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2020.10.27 01:49 swordtech Boy girl webcam

I'm sick and tired of the monthly/bi-monthly "Why does everyone hate their miserable teaching jobs in Japan lol?" threads we're getting every month, so here's a positive teaching experience to balance things out.
My university has decided to do the entire second semester online. Although I'm not required to have office hours, I thought making myself available for face to face consultations (via webcam) would be a good way to communicate with students and let them ask questions if they have any or just make small talk and get some English practice. The first week, no one showed up. The second week, one boy showed up and I taught him how to share his screen so he could show me a problem he was having, then I explained some homework he had some questions about. The next week, one girl showed up just to chat. That's it. She stayed for the entire hour and we had a lively back and forth about a variety of topics.
What these experiences illustrate, I think, is that students can and do adapt to changing learning circumstances and will try their best to reach out when they're having difficulty with getting work done. Besides that, it was just nice for me to get some face time with students. Damn you, COVID.
So, all of you potential "Is it really that bad?" or "Why are you all so miserable?" thread-makers - no, it's really not that bad. All of you "scoff listen buddy, no one ever posts about their positive teaching experiences, the most miserable people are the loudest" - here's a post about a positive teaching experience from someone who loves what they do.
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2020.10.23 12:03 LetsRead_YouTube Discord Story 3

My son used to be very active on something called Discord, which from what I understand, is a messaging app for people who play video games. It allowed him to talk to people from all over the world that played the same games as him. So at some point, he broke the news to us that he’d been talking to a girl over in the UK named Lori. She and he had become friends playing some pirate game, playing together most days and talking pretty much all the time when they weren’t at their computers. And eventually, he just up and asks her if she wanted to be his girlfriend, and she says yes. It was definitely a new concept for someone like me, who grew up at a time when cell phones weren’t even a thing, but I understand that we live in the digital age where new methods of dating are coming to the fore, so I just tried to be happy for him as any Mom should when their kid gets their first girlfriend or boyfriend. Plus, with an entire ocean between them, it’s not like I had to worry about him getting any STDs or accidentally getting her pregnant.
However, one Sunday afternoon, my son emerges from his boy-cave for what seemed like the first time in days, walks into the TV room where me and my husband are sat, with a very concerned look on his face. We asked him what the matter was, and he just kind of shrugs, tells us everything is cool, and then just kind of wanders out again. So as you can imagine, me and my husband give each other a look as if to be like “what the hell was that?” My husband gets up, follows our son into the living room, before gently prodding him about anything that might be bothering him. From what he told me, our kid was just doing that typically boyish thing of pretending that everything was fine, but in a way that tells us that he’s obviously upset about something. My husband then told me he asked after Lori, with our son responding in almost visceral way of like “why are you always in my business, blah blah blah”. He’d obviously touched on a sore subject, so our general conclusion was that he and Lori had broken up, and he just didn’t want to talk about it. We weren’t about to press him on it, so we kind of just left him to it to get over and move onto someone new.
But over the next month or so, our son seemed to be getting increasingly depressed. He’d spend more and more time up in his room, only ever coming out to go to school or eat dinner, and then just retreating back to his little boy-cave. Like I said, we figured this was because he’d split up with his internet girlfriend, but one time my husband was walking past his room and blatantly heard him talking to someone via his little voice chat Discord thing, addressing them as ‘babe’ and at one point ‘Lori’. So apparently, they’re still talking at that point, but we still assumed they were having relationship issues, putting it down to the fact that they were like thousands of miles apart. I know long distance relationships don’t work at the best of times, even when people are just a few states away from each other. But these kids had an entire ocean separating them, so God knows how hard that must have been on them.
Only, as we came to learn, that wasn’t exactly the problem, it was something much, much darker.
So as I said, our son seemed to be getting more and more depressed over the course of the month, and it got so bad at one point that me and my husband discussed getting him a therapist or something, to nip the problem in the bud before it could morph into something less easy to deal with. But suddenly, out of apparently nowhere, he just perks up. One day he’s looking better, feeling perkier, and is considerably more talkative. He actually seemed keener on spending more time with us too, which for a sixteen year old boy struck us as very unusual. I mean not that we were complaining, it was nice seeing him feeling better about things; and we put it down to him meeting a new girl or just shutting out Lori from his life.
This kind of sunny behaviour carries on for like a week or so, until one Saturday, when after coming down for breakfast, we don’t see or hear from him for the rest of the day. Late in the afternoon, my husband goes up to his room, knocks on the door, and asks our son if everything is okay. He comes back down into the TV room, tells me there was no reply after knocking, then asks me if I’d seen him leave the house at all during the day. I tell him no, that if he had gone over to a friend’s house or whatever that he certainly hadn’t let me know. Then my husband just kind of shrugs, tells me he has a headache, and then walks off to the downstairs bathroom to get an aspirin from the medicine cabinet. Next thing I know, I can hear him springing down the hallway and up the stairs, his feet like boom boom boom as he rushed up to our son’s room. I’m super confused like “what the hell is going on?”, before walking out into the hall. From where I’m standing, I can actually see into the downstairs bathroom, and what I see makes my blood run cold. We usually kept all our pain pills and other such medication in a little plastic first-aid kit style thing. We kept that thing stuffed to the gills. And there it was, lying on the bathroom floor, almost completely empty. Then like my husband before me, it hit me what had happened.
So I sprint up to my son’s room, where I find my husband leaning over our boy’s bed, shaking him like “wake up! Can you hear me? Wake up!” There’s a pool of puke sitting on the bed next to his head, and he’s completely unconscious, and there are empty pill trays lying on the floor nearby. As soon as I walk in, my husband runs back downstairs to call 911, and I take over the shaking and the wailing, begging him to open his eyes. Now the only light in the room was coming from his computer monitor, so at one point, I look over to it, and see one of the most haunting things I’ve ever seen in my life. On the screen is a webcam window from that Discord thing I mentioned, and it’s displaying the body of a young girl that’s just kind of dangling in mid-air. It took me a second to realize what I was looking at, but when I did, I almost screamed the house down. She was hanging from something.
I tried not to look, I really did, I just tried to focus on my boy as his Dad ran back upstairs with emergency services on his cell. I should have told him not to look, but I was just distraught, I could barely speak as he walks back into the room and starts describing our son’s condition to the dispatcher on the other end of the line. He’s frantically talking away, when he does pretty much the same thing as me, turns around to see the webcam window open, and the girl’s body hanging on the screen. He just froze, and stops talking, long enough for me to be able to hear the dispatcher saying “sir, are you there, sir?” at which point he snaps out of his daze and carries on talking to the person on the other end. It was he that then had the presence of mind to turn off the computer, all while giving the EMT’s our home address and begging them to arrive as quickly as possible.
Our son was taken to the hospital, where he promptly had his stomach pumped. We stayed all night, waiting in the visitor’s area, and when a doctor finally approached us with an update on our son’s condition, I found my heart racing as I prepared for the worst. But thankfully, we’d gotten him to the hospital just in time, and the nurses were able to pump his stomach and administer the necessary medication to counteract the effects of the things he’d taken already. He survived, barely, but the same couldn’t be said for the girl on the computer screen, who we assumed was this Lori girl he’d been in the long distance relationship with. When our son woke up and saw us in his hospital room, he burst into tears. He apologized over and over again, and we all just cried it out together. He then proceeded to spill his guts to us about what had happened. And I honestly couldn’t believe my ears. It turned out they’d formed a kind of suicide pact together just the week before, right around the same time he seemed to have perked up and gotten out of the funk he was in. Apparently that was what did it, that she and he and figured out a way to escape the pain they were suffering, and that the revelation had been a kind of boost to him, as morbidly insane as that sounds. We went ahead with booking him into therapy, and he’s doing much better now. We don’t monitor his online activities, as he figured he’d just find a way to subvert us, but we definitely don’t allow him to have a computer in his bedroom anymore. And since then, me and my husband have made an effort to acquaint ourselves with the darker corners of the internet, and believe me, there are some days I wish I hadn’t. Because my God are there some horrendous things out there, things I wish I’d never seen, and that I’ll never be able to get out of my head.
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2020.10.13 07:58 Vnifit Boy webcam girl

This may be a downvote session here, but I really would like to air some thoughts. I'll be honest, I think people are making a bit of a mountain out of a mole hill here with this CoMaS situation. Especially with posts fanning the flames like the "I reverse engineered CoMaS" one aka "skimmed through some lines of code and explain things that sound alarming to those who don't understand what any of it actually means".
I mean come on, what do we expect them to do? "Yeah okay guys, be real good boys and girls and don't ask Mr. Google for any answers! Thank youuuu" Of course not, they have to enforce some semblence of academic integrity. It's a shit situation all around for everyone, I know I'd much rather take the exams in person, but at the very least they were kind enough to not use some crazy shit like Lockdown that uOttawa used which everyone likes to reference.
Remember, the software uOttawa was using was infinitely worse than CoMaS. It locked down your entire PC and used AI to monitor your eye and head movements, while recording your webcam constantly. It could also be used to require you show your student ID card to the webcam, which it would recognize. You can see this here. It was a third party company that could do whatever they wanted with this data. CoMaS on the other hand kinda just sits there and takes screenshots (with a webcam overlay) every few seconds, while keeping an eye on network and process activity and logging basic information that virtually every program that is connected to the internet already logs and sends. I mean come on, you don't think that information is already out there on Microsoft, Google, or insert other giant tech conglomerate servers? Plus with it being built in-house, it is extremely unlikely any information would be sold to third parties.
I also want to add, what exactly would hackers gain from stealing information from CoMaS? They have your name, student number, a few screenshots of a grainy webcam & desktop, and some hardware stats. There is also a bunch of network traffic that maybe says where its from and where it's going while any data worth its salt is already encrypted. Great. There is nothing of value here. We aren't talking about cleartext passwords and usernames, access to academic records, SSN's or OSAP login info. This is worthless data for any malicious agent.
I mean people are yelling about their bank info being stolen for god sakes. Comparing to a rootkit or malware (mal- comes from "intending to do harm" which CoMaS does not). This software's functionality is peanuts compared to what other schools are implementing. Of course we should require accountability with how the data is handled on their servers and is removed upon usage, absolutely, but this same attitude never seems to be applied to any other web-connected service that each of us use every day. We just take these companies' word for it. This issue is not one with the school, but of ethics and law on a federal level.
Look, I don't want this any more than anyone else, but this whole thing feels like people wanting to be mad because they need something to punch due to this terrible situation with COVID. I don't blame them, I feel the same way, I'm tired and angry about it too, but please lets get some prespective here.
EDIT: Grammar.
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2020.10.06 00:18 500scnds Boy girl webcam

Source | Previous table
Questions Answers
How did you type all this? I can touch type. It's an essential skill.
the below is a reply to the above
Do you have some type of software that reads certain things out? I wasn’t trying to be rude so my apologies, just very curious/interested! Hats off to you. Sure, I use a screenreader. It's a piece of software that uses synthesised speech to read back what's on the screen. And I navigate using the keyboard rather than a mouse.
Thank you for doing this AMA! Its really fascinating and I'm learning a lot! I noticed in some of your comments you said you enjoy cooking. In my own experience, cooking and baking are extremely visual activities (for example, like knowing when a pancake is ready to be flipped, or properly cleaning and preparing a chicken, or when ground beef has been cooked completely). I would imagine that you use taste, touch, and smell, to guide you through some aspects of cooking. But even then, the information you could possibly get is still limited. What do you specifically look for as indicators to help you cook? I'm also interested in what dishes you find the easiest to make and what dishes you find the most difficult. All of that information you can get non-visually. You can tell ground bief is cooked by the texture when you touch it with a spoon. Other things by the smell. It's not more limited, it's just an alternative method.
I love experimenting with different things, I went through a phase of baking lots of bread. At the moment I'm into building complex salads and working on really healthy recipes. I cooked a meal for 60 people, that was pretty intense!
whose voice is reading my question to you? A very synthesised American voice.
Does colour mean anything to you ? Not really, it's an abstract concept.
Do you watch or should I say listen to porn? Nah, it just doesn't do anything for me.
As someone who plays video games and watch shows to kill time when I’m bored, I never thought about what a blind person would do to kill time when they’re bored other than listening to music. What do you do to pass time? Read, watch films and tv, mindlessly browse the internet. There are also audio games, and it's possible to play some regular games if you're blind, but I'm not really a gamer.
How has voice technology (like Siri or Google Assistant) changed the way you interact with things (if you use it at all)? If you have it: how has it made life better or worse? If you don't have it: why not? It's convenient because I can set a timer when cooking hands free! But also, something like an echo dot is designed to be used without vision, so I'm not actually having to deal with an accessibility barrier. I get exactly the same functionality from it that a sighted person does, and that is an important consideration.
how has the covid-19 pandemic affected you, as a blind person specifically/differently? Not so much now. At first my concern was in relation to grocery delivery services. I didn't want to go to the supermarket because many places were refusing to provide assistance, but also everyone was using delivery services, so slots weren't easily accessible for those of us who really needed them. It's calmed down quite a bit now though.
Another issue relates to accessible information. A lot of the stats are shown as images, with no explanation. Which means we're shut out from accessing what could be very crucial info.
Do you experience any visuals in your mind? For example, like when you dream? I don't. I've never been able to see so this is impossible for me.
Based on your life so far and what you have learned from others what is your favorite color? I don't have one. I usually say purple just because people demand an answer and it's easier to give them one.
Do you like puppies? I do.
What is it like to move around. Is it hard and do you feel out a room as you walk through it? It's not hard because I've always been blind so know how to navigate as a blind person. When outside I travel using a white cane, this is also true if I'm inside buildings like shops etc. But if I'm at my house or friends houses I just walk around and learn where things are.
What’s something people do/say that is ableist but not commonly acknowledged as such? How can sighted people be better allies to blind people? "You do so well for a blind person," has to be one of the most rude things people can say. Because what they're saying is that actually, they don't expect blind people to be doing very well at all, so the fact that I'm a moderately functional adult who doesn't get enough sleep, drinks too much coffee and is constantly stressed is a very very good thing. When I'm actually very typical for someone in their mid 20's.
Just treat blind people like people, and support us with fighting for accessibility and equal rights. That really is the best way to be an ally.
As someone how may go blind I always wondered if there was a fear of “the dark” or does it fade a bit? I'm not sure honestly. I've always been blind, so it's normal to me. I do know people who lost their vision who have really happy, secure lives.
Is sex more intense for you? And do you have sex with other blind people, if not how does it feel when you cant see the other person but he can see you naked? It honestly depends who I'm having sex with. I don't really worry if they can see me and I can't. I've had good and bad experiences, with both blind nad sighted people.
Do you listen to old radio plays? I had a period of time prior to a cataract surgery where my photosensitivity was so intense I mostly lived in total darkness, and these were my favourite forms of free entertainment. I am old enough that I listened to them on radio, although most were rebroadcasts. Also, do you usually wear any kind of sunglasses or such? If so, for your own benefit, or to make people feel more comfortable? I listened to a lot of plays in the early 2000s when I was a kid because only a fraction of books were published in braille. Audio books were expensive and also only a few books became audio. These days I listen to less of them because with things like Kindle I can read almost anything, but they were a wonderful and necessary part of my childhood that I am very thankful I was able to experience.
I have light perception so I wear sunglasses when it's really bright, but not for the comfort of others. I think if my eyes make people uncomfortable it's something they should address within themselves.
Is the halo effect a noticeable phenomenon for you as an arguably perfectly objective observer of sighted people? Have you ever been in a situation and just known that someone is physically attractive based on being inexplicably treated more favourably by others than could be reasonably expected? How do you feel about this in general? I think so. I definitely noticed this in school. My perception is that people gravitate towards someone who is deemed to be physically attractive, but I don't know if that is true.
Have you ever fired a firearm or played with a sword? I haven't. I considered going to a shooting range when I lived in the US but never did.
When browsing the web -- do ads really screw with your screen reader? Do you use an adblocker? They do, and yes I do.
If you could tell the world one thing what would it be? About blindness? Treat me like any other adult.
Not about blindness. Use your vote.
What's your favorite place to get a burrito? I live in England where burritos are sadly lacking, but now I really want one.
Would you consider trying psychedelics and reporting back your experiences? I've tried them before. Really weird, honestly. Mostly auditory but also some physical sensations.
Do you understand racism? Also what's your favorite song? By understand, I think it's wrong, but I understand it as a concept. RAcism isn't really about being able to see colour, it's associating a race with a positive or negative set of attributes. Blind people are just as capable of being racist.
In terms of songs I don't really have a favourite, I've been listening to I and love and you by the Avett Brothers a lot recently.
I was always wondering about this one. There are days when I "overlisten" to music or sounds get pounded and louder until I can't stand it and I need to shut it out. I would go several days without music or wear noise cancelling headphones to get myself disconnected. It sometimes happens with my vision, where it's just too much information and my brain needs a break. So I'm wondering what's it like in your case, if you've ever experienced something like that? Where there's too much sensory information and you need to shut it out but you need it to get around? And another extremely random one. I work and architecture and was trying to figure out how someone would go about designing a house while blind. Besides textures, how would you try and build a house for yourself if you could? That sounds like sensory processing disorder, which I have experienced aspects of yes.
I'm not sure, definitely lots of outside space and a big kitchen, but those are because of my love of being outside and also of cooking, more than blindness!
So this might sound weird, but my friends have a year old daughter who is blind. What kind of playing made you happiest as a kid? Climbing, playing football, running about. Just normal kid stuff.
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So two questions: you mentioned that you travelled to a couple of countries. To us, travel is a very visual experience, what is it to you? How do you experience the travel experience itself? Travelling to me is experiencing all aspects of the culture. It doesn't have to be visual. You can meet people, go to a city, go to a park, go hiking. These are all part of it.
We see your inability to see as an impairment or disability out of our ignorance, what do you think seeing people lack? What is our disability? I think we have to be careful and not view something like a lack of understanding as a disability. I am blind, and blindness is my impairment. But I'm disabled because the world around me isn't accessible.
ok 3rd one, out of the countries you visited, which one of them you felt a bit more challenged than the other ones? In terms of the countries they all had positives and negatives. Colombia was definitely a new experience, but it was also my favourite place to live.
What is imagination for you? That's difficult to answer. If you mean how do I imagine, through my other senses. But as to what it is, I'm not sure. It seems to be an essential part of who we are as humans.
What do you see in today's society that you dislike? I'm not sure this is just a problem with today's society, but ignorance and denial regarding the reality of the world we live in.
My sons (age 10) are really good friends with a boy who has been blind since birth. My sons have gone to his house a few times and have had a lot of fun. I would like for him to come here, but it makes me nervous. I worry that he'll get bored or be uncomfortable. As a child, what were some of your favorite experiences with sighted friends and their family? Being welcomed in to everyday activities. My best experiences were with people who didn't worry, who let me run around and play, who let me climb and mess about with my friends. But who also set boundaries, who told me to be quiet or to stop running, like they would any other child. Basically the best thing you can do is welcome him and treat him like any other kid.
Will you have children of your own even if you have a 50% chance of passing on your genetic mutation? My mother in law is blind and she passed retinoblastoma on to all 4 of her children even though each birth was a 50% chance. They all were able to retain vision though 2 had to have an eye enucleated. Later in those same 2 passed away from associated secondary cancers in the 20s and 30s bc they received radiation to stop the tumours (inherited is bilateral). I am pregnant with a baby girl who inherited the genetic mutation and at 36 weeks will deliver so they can monitor and treat the tumours. Being induced early allows the critical growth stage of 36 to 42 weeks gestation to be monitored and treated. Prognosis is good and it's considered 97% treatable but I cant help feeling that I am doing a disservice by continuing the horrible legacy of retinoblastoma. And also I wonder how she would feel knowing if she wants to naturally have children she will have a 50% chance of passing the mutation on to offspring. I would. I will pass the LCA gene on to any child I have, but my partner would have to be a carrier for us to have a blind child. Even if my child is blind I'd know how to raise them. I could teach them to read, to travel, to do anything they wanted to. I understand it's more complex with something like RB, but I think you have to do whatever feels right for you.
Do you play any instruments? If so, which instrument(s)? I used to play the clarinet but haven't in years. I was never very good at music.
If there was an option for surgery that granted you sight, would you consider it? I wouldn't, it doesn't interest me.
What are some UI changes reddit could make to improve accessibility for the blind? What are some things other sites often do which make them difficult for you to read and navigate? Reddit is honestly a bit of a clusterfuck. It's accessible enough, but sometimes the focus of my screenreader jumps around. There also aren't many headings used, which is the primary way screenreaders navigate online content, so it's a pain to find the section of the page that you want. In terms of other sites a lack of alt text is a huge problem. We convey so much information through images, but if it isn't tagged correctly a blind person misses all of it.
What would be the best way to interact with a blind person? Like let's say you went inside a new building and people there knew you were blind would you be offended if they offered to help you find your way? Or tell you how many steps there are or watch out for things that may be in your way? Would that come off as overbearing? It's annoying when people constantly tell me, because it's actually distracting. If someone offers that's fine, so long as they listen when I say no.
Which genders are you attracted to? When did you realize you were attracted to them and what was it about them Both, though men more than women. I'm not sure, I guess I was a pre-teen and I started to have crushes on people.
i watched a video of a blind woman with her seeing eye dog and a hidden camera try to find her way around a mall that she'd never been to before. it was so funny to watch the employees point as if she could see or the dog could understand what was going on. there was, eventually, one woman who walked her to the perfumes/jewelry and entrance so that her dog would understand and so that she knew the amount of steps that it should take. do you have these experiences often where people are just, unintentionally, entirely unhelpful? All the time. You just get used to it. Also, we don't actually count steps, we may have good spacial awareness and can tell approximately how much distance we've travelled, but step counting is a bit of a myth.
[deleted] I do. If she's in the United States I really recommend that she reaches out to the National Federation of the Blind to find out about their training centers. The Colorado Center for the Blind made a huge difference to my life.
Why did the moderators remove this? u/mmm_toasty could you perchance let us know? Because I can't hold up a sign with my username...because obviously I can't write. Unless they want it in braille?
Maybe this is question is better suited to those who raised you, but do you know if there was anything atypical about your language development? I read a case study about a blind toddler’s unusual syntax once and found it really interesting. I'm very interested in this too. I had fairly advanced language development, which I know through speaking with my parents and reading school and medical reports. Many congenitally blind children do have atypical language development though.
What parenting tips would you suggest to someone who has a young child who is blind or losing sight? Have high expectations, don't expect less of them because they are blind. Expect them to do chores around the house, to work hard in school and to be polite. They can and should do these things.
I occasionally see the same blind man on the sidewalk navigating the DC metro and city streets. I believe he lives around my work. Sometimes he looks completely lost. I have on a few occasions guided him to the correct train or set of stairs. He just says thank you and continues on. Is there anything else I could do to help him or be a good samaritan to other blind folks in the city? Asking is honestly the best thing. Either the blind person will need assistance or they won't. It's worse to assume that someone does when they might not, so I feel that by asking you're already doing the right thing.
So I know I am very late to the AMA party here, but hopefully you still are able to answer this for me. I'm a police officer in the US in an area where we don't have a very large blind/deaf/etc community. What are some good things to know as a cop so that I can better interact with the blind? Especially, of course, victims who need to report crimes. But either witnesses who may have info or even perpetrators. I've read almost this entire thread and with some of your answers to other questions, I can only imagine how blind people may be treated by uninformed or wilfully ignorant officers. This is such an important question, thank you for asking. Firstly, the biggest thing is to view them as credible. Obviously a blind person is capable of lying, but they aren't automatically less credible just because they can't give you a visual account of what has happened. This is a particularly pervasive problem in cases that involve sexual assault.
Also, if you're approaching a blind person in the street because there's a situation, it's good to identify yourself as an officer. I have no way of knowing if the person is a random stranger, who I might brush off, or a police officer unless they tell you. Some blind people will want to be given your badge, to see if you have one, or take your ID number. Try not to be upset or angry, it isn't that we don't believe you, just again that we can't visually verify what you're saying.
This is an interesting AMA. Thanks for doing this. My question, If it was possible through new technology to give you vision, let's say through an implant that records wavelengths of light and transmits the information to your brain allowing you to see in perfect 20/20 vision. (I am not familiar with what caused your blindness, so let's assume we are able to bypass it) It's a completely safe surgery, but the implant is permanent. Would you do it? No, I wouldn't. My brain has adapted to my blindness, and I feel like getting vision would be really disruptive and uncomfortable.
As a parent it would cause me a lot of pain to think about my child being blind. Have you ever discussed how your parents felt with them? Yes, if it does upset them, they don't show it which is so, so important. I would have hated growing up, knowing my parents wished I was someone else.
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Becoming a parent comes with a range of emotions they don't warn us about and we can't prevent. Your parents would never wish you to be someone else, they world just want take away anything that might cause you pain. It is good to hear you had the support and love you needed. Absolutely, but you also owe it to your child to keep some of those feelings from them. It's really damaging to know that people around you would change a fundamental part of who you are. Absolutely a parent should seek support when they have these feelings, but it should never be made obvious to the child.
Are you religious? Has anyone prayed for you to see? If someone offered would you be open to it? If yes, do you think other blind people would? I'm not, if people are going to pray, I'd rather they pray I actually have a happy and meaningful life. I have no interest in seeing, some blind people do and that's totally their right.
When you masturbate what do you mentally picture? Depends. If I'm in a relationship at the time I'll often think about that person and things they've said or done.
Do you depend on someone else or did you figure out on how to do normal every day activities that people take for granted on your own? I can do pretty much anything alone. I can cook, clean, do my laundry, travel to and from work etc. The only thing I can't do is drive, so I'll take busses and trains or use Uber sometimes.
This could have already been asked, there's so much knowledge we all want to glean from you. Have you ever thought about or done a race, running, biking, swimming, or anything where you have a guide? There's some great races where you can feel the wind on your face and the sound of the trees around you. I guess it doesn't have to be a race. Just how much have you been able to feel the wind and the trees. Thank you for answering all of our questions. My respect on one, putting yourself out there and answering personal questions, and also being a complete boss on your answers. Sure, thanks for reading. I love more extreme sports, so I've been skydiving and paragliding for example. I'd love to do more things like that. I also really enjoy skiing and tandem cycling.
I hope I don't sound rude, but how do you (or blind people in general) know where to go especially in a big city? Is it difficult to find shops and run errands without getting lost? Bonus question: How do service dogs know where you want to go? Like if you wanted to go to a specific restaurant for example, how does a service dog aid in getting you there? I know by exploring, by asking questions, by learning about the layout of the city. And service dogs receive instruction from the handler. The dog doesn't actually know where it's going, it is the handlers job to give it commands like find left, or find right.
What do you enjoy about traveling? For me it’s the scenery. But also foods a big one. I imagine being blind, food would be the main reason. Also has anyone tried using sign language to communicate with you? I honestly worry about that misunderstanding alot Haha maybe they have but I just didn't see them. I have been asked if I know it though!
And the food, meeting people, visiting different places like museums and parks, the whole aspect of immersing yourself in another culture.
Is the experience of sight something you wish deeply you could do? Or does the fact that you’ve never experienced it make it seem very foreign and intimidating? It definitely feels overwhelming to the point where I wouldn't take a cure if it was offered to me.
While living in the US, did you find it a relatively accessible country or no? Also, I started watching your YouTube videos, and they’re great! Super informational. Makes me want to sign up as a volunteer for Be My Eyes :) Thank you, I'm so glad that you are enjoying them. If you have any video topic requests, feel free to leave a comment on one of my videos as I may not see it in this thread as it's so big.
It was fairly accessible, as with most places, the attitudes of others were the biggest barrier I faced. People not believing I could do something, rather than be actually not being able to do it.
Do you still have Isla the guide dog? If so, was she already trained? What signals do they give to let you know there is steps, a road? I don't. She retired last year, but she's living a very happy life with some friends of mine. She was trained when I got her, they are trained to stop at roads and steps.
This rivets me. My mom went blind on and off through her life. Glaucoma and surgeries. She only sometimes had sight in one because she lost the other to cataracts. Anyway. I was her eyes. I knew how to help her, somehow. Have you ever had a person you let be your eyes? To a point, sometimes I'll ask people for visual information. But I wouldn't want to create a relationship where it's expected, I think it can result in some uncomfortable power dynamics. I'd rather get that info from a paid service like Aira. This is just my personal preference.
How would you rate reddit's accessiblity? Kind of a pain, honestly.
Was learning Braille hard? Is Braille the same in other countries outside of the UK? It wasn't because I was very young, so it was just like a sighted child learning print.
This doesn't have an easy answer. Broadly it's the same. The letters A to Z are the same in all languages that use the Latin alphabet, much like they are in print.
However, most languages have what is known as contracted, or grade 2, braille. So one character might represent several letters. In English, we have such a character for er, or the, or wh. Because these are common letter combinations. Grade 2 in French will be different, as will grade 2 in German.
English speaking countries have also had some variation when it comes to more advanced presentation rules, and certainly braille mathematics. That is why in the early 2000s Unified English Braille was created. With increases in electronic braille production, it was viewed as important to create a unified code, so that electronic braille could easily be shared between English speaking countries, and so there wouldn't be these small variations.
You mentioned you love books. You also mentioned that books that are meant to be realistic, but have poor depictions of blind characters frustrate you. Have you read "All the Light We Cannot See" by Anthony Doerr, and if so, how did you feel about the depiction of the blind girl? I honestly thought it was a bit ridiculous, but not the worst I've read.
Have you ever tried to draw anything from your imagination and if so, what did you draw? Could you visualise the drawing after you drew it based on the shapes? I'm horrible at drawing. I've tried on paper where the lines then are raised, but I'm just not coordinated enough. I struggle to even draw a circle unless I can draw around something.
Are there any questions you get that you are tired of or are just like what the hell? Also what's a question that you never have been asked but want to answer? Honestly how I use a computer. It's exhausting that most people still don't know this.
And not really, I do find the deeper, more thoughtful questions interesting though.
Are heights or flying scary at all to you? I actually don't like heights, so I've done things like skydiving and paragliding because I need to get over myself.
Do you make facial expressions? If you do, does that mean a smile when we’re happy is built into us. I do. I can't tell you how I know them, I just do.
Do you think you compare yourself to people less than those of us who are sighted? So much of the standard women hold themselves to seems visual to me. Weight, beauty, aging, fashion... I imagine you not to be bombarded with these standards, advertisements, social media visuals. Do you feel less pressure on these things than you imagine we do? I still feel a huge amount of pressure, compounded by not being able to compare myself. I have to ask people about my own appearance, which then makes me worry that they aren't completely truthful. Even if they are, it's their perception. I'll never have my own true perception of myself, because it's always filtered through information I'm given by others.
Is there an equivalent of line graphs and charts that blind people can use? For example did you understand the concept of exponential growth at the start of the Covid-19 crisis? You can plot these using tactile graph papers. There are audio graphs, which can give an overview of the information.
Do you own a printer, 2d or 3d. Can you read print text if its embossed? I can sort of read print if it's embossed, but often I forget the shapes of the letters and have to be reminded. I don't currently own a printer, I usually go to a library if I need a document printing.
i glanced over a couple of your youtube videos, and i noticed your eyeballs sort of wobble back and forth as if you're reading text with your eyes. is that a part of your genetic disorder? or are you doing that consciously, if so why? It's known as nystagmus. It can exist as a condition on its own, but often it goes hand in hand with other eye diseases, particularly forms of congenital blindness. Essentially I have no control over the muscles in my eyes so these are involuntary movements.
To piggyback off the person asking about software accessibility - do you ever spend time with software on a non-personal device - like a public kiosk? Are you able to use the product if there is no headphone jack? If it has audio output yes. But I would only use something like an ATM if it had a headphone jack so that I could access the information in a confidential manner.
What software do you use, especially for email? My mother is blind, stubborn, and cantankerous, always has been even before blindness. She uses an ancient version of JAWS and refuses to update, and I'd love to know what options are out there. Jaws is good but she'd be better off using the latest version with win10. I use NVDA because it's free, and VoiceOver on my iPhone.
Are you often browsing on reddit? And if so, what subreddits do you visit? (You don't have to list any of them if they are too private) Dogs, blind and the not the onion are some of my favourites. Also just browsing random things. Reddit is kind of a pain in terms of accessibility, so I honestly go elsewhere for chat, which is a shame because I like the people here.
I'm actually curious about how Blind People can use computers and how you can read our questions. I'm guessing a special machine is involved, but how does it work ? I use a screenreader, a piece of software that uses synthesised speech to read out what's on the screen. I also touch type and navigate using a keyboard instead of the mouse.
Have you ever thought deeply that being blind was going to affect all your life and had a breakdown or were really depressed? There have been times. Mostly when a certain aspect of my life isn't going well, so it's easy to attribute it all to blindness. When really there are usually many factors at play.
Have you ever tried the app “be my eyes”? It is an interesting app I found for helping with tasks. I thought it would be great to help out a blind or visually impaired person. I’ve only connected with someone once but I’d love to help more. I have tried it, it can be really useful in certain situations.
How was your experience in Colombia? For how long did you live there? I loved it, I lived there for a year and it was the best year of my life. I loved everything about Colombian culture and the friends I made there. Also, is your username because of In the Heights, or just a coincidence?
Do you ever feel self conscious about what you look like to others? I do, I'm still under the same pressure other people are to look a certain way. I also feel more pressure because if I don't look good, maybe people will attribute that to my blindness and just assume I don't know how.
What are some things that you have done that a person who isn't blind, thinks that a blind person wouldn't/couldn't/shouldn't do? Honestly most things, because people have such low expectations of blind people. Travel, get a job, move away from home, just have a normal adult life.
Looks like the mods want proof. How do you plan to do this blind? I'm not sure how to submit proof to them? I have all my documentation if they want it!
Do you ever listen to audiobooks? If so, what’s your favourite? I do, maybe the His Dark Materials trilogy. I love so many books though.
How do audiobooks and films (with audio description) compare to each other, is there one your prefer? I prefer books but I think that's personality, more than blindness. My sighted sister also prefers books to tv. We both grew up reading a lot as children.
How do you perceive colours when you haven't seen them? When someone says "I have a red car", what do you imagine? I don't, I just accept it as a fact and file it away.
Do you get motion sickness? On a roller coaster, a car, a boat or a plane? Or any other way of travel? I don't personally.
Is there anything that we (i.e. the general public) can do to make things easier for you when out and about, without being patronising? I know you are certainly neither stupid nor incapable, but just wondering what I can do to be more considerate perhaps. Mostly just asking rather than assuming someone needs help, then listening to the answer that is given. Being grabbed is the worst.
Hi, I am the father of a 5-month old who was also just diagnosed with LCA. What are some of the things that you wish your parents would have done differently as they were raising you? Edit: also, I understand that someone with LCA has that uncontrollable urge to press/rub their eyeballs, which my baby is doing every 10 seconds, why is that so and how best to stop it? Hi, it's so great to meet other LCA families. I really wish they'd encouraged me to use a cane far more than they did. Developing those skills at a young age is really critical and makes for a much easier transition into adult life. If you'd like to reach out feel free to do so, I've included a lot of links in my original post and I'm happy to answer more questions, but as this thread is huge I might miss them here.
Hi CatchTheseWords, Hope your day finds you well. Do you find or have others commented your senses are better than the sighted? For instance do you find people can’t hear things when you can? And if so...ever considered being a super hero? Cheers! I'd love to say it was as easy as just deciding to be a superhero! My other senses aren't any better, I just pay attention to them more.
When you were younger, did other children ever bully you for being blind or take advantage of your blindness to bully you more easily? This happened mostly when I was in primary school.
It's great that you are self-reliant. But I cannot resist assuming there have been people in your life who must have given you the maximum amount of information about the world around you that couldn't have perceived unless you saw it yourself or unless somebody explained it to you. Who are these people and how did they help you understand the world? Honestly mostly it was books. I learnt a lot about body language, or how things look, by reading about them. I'm also very lucky to have lots of people in my life who will answer questions if I ask them. My parents for example have always been very open with information.
And my orientation and mobility teachers who taught me to use a cane, and who encouraged me to explore my environment.
How's the quality on audio description for visual media? Do you feel you're getting a good representation of what's happening on screen? Overall I feel the quality is high, and I usually get the information I need. Having said that, I've no way of knowing if details are left out, because I wouldn't know they were there unless someone told me.
I am a developer who create apps for use. How is modern technology assisting with additional needs for you? Is there additional improvements you see that could help bring internet within your reach easier? Really complying with existing accessibility guidelines is the biggest thing, and conducting accessibility testing. Technology can remove so many barriers, but if it isn't designed to function with assistive technology it can create barriers as well.
What comes to mind when you think of racism? White conservative assholes.
If I’m going through a door and I see a blind person approaching do I hold the door for them? Do I say “I got the door.”? Definitely say you have it, otherwise we're likely to put our hand out for it and find it's not there. It's totally fine to hold the door, equally, if you're in a rush don't feel guilty for not holding it.
i've seen some blind people click their tongues or their fingers to sort of echo locate. kind of like daredevil. i've seen blind people navigate without a cane. can you do that and if so to what extent? Navigation without a cane, unless in an environment like someone's house, is really dangerous. It's not a mark of success or achievement to do that, because with echo location you can still miss a hole in the ground and fall in it.
But yeah, I can echo locate, though mostly I do it passively. So for example by tapping my cane I can use that echo to gain certain information about my environment.
Do you drink alcohol? What is your experience like when/if you have? I do. Usually just the usual embarrassment most people experience.
Who was your best teacher? There were so so many. Honestly I was lucky to have wonderful teachers who all taught me so many things, not just about their particular subject, but life in general.
What software and browser-extensions are you using right now to do this AMA? What is your favorite piece of tech. Firefox, and NVDA is the screenreader. I just use a regular PC and iPhone.
How do you want new people, such as a coworker to ask about your blindness? Just be really open about it. I'd rather someone was direct than was clearly uncomfortable and didn't want to ask. Equally, remember that the person is more than just their blindness, so don't centre it in every conversation.
What does the Cosmos mean to you? Like how do you imagine the Cosmos outside of our own planet? Ask the stars, galaxies and stuff? Do these interest you? It's very, very interesting to me. My greatest disappointment is knowing that I will probably never travel into space and experience it for myself.
Being a sighted person, I sometimes think that sight is too easy to rely on at the expense of other senses. It is so easy to get wrapped up in thoughts and overly rely on sight to function, in a lazy way. Sometimes it's difficult to live in the present moment. When I was 25 a friend would say that I was missing out on life, that I should stop and smell the roses more. I wonder if you struggle with living in the moment? I do. I'm so concerned with my goals I often forget that there is a here and now. I think this is the down side to being so driven.
How are you going to know what I've asked in this question? The same way I wrote my original post.....
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And how is that? Also, what do you think upvote buttons look like? Through a combination of a screenreader, a piece of software that allows blind people to access the computer through synthesised speech output of content on the screen, and touch typing. And I'm not sure, maybe a thumbs up?
When is your favorite language and/or accents? Also, would you mind sharing an embarrassing story? This is my favorite AMA ever. Thank you for doing this! I learnt Spanish, and I really love Latin-American Spanish.
Hmm, honestly my life is a constant string of embarrassing moments, some blind related, some not. I still feel shame when I remember calling a primary school teacher of mine Grandma when I was like 5. I...don't know why. It just happened in the moment. Not like I actually thought she was my grandma.
Could you briefly let us know what it takes for you to record videos and post them to your YouTube channel? At the moment I'm using a USB webcam to record my videos. I'd have to write a long post, or make a video to really show the process. There are lots of small things I have to do.
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2020.10.03 21:23 PancakeMix_ Boy girl webcam

The movie has two teenagers one female one male. Both brunette. They always talked via video chat about their daily lives and school. The boy always got beat up by bullies (might have been for being gay) and the girl would go to parties and try to fit in. There was a scene where he would watch her put on her make-up and give her tips. They also helped eachother with homework. Later in the movie we learn the girl gets molested by her father frequently. She tells the boy by leaving her Webcam on while she sleeps and it shows her father sneaking in. The boy gets mad and eventually he travels to her house and climbs in through her window with a ladder and helps her get out.
This movie came out in the 2010's maybe in the past 5 years and I did watch it on Netflix this past year but it's either gone or I just can't find it. I hope someone knows what I'm talking about. I remember it very well. I tried googling webcam movies but theres so many or it just shows me adult sites with cams lol. Thanks for taking the time to read and hopefully help!
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2020.10.01 19:22 normancrane Boy girl webcam

Part 1
Part 2 <-- You are here.
Part 3
- - - Kurt Schwaller, the foremost theoretical physicist of his time and renowned discoverer of the theory of everything, committed suicide at the age forty-two in the humble bedroom of his Swiss home by swallowing sleeping pills. As far as suicides go, it was graceful and considerate. His husband found him peacefully at rest. He left behind no research, no reports and no working hard drives. He was not terminally ill. He died with his boots off but his computer on, and exactly six hours after his death the computer executed its final chronjob, posting a suicide note to his Facebook page. The note was short and cryptic, and the way in which it spoke so purposefully from beyond the grave unnerved me. It ended: “Like Edith Piaf, I regret nothing. This was not inevitable.” Whether he meant his suicide or something more remained unclear.
“Who’s Kurt Schwaller?” Greta asked.
“He was a very smart scientist,” Jacinda said.
The monitor on the wall was playing Spirited Away. Nobody in the room asked the question that was on everybody’s mind. The internet condensed into a cluster of theories, before exploding as a hysterics of trolling and contradictory evidence. Depending on who was speaking, Kurt Schwaller had either been depressed for years or was the most cheerful person in the world. He simultaneously regretted discovering the theory and considered it the best means of keeping human life sustainable. His death was suspicious, tragic, commendable, prophetic. Some said good riddance. Others said their goodbyes. Yet, as a species, we never quite shook the gnawing belief that he indeed knew something that we didn’t, and that that knowledge was what killed him. His mind may have been as hermetically sealed as the wombs of the women around us, but in his death we sensed our own foretold. I was relieved I didn’t have a daughter to explain that to.
By April 15, no opossums had given birth. By itself that’s not a troubling fact. However, the average gestation period of an opossum is 12 to 13 days. Hamsters, mice and wombats follow with gestation periods of around 20 days, then wombats, chipmunks and squirrels. No recorded births of any of these species occurred in April. Physically, their females looked pregnant but that was as detailed as it got: “The specimens display the ordinary symptoms of pregnancy, but they are displaying them in excess of their expected due dates, although they do remain healthy and function comparatively well to their male counterparts.” My wife and I developed a fascination with a particular family of opossums in Ohio that we watched daily via webcam. We gave them names, we pretended to be their voices. Our opossums had adventures, family squabbles and bouts of stress at work. The daughter, Irene, was rebellious. The son, Ziggy, was a nerd. The dad, whom we dubbed Monsieur Charles, sold insurance and the mom, Yvette, worked as stay-at-home technical support for Amazon. We realized right away that we were already preparing for the storytelling phase of parenthood, but we didn’t stop. As uncertain as the future was, the preparation for it was ours and we enjoyed doing it together. Nothing would take that away from us. When I touched my wife’s body in the shower and pressed the palm of my hand against her tummy, it felt no different than it had felt a month before. There was no hardness, no lumps. It seemed unreal that somewhere beneath her skin, for reasons unknown, her body had produced a substance that was impervious to diamond saw blades and precision lasers—a substance that, at least if you believed the rumours, the Russians were already trying to synthesize to use as tank plating.
For the rest of April it rained. Streaks of water ran crookedly down windowpanes, following the laws of physics but just barely. If you stared long enough at the wet glass you forgot there was anything behind it. Eventually, all you saw was your own distorted reflection. I liked when my wife put her arms around me from behind and pressed her chest against my back. I didn’t feel alone.
Pillow started to show her pregnancy in May. The World Health Organization also amended its initial communique, stating that based on the evidence regarding the prolonged gestations of other mammals, it was no longer able to predict an influx of human births in late December. If mice and gerbils weren’t birthing as predicted, humans might not either. However, the amendment stated, preparations were still proceeding along a nine month timeline, and they were ahead of schedule. When the BBC showed field hospitals in South Sudan, I wondered what the schedule entailed because the images were of skeletal tent-like buildings that despite their newness already had the aura of contamination. My wife said it was naive to expect the same medical standards in developing countries as in developed ones. Perhaps she was right. The BBC repeated the platitude that there wasn’t enough money for everyone, listed the foreign aid and private funds that had come in, and interviewed a tired young doctor who patiently answered questions while wiping sweat from his eyebrows. The United States Supreme Court issued an injunction against the New York Time’s theory of everything evaluation website based on a barrage of challenges from corporations that claimed the website violated their intellectual property. Another website sprang up overnight in Sweden, anonymous and hosted from compact discs. Salvador Abaroa announced a free Tribe of Akna gathering at Wrigley Field. Bakshi called. He and Jacinda had argued, and she’d taken Greta and their car and driven to the gathering in Chicago. We watched it on television. Salvador Abaroa banged his gong and advanced his theories. The world was made of squiggles, not lines, and all this time we’d only been approximating reality in the way an mp3 file approximates sound waves, or the way in which we approximate temperature, by cutting it into neat and stable increments that we mistake as absolutes. Zurich opened its arms for Kurt Schwaller’s funeral, which was interrupted by a streaker baring the logo and slogan of a diaper company. Police tackled the streaker and—for a moment—the mourners cheered. Later, an investigation of Kurt Schwaller’s Dropbox account performed in the name of international security revealed that he had deleted large amounts of files in the days leading up to his suicide. The Mossad, Bakshi told me, had been secretly monitoring Kurt Schwaller for at least the past two years because of his Palestinian sympathies and were now piecing together his computer activities by recreating his monitor displays from the detailed heat signatures they’d collected. The technology was available, Bakshi assured me. It was possible. I was more worried when Ziggy the Ohioan opossum injured his left leg. “Oh my God, what happened?” Yvette asked when she saw his bandaged limb. “You told me to be more physically active, so I tried out for the soccer team, mom,” he answered. “Did you make the team?” My wife’s breath smelled like black coffee. “No, but I sure broke my leg.” After pausing for some canned laughter, Yvette waddled obligingly toward Ziggy. “Well, you should at least have some of my homemade pasta,” she said. I made eating noises. “Do you know why they call it pasta, mom?” My wife turned from the monitor to look at me. “I don’t,” she said in her normal voice. “Because you already ate it,” I said. We laughed, concocted ever sillier plot lines and watched the webcam late into an unusually warm May night.
In June, I returned to work and Pillow joined the list of pregnant mammals now past their due dates. She ate and drank regularly, and other than waddling when she walked she was her old self. My wife started to show signs of pregnancy in June, too. It made me happy even as it reinforced the authenticity of the coming known unknown, as a former American Secretary of Defense might have called it. My wife developed the habit of posing questions in pairs: do you love me, and what do you think will happen to us? Am I the woman that as a boy you dreamed of spending your life with, and if it’s a girl do you hope she’ll be like me? Sometimes she trembled so faintly in her sleep that I wasn’t sure whether she was dreaming or in the process of waking. I pressed my body to hers and said that I wished I could share the pregnancy with her. She said that it didn’t feel like it was hers to share. She said she felt heavy. I massaged her shoulders. We kept the windows open during the day and the screen mesh out because the insects that usually invade southwestern Ontario in late May and early June hadn’t appeared. Birds and reptiles stopped laying eggs. We luxuriated in every bite of pancake that we topped with too much butter and drowned in maple syrup. We talked openly with our mouths full about the future because the world around us had let itself descend into a self-censoring limbo. The opossum webcam went dark. Bakshi dropped by the apartment one night, unannounced and in the middle of a thunderstorm. There was pain on his face. “What if what Kurt Schwaller meant was that fate was not inevitable until we made it so,” he said, sobbing. “What if our reality was a series of forking paths and by discovering the theory of everything we locked ourselves forever into one of them?” Jacinda had left him. “You’ll get her back,” I said. My wife made him a cup of tea that he drank boiling hot. He put down the cup—then picked it up and threw it against the wall. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to see if I could do something that I didn’t really want to do.” I bent down to pick up the broken pieces of porcelain. “You’ll get her back, Bakshi,” my wife said. Rain dripped onto our table from the ends of his black hair. “I don’t think so. I think we’re locked in and Kurt Schwaller took the only way out there is.” We didn’t let him go home. We discretely took all the knives from the kitchen and hid them in our bedroom, and did the same with the medicine in our bathroom, and Bakshi slept on our sofa, snoring loudly. He was still sad in the morning but felt better. We ate scrambled eggs, knowing that unless chickens started laying them again we were having a nonrenewable resource for breakfast.
Time was nonrenewable. My wife and I tried to take advantage of each second. But for every ten things we planned, we only did one. Our ambitions exceeded our abilities. On some days we were inexcusably lazy, lying in bed together until noon, and on others we worked nonstop at jobs like painting the walls, which later seemed insignificant. We considered leaving the city when the smog got too thick and renting a cottage in the country but we didn’t want to be without the safety of the nearness of hospitals and department stores. When we were scared, we made love. We ate a lot. We read short stories to each other. Outside our apartment, the world began to resemble its normal rhythms, with the exception that everywhere you went all the women were visibly pregnant. Some tried to hide it with loosely flowing clothes. Others bared their bellies with pride. I flirted with a supermarket cashier with an Ouroboros tattoo encircling her pierced belly button. After she handed me my change I asked her if she’d had it done before or after March 27. “Before,” she said. “What does it mean?” I asked. “That people have been making up weird shit for a long time and we’re still fucking here.” In Pakistan, the United Nations uncovered a mass grave of girls killed because they were pregnant—to protect the honour of their families. When I was a kid in Catholic school, my favourite saint was Saint Joseph because I wanted to love someone as much as he must have loved Mary to believe her story about a virgin birth.
On July 1, we subduably celebrated Canada Day. On July 4, my wife shook me awake at six in the morning because she was having back spasms and her stomach hurt. She got out of bed, wavered and fell and hit her head on the edge of a shelf, opening up a nasty gash. I helped her to the bathroom sink, where we washed the wound and applied a band-aid. She tried throwing up in the toilet but couldn’t. The sounds of her empty retching made me cold. The cramps got worse. I picked her up and carried her out of the apartment—Pillow whined as I closed the door—and down to the underground garage, where I helped her into the back seat of our car. Pulling out into the street, I was surprised by the amount of traffic. It was still dark out but cars were already barrelling by. On Lake Shore, the traffic was even worse. I turned on the radio and the host was in the middle of a discussion about livestock, so I turned the radio off. Farther in the city foot traffic joined car traffic and the lights couldn’t have changed more slowly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw women collapsing on the sidewalks, clutching their stomachs. I kept my eyes ahead. At a red light, a black woman kept banging on the passenger’s side door until I rolled down the window. She asked if she could get a ride. I asked to where. “To the hospital, where else?” she said in sing-song Jamaican. I let her in and at the green light stepped as heavily on the gas as I could. In the back seat, my wife’s eyes were barely open. The Jamaican woman was in better shape. Noticing my concern, she said, “Don’t worry yourself none. I was like that this morning, too, but I’m better now. It comes and then it goes.” I was still worried. The streets around the hospital were packed with parked cars, but I found a spot by turning the wrong way up a one way street. The wheel hit the curb. I got out. The Jamaican woman helped me with my wife, and the three of us covered the distance from the car to the hospital in minutes. Ambulance sirens wailed close by. I heard the repetitive thump of helicopter blades. I glanced at my watch. 7:24. In the hospital, the hallways and waiting room were packed. There was standing room only. I left my wife leaning against a sliver of wall and ran to the reception desk. The Jamaican woman had disappeared. When I opened my mouth to speak, the receptionist cut me off: “Just take a seat, Mister, same as everybody else. Stay alert, stay calm. If you need water you can get it down the hall. We’re trying to get as many doctors down here as we can as quickly as we can, but the roads are jammed and there’s more than one hospital. That’s all I’ve been told.” I relayed the information to my wife word for word, once I found her—the waiting room was becoming encrusted with layers of incoming people—and then they shut the hospital doors—and my wife nodded, looking at me with eyes that wanted to close. I kept her lids open with my thumbs. My watch read 7:36. I wanted to tell her I loved her but was stupidly embarrassed by the presence of so many people who might laugh. I didn’t want to be cheesy. “It comes and it goes,” I said, “so just keep your eyes open for me until it goes, please.” She smiled, and I touched my lips to hers without kissing them. Her lips were dry. Around me shouts were erupting. There was a television in the corner of the waiting room, showing scenes of crowded hospitals in Sydney and Paris, and violence in Rio de Janeiro, where families huddled together in the streets while men, young and old, flung rocks, bricks and flaming bottles at a cordon of black-clad BOPE behind which politicians and their families were running from shiny cars to state-run clinics. My wife’s weak voice brought me back to the present. “What do you think happened to Monsieur Charles?” she asked. “I don’t know, but I’d guess he’s probably just getting ready for work now,” I said. She smiled and the pressure on my thumbs increased. Her eyes started to roll back into her head. “Don’t go away,” I said. “Don’t leave me.” I felt her eyes sizzle and shake like frying spheres of bacon. I couldn’t hold them open anymore. I didn’t know what to do. The shouting in the hospital had devolved into chaos. “Do you know why they call it pasta?” I said. I didn’t expect her to answer. I didn’t expect any reaction, but, “Because I already ate it,” she said, smiling—and it was the last thing she ever said, her last smile I ever saw, because in that moment there was a horrible whine that made me press my fists against my ears and in the same instant every woman in the hospital exploded.
Since Blood, guts and bone shards blanketed the surfaces of the waiting room, making it look like the inside of an unwashed jar of strawberry jam. My wife was gone. Every woman in the room was gone. The space behind the reception desk stood eerily empty. The television in the corner was showing the splattered lens of a camera that a hand suddenly wiped clean—its burst of motion a shock to the prevailing stillness—to reveal the peaceful image of a Los Angeles street in which bloodied men and boys stood frozen, startled…
I was too numb to speak.
Someone unlocked the hospital doors but nobody entered.
The waiting room smelled like an abattoir.
My clothes smelled like an abattoir.
I walked toward the doors, opened them with my hip and continued into the morning sunlight. I half expected shit to rain down from the skies. If I had a razor blade in my pocket I would have slit my wrists, but all I had was my wallet, my car keys and my phone. Sliding my fingers over the keys reminded me how dull they were. I didn’t want to drive. I didn’t want anything, but if I had to do something I would walk. I stepped on the heel of one shoe with the toe of another and slid my shoe off. The other one I pulled off with my hand. I wasn’t wearing socks. I hadn’t had enough time to put them on. I threw the shoes away. I wanted to walk until my feet hurt so much that I couldn’t walk anymore.
I put one foot in front of the other all the way back to my apartment building, waited for the elevator, and took it to my floor. In the hall, I passed a man wearing clean summer clothes. He didn’t give my bloody ones a second glance. I nodded to him, he nodded back, and I unlocked the door to my apartment and walked in. My feet left footprints on the linoleum. A dark, drying stain in the small space between the fridge and the kitchen wall was all that was left of Pillow. She’d squeezed in and died alone. I took out a mop and rotely removed the stain. Then I took off my clothes, flung them on the bed, which was as unmade as when we left it, took a shower and laid down on the crumpled sheets beside the only pieces of my wife that I had left. My sleep smelled like an abattoir.
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2020.09.24 18:15 normancrane Boy girl webcam

Part 1
Part 2 <-- You are here.
Part 3
Kurt Schwaller, the foremost theoretical physicist of his time and renowned discoverer of the theory of everything, committed suicide at the age forty-two in the humble bedroom of his Swiss home by swallowing sleeping pills. As far as suicides go, it was graceful and considerate. His husband found him peacefully at rest. He left behind no research, no reports and no working hard drives. He was not terminally ill. He died with his boots off but his computer on, and exactly six hours after his death the computer executed its final chronjob, posting a suicide note to his Facebook page. The note was short and cryptic, and the way in which it spoke so purposefully from beyond the grave unnerved me. It ended: “Like Edith Piaf, I regret nothing. This was not inevitable.” Whether he meant his suicide or something more remained unclear.
“Who’s Kurt Schwaller?” Greta asked.
“He was a very smart scientist,” Jacinda said.
The monitor on the wall was playing Spirited Away. Nobody in the room asked the question that was on everybody’s mind. The internet condensed into a cluster of theories, before exploding as a hysterics of trolling and contradictory evidence. Depending on who was speaking, Kurt Schwaller had either been depressed for years or was the most cheerful person in the world. He simultaneously regretted discovering the theory and considered it the best means of keeping human life sustainable. His death was suspicious, tragic, commendable, prophetic. Some said good riddance. Others said their goodbyes. Yet, as a species, we never quite shook the gnawing belief that he indeed knew something that we didn’t, and that that knowledge was what killed him. His mind may have been as hermetically sealed as the wombs of the women around us, but in his death we sensed our own foretold. I was relieved I didn’t have a daughter to explain that to.
By April 15, no opossums had given birth. By itself that’s not a troubling fact. However, the average gestation period of an opossum is 12 to 13 days. Hamsters, mice and wombats follow with gestation periods of around 20 days, then wombats, chipmunks and squirrels. No recorded births of any of these species occurred in April. Physically, their females looked pregnant but that was as detailed as it got: “The specimens display the ordinary symptoms of pregnancy, but they are displaying them in excess of their expected due dates, although they do remain healthy and function comparatively well to their male counterparts.” My wife and I developed a fascination with a particular family of opossums in Ohio that we watched daily via webcam. We gave them names, we pretended to be their voices. Our opossums had adventures, family squabbles and bouts of stress at work. The daughter, Irene, was rebellious. The son, Ziggy, was a nerd. The dad, whom we dubbed Monsieur Charles, sold insurance and the mom, Yvette, worked as stay-at-home technical support for Amazon. We realized right away that we were already preparing for the storytelling phase of parenthood, but we didn’t stop. As uncertain as the future was, the preparation for it was ours and we enjoyed doing it together. Nothing would take that away from us. When I touched my wife’s body in the shower and pressed the palm of my hand against her tummy, it felt no different than it had felt a month before. There was no hardness, no lumps. It seemed unreal that somewhere beneath her skin, for reasons unknown, her body had produced a substance that was impervious to diamond saw blades and precision lasers—a substance that, at least if you believed the rumours, the Russians were already trying to synthesize to use as tank plating.
For the rest of April it rained. Streaks of water ran crookedly down windowpanes, following the laws of physics but just barely. If you stared long enough at the wet glass you forgot there was anything behind it. Eventually, all you saw was your own distorted reflection. I liked when my wife put her arms around me from behind and pressed her chest against my back. I didn’t feel alone.
Pillow started to show her pregnancy in May. The World Health Organization also amended its initial communique, stating that based on the evidence regarding the prolonged gestations of other mammals, it was no longer able to predict an influx of human births in late December. If mice and gerbils weren’t birthing as predicted, humans might not either. However, the amendment stated, preparations were still proceeding along a nine month timeline, and they were ahead of schedule. When the BBC showed field hospitals in South Sudan, I wondered what the schedule entailed because the images were of skeletal tent-like buildings that despite their newness already had the aura of contamination. My wife said it was naive to expect the same medical standards in developing countries as in developed ones. Perhaps she was right. The BBC repeated the platitude that there wasn’t enough money for everyone, listed the foreign aid and private funds that had come in, and interviewed a tired young doctor who patiently answered questions while wiping sweat from his eyebrows. The United States Supreme Court issued an injunction against the New York Time’s theory of everything evaluation website based on a barrage of challenges from corporations that claimed the website violated their intellectual property. Another website sprang up overnight in Sweden, anonymous and hosted from compact discs. Salvador Abaroa announced a free Tribe of Akna gathering at Wrigley Field. Bakshi called. He and Jacinda had argued, and she’d taken Greta and their car and driven to the gathering in Chicago. We watched it on television. Salvador Abaroa banged his gong and advanced his theories. The world was made of squiggles, not lines, and all this time we’d only been approximating reality in the way an mp3 file approximates sound waves, or the way in which we approximate temperature, by cutting it into neat and stable increments that we mistake as absolutes. Zurich opened its arms for Kurt Schwaller’s funeral, which was interrupted by a streaker baring the logo and slogan of a diaper company. Police tackled the streaker and—for a moment—the mourners cheered. Later, an investigation of Kurt Schwaller’s Dropbox account performed in the name of international security revealed that he had deleted large amounts of files in the days leading up to his suicide. The Mossad, Bakshi told me, had been secretly monitoring Kurt Schwaller for at least the past two years because of his Palestinian sympathies and were now piecing together his computer activities by recreating his monitor displays from the detailed heat signatures they’d collected. The technology was available, Bakshi assured me. It was possible. I was more worried when Ziggy the Ohioan opossum injured his left leg. “Oh my God, what happened?” Yvette asked when she saw his bandaged limb. “You told me to be more physically active, so I tried out for the soccer team, mom,” he answered. “Did you make the team?” My wife’s breath smelled like black coffee. “No, but I sure broke my leg.” After pausing for some canned laughter, Yvette waddled obligingly toward Ziggy. “Well, you should at least have some of my homemade pasta,” she said. I made eating noises. “Do you know why they call it pasta, mom?” My wife turned from the monitor to look at me. “I don’t,” she said in her normal voice. “Because you already ate it,” I said. We laughed, concocted ever sillier plot lines and watched the webcam late into an unusually warm May night.
In June, I returned to work and Pillow joined the list of pregnant mammals now past their due dates. She ate and drank regularly, and other than waddling when she walked she was her old self. My wife started to show signs of pregnancy in June, too. It made me happy even as it reinforced the authenticity of the coming known unknown, as a former American Secretary of Defense might have called it. My wife developed the habit of posing questions in pairs: do you love me, and what do you think will happen to us? Am I the woman that as a boy you dreamed of spending your life with, and if it’s a girl do you hope she’ll be like me? Sometimes she trembled so faintly in her sleep that I wasn’t sure whether she was dreaming or in the process of waking. I pressed my body to hers and said that I wished I could share the pregnancy with her. She said that it didn’t feel like it was hers to share. She said she felt heavy. I massaged her shoulders. We kept the windows open during the day and the screen mesh out because the insects that usually invade southwestern Ontario in late May and early June hadn’t appeared. Birds and reptiles stopped laying eggs. We luxuriated in every bite of pancake that we topped with too much butter and drowned in maple syrup. We talked openly with our mouths full about the future because the world around us had let itself descend into a self-censoring limbo. The opossum webcam went dark. Bakshi dropped by the apartment one night, unannounced and in the middle of a thunderstorm. There was pain on his face. “What if what Kurt Schwaller meant was that fate was not inevitable until we made it so,” he said, sobbing. “What if our reality was a series of forking paths and by discovering the theory of everything we locked ourselves forever into one of them?” Jacinda had left him. “You’ll get her back,” I said. My wife made him a cup of tea that he drank boiling hot. He put down the cup—then picked it up and threw it against the wall. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to see if I could do something that I didn’t really want to do.” I bent down to pick up the broken pieces of porcelain. “You’ll get her back, Bakshi,” my wife said. Rain dripped onto our table from the ends of his black hair. “I don’t think so. I think we’re locked in and Kurt Schwaller took the only way out there is.” We didn’t let him go home. We discretely took all the knives from the kitchen and hid them in our bedroom, and did the same with the medicine in our bathroom, and Bakshi slept on our sofa, snoring loudly. He was still sad in the morning but felt better. We ate scrambled eggs, knowing that unless chickens started laying them again we were having a nonrenewable resource for breakfast.
Time was nonrenewable. My wife and I tried to take advantage of each second. But for every ten things we planned, we only did one. Our ambitions exceeded our abilities. On some days we were inexcusably lazy, lying in bed together until noon, and on others we worked nonstop at jobs like painting the walls, which later seemed insignificant. We considered leaving the city when the smog got too thick and renting a cottage in the country but we didn’t want to be without the safety of the nearness of hospitals and department stores. When we were scared, we made love. We ate a lot. We read short stories to each other. Outside our apartment, the world began to resemble its normal rhythms, with the exception that everywhere you went all the women were visibly pregnant. Some tried to hide it with loosely flowing clothes. Others bared their bellies with pride. I flirted with a supermarket cashier with an Ouroboros tattoo encircling her pierced belly button. After she handed me my change I asked her if she’d had it done before or after March 27. “Before,” she said. “What does it mean?” I asked. “That people have been making up weird shit for a long time and we’re still fucking here.” In Pakistan, the United Nations uncovered a mass grave of girls killed because they were pregnant—to protect the honour of their families. When I was a kid in Catholic school, my favourite saint was Saint Joseph because I wanted to love someone as much as he must have loved Mary to believe her story about a virgin birth.
On July 1, we subduably celebrated Canada Day. On July 4, my wife shook me awake at six in the morning because she was having back spasms and her stomach hurt. She got out of bed, wavered and fell and hit her head on the edge of a shelf, opening up a nasty gash. I helped her to the bathroom sink, where we washed the wound and applied a band-aid. She tried throwing up in the toilet but couldn’t. The sounds of her empty retching made me cold. The cramps got worse. I picked her up and carried her out of the apartment—Pillow whined as I closed the door—and down to the underground garage, where I helped her into the back seat of our car. Pulling out into the street, I was surprised by the amount of traffic. It was still dark out but cars were already barrelling by. On Lake Shore, the traffic was even worse. I turned on the radio and the host was in the middle of a discussion about livestock, so I turned the radio off. Farther in the city foot traffic joined car traffic and the lights couldn’t have changed more slowly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw women collapsing on the sidewalks, clutching their stomachs. I kept my eyes ahead. At a red light, a black woman kept banging on the passenger’s side door until I rolled down the window. She asked if she could get a ride. I asked to where. “To the hospital, where else?” she said in sing-song Jamaican. I let her in and at the green light stepped as heavily on the gas as I could. In the back seat, my wife’s eyes were barely open. The Jamaican woman was in better shape. Noticing my concern, she said, “Don’t worry yourself none. I was like that this morning, too, but I’m better now. It comes and then it goes.” I was still worried. The streets around the hospital were packed with parked cars, but I found a spot by turning the wrong way up a one way street. The wheel hit the curb. I got out. The Jamaican woman helped me with my wife, and the three of us covered the distance from the car to the hospital in minutes. Ambulance sirens wailed close by. I heard the repetitive thump of helicopter blades. I glanced at my watch. 7:24. In the hospital, the hallways and waiting room were packed. There was standing room only. I left my wife leaning against a sliver of wall and ran to the reception desk. The Jamaican woman had disappeared. When I opened my mouth to speak, the receptionist cut me off: “Just take a seat, Mister, same as everybody else. Stay alert, stay calm. If you need water you can get it down the hall. We’re trying to get as many doctors down here as we can as quickly as we can, but the roads are jammed and there’s more than one hospital. That’s all I’ve been told.” I relayed the information to my wife word for word, once I found her—the waiting room was becoming encrusted with layers of incoming people—and then they shut the hospital doors—and my wife nodded, looking at me with eyes that wanted to close. I kept her lids open with my thumbs. My watch read 7:36. I wanted to tell her I loved her but was stupidly embarrassed by the presence of so many people who might laugh. I didn’t want to be cheesy. “It comes and it goes,” I said, “so just keep your eyes open for me until it goes, please.” She smiled, and I touched my lips to hers without kissing them. Her lips were dry. Around me shouts were erupting. There was a television in the corner of the waiting room, showing scenes of crowded hospitals in Sydney and Paris, and violence in Rio de Janeiro, where families huddled together in the streets while men, young and old, flung rocks, bricks and flaming bottles at a cordon of black-clad BOPE behind which politicians and their families were running from shiny cars to state-run clinics. My wife’s weak voice brought me back to the present. “What do you think happened to Monsieur Charles?” she asked. “I don’t know, but I’d guess he’s probably just getting ready for work now,” I said. She smiled and the pressure on my thumbs increased. Her eyes started to roll back into her head. “Don’t go away,” I said. “Don’t leave me.” I felt her eyes sizzle and shake like frying spheres of bacon. I couldn’t hold them open anymore. I didn’t know what to do. The shouting in the hospital had devolved into chaos. “Do you know why they call it pasta?” I said. I didn’t expect her to answer. I didn’t expect any reaction, but, “Because I already ate it,” she said, smiling—and it was the last thing she ever said, her last smile I ever saw, because in that moment there was a horrible whine that made me press my fists against my ears and in the same instant every woman in the hospital exploded.
Since Blood, guts and bone shards blanketed the surfaces of the waiting room, making it look like the inside of an unwashed jar of strawberry jam. My wife was gone. Every woman in the room was gone. The space behind the reception desk stood eerily empty. The television in the corner was showing the splattered lens of a camera that a hand suddenly wiped clean—its burst of motion a shock to the prevailing stillness—to reveal the peaceful image of a Los Angeles street in which bloodied men and boys stood frozen, startled…
I was too numb to speak.
Someone unlocked the hospital doors but nobody entered.
The waiting room smelled like an abattoir.
My clothes smelled like an abattoir.
I walked toward the doors, opened them with my hip and continued into the morning sunlight. I half expected shit to rain down from the skies. If I had a razor blade in my pocket I would have slit my wrists, but all I had was my wallet, my car keys and my phone. Sliding my fingers over the keys reminded me how dull they were. I didn’t want to drive. I didn’t want anything, but if I had to do something I would walk. I stepped on the heel of one shoe with the toe of another and slid my shoe off. The other one I pulled off with my hand. I wasn’t wearing socks. I hadn’t had enough time to put them on. I threw the shoes away. I wanted to walk until my feet hurt so much that I couldn’t walk anymore.
I put one foot in front of the other all the way back to my apartment building, waited for the elevator, and took it to my floor. In the hall, I passed a man wearing clean summer clothes. He didn’t give my bloody ones a second glance. I nodded to him, he nodded back, and I unlocked the door to my apartment and walked in. My feet left footprints on the linoleum. A dark, drying stain in the small space between the fridge and the kitchen wall was all that was left of Pillow. She’d squeezed in and died alone. I took out a mop and rotely removed the stain. Then I took off my clothes, flung them on the bed, which was as unmade as when we left it, took a shower and laid down on the crumpled sheets beside the only pieces of my wife that I had left. My sleep smelled like an abattoir.
Proceed to Part 3
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