Beef-witted

I received this beautiful gift commission of the smoothie crew (plus Pat and kittens) in Agua Caliente by @alibonbonn courtesy of @thiefylilelf 💕💕

Spoilers for season 2 of Bridgerton, I guess.

Here is how it goes. She is on a horse. She is good at riding horses, as she's demonstrated repeatedly throughout the season. It is raining. Her suitor/lover/ex/whatever shows up and her horse rears in response, dumping her from the saddle. She falls to the ground and does not get up. Suitor checks on her and discovers 1. she's out cold and 2. She is bleeding from the back of her head.

He brings her to her home. She does not wake up during this time. She does not wake up for days. I don't know that the number of days was specified, but it seems to be around four or five.

She wakes up. She immediately recognizes her sister. She says she feels fine. She remembers the ride in the rain and falling from her horse. She is immediately concerned about whether her suitor came to visit her while she was sleeping and not, you know, the life threatening concussion she just had.

Friends, this woman is dead. She is not among the living. She is passed on. Bereft of life, she rests in peace. If someone sustains a head injury and is not somewhat conscious again in like 30 minutes, there is a strong possibility they will never be conscious again (especially without the interventions of modern medicine--neurosurgery is needed for severe injuries).

There is no button on your head that if you push it hard enough, you get a nice nap that lasts a random amount of time. That's not what a concussion is. It's brain damage. You don't just get a concussion and "sleep it off." In fact, if you see someone get a concussion and they decide they really want to go to sleep, it is your duty to 1. keep them awake and 2. get them to a fucking emergency room.

Now they didn't have emergency rooms in Bridgerton, but that doesn't matter, because she's dead. She died. She's pushing up the daisies. Four days. FOUR DAYS. But let's say a miracle occurred and she's not dead.

Kate would be left with anything from blurry vision and trouble concentrating to having to learn how to walk or talk again. She could have gone blind or deaf. She would almost definitely have one hell of a headache. She would not be spinning about the dance floor that evening because she would be too dizzy and uncoordinated for that shit and she would be for days if not weeks if not permanently. Even in a moderate case with eventual full recovery, post-concussion syndrome can last for months, and it sucks.

I am TIRED of shows using brain damage like it's a tiny lil nap. Just knock someone out and then you can sneak past them/skip the plot ahead hours/have them languish in bed for days and not feel guilty for it. It doesn't work like that. Bonking your head and going to sleep for four hours is a life-threatening life-altering situation, and not a "tee hee we snuck past the enemies without having to kill anyone!"

One of the many reasons machine learning is stupid AF:

I live in an area that gets tornadoes. When the weather is bad, I will look up the tornado situation. When there are warnings or sirens, I will search for local news stations to watch regarding the tornado.

Google has assumed for years now that I have a general interest in tornadoes and will occasionally give me push notifications about tornadoes that are happening halfway across the country, except news reports don't often have as the headline "here in Far Away, Kansas, we are having a tornado situation." They say things like "urgent tornado warning issued" or whatever. And then I have to figure out what the hell is going on.

But I can't just straight up tell Google to ban tornado from my push notifications, because I really do want relevant ones. Which means I have to specifically say "stop giving me updates from each local news channel in Kansas are you kidding me"

Ahaha you are so right. They are both in a way a reluctant caretaker of the other, though they might take turns at it a bit. Here, a section where it is Pat's turn:

“I don’t need your help,” Achilles says while sliding his arm around Patroclus’s shoulders. He leans heavily on him. “I haven’t needed your help in ages.”

“I am aware.”

“Pff.”

They lurch toward Achilles’ room together. Patroclus wraps his arm around Achilles’ waist and gets a better grip on him. The man is solid muscle and a bit too big these days for Patroclus to carry him out, though it still might be easier to try than get Achilles to walk in a straight line at this moment.

“I do everything myself,” Achilles mutters.

Patroclus knows he should ignore this comment from a drunk prince who probably does have more responsibility on his shoulders than he would prefer, but it’s too ridiculous to let slide. “I wonder what the girls who feed and bathe you and do your laundry and scrub your floors would say about that, or your generals who lead your men or the stableboys or even your horses who drag you around.”

They are through Achilles’ door, and Achilles shrugs Patroclus off of him and stumbles to his bed. Patroclus thinks this is probably good enough, and he is about to turn and leave when he sees Achilles struggling to get his bracelet off. He keeps spinning it around his wrist, unable to find the catch, then fruitlessly tries to tug it over his too-large hand.

It’s pathetic.

“Allow me,” Patroclus says with a sigh, and he doesn’t wait for Achilles to respond before he reaches for his hand and finds the clasp. The bracelet springs open, and Patroclus places it on his bedside table. He scans Achilles for more problems that might dig into him as he sleeps, and reaches for his foot to undo the bangle there. Achilles is at least able to pull the pins out of his chiton, though he tosses them on the floor like an imbecile.

When Patroclus reaches up to take the headband out of Achilles’ hair, Achilles grabs his wrist. He stares into his eyes and says, “I would have done this for you.”

Cheap words that smell like stale wine, but he stares at Patroclus with his drink-dulled eyes like he means them, like he cares. Maybe the wine was enough to awaken his long-dead fondness for Patroclus. Patroclus just wants to finish this and get out of his room.

“I don’t drink to excess,” he states, pulling his hand out of Achilles’ grasp.  

It’s not entirely a lie. He has in the past and perhaps then it would have been nice to have a very large friend looking out for him so that he could make it home safe and not be robbed of anything vaguely shiny he might own, but that experience was enough for him to realize how foolish he was being.

Achilles lowers his head for him and mutters, “Neither do I.”

Patroclus only pulls his hair a little while removing the headband.