Let’s be very clear about this: when a woman finds herself pregnant due to violence and chooses an abortion, it is the violence that is the tragedy; the abortion is a blessing.
When a woman finds that the fetus she is carrying has anomalies incompatible with life, that it will not live and that she requires an abortion — often a late-term abortion — to protect her life, her health, or her fertility, it is the shattering of her hopes and dreams for that pregnancy that is the tragedy; the abortion is a blessing.
When a woman wants a child but can’t afford one because she hasn’t the education necessary for a sustainable job, or access to health care, or day care, or adequate food, it is the abysmal priorities of our nation, the lack of social supports, the absence of justice that are the tragedies; the abortion is a blessing.
And when a woman becomes pregnant within a loving, supportive, respectful relationship; has every option open to her; decides she does not wish to bear a child; and has access to a safe, affordable abortion — there is not a tragedy in sight — only blessing. The ability to enjoy God’s good gift of sexuality without compromising one’s education, life’s work, or ability to put to use God’s gifts and call is simply blessing.
These are the two things I want you, please, to remember — abortion is a blessing and our work is not done. Let me hear you say it: abortion is a blessing and our work is not done. Abortion is a blessing and our work is not done. Abortion is a blessing and our work is not done.
What really impresses me about Ragsdale is this bit:
The idea that abortion kills a child, she contends, reflects parental hopes and dreams for the child-to-be, not the reality of what the zygote or fetus actually is. (It is, in her words, “proleptic,” a theological term for anticipated realities that come to be treated as extant in the here and now.) When pro-choice forces signal their partial acceptance of the abortion-as-child-murder idea, says Ragsdale — which they do when they speak of the “tragedy” of abortion — they may be motivated by political concerns, or by a desire to be respectful and conciliatory. But in the process, they’re ceding precious intellectual ground to abortion opponents, and backing themselves into a tactical corner: how, after all, can you effectively defend something for which you’re simultaneously apologizing?
What’s more, they’re also increasing the likelihood that women who do choose to have abortions will spend their lives tormented by needless guilt. “I suppose it’s possible for an intelligent, faithful person to still believe that there’s no moral difference between a zygote and a baby,” Ragsdale allows. “But there’s no reason for most of us to believe that. And I don’t.”
…”If you want a baby,” says Ragsdale, “and you’ve decorated the nursery, and bought the toys, and named the baby — and then they discover the baby’s organs are growing outside the body, and not only will the baby not survive, but the woman will be torn up trying to deliver it — there’s a tragedy. But the tragedy isn’t the abortion — the tragedy is that you needed one.
I know this won’t convince the hardcore anti-abortionists, but it refreshing to see someone refusing to cede the moral high ground.
Remember what I was saying before about how microtransactions are geared specifically to exploit addicts and “If you don’t like it don’t buy it” isn’t an argument?
For those of you who don’t know, I’m a specialist problem gambling financial counsellor. This means that I’m specially trained, qualified and experienced in aiding the rehabilitation of people struggling with problem gambling, and working with people who are affected by others’ problem gambling protect themselves and rebuild their lives. I spend 30% of the hours of my day job working with these people.
I’m going to focus on lootboxes in Overwatch, because it’s the game I know the most about. I also know a lot about how poker machines are psychologically designed to be highly addictive, specifically exploiting known psychological triggers to reel people in and keep them spending.
Overwatch lootboxes do the same – you know that feel of seeing a purple/gold coin flipping in the air??? OMG! Is it going to be THAT THING YOU REALLY!!!!-oh.
Bright colours, exciting lights, the visceral feel of pushing the button/spinning the wheel is important to addiction. Blizzard has does the same with lootboxes – by vibrating your controller. By shaking the camera. By having the lootbox rATTLE AND EXPLODE!!!! with your reward. The sounds and specially engineered to build excitement and tensions and remind you of wealth. The ‘coin’ system of the lootbox reminds you of wealth. This is all super deliberate – it’s not a mistake. Using subconscious cues like exploding money boxes!!! the sound of money, the shape of money – that’s likening the process to a lottery.
While it’s quite unlikely someone could actually spend ENORMOUS amounts of money chasing that ‘jackpot’ (the skin they really want for their character, for example), it is possible. HOWEVER, it’s much more likely that the person will have this sort of reward system normalised, will find the element of chance ‘exciting’ (because, dude, we’re psychologically engineered to be more interested in ‘chance’ events than certain/impossible events), and seek out and enjoy other similar passtimes. Like actual gambling with real money.
Every time you gamble, you change the structure of your brain. I’m not exaggerating. Every time you take a chance on that lootbox, you flood your brain with adrenaline and dopamine. The presence of those two neurochemicals changes the density of the receptors of them minutely. After a few boxes, it’s unlikely you’ll become addicted. However, if you keep doing it, your receptors change density so that you need more adrenaline and more dopamine to get the same excitement and pleasure from the hit.
Worse, this rush of adrenaline and dopamine is much, much more addictive to people with mental illness (or a susceptibility to mental illness), as the presence of these chemicals is a very unhealthy (but unfortunately effective, at least in the extremely short term) way of medicating mental illness. Unfortunately, because of the escalating changes in receptor density, it eventually makes mental illness much worse in the long run. There is a strong link between gambling and suicide.
Compare your first lootbox with the lootboxes you get now. Are you getting the same enjoyment? Nope.
Think how many times you bought 11 lootboxes…. only to buy another 11 and another 11 and another 11. It becomes mechanical, pressing that button, opening another lootbox. Kind of like sitting at a poker machine.
Think about how normal the lootbox system seems now.
Chance-based gambling reward systems in games are dangerous, and should be replaced either by work-and-reward systems (you get 10 credits per level, and you can spend these on rewards of your choice), combined with micro-transaction-based currency for people who do not have the time to commit to leveling 300 times for that epic Christmas skin.
Because no one should pay for using a fucking social network and everyone’s online privacy should be left unbothered and unexploited. So, make it trend, even if it does not fit your aesthetic blog or whatever the fuck and promote it. Let’s make sure the slimy, goldplated hands of these corporate bitches stay far away from the Internet.
An SR-71 Blackbird once flew from LA to Washington DC in 64 minutes. Average speed of the flight: 2145mph.
“There were a lot of things we couldn’t do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.
It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.
I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn’t match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury.
Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.
We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: “November Charlie 175, I’m showing you at ninety knots on the ground.”
Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the “ Houston Center voice.” I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country’s space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn’t matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after the Cessna’s inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. “I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed.” Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. “Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check”. Before Center could reply, I’m thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol’ Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He’s the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: “Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.”
And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done – in mere seconds we’ll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.
Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: “Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?” There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. “Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.”
I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: “Ah, Center, much thanks, we’re showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.”
For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A. came back with, “Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one.”
It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day’s work.
We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.”
-Brian Schul, Sled Driver: Flying The World’s Fastest Jet
guys seriously tho what the fuck even was the SR-71 blackbird. That plane is like someone made a fucking bet. Like someone went “I have ten bucks that says you can’t make something that cruises at Mach 2.5″ and the aero folks scoffed and went hold our collective goddamn beers and then they cracked out a plane that CRUISES AT MACH 3 (for reference the much vaunted “supercruise” of the F-22 is only a few ticks above Mach 1). You need to understand how patently absurd this fucking vehicle is from nose to tail. Its original iteration, the A-12, was the successor to the U-2 when it became clear the USSR had developed missiles that could fly high enough to shoot it down so instead they built a new plane so fast you couldn’t fucking hit it. THAT WAS LITERALLY HOW THE SR-71 WORKED. By the time you realized what was goddamn happening at 80,000 feet it was already out of your fucking timezone. One time a pilot missed a turn by a second and ended up over Atlanta instead of DC. It flew so fast and got so hot that the entire fuselage stretched by several inches midflight which turned out to be a gigantic pain because all the fuel lines were hooked up assuming this stretching factor, so while on the ground it leaked like a goddamn sieve so at one point they decided to combat this BY STUFFING IT FULL OF KOTEX literally they had to shove tampons in this incredibly sophisticated aircraft so the fuel would stay in. It was the first serious aircraft built entirely out of titanium because no other metal could do the job, and at the time titanium wasn’t a widely-used metal so the world’s only major supplier WAS THE ACTUAL USSR SO THE US ACTUALLY BOUGHT THE MATERIAL TO MAKE THEIR SECRET SPY PLANE FROM THE PEOPLE THEY WERE SPYING ON.
TL;DR Every single thing about this fucking aircraft is fucking ridiculous.
Society: Capitalism and the free market is great because it lets customers CHOOSE who’s the best company and then that company makes all the money while lesser companies have to improve or die.
Millenials: *boycott companies that benefit off exploitation of people and natural resources*
theclumsiestninja 