So our bathroom is measuring length wise 96”.
We want to do a separate shower and soaker tub.
We have found a 54” tub in length and a shower that’s 40”.
The shower is a 4 piece enclosure, one side being glass that id like between the shower and bath and 2 sides fiberglass that would go on the two walls.
The bathtub is alcove style, so the two sides, back and left would butt up against the wall I’m assuming we should cement board, red stuff (brain doesn’t work can’t remember name currently) then tile to prevent water damage on the back and left wall..
However, if we went with these 2 options for shower and bath we have 2” of room. Should we go smaller for a tub? Is that a snug fit? Or is 2” of room for this enough?
There’s existing plumbing in this area by the way of 2 sinks and the plumber we had out said that the drain is the same as it would be if it was a shower or bath, so just need to move the faucets up/over and put the correct style.

Our house was built in 2016 and we have a tankless water heater. Water pressure throughout the house is relatively ok (could be stronger but we can live with it). The problem is our kitchen faucet. The water pressure is very low and recently we’ve had issues with inconsistency of hot water coming out of it. We had a plumber look at it and he cleaned the screen in the faucet but that didn’t resolve the issue. Apparently we have sediment in our water line. He also adjusted the main water line valve to open it up slightly but problem is still there. Any suggestions on what could be the problem and how to properly resolve the issue would be most welcome.

TW/Animal Abuse
​
After seven years, I was still disgusted. I waited for my dad to call me to do the dreaded chore. I sighed, as I lay in bed and halfheartedly played with my phone. He was preparing a concoction that had such vile ingredients it was done in the basement. On the floor of my bedroom, Bella and Barney, our Australian Sheep Dogs stretched out, panting softly.
A text message interrupted my scrolling.
It’s ready, meet me in the kitchen.
I pocketed my phone and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Bella and Barney got up and followed me downstairs. I entered the kitchen where my father waited for me, his mask pulled down below his chin, big orange safety gloves on his hands, holding a large bottle used to feed young livestock. He reached out and handed it to me. I took it, my face closed and resigned. He snorted at my expression.
“It’s almost time,” he said. “Don’t look so glum.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “But only until the next cycle starts.”
I walked to the door, and a sudden thought made me stop. I turned to look at my dad, who was removing his mask and gloves and putting them in the sink.
“Couldn’t we find a way to end it?” I asked.
“Audrey,” he replied. “I think if there was a way to make it stop for good, they would have done it. This is the only way.”
I nodded, the end of my mouth quirking in a half smile. I should have expected that answer, but it was hard to accept it. This will always be my life. Someday it will be my sole responsibility. I walked out into the cool September night, Bella and Barney padding softly behind me. We approached the barn, and I opened the door. There was the sound of a soft and sickly bleat. I stepped inside, but my faithful dogs waited outside. Even they were disturbed.
I flicked on a light and went to the stall where the unnerving sound came from. I opened the door, and approached the animal, my stomach queasy. The lamb looked bloated, its curly coat giving off a greenish sheen. Its eyes were nearly colorless, and it struggled to stay on its feet. I approached the animal, and put one arm around its head, steadying it. Then I took the bottle of formula and shoved it into the animal’s mouth. It was too weak to struggle as I made sure it drank every drop.
When I was finished and closed the door to the barn, the dogs fell into step with me. We were halfway back to the house, when they both stopped, looking past the fields of our farm towards the forest edge. They started growling, a low vibration that made me halt in my tracks. I looked out, towards the forbidding darkness of the forest. I could not see anything in its inky depths. But my stomach was gripped with fear.
“Bella, Barney,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Hackles raised, they started snarling and then barking furiously they ran off towards the forest. I stood there, mouth agape for a few minutes and watched them disappear. I felt a thrill of fear go through me. They had never acted like this before; they were gentle herders of our flock of sheep. I tried in vain to call them back, then gave up and went back to the house, my footsteps an echo of trepidation.
“Dad!” I cried as the door slammed behind me. “Bella and Barney – they ran after something in the forest!”
My father got up from where he sat reading in the living room and came over to me, mouth set in a firm line.
“The forest?” He said, “It’s not time….we are on schedule. Maybe it was a rabbit or something.”
“No, you don’t understand,” I said in exasperation, my hand to my head. “They were growling, it’s like they were afraid of something – but then they just ran off barking. I could not get them to come back!”
My father went outside and scanned the area. He tried calling them, moving further away from the house. I waited and watched, wringing my hands, and biting my lower lip. Our dogs never ventured into the forest; I believe they could feel the malevolence of the place in there that was our family’s responsibility to keep at bay for over a hundred years. What if….my stomach clenched as my mind spun with horrible thoughts. After twenty minutes my father returned.
“What will we do?” I spoke. “What if…the thing got them.”
“Maybe they saw a coyote,” my dad replied. “Don’t worry, they will come back.”
He walked up to me, and gently tilted my face up to look at him. Eyes wide he gave me a smile of encouragement. I am sure I did not look convinced. He took me in a hug, and the side of my face pressed into his shoulder. His flannel shirt smelled faintly of pine and mint, and his body warmth was soothing. Then he let me go.
“Go get some sleep,” he said. “We can go out in the morning and look for them if they don’t come back. I’ll stay up a few more hours.”
I nodded, heading for the stairs, and glanced out the door briefly as I passed it. Bella and Barney always slept on the floor near my bed, for nine years out of my seventeen. I have no siblings, and my mother died when I was eight. I climbed into bed, feeling the emptiness in my room without them with me. I slept fitfully, pulling the blankets tighter around me as fearful dreams of my dogs being torn apart by the malevolence in the forest plagued me.
I woke in the morning with the sheets all twisted around me. I was groggily untangling myself when I heard scratching on the screen door downstairs. I stumbled quickly out of bed and pounded down the stairs. Opening the door, Bella and Barney came in, tails wagging. They licked my hands, as I felt all my muscles release from pent up tension, my insides trembling from relief. They went to the kitchen and drank from their water bowls then padded into the living room and flopped down on the rug in front of the fireplace. They put their heads down, and closed their eyes, breathing big, exhausted sighs.
My father walked into the kitchen and smiled when he saw our dogs snoring softly.
“See?” My father said. “I told you they would be back. The sheep will be fine in the paddock today. You can let them out with Bella and Barney when you get back from school.”
While I was getting ready, my father made breakfast. After we ate, he drove me to the school bus stop, which was five miles away from our remote farm. I waived goodbye to him as he headed to the city for his construction job.
“Hey Audrey,” said a lanky boy, with a mop of curly brown hair as he walked up to wait with me.
“Hey Martin,” I replied.
He looked at me intently for a moment. I felt my face heat up.
“Do I look that awful?”
Martin shrugged. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”
I bopped him on the shoulder. “I had a bad night sleep.”
The bus pulled up with a squeak and a huff, and we got in.
During fourth period English, I was busy writing an essay when the vice principal walked in and whispered to my teacher. I noticed it vaguely, trying to finish my work. Then he was standing at my desk. This felt weird…
“Audrey, can you come with me back to the office?” the vice principal said.
I looked up, glanced over at my teacher whose face looked pale and concerned. She nodded and waived her hand for me to go.
“Sure,” I said.
We walked into his office, and he gestured for me to take a seat in front of his desk.
“Your father’s jobsite called us,” he said gravely. “There’s been an accident…”
A shock went through me, and I grabbed the chair’s armrests as I felt my body tremble and bile rise in my throat.
“Is he okay?” I gasped.
“He’s been transported to the hospital,” the vice principal said, his face grave. “I talked to your teachers. Get your things we called an Uber to take you to him.”
I nodded, my head feeling light, and nausea rising. I tried to stand up, but lost my balance. The vice principal reached across the desk and steadied me. I looked up at him gratefully and left the room to go to my locker. The bell rang, and kids started to nosily fill the hallways. In a daze, I bumped into someone.
“Watch out there, Audrey!” said Martin as my shoulder met his chest.
I stumbled backwards, and he gently grabbed my arms so I would not fall. “Hey, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“M-my father…” I stammered. “He’s been in an accident at work. I have to go to the hospital.”
Martin’s eyes widened, his mouth slightly opening. Then his eyebrows lowered in concern.
“Oh god, I am so sorry,” he said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yes,” I said, as I remembered my dogs. “Can you ride your bike over to my house after school? I will give you the house key. Please let Bella and Barney out, they have been in all day.”
He nodded, then followed me to my locker. I got my backpack and fished out the key. He took it from me and gave me a quick hug. I felt the contact settle my fluttering heart a bit. Then I made my way to the front steps of the school. A few minutes later I was in the backseat of an Uber, on my way to the hospital. The ride felt surreal, and the beating of my heart filled my ears. I could not feel the passage of time, it felt interminable as my head filled with fearful thoughts.
Finally, the Uber stopped, in front of the large grey and white, sprawling complex of Memorial Hospital. I got out and went inside to the front desk.
“I’m here to see Leonard Klein,” I told the woman who looked up to me from her computer.
“And you are?” she said.
“Audrey Klein, his daughter.”
She gave me a sign-in sheet and started typing on her computer. “He’s in ICU, 3rd floor.”
I gulped, a tremor going through me. Then I nodded and headed to the elevator.
On the 3rd floor, a nurse brought me over to a curtained off area. “He’s stable for now,” she said. “But he needs to rest.”
The curtain swished open, and I gasped, tears clouding my vision at what I saw. My dad lay in the hospital bed, his right leg and arm in a cast. His head was swaddled in heavy bandages, and his face was puffy and purple.
“Dad, I’m here,” I said, the words coming out with a squeak.
His eyes cracked open and darted over to where I stood. I walked over to him and rested my hand on the arm without the cast.
“Audrey,” he whispered. “I need to tell you something important.”
“Can it wait?” I said. “Maybe you should not be talking, the nurse said you need to rest.”
“No, it can’t,” he said softly. “Get my keys from my jacket pocket, I think they left my clothes here somewhere.”
My eyes darted quickly around the curtained off space, and found his clothes on a chair, his beige jacket folded on top. I grabbed his ring of keys in a side pocket and brought them over to him.
“You see the silver key stamped with an S?” he said.
I fumbled with the keys in my hands, until I found the one matching his description. I showed it to him.
“Yes, that’s the one,” he said. “Take it with you. There is a safe in the back of my bedroom closet, if anything happens to me it is important that you open it. Everything important is in there.”
“Okay,” I replied. “But I won’t have to open it – you will be alright!” I could not in a million years bring myself to accept otherwise. But he did not answer, his eyes closed, and his breathing deepened.
“Dad!” I cried.
The nurse poked her head in. “He’s on a lot of painkillers,” she said. “They knock people out. Time to let him rest.”
I nodded, my lower lip trembling, and wiped the tear that fell from my left eye with the back of my hand. I made my way down to the front desk, where I made sure they had my cell number and they said they would call me with updates on his condition. Then I ordered an Uber to take me home.
On the ride back, I wrapped my arms tightly around my stomach, squeezing hard. An occasional shiver would go through me, as my mind raced on my father’s words. I could not get the memory of him in that hospital bed out of my mind, and I kept fighting off the dread by whispering to myself that he would be okay over and over again.
As we got nearer to my family farm, I called Martin.
“Audrey,” Martin said. “How’s your dad?”
“He’s in ICU, doped up on painkillers,” I replied. “Broken bones, and a head injury.”
“Damn,” Martin said. “You going to be okay alone?”
“Yes,” I said, although my feelings of trepidation did not bely my words. “Were you able to let Bella and Barney out?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “They were okay, but probably needed to piss really bad. You need me to meet you there with the key?”
“I have my dad’s key,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Well, just call me if you need anything.”
As we got off the phone, I could see the farm in the distance, as the setting sun sent its last rays over the tops of the surrounding woods. The car dropped me off and turned around as I made my way down the dirt driveway that leads up to my house.
“Bella, Barney!” I called. “Hey guys, I’m home!”
I kept calling as I got closer and scanned the area. They usually did not stray that far, and if they were shepherding our flock of sheep, they would be bringing them in, and I could see them coming down the gentle slope of the fields. My voice caught in my throat as I remembered their mysterious disappearance the previous night. I broke into a run, my calls turning into shrieks.
I raced around the house then over towards the barn and sheep pen. A foul smell made me almost choke. Rounding the barn, I cried out, my hands shooting up to my mouth. There was no movement in the sheep pen. It was a sea of bloody bodies, they were all on the ground, their throats slit. I fell to my knees and screamed. I felt like my scream filled the world. But not even that sound brought Bella and Barney back. They were gone….

Location: Indiana
Long post, trying to give all information, including communications and relevant contract sections.
In short our leasing agency recently announced their intent to switch utility (water, sewage, and trash) to a RUB (Ratio Utility Billing) system where each tenet will pay for utilities based on their use of said utilities. Previously we were paying a flat rate of $65/month for these utilities.

Relevant Communications

Email from Property Manager 6/5/23
^{Dear Valued Resident(s},)
^{We will be switching from billing a flat rate for utility services to using a RUBs system. Please read this letter carefully, to familiarize yourself with the upcoming changes and what to expect.
What is RUBs?
RUBs stands for Ratio Utility Billing. The system is used to calculate residents' monthly utility costs based on the actual utility bills.
Why switch from Flat Rate Billing to RUBs?
Using RUBs allows the company to ensure we are charging residents fairly. By using a flat rate billing system, there is no way to tell if residents are being billed correctly. Flat rate billing can result in residents being under or overcharged for their utilities.
What to Expect:
Residents receive monthly invoices for their total charges via email and mail.
The invoice will include online account information, to allow residents to see their upcoming bill before the monthly invoice is received. Residents can also contact Conservice directly for any questions about their bill.
The 1st invoice will be sent during the last week of July. The invoice will include utility charges for June’s usage and payment will be due 8/1.
Flat-rate utility charges will still be due for June and July. Credits will be issued on the flat rates paid in June and July during the month residents are billed for June and July’s usage. Please let me know if you have any questions.
Thank you,}
----------------------
Follow up to the question "What utilities are you referring to?" Email from 6/5/23
^{Hello,
WateSeweTrash and Pest Control only. Electric and Gas will still be the
responsibility of the tenant.
Thank you}

Relevant Contract Clauses

Note: Our current lease (A) ends 7/31/23 and have signed a new lease (B) to 7/31/24. From the property managers email it seems we are having these charges apply over June (this month) and July, therefor, I will be including lease clauses from both year's documents where there are relevant changes.
1.4 Rent (Lease A)
^{Rent is payable in monthly installments in advance without notice at the rate of $$990.00per month due on the 1st day of each month. Terminating the lease early does not release the tenant from paying the entire lease term amount. The rent is payable to West Lafayette Apartment Group, LLC or as Tenant may be advised from time to time in writing.
NOTICE TO TENANT: ​Tenant further agrees to pay a late fee of $50 if rent is paid after the 5th day of the month. Any late payment must be in the form of money order, cashier’s check, or certified check. Checks will NOT be accepted as payment for late rent. If Tenant does not pay rent within three days of the due date, Landlord can start to have Tenant evicted and may terminate the Rental Agreement, as this constitutes written notice in conspicuous language in this written agreement of Landlord’s intention to terminate and proceed with eviction.
Where the term of the Rental Agreement commences on a day other than the first day of the month, Tenant shall pay rent unto the Landlord equivalent to the prorated daily amount for each day of the month from commencement of from the first day of the month of the Rental Agreement, payable prior to the Tenant taking possession upon commencement of the Rental Agreement or on the first day of the month of the Rental Agreement.
If Tenant moves in at any point during the month of August, Tenant is responsible to pay the full months’ rent for August. Under no circumstances is the month of August pro-rated. All leases starting in August are considered to begin on August 1st, and any other date shown in Section 2 "Terms" as the commencement date, is just a reflection of tenants chosen move-in date, but tenant agrees the actual lease begins on August 1st​ . Tenant understands Landlord only agreed to sign this lease under the condition that the actual lease start date for any lease starting in August, is August 1st, regardless of the tenants chosen move-in date.
In the event Tenant signs a lease more than a month in advance of the lease start date, Tenant must pay the first month’s rent and any deposits and move-in costs one (1} month in advance, and for any lease starting in August, tenant must pay first month’s rent and all other deposits and move-in costs by July 1st, which is one (1) month prior to the lease start date.)
1.4 Rent (Lease B)
^{Rent is payable in monthly installments in advance without notice at the rate of $$1,050.00per month due on the 1st day of each month. Terminating the lease early does not release the tenant from paying the entire lease term amount. The rent is payable to West Lafayette Apartment Group, LLC or as Tenant may be advised from time to time in writing.
Base Monthly Rent: 985
Monthly watesewetrash: 65
Total Monthly Rent: $1,050.00
NOTICE TO TENANT: ​Tenant further agrees to pay a late fee of $100 if rent is paid after the 5th day of the month. Any late payment must be in the form of money order, cashier’s check, or certified check. Checks will NOT be accepted as payment for late rent. If Tenant does not pay rent within three days of the due date, Landlord can start to have Tenant evicted and may terminate the Rental Agreement, as this constitutes written notice in conspicuous language in this written agreement of Landlord’s intention to terminate and proceed with eviction.
Where the term of the Rental Agreement commences on a day other than the first day of the month, Tenant shall pay rent unto the Landlord equivalent to the prorated daily amount for each day of the month from commencement of from the first day of the month of the Rental Agreement, payable prior to the Tenant taking possession upon commencement of the Rental Agreement or on the first day of the month of the Rental Agreement.
If Tenant moves in at any point during the month of August, Tenant is responsible to pay the full months’ rent for August. Under no circumstances is the month of August pro-rated. All leases starting in August are considered to begin on August 1st, and any other date shown in Section 2 "Terms" as the commencement date, is just a reflection of tenants chosen move-in date, but tenant agrees the actual lease begins on August 1st​ . Tenant understands Landlord only agreed to sign this lease under the condition that the actual lease start date for any lease starting in August, is August 1st, regardless of the tenants chosen move-in date.
In the event Tenant signs a lease more than a month in advance of the lease start date, Tenant must pay the first month’s rent and any deposits and move-in costs one (1} month in advance, and for any lease starting in August, tenant must pay first month’s rent and all other deposits and move-in costs by July 1st, which is one (1) month prior to the lease start date.)
1.10 Utilities (Lease A)
^{Tenant agrees to pay for electric and gas utilities and reimbursement of unnecessary or wasteful water usage. Tenant shall pay all costs of hook-ups and connection fees and security deposits in connection with providing utilities to premises during the term of the Rental Agreement. Tenant shall be liable for any inspections required by local authorities/utility companies due to Tenant's failure to obtain service at time of occupancy or to maintain said service during the term of this agreement.
All ordinary water, sewer, and household trash service will be paid by Landlord. If Tenant has been found to neglect from informing landlord of a water leak/waste (for example a running toilet} which is wasting resources and can cause costly water and sewer usage bills, Tenant can be held liable for any costs incurred due to neglect from informing Landlord of said problem. The costs for this range from $35 to $100.)
^{This unit has been equipped with water conservation shower heads, toilets, and aerator devices on kitchen and bathroom faucets. If Tenant is found to have removed any of these water conservation devices and replaced them with different equipment, said Tenant will be responsible for $40 per month water reimbursement for the entire lease term. If Tenant is found to have removed any of these water conservation devices and replaced them with different equipment, said Tenant must return that equipment to its original place upon moving out. Failure to do so could result in a replacement fee of up to $100.
Furniture and mattresses are not considered ordinary trash. Furniture and mattress removal is at the sole cost of the Tenant. Tenant will be responsible for the cost of removing any furniture or mattress left outside of the apartment or next to the dumpster area. We will charge $25 per piece of furniture. In the event of Tenant default on payment of utilities Landlord may pay and charge Tenant as additional rent together with any penalties, charges and interest.}
1.10 Utilities (Lease B)
^{As set forth in the attached utility addendum, which is incorporated herein, tenant agrees to pay all utilities including but not limited to Electricity, Gas, WateSewer, Trash, and Pest Control. Tenant shall pay all costs of hook-ups and connection fees and security deposits in connection with providing utilities to premises during the term of the Rental Agreement. Tenant shall be liable for any inspections required by local authorities/utility companies due to Tenant's failure to obtain service at the time of occupancy or to maintain said service during the term of this agreement. Failure to initiate service or keep utility service in the Tenant name will result in charging tenant applicable charges and fines of $50. In the event of Tenant default on the payment of utility Landlord may pay and charge Tenant as additional rent together with any penalties, charges, and interest. Note that, in some cases, buildings were built to combine utilities on meters that the tenants are responsible for paying including but not limited to sump pumps, common area lighting, hallway lighting, exterior lighting, and common area laundry.
All utilities are paid by Tenant, either directly to the utility service provider or to the Landlord as a flat rate or a reimbursement based on any fair and legal method including per foot calculations and/or number of occupants in a unit.
In the case when Water, Sewer, Trash, and Pest Control are paid by Landlord, the tenant will be charged a flat rate or the service provider will invoice Landlord, and Landlord or Landlord’s billing company will allocate the resident’s portion based on any fair and legal method including per foot calculations and/or number of occupants in a unit.
Trash must be disposed of inside of trash containers or receptacles only. Failure to do so may result in fines. Furniture and mattresses are not considered ordinary trash. Furniture and mattress removal is at the sole cost of the Tenant. The tenant will be responsible for the cost of removing any furniture or mattress left outside of the apartment or next to the dumpster area. We will charge for each piece of furniture.}
1.36 Entire Agreement
^{This Rental Agreement contains the entire agreement between the parties hereto and all previous negotiations leading thereto and it may be modified only by a dated written agreement signed by both Landlord and Tenant. No surrender of the premises or of the remainder of the term of this lease shall be valid unless accepted by Landlord in writing.}
1.40 Additional Terms
^{Wherefore, the parties have executed this Rental Agreement or caused the same to be executed by their authorized representative, the day and year first above written. This Rental Agreement supersedes all prior written or oral agreements and can be amended only through a written agreement signed by both parties. Provisions of this Rental Agreement shall bind and inure to the benefit of the Landlord and to the Tenant and their respective heirs, successors, and assigns.}
3.17 Changes
^{Management reserves the right to change or rescind any of the policies and to make other policies as necessary for the care and safety of the premises or the comfort and convenience of the Tenants.}
Note: If you feel like you need additional information I'll be watching the comments closely and updating as necessary. Edit notifications will be commented below the post which suggested the edit.
Thankyou

I’m looking at replacing a 3 hole kitchen faucet with a single hole faucet and base plate. The problem is I need a base plate that is at least 11 1/2” long to cover the existing holes. I’ve only been able to find standard 10-11” plates. Anyone know of a source or ideas to extend one? The only thought I’ve had is to cut a 12” piece of thin stainless sheet metal, drill, and place under the new faucet base plate. I don’t know how that would look and am hoping to avoid the hassle.

I think it's my bathroom sink because I brush my teeth, do nasal irrigation and wash my hands. I've heard it's the kitchen sink though. I just wash veggies and keep dishes in there tho

This guest post by SHRIMOYEE NANDINI GHOSH is based on two essays about the men and women of Kunan Poshpora, that appeared in the Kashmir Reader dated 1 September 2013, and 13 January 2014.

Beneath the horrors of the mass rape committed by Indian troops in the twin villages that night in February 1991, lies the untold story of systematic torture of men, carried out by the same forces with the precision and deliberation of a planned military operation.
In June 2013, a Public Interest Litigation filed in the Jammu and Kashmir High Court, by fifty Srinagar based women, supported by human rights group Jammu and Kashmir Coalition of Civil society (JKCCS) had resulted in a Magisterial order for the further investigations of the mass and gang rape by Indian army personnel of the women of Kunan, and neighbouring hamlet Poshpora, in Kupwara District of North Kashmir on the night of February 23rd-24th 1991. The police, it appears from the lack of any remotely investigative activities in the villages to have done little if anything, by way of following the court order in the last six months. On 14 September, 2013 they asked for and were granted an additional three months time for further investigations, without notice to the survivors who are legally represented in the case.
However, the closure report, which police had failed to file for twenty – two years, and which had been presented before the Magistrate of Kupwara just weeks before the Public Interest Litigation, in March 2013, had yielded several important previously unavailable official documents. These included a hand drawn police map, a nominal roll of 125 army personnel (including several officers) who were admittedly part of the operation and in Kunan-Poshpora that night, statements from victims, witnesses and army men mentioning specific locations, times and incidents, and the official medical reports of some of the rape victims. JKCCS had decided after some deliberation that if the police did not appear to be doing any investigations, they would themselves, aided by the new documents, attempt to rescue from oblivion the events of that night. Over the last three months, they have been engaged in a process of interviewing villagers, explaining to them what the police papers say, seeking clarifications, and attempting to piece together as coherent a narrative as possible given the constraints of resources, the lapses of memory, the reticence of rage, grief and repeated recounting, and the deaths of crucial witnesses. On 24th August 2013, I accompanied a team of human rights lawyers and researchers from JKCCS to the village of Kunan, on one of their visits. I was told that their interviews with those of the women who wished to speak was almost complete, and the day’s planned interviews were mostly with men from the village. Previous conversations, as well as police statements showed that interrogation centres had been set up in the village during the operation, and witnesses referred to extreme and extensive torture of men, but this was not specifically recorded in the First Information Report, and formed no part of the official list of crimes that occurred that night, which consists of rape, house trespass and illegal confinement.
As in the police documents, Kunan Poshpora has become inscribed as a story of rape in Kashmir’s public memory. But something else also happened that night. A crime so commonplace in that age of cordons and crackdowns that even the men who were its victims, barely thought to mention it, attending instead like the rest of us to the outrage of the raped women. As Ahmad Ameen put it, ‘They let us go home after the crackdown, in the morning at about 9 am.’ [Some men were bleeding; others were barely conscious and had to be carried. One man told us he crawled home on all fours].‘That’s when we realised what had happened. What they had done in every house. Then all hell broke lose.’ Several of the men were somewhat laconic when the interviews began. ‘Joh karte hai, wahi kiya’, Rahim Dar said. ‘They did what they do.’ And indeed they had– with wood, water, electricity–those universal implements for the infliction of finely calibrated pain. JKCCS believes on the basis of preliminary conversations that between hundred to a hundred and twenty men from the two villages were tortured that night. A total of twelve men were interviewed during the course of the day I visited, by three teams of researchers. I think it was after the fourth time I heard mention of medical treatments for sexual dysfunction, that the true irony of the ‘emasculation’ metaphors that are so abundant in talk about the Kunan-Poshpora rapes dawned on me. What I often dismiss as misplaced patriarchal indignation had been repeatedly made flesh that night. ‘Oh! Come on’ I want to say aloud, every time I hear or read the words ‘rape’ ‘our women’ and ‘impotency’ in close proximity–‘It’s NOT about you!’, but this time it was. And it involved wires, needles and a portable DC battery.
A kind of unmooring from the realms of human language has characterised the description of the Kunan Poshpora rapes. District Magistrate S.M Yasin’s report speaks of being unable to put down in ‘black and white’ the acts committed by the ‘beasts’ for instance, and the rape survivors themselves talk of the chaos of a toofaan, of foul smelling shaitaans apparating through their black-outs and disassociated states as they lay in the dark . But, as I listened to the men, ranging in age from 90-year-old Lal Dar (68 at the time of the torture) to 40 year old Manzoor (18 in 1991) their torture seemed to bear a somewhat different relationship to language and the world. What happened to them was nailed to a scaffolding of banal bureaucratic and military terms—interrogation, information, identification, search, cordon, crackdown—and tethered to mundane physical objects and familiar places–-buckets, logs and planks of wood, helmets, torchlights, batteries, wood sheds, barns, streams and trees. As the men spoke I began to picture that night, not as an endless orgy of a horde of rampaging beasts, but as a quiet and efficient military operation, carried out by trained men. Four companies of men from the 4th Rajputana Rifles, 68th Mountain Brigade commanded by a Colonel K.S. Dalal, in fact, as the army itself admits in police statements. Alpha and Delta Companies were deployed in the outer cordon, Bravo and Charlie in the search and interrogation. While teams of ten to twenty soldiers, sometimes headed by an officer who they were heard referring to as ‘Sir’, went on a systematic house to house search, rooting men out of their beds, demanding to be taken immediately to militants or hidden weapons, strip searching them and burying them in the snow, their comrades were otherwise engaged. Most of the commissioned officers were deployed at the ‘interrogation centres’ according to the army. Two kuthars (large barn like outbuildings for storing grain, fodder and cattle) within yards of each other, belonging to Asad Dar and the village numberdar (revenue official) Aziz Shah, and Abli Dar’s home, on the main lane of Kunan’s maze of winding alleys, were quickly commandeered and their lofts or rooms converted into make shift ‘interrogation centers’, while their compounds formed a holding space for the men. All three were provided with the same basic equipment – a bench fashioned out of planks of wood, a large wooden log, a bucket of chilli water, a couple of wires connected to a radio battery forming a crude live-circuit, assorted sticks and ropes, a few chairs, and somewhere to suspend the men from–but adaptations were made according to available resources and geography. For instance, in Asad Dar’s yard through which the village stream ran, repeated dunking in its icy depths formed part of the standard procedure. At two of the compounds, Aziz Shah’s and Abli Dar’s where firewood was stored in the wood-shed a bonfire was lit, around which parka-clad soldiers chatted and drank, and villagers recovered from their water treatments. At Asad Dar’s kuthar a tall, fair and somewhat chubby faced officer sat on a chair before a wireless set, giving orders and flashing his torchlight. Downstairs, in all three yards, men squatted or stood in the snow waiting for their possible turns on the equipment. Occasionally when they went up, they saw a neighbour or brother who was before them in line, slumped on the floor at the head of the stairs. Some like Salim Dar, whose brother was a surrendered militant, paid a visit to two of the three centers. He still walks on crutches as a result.
The village of Kunan has changed in twenty-two years. It is no longer ‘the huddle of thatched and wooden houses’ that journalists described in 1991 (‘Indian Villagers Tell of Mass Rape by Soldiers’, The Independent, March 19, 1991). Buildings have been torn down, and rebuilt in brick, cement and tin. The chashma (natural spring) that emerged from the earth behind Aziz Shah’s kuthar has dried up, and only a muddy depression now marks the spot. Ghulam Afzal walked with us around the hamlet amidst squawking chickens and curious children, pointing out the sights– ‘this is where the Abli Dar’s old kuthar stood, that there- is his new house…this is the wood shed in which I hid, this is the nallah along which Naba ran, this used to all be clear ground then…’ For some reason, seeing those buildings brought home to me an intimation of what it was like to be a man from Kunan-Poshpora on that night, in a way even their words hadn’t.
What was it like, I found myself imagining, to be squatting in your own snowy barn yard, drowning in your tin bucket, broken and blubbering on your hard granary floor, blinded by chillies from your own store? And then all the hypotheticals began, as my mind ran on and on. How did it feel I wondered to hear the sounds coming from the village? Yah Khudaiyo! Yah Khudaiyo! Could you hear them over the sounds of the interrogation? Pakistan, Militants, Samaan, Information, Bol Saala! Could you hear them over the groans of your neighbours? Could you hear them over your own yells? Which was worse–to definitely identify the scream of a loved one, or merely contemplate if it was them, through the fog of your insensibility? What was it like to be told you could leave in the morning, to be given painkillers by the army doctor, (Capt. Dr Shyam Sundar accompanied the unit according to his own police statement), to come home and realise what had seemed so far like a recurring nightmare—another crackdown, agonising but vaguely familiar –had been another kind of visitation altogether? And then, to unable to leave or get help for two days, because of the army siege around the village? To have no family or neighbours to turn to, because everyone you knew, was in precisely the same state as you? What kind of courage did it take to be Abdullah the compounder, from neighbouring Trehgam who snuck into the village using the back route through Chopan Mohalla, to deliver what analgesics and first-aid he could knowing it to be hopelessly inadequate? Or most unimaginably of all, to be Abdul Wani. To return from an over night business trip to Srinagar and find your front door broken, your two sons in bed electrocuted, your wife and three daughters raped, and your family’s barn turned into the village torture chamber? How does one live with such knowledge? And having held one’s peace for twenty two years, how does one begin to tell a stranger with a note book, not about what was done to the women, not about what was done to the never to be named teenaged girls, but what was done to you, to your own aging and scarred body, all those many years ago?
That night is full of other kinds of silences, not as innocent but just as tortured. What can one say of Abdul Ghani, the police constable who was related to several families in the village who accompanied the soldiers on their rounds, and signed a ‘No Objection Certificate’ (NOC) the next morning stating that the villagers had no complaints? He appears in many accounts like some kind of will o’ the wisp with a torch light— relaying messages between houses and family members; accompanying one man back to his home to fetch more firewood, allowing him to peep in through the windows and see his wife on the kitchen floor but not to enter; giving water to a woman with a broken spine; getting locked in a cow shed for remonstrating with soldiers; carrying a cousin home on his back in the morning, weeping as he related what he had witnessed. How do we begin to disentangle the betrayal, the subversion, the unlooked for kindness of it all? Constable Abdul Ghani Dar’s statement of what he heard, saw, and did that night, would have formed a crucial part of the prosecution evidence, if the case ever comes to be tried in a court of law. But ‘unidentified gunmen’ murdered Abdul Ghani in his bed in 1993, pumping thirty bullets into his gut, rendering his words hearsay, and obliterating them from the legal record.
Several other critical eyewitnesses have died in twenty two years, including Sharif-ud-din Sheikh who led the fight to get the police report registered and the case heard in the State Human Rights Commission. Some have died as a result of their rape or torture that night, others from age, bullets or disease. By some estimates from villagers, fifteen of the rape survivors have had hysterectomies. Along the way I lost count of the many other surgeries, unsuccessful treatments, chronic aches, intolerable pains and nameless ailments I heard described. One, however stood out. Lal Dar, whose knee was shattered by a rifle-butt early in the proceedings, and who spent most of the night sprawled in the snow outside his home watching the comings and goings of the men, said that he subsequently had two surgeries, the second to remove his knee cap. He said he could not bend his left leg any longer. He finds it hard to pray.

A Meeting in the Park
Impressions and reflections on meeting the survivors of the mass rape at Kunan Poshpora, at the Sher- e-Kashmir Park in Srinagar on Human Rights Day, 2013

It came as a surprise. I don’t think any one, even amongst the organisers of the event at Sher- e Kashmir Park, on December 10th, had expected that women from the two villages would come. It was assumed that the survivors would be represented by members of the Village Committee, elderly men folk from Kunan and Poshpora, themselves survivors of the mass torture that took place on the night of February 23rd-24th, 1991. But the women had come, almost thirty of them. They had arrived in Srinagar by Matador van, leaving their homes in Kunan and Poshpora at seven in the morning, when the frost was still hard on their windows. I had met some of them before, but it was different seeing them here in Srinagar. I couldn’t remember all their names; their biographies had come detached from their faces. Many of them hugged me.
I remembered S. though, one of the more outspoken survivors I had met— her sharp, twinkly eyes behind thick, black rimmed granny glasses, her wide smile full of crooked teeth, in a face wrinkled and brown like a walnut. We had met at Kunan, in August 2013, when I accompanied a legal research team, from Jammu and Kashmir Coalition of Civil Society (JKCCS) who was representing them in their recently renewed litigation against the Indian army. She had spoken fiercely about the injustice of it all; the many outrages that she read about everyday in the papers, her desire to see such criminals behind bars for life. Her anger was loud and visceral. But when it came to the actual events of that night, she had refused to answer any questions. She had a terrible headache, she said. She could not wait, she had blood pressure, she was dizzy—she had to leave, she always felt like this when she thought of that night, she would not talk to us anymore. It was the only interview that had to be abandoned half way. Today, she was complaining about the long journey, ‘bumping-bumping-bumping all the way.’ ‘We should have come by Sumo’, she grumbled. But, it seemed to me that despite this, she couldn’t quite mask her delight at being out in the sunshine. In the open, amidst the falling leaves, outside the shadows of their men folk, their kitchens, their village, the women grew garrulous. S. told me of her daughters, one married to a doctor, the other working at the Social Welfare Department. At one point, Gul Fatima, from the Association of Parents of Disappeared Persons, wife to a disappeared man, came over to the group of Kunan Poshpora’s women. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked them. ‘From Kupwara’ S. replied, naming the district. Then, a shadow seemed to cross her face. ‘Kunan – Poshpora’ she said. We’re here from Kunan Poshpora.’
Many of the women from Kunan Poshpora, did not wish to be photographed. The cameras made them uneasy. Some of their children, and grand children they said, did not know their stories. They huddled together and covered their faces with scarves, but the photographers persisted. It felt undignified– cringing behind shawls, cowering under ‘We Demand Justice for Kunan Poshpora’ posters, being asked to join the circle and sit in the appropriate place like an errant schoolgirl, when one had wandered away to avoid the cameras. In 2004, Manipuri women activists protesting the rape and killing of Thangjam Manorama had shocked us by their dramatic inversion of the figure of the cowering and shamed raped woman. Stark naked, they had stood in front of the Assam Rifles Base at Imphal, holding a banner that read ‘Indian Army Rape Us’. The photograph had made headlines across the world. I thought of it as I pleaded with a particularly intrusive photographer on behalf of the women to ‘please respect their privacy’. At this, he turned around and asked me, ‘Why have they been asked to come here, then?’ .I didn’t really have a good answer. It is true. We do need them. We want to have their pictures. We want to put faces to their tragedies, to commemorate their losses and violations. We need them to remind us that we remember, that we have not lost the battle against forgetting yet.
After I got home, the women of Kunan Poshpora, and their attitude to the news-cameras, made me think of a question. Would the agitations against the Shopian rapes in 2009, have been so angry, so volatile, so strong, if Asiya and Neelofar had lived? If they had survived, would we have heard of them at all? And if we had, what particular stories would we hear? Perhaps their rapes would have been covered up, as so many have been in the villages of Kunan and Poshpora, in the name of marriages, families, reputations, futures, for the sake of preserving innocence. A raped dead body makes for an uncomplicated heroine– worthy of both victimhood, and martyrdom. But a living rape survivor is a different being altogether. Her speech and her silences are more fraught. The women of Kunan Poshpora have been voices, not victims through these twenty three years. They have spoken back to the forces of occupation, before media crews, independent fact finders, the police, the state human rights commission and the courts of law. But, they constantly remind us– by covering up before our cameras, by getting dizzy, by blanking out, by her reticence before our questions, that we are all incriminated in her secret yet public shame.

https://kafila.online/2014/01/20/kunan-poshpora-the-other-story-shrimoyee-nandini-ghosh/

So, it finally happened—and I can’t remember the last time it did.
The spelunking sound of my phone hitting the toilet water horrified me. I looked down and revolted as I observed my phone at the bottom of the toilet. I quickly put my hand in there, grabbed the phone and rushed over to the sink to rinse it, and my hand, off. I then struggled to remove the case and proceeded with a more thorough rinsing of the case’s components and the phone itself. Lastly, I grabbed a sanitizing wipe from the kitchen and proceeded to complete the cleaning process.
What did I learn from all of this?

1. The phone is water resistant, but we already know this.
2. After keeping the phone in a somewhat rugged bulky case that I bought even before I received it, the phone is very svelte.
3. The phone, without a case, is EXTREMELY slippery. I almost dropped it three times while I let the case dry out.
4. Glass phones are stupid. Not only is this responsible for point three above, it also allows the back of the phone to become the most powerful fingerprint magnet ever invented.

TL;DR: Don’t sweat it if your phone hits the loo—it’ll be fine—and there has to be a better material than glass for the back of “premium” phones.
Cheers.

I'm not really sure where to begin, but I do know that I need some advice....
So, it all started with a sticky note. First it was one... Then two... and now I've got a whole drawer full of them. Maybe I should give you a little background information. I moved into my first apartment about a month ago. It wasn't anything special, but it was mine. I noticed the first sticky note when I was stocking up my refrigerator with the copious amounts of Chinese takeout I'd ordered for the night. I was tired after all the unpacking and decided to just order a little bit of everything. I don't know how long the sticky note had been on my fridge before I noticed it, but midway through putting my egg rolls in there, I noticed a plain yellow note with one simple word scrawled across it in thick black ink.
"Welcome."
I glanced at it and didn't pay it very much mind. It was midnight at this point and the only thing I really wanted to think about was getting into bed. Honestly, I figured it was either a note from the previous tenant or the landlord. Crumpling it within the palm of my hand, I discarded it and headed off to bed. The next morning when I stumbled into the kitchen though… There was another one.
“Hi there.”
A look of complete and utter confusion was plastered across my face. Frantically, I ripped it into shreds and shoved it into the trash. I know I hadn’t heard anyone come into my apartment any time during the night. I’m usually a very light sleeper. There’s no way anyone could have snuck in without me noticing. Then again, I was exhausted that night... So maybe? The next night I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling for hours waiting to hear the sound of the front door creaking open. I never heard a single thing, and before I knew it, I’d dozed off. The next morning, I crept into the kitchen expecting to see another note. The second I rounded the corner though, a nervous giggle bubbled from my lips and I sighed a breath of relief when there was no sticky note on my fridge. I thought I was just scaring myself. It must have been there with the one from the night before and I just hadn't noticed it? Making a beeline to the bathroom, I hurriedly began to get myself ready for the day. Since I’d stayed up so late, I slept in a little later than usual. Squeezing some toothpaste onto my toothbrush I lifted it to my mouth and immediately dropped it into the sink when I noticed something stuck to my mirror.
“You look beautiful today.”
Chills raced over my arms and it took all I had not to work myself into a full blown panic attack. My heart was pounding and my breathing was shaky. My hands gripped the side of the sink as I stared up at the sticky note and then quickly scanned the bathroom. I called in sick to work that morning and tore apart my entire apartment looking for some type of explanation. Some part of me thought I might find some sticky note pads or pens stashed away somewhere, but I didn’t find any of that.
I’m not sure what I should do if they continue, but I do know I can’t afford to move out right now. Any advice on what I should do is welcome. If I receive another one, I will keep all of you posted. It has been a week since that incident and I haven't received any more. Up until then they appeared in my apartment like clockwork though, so I'm sure there will be an update.

For the past 2 years I have been working with my gyn to try to understand what is happening to me.
As a teen/early adult (18-22) I was super prone to BV and seemed to always be on some sort of antibiotics (that then gave me yeast infections) and be constantly fighting off the next infection. When I found boric acid I was so relieved and thought all of my issues were behind me.
I had a good year at 23 and had little to no vaginal issues and then randomly at 24 started getting frequent dark discharge and having pain in the opening of my vag which made sex super painful.
The discharge and pain can happen for months at a time and then randomly clear up for a week like nothing happened. I’ll resume life as normal and then it starts flaring up again. Ive been given every steroid cream, pill, and ultrasound to try to understand whats happening. One of my ultrasounds showed fibroids and a later one showed fluid in my cervix which can indicate infection.
I am so over doctors saying they dont know and throwing the kitchen sink at me with bullshit meds.
ANY advice or words of consolation are appreciated. Im only 26 and fear my vag will be broken forever.

Hi. 34/M. And I hate my body because of it's inability to heal from injuries.
Three years ago, I became disabled during the prime of my life, age 31, after an allergic reaction to a pharmaceutical. I nearly died from it, I was crippled, and I required 5 surgeries over 2.5 years (soon to be 6 it appears) to walk without aid again. For about 3 months at the beginning of this year, I was feeling better. Not "normal", but nearing a new normal where I'd soon be able to shop for my own groceries or go for leisurely half hour walks. Not so fast.
After so many surgeries I had to implement a stretching routine to get going in the morning. On 4/20 I woke up knowing something was seriously wrong under my right foot. Doing a simple, basic downward dog every day for 2 months suddenly did me in. How pathetic huh.
Went to my foot doctor. X-rays we’re normal. Ultrasound showed some inflammation. 7 weeks out from the onset, I'm at a loss. I've done EVERYTHING you can think of. Threw the kitchen sink at it from day one. Every conservative care measure and hocus pocus "cutting edge" technology stupid conning doctors threw at me. Nothing. At about 5 weeks, I had an MRI done. The MRI was unremarkable, so there is now officially no explanation for this pain. Now I have doctors telling me it's "in my head" and just a "hyperactive nervous system." That sort of medical gaslighting is very triggering because that's what I was told when I had ruptured tendons. No, there is something wrong. It "healed". Just incorrectly. I'm almost at 2 months and at my wits end and if it doesn't heal in another month, I'll need another surgery. I'm so tired of the money pit of conservative care that doesn't work even 1% for people like me. I see people have an open fracture with a bone sticking out of their leg and recover in 12 weeks. I can't heal a ligament the size of a fingernail.
I wish doctors would stop blowing smoke up my ass. Not only do I hate my own body, I generally dislike the human body. Sure it's a miracle in some ways, but when I see a video of a Great White shark that got its back sliced open by a propellor and see it make a full recovery with new cartilage a week later, I feel so insignificant and pathetic. After 200,000 years our bodies still haven't evolved to repair collagen like tendon, ligaments, and cartilage the same way we repair muscle and bone and we can't do it even with modern medicine.
Every video I've watched on this injury I have the comments are littered with people going "did you heal? I'm 6-12 months out and not healing", people just begging for answers from strangers that they're not getting from their doctor and they just don't heal. I'm starting to have feelings of strong dislike for my body for its inability to do its job with very simple injuries.
One of the ways I understand body dysmorphia plays out is self harm. Well, as a result of the 5 surgeries I developed a painkiller addiction. But they really don't help with pain anymore. Paradoxically, they make it worse after a while. But I still take them to numb the emotional pain and self hatred. I use 9 of them a day to induce very deep 10 hour sleep. I shower once a week.
And because of my inability to heal injuries, I can't workout. I'm 5'10 and 215 pounds. I feel my healthiest and look my best at 185, and physically am not even capable of doing the work to drop the 30 pounds that make me feel my best.
I'm so sorry if this is not body dysmorphia. I'm ready for the downvotes I always got and always deserved on previous Reddit accounts. I just don't know where else to go. No one calls or texts anymore. I'm just tired. My birthday is on Sunday and I hope nobody calls or texts. I know they're doing it because they feel obligated and don't really want to hear my shit, throw me 10 minutes of pity and then I won't hear from them until Christmas. I haven't socialized in 3 years because I don't want anyone to see my body in its most pathetic form.

Like the title says, I’m embarrassed of my house. It is constantly a mess, and no one ever does any cleaning and I’m always embarrassed whenever people come over. I’ve never invited a single friend over to my house despite all of them asking to see it, but my siblings and parents have, and its always embarrassing. There’s random, miscellaneous items stacked all over the dining room table, makeshift stands made out of chair and random boxes, dirty paper plates and towels everywhere, rust??? around the rims of toilets, sinks, and showers, old, expired food in the fridge, stacks of dirty dishes and dried, crusty spills on the countertops, mounds of pre-packaged food laying on the floor in front of the pantry, months of laundry sitting on the living room couch, stacks of junk sitting in front of my siblings rooms, and a mattress in the middle of my living room. I really don’t know how my whole family lives like such slobs. The only clean part of the house is my room and not even the entire room because I share the room with my sister and she keeps her side a mess. I do my laundry, I do my dishes, I clean the room, I cook, I mop the floors, and I clean and declutter the bathrooms. I try my best to keep the house clean, but with my family of 6 all being slobs who never learned how to clean plus school, I don’t have the time to clean the whole house on my own. I wish my family would just take 30 minutes out of their day to clean up their messes just a little because I’m always cleaning after them. They’re always leaving spills on the floors and counters, leaving little plastic pieces from packaging on the counters instead of throwing them away, leaving the cabinets wide open, and leaving produce outside when it should be in the fridge. Having to see their little messes makes me so mad because there’s already a huge mess in the kitchen and living room. What makes me even more mad is that my mom is a stay at home mom that only watches TV and lays in bed all day when she could be cleaning the huge mess that she helped make. She doesn’t do anything to help make the house more presentable and hasn’t been for the past 8 years when we first moved into this house. Looking at the house makes me cringe, and I honestly can’t wait to move out for college. Every time I use the bathroom, I can see the mess that my family makes in the sink and on the countertops, so I clean it in an angry fit. Every time I go into the kitchen and see the mess and it makes me lose my appetite. The only place I can be at peace at is my bedroom. If I’m not in my bedroom, I’m probably out either at school or with friends. I just can’t handle being here anymore.

When fraught with gloom and mental pain, I all alone bemoan my fate, as one who sinks too low again into despair which damns his state.
Disconsolate beyond midnight, I trouble dear God with my cries as I bear this bipolar plight with burning, red, tear-laden eyes.
The night is long — I am distraught; I long for rest to help forget this sorrow’s trap which has me wrought like passengers in a crashing jet!
Inside, I feel the Reaper’s scythe as I think out my suicide: a razor or a kitchen knife, or pills to end this terrible “ride”?
Or, like Sylvia Plath, I can shove my head in a gas oven; it’d be painless — sure! (But why plan a death so trite and pedestrian?)
I think, too, of Virginia Woolf, how she drowned herself in a lake; I, too, feel swallowed in a gulf of swirling despair that could take
me to my death! Why do I feel so unloved and alone now? Am I so hopeless? Why do I feel so empty and worthless? How am
I to know — (that) if I kill myself — whether my loved ones won’t miss me? “Don’t do it!” I think: so I will myself to live (as if the saints graced me)!
So, I then find solace in this: that family and God do care, and if I had died I would be missed; so I resist the deep despair.
And then, Hope comes. And I feel peace… And in the morn, I wake arising — Joy breaks in, and I receive new lease. And then my state I cease despising!
© The Bipolar Bard. All rights reserved. Updated 12 October 2022

Does anyone have any of the following either A) in their catalogue they can order for me B) spare and they don’t want.
as always i can give bells if needed :)
toilet, a super toilet, a men's toilet, Bathtub, Bath mat, Shower, Shower Stall, Bathroom Sink, Whirlpool bath,Kitchen Corner, Deluxe Range, Range, Stove, Sink, Kitchen Sink, Mixer, Toaster, Coffeemaker, espresso maker, Dishwasher, Kettle, Rice Cooker, Kitchen Island, Freezer, Simple Kettle, Pot Rack
Thanks

When fraught with gloom and mental pain, I all alone bemoan my fate, as one who sinks too low again into despair which damns his state.
Disconsolate beyond midnight, I trouble dear God with my cries as I bear this bipolar plight with burning, red, tear-laden eyes.
The night is long — I am distraught; I long for rest to help forget this sorrow’s trap which has me wrought like passengers in a crashing jet!
Inside, I feel the Reaper’s scythe as I think out my suicide: a razor or a kitchen knife, or pills to end this terrible “ride”?
Or, like Sylvia Plath, I can shove my head in a gas oven; it’d be painless — sure! (But why plan a death so trite and pedestrian?)
I think, too, of Virginia Woolf, how she drowned herself in a lake; I, too, feel swallowed in a gulf of swirling despair that could take
me to my death! Why do I feel so unloved and alone now? Am I so hopeless? Why do I feel so empty and worthless? How am
I to know — (that) if I kill myself — whether my loved ones won’t miss me? “Don’t do it!” I think: so I will myself to live (as if the saints graced me)!
So, I then find solace in this: that family and God do care, and if I had died I would be missed; so I resist the deep despair.
And then, Hope comes. And I feel peace… And in the morn, I wake arising — Joy breaks in, and I receive new lease. And then my state I cease despising!
© The Bipolar Bard. All rights reserved. Updated 12 October 2022

I have a survey booked for next week for a local company to check if it’s possible but would really appreciate advice/experience with combi boilers.
We currently have an LPG combi boiler connected to 4x47kg bottles. It’s around 10ish years old and needs replacing, we’re not using it now as I’m worried it’s dangerous.
Our bathroom is being ripped out and replaced later in the month and we have to do something about it. We will be getting rid of our electric shower and putting a thermostatic over the bath instead. Other than that only other hot water being used will be bathroom and kitchen sink.
We haven’t used central heating in years as have a woodburner, but would like the option to put the radiators on during cold mornings.
Is this stupid?
We don’t have mains gas, no space for an oil tank or anything buried, solar panels and air source heating are out of our budget.
Please help 😅

When fraught with gloom and mental pain, I all alone bemoan my fate, as one who sinks too low again into despair which damns his state.
Disconsolate beyond midnight, I trouble dear God with my cries as I bear this bipolar plight with burning, red, tear-laden eyes.
The night is long — I am distraught; I long for rest to help forget this sorrow’s trap which has me wrought like passengers in a crashing jet!
Inside, I feel the Reaper’s scythe as I think out my suicide: a razor or a kitchen knife, or pills to end this terrible “ride”?
Or, like Sylvia Plath, I can shove my head in a gas oven; it’d be painless — sure! (But why plan a death so trite and pedestrian?)
I think, too, of Virginia Woolf, how she drowned herself in a lake; I, too, feel swallowed in a gulf of swirling despair that could take
me to my death! Why do I feel so unloved and alone now? Am I so hopeless? Why do I feel so empty and worthless? How am
I to know — (that) if I kill myself — whether my loved ones won’t miss me? “Don’t do it!” I think: so I will myself to live (as if the saints graced me)!
So, I then find solace in this: that family and God do care, and if I had died I would be missed; so I resist the deep despair.
And then, Hope comes. And I feel peace… And in the morn, I wake arising — Joy breaks in, and I receive new lease. And then my state I cease despising!
© The Bipolar Bard. All rights reserved. Updated 12 October 2022

If you don't know who I'm talking about, he's basically a guy that's throwing everything and the kitchen sink ($2m a year budget) at keeping his body young, including numerous skin treatments.
Unfortunately for us though, he had pretty regular good looking skin before his treatments. So it got me thinking, are there any public figures doing a similar thing but specifically focused on skin care?
And I'm not talking about some celebrity like Kim K who already has flawless skin and just wants to sell her products. I mean someone with bad scarring, acne, wrinkles, sun damage, plus a big enough budget to try out everything most of us can't often afford.

When fraught with gloom and mental pain, I all alone bemoan my fate, as one who sinks too low again into despair which damns his state.
Disconsolate beyond midnight, I trouble dear God with my cries as I bear this bipolar plight with burning, red, tear-laden eyes.
The night is long — I am distraught; I long for rest to help forget this sorrow’s trap which has me wrought like passengers in a crashing jet!
Inside, I feel the Reaper’s scythe as I think out my suicide: a razor or a kitchen knife, or pills to end this terrible “ride”?
Or, like Sylvia Plath, I can shove my head in a gas oven; it’d be painless — sure! (But why plan a death so trite and pedestrian?)
I think, too, of Virginia Woolf, how she drowned herself in a lake; I, too, feel swallowed in a gulf of swirling despair that could take
me to my death! Why do I feel so unloved and alone now? Am I so hopeless? Why do I feel so empty and worthless? How am
I to know — (that) if I kill myself — whether my loved ones won’t miss me? “Don’t do it!” I think: so I will myself to live (as if the saints graced me)!
So, I then find solace in this: that family and God do care, and if I had died I would be missed; so I resist the deep despair.
And then, Hope comes. And I feel peace… And in the morn, I wake arising — Joy breaks in, and I receive new lease. And then my state I cease despising!
© The Bipolar Bard. All rights reserved. Updated 12 October 2022

Carnage

Web of Spider-Man Vol 1 102

Strength

Striking

• Smashes through glass that was probably built to stop any weapon known to man ^{ASM #362}
• Smashes through the wall of a building ^{SM #35}
• Punches through a wood wall ^{SM #36}

Cutting/Piercing

• His claws tear through the roof of a car ^{ASM #378}
• Tendrils stick onto a wall, cracking it slightly ^{WoS #101}

Lifting

• Rips a kitchen sink out of the floor and throws it at a man ^{ASM #361}
• Extends strands from his head to grab Spider-Man and slam him hard enough to break wood, then breaks a chunk of wood in half ^{ASM #361}
• Pulls Spider-Man through a wooden wall ^{ASM #361}
• Tears a reinforced door off of its hinges ^{Unlimited #1}

Throwing

• Hurls an oven at Spidey, which breaks through a wood wall and travels far ^{ASM #361}
• Lifts and throws a helicopter ^{ASM #362}
• Grabs a baby and throws him hard enough to break a window ^{ASM #362}
• Hurls Spider-Man and Venom off of him, then tears apart a ceiling. Peter states that Carnage is stronger than both of them ^{ASM #362}

Pushing

• Shoved a woman through a marble wall off-screen ^{ASM #363}
• Pushes Spider-Man and Venom into the wall of a subway, cratering it ^{ASM #363}
• Grabs Venom with a tentacle and smashes him through a wooden floor ^{ASM #363}

Other

• Breaks a Daily Bugle sign by swinging through it ^{WoS #101}

Durability

Blunt

• Gets slammed through a wall by Spidey and still has the stamina to grab an oven and throw it at him ^{ASM #361}
• Fine after he's kicked through a ceiling by Spider-Man ^{ASM #363}

Scaling

• Takes a few punches from an injured Spider-Man ^{WoS #101}

Energy

• Takes Deathlok's energy beam ^{ASM #379}

Piercing

• Doesn't care when he's shot and ejects the bullets out of his body ^{ASM #362}

Electricity

• Shocked by thousands of volts enough to "fry a man crisp in seconds" but recovers immediately and continues fighting ^{ASM #363}

Speed

Reaction

• Catches Venom's punch ^{ASM #363}

Agility

• Jumps off of walls to traverse a subway ^{ASM #363}

Stretching/Shapeshifting

General

• Kills a man by stretching into his nose ^{ASM #360}

Tentacles

• Pierces through a man ^{ASM #363}
• His tendrils attempt to merge with the Venom Symbiote, almost tearing both of them apart ^{ASM #363}
• Extends a tentacle from his back to smack Doppelganger away ^{ASM #378}
• Pulls his way out of Cloak's cloak ^{SM #35}

Weapons

• Creates an axe and throws it hard enough to stick to wood, though it can't maintain molecular integrity when separated from Carnage's body and turns to dust ^{ASM #361}
• Shoots needles from his hand to take out a cop ^{ASM #361}
• Can fire needles from his chest ^{SM #36}
• Creates a hammer to smash a desk ^{ASM #362}

Symbiote

General

• Just like Venom, he doesn't trigger Peter's Spider-Sense, unless he attacks Peter with another object ^{ASM #361}
• After an encounter with Venom, the Symbiote figured out how to block Venom's sensory probes ^{ASM #362}
• After a fight with Eddie and Spidey, the Symbiote mutated his metabolism through a cut he received in that fight, giving him the ability to create a dead ringer for the symbiote ^{Unlimited #1}

Regeneration

• Cletus states the symbiote has bonded with his body and soul and will keep coming back even if someone manages to kill it ^{Spectacular #202}
• Reforms itself from a drop of blood ^{Unlimited #1}
• Reforms the symbiote from a scratch wound ^{SM #36}
• Quickly regenerates after Firestar's beam almost destroys the symbiote ^{Spectacular #202}

Weakness

Sonics

• Speakers at max volume cause his symbiote's mass to be seemingly discorporated ^{ASM #363}

Combined

• Takes Firestar's microwave heat beam, fights through Reed Richard's sonic gun, then gets hit by Firestar's beam again though he can't handle the heat, but regenerates soon after ^{SM #36}