Evel knievel toys from the 70s

Got a question about what you all do in your private/exclusives? Im on SM & have a little routine but I’m worried my regulars will start getting bored as feel it’s samey and not sure how to shake it up. I’m also a little insecure and prefer camming from certain angles haha. I have a sorta little routine when we go into exclusive I’ll ask them how they are, what they like, start playing with my boobs squeeze them etc, flip round to show my bum smack it, then gravitate downstairs & play with toys with dirty talk running in the background lol. What do you do? Do you change it up? Do you have any tips for keeping them on exclusive longer? Thanks!x

I had a dream that started out as a regular nonsense dream, I was looking up on my phone on the internet about a question I forget and the search result was a news article about a Russian male TikTok account promoting an ideology, sort of like Andrew Tate if Andrew Tate loved huskies and the communist party? I then woke up from that dream to my mother calling me from the kitchen that breakfast was ready. My sister is walking down the hallway and passes by my bed room looking disheveled like she had just woke up, completely normal. Except something is off, my bedroom is messy again even though I thought I had just cleaned it the night before. When I got up from my bed, I noticed my wooden childhood toy box that my grandpa made me is next to my bed. My mom comes to my room and asks why I have my sisters and I childhood VHS tapes in my toy box. I get defensive and tell her to stay out of my things. Then, she pulls out my old journals from years ago and says, “You know, I’ve read some of the stuff in here and it’s pretty good. It’s makes me feel good in the sense of like a drug.” I grab her arm and dig my nails in her skin and start crying because I’ve never written anything positive about my mother in any of my journals. I’m walking towards the garage of our house to leave and I noticed my mom’s old parishioner badge she had many years ago when we regularly attended church when I was a child. I then actually wake up in reality to myself crying and feeling very disturbed. I noticed when I was trying to wake myself up, I felt paralyzed like I couldn’t roll myself over to wake myself.
This isn’t my first time experiencing a dream in the sense of a dream within a dream, it’s just happening more frequently and I think it’s because I’m making an effort to lucid dream.
There’s so many symbols and nuances to this dream I don’t know how to dissect it.

If I’d only followed my instincts, I’d never have boarded that doomed ship. When the Azure Seastar left port, its passengers were all alive, each with smart phones and watches and tablets, as well as the cruise ship’s own communications… yet not a single message was sent before it went missing! No distress call.
The fates of over a thousand passengers and crew remain unknown, with only a handful recovered from a lifeboat, days after the Seastar herself vanished. But the coast guard’s only statement on the lifeboat’s recovery was that “the passengers did not survive.” Rumors circulated about a “thermos full of eyeballs” and a “passenger whose mouth was stuffed full of severed fingers”—but these details have been denounced as lies, sensationalizing and capitalizing on a tragedy.
The official cause of the Seastar’s disappearance is a rogue wave. No survivors. No witnesses.
Well… one witness…
… but perhaps I shouldn’t tell. Better for the world if that ship stay lost forever!
The families of the missing, however, deserve the truth… which is why I am posting.
But first, a warning—the gruesome snippets I recounted above barely scratch the surface of the horror I am about to share, some of which I took part in. I wake screaming every night. I sleep with the lights on. I never enter darkened hallways or stairwells. And I do not ever shake hands. Although I’ve always had some quirks (the handshake one is an old habit), most of these are fresh, a consequence of my time aboard that doomed cruise ship. I do not intend to gloss over any details, but rather to give a complete accounting, including of my own involvement… so be forewarned.
And understand that my story is one of unimaginable horror.
***
To explain what really happened aboard the Seastar, I need to first tell a little about myself. Sorry, I know I’m like a bit of decorative wallpaper—just sort of there. But I see things.
It all started when I was very young (I do promise this is relevant). I didn’t want to swim in the community pool with my brother because the water was cloudy, hiding a shadowy figure in the deep end. I distinctly remember standing at the pool’s edge, crying inconsolably while my father urged, “Go on, jump in!”
My brother set the example, diving down to the bottom of the foggy water. When he came up, a silver dollar glinted in his fingers, which he dropped back into the pool before I could snatch it. “Oops! Guess you gotta dive for it!” He laughed, the sun shimmering off his sunburned shoulders. “Come on, there’s quarters down here, too!”
Diving for coins was a game we often played, so I plunged in after him, kicking my way down with my eyes squeezed shut. When my hands grazed the rough cement bottom, I patted around.
Silky hair tangled around my fingers like seaweed.
I forced my eyes open against the stinging chlorine—and shrieked.
Wide, empty eyes stared back at me from a bloated face.
When I shot to the surface, wailing about a dead woman in the water, other swimmers looked on, perplexed. My older brother tried to console me and swore there were nothing but coins.
He was correct—not until a week later would a woman drown in that pool, and sink to the bottom of the foggy water while swimmers unwittingly raced laps above her.
***
The next time I saw was when I threw a tantrum over my grandmother’s armchair. It smelled so bad I grabbed my nose and exclaimed, “Ewwww!”
My parents scolded me for my rudeness. Grandma occasionally struggled with incontinence, so for her chair to stink was, they assumed, the result of an accident. They thought I was exaggerating to make fun of her, but in the sweltering summer, the smell was truly unbearable—like rotting meat and diarrhea and cheap perfume all churned together. I threw such a fit we left, though Grandma insisted on hugging me despite my being an “awful brat.” Her skin was wrinkled, papery-thin and soft as silk, but despite the uncomfortable warmth of her apartment, her embrace was ice cold.
Less than a week later the call came. My grandmother had been found after a neighbor’s complaint about the smell…
She’d died in her chair.
***
But when the seeing really clicked was in my tween years, two separate incidents. The first was after a classmate of my brother’s pulled up in a car reeking of burnt meat, the interior charred and black. He stepped out of the car seeming not to notice that behind him, another version of him remained belted into the front seat, unrecognizable through the char beyond the glint of a gold chain melted into his neck. I burst into hysterical tears and screamed at my brother not to let him drive. The classmate laughed and called me a weirdo.
He crashed later that week.
The second incident began at a school function, where my brother chaperoned me. A man pulled up in the school drop-off zone—he was one of the more popular teachers, famous for his yearly pizza parties. In the car with him were two young kids. I can’t remember their names, just that the littlest boy was giggling and clinging to a toy T-rex when he hopped out. My brother and I were asked to help carry the party supplies and drinks from the teacher’s car. But the moment I opened the passenger door to grab a box, the reek of fetid pond water made my stomach lurch. I staggered back, clapping a hand to my nose and mouth.
“Hey! Everything all right?” the teacher asked.
My brother, no doubt remembering what happened to his classmate weeks earlier, took me aside.
“C-c-c-c-cold!” I burst to him. “D-dark! The smell! Like the rot in the bottom of a lake…”
While I wrung my hands and sniffled, my brother watched the two young kids follow the teacher into the school. He shook my shoulder and said, “Hey—hey, we’re going to save them.”
“How? No one ever believes me!”
“I believe you, Hope. Hey…” He gave me a squeeze and looked in my eyes. “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers…”
What a dork. That line was from Emily Dickinson—my brother’s favorite quote for me for when I was upset. It was corny, but encouraged me.
A few minutes later, we were careening along backwoods roads in the teacher’s car. To this day, I don’t know how my brother got the keys. His plan was we’d stow the car in a garage for a couple weeks, long enough to outlast the vision, since my predictions always came true within about six days. But it hadn’t occurred to either of us how being inside the car would affect me. The damp and rot washed over my skin. COLD. Every hair on my body stood erect, floating as if underwater. I couldn’t breathe… gagging on the fetid water, I rolled down my window. Raindrops from outside pelted my face, and something… something clicked. A sudden terrible question. When I’d peered into the darkened interior, I hadn’t been able to see… who was inside the car?
“Hey,” my brother said, apparently struck by the same thought. “You’re not foreseeing our deaths, are you?”
I don’t know if it was fate that caused us to fishtail just as he spoke. But also he might have hit something, because there was a bump. All I know is suddenly we were flying, off the road and over the side toward a lake, and then plunging, and I snatched for his hand as the impact slammed us forward into the dashboard. Then the water wasn’t just in my mind. It was real. It was pouring in through the car window.
I fought, flailing. Unbuckled. Floundered through the half-open window. Luckily I was still small enough to get through, swimming up and breaking the surface.
“Cory!” I screamed. “CORY!!!”
But I knew already that my brother wasn’t coming up—his hand had been cold when I’d touched it.
***
Naturally, his death feels like my fault. Oh, in kinder moments I remember that I was a child, and try to forgive myself for letting him get behind that wheel. But for a time, I was driven by the fierce need to atone. I sought desperately to save even one life… ANY life. I’d see a body swaying from a beam in a construction site. Legs dangling from a trunk in the car on the highway ahead of me. A suitcase on sale in a luggage store, dripping blood. Every time I tried to prevent the death… only to fail or worse, cause it. Each loss drove home more deeply my shame, my failure… until eventually…
I gave up.
I don’t try to prevent the deaths anymore. These days I catch a whiff of that familiar sickly putrid scent, and I leave. I avoid human touch, especially handshakes.
I’ve truly become wallpaper. Able to see. Powerless to prevent.
My name, incidentally, is Cassandra… I changed it because I could no longer bear my birth name. If “Hope” is the thing with feathers, I was an angel of death, harbinger of doom to my brother and others. So instead I call myself after the Greek priestess doomed to foresee the future but never to be believed… unable to prevent even one single tragedy.
***
But let’s get back to the cruise. The missing passengers. The eyeballs in the thermos—oh, those grisly details! Mind you, once you know you can’t un-know, no matter how much you drink, or smoke, or however you drown your despair. Speaking of drowning, a month ago today, I hit the big 4-O. I celebrated my four decades of life by doing the one thing I’ve done consistently since I was old enough—drinking away my failures. Every icy grip. Every unheeded warning. And especially the times I’ve well and truly fucked up. Oh yes. Those are the ones that call for some hard forgetting.
I was on my second or seventh drink at my favorite bar when a voice exclaimed, “’Evening, friend!”
A woman with shimmering purple eyeliner and matching purple hair approached. It was the musician who often played there, Lily Tsuki. To be honest, she was the primary reason I frequented that bar, though we’d hardly spoken beyond my occasional compliments about her playing. She slid into the seat next to mine and clinked my glass.
“Roy at the bar told me it’s your fortieth. I see you in here once a week, always tipping well and drinking like you’re trying to drown yourself. Someone did something kind for me recently, so I’m trying to pass it on…” She fished a hand into her pocket, and to my surprise produced a gift card for a cruise. I didn’t catch all of her story in the noisy bar, but apparently, one of her admirers was very rich, always offering her gifts verging on inappropriate. After finding out she’d be playing on the Azure Seastar, said admirer sent her the card so she could spoil herself on the cruise. She didn’t feel comfortable accepting, so she gifted it to me. “… There’s enough on there to cover your fare. Don’t thank me—thank you, I needed to get rid of it. Enjoy your fortieth, friend!”
As she handed me the card, her fingers brushed mine.
Warm. Alive.
I mumbled my thanks, cheeks warm. Why? Because she chose me? Blushes! I’m an idiot.
Still, I was glowing, and not just because I was tipsy. Why not? I thought. Why not treat myself, this once? The Azure Seastar… it sounded like a dream. I’d go see Lily Tsuki play at the piano bar against the backdrop of a glimmering ocean. I’d drink under the stars. Get a tan. Get my sea legs! And every hand would be warm and every breath would taste of the summer breeze!
***
Nine decks (eleven including the crew-only levels). Over a thousand people. Pool, bars, restaurants, lounges, cafés, spa, cabaret—the Seastar truly was the Ritz Carlton on the water! I was absolutely giddy! Of course before the luxury came the wait—just like the airport, parking, luggage, ticketing, security. It was as I neared the entrance for ticketing, enjoying the summer breeze, that I caught traces of a sour odor… a whiff of decay… so faint beneath the car exhaust and the smell of the saltwater that I might have missed it, were I not so attuned to death. At port, it was likely some unfortunate animal packed into a shipping crate and decomposing. I’d even read horror stories of people, trafficked in sealed shipping containers and asphyxiating. That faint whiff made my insides curdle.
Then I was inside the air conditioned terminal, packed with passengers—and inhaling nothing but the blessed AC.
The check in was surprisingly quick. I followed the embarkation signs up the escalator to the terminal’s upper level, through the double glass doors, greeted on my right by printed images of pool decks and steaks and wine glasses. On my left, through the enormous paned wall of glass, the Seastar herself loomed. My God, she was enormous!
So many decks! So many balconies!
Then I squinted a little closer. What was that speck? A tiny figure, draped on a railing?
My heart dropped to my toes.
Something was horribly wrong.
The figure, small against the massive width of the ship… had no face. Only a torso and most of its arms. It had been decapitated, and dried blood spattered the rail.
My footsteps slowed. I pressed against the glass, eyes rapidly roving the rest of the ship. Was it just one…? One incidence of violence, or…
Perhaps I wasn’t seeing correctly. It was a stunt. A practical joke. A mannequin. I needed to get closer. I hurried along the terminal, joining the line out to the gangplank.
The bowl of the sky had turned deep purple, the sun lowering toward the horizon, and in the Seastar’s deep shadow, the temperature dropped. A sudden chill gripped me as I trotted out onto the gangplank. I sniffed. Sniffed again, more deeply.
Rot.
The same putrid odor I’d caught outside. A passenger ahead of me noticed me grabbing my nose, and remarked, “Not used to that ocean smell?” I did not respond, because now that I was close enough to see the ship more clearly, I noticed… cracked glass… broken panes in the sliding glass doors of the cabins… no! I gasped, sinking to my knees, and the passenger kindly leaned to help me up. As her hand seized mine—it was cold.
I jerked back so fast I actually collapsed into the passengers behind us—a mother and her daughter.
“Oh!” exclaimed the mother.
My hand brushed the daughter’s bare arm. Cold.
“Are you okay?” asked the daughter, a child of about twelve.
I crawled back from her, and another person, an elderly gentleman, leaned down to help me up, his hand on my elbow. Cold!
“Miss?” he asked. “Miss—” But I bolted, barely hearing their cries as I launched myself back toward the terminal. No no no no no no no no—my eyes watered and my belly bunched into knots and my heart lurched into my throat and oh God oh God—the ship! The whole. Entire. Ship. It was… dark… windows broken… Not a single light shining in the interior, and spatters of blood here and there visible on its decks and balconies… But worst of all was the smell. I hadn’t even entered the ship yet and already I knew, knew, in the way only I can know, that the smell wasn’t just one body or two. Not if I could detect it all the way out on the gangplank. All the way at the entrance to the terminal. For the whiff of putrefaction to have spread so far, the source was something massive. A colossal pile of decomposing bodies like a herd of dead elephants.
That ship… no one on that ship was going to make it back…
As I entered the terminal with its blessed filtered air and the windows between me and the ship, I turned and looked at the line stretching behind me. Passengers laughing. Chatting. Dressed in their finest. Flirting. Teasing. Buzzing with excitement. Old and young couples. Children.
Everyone on this ship is going to die…
... and I’m the only one who knows…

Hey boys, Please read the ENTIRE post before responding or messaging me. FYI, I I love domming. I’m a 23 year old femdom from sunny c. Let me you turn you into the submissive little slave boy you’ve secretly always wanted to be on S.C and nobody else will know. I realize if you’re searching this Reddit you’re probably looking for the perfect domme, and now you finally found me. Everyone will still think that you’re this tough masculine male, but I’ll know the submissive little slave boy that you truly are. I’m into all kinds of things, but some main kinks of mine include joi, cei, secret sissies/femboys, forced bi, cbt, masculine/muscular men, military men, first responders, married men, athletes/jocks, dress up, and when men let me completely control them. Obviously you don’t need to have all the same kinks as me in order to message me. I’ll be sure to respect any limits you might have and everything stays between you and I only. Dm me your s.Cc username, kinks, height, weight, body type, age, and general location. Also let me know if you already have any toys that you can use. If you leave out any of this info, I might not respond!

Hey boys, Please read the ENTIRE post before responding or messaging me. FYI, I I love domming. I’m a 23 year old femdom from sunny c. Let me you turn you into the submissive little slave boy you’ve secretly always wanted to be on S.C and nobody else will know. I realize if you’re searching this Reddit you’re probably looking for the perfect domme, and now you finally found me. Everyone will still think that you’re this tough masculine male, but I’ll know the submissive little slave boy that you truly are. I’m into all kinds of things, but some main kinks of mine include joi, cei, secret sissies/femboys, forced bi, cbt, masculine/muscular men, military men, first responders, married men, athletes/jocks, dress up, and when men let me completely control them. Obviously you don’t need to have all the same kinks as me in order to message me. I’ll be sure to respect any limits you might have and everything stays between you and I only. Dm me your s.Cc username, kinks, height, weight, body type, age, and general location. Also let me know if you already have any toys that you can use. If you leave out any of this info, I might not respond!

Im going through a tough time right now and considering whether to start socially transitioning as a trans man or not. My fear is that I’m making a mistake and that I’m just a tomboy who in 5 years will be on this sub crying about how I ruined myself. but looking back at my life my issues feel a little deeper than just being a masculine women.
Ever since I can remember I’ve always been masculine. Being the father or son while playing pretend, choosing to play with boy toys, and picking the boy character when playing a video game. femininity was encouraged from me, but I never wanted anything to do with it.
in elementary school I felt like an alien in female spaces and roles. I enjoyed not being able to understand them, and hated when girls would assume that I did. I felt uncomfortable in dresses, and even though I thought I looked pretty in them, I still felt unexplainably sad when I wore them.
In middle school I began to stare longingly at my uncles suits and ties and found out that cross-dressing existed and started to dress in men’s clothing. I felt better about myself and finally began to understand why people liked to dress up and go out. My discomfort in female spaces and roles persisted.
I’d always preferred to wear my hair up, but soon wanted to cut it short. After that I looked like a boy and strangers would call me he, sir, and young man. I liked it, and the thought that people thought I was a boy made me excited.
It wasn’t until high school that things got super bad. My chest made me uncomfortable and I wore sports bras 24/7, even at home. The doctor told me that my growth spurt had finished and that my puberty was basically wrapping up. I couldn’t believe it, I felt stuck. Like more things we’re supposed to be happening to me. I was saddened and confused that I wasn’t going to look anything like my male classmates. I began to grow jealous of them. Then my parents wanted me to wear a dress to homecoming and while trying some on I started to cry and couldn’t understand why It made me feel so bad.
Do tomboys really feel like this? I thought so at first but as my condition worsens I’m starting to believe that less and less. I dread showering because it means I have to see and touch my female parts, and the knowledge that I will never be a man makes me unbearable sad to the point of not being able to get out of bed some days. I thought tomboys were supposed to be ok with being a women.
So then maybe I’m just a girl that has an underlying issue that’s not gd? But I was raised by a loving family, the only (diagnosed) issue I have is social anxiety, I’ve got no trauma, and I’m very comfortable with the same sex attraction part of my bisexuality. So I’m not sure if that’s the case either.
To be honest I’ve always been transphobic so the idea that I could be trans is all very unsettling and new to me. I’ve never been happy with my body or my place in the world and atm transitioning seems like it would help me, but I’m scared to be wrong. What if I’m just a tomboy with body image issues?
Don’t know if this is the right sub to post this on but I just needed to get this out in a place where people aren’t just blindly affirming you. I’m scared I’m going to make an irreversible mistake but I can’t take this anymore I feel so shitty.

Hello, budgie friends!
I found a budgie in the forest a few days ago, and I managed to capture her. She's clearly been someone's pet, as she is familiar with humans, and I am currently trying to find her human. (I have all bases covered and am spreading the word on social media and around my neighbourhood.)
To keep her comfortable in the meantime, I bought her a proper cage with a water dish and some seed and millet to feed her, plus a little toy to keep her occupied. I'm wondering what else I can do to help the poor thing recover from her adventure in the woods.
Do you think I should take her to an avian vet just to be sure she's ok? Do you have any tips for how I can take good care of her while I search for her human?
I have never cared for a bird before, so I am nervous.
Thank you for any help you can offer!

WHY?? Why would you take something so happy and print this message of “all good things end, time to throw me out” on the inside??
You take this happy thing in this happy moment and make it sad and miserable and that it’s your fault. All those happy memories of playing with it? You were just creating destruction. You were hurting something. It goes from a stupid piece of cloth that has no feeling because it’s a piece of cloth, to an animate thing that was pretending to be happy while being destroyed to make you and your dog happy, and now you all pay the consequences of your destructive behavior.
“It’s just a dog toy.” Then why did they feel the need to print that on the inside of it? A reminder that any happiness you feel will never last and everything and everyone you love will ultimately leave you, and it’s always going to be your fault because interacting with anything will cause some kind of hurt at some point???

I just did a Walmart order that contained a roll of 10 pounds of ground beef. The thing was huge! I had to carry it up to the door like a Miss America pageant winner carrying flowers.
The couple were grabbing the items from the front of the garage as I dropped them and they made me laugh so hard.
The husband saw the ground beef and the wife just couldn’t stop laughing. He kept cracking jokes:
“Holy ground beef!!” “It’s like a bazooka!” “You could take someone out with that!“
I showed my age and said, “Next time someone asks ‘Where’s the beef?’ I’ll know where to tell them!”
And as I walked away he turned to his wife… “It looks like one of your toys!!”
🤣🤣🤣 I’ve never laughed so hard.

not for me, but my dad got his phd in molecular bio the year before i was born (1994), and was working a postdoc when i was still a kid -- unfortunately, we werent very wealthy growing up with both parents being first gen immigrants; dad obviously couldnt put his life/family on hold to screw around searching for his dream job in academia, and ended up finishing out his training to become a pharmacist (i think that was his undergrad major?) to support his kids for the remainder of his working years
he's since retired and has much more free time these days -- has made mention of maybe trying to volunteer his time towards some labs at nearby unis, though i'm not sure if he's serious at all about this or how realistic this would even be at his age (early 70s), especially given that the field and the technology's probably evolved quite a bit since he left mid-to-late 90s (he's not great with computers btw -- mainly uses them to stream shows or check retirement funds -- and only uses his phone to scroll news or send texts sparingly)
was wondering if anyone could recommend any books/journals/review papers/any sort of media that might at least be a good read for him, keep him sharp, and maybe catch him up to what's happened/happening in the fieldhe's pretty old-fashioned, so print format might work better than web platforms (i've tried showing him to biorxiv and scihub, but he perhaps wasnt too interested or maybe reluctant to work with the digital format). so i'd be open to things like journal mags or other curated content i can subscribe him to that arent too targeted towards laymen
i'll also mention that i bought him "the gene: an intimate history" by siddartha mukherjee for his birthday some years ago, and while he tore through it in maybe ~1-2 weeks or so, i dont think he was too impressed by it -- could just be his rather reserved personality, but i was given the impression that the content of this book was more-or-less trivial stuff he already knew
thanks in advance for any recommendations; i'm a physicist so dont really know anything at all about what might be good for a trained biologist. i know he used to tell us stories about how excited he was reading about watson/crick's discovery as a kid, and my mom/sis would told me that he'd dream/joke about winning a nobel (lol). just wanna try to help him reconnect with his deepest passion, considering he put it off and worked the rest of his life to the bone (and put up with a lot of bullshit) for our sake as kids. not to mention he played a pretty big role in me going down the science track
if it helps to find something more field-specific, his phd thesis involved sequencing and phylogeny for some species of hawaiian fruit flies, and i think he also did some work on the preferential binding of lactoferrin to DNA... don't ask me for any more details than this though lol, but i did track down his thesis, as well as some of his papers from his time in the field if anyone thinks that might be useful

I’m 18+ and all characters and participants must be 18+
Tossing up another idea I'd like to play around with.
If you are familiar with the Taimanin series, then you know what to expect. For those who aren't aware, feel free to google them and you'll probably get a pretty good idea. In any case, imagine busty ninjas in sexy skin-tight outfits fighting against monsters, beasts, demons, and bad guys general...and then they lose! With such a delicious morsel delivered to their table, who can resist having some fun with their bodies?
And that's the gist of it. I'm looking to play out some scenes or RP in this Universe, preferably with the female characters but I am open to OC options. We can focus on the journey of one of these ninja lady's downfall, or we can endeavor to go through the roster and put them each into different saucy situations.
Kinks: cum, cum eating, cum food, cum play, cream pie,bdsm, bondage, forced, body writing, spanking, cuddling, degradation, rough partners, sizeplay, dominant partners, toys, multiple partners, spit roasting, mating press, full Nelson,frenching,rimming,body oil,bestiality,monsters,tentacles,water sports,wax play,sex machines,being filmed,cosplay,NTR,petplay,exhibitionism and biting and pretty much anything that isn’t my limits
Limits:
Scat,gore,vore,hyper sizes,necro and vomit
If that's of interest to you, please get in touch at Demondork on Kik and come with any questions you have, clarifications you need and ideas you'd like to share. Just please do more than just tell me you're interested. Don't worry about responding slowly/late, I still want to hear from you. Finally, please no chat requests, I will simply ignore them.
PS: I’d prefer if you knew some stuff about the series

I was trying to track down any references to an old and unusual kite design I can barely remember, and I am afraid some of that might be wrong. This was sold as a fairly cheap kid's kite, either in Scotland or more likely Southern Ireland in the late 1960s or perhaps 1970s. A good deal of it was curved white plastic slats like sections of venetian blinds, partly linked with string, and when you flew it the slats moved made a little bit of noise. I think it was called an autogyro, but I don't think the slats moved like the blades of a helicopter. I can see modern kite autogyros, and I don't think this was like that. I remember flying it from beaches. It didn't perform acrobatics or anything like a stunt kite; it just flew and made a noise, but it was an amusing beach toy.
Does anybody else remember these, or can anybody point me at something modern that roughly fits the description?

I was using a vape and I’m not sure how much I did.. but I entered this white room where I’ve been before on my last trip a few months back. Now, last time I started to get scared as I was leaving my body and when I was in that room with these dancing endings wearing bright clothing (similar to the 70s era bell bottom patterns. Think Austin powers) they told me I can stay with them and I didn’t have to go further and they kept me safe.
Last night, I entered that room again. And I wasn’t scared..I stopped feeling myself breathe and I was at peace knowing I was detached from my physical body. There were entities there but I cannot recall their appearance or if I even saw them. But I was confused as to when I was there last as it felt like I was just there 5 min ago. It was brought to my attention that time and reality aren’t real and everything started to break down. There was a lot of moving circular, rounded shapes moving and morphing. I don’t really know how else to describe this. But again, as I was in this space I asked to stay there as I got fearful of going further. Then I heard the voice of someone that was in another room (literally. Someone who was In The house with me) and that kind of brought me back. But has anyone else ever had the experience where they return to the same space feeling like they never left? And also the white room..no windows or doors or anything just white space and vivid rounded moving shapes. I’ve read about a waiting room where beings will distract you from moving forward. Any thoughts?

Up for grabs here:NEW TITANS #s 61, 86, 87, 88, 89, and 93Uncanny X-Men/New Teen Titans #1
I'm looking for $20 for the lot, OBO. Shipping is included. I'm willing to offer a discount to anyone willing to pickup from my location in Midtown Kansas City, MO. I'm not looking to break up the lot.
Willing to hear offers for Comics, Toys (GI JOE ARAH or Classified or vintage TMNT or vintage Batman), or original comic art. NO REASONABLE OFFER WILL BE DENIED.
https://imgur.com/a/AmooQUx

Bella is 3ish and she lays around 8 eggs a year, usually in 2 clutches of 4 a month or so apart. She belongs to my mom (82) who has a hard time keeping her from laying. We’ve/I’ve tried all the tricks, changing environment, toys, diet, direct/indirect sunlight, any “nesting” material removed, even vet visits and hormone(?) shots etc… If she’s allowed to leave her cage she immediately finds a dark place and starts her nesting routine, if she’s kept in her cage she just lays them inside in the open. We love her so much and she is so sweet but it’s getting to be too much for my mom. We are in the Los Angeles area and are starting to look for another home for her, if you are interested message me. I take no pleasure in posting this

I'm reading 90's delillo. Just finished Mao II. I've read also a Lot of 2000's delillo (cosmopolis, body artist, point omega, the silence). I've also read, from 80's delillo, white noise, libra and the names. That said, 70's delillo I have no Ideia which one is good. You, delillo fans, who have ventured in those early novels, can give me some recommendation of which one is good??