Webcam Quotes

Daemon practically knocked me over to get in one last comment. “Don't forget. There are cooler things out there than fallen angels and dead guys. Just saying.” He winked. I pictured an entire legion of females swooning. Pushing him aside, I winced and clicked the off button on the webcam page. “You like seeing yourself being recorded.” He shrugged. “That was fun. When do you do another?

That sounds like the sin of pride, Marshal. Better run downstairs and let Miss December flog it out of you. Webcam it and charge by the minute. You won't ever have to take government money again.

I can love what is broken.

Imagine that your desktop computer began to control its own peripheral devices, removed its own cover, and pointed its webcam at its own circuitry. That’s us.

She is intent on pleasing the men that frighten her.

You’re my prey tonight.

Maile nodded. “I should do a live webcam of my uterus and call it What’s Up Maile?” I wasn’t sure it would play on prime time but it’d probably be more redeeming than the Kardashians.

Welcome to Sex Media, Where Fantasy Becomes Reality!

Nothing in her life makes sense. All she craves is for the pieces of the puzzle to fit together again. She is sure one day it will happen. She just doesn’t know when. She can’t fight injustice alone – for that, she needs her friends.

He is polite; the perfect gentleman at first. Yet she knows his kindness is an act he performs for himself to justify what he’s about to do.

The loudest silence is camera silence.

This is no place for limits.

Rumor even had it that she’d stabbed her webcam with a knife one day, just in case someone took over her PC and filmed her unaware.

The internet is a sea full of creepy, cybercriminal fish, and if Mark Zuckerberg can cover his laptop webcam with a piece of tape, I reserve the right to keep things painfully anonymous.

Managements can now view computer screens, capture computer keystrokes, identify websites frequented and track workers’ whereabouts through GPS-enabled mobile phones, webcams and minuscule video cameras.

having opinions online can be very dangerous. The internet is a sea full of creepy, cybercriminal fish, and if Mark Zuckerberg can cover his laptop webcam with a piece of tape, I reserve the right to keep things painfully anonymous.

This is a landscape of dreams cemented in the past, of hopes gone cold, of girls and boys for rent in officially empty tower blocks, where none is truly so.

Names can hide so much.

It is not fiction. It is history. And both their histories match now.

Her nude and gazing out of a window. In this aspect she was called Kilili mushritu, literally Kilili who leans out of a window; this was the typical image of the prostitute and remains the same today, from Amsterdam to webcam. As we have already seen, this is the image of Jezebel in the Old Testament which led to her death. The temples of the Love Goddesses were often brothels.

They started by cutting out the bottom of a bottle and attaching an old webcam Harry literally had lying around in his office to the bottom of the bottle. They secured the camera inside a plastic bag to make it waterproof, then affixed the whole assembly to the body of the bottle and put water in it. Then they recorded Harry taking a drink, viewed from the unique vantage point of being inside the bottle.

This exercise of unfreezing something in time is not hard to do. If you want to see time that isn’t fungible, just pick a point in space—a branch, a yard, a sidewalk square, a webcam—and simply keep watch. A story is being written there. Like the larger and larger wind patterns on Windy.com, this story is inseparable from the story of all life, even yours. This story is, finally, the signature of “it”: the restless, unstoppable, constantly overturning thing that makes it all go.

Three weeks passed, and I didn’t hear from Chelsea again. To be honest, I hadn’t expected to. Felicity’s Instagram feed continued to be populated with images of her in fabulous clubs and restaurants, wearing fabulous clothes, only now she was accompanied less often by Pru – whose own feed informed me that things with Phillip from Toffee were hotting up – and more often by Renzo. Although she hardly ever showed his face in her pictures, there were glimpses of his flat, his car, the back of his head. Each image was like a punch in the stomach, but I couldn’t help looking at them, torturing myself with the knowledge that, if only I’d done things differently, it could have been me with him still. If I hadn’t resorted to webcam work. If I hadn’t told him about it. If I’d been a better girlfriend to him, so that when I told him, he didn’t mind. If I’d had a chance to see him just one more time, and maybe… Round and round the thoughts went in my head, all those pointless, painful ifs

This was 1991, remember. We didn't have the Internet. So, as teenagers, we lived on the phone. There was no webcamming, no social networking. We dreamt simply of having our own personal phone lines one day, along with uninterrupted hours to talk, and we rarely got that. No matter who we were talking to, no matter how private the conversation, parents picked up the phone accidentally, siblings demanded their time. The introduction of call waiting made all of this even worse, as it allowed aunts and uncles and people you didn't even know to butt in. This is part of why we talked so late in the night, Lindy and I, all of us teens. This is why we looked so pale in our grunge clothes. These night hours were the only times we felt we could tell the truth without danger, the only times we could live separately from our parents while still inside of their homes. There were no cell phones. No private text messages. It was simple one on one conversation and, if it was any good at all, you had to whisper.

Millions of us daily take advantage of [Skype], delighted to carry the severed heads of family members under our arms as we move from the deck to the cool of inside, or steering them around our new homes, bobbing them like babies on a seasickening tour. Skype can be a wonderful consolation prize in the ongoing tournament of globalization, though typically the first place it transforms us is to ourselves. How often are the initial seconds of a video's call takeoff occupied by two wary, diagonal glances, with a quick muss or flick of the hair, or a more generous tilt of the screen in respect to the chin? Please attend to your own mask first. Yet, despite the obvious cheer of seeing a faraway face, lonesomeness surely persists in the impossibility of eye contact. You can offer up your eyes to the other person, but your own view will be of the webcam's unwarm aperture. ... The problem lies in the fact that we can't bring our silence with us through walls. In phone conversations, while silence can be both awkward and intimate, there is no doubt that each of you inhabits the same darkness, breathing the same dead air. Perversely, a phone silence is a thick rope tying two speakers together in the private void of their suspended conversation. This binding may be unpleasant and to be avoided, but it isn't as estranging as its visual counterpart. When talk runs to ground on Skype, and if the purpose of the call is to chat, I can quickly sense that my silence isn't their silence. For some reason silence can't cross the membrane of the computer screen as it can uncoil down phone lines. While we may be lulled into thinking that a Skype call, being visual, is more akin to a hang-out than a phone conversation, it is in many ways more demanding than its aural predecessor. Not until Skype has it become clear how much companionable quiet has depended on co-inhabiting an atmosphere, with a simple act of sharing the particulars of a place -- the objects in the room, the light through the window -- offering a lovely alternative to talk.

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Michelle Phan grew up in California with her Vietnamese parents. The classic American immigrant story of the impoverished but hardworking parents who toil to create a better life for the next generation was marred, in Phan’s case, by her father’s gambling addiction. The Phan clan moved from city to city, state to state, downsizing and recapitalizing and dodging creditors and downsizing some more. Eventually, Phan found herself sleeping on a hard floor, age 16, living with her mother, who earned rent money as a nail salon worker and bought groceries with food stamps. Throughout primary and secondary school, Phan escaped from her problems through art. She loved to watch PBS, where painter Bob Ross calmly drew happy little trees. “He made everything so positive,” Phan recalls. “If you wanted to learn how to paint, and you wanted to also calm down and have a therapeutic session at home, you watched Bob Ross.” She started drawing and painting herself, often using the notes pages in the back of the telephone book as her canvas. And, imitating Ross, she started making tutorials for her friends and posting them on her blog. Drawing, making Halloween costumes, applying cosmetics—the topic didn’t matter. For three years, she blogged her problems away, fancying herself an amateur teacher of her peers and gaining a modest teenage following. This and odd jobs were her life, until a kind uncle gave her mother a few thousand dollars to buy furniture, which was used instead to send Phan to Ringling College of Art and Design. Prepared to study hard and survive on a shoestring, Phan, on her first day at Ringling, encountered a street team which was handing out free MacBook laptops, complete with front-facing webcams, from an anonymous donor. Phan later told me, with moist eyes, “If I had not gotten that laptop, I wouldn’t be here today.

This was 1991, remember. We didn’t have the Internet. So, as teenagers, we lived on the phone. There was no webcamming, no social networking. We dreamt simply of having our own personal phone lines one day, along with uninterrupted hours to talk, and we rarely got that. No matter who we were talking to, no matter how private the conversation, parents picked up the phone accidentally, siblings demanded their time. The introduction of call waiting made all of this even worse, as it allowed aunts and uncles and people you didn’t even know to butt in. This is part of why we talked so late in the night, Lindy and I, all of us teens. This is why we looked so pale in our grunge clothes. These night hours were the only times we felt we could tell the truth without danger, the only times we could live separately from our parents while still inside of their homes. There were no cell phones. No private text messages. It was simple one on one conversation and, if it was any good at all, you had to whisper.

The next morning, I woke up to hear Becky moaning and rustling around in her bed covers. “I’m so itchy!” she cried. “So scratch!” I said, groggily, but suddenly, I felt itchy too. So, I started scratching my legs. They felt better until I stopped scratching. Then, it started to burn. I threw back the covers and saw that my legs were covered in red bumps. “My legs!” I yelled. Becky looked over at me. Then, she pulled back her covers. Her legs were even worse. She gasped. “Mom!” I cried. Mom came in. She was ready for work, wearing her dress shirt and gym shorts. She only had to dress up the top half of her body in case she had to use her webcam to talk to her boss. “What is it?” she asked. “Look!” I said, showing her our legs. “Oh no! That’s poison ivy!” she cried, “Where were you guys playing yesterday?” “The woods,” I said. “You must have been sitting in it,” she said. - The Castle Park Kids

Android Girl Just Wants to Have a Baby! The first thing I do when I wake up is run my hands over my body. I like to make sure all my wires are in place. I lotion my silicone shell and snap my hair helmet over my head. I once had a dream I was a real girl, but when I woke up I was still myself in my paleness under the halogen light. The saliva of androids emits a spectral resonance, barely sticky between freshly-gapped teeth. After they made me, the first thing they did was peel the cellophane from my eyes. I blinked once, twice, and cried because that's how you say you are alive before you are given language. They named each of my heartbeats on the oceanic monitor: Guanyin, Yama, Nuwa, Fuxi, Chang'e, Zao-Shen. I listened to them blur into one. The fetus carves for itself a hollowed vector, a fragile wetness. In utero, extension cords are umbilical. Before puberty, I did not know there was such a thing as dishonor. Diss-on- her. This is what they said when I began to drip petrol between my legs. A tension exists between ritual and proof, a fantasy and its execution. Since then, I have been to the emergency room twice. The first time for a suicide attempt, and the second time because my earring was swallowed up by my newly pierced earlobe overnight, and when I woke up, it was tangled in a helix of wires. The idea of dying doesn't scare me but the ocean does. I was once told that fish will swim up my orifices if I am no longer a virgin. Is anyone thinking about erotic magazines when they are not aroused, pubes parted harshly down the center like red seas? My body carries the weight of four hundred eggs. I rise from a weird slumber, let them drip into the bath. This is what I'll leave behind - tiny shards purer than me. I have always been afraid of pregnant women because of their power, and because I don't yet understand what it means to carry something stubborn and blossoming inside of me, screeching towards an exit. The ectoplasm is the telos for the wound. A trance state is induced when salt is poured on it, pixel by pixel. I wish they had made me into an octopus instead, because octopuses die after their eggs hatch and crawl out into the sea, and I want to know what it's like to set something free into the dark unknown and trust it to choose mercy. If you can generate aura in a non-place, then there is no such thing as an authentic origin. In Chinese, the word for mercy translates to my heart hurts for you. They say my heart continues beating even after it is dislocated from my body. The sound of its beating comes from the valves opening and closing like a portal - Guanyin, Yama, Nuwa, Fuxi, Chang'e, Zao-Shen. I first learned about love by watching a sex tape where a girl looks up from performing fellatio and says, show them the sunset. Her boyfriend pans the camera to the sky, which is tinged violet like a bruise. In this moment, the sky displaces her, all digital and hyped, and saturates the scene until it collapses on me too, its transient witness. I move in the space between belly ring and catharsis. That night I have a dream where I am a camgirl, but all I do on screen is wash my laundry. Everybody loves me because I am a real girl doing real girl things. What lives on the border between meditation and oblivion, static and flux, a pomegranate seed and an embryo? I set up my webcam in the corner of the room and play ambient music while I scrub my underwear, letting soap bubbles rise up from the sink, laughing when they overflow on the linoleum floor - my frizzy hair, my pockmarked skin, my face slick with sweat. A body with exit wounds. I ride the bright rails of an animal forgetting. And when I wake up, the sky is a mess of blue.

Pornography did not serve him either. Andrei used to have his personal kinks and fetishes, but after a while, nothing could get him off. For a long time, the only videos he would search were the ones titled: “Who is she?” The only thing that vitalized his self-play was the prospect of some woman on the earth no one knew of and could not find. There was something infinite to these tapes, not the appearance of the girls, but the agitating dissatisfaction and momentary access of a not-so-innocent stranger who men innocently lost forever. It consisted of poorly recorded videos, posted from a smartphone or webcam, and a desperate number of melancholy comments trying to search for the mystery woman. There were plenty of these recordings. But it broke Andrei even more when eventually he knew all the girls no one knew.

friend tells me that the cairn is – like the tomb of Maeshowe on the Orkney Mainland – aligned with the midwinter sun. At Maeshowe, on the solstice and a few days on either side, on the rare cloudless days at that time of year, the setting sun will shine directly down the entrance corridor. Webcams are set up there and one midwinter afternoon I watch over the internet as the golden light hits the end wall.

Under the Eiger [mountain], we agreed to address each other informally. ‘When people know each other so well, they don’t call each other Mr. and Miss anymore. I’m Werner and you are Marti.’ Then he kissed me. Yes, under the Eiger. When I look at the webcam picture, I think, yes, under the Eiger.

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Thomas Jefferson, happiness was based on the choices we make, not the conditions we were born with.

Woven deep into the vast communication networks wrapping the globe, we also find evidence of embryonic technological autonomy. The technium contains 170 quadrillion computer chips wired up into one mega-scale computing platform. The total number of transistors in this global network is now approximately the same as the number of neurons in your brain. And the number of links among files in this network (think of all the links among all the web pages of the world) is about equal to the number of synapse links in your brain. Thus, this growing planetary electronic membrane is already comparable to the complexity of a human brain. It has three billion artificial eyes (phone and webcams) plugged in, it processes keyword searches at the humming rate of 14 kilohertz (a barely audible high-pitched whine), and it is so large a contraption that it now consumes 5 percent of the world’s electricity. When computer scientists dissect the massive rivers of traffic flowing through it, they cannot account for the source of all the bits. Every now and then a bit is transmitted incorrectly, and while most of those mutations can be attributed to identifiable causes such as hacking, machine error, or line damage, the researchers are left with a few percent that somehow changed themselves. In other words, a small fraction of what the technium communicates originates not from any of its known human-made nodes but from the system at large. The technium is whispering to itself.

a webcam that Iceland’s environmental agency had set up.

Maybe he doesn’t want to admit it, but I know what I’m feeling when Garrett fucks me is a connection you don’t get over a webcam or with an object. This is visceral and pure.

The current global health crisis has raised many challenges to the students in attempting their exams. But in the recent days, across the globe, the education system has turned to virtual learning introducing proctoring exams as a practical solution during the prevailing pandemic situation. The meaning of proctoring is not much complicated to understand. Proctored exams are regular exams by using the proctoring software which monitors your desktops or PC’s, webcam audio and video. The proctoring software records the data and transfers the same for review.

Other nights, when she woke anxious, she’d follow the cursor to Middle Street, to the squat red bricks of the Portland Police Headquarters or to the courthouse, where she’d examine the building so closely she could make out which windows had air-conditioner units and which units were reinforced with plywood planks. She’d check the online news after that to learn in real time about car accidents, assaults, and fires. Google Earth would then take her there, to the very spot where the incident occurred, so she could search, block by block, irrationally—these weren’t webcams—for signs of Julia or Nick or their no-air-bag car.

Chatroulette pairs random people from around the world for webcam conversations. People can leave a conversation at any time by initiating a new connection or simply by quitting. The strangely addictive site grew from twenty people at launch in late 2009 to more than 1.5 million users six months later. Initially, Chatroulette had no registration requirement and no controls of any kind, leading to what became known as the Naked Hairy Men problem. As the network grew without policing, a growing number of naked hairy men showed up to chat, leading many of the non-naked, non-hairy others to abandon the network. As legitimate users fled, the noise level on the platform increased, setting a negative feedback loop in motion.

Pues la relatividad no solo permite viajar al futuro, sino que también nos permite ver el pasado sin haberlo grabado en web-cam. ¿Cómo? La clave la tiene la luz. Que nada pueda viajar más rápido que la luz tiene consecuencias espectaculares. Sal a la calle y mira hacia el Sol (pero protégete antes los ojos). La luz del Sol tarda ocho minutos en llegar a nosotros desde que sale de la superficie de la estrella, situada a 150 millones de kilómetros de distancia. Esto quiere decir que Si miras a una estrella el efecto es más espectacular. La más cercana a la Tierra es Próxima Centauri, a cuatro años-luz de distancia (un año-luz es la distancia que recorre la luz en un año, una distancia enorme). Así que no vemos esa estrella como es ahora, no, sino como era hace cuatro años. Sirio, la estrella más luminosa del firmamento, está a ocho años-luz. La estrella polar a cuatrocientos treinta y tres años-luz. Pero podemos ir aún más lejos. La Gran Nube de Magallanes está a ciento cincuenta y ocho mil años-luz. La galaxia más cercana, Andrómeda, está a dos millones y medio de años-luz. La famosa galaxia del Sombrero se encuentra a veintinueve millones de años-luz. Y la galaxia más lejana observada hasta la fecha es EGS-zs8-1 y está a trece mil millones de años-luz. Piénsalo un segundo. Estamos viendo el pasado. Cuanto más lejos miramos, más atrás en el tiempo viajamos. Podemos ir tan atrás como queramos con solo mirar más lejos. La galaxia del Sombrero la vemos como era hace veintinueve millones de años, no ahora. De hecho ahora mismo no sabemos qué es de ella. Lo sabremos dentro de veintinueve millones de años. Por eso cuando miramos el cielo muchas veces vemos «fantasmas», cuerpos muertos, estrellas que ya desparecieron, sistemas que colapsaron, que ya no están ahí y, sin embargo, los seguimos viendo. Muchas veces me preguntan por los viajes en el tiempo. Yo respondo que miren al cielo. Es la forma más fácil y barata de viajar en el tiempo. Y en primera clase. Solo con alzar la mirada estamos viendo nuestra historia cósmica, desde el inicio de los tiempos, hace unos trece mil millones de años, hasta la actualidad. Y esto es real. Tanto que si alguien estuviera en una galaxia a sesenta millones de años-luz de la Tierra y enfocara bien podría ver dinosaurios. Y no los de Parque Jurásico, que esos no existen. Vería los de verdad, campando tranquilamente. Y si espera un poco más podría ver el meteorito cayendo en la Tierra que acabó con ellos. Y esperando más podría ver las primeras civilizaciones humanas, a Cristóbal Colón saliendo de expedición, a Napoleón de batalla en batalla o .

She can jettison her existence, her plans and her passions at a single stroke. She is only committed to reality through a secret electoral pact, by which she will stand down if she is losing. She never assumes responsibility for her existence, which allows her to wipe out at a stroke and to slide, like a good hysteric, towards another life. A strange life, spun out entirely towards a goal of transaction. Let a man ask her to give it up, to sacrifice the whole of it, and it all ceases to exist. The Epeda Multispire mattress. Everyone can have their own night, their own sleep thanks to the 3,600 spiral springs which guarantee everyone complete autonomy. The ideal mattress. You can make love to someone on it without them even noticing. As the automaton of his own pleasure, each person’s experience of their sexuality is like their experience of a night on a Multispire mattress. It isn’t even loneliness, since there is someone else there. It’s more something of the order of the independent lunar module. Tristan and Isode each dreaming to themselves, on either side of their sexual console. That seduction is the seduction of the uterine Mother and that all attraction merely masks the attraction of the primal abyss are platonic ideas. The cavity of the womb has taken over from the Cave in the Realm of Ideas. Once again, the real woman, her anatomy, serves as a sacred referent for a platonic ideology. The vertigo of seduction is here vulgarly phantasized into the hollow of a woman’s womb. This is to move from the most subtle game to the most profound—and hence the most stupid—phantasm.

Our bidadi banyan tree - kalpavriksha, has the unique power that even if you are not there in bidadi ashram physically, if you see the live webcam relay and do pranayama, you will experience the same thing! Each tree’s breathing space has certain energy when you do pranayama under that tree. That energy gets filled inside your system.

you right now.” “That won’t be necessary. I’m on your side. Look, I have to leave. As you all know, Lizzie does not like to be kept waiting. So, we’re good?” To everyone’s surprise, Harry spoke first. “We’re good. I think I speak for all of us.” The others nodded. The webcam came to life. “Good decision, guys. Gotta go; some high rollers just blew in. Have to get the red carpet ready to roll out. Time is money. See ya!

Party time Part 1 After school, we go to Maddie’s. When we were little, like freshman year and even some of the sophomore year, we would sometimes stay in her room and put on x-out and pluck out eyebrows into that fine little line, and color our hair with highlights, and order pizza, cramming down as much as we could eat. Those days are going, we can’t get fat. Now Jenny hardly eats anything, and if she does, she can hardly keep it down. I think maybe that’s what I get so lightheaded, I only eat like once a day now. Jenny back then had a little extra around the middle, and now you can see her ribs, she even has that two-defined line on her tummy that goes into her underwear. I remember sneaking around late at night in her hose stealing a cookie from the jar on the top shelf in the old wood cabinet, that is also where her mom would hide her cigarettes that Jenny loved also, and the condoms were in a trinity box on top of the fridge, I sorry but I find that hilarious. At that time, we would stretch out on one of her, old enormous worn-out couches and watch, TV or movies until we fell asleep in our nightshirts’-the TV in Maddie’s living room is like 80 inches it’s like being in a movie theater our legs tangled together under an enormous fleece blanket. Maddie and liv are always entangled more passionately than Jenny and me on the loveseat! Maddie has an ancient TV in her room from the 1990s. It sucks and is small, it’s one of those with the big back on it, and the color is green, like looking into a fish tank. It’s funny her mom and dad don’t have money blinds on the windows, yet they have a big ass TV. You can sometimes see the people in the next condo overlooking us like we can see them get busy in their room! Yet nothing beats the hot guy taking a leak in room 302, he looks to be in his late twenties. He takes the boxes off at 10 pm and we get a free show. He knows we can see him because he makes it look inflexible and you are no more personable. Jenny and we girls love to press upon the glass, and just have fun and be a little crazy, like lifting our nighties and flashing the goods. Facebook stocking gets boring quickly anymore, so some nights the webcam comes out too. After her mom and dad are asleep… I like it’s more fun to be bad! Like we all have profiles and fake names because none of us are eighteen yet. Any- how’s mine is ‘Angel Pink Wings 01’ Maddie goes by: ‘Mad kitty 69’ Jenny goes by: ‘Ms. Little Lover 14’ Liv goes by: ‘Olivia O 123’ Yet everyone knows her by Liv so that name is okay- I guess. We make good money- ‘Double Clicking the Mouse.’ You would not believe all the pervs on this cam the site, just wanting to see us doing it. Like old guys like our PE teacher! Man- that I didn’t even think about how to turn on a computer. Just like him, I guess they need too to see more of us close up. We have our checks mailed to Jenny's college boyfriend’s PO Box. Me this is what I do and yes- I come for you all, I just put in fake blue hair dye in, and have fake long lashes, and put in my blue contacts, and you don’t even know me. And then pen in more eyebrows. Fake, fake, fake, fake FAKE! Boys don’t like it when you fake it or do, they look at me, that's why I am Bi.

Party time Part 1 After school, we go to Maddie’s. When we were little, like freshman year and even some of the sophomore year, we would sometimes stay in her room and put on x-out and pluck out eyebrows into that fine little line, and color our hair with highlights, and order pizza, cramming down as much as we could eat. Those days are going, we can’t get fat. Now Jenny hardly eats anything, and if she does, she can hardly keep it down. I think maybe that’s what I get so lightheaded, I only eat like once a day now. Jenny back then had a little extra around the middle, and now you can see her ribs, she even has that two-defined line on her tummy that goes into her underwear. I remember sneaking around late at night in her hose stealing a cookie from the jar on the top shelf in the old wood cabinet, that is also where her mom would hide her cigarettes that Jenny loved also, and the condoms were in a trinity box on top of the fridge, I sorry but I find that hilarious. At that time, we would stretch out on one of her, old enormous worn-out couches and watch, TV or movies until we fell asleep in our nightshirts’-the TV in Maddie’s living room is like 80 inches it’s like being in a movie theater our legs tangled together under an enormous fleece blanket. Maddie and liv are always entangled more passionately than Jenny and me on the loveseat! Maddie has an ancient TV in her room from the 1990s. It sucks and is small, it’s one of those with the big back on it, and the color is green, like looking into a fish tank. It’s funny her mom and dad don’t have money blinds on the windows, yet they have a big ass TV. You can sometimes see the people in the next condo overlooking us like we can see them get busy in their room! Yet nothing beats the hot guy taking a leak in room 302, he looks to be in his late twenties. He takes the boxes off at 10 pm and we get a free show. He knows we can see him because he makes it look inflexible and you are no more personable. Jenny and we girls love to press upon the glass, and just have fun and be a little crazy, like lifting our nighties and flashing the goods. Facebook stocking gets boring quickly anymore, so some nights the webcam comes out too. After her mom and dad are asleep… I like it’s more fun to be bad! Like we all have profiles and fake names because none of us are eighteen yet. Any- how’s mine is ‘Angel Pink Wings 01’ Maddie goes by: ‘Mad kitty 69’ Jenny goes by: ‘Ms. Little Lover 14’ Liv goes by: ‘Olivia O 123’ Yet everyone knows her by Liv so that name is okay- I guess. We make good money- ‘Double Clicking the Mouse.’ You would not believe all the pervs on this cam. the site, just wanting to see us doing it. Like old guys like our PE teacher! Man- that I didn’t even think about how to turn on a computer. Just like him, I guess they need too to see more of us close up. We have our checks mailed to Jenny's college boyfriend’s PO Box. Me this is what I do and yes- I come for you all, I just put in fake blue hair dye in, and have fake long lashes, and put in my blue contacts, and you don’t even know me. And then pen in more eyebrows. Fake, fake, fake, fake FAKE! Boys don’t like it when you fake it or do, they look at me, that's why I am Bi.

The celibacy of the machine entails the celibacy of Telecomputer Man. Thanks to his computer or word processor, Telecomputer Man offers himself the spectacle of his own brain, his own intelligence, at work. Similarly, through his chat line or his Minitel, he can offer himself the spectacle of his own phantasies, of a strictly virtual pleasure. He exorcizes both intelligence and pleasure at the interface with the machine. The Other, the interlocutor, is never really involved: the screen works much like a mirror, for the screen itself as locus of the interface is the prime concern. An interactive screen transforms the process of relating into a process of commutation between One and the Same. The secret of the interface is that the Other here is virtually the Same: otherness is surreptitiously conjured away by the machine. The most probable scenario of communication here is that Minitel users gravitate from the screen to telephone conversations, thence to face-to-face meetings, and ... then what? Well, it's 'let's phone each other', and, finally, back to the Minitel - which is, after all, more erotic because it is at once both esoteric and transparent. This is communication in its purest form, for there is no intimacy here except with the screen, and with an electronic text that is no more than a design filigreed onto life. A new Plato's retreat whence to observe shadow-forms of bodily pleasure filing past. Why speak to one another, when it is so simple to communicate?

When thinking about how to incorporate lecture videos, many online faculty imagine posting videos of their classroom lectures in the course. This is certainly one way to do it, and some institutions are investing in elaborate lecture-capture systems to facilitate this process. But lecture capture requires expensive tech and a team of skilled professionals. The small teaching way is to record short narrated slideshow videos or webcam-style videos speaking directly to the camera on your computer monitor. The key word here is short. “Traditional in-person lectures usually last an hour, but students have much shorter attention spans when watching educational videos online,” writes Philip Guo in a blog post about a study he and his colleagues conducted (Guo, 2013). The researchers compiled data from 6.9 million video-watching sessions to track engagement patterns of online students. Their findings led to a strong recommendation that online class videos should be no longer than six minutes.

An additional market failure illustrated by the Dyn attack is that neither the seller nor the buyer of those devices cares about fixing the vulnerability. The owners of those devices don’t care. They wanted a webcam—or thermostat, or refrigerator—with nice features at a good price. Even after they were recruited into this botnet, they still work fine—you can’t even tell they were used in the attack. The sellers of those devices don’t care: They’ve already moved on to selling newer and better models. [...] There is no market solution because the insecurity is what economists call an externality: it’s an effect of the purchasing decision that affects other people

Amy declined our offer to help her stay and sift through her webcam photos from last night. I was desperate to see what would show up but this was her bedroom and I suppose she had a reasonable fear of two creepy males clicking through shots of her dressing and doing the things girls do alone in their bedrooms. Lighting farts or whatever.

What it does is secretly record everything that happens to your computer. Every time someone uses the keyboard, it turns on the webcam and starts recording. Only there's nothing to tell the person using it that the webcam is on. It does it secretly.

If you successfully thing-ify yourself, then other people will begin to believe you are a thing and will throw all kinds of hard objects at you, sure that you will not bleed. And then you have to conjure up even more revealing forms of self-exposure —up to and including having a full-blown breakdown in your bedroom with the webcam rolling. Don't come for me, these influencers seem to be pleading to their fans-turned-foes, I'm wounded —can't you see that I'm bleeding here? Forgetting that the pack loves blood and there is nothing bloodier than performative trauma