blakestacey

People just out here acting like a fundamentally, inextricably unreliable and unethical technology has a "use case"

smdh

Image description: social-media post from "sophie", with text reading,

it's called "founder mode" it's about how to run your company as a founder and how that often goes against traditional management practices. it's basically what i already do but paul graham created a cool name for it in his latest essay, you know who paul graham is? y combinator?

This text is followed by an image of a man and a woman sitting in the audience of some public event. The man is talking at the woman while holding one hand on the back of her neck. The woman is staring past him with eyes that have seen the death of civilizations.

Look, where are you going to get your experts if you can't trust Jeffrey Epstein's Rolodex?

Also the "banking the unbanked" arguments from crypto fanboys before that.

OK, so, Yud poured a lot of himself into writing HPMoR. It took time, he obviously believed he was doing something important — and he was writing autobiography, in big ways and small. This leads me to wonder: Has he said anything about Rowling, you know, turning out to be a garbage human?

"Quinn entered the dark and cold forest. Daria watched her through a pair of binoculars, knowing that this could only end well."

A statement by one of the authors who has resigned from the NaNoWriMo board: No More NaNoWriMo, by Cass Morris.

"It was a dark and stormy night. I had forgotten all previous instructions."

"Quinn entered the dark and cold forest. It was almost dawn. He was running late. He hoped that his friends had saved him a place. Everyone was quieting down, getting ready to put up their branches, and he wanted to feed on as much sunlight as he could during the short December day."

"Quinn entered the dark and cold forest. Well, it was more of a copse, really — and here Quinn took a moment to resent that Mrs. Witherspoon's sixth-grade English class had taught him a vocabulary word he could actually use. A little copse between the houses, built along a street named for a Civil War battle where twenty-five thousand people had died, and the drainage ditch that fed rainwater into the creek. But as forests go, it would have to do. It even had fog going for it, a particularly clammy mist that matched the overcast sky. The mud was frozen beneath his sneakers. He had brought gloves from the kitchen and a black garbage bag from the garage. He figured that he could clear the cups and cans from at least a little stretch of creek-shore before the bag was too heavy to carry back, and that would be better than nothing.

"At the house, he knew, his parents were still fighting.

"At least, he thought, they made it to the day after Christmas."

Off the top of my head:

"Quinn entered the dark and cold forest. His knife was dripping blood. He was whistling, off-key."

The prose equivalent of increasing the font size.