What Is The Fastest Way To Replace Text In Vim?

If you've been hunting for an audiobook version of 'Replace That Box of Medicine?', I dug through the usual stores so you don't have to. I checked Audible, Apple Books, Google Play Books, and the big library services like Libby/OverDrive, and there doesn't appear to be an official, widely distributed audiobook edition right now. That doesn't always mean there’s zero audio out there—sometimes small publishers or independent authors release audio exclusively on their own site, or an older recording might be tucked away on smaller platforms—but I couldn't find a commercial audiobook on the major marketplaces or in library catalogs during my search. Because there's no obvious audiobook to grab, I started looking at practical alternatives I’d use. If you own an e-book or can get a digital copy, high-quality text-to-speech apps like Voice Dream Reader, NaturalReader, or the built-in narration features on Kindle and Google Play Books can make the text listenable with surprisingly good voices. The tradeoff is that TTS usually lacks the warmth and pacing a human narrator brings, so if you’re picky about performance, that matters. Another route is checking for any official samples or readings on the author or publisher’s website—sometimes authors post a chapter as audio or host a reading on YouTube or SoundCloud. I also thought about longer-term options: if the book has an ISBN, keep an eye on publishers' catalogs and audiobook distributors like Findaway Voices or ACX, because rights can change and a production could be announced. Libraries sometimes get exclusive audiobook deals too, so adding the title to a wishlist in Libby or asking your local library to consider it for purchase are quiet ways to indicate demand. If you're okay with community content, occasionally authors or fans will record readings with permission; just make sure any fan-made audio respects copyright. Personally, I tested a TTS read of a chapter from a similar non-fiction title and found it totally fine for commuting or chores, though I still prefer a narrated production when I want to deeply absorb the material. Either way, I'm keeping an ear out for an official edition—I'd love to hear a warm, human narrator bring that one to life.

Totally hit this snag before — you open a file in vim, make your edits, and then bam: permission denied when you try to save. The neat little trick I use most often is this one-liner from inside vim: :w !sudo tee % >/dev/null What that does is write the buffer to the sudoed 'tee' command, which will overwrite the original file as root. The % expands to the current filename, so the full flow is: vim hands the file contents to sudo tee, tee writes it with elevated rights, and the >/dev/null part hides the tee output so your buffer stays as-is. After that you can do :q to quit. I like this because it’s fast and doesn’t require reopening the file as root. If you want a slightly cleaner approach, consider using sudoedit (sudo -e) to open files with your preferred editor as a temporary safe copy — it edits a temp file and then installs it as root, which is safer from a security perspective. For convenience I sometimes create a vim command or mapping, like cnoremap W!! w !sudo tee % >/dev/null, so typing :W!! saves without fuss. Also, if you frequently need root saves, the plugin 'sudo.vim' (provides commands like :SudoWrite) is worth installing. Each method has trade-offs: the tee trick is quick, sudoedit is safer, and opening vim with sudo from the start (sudo vim file) works but bypasses some safety models.

Sound words are a little obsession of mine, and 'stridulous' is one of those deliciously specific terms that makes me want to listen harder. At its core, 'stridulous' describes a high-pitched, often harsh or rasping sound — the kind you associate with insects, shrill wind through dry grass, or the metallic scrape of something under stress. If you're rewriting a nature passage and feel 'stridulous' is too technical or narrowly insect-like for your audience, there are lots of swaps you can try depending on the exact texture and emotional tone you want to convey. For sharper, more clinical substitutions try: 'strident', 'shrill', 'piercing', 'screeching'. These carry an intensity and can suggest that the sound forces itself into the reader's attention — good for alarm or harsh natural noises. For a raspier, rougher feel use: 'rasping', 'grating', 'scraping', 'harsh'. These work beautifully for dry leaves, bark, or animal claws. If you want something less abrasive and more reed- or wind-like, consider: 'reedy', 'sibilant', 'piping', 'whistling', 'trilling'. These are softer, more musical, and suit birds, wind through stems, or tiny vocalizations. Then there are more colloquial, lively choices like 'chittering', 'chirring', 'chitter-chatter', 'buzzing', or 'whirring' — these evoke specific insect or small-animal actions and feel immediate and onomatopoeic, which can be great for immersive nature scenes. A trick I love when editing is to pick synonyms by source (who or what is making the sound) and by intent (what do you want the reader to feel?). For an insect chorus: 'chirring', 'chittering', 'trilling', or 'a reedy, repetitive creak' can be vivid. For wind through reed beds: 'a sibilant whisper', 'reedy piping', or 'a high, whistling susurrus' paints a more lyrical picture. For something unsettling: 'a harsh, scraping rasp' or 'an intermittently screeching chord' ups the tension. Also experiment with verbs: instead of labeling the sound with an adjective alone, try active verbs like 'chirr', 'whine', 'skirl', 'scrape', 'shriek', or 'sibilate' to give motion. Often a compound phrase — 'a grating, insectlike trill' or 'a reedy, skirling note' — gives the nuance 'stridulous' has without sounding overly technical. Finally, don't underestimate rhythm and onomatopoeia. Reading your sentence aloud is the fastest way to test whether a swap preserves the original texture. If you want to keep a slightly scholarly tone, 'stridulous' is fine in a field note or natural history essay — but for more popular or lyrical nature writing, one of the options above will usually feel friendlier to a wider audience. Play with placement too: sometimes moving the descriptive word closer to the verb ("the crickets chirred, piping and strident") creates a livelier effect than a dry label. If you're revising a passage, try a few of these and see which one makes you actually hear the scene — that little moment of clarity is why I love this stuff.

First thing I grab are a couple of fresh AAA batteries and a comfy spot on the couch — replacing a Fire Stick remote battery is one of those tiny tasks that can feel oddly satisfying. Start by looking at the back of your remote: most Amazon Fire TV remotes take two AAA batteries, but some newer or third-party remotes might use rechargeable packs or a built-in port, so double-check the small print or the battery compartment for the correct type and polarity marks. Slide or pop off the back cover—some covers have a little tab you push, others slide down. If it’s stiff, use a fingernail or a plastic card to avoid scratching. Remove the old batteries, paying attention to which way the + and - ends face; the compartment will usually have embossed symbols. Put the new batteries in the same orientation, then snap the cover back on until it clicks. Test the remote by pressing the Home button; if it doesn’t respond, hold the Home button for about 10 seconds to re-pair it, or try removing the batteries for 30 seconds and reinserting them. If that still fails, restart the Fire Stick by unplugging it for 30 seconds. A few extra tips from my own clumsy moments: replace both batteries at once to avoid odd power issues, use quality alkaline or NiMH rechargeables to reduce leakage risk, and wipe the contacts with a dry cloth if there’s corrosion. If you spot any battery gunk, carefully clean it with a cotton swab and a bit of white vinegar (for alkaline leakage) and let it dry. Recycle old batteries properly, and if the remote still won’t pair, try the Fire TV remote app on your phone as a temporary control while you troubleshoot further.

If I had to pick a short list right off the bat, I'd put chrome-vanadium and S2 tool steel at the top for most durable vim wrench models. Chrome-vanadium (Cr-V) is what you'll see on a lot of high-quality ratchets and hex sets—it balances hardness and toughness well, resists wear, and takes a nice finish. S2 is a shock-resisting tool steel that's common for bits and hex keys designed to take a lot of torque without snapping. For heavy, impact-style use, chrome-molybdenum (Cr-Mo) or 4140/6150 alloys are common because they absorb shocks better and can be heat-treated for high strength. Finish and heat treatment matter as much as base alloy. Hardened and tempered tools in the HRC 52–62 range tend to last; too hard and they become brittle, too soft and they round off. Coatings like black oxide, phosphate, or nickel chrome help with corrosion; TiN or other nitriding can up wear resistance. In short: pick S2 or Cr-V for everyday durability, Cr-Mo for impact-duty, and pay attention to heat treatment and finish for real longevity. I tend to favor sets with solid forging and clear HRC specs—that’s saved me from snapping a hex at an awkward moment.

Honestly, I treat my tools a little like prized comics on a shelf — I handle them, clean them, and protect them so they last. When it comes to a vim wrench, the simplest habit is the most powerful: wipe it down after every use. I keep a small stash of lint-free rags and a bottle of light machine oil next to my bench. After I finish a job I wipe off grit and sweat, spray a little solvent if there’s grime, dry it, then apply a thin coat of oil with a rag so there’s no wet residue to attract rust. For bits of surface rust that sneak in, I’ll use fine steel wool or a brass brush to take it off, then neutralize any remaining rust with a vinegar soak followed by a baking soda rinse if I’ve used acid. For long-term protection I like wax — a microcrystalline wax like Renaissance or even paste car wax gives a water-repellent layer that’s pleasantly invisible. If the wrench has moving parts, I disassemble and grease joints lightly and check for play. Storage matters almost as much as treatment: a dry toolbox with silica gel packets, not left in a damp car or basement, keeps rust away. Little routines add up — a five-minute wipe and oil once a month will make that wrench feel like new for years.

I tend to swap out a word like 'unwavering' in dialogue whenever the character’s voice, emotional state, or the scene’s pacing calls for something different. To me, repetition in speech can either feel like a purposeful tic—or like lazy writing. If a character always says things in the exact same register, that flattens them. So I listen for places where the line should sting, whisper, or stumble: a stubborn captain might keep a clipped, monosyllabic synonym; a weary parent would use softer wording or even an action instead of naming the trait outright. Another big reason I change the word is to honor subtext. If someone refuses to budge out of pride, I might have them cross their arms, laugh, or joke instead of declaring their determination with a polished synonym. Conversely, in a quiet, intimate moment, a gentler phrasing—or the absence of any label at all—says more. I remember reading a line in a novel where silence and a steady look conveyed more loyalty than any adjective could; that stuck with me. Finally, variety helps with rhythm. Dialogue reads like music: short, sharp beats for conflict; languid lines for reflection. Swapping synonyms to fit that rhythm keeps scenes alive and gives each character a distinct cadence. When I edit, I play the scene out loud and replace any obvious repeat with something that feels truer to the person speaking—sometimes that’s a synonym, sometimes it’s a gesture, a metaphor, or a bite of dialogue that flips the mood instead. It makes the conversation feel lived-in, and honestly, I love how small tweaks can transform a scene.

There's this persistent debate that pops up at coffee shops and Slack channels alike: can radical candor actually replace formal performance reviews? I lean toward a cautious yes—but only if a lot of other pieces fall into place. Over the years I've watched teams that embraced candid, empathetic feedback transform their day-to-day dynamics. When people give direct praise and criticism with genuine care, you get fewer surprises in December and more continuous growth. It feels less like being ambushed by a review and more like a conversation you can act on that week. That said, lived experience beats idealism here. Radical candidness—think the spirit behind the book 'Radical Candor'—relies heavily on psychological safety, strong relationship-building, and consistency. If a manager is only candid once a quarter or if feedback swings between sugar and scalding, people start hiding mistakes instead of owning them. Also, you can't ignore structural needs: raises, promotions, legal documentation and calibration across teams. Those administrative realities mean you still need periodic, documented checkpoints even if the tone of interaction is candid and continuous. So how do I reconcile both? For me the sweet spot has been integrating radical candor as the cultural default while keeping lightweight, transparent reviews as formal anchors. Regular one-on-ones, peer feedback loops, and recorded development notes reduce the big-review shock. Calibration sessions help make promotions fairer across the org. And training in giving candid feedback ensures it lands as intended—not as blunt-force criticism. I also love the small rituals: a weekly highlight email, brief retro chats, and a public kudos board—these make ongoing feedback feel natural. Ultimately, radical candor can replace the punitive, once-a-year performance spectacle, but it doesn't fully replace the need for clear, documented decisions about pay and titles. If a team actually lives the practice, reviews become a gentle checkpoint, not a verdict, and that's when work feels human instead of bureaucratic, at least to me.