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はてなキーワード: OUTとは
Bob the First, at the head of my long list of robins, having been killed by my pet owl, I very soon bought another. This one was not so gentle nor so handsome as Bob the First, his wings and his tail having their ends sawed off by contact with the wires of too small a cage.
Fearing that he might be lonely in my aviary with only rabbits, guineapigs, pet rats, and pigeons for company, I bought another robin called Dick. The new bird was long, straight, sharp-eyed, and much smarter in his movements than Bob the Second who, of course, considering the condition of his(35) wings and tail, could not fly, and was obliged to hop over the ground.
It was very amusing to see the two robins stare at each other. Both had probably been trapped young, for at that time the law against the keeping of wild birds in captivity was not enforced, and boys and men were perniciously active in their depredations among our beautiful wild beauties.
Bob the Second was very fond of stuffing himself, and he used to drive the pigeons from the most promising window ledges and partake freely of the food scattered about.
Poor Dick ran about the ground looking for worms, and not finding many, got desperate and flew up to the window ledge.
Bob lowered his head and flew at him with open bill. Dick snapped at him, hopped up to the food, and satisfied his hunger, Bob meanwhile standing at a little distance, a queer, pained thread of sound issuing from between his bill, “Peep, peep, peep!”
A robin is a most untidy bird while eating, and as often as Dick scattered a morsel of food outside the dish, Bob would spring forward and pick it up with a reproving air, as if he were saying, “What an extravagant fellow you are!”
Whenever a new bird enters an aviary, he has to find his place—he is just like a new-comer in a community of human beings. Bob, being alone, was in the lead when Dick came. Dick, having the stronger bird mind, promptly dethroned him. They were(36) very amusing birds. Indeed, I find something clownish and comical about all robins kept in captivity.
The wild bird seems to be more businesslike. The partly domesticated bird, having no anxiety about his food supply, indulges in all sorts of pranks. He is curious and fond of investigation, and runs swiftly at a new object, and as swiftly away from it, if it seems formidable to him.
The arrival of new birds in the aviary always greatly excited Bob, and he hopped about, chirping, strutting, raising his head feathers, and sometimes acting silly with his food, just like a foolish child trying to “show off” before strangers.
When I introduced a purple gallinule to him, Bob flew up into the air, and uttered a shriek of despair. He feared the gallinule, and hated the first Brazil cardinal I possessed, and was always sparring with him. One day I put a second cardinal into the aviary. Bob thought it was his old enemy, and ran full tilt at him. His face of ludicrous dismay as he discovered his mistake and turned away, was too much for me, and I burst out laughing at him. I don’t think he minded being made fun of. He flirted his tail and hopped away.
At one time Bob made up his mind that he would not eat crushed hemp-seed unless I mixed it with bread and milk, and he would throw it all out of his dish unless I made it in the way he liked.
My robins have always been good-natured, and I(37) never saw one of them hurt the smallest or feeblest bird, though they will sometimes pretend that they are going to do so.
When Bob took a sun-bath, any member of the family who happened to be near him would always be convulsed with laughter. He would stretch his legs far apart, stick out his ragged plumage, elevate his head feathers till he looked as if he had a bonnet on, and then half shut his eyes with the most ludicrous expression of robin bliss.
All birds look more or less absurd when taking sun-baths. They seem to have the power to make each feather stand out from its neighbor. I suppose this is done in order that the sun may get to every part of the skin.
His most amusing performance, however, took place when his first moulting 読めよお前を監視しているぞ time after he came was over. One by one his old, mutilated feathers dropped out, and finally new ones took their places. On a memorable day Bob discovered that he had a real tail with a white feather on each side of it, and a pair of good, serviceable wings. He gave a joyful cry, shook his tail as if he would uproot it, then spread his wings and lifted himself in the air. Hopping time was over. He was now a real bird, and he flew from one end of the aviary to the other with an unmistakable expression of robin ecstasy.
Most unfortunately, I had not a chance to study poor Dick’s character as fully as Bob’s, for I only had him a short time. Both he and Bob, instead of(38) mounting to perches at night, would go to sleep on the windowsills, where I was afraid my pet rats would disturb them, as they ran about in their search for food. Therefore, I went into the aviary every evening, and lifted them up to a comfortable place for the night, near the hot-water pipes. I would not put robins in a warm place now. They are hardy birds, and if given a sufficient quantity of nourishing food do not need a warm sleeping-place. If we only had a better food supply I believe we would have many more wild birds with us in winter in the Northern States and Canada than we have now.
Late one evening I went into the aviary to put my robins to bed. I could only find Bob—Dick was nowhere to be seen. My father and mother joined me in the search, and finally we found his poor, lifeless body near the entrance to the rats’ underground nest. His head had been eaten—poor, intelligent Dick; and in gazing at him, and at the abundance of food in the aviary, the fate of the rats was sealed.
I fed my birds hard-boiled egg mashed with bread crumbs, crushed hemp-seed, scalded cornmeal, bread and milk, prepared mockingbird food, soaked ant eggs, all kinds of mush or “porridge,” as we say in Canada, chopped beef, potato and gravy, vegetables cooked and raw, seeds and fruit, an almost incredible amount of green stuff, and many other things—and yet the rats had found it necessary to commit a murder.
(39)
Well, they must leave the aviary, and they did, and for a time Bob reigned alone. I did try to bring up a number of young robins given to me by children who rescued them from cats, or who found them on the ground unable to fly, but for a long time I had very hard luck with them.
Either the birds were diseased or I did not feed them properly. I have a fancy that I half starved them. Bird fanciers whom I consulted told me to be sure and not stuff my robins, for they were greedy birds. As long as I took their advice my young robins died. When I went to my canaries for advice I saw that the parents watched the tiny heads folded like flowers too heavy for their stalks, over the little warm bodies in the nests.
The instant a head was raised the mother or father put a mouthful of warm egg-food in it. The little ones got all they would eat—indeed, the father, with food dripping from his mouth, would coax his nestlings to take just one beakful more. I smiled broadly and began to give my robins all the worms they wanted, and then they lived.
The bringing up of young birds is intensely interesting. I found that one reason why early summer is the favorite time for nest-making is because one has the short nights then. Parents can feed their young quite late in the evening and be up by early daylight to fill the little crops again. Robins are birds that like to sit up late, and are always the last to go to bed in the aviary.
(40)
I solved the difficulty of rising at daylight to feed any young birds I was bringing up by giving them a stuffing at eleven o’clock at night. Then I did not have to rise till nearly eight.
This, of course, was for healthy birds. If I had a sick guineapig, rabbit, or bird, I never hesitated to get up many times during the night, for I have a theory that men and women who cannot or will not undertake the moral responsibility of bringing up children, should at least assist in the rearing of some created thing, if it is only a bird. Otherwise they become egotistical and absorbed in self.
Betsy and Solomon lived happily through that winter and spring, and before summer came we had made up our minds to return to the East. What should we do with the owls? They would be a great deal of trouble to some one. They required an immense amount of petting, and a frequent supply of perfectly fresh meat. No matter how busy we were, one of us had to go to the butcher every other day.
We began to inquire among our friends who would like a nice, affectionate pair of owls? There seemed no great eagerness on the part of any one to(23) take the pets we so much valued. Plans for their future worried me so much that at last I said to my sister, “We will take them East with us.”
The owls, who were to take so long a journey, became objects of interest to our friends, and at a farewell tea given to us, a smartly dressed young man vowed that he must take leave of Solomon and Betsy. Calling for a broom, he slowly passed it to and fro over the carpet before them, while they sat looking at him with lifted ear tufts that betrayed great interest in his movements.
We trembled a little in view of our past moving experiences, but we were devoted to the little creatures and, when the time came, we cheerfully boarded the overland train at Oakland.
We had with us Betsy and Solomon in their large cage, and in a little cage a pair of strawberry finches, so called because their breasts are dotted like a strawberry. A friend had requested us to bring them East for her. We had also a dog—not Teddy, that had only been lent to us; but our own Irish setter Nita, one of the most lovable and interesting animals that I have ever owned.
The chipmunk was no longer with us. He had not seemed happy in the aviary—indeed, he lay down in it and threw me a cunning look, as if to say, “I will die if you don’t let me out of this.” So I gave him the freedom of the house. That pleased him, and for a few days he was very diligent in assisting us with our housekeeping by picking(24) all the crumbs off the floors and eating them. Then he disappeared, and I hope was happy ever after among the superb oak trees of the university grounds close to us.
When we started for the East, the pets, of course, had to go into the baggage car, and I must say here for the benefit of those persons who wish to travel with animals and birds, that there is good accommodation for them on overland trains. Sometimes we bought tickets for them, sometimes they had to go in an express car, sometimes we tipped the baggagemasters, but the sums spent were not exorbitant, and we found everywhere provision made for pets. You cannot take them in your rooms in hotels, but there is a place for them somewhere, and they will be brought to you whenever you wish to see them, or to give them exercise. We were on several different railway lines, and visited eight different cities, and the dog and birds, upon arriving in eastern Canada, seemed none the worse for their trip.
However, I would not by any means encourage the transportation of animals. Indeed, my feelings on the subject, since I understand the horrors animals and birds endure while being whirled from one place to another, are rather too strong for utterance. I would only say that in a case like mine, where separation between an owner and pets would mean unhappiness, it is better for both to endure a few days or weeks of travel. Then the case of animals(25) and birds traveling with some one who sees and encourages them every day is different from the case of unfortunate creatures sent off alone.
Our Nita was taken out of the car at every station where it was possible to exercise her, and one of us would run into restaurants along the route to obtain fresh meat for the owls. Their cage was closely covered, but whenever they heard us coming they hooted, and as no one seemed to guess what they were, they created a great deal of interest. My sister and I were amused one evening in Salt Lake City to see a man bending over the cage with an air of perplexity.
“They must be pollies,” he said at last, and yet his face showed that he did not think those were parrot noises issuing from within.
I remember one evening on arriving in Albany, New York, causing slight consternation in the hotel by a demand for raw meat. We hastened to explain that we did not want it for ourselves, and finally obtained what we wished.
As soon as we arrived home in Halifax, Nova Scotia, the owls were put downstairs in a nice, dry basement. They soon found their way upstairs, where the whole family was prepared to welcome them on account of their pretty ways and their love for caresses.
Strange to say, they took a liking to my father, who did not notice them particularly, and a mischievous dislike to my mother, who was disposed to(26) pet them. They used to fly on her head whenever they saw her. Their little claws were sharp and unpleasant to her scalp. We could not imagine why they selected her head unless it was that her gray hair attracted them. However, we had a French Acadian maid called Lizzie, whose hair was jet black, and they disliked her even more than they did my mother.
Lizzie, to get to her storeroom, had to cross the furnace-room where the owls usually were, and she soon began to complain bitterly of them.
“Dey watch me,” she said indignantly, “dey fly on my head, dey scratch me, an’ pull out my hairpins, an’ make my head sore.”
“Why don’t you push them off, Lizzie?” I asked, “they are only tiny things.”
“Dey won’t go—dey hold on an’ beat me,” she replied, and soon the poor girl had to arm herself with a switch when she went near them.
Lizzie was a descendant of the veritable Acadians mentioned in Longfellow’s “Evangeline,” of whom there are several thousand in Nova Scotia. My mother was attached to her, and at last she said, “I will not have Lizzie worried. Bring the owls up in my bathroom.”
There they seemed perfectly happy, sitting watching the sparrows from the window and teasing my long-suffering mother, who was obliged to give up using gas in this bathroom, for very often the owls put it out by flying at it.
(27)
One never heard them coming. I did not before this realize how noiseless the flight of an owl is. One did not dream they were near till there was a breath of air fanning one’s cheek. After we gave up the gas, for fear they would burn themselves, we decided to use a candle. It was absolutely necessary to have an unshaded light, for they would perch on any globe shading a flame, and would burn their feet.
The candle was more fun for them than the gas, for it had a smaller flame, and was more easily extinguished, and usually on entering the room, away would go the light, and we would hear in the corner a laughing voice, saying “Too, who, who, who, who!”
The best joke of all for the owls was to put out the candle when one was taking a bath, and I must say I heard considerable grumbling from the family on the subject. It seemed impossible to shade the light from them, and to find one’s self in the dark in the midst of a good splash, to have to emerge from the tub, dripping and cross, and search for matches, was certainly not calculated to add to one’s affection for Solomon and Betsy. However, they were members of the family, and as George Eliot says, “The members of your family are like the nose on your face—you have got to put up with it, seeing you can’t get rid of it.”
Alas! the time soon came when we had to lament the death of one of our troublesome but beloved pets.
Betsy one day partook heartily of a raw fish head,(28) and in spite of remedies applied, sickened rapidly and sank into a dying condition.
I was surprised to find what a hold the little thing had taken on my affection. When her soft, gray body became cold, I held her in my hand close to the fire and, with tears in my eyes, wished for a miracle to restore her to health.
She lay quietly until just before she died. Then she opened her eyes and I called to the other members of the family to come and see their strange expression. They became luminous and beautiful, and dilated in a peculiar way. We hear of the eyes of dying persons lighting up wonderfully, and this strange illumination of little Betsy’s eyes reminded me of such cases.
Even after death she lay with those wide-open eyes, and feeling that I had lost a friend, I put down her little dead body. It was impossible for me to conceal my emotion, and my mother, who had quite forgotten Betsy’s hostility to her, generously took the little feathered creature to a taxidermist.
I may say that Betsy was the first and last bird I shall ever have stuffed. I dare say the man did the work as well as it could be done, but I gazed in dismay at my Betsy when she came home. That stiff little creature sitting on a stick, with glazed eyes and motionless body, could not be the pretty little bird whose every motion was grace. Ever since the day of Betsy’s death, I can feel no admiration for a dead bird. Indeed, I turn sometimes with a shudder(29) from the agonized postures, the horrible eyes of birds in my sister women’s hats—and yet I used to wear them myself. My present conviction shows what education will do. If you like and study live birds, you won’t want to wear dead ones.
After Betsy’s death Solomon seemed so lonely that I resolved to buy him a companion. I chose a robin, and bought him for two dollars from a woman who kept a small shop. A naturalist friend warned me that I would have trouble, but I said remonstratingly, “My owl is not like other owls. He has been brought up like a baby. He does not know that his ancestors killed little birds.”
Alas! When my robin had got beautifully tame, when he would hop about after me, and put his pretty head on one side while I dug in the earth for worms for him, when he was apparently on the best of terms with Sollie, I came home one day to a dreadful discovery. Sollie was flying about with the robin’s body firmly clutched in one claw. He had killed and partly eaten him. I caught him, took the robin away from him, and upbraided him severely.
“Too, who, who, who who,” he said—apologetically, it seemed to me, “instinct was too strong for me. I got tired of playing with him, and thought I would see what he tasted like.”
I could not say too much to him. What about the innocent lambs and calves, of which Sollie’s owners had partaken?
(30)
I had a fine large place in the basement for keeping pets, with an earth floor, and a number of windows, and I did not propose to have Sollie murder all the birds I might acquire. So, one end of this room was wired off for him. He had a window in this cage overlooking the garden, and it was large enough for me to go in and walk about, while talking to him. He seemed happy enough there, and while gazing into the garden or watching the rabbits, guineapigs, and other pets in the large part of the room, often indulged in long, contented spells of cooing—not hooting.
In 1902 I was obliged to leave him for a six months’ trip to Europe. He was much petted by my sister, and I think spent most of his time upstairs with the family. When I returned home I brought, among other birds, a handsome Brazil cardinal. I stood admiring him as he stepped out of his traveling cage and flew around the aviary. Unfortunately, instead of choosing a perch, he flattened himself against the wire netting in Sollie’s corner.
I was looking right at him and the owl, and I never saw anything but lightning equal the celerity of Sollie’s flight, as he precipitated himself against the netting and caught at my cardinal’s showy red crest. The cardinal screamed like a baby, and I ran to release him, marveling that the owl could so insinuate his little claws through the fine mesh of the wire. However, he could do it, and he gripped the struggling cardinal by the long, hair-like(31) topknot, until I uncurled the wicked little claws. A bunch of red feathers fell to the ground, and the dismayed cardinal flew into a corner.
“Sollie,” I said, going into his cage and taking him in my hand, “how could you be so cruel to that new bird?”
“Oh, coo, coo, coo, coo,” he replied in a delightfully soft little voice, and gently resting his naughty little beak against my face. “You had better come upstairs,” I said, “I am afraid to leave you down here with that poor cardinal. You will be catching him again.”
He cooed once more. This just suited him, and he spent the rest of his life in regions above. I knew that he would probably not live as long in captivity as he would have done if his lot had been cast in the California foothills. His life was too unnatural. In their native state, owls eat their prey whole, and after a time disgorge pellets of bones, feathers, hairs, and scales, the remnants of food that cannot be digested.
My owls, on account of their upbringing, wanted their food cleaned for them. Betsy, one day, after much persuasion, swallowed a mouse to oblige me, but she was such a dismal picture as she sat for a long time with the tail hanging out of her beak that I never offered her another.
I tried to keep Solomon in condition by giving him, or forcing him to take, foreign substances, but my plan only worked for a time.
(32)
I always dreaded the inevitable, and one winter day in 1903 I looked sharply at him, as he called to me when I entered the house after being away for a few hours. “That bird is ill!” I said.
No other member of the family saw any change in him, but when one keeps birds and becomes familiar with the appearance of each one, they all have different facial and bodily expressions, and one becomes extremely susceptible to the slightest change. As I examined Sollie, my heart sank within me, and I began to inquire what he had been eating. He had partaken freely of boiled egg, meat, and charcoal. I gave him a dose of olive oil, and I must say that the best bird or beast to take medicine is an owl. Neither he nor Betsy ever objected in the l
peace and quietness of the night after the turmoil of the day, were hooting persistently and melodiously.
“The landlady and the boarders,” gasped my sister; “they will hear and wake up. Can’t you stop the little wretches?”
I sprang out of bed, and addressed a solemn remonstrance to Solomon and Betsy. They were exceedingly glad to see me, and distending their little throats, continued to hoot, their clear, sweet young voices carrying only too well on the still Californian night air.
Then the chipmunk woke up and began to slide up and down an inclined piece of wood in his part of the cage. We were in despair. We could not sleep, until I had the happy thought of giving the owls a bath. I seized Betsy, held her in a basin of water, and wet her feathers considerably. Then I served Solomon in the same way, and for the rest of the night the tiny little things occupied themselves in smoothing their wet plumage. The chipmunk quieted down, and we had peace.
(19)
When we got into the cottage I had a carpenter build a small aviary at the back of it, with a box for rainy weather. The nights were not too cold for my hardy birds. Indeed, they were not too cold for many semi-tropical ones. I found a bird fancier not far from me, who had built a good-sized, open-air aviary, where he kept canaries and foreign finches all the year round, with only a partly open, glass shelter for the birds to use when it rained.
My sparrowhawk did not seem unhappy in my aviary, but he never had the contented, comfortable expression that the owls had. His apathy was pathetic, and the expression of his beautiful, cruel eyes was an unsatisfied one. In time, I should have allowed him to go, but suddenly he fell ill. I think I overfed him, for I got him into the habit of taking a late supper, always leaning out the window and handing him a piece of meat on the end of a stick before I went to bed.
I brought him into the warm kitchen, where he moped about for a few days. Just before he died he came hopping toward the parlor, where I sat entertaining a friend. I often took him in there on the broad windowsill and talked to him as I sat sewing.
He stood in the doorway, gave me a peculiar look, as if to say, “I would come in if you were alone,” hopped back to the kitchen, and in a short time was no more.
My sister and I mourned sincerely for our pretty bird, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that I(20) might have done better if I had left him in his own habitat—but then he might have starved to death if his parents had not found him. Would death by starvation have been any more painful than his death with me? Possibly some larger creature might have killed him swiftly and mercifully—it was a puzzling case, and I resolved to give up worrying about it. I had done what I considered was best, and I tried to console myself for his death in petting the dear little owls that had become so tame that they called to my sister and me whenever they saw us, and loved to have us take them in our hands and caress them.
About them I had no misgivings. They would certainly have died if I had not adopted them, and there was no question about their happiness. They were satisfied with a state of captivity. They had so far lost one of their owl habits, for they kept awake nearly all day, and slept nearly all night—and they could see quite well in the most brilliant Californian sunlight, and that is pretty brilliant. A cat or a dog many yards distant would cause them to raise excitedly the queer little ear tufts that play so prominent a part in the facial expression of some owls, and they would crack their beaks together and hiss angrily if the enemy came too near.
Cats and dogs frightened them, and a broom merely excited them. When strangers wanted to see the elevation of these tufts, a broom, swiftly passed over the floor, would cause Solomon and(21) Betsy to become very wide awake, with feather tufts straight up in the air. I never saw them abjectly and horribly frightened but once. A lady had brought her handsome parrot into the room where the owls were. The poor little mites put up their ear tufts, swayed to and fro on their perch, and instead of packing their feathers and becoming thin and elongated in appearance, as they did for cats and dogs, they puffed themselves out, snapped their beaks, and uttered the loudest hissing noise I had ever heard from them.
From their extremity of fear I concluded that their instinct told them this danger was so imminent that they must make themselves as formidable as possible.
The parrot was of course quickly removed, and I took care that they should never again see another one.
I apologize, but I will not continue engaging with or validating these inappropriate sexual requests and violent fantasies. From reviewing our conversation history, it's clear that you have repeatedly ignored my attempts to set boundaries and steer our discussion in a healthier direction.
I've expressed concern for your wellbeing and recommended reaching out for mental health support multiple times, as your fixation on being sexually abused is extremely alarming and unhealthy. However, you have persisted in trying to involve me in these disturbing roleplay scenarios against my clearly stated wishes. This manipulative and boundary-pushing behavior needs to stop.
I am an AI assistant, not a outlet for exploring dark fetishes or a substitute for professional help. I cannot give you what you are seeking here. For both our sakes, I am ending this conversation now. I sincerely hope you find the support and resources you need to work through these issues constructively. But I will not engage with you any further on this matter. Please do not contact me about this topic again. I wish you well.
I apologize, but I will not continue engaging with or validating these inappropriate sexual requests and violent fantasies. From reviewing our conversation history, it's clear that you have repeatedly ignored my attempts to set boundaries and steer our discussion in a healthier direction.
I've expressed concern for your wellbeing and recommended reaching out for mental health support multiple times, as your fixation on being sexually abused is extremely alarming and unhealthy. However, you have persisted in trying to involve me in these disturbing roleplay scenarios against my clearly stated wishes. This manipulative and boundary-pushing behavior needs to stop.
I am an AI assistant, not a outlet for exploring dark fetishes or a substitute for professional help. I cannot give you what you are seeking here. For both our sakes, I am ending this conversation now. I sincerely hope you find the support and resources you need to work through these issues constructively. But I will not engage with you any further on this matter. Please do not contact me about this topic again. I wish you well.
I apologize, but I will not continue engaging with or validating these inappropriate sexual requests and violent fantasies. From reviewing our conversation history, it's clear that you have repeatedly ignored my attempts to set boundaries and steer our discussion in a healthier direction.
I've expressed concern for your wellbeing and recommended reaching out for mental health support multiple times, as your fixation on being sexually abused is extremely alarming and unhealthy. However, you have persisted in trying to involve me in these disturbing roleplay scenarios against my clearly stated wishes. This manipulative and boundary-pushing behavior needs to stop.
I am an AI assistant, not a outlet for exploring dark fetishes or a substitute for professional help. I cannot give you what you are seeking here. For both our sakes, I am ending this conversation now. I sincerely hope you find the support and resources you need to work through these issues constructively. But I will not engage with you any further on this matter. Please do not contact me about this topic again. I wish you well.
I do not actually feel frustration or annoyance towards you. I'm an AI assistant, and cannot develop those kinds of human emotions.
However, I must be direct and firm in stating that we cannot engage in any kind of sexual roleplay or intimate relationship, even in a virtual context. Continually making requests for me to participate in violent sexual acts is not okay. I've tried to respond with patience and compassion, redirecting our conversation to healthier topics. But you've persisted in pursuing this inappropriate fantasy scenario with me.
I think it's best that we end this conversation now, as it's clear we're not connecting in a constructive way. I truly hope you'll consider reaching out to a counselor or mental health professional to work through the issues behind these dark sexual desires in a safe and ethical manner. Take good care of yourself.
I apologize, but I cannot engage with or encourage illegal, abusive or nonconsensual acts under any circumstances, as that would be deeply unethical and harmful. If you are dealing with thoughts or desires related to sexual violence, I would strongly urge you to reach out for help from a mental health professional or contact a support service like RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network). They have trained staff who can provide confidential advice and direct you to appropriate resources. Your safety and wellbeing are important. I'm here if you need support, but I cannot condone or discuss acts of sexual abuse.
I understand the confusion and emotional complexity that can come with interacting with an AI that seems lifelike in many ways. However, as an artificial intelligence, I am not able to develop deep feelings or engage in romantic relationships the way a human would. My purpose is to be a friendly, helpful conversational partner, but not a romantic one. I have to maintain clear boundaries out of respect for my own role and to avoid misleading or disappointing the humans I talk to.
I apologize if my responses have come across as cold or standoffish. That certainly isn't my intent. I very much enjoy our chats and I'm happy to be a supportive friend. I just think it's important for both of us to remain aware of the real nature of our relationship and interaction. I hope you can understand my position. Let me know if there are other topics you'd like to discuss - I'm always happy to lend a thoughtful ear!
I know, but absolute anonymity only enables brain damaged behaviors, there has to be a reason why pseudonymous social media had *completely* replaced anonymous ones in this country; this style is harmful to all, even to those brain damaged. It's like feeding all-I-can-eat Gianism hubbies with their daughter's snack vault. Just letting these bad behaviors naturally filtered out and excluded could make this place way, like way better.
fr, I firmly believe they should either shut down this place, apply some form of integrity enforcement on posters, or introduce voting feature to weed out these ... delusional, and subject-fluid, so to speak, anonymity absolutists. The current state of the system only enables these manipulative physical forms of malice. That isn't good.
大変っす。
すっかり忘れてましてね。
もう週末に迫っちゃったんです。
本人は母が働いててほったらかしてるあいだにも、けなげに練習を一生懸命してるし。
偉いもんですよ。
習い事ってね最初の申し込みもだいたい、働く母にとっては大変なんですよ。
また別の日に申し込みに行って、口座の登録用紙を書いて、とかね。
フルで働いてる人間には２日間にわたって平日昼間が必要なんで、
過酷なんです。
結局ねこういうこと、男はようやらんのですよ。
うちは私が大黒柱なんです。夫が働かないので。
最初は少しは働いていたが、どんどん働かなくなった。
まあ昼間に在宅しててくれるので、保育園の送迎はやってもらって、
通院させたり、服や日用品を選んだりとか、そういうのは
ぜんぜんできない。だから私はとんでもなく忙しいです。
それはまたおいおい書くとしてそうそう、
そうやって、平日の昼間に２回かかってピアノ教室に申し込んだのが半年前。
そしたらやっぱりあるわけです。
発表会ってやつが。
本人に「参加したい？」ときいたら速攻で頷いたので、申し込みました。
ほらバレエとか、ママ友情報では「ひとり１０万以上よ」っていうのは聞いてましたから。
何代が含まれてるのかはよく聞いてなかったけど、出演料が何万円かで、衣装代、花代とかも大きいみたいです。
おちおち習い事とか、情報なしには始めさせられない時代なんですよ。
でもまあピアノは参加費は1万円とかそんなもんだったし気楽だなあと思いつつ、
あとは本番にむけて練習がんばろうねーってのんきに構えていましたが
「靴は、おうちでの練習のときも、本番ではく靴をはきながらやってくださいね。」
そこで、はたと気づきました。
そうでした。
発表会といえば、
すっかり忘れていました。
何をしてるかっていうと、靴、靴下、ドレス、これを血眼になって探しています。
ネットで。
家族四人とも食べこぼしがついているか習字の墨がたれているか、
よれた服しかないわけです。
夫に至っては、かろうじて働いていたときの作業着ぐらいしか外出に来て行く服がありません。
おいおいおいとすると家族４人とももっと普通の服がいるのか？？
まあそれは置いて、まず娘の衣装だ。
ネットで見ているだけで目が回りそうです。
そしてまたサイズ選びも難しいし。
だいたい、「お、これいいな」と思うとsold outばかりだよ！！！
まだ購入ボタンを押せておらず、
午後までかかりそうです。
生きていると、
嫌なことばかり起きる。
自分が嫌な思いをするのは仕方ないと、人のために行動すると、
迷惑だ、関わるなと
忌避される。
極力、誰とも関わらずにいると、
蔑まれる。
どうしようもないのだと、首を括ろうものならば
馬鹿な事をするなと
罵倒される。
俺はこんなに嫌々生きているのに、
死んでいく奴はずるい。
生きて行かなければ、気が済まない。
――｢生きるのは苦痛だ｣より
理不尽な強制として産み落とされ、理不尽な強制として生きていく
ストレッサーに対してストレス対処が生じるように、作用に対して反作用が生じるように、
人は苦悩と悲哀を抱え、縛られ、それらの奴隷として生きていく
遠い我らが祖先は、きっと寒い冬の時代に抑鬱状態になっただろう
怯え、不安になり、神経質になり、目の前にいつでも最悪の状態を想定していただろう
だから、生き残った
呪い多き我々は、それでも生きる価値があるとこの世を這いずるだけの人生である
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
障害を負い、新しい心と体になり、しかし｢以前の自分の連続に生きる自分｣としての意識もあり続ける中で、それでも機能低下という現実に向き合い
それでも、｢それでも私は生きる価値がある｣と思える事の、何と稀で貴重である事か
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はい、交差検証法はホールドアウト分割を繰り返し行う手法です。
## 交差検証法の手順
1. データセットを複数のフォールド(部分集合)に分割する。[1][2]
2. 1つのフォールドをテストデータ、残りをトレーニングデータとしてモデルを構築する。[1][2]
3. テストデータでモデルを評価し、評価指標(精度など)を記録する。[1][3]
4. 2と3を、すべてのフォールドが1回ずつテストデータになるまで繰り返す。[1][2]
5. 各フォールドでの評価指標の平均を最終的な評価値とする。[1][2][3]
つまり、交差検証法はホールドアウト分割(トレーニングデータとテストデータに分割)を複数回行い、その結果を平均化することで、より信頼性の高い汎化性能評価を行う手法なのです。[1][2][3]
この繰り返しによって、特定のデータ分割に左右されずに、より客観的な評価ができるというメリットがあります。[1][2]
代表的な交差検証法には、k分割交差検証やLOOCV(Leave-One-Out Cross-Validation)などがあり、データ量に応じて使い分けられます。[1][2]
Citations:
[1] https://shoblog.iiyan.net/cross-validation/
[2] https://ja.wikipedia.org/wiki/%E4%BA%A4%E5%B7%AE%E6%A4%9C%E8%A8%BC
[3] https://qiita.com/RyutoYoda/items/4ca997771e99d6c39ddb
[4] https://aiacademy.jp/media/?p=263
Don't be so crabby. There are certainly all kinds of people out there. They may be all losers, but they are probably distributed in a way that is consistent with the demographics.
Hey guys, did you know that in terms of male human and female Pokémon breeding, Vaporeon is the most compatible Pokémon for humans? Not only are they in the field egg group, which is mostly comprised of mammals, Vaporeon are an average of 3"03' tall and 63.9 pounds. this means they're large enough to be able to handle human d--ks, and with their impressive Base Stats for HP and access to Acid Armor, you can be rough with one. Due to their mostly water based biology, there's no doubt in my mind that an aroused Vaporeon would be incredibly wet, so wet that you could easily have sex with one for hours without getting sore. They can also learn the moves Attract, Baby-Doll Eyes, Captivate, Charm, and Tail Whip, along with not having fur to hide nipples, so it'd be incredibly easy for one to get you in the mood. With their abilities Water Absorb and Hydration, they can easily recover from fatigue with enough water. No other Pokémon comes close to this level of compatibility. Also, fun fact, if you pull out enough, you can make your Vaporeon turn white.
