I would like to store some information for a game I'm making in python using text files. Some of the information stored shouldn't be changeable for the user. Is there any easy way to make the files unopenable/unreadable for a user, however it would still be saved in the same directory. (Preferably without the use of external libraries, however if that is the easiest or only way then that's fine)
You can't make the file unopenable or unreadable its the users computer so they can do whatever they want.
however, I have an Idea, but it won't stop a smart one
useCeaser Cipher also called Shift cipher
This vid Will How to Use the Caesar (Shift) Cipher
simply it is swapping letter with another, like
Download Unopenable Pdf
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Given the visible deterioration of the crystal gasket, I'm not surprised to hear that the caseback gasket has deteriorated as well. When I received this watch, I failed to open its caseback with a rubber ball ... but I didn't think that it would be described as unopenable. Has anyone run into this situation before, where a deteriorated gasket has jammed a caseback to the point that it couldn't be opened? I hope that the issue isn't just that the shop doesn't have the correct hexadecagonal Zenith case back opening die. (I asked for confirmation that they have the correct die, and hope that I didn't offend them by asking that. It just seems like a fairly esoteric tool.) Are there any slightly more aggressive techniques that might work? Boiling the caseback off doesn't sound like a particularly safe technique, and I'd be OK getting some scratches on the caseback if that were the only way to get it open. What about gently heating the caseback to try to get the rubber gasket more malleable? I guess this is one of the hidden risks of buying a watch that looks pristine but obviously hasn't been serviced in decades.
What's the Plan? This watch was a significant purchase for me. It's not a watch I'm trying to flip. I had (briefly) considered mailing this watch to the Zenith factory in Le Locle for service, but had ruled it out as likely to be significantly more expensive that other options with a significantly longer turnaround time. Given the puzzle of the unopenable caseback, this is sounding like a better option. It would probably be very expensive, but I imagine that the factory would have an original NOS caseback they would happily sell me for a very high price if there's no non-destructive means of opening the caseback.
I would also advise not to use Email to respond to this thread but rather respond directly on our Community site if you are getting undeliverable email messages, here is the link to this thread: Computer shutdown/restart, now roon software unopenable [Solved - Navigated to the Roon Application Directory and Created New Shortcut]. Please let me know if these instructions work for you.
Basically every time I open or make a score, once I close it it becomes unopenable and says it's "corrupted". This has happened to four scores now and I don't want to open/ruin any more. They only work the first time I open them. For two of these I managed to export them as MP3s but after they finished exporting they either just said they were corrupted or only small bits of the song would play and then it would have a ton of silence.
Exit Adlai. A few delegates had been warned in advance. On the jet flight east, California Democrats got a mimeographed caveat: "No major hotel has been built in Atlantic City since 1929. and all of them have endured bad years. Such matters as falling plaster, removable doorknobs, detachable shower handles, unopenable windows, droughts (temporary water shortages of one kind or another), inoperable window shades, interminable room service, and lethargic elevators should be reported to the management or shared with sympathetic friends. The latter seems to have the best results. Welcome to Appalachia by the Atlantic."
THE LARGEST ROOMIMichael Byers IT WAS MARCH, SOMETIME late in the afternoon on a Wednesday, and the spring wind blew gusts of rain theatrically against Mark Horton's single, unopenable window, which gave only a wan light to his cramped and cluttered office, casting a gray veil over the computer , the stacks of paper, the empty bottles of water, the thin brown carpet of this very small room where he'd been working, programming, for an untold number of days in a row. Actually he couldn't remember the last time he'd bothered with a day off; he'd been writing and figuring and thenjogging at all hours, too, when he felt the need, running on the concrete path across the mud flats behind the engineering building, past the oily river as it went sliding through its greasy banks, then into the gym shower quickly and to his desk again, where he kept on, sometimes sleeping here, sometimes driving home not knowing for sure whether it was dawn or dusk. It was a life he'd never imagined for himself, but he'd come to enjoy it, the desperate last-days feel of it, and everyone knew this latest bad spell was temporary, really, another week or so and everyone could go back to normal, take a weekend off even. The rain increased now, the bare tree outside the window scrabbled its long black branches, and Mark went on typing, heedless. Then, all at once, without warning, and as the rain continued its maniacal flailing, Mark Horton's hands went numb. He batted them together but felt nothing. He was alarmed. He turned his wrists, examining one side of his hands, then the other, two squarish and peculiar fish. He hadn't really looked at them recently, he thought, their dry and puckery knuckles, the chewed-down cuticles spotted here and there with dried blood, the blond hairs all waving one way, like grass on the beach, as if they, too, like everything else, were subject to the wind. He walked next door to Alistair McCauley's office and pushed the door aside with his shoulder. "My hands," he said, "I've lost the feeling in my hands." Alistair McCauley, a homeopath in his spare time, not yet forty but in Mark's eyes an oldish man who drank green tea instead of coffee, was bent eagerly into his computer, as though it were feeding him, his long, rapier-like nose following white text as it scrolled up the screen. McCauley paid him no attention. "My hands just went numb," Mark said. McCauley said, "What?" The Missouri Review 9 "My hands." Mark flapped them. "Repetitive motion does that sometimes." McCauley dug into a desk drawer and took out a wrist brace. "Numbness and pain." "No," Mark said. "Not pain. Just nothing." He flapped them again at the ends of his arms, forcing himself to look at them. "Just numbness ." McCauley stood up and took Mark's hands in his own. McCauley's long, bony nose was pitted with scars, but his teeth, behind narrow lips, shone a brilliant, almost artificial white and were perfectly even, like cigarettes in a pack. "No feeling?" He pinched one fleshy thumb, then the other. "No nothing?" "No." McCauley took a pen from his pocket and began poking Mark's palms. Little blue dots appeared here and there. "Nothing?'' "No. It just happened. Just suddenly." "Well, I don't know what that is. That's not like carpal tunnel." "No." His hands hung heavily, loosely, from his wrists, as though attached with string. McCauley regarded him with some seriousness. "Could be a brain tumor, that sudden loss of sensation." He rubbed a dirty finger under his nose. "Though I doubt it. Dizziness? Double vision? Nausea?" "No." "I can look it up when I get home. Maybe you're just going crazy. Psychosomatosis. Been under any unusual stress lately? Any major changes in your life situation? Death? Divorce? Loss of a job?" "I have to go home," Mark said. "Oh, lucky man." McCauley shuffled back to his computer. "Take notes and tell me what it's like." Mark went back to his office, maneuvered himself...
ignore the strangeness of a room neither
of us have been in before, with its curtain in
front of the door, its unopenable window
the flame tree outside holding a single magpie
stone blue sky, solid with water, bag of amber urine
hanging off this side of your bed 2351a5e196
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