List of fiction recommendations for the summer holidays:
all pics link to their own source
NSFW. Spoilers for Black Books, Game of Thrones. CN alcoholism Read More…
I don’t have the skills/spoons/perseverence to write this story the way it deserves to be written. But.
What if every night, instead of a weird jumble of their own half-remembered subconscious stuff, people had a dream that was basically another person’s day, experienced in real time, including the internal dialogue and underlying ideas of the person who really experienced that day?
Example: Edwina goes to sleep on the evening of 26th of October, 2014. Today she bought her first car. When she falls asleep, she “wakes up” as Helen on the morning of 26th of October, 2014, and experiences the day as Helen really just lived it – from start to finish, with complete, untaught, first-person understanding of Helen’s ideas, reactions, and memories an’ stuff. When Helen goes to sleep 16 hours later, Edwina wakes up 8 hours later on the 27th of October in her own bed, with a vivid memory of one day of being a complete stranger on the other side of the world. This happens to every human. No one gets the same person twice.
What would the world be like if we did this? It’d be pretty hard to keep secrets for long. Would it mess up our psychological ingrouping and make us more empathetic? Would that mechanism have evolved in the first place? Would languages with Chinese, with large populations using them, be more commonly used and spoken? What if this is what happens in Firefly?
There’s a relevant XKCD for everything. If you haven’t discovered this yet,
please consider spending a few hours trawling through the archives.
Warning, because “adult themes” doesn’t quite cover it: if you’ve had issues with anxiety or panic attacks set off by violence (including gun violence, child abuse, self-harm and suicide) drug/alcohol abuse or apocalypse scenarios, this movie might freak you out a bit. Just… heads up, I guess. Stay safe.
It’s the end of the world and there’s nothing we can do about it. James, the muscly white stubble-bearing bloke we have as a protagonist, has exactly zero chance of saving the world or anyone he loves.
When Australians are faced with fucked-up situations, as a nation, we drink our feelings. We down our fears with a couple of pingers, punch strangers, and let our drunk mates tattoo wobbly Southern Crosses on us with a tattoo gun they got off eBay. And that’s what James, initially, decides to do.
But despite the actual apocalypse, despite the complete disappearance of all responsible adults and the sudden advent of rage-zombie-meth-heads and a seemingly endless torrent of verbal and physical abuse from men and women alike, old mate Jimmy runs away from his shitty coping mechanisms and toward a nurturing, protective kind of masculinity that is increasingly rare nowadays.
He doesn’t like it. He’s just as scared and outraged and sweaty as everyone else. But he decides to stand up for what’s right, even though there’s probably no point and everything is fucked anyway.
What a mad cunt.