Dallin Lauritzen @dlauritz

@ryupathq RenjiWan is a couple for the show but act as relationship rivals antagonizing Third by liking Nine. He wants to pair with Time, though, so he pulls strings to start ghost shipping for future series.

I am a member of the Norwegian Nobel Committee. There are five of us. Five people, appointed by a parliament most of the planet could not find on a map, who decide, once a year, which human being the world has agreed to call good. I know. I know. I think about it on the tram. We meet in a building on Henrik Ibsens gate, a street named after a man who wrote almost exclusively about people discovering they are frauds, which nobody on the committee finds funny except me. There is a room with a long table and the portraits of the dead laureates looking down, Mandela, the Dalai Lama, a great many earnest men in spectacles, and one portrait we do not discuss, which is Kissinger, 1973, awarded while the bombs were still falling, after which two of our predecessors resigned and the satirist Tom Lehrer said political satire was now obsolete. We keep him on the wall. A reminder. Every family has the uncle. It is October in Oslo, which means the sun gives up around four in the afternoon like a civil servant, and it rains the particular Norwegian rain that isn’t quite falling, just hanging there, judging you. I arrive with wet shoes. I always arrive with wet shoes. There is coffee, because this is Norway and there is always coffee, we drink more of it per person than almost anyone alive, and someone’s wife has sent kanelboller, the cinnamon buns, and we sit, five Norwegians, damp, caffeinated, sugared, and we decide the moral standing of the entire species. Let me tell you how it actually works, because the world imagines a cathedral and it is, I promise you, a book club with a mandate. 287 nominations this year. 208 people, 79 organizations. Anyone can nominate, that’s the secret nobody understands: a professor, a parliamentarian, a former laureate, so the “nominee” list is meaningless, it’s a suggestion box, and every autumn some congressman nominates his own golden retriever and the press writes “SHORTLISTED.” Nobody is shortlisted. There is no short list the public ever sees. There is us, and the coffee, and the rain, and the portraits, and a Norwegian stubbornness that is older than the prize itself. We read reports. The institute’s advisers write them, thick dull documents, and we argue. Our chairman told the BBC once that in the final meeting “there is a high temperature.” High temperature, for a Norwegian, means someone slightly raised an eyebrow and then apologized for it. We don’t do high temperature. We do a long silence, and then Kristin says “well,” and everyone knows exactly what “well” meant, and it’s settled. That’s our shouting. “Well.” You’d have to be raised here to hear the violence in it. Now. This year. I will not say the name, because we never say the name, but you know the name. A certain head of state wanted this prize the way a child wants a thing in a shop window, which is to say loudly, and in public, and with the full belief that wanting it was itself the argument. He said he deserved it. He said he’d ended eight wars, a number that grew most times he said it, like a fish. He had other heads of state phone us. Israel’s prime minister posted it on the internet, “Give him the Nobel.” The leaders of Cambodia and Pakistan announced they’d nominated him, as though announcing it were part of it, as though we tally mentions. A man flew around the globe collecting endorsements for a Norwegian committee the way you’d collect signatures for a petition to the council about a noisy dog. And here, uff da, is the detail I treasure, the one that makes me smile into my coffee. The nomination deadline is the 31st of January. He took office on the 20th. So for all the phone calls, all the posts, all the gilded lobbying, the only nominations that could possibly count for this year’s prize were filed in the first eleven days of his term, before he had, by his own arithmetic, ended a single one of the eight wars. He campaigned all year for a prize whose window had shut while he was still hanging up his coat. We didn’t have to reject him. The calendar did. We just watched. Norwegians are very good at watching. We have long winters. People think we sit there weighing his deeds. We don’t. That’s the thing I can’t make the world understand. We’re not grading his homework. We don’t owe anyone the prize for a ceasefire, however real, however loud the announcement. “He made peace” is not a sentence that ends in a medal, the way he believes it does, the way he believes every good thing ends in his name on it. The will of a dead Swede says the prize goes to whoever did the most for fraternity between nations. A dead Swede, I should add, who made his entire fortune inventing dynamite and selling arms, and spent his last years horrified at his own obituary, which called him a merchant of death, and so bought his way to immortality as a man of peace. The whole prize is one guilty arms dealer’s attempt to launder his name. We are, all of us, administering a dead man’s public relations. I find this clarifying. It keeps me humble. It should keep everyone humble, and it keeps, by my count, no one humble at all. So who did we give it to? An eighty-five-year-old woman. A judge. Born in Durban, under apartheid, granddaughter of a Tamil man who came to South Africa as indentured labor, a bus driver’s daughter from the poor Indian quarter, who became the first non-white woman to run a law practice in her province, who defended Mandela’s people when defending them was dangerous, who sat on the Rwanda tribunal and the court at the Hague, and who, at eighty-five, is right now a judge weighing whether a genocide is a genocide. When we told the world, our chairman said the rule of law “underpins the system we have set up to ensure peace,” and that “peace requires justice.” She wasn’t even in Oslo. She was in Nuremberg. In courtroom 600. The actual room where they tried the Nazis. You cannot stage that. God staged that, and God, it turns out, is a better satirist than any of us. She did not phone us. She did not post. No prime minister demanded it for her on the internet. She had, as far as our deliberations are concerned, the one qualification the loud man could never manufacture, which is that she wanted the work and not the medal. The medal finds those people. It flees the ones who chase it. This is not a rule we wrote. It’s just the only pattern the hundred-odd years of our mistakes has ever shown. The reaction from across the ocean was immediate. His spokesman posted that we “place politics over peace.” Ja. Perhaps. We’re five damp pensioners in a rainy city; of course it’s political, it was always political, it was political when we gave it to a sitting American president nine months into his first term for the promise of things he had not yet done, and we have been quietly embarrassed about that one for fifteen years, so believe me, we had a particular reason this year to prefer a woman with fifty years of verdicts behind her over a man with eight wars in front of him and a deadline already behind him. Here is what he will never understand, the thing I’d tell him on the tram if he ever took one. We are the one prize he cannot buy, cannot post his way to, cannot have a friendly dictator phone in for him. Not because we’re incorruptible, nei, we’re as vain and wrong and human as the portraits on our wall. But because the entire point of the thing, the only power a small cold country’s book club has ever held, is that it goes to the person not performing the wanting. The moment you demand it, you’ve proven you don’t understand what it’s for, and proving that is itself the disqualification. He ran the most expensive campaign in the history of the prize and the campaign was the reason. He was never losing to Navi Pillay. He was losing to the concept. It’s dark now. Four o’clock dark. The buns are gone. Kristin said “well” an hour ago and we all went home. I’m on the tram with my wet shoes, and somewhere across the water a very powerful man is explaining to a camera that the prize is rigged, that we’re corrupt, that he’ll win it next year, and he genuinely might, we’re only five idiots and we’ve been wrong before, Kissinger is still on the wall. But not this year. This year an old woman in Nuremberg, in the room where the law once stared down the exact kind of man who thinks wanting a thing loudly enough should make it his, got a phone call she didn’t ask for. That’s the job. We don’t reward the man who ends the war and announces it. We reward the woman who spent fifty years deciding what a war was. He’ll never see the difference. That’s rather the whole point of him. Takk for i dag. I have to change trams.

I think it was pomegranate for me. The barista called me over and explained that the latte foam seemed wrong. I -tried- to take a sip but was rebuffed by the force field. They made me a vanilla latte instead.

Maryam @hell_line0

2 months ago

im still haunted by the memory of a woman who ordered orange syrup in her cappuccino, took a sip, scrunched her nose, and said "I don't know what I was thinking, but thank you anyways." She sat there and drank the whole thing..i offered to make her something else, and she said,

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My timeline, which normally has Asian BL fans, is hard enough to keep pace with. Now Heated Rivalry is creeping in, which I understand from an algorithmic perspective, but there's a reason I don't watch most western "BL".

i’m actually crying 😭😭😭 gemini staring at and touching the icing for a solid 30 seconds trying to decide if it’s edible or not is the funniest thing ever jsjsjs he’s so unintentionally adorable 😭💗

This was my photo op! I was the last one and almost missed the time slot. Everyone was rushing me, so I wasn't paying much attention. I'm glad someone posted the video, and lucky to run into it online. This is way better than a still photo 🤣 #GFFMinDENVER

Maryam @hell_line0

2 months ago

im still haunted by the memory of a woman who ordered orange syrup in her cappuccino, took a sip, scrunched her nose, and said "I don't know what I was thinking, but thank you anyways." She sat there and drank the whole thing..i offered to make her something else, and she said,

54 7K 180K 4.4M 5K

@LiirBL Most often in my experience, the primary POV character in a BL is the one in the "bottom" role.

@Danyell16456294 Maybe the holiday weekend made it hard to schedule the live event for today.

@nehabindlish This is actually similar to the main world. Cir has dreams, starts the relationship, is taken to the white room, then returns for the final challenge.

@LiirBL I'm really liking sassy Earn, but Pete needs to step in real quick before Phun starts throwing more water buckets.

@LiirBL I think her not recognizing Dr. Third is proof she's fake, even ignoring her resting villain face. She had a whole dramatic recollection of her death, including the prince's name, but didn't glance twice at the guy when he punched San.

@LiirBL Don't question his creative process.

@LiirBL He tells the council that Mix is a runaway vampire.

BREAKING The Thai Senate has voted 130 to 4, with 18 abstentions, to approve of the #MarriageEquality bill, amending the Civil and Commercial Code to allow marriage registration regardless of gender and raise the age at which a person can legally marry from 17 to 18 years old. The new legislation still need to royal assent to become law. It will then come into effect 120 days after publication in the Royal Gazette, at which point Thailand will become the first Southeast Asian country to legalize marriage for all. #สมรสเท่าเทียม

Marriage Equality in Thailand! Thailand’s lower house passed, on Wednesday, the Marriage Equality Bill which will make it the first country in South East Asia to legalize same-sex marriage. The vote sailed through with a landslide 399 for and only 10 against, effectively bypassing any potential upper house veto. The bill’s passage is a significant victory for LGBTQ+ advocacy groups in Thailand, who have been campaigning for marriage equality for years. It represents not just a legal change, but a profound statement of inclusion and acceptance in a society known for its vibrant and diverse LGBTQ+ community. Thailand has long been a destination for LGBTQ+ tourism. However, until now, the legal recognition of same-sex unions had lagged behind societal acceptance. With this legislative victory, Thailand becomes one of the few countries in Asia to recognize same-sex marriage, joining the ranks of Taiwan, which made history in May 2019 by becoming the first place in Asia to legalize same-sex marriage. Regional Context and International Comparisons Southeast Asian countries have been more cautious in their approach to this issue. Thailand’s bold step forward could thus serve as a catalyst for change, challenging neighboring countries to reevaluate their policies on LGBTQ+ rights. For instance, in Indonesia, the largest Muslim-majority country in the world, LGBTQ+ rights face considerable challenges, with no legal recognition of same-sex relationships. Similarly, Malaysia has strict laws against homosexuality. On the other hand, the Philippines has shown some openness towards the LGBTQ+ community, though it has yet to legalize same-sex marriage. Vietnam has taken steps to abolish fines for same-sex weddings, a move towards tolerance, though it stops short of legal recognition. The Economic Implications Beyond the social and cultural significance, the legalization of same-sex marriage in Thailand could have substantial economic implications. The LGBTQ+ tourism sector, already a significant part of Thailand’s tourism industry, is likely to see a boost from this development. Legal recognition of same-sex marriages enhances Thailand’s reputation as an inclusive destination, potentially attracting more visitors from around the world. Additionally, the decision opens the door for various industries, from legal services to real estate, to cater more effectively to LGBTQ+ couples. Link - thaienquirer.com/51980/marriage… #Thailand #LGTBQ+ #ประชุมสภา #สมรสเท่าเทียม #MarriageEqaulity #SameSexMarriage #LoveIsLove

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If you're naked on the front porch and the neighbors can't see you, it's rural. If you're naked on the front porch and the neighbors call the cops, it's suburban. If you're naked on the front porch and the neighbors ignore you, it's urban. If you're naked on the front porch and your neighbor is also naked, it's Florida.

@LiirBL There weren't any subs on the ch3 premium version for me.

@world_of_bl_com There's also a WeTV release with both Uncut and TV versions. Uncut: wetv.vip/en/album/yh6aw… TV: wetv.vip/en/album/shhbb…