DEAR READER
h
Sweet Seals For You, Always
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Sade Olutola
#extradirty
$LAYYYTER
YOU ARE THE REASON
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pixel skylines
KIROKAZE
wallacepolsom
roma★
Jules of Nature
Peter Solarz
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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NASA
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
we're not kids anymore.
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@blinkedyblinkx3
this covers the hole but it’s really obstructive and ruins the aesthetic of the bowl I’m considering making a decoy bowl now
All cats ruin the aesthetics if it doesn’t revolve around them.
related: aesthetic cat bed that has only been used 2 times in the past 2 years. they prefer to sleep in Amazon boxes
@pancakeke you should put the amazon box inside the aesthetic cat bed. Maybe they’ll be more inclined to use it that way
if this works I will lose my damn mind
ARE YOU KIDDING ME
I constantly forget about the whole ‘termite infestation’ problem we’re finally getting fixed until I walk into the bathroom and am confronted with The Void
this is not what I intended for you to focus on
come on it’s not even functional
oh like all of you have perfectly normal bathrooms
AM I BEING PRANKED
just so you all know I showed my friend The Void and she found it appropriately interesting and creepy
no one’s using the void it would be a waste of electricity
is no one going to mention the abundance of clocks on the fireplace
buddy you should have seen how many clocks there were before one of the walls was ripped down
no none of them work
This reads like a frustrated chaos demigod posted it.
Customers who get angry when I read them their total cost are so compelling to me. Take charge of your narrative, Janice. Be the hero of your own story. You are the one who is purchasing $113.67 worth of adult zen coloring books, Janice. It’s not me you hate, Janice. It’s not me.
Young girls really are pressured now more than ever to be seen as beautiful and sexy and perfect like IG models and whatever the fuck…..like that’s why you see “me at 14 vs 14 year old girls today” posts……….we didn’t have this constant stream of content like they do…..content telling us to be perfect and to have perfect clothes and sharp eyeliner wings that look photoshopped and shit like that….I mean it’s always been there but not like this…and while I think girls should be able to dress however they want and do whatever they want…..you have to take into consideration the fact that this all stems from a toxic culture where women have to be perfect and beautiful…now at younger and younger ages….and it’s really gross…and the media continues to sexualize and like…make young girls seem older and more appealing than they actually are idk the whole thing makes me so uncomfortable and it’s only going to get worse :/
And the wildest thing is, people will still try and justify it with the “there’s always been girls that dress older than they are!” argument. Which is true. But it was never the norm. Pre social media, most young girls were allowed be young girls. Here’s Miley Cyrus, Selena Gomez and Lindsay Lohan at 14/15 in 2001-2007. They were arguably the biggest young stars of the time but this is how they presented
They aren’t being styled to look leagues older than they are. They’re allowed to just be their own age and look their own age. Now, here’s Millie Bobbie Brown at 13 in 2018, Veronika Bonell at 15/16 in 2017, Skai Jackson at 13 in 2015, and Caitlin Carmichael at 13 in 2017.
There is a deep problem in our society that this is what people are styling children to look like. They don’t look like children, they look like young adults. They could wear these exact same looks in 10 years and they wouldn’t be questioned because they’re dressed and made up to present as adults. This is what is presented as normal for young girls, this is the image they’re told is the “right” one, the one they should aspire to.
There’s nothing wrong with girls - or boys - wanting to be pretty. But there is a problem with young girls being constantly told that pretty for them means looking over 21 at 13.
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.
This is amazing!
One thing I’ve learned in life, if you act really self-assured and confident you can pretty much get away with anything.
For example, I’ve watched someone walk on to a plane with no passport. Just walked right on.
Once walked out of a dude’s house with a pair of his pants slung over my shoulder. Did all the usual eye-contact, saying-goodbye movements and noises, just… while stealing his pants. He did not notice.
I told my English teacher that she graded my final paper(I did not turn one in) and that she told me it was well written. She scrambled 3 days trying to find the nonexistent paper, then apologized to me for losing it and gave me a 96%. Confidence is key
my dad’s mate just walked out of a shop with a canoe and didn’t get questioned
Humans are like bees: if they sense you’re an intruder all hell will break loose, but if you get inside the hive they just assume you belong there. Be confident.
Bee confident
This is funny but also true, and a huge tip when traveling. Act like you belong, and you won’t be bothered like other tourists might. Especially on public transportation… do your research ahead of time and look like a disinterested commuter and you’ll blend right in.
Fun Fact about Bees: they use pheromones to communicate and the pheromone to signal ALARM is the same chemical that makes bananas smell like bananas so if you eat a banana and then breathe on a beehive you will regret it and this seemed relevant when i started writing it
I’m Gonna Be (500 miles) is honestly just such a pure, solid good song. The lyrics are cute af and actually resemble a long-term committed and happy relationship and to top it all off you can scream ‘DAHDADADA’ and the top of your lungs in a pub and someone will scream it back to you.
“Amigo? Oh, that’s — that’s so nice of you to say that because, I’ve just had a really hard Día de Muertos, and I could really use an amigo right now.” └ Coco (2017), dir. Lee Unkrich
Never enough | The Greatest Showman Lyric Posters (7/?)
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most blessed social interaction of the day? there was a dog in the car next to me at a stop light and his owner noticed me cooing over him so she rolled the window down and i rolled mine down and she shouted “HIS NAME IS CHECKERS!” and i said “HI CHECKERS!” and checkers, that amazingly good boy, lit up like a christmas tree and wagged his beautiful tail
“My boyfriend isn’t allowed to talk to other girls,” is just as unhealthy as “My girlfriend isn’t allowed to talk to other guys.”
“You can’t hang out with [boyfriend’s female friend] anymore,” is just as abusive as “You can’t hang out with [girlfriend’s male friend] anymore.”
“My man isn’t allowed to go out with his guys unless I’m with him,” is just as creepy and possessive as “My girl isn’t allowed to go out with her friends unless I’m with her.”
A woman who controls and manipulates her boyfriend is just as abusive as a man who controls and manipulates his girlfriend, pass it on.
I have been fooled
I like how the horses ears are now in an ‘anger’ position.
they know when theyve been had
sending “I hope you get that job” vibes to the people out here tryna get jobs
reblogging for yall bc the shit worked for me lol
Karma will pop me if I don’t
Dumbledore, died at age 115
Horcruxes made: 0
Voldemort, died at age 71
Horcruxes made: 7
Conclusion: Voldemort was the most useless, magic dependant wizard that ever existed. He could have lived till like 200 if he just ate well and exercised, but no he had to go and split up his soul and ruin perfectly good jewellery, fucking dumbass.
this sounds like it was written by hermione granger at 1 am
This warms my heart via /r/wholesomememes http://ift.tt/2g4YVJz
