scheme was a Christian educational resort . . . [where] pleasure, science, and all friends of true culture should go side by side with true religion.”

Chautauqua Institution

We call Chautauqua County home which is also the birthplace of the National Historic Landmark, Chautauqua Institution. Chautauqua Institution is a 750-acre community on Chautauqua Lake that attracts 100,000 visitors each summer who explore spirituality, philosophy, cultural vitality and the arts.
President Theodore Roosevelt once called Chautauqua Institution: “the most American thing in America“.
The mission of Chautauqua Institution (or as locals call it, CHQ):

CHQ is dedicated to the exploration of the best in human values and the enrichment of life through a program that explores the important religious, social and political issues of our times; stimulates provocative, thoughtful involvement of individuals and families in creative response to such issues; and promotes excellence and creativity in the appreciation, performance and teaching of the arts.Each summer season celebrates four program areas: The Arts, Religion, Education and Recreation. A summer at Chautauqua is loaded with lectures, concerts, religious services and as well as amazing displays of literary and performing arts. Chautauqua Institution attracts world-class talent that performs ballet, theater, opera, symphony and dance. Click here to check out this season’s exciting events.

The Multiple Achievements of Mina Miller

Marriage to Thomas Edison

When Mina Miller met Thomas Edison, she was promised to her gentleman suitor, George Vincent, the son of Bishop Vincent. Edison learned that Mina would be staying the summer at Chautauqua, he arranged to spend time there to win her and meet her family. Thomas Edison’s hearing was badly compromised by this time from when he was a child so he taught Mina to send and receive Morse code. That summer, he used it to ask her to marry him. He tapped “Will you Marry Me?” on Mina’s hand, and she said “Yes.”
The next step was getting permission from Mina’s Father Lewis, to which Thomas wrote this:
“I trust you will not accuse me of egotism when I say that my life and history and standing are so well known as to call for no statement concerning myself. My reputation is so far made that I recognize I must be judged by it for good or ill. I need only add in conclusion that the step I have taken in asking your daughter to entrust her happiness into my keeping has been the result of mature deliberation, and with the full appreciation of the responsibility and the duty I have undertaken to fulfill. I do not deny that your answer will seriously affect my happiness, and I trust my suit will meet with your approval.”
This letter won the approval of Mr. Miller. The date for the wedding was set for February 24, 1886, hardly more than a year after they met. She was only 20 years old. Oak Place, the Miller home in Akron, was to be the site of the wedding. Father Miller and his Mary Valinda spared no expense in seeing that the nuptials were an occasion to be remembered.

Managing a Home Full of Staff and Children

When Mina and Thomas Edison got married she was much younger then her husband. She became the stepmother to his three children. Still being young herself she was not fully ready for motherhood. However, Mina Miller Edison took charge of the household. Often times Thomas was not around due to his work. This left Mina in charge of hiring the house staff as well as raising the children. Furthermore, she gave herself the title of “home executive”. Mina also held ownership of Glenmont. The home she shared with Thomas. Owning and managing her own home was the first of many successes for Mina.

Children of Her Own

Two years after their marriage Mina and Thomas added to their family with their first child, Madeleine. This started the same pattern of children Thomas had with his first wife. Their daughter was soon followed by two sons, Charles and Theodore.

Madeleine Edison

Madeleine was born on May 31st, 1888, the first child born to Mina. She was born in Glenmont, the Edison Family home in New Jersey. Madeleine married John Eyre Sloane. She married him in the Drawing Room at Glenmont on June 17, 1914. Madeleine and John had four sons, who happened to be Thomas Edison’s only grandchildren from either marriage.
Madeleine briefly ran for Congress in 1938, she sadly lost. During World War II she gave much of her time to blood drives for the New Jersey Red Cross. She also administered the Edison Birthplace in Milan, Ohio after her mother’s death. She died on February 14, 1979.

Charles Edison

Charles Edison was born into the Edison Family at the Glenmont on August 3, 1890. He married Carolyn Hawkins, whom he had met in 1912 then married on March 27, 1918. Finally, he became president of his father’s company, Thomas A. Edison, Incorporated, in 1927. He ran the company until it was sold in 1959.
Charles is the best known because of his second career, in public service. In the mid-1930s he served in the cabinet of President Franklin Roosevelt. First as Assistant Secretary of the Navy, then as Acting Secretary. New Jersey voters elected him as their governor in 1940. He also founded a charitable foundation that now bears his name, the Charles Edison Fund. He died on July 31, 1969

Theodore Miller Edison

Theodore Miller Edison was the last to be born at Glenmont on July 10, 1898. He attended the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, from which he earned his physics degree in 1923. He was the only member of the Edison family to graduate from college.
Theodore did work for his father’s company after graduation. After starting as an ordinary lab assistant, he worked his way up to technical director of research and engineering for Thomas A. Edison, Inc. He eventually founded his own company, Calibron Industries, Inc. Also, he built his own smaller laboratory in West Orange. Theodore earned over 80 patents in his career. In 1925 he married Anna Maria Osterhout, a graduate of Vassar. He became an ardent environmentalist. Theodore lived in West Orange with his wife Anna until his death on November 24, 1992.

Mina’s Step-Children

With the marriage between Thomas and Mina, she took on his three children from the first marriage. Marion, twelve years old, Thomas, Jr. ten years old, and William Leslie eight years old. She continued to struggle with her relationship with her stepdaughter. Mina’s stepchildren did not take education as seriously as she did. They believed that Edison’s fame could make their future for them. Finally, due to this belief, Mina’s stepchildren went on to live less acclaimed lives as the other Edison children.

Marion Estelle Edison

Marion was the first born of Thomas Edison’s children. She was born on February 18, 1873, and gained the nickname “Dot” as a child after Morse Code. In 1895 she married Karl Oscar Oeser, a German army lieutenant. They lived in Germany through the First World War. Unfortunately, her marriage ended in divorce in 1921. Finally, she then returned to the United States, where she died on April 16, 1965.

Thomas Alva Edison Jr

Thomas Alva, Junior, was born on January 10, 1876. He had the nickname “Dash” after Morse Code like his sister. He went on to marry stage actress Marie Louise Toohey in 1899. However, the marriage ended within a year. He next married Beatrice Heyzer. Thomas Jr sold the use of his name to advertise “quack” medicines and dubious inventions. His father disapproved of this and eventually asked him to change his name. Thomas Jr. briefly went by the name of Thomas Willard. His efforts at inventing and starting a mushroom farm failed. Finally, he died on August 25, 1935.

William Leslie Edison

William Leslie was born on October 26, 1878. He went to school at St. Paul’s School, Concord, New Hampshire. Then also attended J.M.Hawkins School on Staten Island. He later studied at the Sheffield scientific school at Yale. William soon married Blanche Travers. William Edison served in the military during the Spanish-American War in 1898. He also served again in the First World War. Like his brother he turned to farm life, breeding chickens. Finally, he died on August 10, 1937.

Chautauqua Institute and Mina’s Influence

Mina’s father’s love for Chautauqua was passed down to his daughter. Mina dedicated herself to many organizations locally. She supported many land and wildlife conservation. Often times Mina would donate her own funds to projects for Chautauqua. Mina became a trustee of the institute. Others involved in Chautauqua held Mina in high regards. Also much like her father, Mina continued her involvement with her beloved Institute until her passing in 1947.
Mina was active in many different organizations and clubs including:

• The American Red Cross
• The Chautauqua Association
• West Orange Community League (President From 1912-1919)
• National Audubon Society
• Chautauqua Bird and Tree Club
• The John Burroughs Association
• The Daughters of the American Revolution
• The School Garden Association of America

The Thomas Alva Edison Foundation

After Thomas Edison passed away, Mina started The Thomas Alva Edison Foundation in his memory. The foundation combined both Thomas’s and Mina’s passions. Mina’s love for education and Thomas’s love for science. However, later on, the nature of the foundation changed. It was no longer dedicated to advancements in science and education. Finally, it became a foundation aimed at preserving Thomas Edison’s name and accomplishments

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TLDR; newbie player needs advice, can't make builds work, too dumb (?) to farm currency and make progress - waves of wanting to quit

As the title states, this is my first league of POE. I love it, spent plenty of money on tabs to be able to play comfortably and also support the devs - BUT
Either I'm too dumb, or I'm overwhelmed - (or both) - but at points I really feel like quitting and today was one of those moments again.At the moment I have roughly 600h including loads of AFK time, so I'm a baby still and I know that - my expectations aren't high, I just want to run T16s comfortably, with good movement speed or shield charge / whirling blade and NOT DIE every or every other map.When people recommend certain builds to me ingame and I only have a POB to look at, I have no clue how to follow it so that I can achieve the performance of said character in the POB.My biggest problem is that I jump from char to char (I have played 5 classes through the campaign and tried builds for each of them to find what playstyle suits me) so i spend most of the little currency I have on a build, finding out it doesn't work, and then having to sell of that gear or farm super low tier maps for some chaos scraps which isn't worth anything at this point of the league, sadly - so i feel like I haven't even touched the "real endgame" for farming currency, buying scarabs, sextants and all that good stuff to juice my maps.
So what am I asking for here?TBH, idk - probably some general tips for the newbie I am, some easy builds to put together for low currency to get the stone rolling that are FAIL SAFE, preferably with a written guide or at least some notes and different stages of skills & gear in a POB. Or just someone to tell me it's normal, next steps to take - at this point I will take anything to keep the fun up, because I really do want to enjoy and learn the game
Classes I've leveled up and builds I tried with them:

• Witch: First char. Started cold dot, didn't enjoy playstyle and died a lot, switched to occultist and tried death oath caustic arrow, again super squishy on my budget and dmg wasn't really there.
• Jugg: tried RF, was kind of nice but felt super slow to play and investments didn't feel like they changed anything
• Ranger: Probably the most fun I had. LA deadeye was superb damage and movespeed but I died a lot so I couldn't progress in levels at all. Kept gaining xp, dying and losing the xp right after- stuck in that loop. Also tried LS raider which I almost liked better because I love whirling blades.
• Champion: Corrupting Fever. Felt good tank wise, but slow as a b- and single target was horrible, also felt like it needed more investment to be "smooth"
• Trickster: My latest one. Frost Blades, in general prob also one of my favorite builds, but I hate having to get so up close (also whirling blades love here, again)

If there's anything else needed, or something that I didn't mention - please let me know. Thank you guys in advance ^<3

Chat us on +44 7593880762 (Telegram/Whatsaap) if you are interested in Anthony Gallo - 14-Day Filmmaker.
Inside Anthony Gallo - 14-Day Filmmaker you will learn how to:
- Produce Cinematic & Emotional Videos: Unlock the secrets to creating stunning, emotionally impactful videos that captivate your audience.
- Save Time and Effort: Skip the months of trial and error and get straight to success. No more wasting time trying to figure it all out on your own.
- Affordable Equipment: Discover how we started with a Canon 70d and a $50 lens and still achieved outstanding results. You don't need a massive budget to create amazing videos.
- In-Depth Training: Dive deep into the art of filmmaking as we guide you through the entire process, from shooting to editing and everything in between.
- Master Camera Techniques: Learn how to shoot like a pro, compose captivating shots, and choose the perfect camera settings to bring your vision to life.
- Create Dynamic Movement: Discover techniques for creating fluid and captivating camera movement that adds a cinematic touch to your videos.
- Masterful Storytelling: Harness the power of storytelling to engage your audience and create compelling narratives that leave a lasting impact.
- Seamless Editing: Unleash your creativity in the editing room as you learn how to craft polished videos that stand out from the crowd…
… and much more!
You can benefit from the years of experience of Paul Xavier and Anthony Gallo. Since 2013, they shot over 200 commercials, generating tens of millions in profit for their clients.
If you are interested in Anthony Gallo - 14-Day Filmmaker, contact us at:
Whatsapp/Telegram: + 44 7593880762 (Telegram: silverlakestoreproducts)
Reddit DM to u/CourseAccess
Email: silverlakestore/@/yandex.com (remove the brackets)

In the digital era, e-commerce has emerged as a game-changer for businesses, offering tremendous growth opportunities and global customer reach. However, building a successful e-commerce website requires careful planning, implementation, and ongoing optimization. In this comprehensive guide, we will explore the step-by-step process of creating an effective e-commerce website, while highlighting the expertise of AMLA Consultancy (https://amlaconsultancy.com/) in providing top-notch e-commerce development and consultancy services. Let's delve into the essential steps to unlock e-commerce success.
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First Previous
Memory Transcription Subject: Vichak, venlil school principal
Date [Standard Human Reckoning]: 2136-10-23
I told my vice principal that I didn't come to this predator planet for a vacation, so I need some knowledge or study results to bring home. Johan, my possible future brother-in-law, suggested that I could perhaps observe a human school. Keristian, the human coordinator for the refugee apartment, assured me that he had contacted an elementary school and came up with a schedule. For now, he told me to familiarize myself with the amenities in the apartment.
Besides their blocky design, human apartments had the same general functions as venlil ones. The staff provided us with a stepping stool to account for the larger dimension of the furniture, but other than that it has all that we needed.
Well... we could use a full-body dryer.
I found some alien features too in the apartment, such as the artificial pond, which humans use for recreation. They call this activity 'swimming', something that translates into "moving in water". Their First Contact package insisted that they came from arboreal lineage. Yet, their movements in water betrayed a hidden skill. After considering it, it made sense in a way. The water in their world is teeming with life, and they would benefit from aquatic hunting skills.
Adjacent to this 'swimming' pond, the apartment also had a gym. We have gyms back in the home world, but here on Earth, a wide range of humans frequented them, not just their armed forces personnel. They perform a variety of body movements such as lifting and putting things back down or running on a conveyor belt.
Does this dedication to simulated hardship serve as a means to channel their inherited predatory aggression? They didn't turn themselves from savage beasts into civilized people without some way to temper that excess.
We expected to meet a lot of gojids in the apartment, but it felt sparser than I had imagined. Keristian explained that the gojids here had entered into employment within the Capital. A large number had secured work on the farms. Some had brought seeds from their homeworld, which they planted back in the camp. After the human experts determined it safe enough for Earth, they transplanted the sprouts to one of the farms around the city.
I wondered if any venlil plant species had established themselves on this foreign soil. After Timür explained the concept of invasive species, I realized that I misinterpreted their cautious approach as predatory territorialism. On the other paw, the unspoiled wilderness that I witnessed on my journeys to and from the camp made me appreciate the inherent beauty of preserving such a wild landscape.
Some other gojids chose careers in logistics, serving the complex system that kept the goods in the region moving. Right now, humans directed most of their effort into alleviating the ruined cities. Some of the gojids had even volunteered to help the human, despite the presence of arxurs in the affected cities.
For our last meal of the day, we had gojid dishes made out of earth ingredients. I have to admit that I have not tried gojid cuisine before, but it grew on me just like human cuisine did.
The midday heat on Earth felt milder compared to the scorching intensity of a Deep Day in Venlil Prime's sunward section. Unlike our homeworld, where night temperatures could plummet beyond freezing, Earth's night felt comfortable.
I spent my first night on Earth sitting on the rooftop garden of the apartment. The blanket of darkness that stretched all around us sparked feelings of unease. However, the glimmering towers of the Capital provided a comforting backdrop, their lights twinkling like terrestrial stars. One of the staff members commented on how the city's light pollution obscured all but the brightest celestial bodies.
The staff member was a human after all and would do insane human things like complaining about their city not being dark enough.
Nevertheless, humans did appreciate the necessity of artificial lighting. As night fell, we could illuminate our room with the voice command, a comforting alternative to the deep night outside. I shuddered at the thought of enduring a night in such complete darkness.
Yesterday, I decided to explore the downtown capital to familiarize myself before I visited the school today. Mom insisted on tagging along and Keristian wanted Sukma, his aide, to guide us. We wanted a self-guided exploration, so as a compromise, the human equipped us with wrist-worn devices. These gadgets allowed him to track our whereabouts and also functioned as a means of payment. While the coordinator insisted we needn't worry about finances, he explained a rough price guide to prevent any possible exploitation.
Humans, in stark contrast to the lone arxurs, put heavy importance on socializing. While we waited in the station, the rhythmic cadence of Bahasa, their local language, filled the air. Thanks to Vani's provision of a language model, I could comprehend their dialogues, and snippets of human conversations drifted toward my ears.
"Do you see those domba?"
"Shhh... don't call them that. But yeah... I thought we had just one here?"
"Maybe Vani's relatives came to visit?"
However, even with the additional language model, my translator couldn't decipher all of their voices. Vani informed me that Bahasa serves as a trade language for the region and they had a plethora of other tongues that our translation device has yet to have the data for.
Once aboard the train, the humans adopted a collective silence. Being surrounded by humans aboard the train felt daunting, but this discomfort came from me standing out in this setting. I would feel the same on any other planet inhabited by a different species, carnivorous or not.
When we came to the downtown station, we plunged right away into an endless sea of humans.
Timür's unapologetic display of his face had acclimatized us to humans. We learned to perceive them not as threats but as just xenos with weird faces. It also helped that the humans in our vicinity maintained a respectful distance. However, they almost always locked their curious gaze onto us, averting their eyes when they figured out that I noticed them from my peripheral vision.
Distinguishing individual humans posed a challenge due to their similar appearance, but I soon learned to note the distinctive fabric of their clothing and the accessories they adorned.
The bustling capital of Nusantara presented us with new experiences and opportunities to learn about human culture. Mom and I took full advantage of our time there, immersing ourselves in the vibrant atmosphere provided by the city.
We first stopped at a local market, a bustling hive of activity that operated around the clock. Here, we observed humans haggling over the prices of fruits and vegetables, inspecting textiles, and purchasing a bewildering variety of cooked foods. The rich aroma of exotic spices and prepared meals filled the air.
We had a pleasant experience in the market until we stumbled onto the flesh section. Mom caused some embarrassing commotion when she vomited at the sight of the flesh.
So we decided to visit something less challenging and found ourselves going to museums and galleries. The tour guides in each institution we came to explained the history of this island while showing a collection of historical artifacts and artworks. It offered a captivating glimpse into the ancient human civilizations that once inhabited this region, and their struggles and triumphs.
We decided to have our last meal of the day in the city. With many of the buildings crammed in the city center, the place we had access to the open air lay at the top of the building. We watched the sun setting on the horizon.
As we ate through a platter of addictive fritters, Mom said that we venlil did construct similar dense settlements. Her explanation surprised me at first, as I almost forgot that Mom used to work as a civil engineer. She then explained that dense arrangements for habitats like this only made sense in colonies that lacked land or breathable air.
Humans seemed to have other motivations. They prefer gathering close to one another, creating bustling metropolises to allow for large swaths of untouched land for their wildlife.
So today, having learned to navigate the urban labyrinth of the Capital, I bid a temporary farewell to my mother at the outskirt station. Her exploration of this city would take her further out, where she would visit one of the human agricultural facilities. On the other paw, my destination lay at the heart of downtown.
Once I arrived at the downtown station, I switched on my visual overlay, allowing it to project directional instructions across my visual field. It painted a pathway to my destination through the tunnels and covered walkways. The direction landed me in one of the city's gargantuan towers.
The visual overlay translated the name of the school in venscript. Since humans write horizontally, the resulting translation turns a quarter circle. The sign above the entrance says:
"State Elementary School #1"
Number one? I suppose in a city this big, they did need more than one school. Under the sign, I spotted a human figure standing. She waved her arms and I could tell that she had waited for me. When I got closer, I made out the warm and inviting expression on her face
"Hi, I'm Andin, and you must be Principal Vichak?" Her voice sounded melodious and soft for a human. The human clasped her hands in front of her and bowed.
"Hi Principal Andin, nice to meet you," I replied to her with the same gesture. "I can't wait to see your school."
"Excellent! Follow me," she said. Her billowy one-piece dress twirled around her when she turned around.
Andin led me through the lobby and toward a balcony overseeing the heart of this educational facility, an internal atrium spanning three stories in height. The humans embedded the school inside one of their superstructure, and due to the lack of outdoor space, this architectural feature provided a simulated outside area where young humans could engage in physical activity and socialize. A synthetic material replicating grass covered the atrium's floor. Simulated sunlight streamed projected from the ceiling bathed the area in warm daylight.
An assortment of colorful play structures and exercise apparatuses dotted the periphery of the atrium. I presume they provided the students with ways to release those predator energies. Balconies jutted out from each floor, giving educators an overview of the bustling space and enabling effective supervision during playtime. The classrooms and learning spaces surrounded the atrium. As we walked past, I noticed that several of the glass panes had turned opaque.
"I read from the sign that this is an Elementary School. How old are your students?"
"Our elementary school caters to students from the first through fourth grades, so they are between six to ten years old. However, we sometimes admit older students. For instance, we have a few twelve-year-olds in the fourth grade."
Something felt a bit off from her answer. "What's next for them after this?" I probed.
"After completing their time here, students move on to four years of middle school, followed by another four years of high school. During high school, they can choose a specialization before they move on to university."
Her response left me flabbergasted. "Twelve years of education?" I said in disbelief. "It takes a full twelve years to complete education here?"
"Uh... yeah. That's pretty much the standard timeframe for education all over the planet. Just... how long does it take for you to finish your mandatory education?"
"Seven years," I responded. "By the age of thirteen, kids can start two years of vocational school and most venlils started working at fifteen."
Andin's eyes widened, "Wait, you have children working full-time at fifteen?"
"No, they're not children. They're adults." I realized that humans might have different lifespans. "What's... your age of majority here?"
"In this country, people can vote at the age of seventeen. But in our local culture adulthood starts at twenty." Andin explained.
"Alright, maybe we have a different lifespan?" Andin suggested, echoing my thought. "What's the typical lifespan of a venlil?"
"The average life expectancy hovers around ninety years, although many people live past one hundred," I explained. I wonder if perhaps humans live much longer? I didn't expect predators to live long, but humans tend to defy the norm.
"We had the same lifespan," Andin admitted.
"Wait... what?"
"Maybe we have a different education system?" She suggested again. Andin offered me her pad. "Feel free to observe any class that interests you. Here you can see the schedule for today." The contents had been translated into Ventongue. It presented a timeline of various subjects that took place throughout the day.
As my eyes skimmed over the list, one caught my attention. "Can you explain physical education?"
"In this class, we teach children how to exercise." she explained, "In fact, a PE class should begin now."
An adult human arrived on the field, followed by human children chattering and making all sorts of kid noises. They sounded just like venlil juveniles. At the command of the teacher, the students aligned themselves into a tidy grid pattern. A rhythmic melody started to play, filling the atrium with an energetic ambiance. The teacher at the front began to move in sync with the music, demonstrating a series of actions that the children mirrored.
"What are they doing?" I asked, intrigued.
"They're warming up to prepare for the activity ahead."
They performed various movements, the fluidity and synchronization of which appeared almost like a dance to my venlil eyes.
Once the 'warm up' concluded, several large, blocky objects rolled into the atrium. With a series of arm gestures from the teacher, these objects positioned themselves around the area. Some expanded to form rudimentary structures complete with roofs, transforming the atrium into some sort of tiny city.
The children gathered in a circle. Following a brief, excited chatter, they each presented a hand, some with palms facing upward, others showing the backs of their hands. According to some unspoken rule, those showing the backs of their hands stepped back, causing the circle to contract. This ritual continued and I figured out that the group with the most members excused themselves until one kid remained.
"Ah, it seems they're playing 'Hide and Seek' today," Andin commented, watching the unfolding scene with a warm smile.
"Hide and Seek? What's that?"
"One child plays as the 'cat' while the others will play as the 'mice'," she explained, her expression turning somewhat hesitant. "Ah... perhaps this wasn't the most appropriate activity for you to observe."
My translator didn't quite capture the nuances of 'cat' and 'mice', but I gathered they referred to Earth animals. The child designated as the 'cat' stood in the center of the atrium, standing near a pole with their eyes covered, while the 'mice' scattered, seeking shelter behind the fabricated structures and blocks.
The 'cat' began a loud countdown. Upon reaching zero, they removed palms hands from their eyes and commenced their search. A realization struck me as the 'cat' started prowling around.
"This... is," I murmured, taken aback by the implication of the game. "You're simulating a hunt."
From time to time, the humans can't help but remind me that despite their friendliness and civility, they had a history as predators.
"Well... yeah, when you put it like that…" she paused. "But, the children didn't see it as a hunting simulation. I mean… I doubt that none of them will become a hunter when they reach adulthood. Most of us nowadays don't hunt."
"I understand." I looked down and the cat had found a mouse, chaos ensued as the two of them rushed to the pole. The mouse touched the pole first and laughed. "You humans do need an outlet for your aggression to maintain a civil society."
"What? No…" Said Andin. "We have Physical Education to encourage a habit of fitness."
"So, you don't feel the urge to get violent, sometimes?"
"Most of us don't. Those with that kind of urge receive treatments so they don't harm themselves or other people."
I looked down at the human children below. Despite their concerning activity, they looked like they enjoyed it.
"But if this display makes you uncomfortable, we can see other classes."
I looked at the pad, where another class intrigued me.
"You have an art class? In elementary school?"
"Yeah, it encourages creativity… you don't have art classes?"
"No, those with the aptitude will go to art colleges after they graduate from school."
"Oh…" She gave me a look that I think signifies pity? "Are there other things you don't see in Venlil school?"
"The English class seems interesting. I noticed that most of your people can speak in English when needed."
"Heh, that one is contentious." She chuckled. "English is waning now, and people proposed that we teach our kids Chinese, Hindi, or Swahili for the foreign language class. I take it… you don't have a foreign language class?"
"We do, but… like art school, you learn it at the university level, usually as part of a Foreign Relation Studies. Because foreign languages are spoken by other species."
"Interesting." Again, she gave me that concerned look. "So, do you want to see the art class or the language class?"
"Art class. I think."
"Sure, let's go," Andin said, guiding me down the stairs toward the art classroom.
Upon entering the room, chaos greeted us. An eclectic array of children's artwork adorned the walls, showcasing vibrant landscapes, portraits, abstract shapes, and depictions of what I assumed were various earth creatures.
"Ah, Principal Andin," the art teacher greeted us with an inviting smile as we entered. "And we have Principal Vichak as well!"
"Meet Harta, our art teacher," Andin introduced me.
The moment we entered the room, a sea of young faces turned towards us. It felt like a forest of eyes scrutinizing us.
"Children, say hello to our visitor today, Principal Vichak."
"Good morning, Principal Vichak!" They speak in harmony. The children then refocused on their tasks, their hands returning to their brushes and colored pencils.
Some students here worked alone, while others collaborated in small groups. In one corner, I spotted a screen displaying 3D artwork, sculptures made from what looked like recycled materials, clay, and even intricate artwork made of folded paper.
"Today we have a free-form class," Harta explained. "With your visit, I asked them to make something about our two species."
Several children gathered around a large screen at one end of the room, using it to sketch out their designs before replicating them on canvas. They drew scenes of humans and venlils with a level of technical skill and creativity that amazed me, considering the young age of these kids. In one section, busy children molded a piece of clay, their tiny hands trying to create something that looked like a venlil.
"But how do you evaluate their work?" I asked, confused. "And for that matter, how do you grade students in the Physical Education class?"
"In this school system, we don't include art and physical education to determine if a student has what it takes to continue to the next grade," Andin clarified.
"We do give individual feedback to each child," Harta chimed in. "We aim to ensure their personal growth and development, not just their academic achievement."
"Indeed," Andin asserted, her voice reflecting a sense of profound conviction. "The role of the school has evolved over time. These days, we don't work just as a hub for academic instruction, but as a second home where children learn essential life skills. We work hand-in-hand with parents to nurture these young minds, helping them develop into thoughtful and responsible individuals."
This notion brought back memories of my own school back on our homeworld. People would often refer to our school as a "nursery" due to our additional class on socializing and communication. I remember Renata, the human psychologist stationed in our homeland, said that my school had the basis of a well-rounded education. Here I learned just how more "rounded" we need to be.
Throughout the day, we ventured into different classrooms, each offering a snapshot of the subjects covered in human elementary education. The STEM classes felt lackluster by my standards. However, I soon appreciated their teaching approach which encouraged students to arrive at their conclusions.
On the other hand, the social studies and citizenship curriculum appeared more intricate, which made sense, given the complex social structures of the human race, a species as varied and divided as the primitive yotuls.
Midday brought a meal break, during which I had the chance to mingle with some of the other faculty members. I learned that a significant portion of the adults currently abstained from food and drink, on account of what they called the "fasting month". Andin observed the fast as well, but she kept me company in the cafeteria despite her abstinence from eating.
"Are you sure it's alright for me to eat while you're fasting?" I asked, somewhat.
"Of course," she assured me, her face warmed by a gracious smile. "Self-restraint is a fundamental aspect of being human."
Self-restraint, a quality I found woven into the fabric of human nature. Despite the invasion hurling their world into chaos, humans displayed remarkable restraint, refraining from lashing out in anger.
Post-meal, our educational exploration resumed. The sheer number of classes devoted to non-academic skills struck me. For instance, they had a class dedicated to environmental education, where they instructed young learners on how to care for their planet. Another class, called Health and Wellness, focused on areas such as hygiene, nutrition, safety, emotional well-being, and mental health. My visit coincided with a session of "meditation", a peculiar human practice to calm themselves. When I observed the children sitting in tranquil silence with eyes closed and serene music enveloping the room, I realized that they do have a method of quelling aggression, by nurturing a peaceful disposition.
The complexities of human pedagogical methods began to dawn upon me. The length of their educational journey lasted longer than ours because of this multifaceted curriculum. They didn't focus just on the injection of academic knowledge, but they also introduced human development in theirs. Even their academic lessons went beyond feeding students with facts and figures. Instead, they encouraged a more gradual learning pace that fostered independent thinking.
Such an extensive approach to education daunted me. Could we even implement such a model in our venlil school? Considerable obstacles lay on our path, given the expectations of parents and our society at large, who were accustomed to a quicker, more streamlined education.
In any case, my day reached its conclusion, and my time to depart came. When I bid her farewell, Principal Andin provided me with a binder filled with artwork created by the students, along with personal messages for me and the students back at my own school.
I had time to reflect and consider as I walked toward the downtown station. I recalled how Andin and Harta viewed the institution not as a place of learning, but as a secondary caregiver, working hand-in-hand with parents to nurture the holistic development of their young ones.
On my way to the station, my mother called. She informed me she would be coming downtown so we could share a last meal of the day together.
"How did the farm tour go, mama?" I queried, eager to hear about her day.
"It was enlightening," she replied, leaving me curious about her experience. "And what about your day?"
"Oh, mama," I began, a sense of excitement rising in my voice, "I had an extraordinary day."
Afterwords: Humans with their 22nd century education.
Somehow this is the longest chapter I have ever written. Also note on my update schedule. I'm posting update on every date divisible by 3. That means some updates can appear 96 hours later when the last post is on 30th and the month ends in 31st,

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If you're a novice to podcasts, you're definitely no stranger to these struggles: How to write a podcast script? Should I write the script for the interview podcast? Should it be word-for-word? Should I use the script for a solo show? How to write one?
No worries — many aspiring podcasters face this.
If you've googled these questions at least once, you're at the right place. In this article, we'll share best practices for writing a podcast script as well as give you script templates based on the podcast format. So whether you're going to write a word-for-word script or just leave some touchpoints in it, we've got you covered, so let's delve in.

What is a podcast script & must I use it?

Well, you definitely must not. However, all great shows that flow like a casual off-the-cuff conversation are, in reality, well-prepared beforehand. It doesn't mean, though, that the script should have every word you're about to say — a word-for-word script isn't a necessity. It's up to you whether to plan every word before hitting the record button or just have a few notes.
What's more, using no podcast script whatsoever doesn't mean your show will sound rusty, or your talk will feel inarticulate. Sometimes, you can do perfectly well without a script, but that requires practice, knowledge of some recording tips, and long hours of podcast hosting experience. If you're just starting out, it's always useful to have a script as a backup.
So what is a podcast script? This is an outline of ideas and touchpoints you're going to speak about in your show. Only you decide how detailed the script will be. A well-thought-out podcast script brings your show's episode structure, direction, and cohesiveness. When you have a script at your fingertips, you'll feel more confident to get back to the initial route if something goes not as planned, sparing you a bit of nerves and post-production time.
The script helps you stick to the focus of your show and not to deviate from it, prepare transitions, and keep the talk within the planned recording time. So even if you mustn't have a podcast script, you definitely should.

Podcast script outline templates (for common podcast formats)

Firstly, let's take a solo show episode as an example and see which podcast segments it includes. Note that it's not necessary to strictly stick to this template; for instance, you can eliminate the sponsor part or reduce it to a couple of mentions. You can also change the order of the points.
💡If you don't have a podcast sponsor yet or don't know how to monetise your show, check our article that covers exacyly that.

Solo podcast script template

1. Introduction
2. Sponsor message
3. Music jingle
4. A more detailed explanation of the episode
5. Topic 1

• Main point
• Supporting points
• Supporting data / quote

1. Segue
   
2. Topic 2.
   

• Main point
• Supporting points
• Supporting data/ quote

1. Segue
   
2. Outro
   
3. Call to action
   
4. Sponsor message
   
5. Music jingle
   

This is the basic outline that you can customise the way you feel right and align with your show structure and topic.
As for the podcast firmats, there are several common types; each has its own stricture and, thus — a podcast script. Whether you're going to record an interview, a solo show, or a talk show with co-host(s), the scripts will differ.

Interview podcast script template

Interviews typically require more preparation than solo shows, and the scripts of the upcoming interviews are more detailed and thought-through. When you host an interview, it's essential to know exactly what you're going to ask your guest.
💡 We've covered how to prepare the questions for the guest, so check that piece before making the interview podcast script.
Once you've researched your guest and prepared the list of questions, start making points that'll help keep the line of what you're going to say. It's essential to be prepared for the interview and know what you'll talk about not only for your comfort but for the comfort of your guest as well. The latter will create an atmosphere of two friends talking, making the show sound easy and conversational.
To achieve it, the script is important, so here's an example of the interview podcast episode:

1. Introduction.
2. Guest introduction.
3. Sponsor message.
4. Music jingle.
5. Question 1.

• Side questions if need be.
• Segue.

1. Question 2.

• Side questions if need be.
• Segue.

1. Question 3.

• Side questions if need be.
• Segue.

1. Recap.
   
2. Outro.
   
3. Sponsor message.
   
4. Call to action.
   
5. Music jingle.
   

You can customise this plan to your own interview.

Co-host podcast script template

If you're about to have a talk show with one or several co-host(s), the most optimal approach would be to prepare some script with the general conversation structure and touchpoints but generally keep the organic conversational flow.
You might wonder why to have a script for the talk show with a co-host, as it's supposed to be a natural conversation. Preparing the script beforehand will allow you to avoid the issues like interrupting each other, repeating things, one host talking too long, and awkward jumping from one topic to another.
Transitions (or segues) are super important for a co-hosted show. So in such a case, it might make sense to have scripted transitions.

1. Introduction
2. Sponsor message
3. Music jingle
4. A more detailed explanation of the episode
5. Topic 1

• Main point
• Supporting points
• Question by Host 2 to Host 1.

a) Answer by Host 1. Question to Host 2.
b) Answer by Host 2 to Host 1.

1. Segue
   
2. Topic 2.
   

• Main point
• Supporting points
• Question by Host 1 to Host 2.
• Answer by Host 2. Question to Host 1 by Host 2.
• Answer by Host 2.

1. Segue
   
2. Outro
   
3. Call to action
   
4. Sponsor message
   
5. Music jingle
   

With a co-host, it's crucial to record each person on different tracks. This way, you can edit your voices independently later on. Waveroom, a virtual recording studio, can do exactly that — it records audio and video tracks of each participant individually and automatically merges audio and video tracks in your personal working dashboard.
💡 Give it a shot — Waveroom is a perfect solution for podcast recording, whether solo shows, remote interviews, or co-hosted talks.
🔴 Tip: To steal a sneak peek of other podcasts' scripts, check services like Happyscribe that share transcribed scripts of various shows!

Essential podcast script segments with templates

From the outlines above, you've noticed that it contains segments that will be relevant to any show, regardless of its format and structure: Introduction, sponsor message, segue, outro, and call to action. Let's briefly touch on each of these.

Podcast introduction (Intro)

A podcast intro is the first thing listeners hear when opening an episode on a podcast directory like Spotify or Apple Podcasts. So it's essential that your intro has these qualities: it's short, welcoming, and explains what the podcast is about. To be consistent and recognisable, use the same script for introductions of each of your episodes. Here's the general and easy template for a podcast intro script.

"Welcome to [podcast name], the show that [short podcast description]. I'm [host name], and today we're talking about [episode topic] with [guest name, if any]."

Guest introductions

If you have an interview, it's vital to introduce your guest(s) as well, so after the intro we give you above, you can elaborate on your guest(s) and add this:

"Welcome [guest name] to [podcast name]. She/he/they are here to [why? Provide expertise, answer questions, tell their story, etc.]. Hi, [guest's first name]; thanks for joining us today."

Sponsor messages

Scripts of your sponsor messages may vary depending on how much the brand controls this message. Sometimes, brands write them on their own and ask you to just voice the scripts. Others give podcasters merely the main points to touch on. Either way, talk to your sponsor to come up with an engaging sponsor message that will resonate with your audience.
Here's a simple example of how you can mention your sponsor:

"Today's episode is brought to you by [sponsor name]. [Sponsor name] is [brief benefits of the sponsor's product or service and why the listener should try it].

Segue

Podcast episodes, especially interviews, typically touch on several topics. To go from one to another topic cohesively without sudden jumps and keep the steady episode flow, it's important to think through natural transitions (segues). Segues can be jingles, sounds, or spoken phrases.

"Now that you know [previously discussed topic], let's jump right in to [next topic to discuss]."

Podcast outro

Use the podcast outro as a way to thank your guest for participating, recap what you've talked about, and thank your audience for listening. During the outro, you can also announce some upcoming events or episodes.

"Thank you, [guest name], for being with us today for our discussion of [brief recap of the discussion]. Thank you for listening to our show, and stay tuned for more episodes of [podcast name]."

Calls to action (CTAs)

Calls to action can be a part of the outro or an individual segment of a podcast episode. During a CTA, you can ask your listeners to follow you on social media, subscribe to a newsletter or your show on Apple Podcasts or Spotify, write a review, or become a premium listener.

"Thanks for listening to [podcast name]. Before we go, show some love for our show by leaving us a review on Apple Podcasts and following us on [platform name with the handle]. Stay tuned for next week where we [next episode's topic]."

How to write a podcast script: Tips & best practices

If you're just at the beginning of your podcast journey, we recommend preparing a detailed script. You will reduce the number of details over time as you gain some practice talking smoothly without preparation.
Let us cover a few tips that'll help you write a captivating podcast script, even if you've never done it before.

Keep it conversational

Having a script is super helpful, but when you read it during the show word by word, it will sound flat and monotone. So always try to sound conversational as if you're talking to a friend.
To practise conversational sound, record yourself before the actual show with some text-to-speech tool to dictate your words. Then just edit this new 'script,' smooth it out, and use it as a basis for the show.
💡 With Waveroom, you can record yourself talking for 120 minutes free of charge — enough time to practice! You can record an audio-only track or a video. Here in our guide, we explain how to record yourself with Waveroom.

Mind delivery notes

Delivery notes added to your screen indicate pauses, laughs, sighs, emphasis, dramatic effects, pronunciation of certain words, and other elements that bring some conversational tone to your podcast. It's helpful to rehearse reading with these delivery notes before you get to recording.

Maintain a reasonable pace

Don't speak too quickly nor too slowly. Find the ideal talking pace and maintain it. There should not be any long pauses or moments when you talk so fast that it's impossible to comprehend what has been said.