Like fashion, flavors change. Find out how these prizewinning recipes from the 1930s through today have evolved over time. Whether it's fun takes on bubbly macaroni or exciting new chicken marinades, there's a twist for every dish. “Then, you probably want to protect your military, because they’re protecting you against people in other countries that don’t like you. “Defunding the police: bad idea. “You want to fund the police, though, so they have better training, better equipment to protect the law of the land – because you don’t want people just doing ... If India can find two all-rounders, then we will have a better chance in the T20 World Cup in Australia in 2022 and in the 50 overs Cup at home in India in 2023,” he added. ALSO READ | Joe Root Ends With Third-most Calendar-year Test Runs in History. Editorial: Deputies shot an autistic man, then the justice system terrorized him. There’s a better way. Watch SEX IS BETTER THEN BORED FILM on Pornhub.com, the best hardcore porn site. Pornhub is home to the widest selection of free Big Ass sex videos full of the hottest pornstars. If you're craving butt XXX movies you'll find them here. IS THIS YOU? Graphic Novelhttps://www.indiegogo.com/projects/is-this-you-graphic-novel/ROCK 'N ROLL NINJA Graphic Novelhttps://www.indiegogo.com/projects/roc... Watch StepSon Fucks StepMom Better Then Dad On Valentines Day S7:E7 on Pornhub.com, the best hardcore porn site. Pornhub is home to the widest selection of free Cumshot sex videos full of the hottest pornstars. If you're craving momsteachsex XXX movies you'll find them here. “At the end of the day, if my striking isn’t way better than his then I’m f*cked, per se,” Gaethje said. “That’s where I’m great. I’m great at creating pressure, creating damage and stopping takedowns. So ultimately, he’s going to be trying to get it to the ground because I’m gonna find so much success in the striking ... Then is better used than than both when and then. word-usage. Share. Improve this question. Follow edited Feb 16 '16 at 3:06. user129107. asked Feb 5 '16 at 21:12. user129107 user129107. 153 1 1 gold badge 2 2 silver badges 10 10 bronze badges. 4. 2. Yes, it's completely wrong to use then in this context. XVIDEOS Chocolate Chaya backshots better then hershees free
2022.01.29 03:29 Ingen_01 It was better back then 😭
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2022.01.29 03:29 Wishwreath Jeskai Midrange/Control?
I'm looking for suggestions for Jeskai commanders that function for a draw-go style control deck that functions decently in edh. Not looking for anything close to cedh, but a mid-high power deck that can mesh nicely into most pods.
I'm a big fan of lists like Dragonlord Ojutai that can sit on a big threat and play draw go, but there isn't much of that in Jeskai outside of Narset which I'd like to avoid. My other idea was something like Ishai/Kraum partners with a stoneblade package but idk if that's nearly as good as other options. My last thought was Pramikon blink since you can just avoid combat entirely with him, but it requires maindecking more threats than I'd like due to his inability to close out a game.
Anyone have any good lists or experience with this?
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2022.01.29 03:29 C4SU4143 What build do you recommend for emperor?
2022.01.29 03:29 No-Celebration-1726 Anyone know what this bump on her bottom could be? I thought it was where she could have kicked her hairs off but it’s raised like a bump or something.
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2022.01.29 03:29 MelodicHawk1220 Am I not capable of love or am I too afraid
I know I'm not a psychopath. But when I examine my life I don't feel connected to anyone. I mean, I feel connected in a way to humanity in the sense that I care about people and the earth in some regard. But as far as friends, family members, or a partner..... I don't have anyone I feel that close or connected to, no one to talk about life stuff. God. When someone talks about 'loved ones' I just numb my brain for a second. There is just so much I can't relate to. Yet I think I was capable of intimacy when I was younger cause I made friends easily. Am I a robot monster. No. Is it because I don't love myself? That's probably it.
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2022.01.29 03:29 a_bit2drunk Little mix I put together exploring the more minimal side of drum and bass. Bit of everything DnB wise in there but mainly just vibes :)
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2022.01.29 03:29 WildWestWild Marking In BoS Gallery?
2022.01.29 03:29 CouponingLady_ FREE Olive Oil Body Scrub Sample
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2022.01.29 03:29 ThatW3irdOne People who are 15, how old are you?
2022.01.29 03:29 High_On_Ambition How is BlackHole music player?
I recently came across this foss music app, I like the concept of a streaming app that can also handle offline music very well; however it didn't ask me to sign in to my YouTube and I am not getting personalized recommendations even when I have used it for a few days now. Do you know if the recommendations will improve over time?
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2022.01.29 03:29 Yeti01bob TDM Room
2022.01.29 03:29 Hot_Standard_3004 Forza Horizon 5 Loading screen simulator, interupted by some drifting
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2022.01.29 03:29 NoHearing1817 OneNote vs ObsidianMD
This is not a "Which one is better than the other?" question or attempt to stir up the pot. I had a few genuine questions to determine if and how I can use Obsidian to my benefit
Coming across Obsidian, Dendron, etc has made me look at the idea of Zettelkasten. I'm a current OneNote user.
2022.01.29 03:29 CouponingLady_ Mama Necklace $8.99 Shipped
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2022.01.29 03:29 techprol23 Best Free NFL Streaming Sites To Watch American Football Online No Sign Up in 2022 - iTech Book
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2022.01.29 03:29 Shrabster33 What time do the pad pass daily dungeons go live?
2022.01.29 03:29 sparklyshoes18 Neva Angels Cattery
Anyone ever bought a cat from her? She appears to be legit but I’m doing my homework to search for anyone who has bought a cat from her for opinions on their experience.
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2022.01.29 03:29 CouponingLady_ Metal Mesh Cabinet Drawer $12
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2022.01.29 03:29 Shovelgut Looks like his account got hacked.
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2022.01.29 03:29 sushipooshi Cheap mobile cat spay/neuter in CT?!
2022.01.29 03:29 doctormega Lion wings
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2022.01.29 03:29 CouponingLady_ Michael Kors Tote Bags $89
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2022.01.29 03:29 MoonLiites I used to paint every day, but I haven't for years now. I don't think I ever will again.
It’s been a good while now since this all went down, so please forgive any hazy details on my part. I still don’t really know what to make of all this, but it’s been on my mind enough lately that I felt the need to finally put it all in writing. I won’t bore you with too many introductory details, but some context is necessary.
Several years ago, I was just starting as a third year college student at what was originally a pretty small art school, but it was growing fast. When I initially came as a freshman, they had just finished construction on a new performing arts center, and the previous building became a sort of auxiliary facility, mainly for use when the new place was full and people needed somewhere to practice. This all said, it actually didn’t end up being used that often. The new center was more than large enough to accommodate the majority of the school’s needs, and the weather was usually nice enough that the theater kids, at least, typically preferred to practice outside if their usual indoor spot was occupied.
Being a visual arts and design student, I didn’t spend much time in the performing arts center, and by my third year I didn’t actually spend much of my time on campus at all. No longer being required to live in a dorm, my roommate and I decided to move into our own apartment off campus. Between the two of us splitting rent, it was significantly cheaper than continuing to live in the dorms, and there was even enough space for us to set up our own little makeshift studio. It wasn’t nearly as much room as the actual workspaces at the school, but it was enough to store supplies and have a canvas or two propped up at any given time, not to mention the convenience of being able to just roll out of bed without having to bike all the way to campus just to go work on a project.
I wouldn’t have considered the two of us to be the closest of friends, and it was more due to convenience that we lived together for so long, but my roommate and I did get along really well, and we often discussed our art with each other. We’d discuss different sources of inspiration or ask for constructive criticism, for example. One day my roommate was telling me about her latest fascination- art generated by artificial intelligence. It was by no means a new concept at the time, but it was long enough ago that there wasn’t as much hype surrounding it as there is today. At the very least, it was something that I had only vaguely heard of. She showed me a few examples and I was pretty captivated, being a big fan of surrealism back then. In fact, a lot of those AI generated photos were perfect inspiration for the style of painting I did.
Naturally, I went down the internet rabbit hole and experimented with a bunch of different websites that would generate such images. Some purely random, others pulling from key words or phrases you could type in. I would often attempt to recreate these images as paintings. It became a sort of habitual practice, and I must have made dozens of those paintings over the first half of that year.
One of those days, as usual, I was preparing my canvas and brushes, and set down my supplies for a moment to pull up my computer. For no particular reason, I decided to venture beyond my most frequented websites and scrolled a bit deeper into the search engine results, until one link eventually caught my eye. The page had no description blurb, and the domain name was innocuous. If it hadn’t come up with the other search results, there would have been nothing to indicate what type of website it was. Curious, I clicked on it and was met with an outdated looking framework, one that was either put together by someone with little experience in web design or created at least a decade ago. The only real features were a blank square and a small rectangular button labeled “GO”. I clicked it, and after a few moments of lag, a loading bar appeared. It inched along at a snail’s pace, teeth gratingly slow. Being impatient, I opened a new window for the time being. It wasn’t until 20 or so minutes later that the page finally finished loading, and the image appeared.
But this one wasn’t like the others, with their nebulous forms and indefinite patterns. Sure, sometimes the programs would spit out something that almost looked familiar, something you might be able to deduce the source material of if you looked closely enough, but this new image was in stark contrast to anything I’d seen from one of those sites before. It was unmistakably a human face. Not an uncanny approximation of one, and not a vague suggestion of one, although it wasn’t the highest resolution photo either. But it was clearly a woman’s face, and there was something unsettling about it. Something in the expression that I couldn’t quite put a name to. The eyes, partially obscured by shadow, seemed to gaze right through me, fixed on an unknown point in space. The lips were parted as if about to whisper, with a slack jaw and an unnatural, stooped angle to the neck, cocking her head as if in question. It unnerved me, and yet I settled on painting it like I had every other image. A gnawing sensation in my stomach told me I didn’t have much choice. I don’t think I could have avoided it; since the moment I laid eyes upon that face, nothing could have stopped me from painting it.
With a determination that bordered on frenzy, I meticulously recreated the photo, going over each brush stroke, making sure I didn’t miss a single detail. When I finally set down my brush, it was like a spell had been broken. I came back to my surroundings and realized I was incredibly tired, arms aching and wanting for rest. How long had it been since I started? I couldn’t remember exactly, but it had definitely been in the early morning, and now the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. I looked back at the portrait.
Now, you have to understand I’m not a vain person, and I have no illusions of being a particularly masterful painter, especially not back in my college days. So I want to make clear that it’s not out of conceit that I say this, but the portrait was a perfect recreation of that image. Not a hair was out of place. Something about it sickened me. It felt less like I had painted it and more as though it had seeped beyond the screen and taken hold of the canvas itself. Still, I had the weary, paint covered hands to prove otherwise, and I tried to banish any unease from my mind. Being careful not to smudge the still drying paint, I took the canvas out of my workspace and shoved it underneath my bed. That would have to do for now.
After that day I sort of lost the taste for using those websites, and for painting in general. In any case, I figured that I might as well use the time I had before winter break to get a head start on the 3D design unit for next semester. I put all those paintings in a campus storage area, all except the portrait. It didn’t feel right to move it. And part of me simply didn’t want to have to look at it again. So under the bed it stayed, and I tried to push it to the back of my mind while I worked with my clay.
It wasn’t long before winter break arrived though, and I took the time to do anything besides work on art. My roommate was a different story, however. Our second day off, I woke up just before noon and went to the kitchen to rifle through the pantry for something to eat. Grabbing a box of cereal, I turned to find the table unusable, as my roommate was decorating it with some abstract floral pattern using paint markers and masking tape. I sighed and took a seat in the bean bag chair by the television. We didn’t use it often at all, but that day she had it turned on, presumably for background noise while she worked.
It was a local news program, with one of those factory produced, blonde news anchors rattling off a string of recent events. I was mostly tuning it out, until the name of my school jumped out at me from the woman’s words. With my interest piqued, I began listening, turning to face the screen.
Someone had gone missing, a student. She was apparently a first year and a performing arts student, so I wasn’t surprised when her name didn’t ring any bells. Eleanor, she went by Ellie. I felt a mild concern, but with minimal emotional investment. Although we shared a school, she was only a stranger to me. But just as I moved to change the channel, I froze. Next to the newscaster, they had just superimposed the girl’s missing poster onto the screen, and ice ran through my veins as my eyes locked onto her face, Ellie’s face. I knew I had never seen that girl in my life, but I would have recognized that face anywhere. It was the face I tried to forget but couldn’t bring myself to throw away, the face on the canvas beneath my bed that had been collecting dust for weeks. The image on the television was cropped from what looked like a family photo, showing a grinning expression and a relaxed posture; so it was by no means the same image, but it was without a doubt the same girl.
A familiar nausea overtook me as I stared at the screen. I couldn’t take it. I got up and left the room, sweating and cold. Taking a moment to collect myself, I got out my phone and jotted down the name of the girl on my notes app. I don’t know why I did it. People don’t just go missing all the time, so I was sure it would be the talk of the campus the second there were any real updates on what became of her. But just minutes later I found myself typing her name into the search engine all the same. As I read through what must have been every single article written on her disappearance, a deep sense of dread settled in my chest.
What I discovered was this: She had been last seen just before the start of break, in the dining hall, wearing a brown zip up hoodie and dark red sneakers. This last confirmed sighting was by a group of students who were acquainted with her, but not terribly close. Several of these students gave statements to the police and reported nothing out of the ordinary. They couldn’t recall any odd behavior or circumstances leading up to the girl’s disappearance. No one could determine exactly where she’d gone missing from either, and there were no leads as to any place she might have gone after the dining hall. Her phone was nowhere to be found, and the same went for her wallet and student ID. There was no mention online as to whether they’d tried to track her down via the phone location, but a group had been organized to search the grounds around campus.
There wasn’t much known beyond that in the beginning, but every day that followed, I scoured the internet for any updates on the missing girl. Although most of the updates I found only reported on where she definitely wasn’t. Every lead they followed up on fizzled out in the end. She hadn’t gone home, hadn’t gone back to her dorm, hadn’t gone to visit her boyfriend upstate. They must have searched every inch of the campus, all without uncovering a single trail to follow.
Weeks went by, and winter break came to an end. For the first several days back, a perpetual murmur hovered from the voices of students as they shuffled down hallways and huddled in groups in the courtyards. Her name was on the lips of students who’d never even had a conversation with her. As with all things though, the novelty faded soon enough. With all search efforts at a complete dead end and no new information for gossip to latch onto, dismay and intrigue alike settled back down into a more neutral state of disinterest. My own preoccupation, by contrast, had only grown.
Despite the painting’s continued concealment in the darkness beneath my bed, I saw the girl’s face each and every day. I saw it each time I closed my eyes, it appeared in every dream, and sometimes I caught myself imagining that I had seen it just in my peripheral vision, but of course there was never anything there. I wasn’t sleeping, and my appetite was nearly nonexistent. In a way it felt like I alone carried the burden of her disappearance, such was the extent of my obsession.
Eventually, over a month had passed since the girl vanished. Thirty-five days, that was the exact number, with no sign of the girl. Sometimes I wonder how her family and friends must have felt on that day, that thirty-fifth day. Horror, relief, confusion? They were left with more questions than answers, and what little closure they were afforded came at the cost of no longer existing in that in-between space of unknowing, where they could pretend that one day she’d return alive and well. Maybe it would have been easier if she’d never been found.
It was an unusually inclement day, with freezing rain and harsh winds, the sky obscured by a thick blanket of murky gray. The air groaned and whistled between buildings and across fields. Those students unfortunate enough to be outside hurried to their destinations, tightly huddled together beneath umbrellas and hopelessly attempting to shield sketchbooks and laptops from the onslaught of frigid water. Meanwhile, I had been sketching, sitting alone at a small booth tucked away in the corner of the dining hall. My mind kept wandering though, the pencil dragging across the page and then stuttering to a halt as I lost my train of thought. I looked at the eraser streaked page of half-hearted scribbles, and sighed. I tore it out and tossed it with the food wrappers on my plate, grabbing my phone out of my pocket.
I usually would have been back at our apartment by that time in the day, but without an umbrella I’d have been putting myself at the mercy of the weather, and I didn’t feel like getting soaked through. So, I resolved to sit there and looked for something to pass the time in hopes that the storm would let up before it got too late. I opened up an unofficial school social media page, one of those groups that was student run and consisted mostly of posts requesting missed notes, looking for roommates, and ranting about professors. Most of the things I saw as I scrolled through were complaints about the weather, a few desperate pleas for spare raincoats, stuff like that. With nothing else to do, I refreshed the page over and over again.
Finally, something new appeared. I had been half-skimming through most of the posts, but this one immediately caught my eye, and I suddenly felt my muscles tense up. It was a grainy but legible video, clearly from that day, taken just outside the old performing arts center. Various uniformed men could be seen pacing around, and the corner of a fire truck was visible. The blue and red lights of police cars reflected in the puddles of water that covered the sidewalks. Every drop of blood drained from my face. I refreshed the page again- more videos, images from different angles, inquisitive students asking what the hell was going on before the realization dawned. Everyone was holding their breath, not wanting to give voice to what we all knew. They had found her.
Students and faculty alike flocked to the scene despite the storm, craning their necks above the sea of bodies to try and catch a glimpse beyond the yellow tape. I was frozen in place, watching it all unfold on my screen. The live video feed cut out once or twice but there was always another popping up in its place, seemingly every person with a free hand and a camera phone wanted to capture the action for themselves. It wasn’t long before the shaky footage captured what we had all been waiting for. Men in uniform jackets, the black bag being wheeled away from the scene, police trying to keep restless onlookers at bay. It was almost underwhelming at that moment. We wanted to know more, see more, but there would still be several days before the information got out. So eventually the crowd dissipated, their attention turning back to the harsh rain and getting shelter from the freezing cold.
People who weren’t there that day often stretch the story, more so with each year that passes. The rumor chain always blurs the details, but I’ve never forgotten what the official statements said and the stories I read shortly after from those who were at the scene; I pored over those words so many times. Some people, if you ask them today, will say that she was still alive when they found her. That the group of kids who called 911 heard her clawing and screaming to be let out. She wasn’t, and it wasn’t any sound that alerted those kids. It was the smell.
The old performing arts center hadn’t been used for at least a month, but with the weather and all that day, a few friends who had been running lines outside for their next show decided to use the opportunity to wait out the storm while practicing on a stage they’d have all to themselves. But the rain showed no signs of letting up by the time they’d practically bored themselves to death with practice, so they decided to wander around for a bit. Their exploration eventually brought them back around to the main theater, where they ventured up the bleachers just for something to do. That was when their afternoon took a turn for the worse. One girl who was there said that at first she hoped the rotting odor might have only been a long forgotten lunch box or maybe a nest of dead rats, but as they drew closer and the stench only grew worse, she knew it would be nothing so pleasant.
The source appeared to be coming from the very top of the bleachers, where just below shoulder level, a heavy metal grate sealed off the entrance to the air duct. The group was hesitant, but curiosity got the better of them, and the braver of the bunch goaded the others into coming with them to take a closer look, something they’d come to regret for a long, long time.
One of them turned on his phone flashlight, and after pulling his shirt over his mouth to avoid choking on the smell, he held the light up to the grate and peered in. The first thing he saw was a pair of shoes. Dark red sneakers. As he aimed the beam further up, he dropped his phone and it went clattering to the floor. He said it took everything in him not to throw up right there, but somehow he managed to pick his phone back up to dial the police. They all ran outside, wanting to put as much distance as possible between themself and what they’d found.
The girl’s body had been found, but like I said, this just led to more questions. The autopsy determined that she had been dead for maybe a week by the time they found her in that air duct, which left almost a month of time unaccounted for in her disappearance. Her bones were apparently broken in several key places, contorting her body unnaturally in such a way that she’d fit into that cramped chamber. The actual cause of death was left inconclusive, with all the observed injuries having been determined to have occured post-mortem. Her cell phone never was recovered, and a thorough search of the area where the body was found turned up no evidence of an assailant.
I don’t dwell on the circumstances of her death too much, not anymore. That, at least, is one thing I’ve made peace with not knowing. I’ve watched enough crime shows to know that cases go cold all the time. But the thing I’ve never been able to shake, to this day, is how the guy who found her described the body. She was folded in on herself in an almost fetal-like position, with her broken neck cocked to the side and her mouth agape as if in surprise. I felt sick upon reading his account because I recognized every word of the description. And although I never saw the body myself (despite the autopsy photos supposedly floating around somewhere out there online), I could picture exactly what he saw that day, because it had already haunted my mind everyday for months. I’ve never gone looking for the pictures of her body, and I don’t need to. I know what I’d see, that it would be the spitting image of that painting I tried for so long in vain to forget about.
I did eventually get rid of the painting, a month or two after this all went down. I don’t know why it took me so long. I think I was afraid to see it again. So I averted my eyes the entire time as I retrieved it from its concealment beneath my bed, quickly shoving it into a pillowcase. I considered tossing it in the dumpster, but that didn’t seem permanent enough. I settled on burning it. My roommate looked at me like I was crazy when I asked her to come with me to set up the fire, but she came along anyway and didn’t ask any questions.
I’ve never told anyone about this. They wouldn’t believe me, and even if they did, what would be the point? It wouldn’t change anything. Mentioning anything about it now to anyone who knew her would just be opening up old wounds. So I keep it to myself.
Other than the occasional nightmare, it stays in the back of my mind for the most part. My life got to go on as usual. I’ve been working with ceramics lately, but I haven’t painted in years now. I don’t think I ever will again. Too many bad memories.
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2022.01.29 03:29 squebz [WTB] - Smartwool 150 weight hoodie
Shout out for the original blend and weight of the Smartwool 150 hoodie. Recently, Smartwool released a lighter (150) weight hoodie, but it's a 56/44 blend 😕.
To add insult to injury. I linked with a fellow Geartrader and bought this actual piece, but it was stolen from my building. 🙁 Honestly would be so stoked if anyone has a Smartwool 150 wt. hoodie composed of more merino. THX!
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2022.01.29 03:29 Fettywapapa LF: The protector item as well as a tradeback so that I can evolve my rhydon. FT: I have rare candies that I can give, or perhaps some pokemon you'd like, to fill out pokedex entries.