Thoughts on smoking during meditation?

2021.10.25 08:42 hedgehogwhoqwacks Thoughts on smoking during meditation?

My friend who initially showed me into meditation was usually smoking tobacco during the practice. As a light smoker myself I followed him and naturally smoked during meditation as well, which I thought was normal until somebody else expressed that they were surprised I was smoking during meditation. Is this just a personal preference, or is it better to do one or the other? Would appreciate input as I am still new to meditation. will note that I am from west coast of Canada, maybe culture might have an affect.
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2021.10.25 08:42 daisylouise1 [selling] Stuffing my wet panties in your mouth will make you feel like you’re eating me out 🥰 Kik - katiesbits

[selling] Stuffing my wet panties in your mouth will make you feel like you’re eating me out 🥰 Kik - katiesbits submitted by daisylouise1 to pantiesandsocks [link] [comments]


2021.10.25 08:42 thepoopyboi Fucking Killed them

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2021.10.25 08:41 Enernine Extreme pain during sex, any opinions? :S

Hi everyone!! Sorry if this isn’t the right place to post this, I’m not sure where to go. :S
Basically, for half a year or so, I feel like I’m being torn apart when having penetrative sex with my partner. It’s a burning raw sensation that lasts even when he takes it out. There’s no inner pain at all - and I’ve been tested for yeast infections/ BV and got a negative result. We also always use lube (and I get wet enough anyways).
I basically can’t have penetrative sex without it causing me a lot of pain - but there are times where I could brace through the initial pain and it eventually went away and felt good, but that basically never happens.
I’m not in a spot to go to a OBGYN right now sadly, so I would really appreciate any advice
Thank you! <3
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2021.10.25 08:41 Confident-Push-8411 My first benchy, cura, 0.2 on Ender 3 v2, pla, some advise? TankYou

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2021.10.25 08:41 ttin89 Drawtoons Whitelist now open! dropping 28th Oct, see discord below

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2021.10.25 08:41 AntonioMachado Dois mortos e 450 feridos em manifestações contra a desigualdade social no Chile

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2021.10.25 08:41 HangryS5 Street Bears Whitelisting now open! Join for giveaways!

Street bears in prepping for launch in the coming weeks. Join early to secure a white list spot and giveaways!
https://discord.gg/QBHav2WE
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2021.10.25 08:41 El_Pichi808 Chale, se me antojaron unos pinches tacos!

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2021.10.25 08:41 Heliocentrist King George, III is crowned on 25 October 1760

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2021.10.25 08:41 sman53299 What’s screams “Big dick energy”?

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2021.10.25 08:41 Priyank_7 CLAYMORES are super UNDERRATED

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2021.10.25 08:41 anna_darko Inside the park, I was popping in my earbuds and pulling up a playlist. I never suspected I’d be running for my life to it.

People just run at you in this city: New York, New York, “the city so nice they named it twice.” I don’t know who “they” are, but if you’d ever survived its 9 a.m. rush, you’d probably disagree. Woe be to the naïve weekday tourist, who like the stranded at sea under crackling storm clouds, finds themself wandering city streets as the buzzing swarms descend. I ought to know, that was me once. Only narrowly I’d escaped, fled to the safety of a hotel lobby, watched behind paned glass as the hordes of white-collars streamed by, wave after merciless wave of them, all herding in unison—charging—like caffeine-fueled zombies engaged in a stampede. They may wear suits and business casual, but they’re pedestrian monsters.
I learned to adjust, was forced to really. I stopped caring about sidewalk civility. I became one of them. A rule I learned is to never make eye contact. In practice, that meant keeping your head down and navigating by peripheral vision. If they can’t see your eyes, if they think you’re distracted, they’ll let you pass unharmed. Some might be tempted to call this their instinct for self-preservation. Distractions, after all, cause collisions, collisions spill coffee, and they just don’t have the time for another line at Starbucks. I knew better than that. I’d spent enough time on these streets, survived too many contests of sidewalk chicken. These monsters, you see, they get kicks out of staring you down, making you yield. Beneath the seemingly mindless behavior, there is evil intent.
No, you must never make eye contact.
Such aspects of city life had me longing for nightfall. Sunset was the cue for the monsters to return to their lairs, and the streets, at long last, would be safe. That’s when I’d emerge from hiding, as nocturnal prey do, squeezing all my outdoor activity into a meager few after-work hours. And roaming about the empty streets, once I’d scavenged my fill, I’d scurry off to Central Park. It was the place for the most essential of my late-night rituals, a place to unwind in seclusion out under the stars. It lent itself well to make-believe too. At night, in the gloom, when that towering skyline faded away, I could pretend I’d escaped the concrete jungle. I could imagine, for a while, I wasn’t just a rat spinning wheels in a dystopian urban sprawl. There at night, I could suspend my disbelief.
Nightly jogs in the park had become routine for just this reason—logged hundreds of runs. I had my own path and everything, a nice little 2-mile stretch that circled around from start to finish. Locals called it “the loop,” the lower one to be specific. At a leisurely pace, I'd get a good sweat in and didn’t have to think about it. That’s the part that I loved: I didn’t have to think. The run was habit now, my body knew where to take me while my mind was turned off—bliss, in other words.
I started all my runs on 59th street, the southern edge of the park. It was a border between the city and the outdoors, an alfresco hotspot for tourists, for diners with fat wallets, and the hustlers of course, after a quick buck. That was during the day at least. Past sundown, the park wasn’t much to toast over, and revelers had long departed by the time I arrived. Sure, you’d sometimes spot corporate types like me here to blow off steam. And a few of those hustlers pulled nights too, worse for the wear and still after that buck. Encounters weren’t likely nonetheless, so I never had reservations about late-night visits. Besides, I was here to run. What were they going to do, chase me?
Inside the park, I was warming up my legs. I’d jogged every night this week and my muscles ached something fierce. Twelve hours at a desk certainly hadn’t helped, but I knew the routine. A few stretches, a couple hundred feet of brisk walking and I’d be feeling limber again. I popped in my earbuds, fired up a playlist and let my body do the rest.
Progressing up the east side of the loop, I could feel it coming on, that natural rhythm establishing: faster yet predictable heartbeats, inhales and exhales becoming one and the same, the sway of my arms, the spring in my step. My body humming in sync, my mind, it went blank; it wasn’t needed for this part. Somehow, I still advanced at a regular pace. Somehow, my legs anticipated turns, all on their own. I was here and moving, yes, but it wasn’t actually me, at all.
Something broke it, a startling outburst rat-a-tat-tatting, and I came to, skipping over the current song in retaliation. I’d just had it, my peace of mind, but now, like the rudely awakened from a pleasant dream, I had frustration, anger. There was already plenty to go around. I was here much later than usual, “Christ, it’s almost midnight.” My mind took aim at leading culprits: my boss, my job, that dead-end job; my career, a mere collection of dead-end jobs; the rent, hiked again; the city, this goddamn city.
I reached for my buds to max out the volume. My strides broadened out, pummeling the pavement with blunt heel strikes. My pulse surged. Lampposts whizzed by, interrupted by patches of shade, white to black and back again, like an old projector spinning through slides. The music was blaring and I was raging. A man was jogging.
I raised my shoulders and puffed out my chest. I wasn’t going to budge, not for him, not for anyone. This was my goddamn lane. I’d worked up the appetite, craved that satisfaction of rushing by—not having moved one single fucking inch—my turn to play the monster. Staring at the ground, I accelerated, no eye contact, no more games. “Come and try me,” I seethed. “Come and test me tonight.” The path straightened out as I rounded the bend and the figure in my periphery disappeared. He’d changed lanes it seemed, probably turned off. Who’s the chicken now? Triumphant, I pumped on the brakes, reverting to a jog, and lowered the volume just a bit, one notch.
Then the music stopped. A blur of motion flipped the horizon; my eyes caught the sky as my back hit the pavement. I could hear footsteps. "You motherfucker!" I wheezed, suddenly breathless, arms flailing wildly as I rolled to my elbows. Craning my neck toward the source of the patter, I detected movement up ahead—up above—a billowy white shape lingering in the air, starkly pale against the park’s sea of blacks and greens. Squinting, I could make out a t-shirt floating off . . . dark gym shorts and sneakers rounded out the figure of a man. The collision hadn’t fazed him. It hadn’t even turned him around. He was on his merry way, practically waltzing from the scene of the crime . . . and right in the middle of my fucking lane!
I considered charging him. The idea inspired a stand, though I settled halfway for gasping with my hands on my knees. “Did all the work for him,” I thought, recovering my breath, replaying the sequence in my mind, a two-second loop of me falling hard on my ass. He’d come out of nowhere, surprised me off balance. The lightest touch and I’d collapsed like a house of cards. “Not exactly cut out for this monster thing,” I admitted. And it had been light, a grazing; it had been wet. Hair, I imagined. Relaxing a grimace, I caught sight of my earbuds beneath me. The footsteps were gone.
I started walking without thinking. “This fucking city,” I blistered, plugging in my earbuds, rebooting my playlist. Of all times and places, there was no reprieve. And to think, after that, he could pass so casually by, without remorse or compassion. Just another monster haunting these streets! I knew the type well. I knew he’d continue untroubled on his mindless routine. That leisurely pace suggested a couple more laps around. I would see him again, and when I did, I’d be ready. I had a mile and more to plot my revenge. “Should I run him down with a shoulder check, eye for an eye? Or should I up the ante with disproportionate force? “Perhaps,” I schemed, wiping sweat from my cheek, “I could fashion a tree branch into a shank.” Hypothetical or not, it was satisfying fodder to chew on; cooled me back to a simmer at any rate. How many years, I wondered, how many of these slights had I endured, bottled up the same way? I was nothing if not adaptable. “A good bitch,” I muttered, eyeing the thoroughfare ahead.
That was this section here: the 72nd street transverse, the very top of my loop and my ticket west. Merging left would take me through the middle of the park, all the way over to the west-side entrance. It was the only portion of my run open to traffic, and I usually got some, no matter the hour. Scanning clockwise on approach, I spotted the transverse’s east end cordoned off, city access obstructed by police line barricades. Such displays were a summertime nuisance, always some hoopla-and-parade choking off streets. “Another big one this weekend,” I grumbled. Road closures weren’t without their virtues, car-free lanes for instance. But they’d spelled death by detour just as often, complete with graveyard shifts of event crews camping out in the street. I hadn’t seen any sign of that tonight, thank god, and I was nearly to Bethesda Fountain, my visual guesstimate for halfway done.
“Pretty good given the circumstances,” I remarked on my pace, brushing away a trickle headed for my chin. Off to my right, in the shade, I could just pick it out—the angel of the fountain—a towering figure suspended mid-stride, wings flaring like it owned the place. Peering out intently, head angled vulturine, it scouted the park from on high, arm clawing at all who dare pass before it, its pointer finger raised in a foreboding gesture. Eeny meeny miny moe. Thronged with tourists by day, the sculpture was a forlorn sight after dark, unlit on the shore of the park’s gunmetal waters. In the shadows it loomed less angel than reaper, an ominous stalker of wayward souls and wee-hour smokers, none of whom had made the trek tonight. I had no complaints.
Shrinking in the distance as I continued down the passage, the fountain passed back into darkness, its prominent silhouette swallowed whole, angel first. A subliminal wariness crept into my thinking. Things were far too peaceful through the middle here . . . and not just for lack of cars or pedestrians. I’d caught myself drifting for that bit of sightseeing, drifting unopposed, from the shoulder toward the median, well into the bike lane. “Even before the crossing,” I recalled, “not one bike all night.” That was a first. “Where are the security patrols? And the delivery guys, chauffeuring fast food to drunk college grads, pedaling around the park are they? And what about”—a weight skimmed my cheek, a gush not a trickle—“and what about this sweat? Why the hell am I sweating so much?!”
Incredulous, I came to a standstill under a nearby lamppost, lifting my hands into its cool-white glow. Beads of crimson glimmered back, pooling at the tips of my fingers and splashing, splashing onto my palms and wrists, streaking the ivory flesh of my forearms like peppermint canes. “This . . . c-can’t be,” I protested, clutching at my jaw and throat in earnest, kneading over both in search of a puncture wound, some laceration. Tugging at the hem of my shirt, peeling the drenched fabric from my skin, pulling it taut, I went cold: every inch of it coated, like I’d been doused in red wine.
. . . saccharine sweet . . . with a coppery tinge, a tainted scent wafted in on a breeze, churning my stomach. I’d been standing for some time, I realized, was still standing, still under my own power, pulse fluttering. “My heart is beating,” I reassured myself. “I’m fine. I’m breathing . . . I feel fine.” Idly in the background my playlist continued, dueling bass drums double-stroking in succession, one pair beating strong, a pair trailing hollow in the distance, thumping louder, faster. . . .
“My cheek,” I remembered, returning my hands to the steady drip, tracing it up the left side of my face. Not far past my temple, my fingers waded into the likely culprit, an oily secretion dribbling from the hairline. Warm and flowing, yet viscous in consistency, it felt half-congealed, like melted butter setting firm. Farther back, wrinkled clumps sprouted up from the thick of it, each one tender as meat to the touch, very rare meat to the touch: oozing. “The fuck,” I puzzled, flicking frenziedly in revulsion, sending bits flying. The flesh of the chunks tore readily on contact, juicing into spatter with a pop, sliming my fingers to the knuckles. Utterly repulsed, I grew frantic, digging in with my nails for purchase, recoiling at once to a stabbing sensation, hands tingling pins and needles as I clasped them together. Something had stuck me. Quickly as it came, the piercing pain subsided, overtaken by a throbbing, a jagged edge protruding—tapering hypodermic into the pad of my finger. Suspecting glass, wanting to believe it was only just glass, I wiggled the piece loose and palmed it under the lamplight, letting out a gasp as my eyes settled onto it. I’d have confused it for a sun-bleached shell at the beach.
Whatever the origin, I was none the wiser. Only one thing was clear: “That son of a bitch!” I erupted, flippantly tossing the shard, rage from the ambush boiling over. “Just wasn’t enough to mow me down, huh? Had to work in these pranks too?!” Fuming, I thrusted an open fist into my hair for the rest of it, cocking my arm back, releasing a fastball at the pavement. A clap rang out as it pancaked on impact, bookended by a shrill note, high like a scream. My face contorted in unison; it wasn’t disgust so much as the realization dawning, a sobering truth sinking in: this hadn’t been an accident. That man . . . he’d been seeking confrontation, was prepared for a fight. What if I’d actually charged him back there?! It wouldn’t be long before his hunger turned ravenous, the collision a mere appetizer. And now blood chummed the waters as he circled unseen. Buhdum buhdum buhdum buhdum! Into hot pursuit the drumbeats crescendoed, a new cadence emerging, booming four on the floor. In my mind, I could see him, the floating t-shirt again, that casual saunter. I could hear the faint cackle of a taunt. “Ten minutes,” I squeaked, an ice water chill leaking into my gut, “Ten minutes ago.” Shallow breaths rocked my chest up and down. “He’s close now.”
Subconscious warnings blared like sirens. Get out! Run! A series of contractions jerked me onto my toes; rapid-fire twitches primed my legs for take-off. “Run to where?" I interrupted, halting the launch sequence, executive function re-asserting with a lag. Auto-pilot disengaged. Continuing forward was a problem; it almost certainly risked a second encounter. And reversing course wasn’t workable either, that exit was closed. I doubted I even had a third option. At the top of the loop, I was farthest from where I’d entered the park, and practically in the middle of it too, no closer to the city in any direction. Wandering off-trail in the dark was a thought, a fleeting one—I’ve seen that movie. Sensing an impasse, I started spitballing. “Had he kept to a strolling pace?” A couple minutes, maybe, before he hit the west-end junction. That was enough time to beat him there if I hightailed it. Staring blankly down the transverse, I mulled over the course change, envisioning my escape: the straight sprint to the off-ramp, a turn right to the street, stumbling fatigued into oncoming traffic, locking the taxi doors, exhaling relief.
Had he sped up?
Starting back up again was a struggle. Shock had waned, but its aftereffects lingered as added inertia, walking like tensing well-fastened restraints, cycling my legs like wading through quicksand. My knees buckled and my feet fell flat. My mind raced. “This isn’t sprinting, this is plodding.” That man is coming! Every second here upped the odds our paths would cross again. It was possible, even, he’d already arrived. Hiding spots multiplied along the path up ahead, under the cover of jutting hills and rocky outcrops, in the sweeping shadows of receding lamplight. I imagined him lurking out in front of me, stealthily crouching in a pocket of dark, right on the fringe of it. The idea got me speeding, legs front to back, eyes side to side.
Buhdum buhdum! Buhdum buhdum!
Converging as they peaked, the racing drumbeats synced together, two pairs one resonance, in perfect lockstep thumping. Buhdum buhdum! like my heart palpitating, blood pumping, lactic acid coursing through my veins, the final countdown begun—seconds left. “I’d missed it, hadn’t I?!” Suspicions once dismissed now loomed larger than ever. There’d been a sign, something back there. I’d only realized too late. It’s just me in here—I blocked the thought out, I accelerated—with him. Air streaming my face, I hurtled heedlessly forward, snaking Cherry Hill, eyes keen for the west-end unfolding beyond it. Almost there! Into view rolled the clearing . . . the tree-lined junction . . . into view the off-ramp pulsing . . . hot scarlet diffusing up the treetops and down, bleeding onto my sneakers. A whole squadron of police vehicles lie parked in formation, reinforcements to a barricade of galvanized steel. The exit sealed shut, no officers in sight, my hands found my knees.
Cop cars with no cops, parks you can enter but not exit, pedestrian monsters, “This goddamn city,” I sputtered, badly gasping for air. Something was happening. Something was always happening here, and I was always on the same side of it with the same recourse: deal with it. Why should tonight be any different? Too winded to sigh, I stood back up straight and scanned the gate one more time, confirming the obvious. The next closest exit was now five more blocks south. I could see it from here. Unlike the leg up and the cross street over, the path back down was a relative straight shot. “So where is he?” I blurted out, exasperated. Rows of lampposts illuminated nothing more than asphalt.
“He’d gotten me again,” I conceded, chewing at my lip as I scrutinized the vista, biting down hard. A psychological blow this time, but humiliation just the same. I’d been convinced he’d be here, so sure of it, a gut feeling pulling the strings. Run for your life! it had urged me, still pleaded. Don’t you trust your lying eyes! it agitated now. The soundtrack cling-clanged for dramatic tension. I wasn’t buying it. “If he’s not in sight already, then he isn’t coming.” I wanted out of this game. I wanted to go home; I was three-quarters there with all these exits closed. “Should just finish my run.” Mostly what I wanted was a steaming hot shower. I really needed one. My hair bobbed about with a heft all its own now, larded over strands holding effortlessly upwind. And a sickly-sweet tang hit from every direction: off my shirt, down my hair, coming in waves over my shoulder, seeping into my mouth lip to tongue. “Will finish my run,” I resolved aloud, spitting in defiance to the street, to the city. Easing back into a jogging tempo, I reached for my earbuds and popped them out. “Just in case,” I whispered.
I may have been accustomed to music blaring, but I knew there ought to be something out there squawking, a car horn or siren at least, spilling in from the street. Not here on this path tonight—not now. The park had hushed beyond recognition, its natural ambience wiped clean from the earth, snuffed out, right down to the cricket. “All this time . . . all this way? . . .” I carried on in stunned silence, not thinking, not wanting to think. And yet, perhaps because it was measured against that silence, I just couldn’t help but notice, I sounded quite impressive: sneakers grinding rhythmic against salt-worn asphalt, huffs and puffs staccato and rhyming, resounding, everything resounding in sync, as if all to a metronome, verging on the hypnotic. It was music, the pace, the only thing playing for what seemed like miles. It was a familiar melody, the first thing recalled coming out of the zone, and the last slipping into it. Except this time, my mind hadn’t blanked for the ride.
Past the turnoff, through the gateway, escaping out to 59th street, my feet hit the pavement to a radio crackling. “. . . status on that canvass for 10-10 shots fired?” I hadn’t expected more police tonight, but I wasn’t exactly surprised by them either. Cops manned every intersection south of the park, from Columbus Circle to 5th Avenue, directing traffic back to midtown. All the windows on the block pulsed scarlet red. “Dispatch, Central has two patrols on location, proceeding southbound on foot, over.” An officer spotted me halfway through the crosswalk. His gaze drifted down to my shirt momentarily, before darting to the park entrance behind me.
I don’t recall much of the next day at work. Half-eaten salads and blank word documents, the garish lime hue of my desktop screensaver, when 6 p.m. rolled around I had little to show for it. The weeks went on like that.
I stopped jogging in the park. All I did anymore was pore over the news: papers, tabloids, twitter—anything. I couldn’t understand why no one had covered it, not even so much as a back-page blurb. I was there, I had seen it—I thought I had seen it. I needed someone else to confirm it too.
Searching online, I developed a habit. I would pull up google: 10-10 shots fired, central park, police, jogger, blood. I’d click enter and hit refresh every hour on the hour, sometimes more frequently, less frequently with time. I wanted less to do with it as the numbness wore off. I stopped consciously searching.
It happened a month later, the first week of fall. An article popped up. I had entered the words in the search bar. I wasn’t trying to.
It was titled ‘The Necroambulist.’
He’d gotten an inside scoop, some local freelance columnist, a known trafficker of the lurid and the dubiously true. Said he was breaking a story, the only one who hadn’t passed on it. No one else believed, he said.
The piece began oddly enough, with intros to sleepwalking, to neuroanatomy, diagrams with brains scrolled over in latin. A pop psych analysis provided some context: this region that ism, the cortexes, ‘paleo-’ and ‘neo-,’ in combination, one without the other. Analogies were made to computers, shutdowns and restarts with programs still running. And lobotomy featured: historical cases, the most infamous ones, star victims profiled like comic book cards, with close-ups and nicknames, elaborations of traits—none sounding much like any superpower to me.

Q: How much blood can the human body lose before seizing up?
Morbid trivia had started to crop up between paragraphs, like a scrolling pop quiz of grisly med-school factoids.
A: Approximately 2 liters
Only buried farther down did it get to the incident. Gunfire had erupted one Thursday night in Central Park. It was late summer, and it was late, close to midnight. No one saw it happen. A few heard it. When police arrived, they gated the transverse and cordoned the exits. They thought the shooter was still inside.
‘It could have been a holdup gone wrong. It could have been a case of an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire. No one can be certain,’ officers say.
Shortly after entering the park in search of the shooter, NYPD stumbled upon a trail of blood ‘like nothing [they’d] ever seen,’ spanning so far into the distance it was first suspected to have leaked from a truck. From its origin on the east end, along a popular jogging path, the trail bore straight and south, in a beeline for the city.
Police never came across the shooter that night, though they did find a body—caught up with it—as a matter of fact. More than a mile of drippings and bloody footprints away, at the fresh end of the trail, traffic cops spotted a lone adult male marching heedless through midtown like a city pedestrian. He didn’t acknowledge officers when they closed in, didn’t comply when they told him to freeze. He simply continued on marching, steady and sure, right foot after left.
Forensics later confirmed it: this was the man who created the blood trail in the park. That was a problem for investigators. Another problem was a second set of bloody footprints, all partials, belonging to a still unidentified individual, a John Doe. For, ‘ahem,’ reasons, authorities are confident this Doe is not their shooter . . .
I turned from the screen toward the dark of my closet; at the bottom, in the corner, sat a shoebox sealed shut. In the sink that night, the pair soaking for hours, pink-hued runoff circling the drain . . . I hadn’t touched them since. The shirt, it had been . . . it went into the chute.
I swallowed hard at the memory, tongue grating harsh against the roof of my mouth. Clammy moisture beaded from my forehead . . . pink-hued runoff . . .
My hair, how I’d washed, in vain I had washed! The grease, that stink like rotten offal, ears shining bright as polished brass for a week—I didn’t make it through the next part.
And why, you might ask, are these things problems? In the words of one anonymous Sergeant: ‘They suggest a narrative that is just not believable . . . contradicted, you could say, by other evidence in our possession.’ It’s an odd statement to be sure. What type of evidence would contradict a forensic match? And what exactly does ‘not believable’ mean?
Odder still is the department’s refusal to talk about it, not on record anyhow, and not willingly off it either. Days of mine turned to weeks trading gossip—at the station, over coffee, behind bar counters late into the night—a whole month goading men with thousand-yard stares to fall off the wagon. Only in confidence and with cash on the table (oh, a fifth of Jameson down the hatch too), only then did it slip: about the bullet and fragments of skull bone recovered, about scraping brain tissue off the side of a curb, most of his—the marching man. Lines from the coroner’s report read more akin to urban legend: the marks and the wounds—perforating gunshot to the head, compound frontal skull fracture; the cause of death—brain evisceration.
How a trail could exist in the first place, few will speculate. The question alone leaves most clutching their Bibles. And it’s not the worst of it.
That night in the park, those officers who discovered the blood trail? They were the first ones to follow it too. About a quarter mile down, they made a second discovery. ‘For whatever reason, while traveling south along the east lane drive, it—umm, well . . . it turned around.’
Now, if you can take a moment to indulge, dear reader, to suspend your disbelief regarding the ‘how,’ you’ll find there’s a series of ‘whys’ sneaking up on you:
Why ‘the man’ turned around to head to the transverse; why he paused near Bethesda fountain before venturing west, pausing a second time near the west-end park entrance, only to once again continue on south, all the way down to the edge of the park and out to the street; why—the entire time—he never fell more than six feet behind a John Doe, stalking him like prey, closing in on him, arm’s reach by the end of it. . . .
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2021.10.25 08:41 pokemon69_ My Ronnie

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2021.10.25 08:41 AsideIntelligent1767 Paper 1 megamin mining

Somebody has the questions of this exam?
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Are you tired of rugpulls, scams, and honeypots? Today we present you to $ShibaBalls!
$ShibaBalls has just fair launched and is a $shib reward token that treats you with 10% distribution per transaction and gives you SHIBA-tokens directly into your wallet! Also it adds to the liquidity with 3% to ensure static growth of the project.
The token will have tons of upcoming marketing so your investment will increase! The yield generating mechanism will help provide enough liquidity to buy bigger amounts in the future and also increases the token value and helps us build the project further.
Our Tokenomics:
100,000,000,000 Total supply
50% of the tokens are burned to ensure more token value
2% max wallet to ensure no whales
Our Tax is 18% for buy and sell:
10% in SHIBA reward
3% to locked liquidity pool
5% to marketing and buyback
Total of ~18% Slippage (18% + 0,5% Pancake)
Links and Social Media:
💰Twitter: Twitter.com/BallisticShiba
💰 Telegram: https://t.me/ballisticshiba
💰 Website: https://ballisticshiba.com/
💰 Locked liquidity: https://deeplock.io/lock/0x65e6Dc38c26cCF3fc0713933c18175bCb0016352
💰 PancakeSwap V2: exchange.pancakeswap.finance/#/swap?outputCurrency=0x0eca40780b1a45422721140b5041d0f8950ffa49
Contract: 0x0eca40780b1a45422721140b5041d0f8950ffa49
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