every time i write i think about that maya angelou quote where she talks about her editor asking her why she uses semicolons instead of colons and says she has often responded by threatening to never speak to him again
So on the 27th DeepSeek R1 dropped (a chinese version of ChatGPT that is open source, free and beats GPT's 200 dollar subscription, using less resources and less money) and the tech market just had a loss of $1,2 Trillion.
cats being capable of understanding accidents and even giving you a little head bonk to let you know you're still cool makes it infinitely funnier that they don't understand when you're trying to help them
cats when you step on their tail: i'll admit that was rather ouchie, but given the lifetime of goodwill and trust between us, one must conclude this booboo is but a fluke.
cats when you try to get their claws unstuck from the couch covering: this nefarious bitch has never had a single honorable intention in their dishonest and shameful life, this must be one of their sinister plots or perhaps even an attempt on my life,
One of the most jarring moments of my university education was in a physics class when I was given a device that measures gravity and was told âthis cost the university sixteen thousand dollars, but the only glass blower in the world who could make the glass springs inside it died so itâs literally irreplaceable. If you drop it those springs will shatter. Go fuck around with it for a day and take some measurementsâ
you guys know butch =/= taking T right? you guys know dyke masculinity is not correlated to being transmasc right? you guys know that even your silly jokes where you flatten butchness to taking T/being transmasc is extremely transmisogynistic right?
straight men have beauty standards for men that are completely different than the beauty standards women and gay men have for men and then they get mad when they conform to the beauty standards other podcast bros set for them and women still donât find them attractive
while you were busy arguing about phrenology on Twitter, lamenting your weak jawline and making fun of dudes who donât go to the gym, beautiful fat polyamorous men with nerdy personalities were busy snatching up the baddest bitches in your town. câest la vie.
There's a tiktok trend called "hear me out cakes" where you print out pictures of characters and actors that you basically have to justify wanting to fuck before taping it on a tooth pick and put it on a cake.
Most of the men who do this challenge will pick the fish from Shark Tales, Nala from Lion King (this was the one he actually had to fight for his life over), Shego and actors slightly older than 30 there was one guy who had Korra was his hear me out.
Meanwhile the girls are fucking xenomorphs, mathematical equations, the concept of Vine, Bananas in Pajamas and the Peanut M&M. One girl sprayed another girl with a water bottle because she put Bowser on cake and he was too basic.
If the trend has taught me anything is that girls will fuck literally anything as long as it has a charming personality and a sardonic smile. If you can't convince a girl to fuck you when she's got a centaur from fallout on her smash cake it has nothing to do with not having a jawline or a six pack it's because you're an insufferable human being.
âbread is bad for youâ ârice is bad for youâ sorry im not subscribing to the idea that staple grains that have been integral to cultures for centuries are evil. i love you carbs
Please read this manâs description of his dachshund and its most annoying habit
âI have a ridiculous dog named Walnut. He is as domesticated as a beast can be: a purebred longhaired miniature dachshund with fur so thick it feels rich and creamy, like pudding. His tail is a huge spreading golden fan, a clutch of sunbeams. He looks less like a dog than like a tropical fish. People see him and gasp. Sometimes I tell Walnut right out loud that he is my precious little teddy bear pudding cup sweet boy snuggle-stinker.
In my daily life, Walnut is omnipresent. He shadows me all over the house. When I sit, he gallops up into my lap. When I go to bed, he stretches out his long warm body against my body or he tucks himself under my chin like a soft violin. Walnut is so relentlessly present that sometimes, paradoxically, he disappears. If I am stressed or tired, I can go a whole day without noticing him. I will pet him idly; I will yell at him absent-mindedly for barking at the mailman; I will nuzzle him with my foot. But I will not really see him. He will ask for my attention, but I will have no attention to give. Humans are notorious for this: for our ability to become blind to our surroundings â even a fluffy little jewel of a mammal like Walnut.
âŠ
When I come home from a trip, Walnut gets very excited. He prances and hops and barks and sniffs me at the door. And the consciousnesses of all the wild creatures Iâve seen â the puffins, rhinos, manatees, ferrets, the weird hairy wet horses â come to life for me inside of my domestic dog. He is, suddenly, one of these unfamiliar animals. I can pet him with my full attention, with a full union of our two attentions. He is new to me and I am new to him. We are new again together.
Even when he is horrible. The most annoying thing Walnut does, even worse than barking at the mailman, is the ritual of his âevening drink.â Every night, when I am settled in bed, when I am on the brink of sleep, Walnut will suddenly get very thirsty. If I go to bed at 10:30, Walnut will get thirsty at 11. If I go to bed at midnight, heâll wake me up at 1. Iâve found that the only way I cannot be mad about this is to treat this ritual as its own special kind of voyage â to try to experience it as if for the first time. If I am open to it, my upstairs hallway contains an astonishing amount of life.
The evening drink goes something like this: First, Walnut will stand on the edge of the bed, in a muscular, stout little stance, and he will wave his big ridiculous fan tail in my face, creating enough of a breeze that I canât ignore it. I will roll over and try to go back to sleep, but he wonât let me: Heâll stamp his hairy front paws and wag harder, then add expressive noises from his snout â half-whine, half-breath, hardly audible except to me. And so I give up. I sit up and pivot and plant my feet on the floor â I am hardly even awake yet â and I make a little basket of my arms, like a running back preparing to take a handoff, and Walnut pops his body right into that pocket, entrusting the long length of his vulnerable spine (a hazard of the dachshund breed) to the stretch of my right arm, and then he hangs his furry front legs over my left. From this point on we function as a unit, a fusion of man and dog. As I lift my weight from the bed Walnut does a little hop, just to help me with gravity, and we set off down the narrow hall. We are Odysseus on the wine-dark sea. (Walnut is Odysseus; I am the ship.)
All of evolution, all of the births and deaths since caveman times, since wolf times, that produced my ancestors and his â all the firelight and sneak attacks and tenderly offered scraps of meat, the cages and houses, the secret stretchy coils of German DNA â it has all come, finally, to this: a fully grown exhausted human man, a tiny panting goofy harmless dog, walking down the hall together. Even in the dark, Walnut will tilt his snout up at me, throw me a deep happy look from his big black eyes â I can feel this happening even when I canât see it â and he will snuffle the air until I say nice words to him (OK you fuzzy stinker, letâs go get your evening drink), and then, always, I will lower my face and he will lick my nose, and his breath is so bad, his fetid snout-wind, it smells like a scoop of the primordial soup. It is not good in any way. And yet I love it.
Walnut and I move down the hall together, step by bipedal step, one two three four, tired man and thirsty friend, and together we pass the wildlife of the hallway â a moth, a spider on the ceiling, both of which my children will yell at me later to move outside, and of course each of these creatures could be its own voyage, its own portal to millions of years of history, but we canât stop to study them now; we are passing my sonâs room. We can hear him murmuring words to his friends in a voice that sounds disturbingly like my own voice, deep sound waves rumbling over deep mammalian cords â and now we are passing my daughterâs room, my sweet nearly grown-up girl, who was so tiny when we brought Walnut home, as a golden puppy, but now she is moving off to college. In her room she has a hamster she calls Acorn, another consciousness, another portal to millions of years, to ancient ancestors in China, nighttime scampering over deserts.
But we move on. Behind us, in the hallway, comes a sudden galumphing. It is yet another animal: our other dog, Pistachio, he is getting up to see whatâs happening; he was sleeping, too, but now he is following us. Pistachio is the opposite of Walnut, a huge mutt we adopted from a shelter, a gangly scraggly garbage muppet, his body welded together out of old mops and sandpaper, with legs like stilts and an enormous block head and a tail so long that when he whips it in joy, constantly, he beats himself in the face. Pistachio unfolds himself from his sleepy curl, stands, trots, huffs and stares after us with big human eyes. Walnut ignores him, because with every step he is sniffing the dark air ahead of us, like a car probing a night road with headlights, and he knows we are approaching his water dish now, he knows I am about to bend my body in half to set his four paws simultaneously down on the floor, he knows that he will slap the cool water with his tongue for 15 seconds before I pick him up again and we journey back down the hall. And I find myself wondering, although of course it doesnât matter, if Walnut was even thirsty, or if we are just playing out a mutual script. Or maybe, and who could blame him, he just felt like taking a trip.â
There is an animal-size hole at the center of modern life. Some of us will search the world to fill it.
gummygunk
snowghoul
titsay
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
izzy806
kianamaiart
