Reblog to cast heal on prev

pixel skylines
Sweet Seals For You, Always

blake kathryn

Origami Around
Mike Driver
One Nice Bug Per Day

Kaledo Art

titsay
KIROKAZE

No title available
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
will byers stan first human second
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
No title available

Discoholic 🪩

No title available
wallacepolsom
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Today's Document

#extradirty
seen from Malaysia

seen from Russia

seen from United States

seen from Singapore

seen from Spain

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from Norway
seen from Hungary

seen from China
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Canada

seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Greece

seen from United States

seen from Singapore

seen from United States
@chezidency
Reblog to cast heal on prev
roald dahl was antisemitic and misogynistic. george orwell was openly homophobic. edgar allan poe married his 13 year old cousin. dr seuss cheated on his wife (and was racist as well as antisemitic!). hp lovecraft was racist as fuck. anyways they’re fucking dead it’s not like you’re enabling their behaviors in the afterlife or something. then again I think they bleed into the books so uh keep an eye out for that
the difference between these old white guys and jk rowling is that the former group is all dead. jk rowling is alive and using your money to oppress trans people
and what damocles never tells anyone is that every night he gets a little stepladder and he climbs up to the top of it and he feels around the blade, the hilt, the pommel to that tiny knot of sinews and he loosens it a bit just so he has a say. just so he has a say.
It's literally crazy luck that I've only ever come across nails ever since I got my hands on my awesome hammer
i have hired this fucking thing to stare at you
im rehiring this fucking thing to stare at you
09/04/2026 • every time @softinvasions writes a villanelle about how sonnets suck i write another suckful sonnet*. metrical malpractice!
*sonnets do not even have to have 14 lines if you are pure of heart and sonnetpilled enough
brain-bloom.
I draw flowers - I fracture every hour with fractals That devour every ounce of fibered flour Til the ink has overpowered all the other Little towers that I doodled off in periphery - I draw flowers, That spiral into nothing, hushing up the buzzing From crushing thoughts all shoving into every open Space inside my head so I can't breathe, Humming fright a pilot light on a brain set to seethe - I draw flowers, In patterns intricate, nonsensical, Liquescent and whimsical, dissonant and Cyclical, intimate, inimical, catastrophically analytical, All signs of a mind bordering apocalyptical I draw flowers, That constantly expand because I constantly demand To do something with my hands, I draw flowers, Right up to the edge when I'm right up on a ledge With this plunging sort of pledge, I draw flowers, Because I hate the alternative: the violent silence Of anxiety interpretative - The pictures I produce inside my head are red and black I draw a flower on every inch of territory I take back.
If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.
Oh hey! Haven’t seen this in forever! Didn’t reblog it when it came across me before, not gonna skip it this time, I need some good vibes.
"little things."
It's the little things.
It's the way you wake up beside her,
Just inside the slow time of a day
Bleeding into existence through the
Blinds. It's the way the nascent gold
Weaves itself into her hair as though
Apollo himself did her highlights. It's
the way, when you tell her so, that a grin
Spreads bright across her face like a
Dawn all its own.
It's the little things.
It's wandering through the awful ruins
Of your Chinese delivery on your way
To your couch for one. It's lying on your
Side, fitting perfectly in the same dent
In your cushions you've been lying in for
You don't know how long. It's losing yourself
In the hollow empire of daytime television in hopes
Of discovering something as broken and empty
As you are.
It's the little things.
It's the way his arms feel like home:
The way his chest feels warm against your cheek,
Like his heart was a hearth and you'd spent too long in
The cold. It's the way he holds you as though
You were the world's sole source of oxygen,
The way he breathes in when you kiss him
Like he just surfaced from the bottom of the ocean.
It's the way he tells you he loves you,
Stumbling over the words because he can't find
Enough silly, cheesy similies to communicate
What you make him feel.
It's the little things.
It's the way you have to clear out their closet
When they're gone. It's the way you stuff books
And shirts and ties and shoes into boxes.
It's the way you pack their past into
Parcels and give your loved one to Goodwill in the hopes
That their goodwill could mean something less painful
To someone else. It's the way you drive back to an
Empty closet--empty except for the skeletons, anyway.
It's the little things.
It's the way the world looks quiet and endless
As you're driving down Interstate 40 from Tulsa
To Charlotte with your temporary best
Friend dozing off in the passenger seat. It's the way,
After twenty hours in the car, every
Waffle House in every town in every state
Starts to look the same. It's the low light of
Diners and the stories of strangers over warm
Cups of coffee you probably shouldn't have after that
Fourth powerade, but you do it anyway.
It's the way you're all traveling to different places
But you're all just trying to get home.
It's the little things.
It's the way his lips purse, as though he's
Still trying to get the last drops out of a phantom
Bottle of booze. It's the way he gives you that
Glassy-eyed blank stare, swaying on his feet, as though the
Alcohol had burned everything out of him. It's in the way
That, when he finally musters up the drunken nerve to
Take a swing at you, the ruined bastard can't even hurt you;
It's the way he looks so. Damn. Old.
It's the little things.
But see if cells are the building blocks of
Our flesh then the little things are the DNA
Of our soul and it's the little things that
Build us up, bit by bit, day by day until
We're all stories made of stories.
It's the little things.
It's the fighting, it's the loving,
It's the traveling, it's the playing,
It's the music, it's the poetry,
It's the dying, and
It's the living.
It's the little things.
Pick up trash in someone’s garden
go deliver mail
work a restaurant shift
die from a terminal illness
collect branches
look at pngs
babysit a 12 year old
roll dice and do poses
fight with a bunch of bugs
Cookies fighting and running
undead lamb fights god
squirt ink at people until they die
tap notes to song
Turtles fighting a lot
watch the robots.
run errands for girl who hates you
woman victimized by STEM
Small child wonders what’s at the bottom of a well and dies trying to find out
drive unsafely
be small
Futuristic fight
inhale people
Be a wolf. On mobile only(I think)
hungry bunny
Take a ton of elevators
cowboy ok? YEEHAW
Roll dice and do math
fish but scary
Three mentally ill queer teenagers
avoid school project
or investigate some girl’s cousin’s missing person case
Listen to static from space and succumb to the paranoia
walk in big cave and fight skelotons
it’s really dark in here and there’s a goat
come, see, conquer
Jump man
Digging and construction
Pest control
Clean up other people’s messes forever
start your own business with your friends and improve the city you live in
boy fails to leave home repeatedly
The Rags to Riches In A Nutshell Experience.exe
the bad old soldier and the brand new world.
He stares hard at a candle situated on their little table – the only light in the tent. The swaying flame carves hard shadows into his craggy features and grim expression, and throws wild shadows across the tent’s damp slopes. A thin rain patters across the top of the tent and drums staccato on the leaves of whispering trees beyond the tent’s entrance. A brittle chill – the sort of wavering cold you find just before dawn in late winter, before warmth can roll in over the mountains – causes him to tug his raincloak closer to him.
It doesn’t seem right, he thinks. The moment deserves more than a light drizzle and an old man shivering in his tent in the forest. It ought to be storming. The skies ought to be swelling with the weight of it, the gods weeping with the enormity of their deed, the heavens quaking with thunderous anxiety at the new world approaching them all.
But no. It’s just quiet rain, which does little to distract him from nervous visions of failure. What if she’s caught? What if something happens? What if the bastard tyrant proves a more capable sort than they accounted for? What if –
He nearly goes for his knife when the tent flap sweeps open; as old a soldier as he is, a life of hurried, dirty little killings has prepared his reflexes well past the point where age could dull them. But no, it’s her, sulking her way into the tent, her hood tugged up over her head. She meets his eyes, and in the ochre glow of the candlelight, he can see blood spattered across her cheek. Not for the first time, a pang of regret sounds off in his chest cavity. She’s so young. She shouldn’t have had to do this. She shouldn’t have had to give everything up this way.
“It’s done,” she says, quietly. “He’s dead.”
“Then it’s over,” he returns, sinking back down into his seat.
“It’s over.”
oh so when THEY do it it’s headline news
does anyone know if it’s okay to want things or let yourself have them
its a heavy burden, having a heart as big as a city. and heavier still when it loves you back
prints
the bad old soldier and the brand new world.
He stares hard at a candle situated on their little table – the only light in the tent. The swaying flame carves hard shadows into his craggy features and grim expression, and throws wild shadows across the tent’s damp slopes. A thin rain patters across the top of the tent and drums staccato on the leaves of whispering trees beyond the tent’s entrance. A brittle chill – the sort of wavering cold you find just before dawn in late winter, before warmth can roll in over the mountains – causes him to tug his raincloak closer to him.
It doesn’t seem right, he thinks. The moment deserves more than a light drizzle and an old man shivering in his tent in the forest. It ought to be storming. The skies ought to be swelling with the weight of it, the gods weeping with the enormity of their deed, the heavens quaking with thunderous anxiety at the new world approaching them all.
But no. It’s just quiet rain, which does little to distract him from nervous visions of failure. What if she’s caught? What if something happens? What if the bastard tyrant proves a more capable sort than they accounted for? What if –
He nearly goes for his knife when the tent flap sweeps open; as old a soldier as he is, a life of hurried, dirty little killings has prepared his reflexes well past the point where age could dull them. But no, it’s her, sulking her way into the tent, her hood tugged up over her head. She meets his eyes, and in the ochre glow of the candlelight, he can see blood spattered across her cheek. Not for the first time, a pang of regret sounds off in his chest cavity. She’s so young. She shouldn’t have had to do this. She shouldn’t have had to give everything up this way.
“It’s done,” she says, quietly. “He’s dead.”
“Then it’s over,” he returns, sinking back down into his seat.
“It’s over.”
fly me to the moon, and let me read the song in stars, let me see what life is like on the other side of far in other words, cthulhu 'ia! in other words, r'lyeh fhtagn
fill my heart with fear as you rise forevermore dread lord that i long for, the god i worship, and abhor in other words, please be true, in other words, ia cthulhu!
starting a game of final fantasy tactics is not for the weak of heart. while the game doesn't tell you this, it involves much more than hitting "new game."
you see, final fantasy tactics' characters are defined by their classes (of which, i note, you have none.) these classes range from the lowly squire and earnest chemist all the way up to reality warping mathematicians (which experts will tell you is the most broken class) to earth shattering martial artists who hit the damage limit as hard as they hit their enemies (which is actually the most broken class.)
however, in order to access such lofty goals, you have to gain a currency called "job points" (which, i note again, you *also* have none on hand...) notably, you only gain job points on turns in which you have *completed an action that has had an effect.* healing yourself while at full HP? no job points. whacking your teammate with a rock? job points!
truly the american work ethic - sometimes referred to less politely as "crab bucket behavior" - is alive and well.
so, in order to really EXPERIENCE final fantasy tactics, you have to set up an involved, repetitive engine of grinding before you can reap the appropriate rewards by getting to, per the layman's parlance, The Good Stuff. there are many methods to do so, but the fastest of which is laid out below.
step 1: have everyone in squire long enough to learn "focus," which lets you gain JP every turn with no worries about success rate, and the animation is super fast
step 2: have a black mage learn "frog"
step 3: give everyone the secondary job command for squires so they can all focus
step 4: leave one enemy standing, turn them into a frog, let them run into one corner of the map
step 5: World's Worst ADHD Medication Advertisement In The Other Corner of The Map
step 6: have ninjas and samurai - classes that don't show up in enemy parties until chapter 4 (out of 4) - before the first major battle of chapter 1
once you have accessed end-game classes well before the game ever expects you to have done so, and you have thoroughly shattered the expected curve of the economy and enemy rosters, THEN you may enjoy final fantasy tactics. you're welcome.
(editor's note: this is a godawful way to play the game the first time through and you should not do it unless a) you're having a genuinely impossible time and you'd be better served there by lowering the difficulty or b) you're a gremlin of a person freed from all known moral compunctions.)