Since the highway exploded, here’s your annual reminder that in New Jersey there is a lovely high-speed train with stops for you to get on instead of driving.
wait the highway EXPLODED?
what the fuck is going on in Jersey bruh
It might have been in Pennsylvania, I am not entirely sure
I-95 North in Philly.
PennDOT closed Southbound too because it’s “structurally unstable.” Think it was a tanker that exploded in the underpass of I-95 North?
Lately I’ve been seeing a lot of decoden and polymer clay questions about what to use to as a gloss/glaze. Almost every time the first response is “Clear nail polish, duh!”.
This needs to stop if people want to be creating quality items. Sometimes I’m afraid to buy handmade things for fear that they have been sealed with clear nail polish and they will deteriorate over time. I want to buy things that will last!
I’ve reblogged this before - but it’s sooooo important. crafting signal boost
Oh jeez, I didn’t even know that was a thing. No - never use nail polish thats a horrible idea.
A mark on your forehead identifies the god you must worship to stay alive, usually by joining its local church or temple. Your mark is unknown, meaning an old, forgotten god sponsored you. To survive, you must either find an old temple to worship at, or do the arduous task of building a new one
Nobody in your small coastal village has ever seen the Godmark that you were born with. It’s a dark russet sequence of criss-crossing lines, with a vertical arrowhead on the left and a circle on the right, just over where your brow meets your temple. Some of the traders who come down from the mountain say it looks like one of the scripts used in the hinterlands, but not a language that any of them recognize.
“If she’s got the temperament for it, she should try her luck inland,” they advise. “No point her starting a temple here if she’d find her people elsewhere, with a little searching.”
At first, your parents are reluctant to send you away. Though you’re well-behaved and diligent in your chores, you’re a sickly child with no God to worship. And besides, you’ve always been the dreamy type–inclined to lose track of time watching the path of rain droplets chasing down the window, or the fronds of an anemone as it sways in a rock pool.
Instead, they send you to the temple of the Storm to learn all you’ll need for your own God. You are happy there, for a time: making up beds and serving food to the castaways who pass through, keeping vigil at the lighthouse, burning incense and praying with the loyal widows and orphans of the drowned.
One such widow, an old, old lady, touches the mark on your forehead. “I recognise those letters. We wrote this way in the town where I grew up, way off past the mountains.”
Your heartbeat quickens. “What does it say!?”
She squints, eyes engulfed by wrinkles and hidden behind smudged glass. “A… Ar… Oh, I can’t remember how to speak it. I left before I learnt my letters properly. There was a war, you know. But I remember,” she says, mistily, “the most beautiful pink and white flowers used to grow, on the borders of the wheat fields…”
You try to ask more questions, but remembering the war distresses her, and so you speak of other things. When she’s drifted off to sleep, you get to your feet, go home and tell your parents: you are leaving in search of your God.
Parts of the country where self-service gas pumping is illegal.
I didn’t know about New Jersey’s law so imagine my shock when a pump jockey sprinted at my car and kicked my door shut when I tried to get out to get gas. I rolled down my window and asked him “Is there a law against pumping your own gas or something?” And he looked at me like I’M nuts and just said “…yes?”
