What Happens to Short Sighted People When the Apocalypse Comes?

I hit ‘like’ on this but it really deserves higher praise, so I’m reblogging. Jamie Dyson (go follow his blog, you won’t regret it) absolutely nails it with this post about the existential fear that nags away at all us speccy-4-eyes folk when we grope for our gig lamps first thing in the morning.

Rerouted Writer

I’m short sighted, and as such need to wear some form of optical enhancement to enable me to function during normal life. My preference has always been contact lenses, although I do occasionally wear glasses, and anyone else who is visually challenged will know that without such things, existing in this world without walking into the path of a speeding bus would be pretty much impossible.

The time had recently come for my annual contact lens check up and sight test, but with moving area and having to change the branch of my opticians, things didn’t exactly go smoothly. Without boring you with administrative details, the delivery of my new lenses was severely delayed because the old and new branch had computers that didn’t get along, and couldn’t therefore agree upon whose responsibility it was to sort everything out for me.

It made me realise how dependant upon this company…

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Beautiful Souls Create Beautiful Worlds

I’ve been avoiding following the recent news from the US too closely – perhaps feeling that there’s enough similar stuff going on here in the UK. But this post absolutely sums it all up.

Tipsy Typer

She was 32 years old, her favorite color was purple. She was a waitress and a paralegal. She lived in an apartment with her chihuahua, Violet. She loved people and wanted the best for everyone she encountered. She felt the world so deeply that any story of hate or oppression could bring her to tears. She stood up for the things that she believed in. And because of this, she was killed- one week ago today the world lost a beautiful soul to the hands of hate. Her name was Heather Heyer; she was murdered when a car intentionally plunged into a crowd of counter-protestors who were ensuring that their own voices would drown out the hate spewing from the white supremacists who had charged into Charlottesville.

I didn’t know her, but I’ve known countless like her. Her death strikes a deep chord with me because she could have easily…

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The Intelligent American

I enjoyed this so much I thought it was worth a reblog. Great example of using dialogue to show not tell!

Flash 365

douche

Q asked me to a drink.

“You can meet my American friends,” he told me.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he said, excited, “they are from Portland.”

“Oh.”

Q is already there when I arrive, a place not far from my apartment that serves only alcoholic cider.

His American friends turn out to be one guy and his absent girlfriend.

“She got sick off some vegan shawarma,” he tells us from under a mustache.

The ciders come; two Russian, one from the south of France.

“So, what are you doing in Russia?” The American asks.

I shrug. “A few things here and there.”

He nods. “Yeah, I am a teacher too. It’s really great, you know–rewarding.”

“Mhm.”

“So, why’d you pick Russia?”

“Dunno,” I say.

“Rad. Yeah–I love it here man. The culture is fascinating and so beautiful. Rich–you know, like, rich-rich. It’s so old and just–” he takes a breath, “just amazing…

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Honey

This is lovely. I follow a lot of bloggers but Chris Nicholas is easily the most talented. Follow him. You won’t be disappointed.

The Renegade Press

A wise man once said that patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet. I always believed that I understood what he meant. I thought that he spoke of suffering; that one must sacrifice so that he may eventually prosper. I told myself that I wanted to be a writer, and that the yearning in my chest was the pain I had to endure in order to succeed. Because of this, I spent years fighting against a loneliness so encompassing that I could feel it in my bones. Then I met you. And I realised that I was wrong. It took my twenty-eight years to understand that the hole in my chest was the bitterness of waiting to meet someone who could take my breath away; and that there is no fruit as sweet as falling for a woman as beautiful as you.

It started with a photograph. Until then…

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