Loss of grandmother samples

Introduction:
I am a 28-year-old e-commerce entrepreneur from China, and I have been in the business for five years. Initially, I ventured into various product categories such as clothing, watches, and pet food, all of which ended in failure. Over time, I realized that in these saturated markets, I lacked competitiveness. Large players easily defeat smaller businesses through strategies like paid advertising, price reductions, promotions, and even selling at a loss to dominate market share.
Strategic Shift:
To explain, selling at a loss refers to a strategy used for consumable goods with short repurchase cycles. This approach can crush competitors while quickly capturing market share, with profits recovered through customer repurchases. Of course, this requires careful optimization of the product SKUs.
As a result, I shifted my strategy to avoid such cutthroat competition and started looking for "blue ocean" products. Previously, my product selection was based on intuition, and any success was merely due to luck and couldn't be reliably replicated. I began an in-depth analysis of data from the "Taobao" platform and realized I was constantly battling in a "red ocean." Before, I would only consider a product's trend charts (search popularity, conversion rates), thinking anything on the rise was good, but I overlooked other indicators like "online product count." For instance, the keyword "casual men's clothing" had a search popularity of 240,000 but faced over ten million competing products. That was the moment I understood my constant failures.
I subscribed to several data analysis platforms and began vigorously searching for products, eventually discovering a niche product with a search popularity of over 3,000 but only 180 items online: "shoes for elderly people with swollen feet." I contacted the supplier, obtaining the shoes for $11 per pair, or $12.50 if they handled shipping. The leading seller on the platform priced them at $29. Observing the mild competition, and poor quality of the product images in the listings, I bought a few pairs of the shoes, had a designer create exquisite images, and listed them at the same price but included three extra pairs of comfortable socks as a bonus. Orders began trickling in a week later. As autumn progressed and winter approached, search popularity for the shoes climbed to over 7,000. In winter, many elderly people suffer from swollen feet due to varicose veins or poor circulation, prompting their children to buy these adjustable shoes as a sign of filial piety.
My sales surged day by day, and that winter, I sold over 1,900 pairs of shoes, experiencing the thrill of earning over ten thousand a month and a deep sense of achievement. This success showed me that such outcomes are replicable, prompting me to collect more "blue ocean" products and open multiple shops. Some of these included post-surgery pillows, luxury cosmetic samples, and foot-soaking medicinal packages, most of which turned profitable.
Reflections:
This journey taught me that "one cannot make money beyond their understanding." Once you truly comprehend and deeply understand certain aspects, the path to success is less crowded. The key for the average person is to understand differentiated competition—sometimes, choice is more important than effort. Running an online business is actually simple; just manage your customers and suppliers well.
Looking Forward:
Recently, inspired by numerous cross-border e-commerce posts on TikTok, and considering my small company’s good performance with a profit of about $20,000 a month after paying six employees—a considerable income in China—I continue to explore new directions and profit opportunities, focusing on the European and American markets. Here, I hope to meet like-minded friends.
That's all from me for now. I welcome your comments and discussions. Thank you very much.

Disclaimer: I am Chinese and cannot speak or read Uyghur. Xinjiang is a vast land, and the online communication of residents is strictly controlled, so even people from different regions are unaware of the specific situation in other regions, and there are significant differences between different regions. I tried to cross validate using sources from different ethnic groups as much as possible, but my language definitely caused some bias in my sampling.
There is a long-term tense relation between local ethnic groups, especially between the Han and Uyghur ethnic groups. A local Han who sympathized with the Uyghur told me that his American friend who visited described it as "racial segregation, and it was spontaneous among people.".
Other ethnic minorities also have resentment towards Uyghur people due to Uyghur nationalism. They also suffered from repression, although not as severe as the Uyghurs. Some blame the government, while others blame the Uyghurs.
Local Han generally believe this is what Uyghurs deserve. Mainland Chinese are generally unaware of this matter due to censorship, but no hostility towards Uyghurs.
Not all, but there are definitely some events that meet the criteria for terrorist attacks. It also involves indiscriminate attacks on other ethnic minorities and Uyghur who do not agree with them.
CPC actually tries to conceal these events as much as possible. If it is really impossible to conceal, their public deaths are much less than what actually happened, whether the deceased were Han Chinese, attacked Uyghurs, or attackers. The public parts are due to the controversy caused by the discovery of large-scale detention.
What other separatists did was also concealed as much as possible. CPC seems to primarily aim to avoid resentment towards the Uyghurs as a whole among the majority of people in China, and pretend its rule is prosperous and unshakable.
A local Hui who have been hacked by terrorists before:

If officials claim nothing happened, means manything happened. If officials claim one or two people died, means a group of people have died. If officials claim thirty people died, means a village has disappeared.
Separatists and CCP went to war, and the people suffered.

Uyghurs mainly reside in the southern Xinjiang region and are mainly poor farmers. Most areas in southern Xinjiang are mainly Uyghur, although Han immigrants have appeared in urban areas in the past two decades. Before the crackdown, a rural Uyghur may have never seen any native Chinese speakers in their lifetime. When I visited there last year, most adult Uyghurs can't speak Chinese at all, and most who speak fluent Chinese are businessperson. I visited there with the company of a local Uyghur friend(abbreviated as T). Most of the repression was lifted in 2021, and what I saw was a mild version:

Small mosques are demolished or sealed off. The landmark mosques has been preserved, but locals dare not enter because it poses a risk of getting them into trouble. Inside are mainly tourists. All Arabic slogans have been covered or replaced with Uyghur versions. Halal symbols are prohibited. Some tourists are Uyghurs from northern Xinjiang. They have greater freedom. Locals are not allowed to wear Ḥijāb or grow large beards. Uyghur ethnic clothing without religious significance is also taboo. The stores sell them, but only for tourists. All cutting tools on the street are restricted to fixed objects with iron chains. Economic decline. Not many locals consume. During the period of severe repression, people had no income. Even civil servants are owed wages by the government due to financial constraints. Before 2017, schools almost exclusively taught Uyghur language, and local teachers were also Uyghurs who did not speak Chinese. Now it's almost pure Chinese. T is worried about the hidden camera when speaking. All taxis have prominent cameras. All polices are Uyghur. T claims that after 2021, who is visible on the streets is not police, but just security guard disguised. The real police are either undercover or hiding. All signs are bilingual or in Chinese. Simple Uyghur language signs are prohibited. Ethnicity can be distinguished by appearance. When others notice that we are a mixed ethnic team, they will be surprised.

The riots were mainly initiated by Uyghurs from rural areas in southern Xinjiang. This place has been subjected to the most severe repression.
The total population of Uyghurs is over 10 million. No one can be certain how many had entered the camp. They don't have an interconnected database for this. I read a local official privately claiming that perhaps 500,000 are a close number. When I mentioned that Western media claimed the number was one million, and T felt it was an underestimate. Another Uyghur from a northern city think this is an exaggeration.
As of now, Uyghurs, even if living in mainland China, dare not post too many opinions on these matters through online. Others lives Xinjiang cannot either. When they post content that the local government deems inappropriate, they may be knocked on and asked to delete their posts. This is highly unlikely to happen in other regions.
A local programmer told me, if the photos you take accidentally include any part of camps, when it is post online, it would disappear directly.
In the past few years, the density of Uyghur people visible in the inland has significantly increased. Young people from various ethnic groups in Xinjiang seem to be generally trying to leave Xinjiang due to limited freedom and insufficient income. Riots and repression have both led to loss of the Han population. A resident of Urumqi told me that the actual population here may only be half of what is recorded on paper. Xinjiang government is attempting to recruit Han Chinese from mainland China to settle down.
In mainland, when reside in hotels, Uyghurs will be registered by the police. Only specific qualified hotels are allowed to accept them. Several male Uyghurs said they may have been raided and inspected by the police at night.
Uyghurs have different opinions. I do know three Uyghurs clearly express that CPC's suppression is generally good, although they still complain. This includes T, whose father was once detained in a camp. I don't know the proportion of different opinions. The random Uyghurs themselves seem unclear about this too.
The camp seems to have different levels. My data point from Uyghur in rural area of southern Xinjiang and specifically, there was indeed a terrorist attack carried out by the residents from this town, so this is the most extreme situation. By T, camp and repression were described as:

In 2017, if you are an adult male and not in school or college, likely to enter a camp. This is about 80% of men. It almost came to an end after September 2019. Two thirds of them had returned. (The rest are mainly sentenced, with a few deaths) Pure torment. Later, the government was afraid of the West, and people gained meat in their diet and skill training. (about diet, I explain as the financial difficulties faced by the Xinjiang government. After the camps attracted international attention, they received more funding from the central government.)
Government know they just need to persuade the househead. Women and children will obey him. Many excuses be used to get you into the camp. Sometimes it's intentional to provoke you, and when conflicts occur, they tell you that your viewpoint is flawed (needs to be modified). They will inquire and analyze from neighbors what you have done before and recently. If you lie, they will find out. TBH, Han cadres are most rational. The main ones bullying us are Uyghur cadres.
Submissive people were released after one or two years. Disobedient people were sentenced to prison. Who completely disobeys had died. There are an average of 400 families in the village. They would receive seven or eight corpses from the camp. Those sentenced families have had difficult times. Only women and two children in the family, difficult to survive. Women are easily bullied, children do not obey her, wander around and do not help her with work. The villagers did nothing wrong. My father is not interested in religion. When he returned from the camp, he spoke Chinese more fluently than me. Outsiders recruiting locals for terrorist attacks, then they fled, and locals were retaliated against. Many people here are uneducated. They are easily deceived by outsiders (to create a terrorist attack/riot). This is brainwashing to prevent them from being deceived by outsiders. I hate those outsiders. They have caused many families to break down, and give us Uyghurs a bad reputation. Islam is good, distorted by these people. I dislike the local extremist religion before. I was not even allowed to sing.

He described the welfare policy:

The government has established new villages. You only need to pay a small fee to move over. Most of the expenses are subsidized by the government. They have carried out infrastructure construction. Our living environment has improved a lot. But the economy has not been developed, and our income has not increased. If your family is considered trustworthy, you may be helped to start a business in mainland. If someone is sentenced, their family will receive financial assistance.

He is a firsthand witness to the terrorist attack that occurred locally:

This has been reported as the death of thirty Hans. It's completely different. Terrorists intercepted the road and killed all Han trapped in the convoy. The Uyghur who resisted them were also killed. The actual number of deaths is over a thousand. I can't believe my childhood friends would kill people. The next day, the tank arrived at our village. All participants had been captured. The rest of us were frequently visited by cadres. Terrorists intercept convoys by chopping down trees. So the government forced the people to cut down the trees next to the road a few years ago.

Lithium-ion batteries are used in everything from electric cars to portable electronics, but the maximum capacity of these batteries decreases over time. The longer they are used and the more charge cycles they go through, the less power they can hold.
Lenovo Computer has pointed out that many laptop batteries can last up to five years before running out of power, with about 300-500 charge cycles.
Scientists also agree that the best commercial-grade batteries, namely lithium batteries using nickel, cobalt, and manganese mixed materials NCM523 (cathode) and graphite (anode) as electrodes, have a service life of only 8 years.
But a study suggests that using a new charging scheme could double the life of lithium-ion batteries. The results show that by changing the way the charger delivers current to the electrolyte material, the battery can maintain a high energy capacity after hundreds of discharge-charge cycles. This means that the charging solution will greatly reduce the pressure on battery manufacturing and recycling, thereby saving costs for commercial manufacturing and creating a more sustainable future.
The research was first published in the journal Advanced Materials Science on March 14 this year. The researchers devised a new charging protocol that powers the device via pulsed current rather than a constant current.
After comparing the two charging protocols, the researchers found that during constant current charging, the solid electrolyte interface of the battery sample anode was significantly thicker and there were more cracks in the electrode structure. This means a significant loss of lithium-ion battery capacity.
The use of pulse charging not only promotes the uniform distribution of lithium ions in graphite, thereby reducing mechanical stress and cracks in graphite particles, but also inhibits the degradation of the NCM523 cathode structure. This will increase the number of charge cycles the battery can perform from approximately 500 at constant current to over 1000.
Test results preliminarily show that pulse charging can double the service life of commercial lithium-ion batteries while maintaining a battery capacity retention rate of more than 80%.

Hello everyone, I am attempting to train a hybrid Resnet18 encoder-6 layer 520 dmodel Transformer decoder to do full page handwriting recognition and I am struggling to properly train it. The main issues/questions I am stuck at are:

• I have a dataset that has around 6000 samples of pages of handwriting distributed 80% training/20% validation, how would I know if this is enough to work with?
• I am currently using gradient accumulation since each sample in the dataset is quite large, as you would imagine. It proved to be beneficial, as the behaviour of the model during training is less fuzzy than the past training attempts using a fixed batch size of 2
• I am currently exploring learning rate schedulers and have used, for now, a reduce on plateau on validation loss with a learning rate starting at 1e-4 with 0.75 factor. What is the best way to approach and choose lr schedulers

Even though the place where I am at seems to suggest that I am heading in the right direction (WER is slowly decreasing across epochs), the training time is very slow (12hrs for around 3-5 epochs) on available Kaggle GPUs (P100). Any tips for going forward?

Long post, sorry. TLDR I thought I was 100% white until my mom discovered she has a Métis ancestor. I want to learn more about everything, but I know nothing (I've been completely culturally assimilated). I'd like some advice on what to do.
Up until about three months ago, the idea of being Métis never even crossed my mind. My dad is Danish and my mother is mixed European. I live in central Alberta.
My mom started looking into her genealogy after her ancestry tests came back with 20% French (she's always been told she's Scottish/Polish/Irish/ect). That's how she discovered she is a direct descendant of a Métis ancestor.
My grandmother on my mom's side was adopted, and nobody spoke about the possibility of being Métis. My mom told me she only heard furtive rumours that were quickly shut down. She connected with a relative who has a Métis identity card who helped her out with more info.
The thing is, I'm at a loss at what to do now. I am white. I continually work to learn and unravel my ingrained racism/sexism/homophobia (basically, all of the systemic oppression that's unknowingly passed down, generation to generation.). But that doesn't change the fact that I have white privilege. Until privilege is dismantled, I will have it because of the colour of my skin. Can I be white and Métis?
Attempted cultural genocide is the reason I was completely blindsided by this, obviously. My mom went to a Métis group to discuss her experience and how she can move forward. Someone there told her since she is at least three generations from the ancestor, and that she looks white, she shouldn't identify as Métis—only that she has Métis heritage. But I read a blog post from a Métis woman who explained that the Métis Nation rejects blood quantum as the colonialist and assimilating term that it is. (Because, seriously, wtf.)
I confided in a friend about this and he introduced me to the disconnected term. He had used it back when he was still rediscovering his culture. I feel most comfortable with it at the moment, because it reflects how I currently feel: completely cut-off and isolated from a whole part of myself I didn't even know existed.
I want to learn more about the Métis Nation, culture, community, and language. I want to identify as Métis, just as I identify as a woman, as bilingual, as white, as disabled, as queer, as Danish. I want to learn Michif. I want to connect and participate with local communities. I want to figure out how to balance my white identity with my Métis identity. I have absolutely no idea how to do so.
I would sincerely appreciate any resources or advice you'd like to give, as well as clarification if I got anything wrong, made a mistake, or was ignorant. I thrive on learning.
Thank you very much for taking the time to read.

My husband and I have been married for nearly 8 years and are parents of soon to be 3 young children (I’m due with our last kiddo next month). We are in our early 30s but have known each other since our early teens. We both have established, full time careers, are well educated, etc. We are in many ways what I would say is the suburban modern family. Life is hectic but we also have been very fortunate due to a combination of luck and consistent hard work and good decision making.
My husband’s family is quite the opposite. His dad has worked construction/carpentry since his early teens and been the breadwinner of the family, but has, for the most part, struggled to make ends meet. He is all in all a very charming, kindhearted guy though, and despite our vastly different lifestyles, I genuinely like him.
My MIL…she’s something else. While we have a mostly cordial relationship, she is truly one of the most self-absorbed people I’ve ever met. And not in a malicious manner— she just genuinely is narcissistic and thinks she knows best. Mostly this an annoying nuisance to occasionally deal with. She has said and done some unsavory things in the past that have resulted in short NC periods.
But this mentality ramped up to an 11 on a scale of 1-10 back in late February/early March.
My husband and I were going through an extremely stressful period in our marriage due to a number of issues. I was— and still am— pregnant with our third, we have a 5 and 2 year old, we were both working full time, and my husband’s job kept requiring him to travel out of state for a couple weeks at a time. Running a household as essentially a single mother while working full time was very stressful in itself, but then my grandmother had a stroke while he was out of state. By the time he got back, it was clear she wasn’t going to recover. She died with 48 hours of his return— which had given me just enough time to travel to visit her.
Almost simultaneously, my MIL was diagnosed with CLL. MIL has dealt with recurrent minor illnesses for some time (sinus and ear infections, the flu, etc.), so the cancer diagnosis wasn’t particularly surprising to me. But as most would do, we all spent some time reading up on this particular form of cancer, the general prognosis and treatment, etc.
My own parents happen to have both had cancer. My dad is a stage 2 prostate cancer survivor, having undergone treatment about 15 years ago. My mom unfortunately was not so lucky with her diagnosis— anaplastic carcinoma of the thyroid— and from diagnosis to death was less than ten months. It’s been about a decade now. Needless to say, I feel I am fairly well versed in the oncology world for an average person and able to provide some insight on the experience.
CLL, as I understand, and from what I’ve now heard from her original oncologist, is generally not a very aggressive cancer. I have heard some people refer to it as more like autoimmune disorder. It often requires little treatment and more “watchful waiting” of symptoms. My MIL was told by the oncologist that this is exactly what their plan was, that her cancer was not aggressive or requiring treatment, and that she could essentially live a normal life with occasional blood draws for monitoring purposes.
From the moment she was diagnosed though, it has been all about her. Her cancer diagnosis overshadowed my grandma’s actual death. My husband had to be gone for a day and a half to attend her first appointment, even if I was balancing life as a single working mom who was grieving at the moment. Before her first consultation, everyone was sure she was dying, even though it didn’t take an expert to look over her bloodwork and realize that she was likely in a very low stage of this non-aggressive cancer.
When she attended her consultation, her, FIL, SIL, and my husband had to go to support and were relieved to hear the good news. MIL was mortally offended that the oncologist poo-pooed her ridiculous made up, self-enforced diet that had already caused her to lose 10lbs. She’s not a big boned lady, so that was not weight she needed or should be losing. MIL is convinced that homeopathic and naturopathic remedies are the way to go, that “big pharma” is out to get us and make a buck off of our treatment, etc. She quite literally took ivermectin for covid previously, folks. So the fact that an oncologist would tell her that her diet was downright silly pissed her off and she quickly tried to find others more aligned with her viewpoints.
Life resumed more normally for a couple of weeks, but her random “cures” added to her diet and lifestyle have gotten increasingly bizarre and frankly inconvenient for her entire family.
This past weekend, we visited them, and MIL was insistent that she was dying and the next oncologist would recommend chemo for treatment. I fail to see why one oncologist would be so nonchalant about treatment and another would propose aggressive treatment, but I digress. She brought up Dr. Oz, a holistic massage therapist that uses oils and massage to cure cancer, and worst of all, a new item she’s added to her diet— roasted apricot pits. Now if you’re like me, you might be wondering what would possess someone to eat an apricot pit— after all, don’t they have cyanide in them? Precisely. My MIL is intentionally ingesting apricot pits because “cyanide kills cancer.”
As my husband eloquently put it, “No, cyanide kills *everything.”
Today my husband received a phone call asking if he’d be willing to petsit for them this weekend. We have a follow up ultrasound for a small abnormality detected in our baby on Friday, but MIL wants him to drive to their home two hours away and spend the night so he can watch their cat and SIL’s dog. Meanwhile MIL, FIL, and SIL will drive eight hours (and eight hours back) to visit this massage therapist/oil salesman to “cure her cancer.” Mind you, they are using SIL’s car because they have no other vehicle that works well enough to drive that far, they are constantly tight on money, and again, her oncologist has stated she does not need treatment.
I am at a loss. My husband, FIL, and SIL are all frustrated and have come around to the idea that maybe she is being a little over the top finally, but no one is putting their foot down to stop her. SIL is going to drive them instead of just saying no and not letting them take her car. FIL repeatedly drives to the store to pick up whatever weird ass product she wants to try next. And my husband despite having way too much to deal with at home, keeps dropping everything to tend to her.
It is mind boggling obnoxious and honestly in some ways offensive given my family history with cancer. My mom’s diagnosis was death sentence from the get go and she faced it with bravery and tenacity and selflessness. My MIL has a minor health scare and everyone is expected to drop everything to help her.
I am glad my husband is finally seeing reason and logic— but what now? I have told him I strongly believe he needs to speak up and encourage her to follow legitimate medical advice— both for her own good but also to bring himself peace of mind in the long run— but it’s like this woman WANTS to die.
I could go on for hours, but really I’m just wondering how the heck to toe this delicate line of supporting my spouse while prioritizing my family.

Hi, and apologies in advance for the very niche question. I'm at a loss here, and still new to learning WordPress.
I have a WordPress application setup via Cloudways hosting on a Digital Ocean server. Inside this Wordpress installation, I have a custom theme created called 'squeake'. This 'squeake' theme is activated on my wp-admin Appearance > Themes dashboard.
Using SFTP (FileZilla), I've added a testing class called 'cta-button' to my style.css file with the below properties.

.cta-button { color: red !important; } 

Then, from the wp-admin dashboard I've navigated to Appearance > Editor. I've clicked on one of my navigation menu links e.g. 'Sample Page', selected Settings in the top right, and under 'Advanced' I've added a css class 'cta-button'.
When I hard refresh my chrome browser on the live site ('Visit Site'), the Navigation Page link now shows up in red colour...great however when I move to my wp-admin dashboard and to Appearance > Editor, the Page link remains black coloured (even though I can see the class being added to the element in the Chrome Dev Tools > Elements).
I've created the same situation locally before (via Local or MAMP), but was able to see the changes in my Appearance > Editor view as well as the live site.
I've been through live chats with Cloudways where they've purged the server cache but that did not change anything. I've also turned off all caching plugins on the WordPress app.
Any thoughts or ideas would be greatly appreciated.

My father pre deceased his mother which was my grandmother. He passed in 2018 at age 68 and she passed in 2022 at age 97. He was the middle of 3 brothers. Upon his passing, my grandmother’s will removed him. His younger brother who is my uncle and who I have a great relationship has just informed me that his mothers’s home will be out on the market in 2 weeks. It is worth a considerable amount and he will have quite a windfall after taxes and expenses. My question: Is my mother, who had a great relationship with her mother in law throughout her lifetime and who became widowed through the loss of her husband entitled to anything from the estate. Now I’m pretty sure if my father was excluded upon his death that there would be no legal claim to any portion of the estate, however morally does anyone think that my mother should get anything. Moreover if you certainly don’t think she is entitled to 1/3rd do you think that my Uncle should consider gifting her a small, but meaningful amount form the windfall. Any input is helpful. Thanks.

Hey there,
Just came from the drs and was suggested to try contrave for weight loss/depression/binge eating. The doc gave me samples to try… but I am kinda hesitant to take because yall are scaring me with your stories of being nauseous. I don’t want to be sick all day everyday. Is this really common with this med?

TLDR at the bottom
I have been seeking treatment for and recovering from multiple disabilities and while I was doing so a relative offered to take care of 2 extremely sentimental plants. These are heartleaf philodendrons that belonged to my late great grandmother, then my great grandfather, then passed down to myself. This relative was good with her own plants and i took care of her plants on occasion, so I thought nothing of entrusting my babies to her. Come to find out, she did not take the same care with raising my plants as she did her own, and the original plants themselves died at the base.
I suppose I'm rambling on a bit here but it lost its beautiful long vines, its old and strong base; every leaf my late loved one touched and tended to up until his passing was black or molded and had to be removed. I wish this never happened but now that it has, I need to figure out how to pick up the pieces. Any advice on how to move forward in my effort to bring this plant back is appreciated.
I clipped off a few scraggly vines that seemed mold-free (will vines that are a bit thin still propagate? God, i hope so), and am hoping to help them root, but I have never rooted philodendron before. The plants are definitely philodendron. Not pothos which I have plenty of experience with, unfortunately; or I would know how to help the poor thing.
I am frankly at a loss and overwhelmed with trying to find the best methods to make sure I don't lose this plant for good. I only need one node to grow it into a healthy plant eventually so as long as it roots somewhere it should be fine from then on, right? Sorry if it sounds dramatic, I have so many questions and concerns about how the vines will do.
TLDR; a philodendron that is extremely sentimental to me was almost completely killed while I was ill and I am trying to save what I can. I have a few small sections of scraggly vine that is still green, so any advice to up the odds of them rooting helps.

There has been 427 total playoff series using a 2-2-1-1-1 format. (including the 1st round, 2024). Of those, a 2-2 tie has occurred 161 times (38%).
The higher seeds have a 122-39 record; a 76% chance of winning.
Three of the semi-finals this year are stuck at 2-2:

• Knicks / Pacers - Winners: Home, Home, Home, Home.
  • Past series of this scenario is the higher seed winning 53-16.
  • 77% chance of Knicks winning series.
• Thunder / Mavericks - Winners: Home, Away, Home, Away.
  • Past series of this scenario is the higher seed winning 14-5.
  • 74% chance of Thunder winning series.
• Nuggets / Wolves - Winners: Away, Away, Away, Away.
  • Past series of this scenario is the higher seed winning 4-2.
  • 67% chance of Nuggets winning series (although small sample, and one of the losses was in the 2020 bubble. 4-1 changes this to 80%)

This shows how much the home advantage makes a difference in what is essentially a best-of-three series.
But, multiplying the 3 together gives a 38% of all 3 higher seeds winning, which points to a slight likelihood of there being an upset.
Who would you think is best-placed to upset the odds?

My dad has always had a temper. He doesn’t get dangerously mad all the time but when he does it’s scary. He’s never tried to lay a hand on any of us but he’s the type of person you never want to be around when he’s angry.
Today is my mom’s birthday. And I tried so hard to make her happy. I bought her gifts for Mother’s Day and today because she deserves it and I finally have a job and enough money to do that. I felt like today was gonna be a good day. Until my dad got into one of his shittier moods and yelled at her and made her cry. It was kind of bad. I got so overwhelmed and so upset that I asked to take a walk and walked around 5 laps at a track near my house before walking home. I’ve never reacted like this before. We ordered dinner instead of making it like my mom wanted. Her day was completely ruined and I hate it.
Now I know for a fact where my dad’s anger is probably stemming from. My grandmother, his mom, died on Valentine’s Day. It was a rough loss and I can tell he’s still grieving. This morning, his aunt died (exactly three months since my grandmother’s death). He wasn’t that close with her but I think the thing is he’s mostly very upset for my grandfather, whose life has been completely turned to shit since his wife died. Believe me, I understand why he’s upset. Why he’s grieving. But he can’t fucking take it out on us like that. On my mom.
He thinks we should be taking care of him when he’s grieving, and while that is true, I feel like he’s being so fucking selfish. I wasn’t close to my grandmother but I could have been, and that’s why the loss sucked so much for me. Yet he never asked me if I was okay. Never fucking bothered. I can’t even remember the last time he’s hugged me.
It’s obvious I’m not close with him. I’m so fucking angry. I tried so hard to make my mom’s birthday a good one and he completely ruined it. I want to be considerate but I don’t at the same time. I shouldn’t have to be considerate if he’s not going to be. I know I probably sound like an asshole, but I’m so sick of keeping my thoughts from him out of fear.
Please forgive my ranting. I’m just so done with everything.

Hey guys I'm in st. catharines with 1Gbs cable plan and I'm wondering if there's anything I can do or if anyone has any advice for me. I've done all the troubleshooting with my own network, tried different hardware, different cables, even had teksavvy before that leased cogeco lines, same problem.
This is a 3am sample https://gyazo.com/22627d95908c3d4e0d9dc0814cb12218
This is an 8pm sample https://gyazo.com/30cd59d971dc0ae687c3a0ab83e26190
My job requires constant connection, and I essentially can't use the internet from 8pm-11:30pm, while the rest of the time also has some lag.
The signal to the modem looks fine from their end (of course) and there's no issue with my local network. Has anyone successfully battled and won this issue?
Should I switch back to DSL for the stability and suffer with 50mbs? Keep both and use the DSL for stability and the cable for downloading? I'm at a loss here :( please help
edit: example of packet loss as well https://gyazo.com/b837b09acacb7486606da324b31f2055
(this is pingplotter in case anyone is curious, just sends a constant tracert to a host and records the info)
also, FTTH is not available to my house

Reflecting on 2021, truly marked the zenith of my young career. The pandemic was coming to an end, I was fresh from the hallowed halls of a prestigious but unheralded college, thrust into the corporate labyrinth where, as a mere sidekick to the big shots, I contributed to a deal of record-breaking magnitude. My modest corporate minion life was exaggerated into legend by my professors during an alumni reunion, leading to a rather embarrassing episode where I was paraded around as the poster child of their education career’s success. My parents, not ones to shy away from a bit of pomp, lauded my achievements to anyone within earshot.
But as 2022 unfurled its chaos with the epidemic, my professional life spiralled downwards as swiftly as it had risen. I was laid off, and replaced by a nepotistic hire—my boss's new mistress's nephew. During my dismal final days, my colleagues, once comrades became corporate sharks, whispers of them scheming to claim my last efforts as their own filled the empty office spaces.
Compelled by financial duress to abandon my central city dwelling, I relocated to the outskirts with two college mates, Jaz and Kath, who had similarly found themselves victims of the economic downturn. We settled into apartment 606, a unit with dubious charm, suspiciously affordable on the 13th floor of a dreary building, its corridor haunted by a flickering sensor light that was only designed to function on rare occasions. Yet, the apartment itself was surprisingly very well furnished, almost like something that jumped out from a design mag, out beating sample rooms in Ikea, boasting a spacious balcony, a living room ready for an impromptu soirée, a dining table that’s good enough to hold a banquet(became our co-working space) and a kitchen isle that became our sanctuary and curse.
When we first settled into our new abode, we discovered a trove of fine kitchen utensils, perfect for whipping up sophisticated cuisine and crafting cocktails worthy of a swanky soirée. Tucked away in the fridge, among the remnants of the previous tenants' life, was a quaint note: “The three of us really enjoyed our stay here, especially our meals and nights spent by the kitchen island. We hope you find as much joy in it as we did. Use it well.” With a casual flick of my wrist, I dismissed the note into the garbage can, oblivious to the depth of its seemingly innocuous message. Little did I know, that piece of paper was more a passing of the torch than a simple goodbye.
Our initial days in apartment 606 brimmed with camaraderie and impromptu celebrations: movie nights sprawled on the living room sofas, barbeque dinners under the stars on our balcony, and co-working sessions at the dining table, peppered with resume tweaks and contemplative conversations over cocktails. We even scored a second-hand karaoke machine, allowing me to channel my inner diva—a throwback to my musical theatre days in college and my stint as the voice of corporate presentations and negotiations at my previous job, where I was known for my resonant yet finely tuned voice.
Yet, as the months wore on and the job market remained unyielding, our early merriment slowly surrendered to a creeping anxiety. The kitchen island, once the heart of our home where laughter and shared meals flowed freely, gradually morphed into the epicenter of our collective unease, bearing silent witness to the quiet desperation settling over us.
One evening, in the suspiciously affordable yet stylish apartment, I sank into the sofa, my spirits dampened by my favorite team's disheartening loss. The mood was grim, mirroring my fears of my beloved player's potential retirement at season's end. Later, as we congregated around the kitchen island for dinner, I transformed into an impromptu sports commentator, passionately preaching about the game’s disappointing details that led to failure and my favorite player’s fine qualities. Meanwhile, Jaz updated us on a friend's melodramatic breakup, with guesses that something ugly must have happened behind the scenes. Kath, ever the culinary enthusiast, not only served up her delicious pasta but also dished out the latest celebrity gossip, each tidbit as spicy as her sauce.
The next day, during a late breakfast at the same kitchen island—our unwitting oracle—we were hit by a triple whammy of reality checks. The news of my favorite player's retirement broke, echoing my gloomy predictions from the night before. Jaz chimed in with an update that our friend had uncovered a cheating scandal worthy of its own reality TV special. And Kath, never one to be left out of the drama: her favorite celebrity was now the star of a scandal.
By the third morning, as we sipped our coffee, the newspaper slapped me with another bizarre twist. I was going through the devastating economics and politics sections, then I saw the sports section——featured an irate coach, hell-bent on convincing my favorite player to dismiss retirement plans and keep his jersey on a little longer. Meanwhile, Jaz had good news for a change: it turned out our friend's love story might have a second act after all, as misunderstandings were being cleared up. Amidst these revelations, Kath, who had been grumbling about the nearby supermarket’s inability to stock anything remotely gourmet, and hadn’t had a taste of her favorite Blue Mountain coffee since the beginning of that year, triumphantly found a can of Blue Mountain coffee, and it was on sale and therefore affordable—proof that miracles happen, and sometimes they even go on discount.
As I sat there, absorbing the serendipity of our discussions manifesting into real-world events, I couldn't help but marvel at the mysterious knack of our kitchen island. Was it merely a coincidence, or had this stylish piece of decor become the unlikely conductor of our lives symphony? One thing was certain: life in apartment 606 was never dull, and our kitchen island seemed to be more than just a place to eat—it was a place where, apparently, you could stir the pot of fate.
I decided to conduct a whimsical experiment with our now seemingly magical kitchen island. Clearing my throat theatrically, I declared, "I should be interviewed for a director position." To my sheer astonishment, the next day a headhunter rang me up, claiming I was the ideal candidate for a directorial role at a prestigious corporation in my field. Despite the other candidates possessing decades more experience which defeated me with no effort, and my own lingering self-doubt from months of unemployment, I sailed to the final interview round with the company's executives.
Upon returning to our apartment, I found Kath flaunting a chic dress from a designer brand brand she’d snagged on clearance—a little luxury courtesy of our wish-granting island. Inspired, I approached the island and cheekily requested, "Get us jobs. Something fun." Lo and behold, the following day was spent lounging and binge-watching Netflix, only to be interrupted by a call from a former bigwig at my old job. He was venturing into a more illustrious company and wanted me onboard. The informal chat that followed was a breeze, and just like that, I was back in the game with a fancier title and a fatter paycheck.
The subsequent week was a flurry of celebrations. Jaz secured a senior-level position, and Kath landed her dream job at an influencer management agency. Feeling triumphant, we decided to indulge in a night of fine dining—our first in months. That Friday evening when I went from office to restaurant, on a whim, stopped at a convenience store to grab snacks and cigarettes for our post-dinner revelry. Outside, I encountered a homeless person. After offering him a sandwich (which he traded for a cigarette instead), he took a drag, peered into my eyes, and ominously muttered, “Look, young lady, this isn’t my business, but be wary of what you wish for; everything comes with a price. Good luck and god bless you.”
His words barely registered until later that evening when a mishap occurred that seemed to underline his warning. As we enjoyed syphon coffee post-dinner, a barista accidentally tripped over Kath’s flowing dress. The resulting spill left her with first-degree burns, abruptly ending our night as we rushed to the emergency room. Though it was "just" a first-degree burn, the pain was significant enough to require several days off for Kath’s recovery. Amid the drama, I couldn't help but wonder about the cryptic caution from the man outside the store—had our fortunate streak come with a hidden cost?
We chalked up the coffee calamity to bad luck. The next month flowed smoothly: Kath's fingers healed, she returned to work, and I quickly found my groove at the new job. With all of us gainfully employed, our communal meals at the kitchen island became rare. My mornings were a whirlwind of grabbing breakfast and coffee on the go, followed by an hour's commute to a job that had me scarfing down instant noodles by nightfall, just in time for a quick shower.
As the busy season kicked in, my workload ballooned—not just from the seasonal uptick, but because I was hell-bent on proving my mettle. I quickly outshone most of my peers, and my employer, recognizing a budding overachiever, piled on major tasks, which I eagerly accepted. What started as the occasional hour of overtime soon devoured my weekends. Unpaid overtime, as the fine print in my contract gleefully noted, became my new norm. Driven by a mix of ambition and expectation, I had become the go-to young hotshot, the erstwhile record-breaker now expected to continually outdo myself.
Mentally, I was too swamped to entertain thoughts of anything beyond work, which, in a twisted way, felt like a break. Physically, however, the strain began to show. A bout of flu caught on a business trip escalated into a fever. Sick as I was, deadlines waited for no one, and I soldiered on medicated and miserable. By the time I made it home, my voice had abandoned me. Unable to utter a word the next morning, I resorted to emailing my manager about my sorry state.
That week, robbed of my voice, I mused that it was perhaps a well-deserved hiatus for my overworked vocal cords—a silent retreat if you will. But when my voice did return, it was as a raspy whisper, a shadow of its former crisp and melodious timbre. My doctor offered a grim prognosis: slight improvement might come, but the golden tones were gone for good—scarred by the relentless grind. Ah, the price of ambition—a scratchy throat as a permanent reminder of my corporate conquests.
It seemed I had unwittingly exchanged the clarity of my voice for the tumult of career success. In the midst of our domestic enchantment with the possibly mystical kitchen island, Kath unearthed the contact of a reputed psychic, hailed as the finest in the land. However, the consultation fee was nothing short of princely, and with Jaz vehemently dismissing anything that couldn't be explained by cold, hard science, she promptly opted out of splitting the bill. Kath and I, unwilling to drain our wallets on what could be mere phantasmagoria, reluctantly let the opportunity pass.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but notice a curious change in Jaz’s routine. She had ceased dining at the kitchen island, avoiding it as if it were cursed—or perhaps, in her view, simply out of style. The Saturday morning brought a particularly harsh twist: a murder of crows took to spiralling above our balcony, their cries as sharp as the plot of a Poe novel. We found ourselves drawn to the infamous kitchen island, lined up like the cast of a macabre play, silently praying for the birds to disperse. Kath, ever trying to restore some semblance of normalcy, offered up cups of Blue Mountain coffee. She absentmindedly inquired if I wanted cream or sugar in mine—a blunder that made me realize just how long it had been since our last coffee klatch at this very spot. My inner monologue couldn't resist a dark wish for the crows to scatter, perhaps too dark, for they began to dive bomb our balcony in a feathery kamikaze. The spectacle was enough to knock Jaz off her feet—literally—as her mug met its end on the floor. Kath, meanwhile, made a hasty retreat to worship the porcelain god, and I sat frozen, my brain offline, pondering the twisted power of our kitchen island's apparent wish-granting.
After the unnerving spectacle of crows turning our balcony into a scene straight out of a Hitchcock film, our first rational step—post-collective fainting, of course—was to summon cleaners to manage the feathery carnage. Then, still rattled but increasingly curious, we visited a psychic, who, contrary to the crystal-ball-gazer image, operated out of a posh boutique in a high-end mall and dressed more like she was headed to a fashion show than a séance. We laid bare our saga of the seemingly cursed kitchen island, complete with photographic evidence of where domestic bliss meets eerie phenomena.
The psychic introduced a term that chilled the air around us: “limbo,” the threshold between our world and the otherworldly, and she dubbed our kitchen island the "Devil’s Bargain Counter." According to her, our wishes came with a heavy and unpredictable price, because we have accidentally started trades with beings from the netherworld. Her advice was disarmingly simple: cease all trades on the island. To address the repercussions of past wishes, she advised us the first line of defence, which was an eclectic mix of offerings laid out on our cursed countertop: raw meat(rooster works the best), a cocktail of spices(coca and cinnamon preferably), liberal splashes of spirits(whiskey and rum ideally), and an eerie bouquet of black flowers(luckily I found some black roses at a flower shop of the mall). In a grander gesture of appeasement, Kath relinquished her shiny new diamond bracelet, Jaz her absurdly expensive headphones, and I parted with cash—— a hefty slice of my bonus in hopes of placating whatever capricious spirits we'd angered.
Our return to normalcy was brief but sweet, prompting us to plan a getaway, eager to forget about our nefarious kitchen island. Yet, the respite was merely a tease. Jaz, in a stroke of spectacular misfortune, narrowly dodged disaster twice in one day—first nearly becoming subway track fodder on her way back after work, and then almost getting knocked out by a rogue plant at our apartment building’s doorstep. Clearly, our previous offerings were mere appetizers to whatever forces we'd stirred. The psychic, summoned once again to our now-dubious sanctuary, decreed that the spirits had developed rather expensive tastes, unsatisfied by our initial gestures.
In a desperate bid for closure, we had the psychic over for a nighttime ritual, timed perfectly with Earth's closest approach to the netherworld, according to her. Our living room turned into a ritual chamber, with windows blacked out for days, to keep the otherworldly dealings strictly nocturnal. That night, we arranged ourselves around the island, now less a kitchen fixture and more an altar of last resort.
The psychic, amidst a chorus of Latin incantations, directed us through a chilling séance that included a mirror that reflected nothing but darkness and a burning black candle, the three of us sat in a row, joined hands, eyes closed. When the black candle was flickering at its last, the first eerie scratches heard prompted our eyes to open prematurely, we saw a command appear on the island, written by invisible hand and pen, in blood-red script, urging us to find the next "succeeder" before our lease on otherworldly disturbances could be terminated.
With bated breath, we agreed, and as if by magic, our signatures materialized on the countertop, then faded as the candle sputtered out. We tore off the black cardboard taped on the windows at dawn, the sunrise revealed a final message etched into the surface: "Debt cleared." As the daylight grew, the ominous inscription dissolved into nothingness, signalling the end of our spectral saga.
The ordeal, now officially behind us, left us enjoying a semblance of normalcy: life in 606 returned to its mundane rhythm, with dinners and movie nights back on our social calendar. Though not without its scars—literal and figurative.
It’s been two years since then, Jaz, in the throes of romantic bliss, is now gearing up for a new chapter waiting to be written alongside her soon-to-be spouse; Kath, her career finally taking a lucrative turn, was poised to upgrade her living situation, she secured a lease on a lavish serviced apartment in the city center—a place that matched her newfound financial swagger.
I’m not without my own leaps forward. With a modest boost from my parents, I took the plunge into homeownership, snagging a property within the city’s vibrant confines. The process was a whirlwind of paperwork and decorating decisions, culminating in a space I could truly call my own.
As we are packing up now, my last act is to type out our story, at the infamous island, and of course, I left a note in the fridge for the next tenants:
"Welcome to 606. We had a wonderful time here, especially at the kitchen island, filled with joy and unforgettable moments. We hope you find as much happiness as we did. Use the isle well. Warm wishes, the previous tenants."

In a recent interview on CEO.CA's "Inside The Boardroom," Shane Williams, President, CEO & Director of West Red Lake Gold Mines (Ticker: WRLG.v) , provided valuable insights into the company's recent achievements and future strategies. The interview primarily focused on the company's gold recovery efforts at its Madsen Mill and its aggressive exploration and drilling plans aimed at enhancing resource potential at the Madsen and Rowan Gold Projects.
Williams highlighted West Red Lake Gold Mines (WRLG) as a fast-track developer benefiting from established infrastructure and solid financial backing. When WRLg.v acquired the Madsen Gold Project, the project already had $350 million invested into its infrastructure by previous owners, and came with $270M of associated tax losses. Additionally, WRLG receives financial and strategic support from mining investor and billionaire Frank Giustra, enhancing its operational capabilities and market positioning.
Madsen Mill Cleanup Operation:
A significant achievement discussed in the interview was WRLG's successful cleanup operation at its Madsen Mill. Through meticulous cleaning, previously inaccessible gold reserves within the mill were discovered, surpassing initial recovery estimates. The company anticipates recovering a total of 2,500 ounces of gold from the cleanup program.
2024 Work Program:
Looking ahead, Williams outlined WRLG's ambitious 2024 work program, emphasizing geochemical sampling, regional mapping, and an extensive diamond drilling program at the Rowan property. These initiatives aim to expand resource potential and optimize production capabilities.
Exploration at Madsen:
Williams elaborated on WRLG's exploration endeavors at the Madsen Project, highlighting promising targets such as the North and South Austin zones. These zones, located in proximity to existing infrastructure, hold significant potential to enhance project economics.
Key Drilling Intercepts:
Currently the South Austin zone has an Indicated mineral resource of 474,600 ounces grading 8.7 grams per tonne gold and an inferred resource of 31,800 oz grading 8.7 g/t Au.
Some of WRLG's latest key drilling intercepts from this zone include:
•⁠ ⁠3.1m @ 21.33 g/t Au, including 0.5m @ 32.74 g/t Au
•⁠ ⁠9m @ 6.75 g/t Au, including 0.9m @ 27.91 g/t Au
•⁠ ⁠and 2.55m @ 6.08 g/t Au, including 1m @ 11.08 g/t Au
The interview highlighted WRLG's commitment to maximizing shareholder value through effective resource extraction and aggressive exploration strategies, ill drop the link to the full interview below:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qLemeui0fAA
*Posted on behalf of West Red Lake Gold Mines Ltd.

In a recent interview on CEO.CA's "Inside The Boardroom," Shane Williams, President, CEO & Director of West Red Lake Gold Mines (Ticker: WRLG.v) , provided valuable insights into the company's recent achievements and future strategies. The interview primarily focused on the company's gold recovery efforts at its Madsen Mill and its aggressive exploration and drilling plans aimed at enhancing resource potential at the Madsen and Rowan Gold Projects.
Williams highlighted West Red Lake Gold Mines (WRLG) as a fast-track developer benefiting from established infrastructure and solid financial backing. When WRLg.v acquired the Madsen Gold Project, the project already had $350 million invested into its infrastructure by previous owners, and came with $270M of associated tax losses. Additionally, WRLG receives financial and strategic support from mining investor and billionaire Frank Giustra, enhancing its operational capabilities and market positioning.
Madsen Mill Cleanup Operation:
A significant achievement discussed in the interview was WRLG's successful cleanup operation at its Madsen Mill. Through meticulous cleaning, previously inaccessible gold reserves within the mill were discovered, surpassing initial recovery estimates. The company anticipates recovering a total of 2,500 ounces of gold from the cleanup program.
2024 Work Program:
Looking ahead, Williams outlined WRLG's ambitious 2024 work program, emphasizing geochemical sampling, regional mapping, and an extensive diamond drilling program at the Rowan property. These initiatives aim to expand resource potential and optimize production capabilities.
Exploration at Madsen:
Williams elaborated on WRLG's exploration endeavors at the Madsen Project, highlighting promising targets such as the North and South Austin zones. These zones, located in proximity to existing infrastructure, hold significant potential to enhance project economics.
Key Drilling Intercepts:
Currently the South Austin zone has an Indicated mineral resource of 474,600 ounces grading 8.7 grams per tonne gold and an inferred resource of 31,800 oz grading 8.7 g/t Au.
Some of WRLG's latest key drilling intercepts from this zone include:
•⁠ ⁠3.1m @ 21.33 g/t Au, including 0.5m @ 32.74 g/t Au
•⁠ ⁠9m @ 6.75 g/t Au, including 0.9m @ 27.91 g/t Au
•⁠ ⁠and 2.55m @ 6.08 g/t Au, including 1m @ 11.08 g/t Au
The interview highlighted WRLG's commitment to maximizing shareholder value through effective resource extraction and aggressive exploration strategies, ill drop the link to the full interview below:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qLemeui0fAA
*Posted on behalf of West Red Lake Gold Mines Ltd.

In a recent interview on CEO.CA's "Inside The Boardroom," Shane Williams, President, CEO & Director of West Red Lake Gold Mines (Ticker: WRLG.v) , provided valuable insights into the company's recent achievements and future strategies. The interview primarily focused on the company's gold recovery efforts at its Madsen Mill and its aggressive exploration and drilling plans aimed at enhancing resource potential at the Madsen and Rowan Gold Projects.
Williams highlighted West Red Lake Gold Mines (WRLG) as a fast-track developer benefiting from established infrastructure and solid financial backing. When WRLg.v acquired the Madsen Gold Project, the project already had $350 million invested into its infrastructure by previous owners, and came with $270M of associated tax losses. Additionally, WRLG receives financial and strategic support from mining investor and billionaire Frank Giustra, enhancing its operational capabilities and market positioning.
Madsen Mill Cleanup Operation:
A significant achievement discussed in the interview was WRLG's successful cleanup operation at its Madsen Mill. Through meticulous cleaning, previously inaccessible gold reserves within the mill were discovered, surpassing initial recovery estimates. The company anticipates recovering a total of 2,500 ounces of gold from the cleanup program.
2024 Work Program:
Looking ahead, Williams outlined WRLG's ambitious 2024 work program, emphasizing geochemical sampling, regional mapping, and an extensive diamond drilling program at the Rowan property. These initiatives aim to expand resource potential and optimize production capabilities.
Exploration at Madsen:
Williams elaborated on WRLG's exploration endeavors at the Madsen Project, highlighting promising targets such as the North and South Austin zones. These zones, located in proximity to existing infrastructure, hold significant potential to enhance project economics.
Key Drilling Intercepts:
Currently the South Austin zone has an Indicated mineral resource of 474,600 ounces grading 8.7 grams per tonne gold and an inferred resource of 31,800 oz grading 8.7 g/t Au.
Some of WRLG's latest key drilling intercepts from this zone include:
•⁠ ⁠3.1m @ 21.33 g/t Au, including 0.5m @ 32.74 g/t Au
•⁠ ⁠9m @ 6.75 g/t Au, including 0.9m @ 27.91 g/t Au
•⁠ ⁠and 2.55m @ 6.08 g/t Au, including 1m @ 11.08 g/t Au
The interview highlighted WRLG's commitment to maximizing shareholder value through effective resource extraction and aggressive exploration strategies, ill drop the link to the full interview below:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qLemeui0fAA
*Posted on behalf of West Red Lake Gold Mines Ltd.

My mom’s big mouth is driving me nuts. Apologies for this long rant.
I try to be extra appreciative of my mom and include her in everything in my life. My best friend lost her mom 2 years ago/had to be pregnant and do the first year of having a baby without her and I lost my dad as a young child. So I know what it could be like not to have her or another parent. That being said, she’s stressing me out so much!
For context, this is the 3rd time I’ve been pregnant. The first pregnancy resulted in a loss at 10 weeks and the second resulted in a loss only a week after finding out. We were devastated the first time and driven to seek specialist help the second time. Currently, I’m 9w3d pregnant with twins. My husband and I are so excited, but we’re very cautious. This time, we’ve only told my best friend, our parents, and my brother. We are holding the news tight bc I’m not ready to handle other people’s excitement yet.
At 6 weeks pregnant, my mom told me she told my grandma. My gram and I are close, so it felt like she stole that from me. At that point, it was so early, I couldn’t even take my grandmothers call because I was so hurt my mom told her and I was not ready for her excitement or to hear her ask me to forgive my mom. In the end, i spoke with my mom a couple days later and forgave her. She apologized and cried that she was so sorry. She begged me not to be upset with her. I let it go.
Cut to this past Saturday — my family and friends were at a fundraiser in honor of my best friend’s mom who passed away. When I went up to the bar to order a drink (a ginger ale of course), the bartender who is a close friend says, “I hear you have 2 on the way.” Thats another person she told before I could and before I was ready to, another reaction she stole. I went over to my mom and asked her to please stop telling people. I assured her I was not mad because I didn’t want to ruin the day, but asked her to please stop. Again she begged me to not be mad at her.
Now today— my bestie texted me. She said she didn’t want to upset me, but her sister overheard my mom telling 2 of her friends that I am pregnant with twins. Then she saw the 2 women go over to my aunt and congratulate her about me, and my aunt was not surprised, so that means my aunt also already knew that I am pregnant.
So at this point, my mom has told my gram, aunt, close friend, and inadvertently, my besties sister. All 4 people who I was extremely excited to tell and experience their reaction, when the time is right.
Not only is she stealing my joy, when she already got to have her own joy of telling people when she was pregnant, but she is betraying my trust when she knows we are keeping the news to a very small group of people because of our past losses. It upsets me so much for so many reasons - Joy stealing, the fact that I’m so scared something will happen to the pregnancy and she’s not being mindful of that, and because I want to be able to have a trusting relationship with my mom, but she’s consistently has a big mouth when it comes to my private news.
I texted her today and told her I know about everyone she told and that she needs to stop. I told her I understand she’s so excited, but is that more important than keeping my trust. She said she’s sorry, but I told her I don’t believe her anymore because being sorry means not doing it again. Hopefully this time it sticks! And hopefully I can get over it after today.
Thanks for listening!

Genocide looked to the sky. He thought of his mentor. The one who had saved him. He remembered his childhood. How powerless he was. He remembered the anger. He never wanted to hurt anybody. He thought of all the times he showed compassion. How much they hurt him for it. He saw the world before him, a graveyard. Humans. People that were supposed to be made in the image of some divine creator. They were but maggots feasting upon his remains. They ate away at his very being until nothing human remained. His thoughts were no longer his own. He had no joys in life that mattered. He hated humanity more than he could love anything about himself. He remember his first killing spree. Being gunned down by police. Left for dead. He remembered a hooded figure moving towards him. Getting closer the more he neared his death. He saw its pale face. Its impossibly black eyes. It was a man. This figure in question appeared to be of Japanese nationality with long, straight, loose hair. It emanated extreme malice. It offered him a choice. A purpose. Power. He thought the figure a reaper but it identified itself as Amakusa Masataka. Masataka guided him on how to kill and gave him specific locations to kill people in. In a sense, he became a hitman for quotas of people. He inquired what Masataka was. The presence of evil, his ability to appear and disappear at will, how he could control what people could see him and what people couldn't. While vague, years of killing for this being offered some insight. Amakusa Masataka belonged to a group of people not of this world. His people had been corrupted by a dark force long ago and had aligned themselves with the warlord who had subjugated their version of Japan. Their dark high priest assisted the warlord along with two others. These four rulers in turn served a larger order. The four were tasked with bringing about the end of the current world as an act of retribution for some fallen deity. Masataka's people acted as covert operatives for this empire. They were feared across the land and were collectively referred to as "Shinigami". An agent of the coming apocalypse, a servant of evil possessed by the will of those gods of death, Genocide would walk the earth.
Genocide stepped toward the station. A police cruiser rammed into him. He pulled out a knife and stabbed the hood of the car. The inhuman force of the knife created sparks which burst the engine into flames. The car crashed into a streetlight and exploded. A second cruiser neared the scene. No way a man could have done this. Yet still, out of the fires Genocide strode forth. It set upon the second vehicle, shooting out it's tires while jumping 9 feet into the air. The car tries to reverse but crashes into a wall. Genocide lands on the hood and kicks through the front window. Glass shatters under its boot, blinding the two officers inside. Genocide shoots one of the officers with a shotgun, killing him. The second officer in the passenger seat readies his pistol and takes aim. Only two shots fired, both directed at Genocide's head. It casually cocks its neck to avoid them. Then it grabs the officer's arm, breaking it. Genocide uses its free hand to grab the officer's head and bangs it into the dashboard no less than 5 times. The skull is shattered on the final impact. Genocide jumps off the car and continues on his mission.
Detective Evans speaks through a megaphone," This is your first and final warning. Stand down or we will use any and all means at our disposal to put you down." Genocide dropped its shotgun and raised its hands. A group of five SWAT team members rushed out the station, surrounding Genocide with riot shields. An officer accompanies them, edging behind the figure to apply handcuffs. Suddenly, Genocide springs to life , grabbing the officer behind him. He flips the officer over his head, slamming him into the pavement at his feet. Then Genocide stomps his head causing it to burst. Genocide drops a flash bomb from his coat sleeve, blinding the SWAT team as he draws his knife. He drives it into one SWAT member, the knife puncturing the shield and piercing his chest. Genocide kicks the corpse away withdrawing his knife. He goes to another, this time using the end of his boot toe in a rising kick to disarm their shield. He grabs them by the throat and drives the knife slowly into their eye socket. Another is tackled to the ground and beaten to death despite still being under the shield. Another is picked up and thrown into the fires still burning from the first auto incident. In no time, Genocide stood before an indistinguishable mass of gore, blood streaking across his black leather outfit. He laughed" So this is all you can give me. I'm not entertained." Officers took aim from the station windows, and snipers did so from other rooftops. Genocide laughed maniacally as he was rained down upon from all sides by a hailstorm of bullets. His body convulsed, but he did not fall. Moments more and he was on his knees. Still though, their efforts were futile. Gracia looked out and saw a black mist coalescing around the man in black. His blood. Blood erupted from his body only to transform into this dark mist that reentered his wounds. Genocide screamed. No. It was just an elevated pitch in his laughter. Optimism failed everyone yet again. Gracia saw Genocide holding something in his right hand. She could only make out a beeping red light. Genocide pushed the button triggering the carefully concealed explosives he laid in preparation for this event. C4 explosives went off in all the places he saw fit. The sniping posts he couldn't reach. The assault of lead lightened. Then Genocide drew an RPG from...somewhere. He collected himself and fired at the station's entrance. The explosion shook the station. From inside, the lights began to flicker. Communications were down on all fronts. Had he modified the rocket with some type of EMP? Not good. Amisdst the confusion Genocide entered using smoke bombs to mask his presence. Moving like a shadow, he killed everyone in the lobby silently with his knife. He made his way to the holding cells. Still they chanted. Still they praised. Still they raved for the arrival of genocide. Genocide shot the lock opening the cell. Jim Jimenez walked out and bowed before his master. Genocide smiled. He couldn't have imagined how proficient he had gotten with possession. Well, not quite possession. He had known of the Shinigami's ability to share their thoughts and emotions with humans. Shinigami like his mentor were ancient. They had so many years of memories, such strong a hatred for life that they overwhelmed the personality of the victim. The victim sees themselves as one of them. Shinigami can't force the will of the victim, so they find those who are already similar to them in some way. Genocide found the collective universal distrust of police to be a prime sentiment to capitalize on. He armed the inmates, infecting them with samples of his own dark essence.One particular inmate caught Genocide's eye. He knew the man's work. An arsonist. The one whom he recalls was responsible for blowing up his first car way back in high school. Rather than a standard firearm, Genocide gave the man a random assortment of grenades containing a special surprise. Genocide showed them visions of anarchy, of sending a message to a society that used and disregarded them. While this was also true of how he felt, years of living in darkness had changed him. He needed no purpose. No end goal. No justification. He just wanted to watch the world burn.
Genocide's small army broke off to engage several different wings of the station. Genocide went to the security room. He found Wayne, his informant, playing some FPS on one of the monitors. Wayne took of his headphones and asked," You kill everyone yet?" Genocide responded," No. You should get going before that happens. Your life becomes fair game if I run out of pigs to cook." Wayne clapped his hands, "Aight, GC my man, say less." He packed his things and left. Genocide drew a twin pair of handguns and laid waste to the station. He followed a group that took cover in the men's restroom. Kicking open multiple stalls he was surprised to find...nothing. Where had they gone? He turned around and saw his mentor, Masataka, smiling at him. It looked like him. Long, dark hair, black clothing, and soulless, empty eyes. But it wasn't. It was Genocide's own reflection in the mirror. Genocide smiled. He didn't notice the changes at first. They must have happened gradually. Subconsciously. From the final stall, an officer sprung into action, rushing Genocide, hitting him point blank with a shockgun round. Genocide felt the tingling sensation electrifying his body and grew numb. In spite of the pain, he took a single step. Then, another. He came within striking range of the officer and snatched the shockgun. Two more officers erupted from another stall, battering him with baton strikes. Genocide felt nothing. He clutched the shockgun in his hand like a bat and went to work pulverizing his attackers. An officer kicked in the bathroom door, a woman holding a pistol. She fired multiple times to no effect. Genocide stood covered in blood. He even let her reload. Twice. He wanted to see her despair. Her hopelessness. He walked towards her, shrugging off bullets as they pierced his body. His wounds healed nigh instantly due to the dark essence he had been imbued with. He held her face with both hands, lifting her body off the ground. As she screamed, he used her head to shatter the restroom mirror, running down the full length of it while smashing her into it at several points. He dropped the remains of what he held, washed his hands with soap, dried them, then exited the restroom.
The inmates that rallied for the cause of genocide attacked the station. Fortunately, they were nowhere near Genocide in terms of power and only carried one type of firearm each. They shared his healing ability but could be killed quite easily. Gracia encountered a sniper on the end or a west wing hallway. Other officers waited behind corners unable to get close. Gracia noticed the faulty lighting. In this hallway, the lights flickered in intervals of 3 seconds. Finding a pattern and timing her movements, she rushed the sniper at the exact moment the lights went out. Running the length of the hall, Gracia zigzagged, dodging the sniper inmate's bullets. She jumped on a wall, ran 3 feet on it, then kicked off it, pouncing on the assailant. She fired five shots into him, making sure to hit the brain and the heart. Two severe injuries that were impossible for Shinigami essence to heal simultaneously. Elsewhere, Evans took on another escaped inmate. A vehicular arsonist named Carson. Carson had a bag filled with an assortment of different grenades and was happily giving them out like candy on Halloween. "A flash bang here, a bit of tear gas there. Oh. Wait! Was that an ice grenade? Did the explosion freeze your leg to the floor? Whoops. Maybe a fire grenade will melt that for you. Hold on let me get one fore you," Carson rambled gleefully. Evans looked at the carnage before him. Officers burning. Officers partially frozen in blocks of ice. He took a breath and aimed his wristgun. He steadied his right forearm. Carson readied to throw a random grenade. Evans shot it the moment it left Carson's hand. The grenade exploded directly in front of Carson. Both Evans and Carson looked at each other in shock. Confetti. A party grenade? Carson quickly fumbled for another but was tackled and restrained by several officers. Meanwhile in the South wing, Lary had some colleagues set a trap for another shotgun toting inmate. He had them bait the inmate and flee. Giving chase he turned a corner and ran straight into Lary's fist. The inmate recovered and motioned to shoot Lary. "Let's tango. " Lary gave the code word. Nearby officers activated a device. A signal jammer of sorts. The inmate shoved the barrel of his gun into Lary's gut and pulled the trigger. Nothing. The special signal jammer in question was designed for firearms. It was a last resort as it left officers just as defenseless. Lary was having fun. He boxed the inmate in hand to hand combat. Despite the inmate's enhanced strength, Lary's technique pulled through. Lary ducked under one of the inmate's wide punches and did some type of rising uppercut where he jumped off the ground while spinning. One of the other officers whispered" The rising dragon." Lary smiled giving a thumbs up" Yeah, it was a rising dragon uppercut. Saw it in one O my kid's vidya games. Thought I'd try it out while I'm jacked on adrenaline".
Jim Jimenez looked long and hard at himself in the mirror. He was in the women's restroom. Some brainless woman had broken the men's restroom mirror with her face. For the first time in a long while Jim could think clearly. He was becoming sane. At the least he was no longer a raving lunatic. The life essence of the dark gods had healed the wounds to both his body and his mind. He saw his face, his scraggly dirty beard. He found a razor and shaved. He trimmed his beard somewhat. He liked it. He washed his hair. It fell down his face like silk, no longer greasy. His bloodshot eyes once burning with crazed intensity had cooled. He blinked. Just for a second, he saw the man known as Genocide. The man that attacked him. The one that killed him and gave him new life. The drug dealers. The police. They were all the same in his eyes now. They were all to blame for the world being what it is. Jim wanted to hate them. He wanted to take revenge, but he felt nothing. It didn't matter. He knew he was wronged, could logically justify acting against them, but he just didn't care anymore. About anything. He was finally free. Sensing his presence was no longer needed here, Jim vanished into the night. He needed to find someone who had had the answers he needed. Himself. Who had he been? Who was he now? Who could he become? Where was he going? So many questions to ponder indefinitely. So much time left in the rest of his life.
Genocide ran down the station's halls raining hailstorms of bullets upon its occupants. He had a handgun in each hand as well as a wristgun on each wrist. This effectively gave him 4 separate firearms that he could use simultaneously. Lary regrouped with Gracia, Evans, and a handful of others. They radioed all surviving officers near Genocide to flee to the roof. This plan had been set in motion days before the assault and had been kept hidden from most of the force. The plan involved scheduling flights for several helicopters to arrive at some point after Genocide arrived. There would be no way for him to prepare for them and pre-scheduling their arrival ensured they arrived regardless of if they were called or not. Lary and the others set about preparing the second jamming device. Genocide stood among a hallway of bodies. He saw one man clinging to life trying to crawl away. He decided on trying that other thing he saw his master do. He grabbed the dying man and pinned him to the wall. Slowly he drove a knife into his chest. As the man's life slipped away, something else entered his body. Genocide channeled a small amount of his essence into the vessel. He had steadily done this with other casualties around the station whose bodies were somewhat salvageable. He dropped the body he was holding and looked upon the others. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, his eyed were black, both sclera and iris. The scene before him changed. Genocide had a vision. He saw a dead gray wasteland littered with bodies. These people however weren't cops and wore traditional Japanese attire. In his hand wasn't a gun or knife but a short sickle akin to a farming tool. He heard a dark voice call out to him. Slowly, the corpses around him began to rise, now mere puppets bound eternally to their master's whim. The bodies sold to the reaper who had claimed their lives. Genocide's vision ended. His eyes had returned normal. Around him, dead cops began to rise. His dark essence had entered their bodies and reanimated them. He sent his dead army to attack the officers fleeing to the roof of the station. These zombies swarmed the stairwell giving chase to the few survivors. There were five of them. They had two flights of stairs to climb and a horde of their former colleagues close behind them. One officer tripped and was set upon by the horde. The zombies didn't bite them but held them firmly in place. The other four officers stared down wondering what to do. They could hear Genocide chuckling. They could hear humming. They could feel the temperature rising. Their colleague and the two zombies holding him were hit by an enormous green fireball. Genocide had fired a Magnum Opus and had charged the bullet to level 3. The Magnum Opus was simply a magnum that shot fireballs, with bullets that could be charged by holding down the trigger. It had three levels of charges. Level 1 was a small reddish ball of plasma. Level 2 was slightly larger and yellow. Level 3 was the maximum charge and resulted in a large slow moving green blast of energy. The officer was ignited and Genocide watched gleefully as the force of the blast sent him flying through a wall. The four officers continued up firing occasionally to slow down the zombies. Soon they made it to a door leading to the roof. Before one officer could reach it, he was sniped by Genocide, a bullet to the head killing him instantly. The remaining three made it out. They regrouped with the others already there, 12 in total, including Lary, Evans, and Gracia. This would be their final stand. They just had to hold out until Genocide made it up there. They just had to keep Genocide occupied until the helicopters arrived. Genocide slowly ascended the stairs behind his horde. On the roof, the remaining survivors faced off against waves of the undead. Evans recognized the attackers. These zombies were being controlled by nanomachines. He heard the stories of several weapons encountered by soldiers on the battlefield. These creatures were called Metaldeads as they were reanimated via machines. They had been officially banned by most of the worlds' governments for being unethical. However, this did not stop the technology from being spread still between shady organizations, terrorists, etc. Evans wondered how Genocide got this form of nanotechnology. Evans long speculated that the dark essence used by most of the killers they encountered was a a form of nanotech however it was different from anything else he had seen or heard about. The dark essence seemed to be an amalgamation of other types of nanotech. Evans had to save his inquiries for later. He reloaded his wristgun and took aim at the approaching group of Metaldeads. Gracia steadied her handgun and shot two Metaldeads in the head. From the single door countless arms seemed to spill forth from the darkness. The other officers took turns firing in intervals. this allowed them to create a steady stream of fire where no more that three guns needed to be reloaded at once. The horde seemed to thin out over time as if they were making progress. In actuality, the Metaldeads were just making room for Genocide to enter. Genocide exploded in a sprint from the door. Everyone fired upon the killer. Genocide had now chosen a wrist mounted mini flamethrower to use as his weapon. He stormed past the oncoming bullets taking some damage, but refused to slow down. He unleashed a stream of fire that caught five of the officers in one fell swoop. Gracia fired five rounds into Genocide's face. He stumbled back. Lary took the chance to fire several mine gun bullets at Genocide's feet. The mines quickly detected his movement and exploded. In seconds, Genocide was on his back.
Staring at the night sky Genocide saw the moon. He reached for it. He called for the darkness to give him more power. His wounds began healing. In the sky he could hear the whirl of propellers. There were six helicopters in total. The first two had evacuated the survivors while the others stayed to engage Genocide. Genocide got up and unstrapped the sniper rifle from his back. He stood before the searchlights as a black silhouette, cornered but unwilling to back down. Lary stared down at him smiling. "Okay!" He shouted, "Let's Tango!" Upon this declaration the second jamming device was activated. Now, isolated on the roof, Genocide's guns couldn't be fired and the helicopters were out of range of the device. Now Genocide stood like a sitting duck. A helicopter fired a rocket. Genocide side stepped and grabbed it. He turned his body redirecting the rocket to hit another helicopter. As it exploded Genocide drew his knife and threw it at another helicopter. Behind the knife was such force that it shattered the helicopter window's glass, embedding itself in the pilot. This helicopter too went down where it exploded. "Holy clucknuggets!Did you see that!?" Lary said dumbfounded. Evans looked out the helicopter door he was in jaw open in shock. "There's no way." He collected himself quickly and radioed the remaining two helicopters to keep moving and to use their machineguns as much as possible. The helicopters reigned down upon Genocide tearing apart his body. Shreds of leather and darkened blood sprayed across the pavement of the roof. Gracia watched as Genocide's body was destroyed repeatedly as it tried to heal. Surely he had to stop at some point. After 10 minutes the helicopters had exhausted their cache of ammunition and soldiers opted to fire their own rifles and occasionally throw grenades. After about six minutes, they too had run out of bullets. Genocide stood unfazed. He had long since healed himself and now appeared intangible with gunfire seeming to pass through his body. His coat once ripped , now appeared whole though on closer inspection seemed to writhe. Gracia looked in horror as she remembered the tales her adopted father had told her. Tales he had in turn heard from his predecessors. Every so often officers had reported encounters with ghost like beings cloaked in a cloud of living dark mist. The beings were rumored to be responsible for the deaths of multiple people ranging from scientists, veterans, mafia, politicians, etc. They were seen near such crime scenes and even more shockingly appeared around several sites where suicides were committed. These beings were reportedly impervious to bullets and filled anyone who got near with an impending sense of dread. If Genocide was connected to them or somehow turning into one , there was little chance they would be able to defeat him. Gracia's fears were confirmed when she saw that Genocide's leather coat had been destroyed and he had replaced it with the dark mist coalescing from his own spilled blood. The dark mist, swirling, grew larger and several tendrils sprouted out from it. Gracia could briefly make out a figure standing next to Genocide. A hooded figure cloaked in the same black substance. The figure stared up at her with soulless, blackened eyes which seemed to beckon her to jump from the aircraft she was standing in. Compelling her to give in to the death that plagued the earth. Genocide kneeled to his master. The Shinigami, Masataka stared down at his disciple. "You have done a great service to us. Even now the sealed god stirs in its slumber. Its...Awakening will soon be upon us. It calls out for war. It begs for famine. It longs to continue its conquest. We are the death it so desires. The death that is necessary for this civilization to grow. Use the power that I have bestowed upon you. Finish the mission as you see fit." The Shinigami vanished and Genocide stood.Genocide stared at his hands. He remembered the first killing spree. He was on a bus. It stopped. A woman got on the bus and walked to the back smiling as she passed him. Something about her eyes unnerved him. They were so bright but something dark reflected inside them. He ignored the thought and put in his headphones. In minutes he had dozed off. He jumped awake. He looked around and froze in panic. All around him, everyone had been hacked to pieces. He saw the driver, actively being stabbed by a masked assailant. The mask, painted white with black eyeholes, stared back at him. It raised a finger over where its lips would be. Even under the expressionless visage, he could feel that same smile. He ran home that morning. He went to his room to find it destroyed. His posters, his computer, his tv, everything, had been ruined. He turned around and saw a man at the end of the hallway holding a sledge hammer. "The hell you been, boy?", his stepdad sneered. The man dropped his hammer and walked closer, veins pulsing with rage. He tried to explain how his car had caught fire forcing him to walk 4 miles to the nearest bus stop, but the man's fist was faster than his words. "Boy!Answer me when I talk to you!!" the man says as he backhands the taste out of the would be Genocide's mouth. He took that beating for several minutes before being left to stare at his ransacked room. He hated how his stepdad went out of his way to destroy the things he loved. Soon, another set of footsteps could be heard. It was his mother standing behind his locked door. She didn't knock, or say anything. She just stood there, doing nothing as always. He never knew if she came to talk to him or apologize. All he knew was that she could never bring herself to speak to or even acknowledge him. Maybe out of guilt or perhaps shame. A year or two later after he had had enough he ran away from home. Living out on the streets alone, without friends, or family, he would embark on countless killing sprees. These killings weren't of his own volition however. He was coerced by some corrupt officers from The Unit. They made him kill on their behalf. Sometimes they were protesters, sometimes they were drug dealers, other times, petty criminals they couldn't be bothered to process. It was routine for him to be used to kill entire houses of drug riddled addicts. During one such venture he entered a drug den, killing the dealer as instructed. He took out several junkies before turning to leave. A woman who survived her injuries clung to his heel begging him to stop. Looking down he aimed the handgun he was carrying at her head of long disheveled brown hair and fired. Feeling nothing, he kicked her body aside like trash when it hit him. Her face. This woman had been his mother. What was she doing in a place like this? He felt a shock of emotion. He wondered if she had always been like this, or had she changed after he left. He never made amends, but decided to stop killing from then on. The unit did not like that. Once it became apparent that he was no longer of use to them they started a manhunt to apprehend him with lethal force. They found him. They killed him. But he survived.
He remembered the girl on the bus. He remembered her eyes. Those of a sadistic killer. Still there was something else inside them. Something faint but deeper. So. Much. Sadness. Just like him. He felt the hatred begin to spread. His purpose, he decided, was to make all humans rot in the hell they created for him.
These people, he thought to himself, these living diseases, all needed to die. Their struggles, their problems, they spread like cancer to others. The only cure for humanity's sin, its collective wrongdoings, was genocide.
Around him, dark tendrils continued to form and expand, spinning in a vortex. Genocide pulled out two pistols. He squeezed the triggers to no effect. "As I see fit, huh? Hehe." He squeezed both guns in his hands, breaking them into pieces. He concentrated. In his hands, two more guns materialized now completely black due to being forged from the dark essence. Forged by his will. Immune to the jamming device that shut down conventional firearms. He raised his arms at each remaining helicopter and opened fire. Countless tendrils whipped out and slashed at his targets joining the dark essence bullets. It was chaos. Dark tendrils and bullets tore through every direction as Genocide spun and swirled around in 360 degrees firing randomly with purpose. A tendril pierced Gracia's right arm, another, her abdomen. She was however, fortunate, as the other passengers of her helicopter were dismembered. She barely had time to jump from the vehicle before it crashed. She fell 2 yards onto solid concrete. She felt immense pain as her right shoulder shattered on impact. She looked up to see Genocide's blade like appendages ripping through the other escape helicopters. She rolled onto her back and tried to steady herself. Within seconds her body began to repair itself. The nanocells inside her had saved her life but were now depleted. She would need another supplement lest she receive another fatal injury. The standard nanocells she and the others had were much less potent than those of the killers they faced. In truth, they had only minimal strength boosts being able to lift 5-8 more pounds than before and healing being limited to one or two fatal injuries so long as death didn't occur instantly. Gracia blacked out. She awoke the next morning in a hospital. There the doctors refilled her nanocells. She learned that the station had been left in ruins. Genocide had detonated some type of minature nuke following his rampage. He always blew up the stations as if to send a message. Gracia looked out the window thinking about why she became a cop. Twice her family had been murdered by them. Her biological family had been killed in an on record drug raid committed by a group of corrupt officers called The Unit. She had been adopted by another officer that arrived at the scene who found her as a child hiding in a closed. Sadly, he too was killed for trying to expose the activities of The Unit. Gracia joined the force to avenge both losses and bring justice to the killers that disguised themselves as normal people. Law enforcement was neither good, nor bad. It depended upon the people that made it up. In the dying corrupt world Gracia lived in, she vowed to be a beacon of light. Evans laid in a bed adjacent to Lary. "That damn Genocide's somethin else in' he?Like the stories you told us were understatements. That man could legit not die at this point in the story. Like he has friggin plot armor or somthin.'' Evans cut him off" I get it. We all got our asses handed to us. But did you see that ..thing that appeared next to him. Right before he created that black vortex that wiped us out. That must have something to do with his power. Maybe there's a still a way to stop him."Lary chimed in," That fella looked like he was on the way to a black metal concert wit all the black facepaint he was wearin' Creeped me out to be honest." As the survivors mulled over their predicament, the cycle of evil continued to spread elsewhere.
Budley flips through the pages of a magazine. He checks his watch. He looks around the gas station and doesn't see any customers. Seizing the opportunity, he puts in his headphones and begins playing an imaginary guitar as he jams to a progressive deathcore album. Oblivious to the screams coming from outside, the store clerk moves on to thumping two candy bars on the counter to simulate drums. Budley sees that his shift has ended and begins locking up the store. He sweeps the aisles and jumps as a shadow appears behind him. He turns and sees a well groomed bearded man dressed in a black hoodie, black shirt, and black and gray camo pants. The man holds out his hand and smiles. Budley rings up the pack of nicotine substitute gum. "Tryin to kick the habit huh?" Budley asks. The man replies, "Somethin like that. Gotta get my priorities back in check. Focus on the things that really matter. That damn KonCreep's a hell of a band aren't they?" He nods to the playlist on Budley's phone. "Yeah, they're killer. just got into them a month back." Budley answers. "You know, I'm something of a musician myself. Maybe you'll hear of me on the news someday." Jim Jimenez says as he sees himself out. He walks to the back of the building and passes an ominous form of graffiti. A woman lays unmoving and above her, written on concrete in red is a message that simply says "Genocide Reigns".

The patient presented with what appeared to be normal H but insisted she had a severe HL... OK, fine. Got her into the booth, hooked her up, and presented at 40 DB. Red... dropped to 30 Red, dropped to 20 Red, dropped to 5 red... at that point, decided just to do the main 4 and turn it into a screening. Got the patient out and said, "You're great! No issues, congrats!" She then said, "Oh no, no, I thought you said to push when I didn't hear anything??"
I said, "What? No, you did it correctly. You pushed it at every tone. You're fine. "
She then continues, "No! I didn't hear anything, I swear. Can you retest me?"
At this point, I'm just thinking ... OK crazy..
Get her back in, present at 40. Nothing. Move to 50 nothing, 60, 70 (at this point she's also contorting her face) Responding, then not responding when I validate and she's all over the place. Yes, no, yes, no
Classic malingering.
At 3K, I stop the test and tell her she's done. She's getting out of the booth, and I begin to counsel her on what appears to be going on. I ask, "What's the deal here? You clearly would not benefit from any treatment, so tell me why you insist on needing a hearing loss?"
Finally, after about 6 rounds, she admits (long story short) that her grandmother raised her, she's going to college in a few months, and grandma can not hear. She's worried about this, and because she is on state insurance but grandma only has Medicare. She was hoping to give her these. I counseled her on individual loss, why her RX would not fit Grandma's, and law and ethics.
She was devastated. I invited her back WITH Grandma, and I plan on gifting her the new top of line series. But never have I seen something like this. If anything, it's the opposite. Spoilt adult children whining that their small should be there inheritance is being wasted on preserving cognitive abilities in Mom or Dad.