tim drake’s snapchat is 90% him making bruce wayne do normal middle-class american things and filming the results. popular youtube compilations include the one where they’re at denny’s at two in the morning and tim keeps trying to get bruce to order a moon over my hammy just so he’ll have to say it, the one where they’re at disneyworld and bruce gets increasingly frazzled culminating in him actually physically picking up gaston for reasons no one can entirely recall, and everyone’s favorite series “bruce wayne doesn’t understand walmart”
having thought about it the best part is probably when a pranking fails because bruce has such a bizarre patchwork of knowledge/skills and it does not occur to him to hide most of it. tim puts a ghost pepper in bruce’s food but bruce just eats it like nothing is wrong. the same thing happens with the chocolate-covered crickets. it turns out bruce can lick his own elbow. bruce can lasso a runaway robot lawnmower like it’s a calf at a rodeo. whenever tim expresses shock that bruce knows how to do something he says “i did go to college, tim” as if that explains anything and it becomes a meme. whenever anyone does something fucking absurd it just gets tagged “i did go to college, tim”.
The camera came uncomfortably close to the face of a man ignoring it. He was very good at it. He was reading a book about, of all things, the history of denim. It was not the sort of book that made it easy to ignore cameras, but he remained stoic.
The caption said helpfully: [been doing this for 30 mins]
“Bruce. Bruce. Bruce. We need to go Walmart. Bruce. I need it.”
“Ask Alfred.”
→→→
“It’s a surprise for Alfred.”
“You can’t surprise Alfred.”
“Bruce, please.”
→→→
“It’s not a matter of permission, I’m saying you literally can’t surprise Alfred.”
→→→
[he hates when i say that]
“Bruuuuce.”
“No.”
“This is bullroar.”
Bruce finally set down his book with an expression of the most profound disgust.
→→→
[oh no now we’ll be here all day]
“—either curse or don’t, just commit one way or the other instead of—”
→→→
The camera took its time panning over a black BMW.
“Can I drive?”
“No.”
→→→
[after this he took away my music privileges]
Bruce was driving, looking stoic again. His face lent itself well to stoicism. The radio played, at high volume, “Sandstorm” by Darude.
→→→
“I’ll play something different this time.”
“You had your chance and you blew it on a meme.”
→→→
[SJGJDH;FUKC 😂😂😂]
“I’m boooored.”
“Hi, bored,” Bruce said, eyes still on the road, and Tim groaned loudly. “I don’t give a shit.”
The view shifted and audio clattered as Tim dropped the phone, barking a laugh.
→→→
The phone was wobbly as Tim followed Bruce into the store. “Can I get a trampoline?” he asked, camera pointed to one outside the store.
“We have three trampolines.”
“But I want that one.”
→→→
They were in the chip aisle. “Have you ever had a Dorito? One Dorito? In your whole life?”
“I am a person. I eat food for people.”
→→→
The camera followed a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos into the cart.
“We’re not getting those.”
“We need to get sour cream, too.”
“No.”
“You’ll love it.”
“No.”
→→→
Tim had put the seatbelt of the cart’s seat, intended for toddlers, around a giant plastic jar of orange cheese puffs.
“I thought you were getting something for Alfred.”
“I’m getting groceries while we’re here.”
“None of this is food.”
→→→
[$3 pickles blowing his mind rn]
Bruce was holding a gallon jar of pickles with an expression of incredulity.
“—costs extra to not waste food?”
“It’s Walmart.”
“Even taking into account the economies of scale—”
→→→
[putting his degree to use in the pickle aisle]
“—it just makes no sense even as a loss leader, unless the goal is to drive the competition out of business and hope they don’t go bankrupt in the—”
→→→
[i think he’s buying a pickle company??]
Bruce had every appearance of furiously texting on his phone, or possibly composing emails.
→→→
[lmao he did]
Bruce was now on his phone, looking impassive as ever as he contemplated the giant jar of pickles.
“—the business itself is perfectly sound. Yes. Obviously. Dead serious. Look, if you—”
→→→
Tim put a gallon jug of ranch dressing into the cart.
“Absolutely not.”
→→→
Tim was in the frozen section, his reflection visible in the glass.
“I bet Alfred would love some pizza rolls.”
“Your lies demean us both, Tim.”
→→→
Bruce was standing in the toy aisle, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I understand the concept of blind boxes perfectly well, thank you.”
“Then why are you acting confused?”
“Why does Thomas the Tank Engine—”
→→→
[🌈🌈🌈]
Bruce was making a face of disgruntled bafflement at a display of baby clothes.
“—disturbed by the amount of aggressive heterosexuality being foisted on these babies.”
“Yeah,” Tim agreed. “What about the gay babies?”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking but I’m unironically concerned.”
→→→
[gotham pride]
The camera panned over a display of hero-themed hats. Most of the Batman hats had sold out, while the Superman display was nearly full. It panned back to Bruce, who was taking a picture with his own phone.
“Who you texting it to?”
“Friend in Metropolis.”
“Metropolis sucks.”
“Yes. Yes it does.”
→→→
[no escape]
The camera peered out slowly from behind a clothing display. Bruce was surrounded by enthusiastic and friendly women. It was impossible to tell what they were talking about.
→→→
[???]
Bruce was holding a dress up against himself. The women around him seemed delighted and were nodding their approval.
→→→
[i’ll strike while he’s distracted]
Tim dropped another two four-movie collections of Shrek on top of the considerable pile he’d already amassed. He panned up to check that Bruce had not caught him before grabbing another.
→→→
[busted]
While Bruce put DVDs back on the shelf, Tim surreptitiously grabbed a Shrek coloring book.
→→→
[he’s gonna get a fish]
Bruce was frowning at the wall of fishtanks in silence. Finally he said, “These fish are very unhealthy.”
→→→
[HE’S BUYING ALL THE FISH]
The man attempting to help Bruce looked baffled. Bruce gestured to the entire display of fish with a nod. The man shook his head. Tim brought his phone close to a betta, blue and red with a tattered and graying tail.
“We’re here to save you,” Tim stage-whispered to it.
→→→
Bruce was now engrossed in conversation with multiple employees.
“—if I bought some tanks — they’re much too small but as a temporary measure — we could transfer them directly and it might be less distressing for the fish.”
“Maybe I could get one of the big dolly carts from the back?” one young man suggested.
→→→
The low camera angle suggested Tim was trying to be surreptitious.
“—for trying to unionize is completely against the law,” Bruce was saying, his voice low. He was helping three other employees transfer fish into large plastic tanks.
“At-will employment,” one woman said.
“We’d have to prove that was why they fired us,” someone clarified. “Otherwise they can say it was for no reason.”
“You’re shitting me.”
→→→
“—fucking with my hours hoping I’ll quit.”
“What? Why?”
“If they fired me, they’d have to pay unemployment.”
“That’s why they won’t let me work full-time.”
“What the fuck.”
→→→
[omg he’s stealing the employees now]
“—in Gotham, but there’s more opportunities outside of manufacturing if you’re willing to move.”
“Wait, so do you mean like for management?”
“No, no, that’s the starting wage for someone working assembly, quality control, that kind of thing. We’re all unionized, none of this at-will bullshit.”
“So if I—”
→→→
The woman from earlier was showing Bruce her phone while the others continued moving fish.
“You painted this?” Bruce asked. She nodded. “That’s fantastic. Are you showing it anywhere? I know a guy with a gallery — actually I know pretty much everyone with an art gallery in Gotham. I think I have a friend who’d really love this, if you don’t mind me making some calls for you.”
→→→
Four more employees had joined the menagerie.
“—almost always hiring in Gotham. People are always moving to cities with fewer evil clowns.” Everyone laughed. Tim snorted. “Employee insurance totally covers acts of supervillainy, though.”
→→→
[trying to crush the revolution]
The employees had not dispersed. In the distance, someone managerial was talking to Bruce. He looked much less amused than Bruce did.
→→→
[THEY CALLED THE COPS]
Tim had switched to the selfie camera, his face pure glee. He turned bodily to show the employees wheeling out tanks of fish out of the store, police lights in the parking lot.
“The manager tried to make Bruce leave but he insisted on paying for his fish and he wouldn’t stop giving people better jobs so the guy said it was corporate espionage and threatened to call the cops and Bruce called his bluff so he did it.”
→→→
[WE’RE BANNED FROM WALMART FOREVER]
Bruce was laughing with the police officers about something. The manager from earlier had been joined by men in suits. None of them looked happy. Some of the employees from earlier were yelling and flipping them off. One man pulled off the shirt of his uniform and started setting it on fire.
→→→
Bruce was on the phone in the parking lot.
“They’re small, most of them are tropical. You can figure out what they are when you get here. How is that racist? I’m not suggesting you already know them, I’m well aware you don’t personally know every single fish—”
→→→
“Either you take these fish or I toss them in the sewer and Killer Croc can eat them. It will be a merciful death compared to what they were getting. It doesn’t matter where I found them.”
→→→
[i’m not allowed near toxic waste]
Tim held the betta from earlier in front of his phone, bringing it dangerously close to Bruce’s face. Bruce had hung up, but seemed to be dialing another number.
“I’m keeping this one,” Tim said.
“Fine.”
“If I drop him in toxic waste do you think he’ll get powers?”
“We’ve already had this discussion.”
→→→
[the pettiest man in gotham]
Bruce was on the phone again, looking out at the empty field beside the Walmart parking lot.
“Yeah, just buy the whole thing. Yeah. Absolutely sure. Green Market’s doing good, we’ll build another one of those. Can we put up a billboard while it’s under construction? A really big billboard.”
→→→
“First of all, if it’s in writing, it’s libel. Second, figures taken directly from their report to shareholders aren’t defamatory. What’s the most they could even sue me for? See, that’s nothing. Bad PR for them, good for us, it’s—”
→→→
Tim had switched to the selfie camera again, and was using a sparkling purple filter that made his eyes look huge. He backed into Bruce so that Bruce’s face would be in the shot. “Bruce, look! You’re a pretty pretty princess!”
Bruce raised an eyebrow as he looked at his face on the screen. “I’m always a pretty princess,” he said seriously.
→→→
[he picked the music this time]
Bruce was driving again. He was listening to 100 Little Curses without any apparent irony. This did not mean there wasn’t any irony.
→→→
[i named him wally]
The Walmart betta was now in a tank that held at least a hundred gallons. His underwater castle was resplendent. His tail had grown in, a shimmering gradient of red and blue. Bruce could be seen in the background through the tank, sitting on the couch and reading a book.
Dr. Gorin pauses. “You don’t. March to
a different beat. Or whatever cute phrase someone uses. What you are is
this: deeply strange. You’re extremely smart and very very weird. If
you wanted, you could go back to school. You could pay very close
attention to what everyone around you is doing and you could try to
emulate them. Eventually, you will probably succeed. You could be like
everyone else. Perhaps shaded just enough to the left to be thought a
class clown.”
Here is compilation of rainy day’s for @chewdollars
Women: Remake Ghostbusters to be about how women aren’t believed, how their experiences and expertise are undermined, and how they succeed anyway.
Men: Whatever, that doesn’t really happen.
I just need everyone to know how much I really, really, REALLY hate Aristotle.
And there are three kinds of hatred for Aristotle, the first being visceral, so called because it rises from the intestines and through the middle of a person, yet never wanes nor increases but remains constant; and the second is called passive, and this occurs when a scholar or reader comes upon the works of Aristotle by chance, without seeking them out of their own volition, but rather confronted with them unexpectedly as a man set upon by bandits along a lonely road, but this sort of anger passes quickly; but indeed the third is active, and this occurs when a person seeks out Aristotle with the particular intention of becoming choleric; this sort of person seeks out the works of Aristotle wherever they may be found so that they might read them and thereby conjure up some bilious reason to cast invective and rebuke upon his theories and observations, and this anger is kept by its possessor at a boil.
Guess who just found a Georgette Heyer audiobook read by Richard Armitage in her library’s online collection.
I think there are those reading me who would love to know that a Armitage-reading of Heyer exists, even if their own library does not have it, because they might be able to find it elsewhere, so: here you go.
“I came to a reckoning that [pretending to be other people] is in fact such a real, huge chunk of the way I communicate. I thought it was something I was putting on to disguise something else, but it’s not.”
I think I recognize at least two of the images, NGC 602 & 30 Doradus, but I’m going to have to see these in person to be sure, yes, definitely, and probably try them on, too.
I’ve thought, many times, about writing a book or something that was basically How To Negotiate Your Disability Without Curling Into A Ball And Weeping More Than Once Or Twice A Week *Or* Murdering The Entire Universe (More Than Once Or Twice A Week).
Here are some highlights:
1) On acquiring adequate pain medication.
Never actually say “I really need strong drugs here doctor, because the drugs you and every other doctor gave me for this injury/illness didn’t work, and also I’ve been in pain for years and I’d like that to stop.”
While there are some doctors who speak human languages and will understand what you’re saying, most, when you say that, will hear:
“I am a ravening junkie werekaiju, and I will come to your house and EAT YOUR BABIES IF YOU DON’T GIVE ME HEROIN.”
You think I’m kidding? Watch a healthcare professional’s eyes when someone else says something like the following. Watch them shut down and back away and tighten up and generally stop treating the person like a human.
So what do you say?
Try this:
“Well, I hate these drugs that make me *stupid*, you know? One of these so-called doctors — they gave me some pill that made me feel like I was on a whole separate planet for *years*, but I was still in pain! I have things to *do*, doctor. I have a job/family/projects. I wouldn’t be here if I could get my work done the way I am now, but if I can’t do them with the drugs you give me, then what’s the point?”
Make sure to translate this into the appropriate dialect for your area, but note the important points:
a) Reassures the doctor that you’re not one of those ~*eeevil*~ junkies. b) Reassures the doctor that you’re not one of those ~*eeevil*~ non-productive members of society.
c) Reassures the doctor that you’re not one of those ~*eeevil*~ weak-willed disabled people.
Remember not to use too *much* *correct* medical jargon — they get suspicious about that.
Yes, all of this is necessary a *lot* of the time.
With the above code, 95% of the time the doctors begin *cooing* at me and treating me like *royalty* — and *100%* of the time I have gotten the effective medication.
Pro-tip: If you can add a true (or true-sounding) story about how much you *hate* one *particular* opiate (“Percocet is useless! All it does is make me stupid!”), then you’re probably in the bag.
2) Acquiring mobility devices.
Never actually say “I need a walker/wheelchair/scooter, because I have trouble getting around, and also I have a great deal of fatigue and pain when I try to do so.”
While some healthcare professionals speak human languages and have souls… well.
A lot of them? Will hear this:
“I am a fat, lazy, Fatty McFatFat, and I will continue to expand, much like the universe, until I am a drain on the resources of this great nation and a proof that you, doctor, are a failure. I will never use the mobility devices, ever, and they will gather dust in my home — a mockery of everything you, Morally Healthy Person, holds dear.”
Yes, I know this makes even less sense than the former, but I’ve interrogated these people — the ones who have still have partially-functional souls and minds — and this really is how it works in their adorable little pinheads.
They really do think we’re asking for these devices for… no reason at all.
Or, as my otherwise sane GP put it, she has an honest fear that people like us will take one look at our new mobility devices and throw all caution — and sense — to the winds. That we’ll stop stretching and exercising. That those of us who *can* walk for short distances will — somehow! — decide to *never walk again*. That we’ll decide to — gleefully! cheerfully! blithely! — let every last one of the muscles we’ve been clinging to with our *fingernails* *atrophy* to *nothing*, because…
Because they think we’re idiots, that’s why.
So, try this instead:
“I have a lot of pain and fatigue when I try to walk for any kind of distance, at all, and that’s getting in the way of my ability to have anything resembling an active life. It’s even hard to get to my doctor’s appointments sometimes! I want to do at least some of my own shopping and other errands, and go out with my friends, and at least try to hold down a job, but unless the weather is really good and I’m having a good day in other ways, it’s just not going to happen. I don’t want to stop using my cane/walker/whatever completely — and I *won’t* unless I *have* to, just like I won’t stop doing my PT and OT exercises — but I need something that will let me actually have a life.”
Note the similarities to the pain management code — and yes, do make sure you put this in your own words.
But also make sure you keep everything that makes you sound like the Virtuous Handicapable Person you totally are.
Because that’s necessary.
Yes, it is.
Yes. It. Is.
Just as it will be necessary, in many states — make sure you check — to add in this little number:
“It’s just… well, you know that I don’t really have any bladder or GI issues, doctor, but I still… sometimes… on bad mobility days… you know.”
Here’s where you look down.
“Sometimes I don’t make it… you know. In time.”
Understand that you’ll have to repeat this to, like, four different people. At least.
Understand that some of them will make you get specific.
If it helps, pretend you’re Steph Brown, doing her level best to gross the everloving bejeezus out of her P.E. teacher with graphic stories about her period so she can get out of class and fight crime.
*I* certainly found that helpful.
YOU GUYS YOU GUYS YOU GUYS!
My wheelchair has arriiiiiiiiiiiiiived!
I’ve spent the past few hours bumping into everything ever and also running *over* everything ever and I’m so in love I can’t even deal, because!
Chair!
Freedom!
FREEDOM!
I’ll be able to go shopping for necessities even when my legs don’t work enough for the walker or the cane! I I’ll be able to go shopping even when my legs don’t work at all! I’ll be able to go all *kinds* of places even when my legs don’t work!
I won’t HAVE to put all the responsibility on Jack, whose legs barely work any fucking better than mine! Do you understand this? CAN you understand this?
Fuck, I’m tearing up so hard here, and — yeah. This is why I’m reblogging the above. I *know* there are people out there in the U.S. who need this help. People who, like me, have Medicaid insurance — insurance which often feels *damned* theoretical — but still haven’t been able to get the pain management or mobility devices they require.
For those of you in Southern New England, I went through:
Access Rehab Centers — fine PTs, OTs, and speech therapists who will do their *damnedest* to come through for you both in terms of giving you the therapy you need and in filling out the REAMS of PAPERWORK you need. They, in turn, worked with:
Hudson Seating & Mobility — These people are absolute motherfucking HEROES. They come to your home; they measure you gently and professionally; they treat you like human beings; they explain everything about the various mobility devices to you and then ask you *more* questions to winnow down which one(s) would be the *best* fit for you; they *bring* you devices to test-drive; they give suggestions about how to arrange your home for your health, comfort, and safety; they tell you how to get what you need and what you need to say and who the best PTs to talk with are; they go with you to the PT to do more fine-tuning and help fill out the paperwork; they man the barricades when Medicaid tries again (and again, and AGAIN) to screw you —
And then they deliver your baby to your door just as fast as they can.
And, you know? These people all go to conventions and industry meet-ups. They talk to each other. Contact them. See if they can connect you to people in YOUR area.
THEY ARE THE LITERAL BEST.
I? Have been trying to get even a *manual* chair that I’d only be able to use when I had a physically powerful aide to push me around in it since *2005*. My (new as of last December) GP sent me to Access who sent me to Hudson earlier this year and —
WHAM.
Yeah.
YEAH.
PLEASE. PLEASE. TRY TO MAKE THIS HAPPEN FOR YOURSELVES.
YOU ALL DESERVE TO BE EXACTLY AS HAPPY AS I AM RIGHT NOW!
My chair, by the way?
Has green accents.
He’s named Jaybird.
Because he’s JUST THAT MOTHERFUCKING SUPPORTIVE AND INVESTED IN MY COMFORT AND SAFETY AND HAPPINESS AND IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT HE WILL RUN YOUR MOTHERFUCKING ASS OVER UNTIL YOU’RE MOTHERFUCKING CRANBERRY SAUCE.
FUCKIN’ A.
Reblogging because these kinds of scripts are exactly what I have to use in order to get the drugs I take for anxiety. I HATE doctors. I cannot over-state how much.
I hate going to the doctor. I can’t seem to do these scripts no matter how many times I practice, and it’s so frustrating.
Hi, sirida — I popped over to your blog and read your tags on your reblog, and, well, I’ve BEEN THERE! I’m so, so sorry you had to deal with those fuckheads, and it really just sent me back to some horrible places in my medical history.
Here are some things that I should probably make a larger post about Dealing With Your Medical (Un)Professionals:
1) If you *can* go with someone else, *do* go with someone else. Not just anyone else — someone who knows your health issues, and understands your health issues (mental or physical or *whatever*), and believes in you *and* your health issues. This person might be your lover, or your friend, or your fuckbuddy, or the fancreature visiting you from London that week, or your pastor, or WHOEVER.
The important things are that you share a mutual affection and trust with them, that they understand your health problems at least as well as you do, and that they are capable of stepping in to have your back when the asshole doctors/nurses/whoever are giving you shit.
For me, this person is my spouse Jack. We take this role for each other *all the time*. Happily, we’ve reached a point where not *all* of our medical professionals require a tag-team approach, but you better believe some of them do.
*If your medical professional says that you medibuddy cannot be with you when you are having your consultation* (as opposed to, say, your CT scan, or MRI, or X-ray, or whatever — THEY CAN TOTALLY BE WITH YOU FOR YOUR VAGINAL ULTRASOUND, PEOPLE! DON’T BE FOOLED!), then you either put your foot down and tell that fuckwit that they’re dead wrong? Or you explain to them that they aren’t your doctor anymore and you let them watch you strut right out the door.
Motherfuckers.
In my experience? They pretty much always back down and let your medibuddy in.
Good way to find a potential medibuddy: Depending on where you live, your level of disability, your insurance, etc., your statewide nursing organization/general healthcare clearinghouse (here in CT, it’s Husky Health) may be able to provide you with a nurse who will work with you *personally* and either come with you to your appointments, or, after you explain to them over the phone how your doctor fucked the fuck up? They will damned well *call* that fuckwit on your behalf and wreck shit.
Call 211 and see what you get!
Now, once your medibuddy is in the room, some doctors will be utter pricks and like “I need to hear this from YOU.” Or, completely contradicting themselves, they will ignore your protests entirely and yell at your medibuddy — “Now listen here — I will talk to the patient and ONLY to the patient.”
This is where the *real* script comes in:
“Oh, I’m sorry, doctor, but I’ve terrible trouble with anxiety when it comes to health issues, and [medibuddy] knows everything about my condition. I would much prefer it if you talked to them whenever possible. They are, in fact, privy to all information about that.” [Make sure to ask the receptionists out front for documents you can sign which will allow this to be true.]
AND/OR:
“Yes, I know this is against your office policy, but a) it is my right, and b) I feel it would be a much more efficient use of our time if we did this the way which would not end in me crying in pain and/or having a panic attack.” *insert pointed look here*
AND/OR:
“No, doctor, I do *not* need to be admitted into psychiatric care. I simply need you to accede to my wishes and speak to my medical proxy, who is right here. I will answer all questions they cannot, of course, but I prefer — as is my right — for you to direct the lion’s share of questions to them.”
Honestly, though? If they fight past the first scripted answer? You probably need a new doctor anyway.
But yes, politeness, firmness, a *hint* of sarcasm to remind them of your humanity and the fact that you’re a person who is currently calm but who is *capable* of messy, inconvenient, and *time-consuming* emotions?
Yeah, this often works well.
2) If you can’t find a medibuddy/your medibuddy is currently unavailable/your medibuddy is as bad at remembering their lines as you are?
Honey, this isn’t Broadway!
Think of it as more of an open-book exam.
Take notes about *exactly* what you want to say. Write it down. Bullet-point in neat, pithy little catch-phrases if you have the kind of medical professional who actually reads the charts the techs and nurses hand them before they start prodding at you (of course, if you had one of those, you probably wouldn’t need *this*…), or just however is easiest for you or your medibuddy to read if you can’t.
“I have some notes here that I brought to stay organized…”
If the medical professional balks — and, yes, some of them will, because some of them are just that fuckwitted:
“I’m sorry, I have some memory issues, and I wanted to make sure I stayed organized and on-point. I know how busy you are.” *insert cold smile here*
OR
“I often get flustered/embarrassed when I talk about my needs — I hate to whine — and this makes it easier and much, much faster. I hope you understand?” *insert pointedly wide-eyed look here*
OR
“I can be quite forgetful — the last thing I want to do is leave something out and then have to come back a week later and waste everyone’s time!” *insert fake laugh here*
Or something along those lines.
Note how you’re playing to Dr. Asshole’s ego. This? Tends to work. Phrase it in your own words. Put it right on top of your copy of the notes. And your medibuddy’s copy, too.
Though let me be clear — I’ve only had doctors complain about the notes method about 5% of the time. About 10% of the time, they’ve been indifferent. The other 85%? They’ve been downright overjoyed. Medical professionals equipped with still-functioning minds and souls *recognize* the efficiency and utility of this method, and jump right the hell over it.
Especially if it’s typed-up in nice large text.
So, you know, even if you’re *sure* the medical professional you’re seeing is a throbbing pustule on the body politic? Bring a nice, clean, insult-free copy for them just in case.
Re-blogging and signal-boosting, because I guarantee to you, people:
Sooner or later, you will need this. Either you will personally, or your parent/child/signficant other/best friend will. This is part of modern life, one of the major signs of adulthood.
Kimchi and Justice 