The reading comprehension and overall common sense on this website is piss poor.
how dare you say we piss on the poor
hello vonnie
i don't do bad sauce passes
tumblr dot com
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Cosimo Galluzzi

@theartofmadeline
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Kiana Khansmith
Today's Document
One Nice Bug Per Day
Sweet Seals For You, Always

⁂

pixel skylines
Xuebing Du
sheepfilms
will byers stan first human second
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let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

JVL
Sade Olutola

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@cloverplayssnakegame
The reading comprehension and overall common sense on this website is piss poor.
how dare you say we piss on the poor
Bear religion probably fucking rocks. You're a fucking bear, you're the deadliest thing on earth, once a year an endless supply of salmon just flings itself up the river to gorge on and then you nap for 3 months.
The most delicious food in the world is protected by tiny demons who can defend it from everyone except you. Your natural armor is thick enough that you can just eat the damn hive while they buzz around you. God's chosen animals right there
Regular bears tell stories of angel bears sent by the Bear God, pure white and twice as strong as any normal bear could be, who rule the summit of the Earth and kill all who stand in their path.
And they are right, those bears exist and totally do that. Humans just have fake angels as a cope.
love the idea of bears being the chosen species actually. having a near death experience and glimpsing heaven and realising it's just full of bears, no humans at all, humans not ensouled actually, humans an accidental byproduct of God's plan for bears
How’s it feel to be the funniest person on tumblr?
What if the Truman show did a queerbait arc
What if the Truman show did a queerbait arc but then they found out Truman was gay for real and had to recalibrate and their tv network would have to take a definitive stance on homosexuality, yay or nay in the late 90s and it's not like they can recast Truman. They would have to either plot him into an it's okay to be gay fake happy relationship like they did with his tv wife or try and scare him off homosexuality by doing homophobic gay misery storylines at him to try and keep him firmly in the closet.
adding my favorite tags by @clarafordahwin
you shouldnt have to pay for the dentist. the dentist should pay me for satsifying their weird fetish
its 2026 i cannot handle any more fucking "author A obviously ripped off author B" discourse by people Who Have Only Seen the work of author B and admit themselves that they have no further knowledge of the literary landscape they are moving in. like.
this is what upstairs neighbors have
you guys are so right, I should have added the best part
This meme ages like a fine wine every year that passes.
Thanks, tumblr mobile, for unintentionally making this even funnier
Just as I said, “is this ever going to load?” One gif loaded and honestly it answered my question perfectly.
Together they create the full set.
saw this again on my dash after reblog and…
tumblr black out poetry
it is tiring, being endless political just as someone existing. my teacher asks me if i’m writing more of that “feminist poetry.” a lot of it is just talking about me, being a woman, being afraid in the city. i write about walking a line, about how i am expected to choose between home and work, how each comes with a slew of its own insults; how it feels when i am wearing shorts and there are too many men outside. these are just facts of my life. someone in the comments says, “where are woman even coming up with these crazy generalizations in their feminism?”
i hold hands with the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen and someone sighs when they see me. “do they have to make everything gay?” she asks her friend, loudly, “like, do you have to force those views in my face all the time?” i can’t stop blushing. my girlfriend holds my fingers tighter, tighter, tighter, until my knuckles are white, and i let her. somehow, this is us, protesting.
my father’s cuban blood stains my skin, i think. when i am honored with a position in the dean’s private council, a boy sneers, “you only got in because you’re hispanic.” did i? i spend the rest of our meetings wondering if i was selected for my stellar academic record, for the multiple recommendations, for the clubs i lead - or if i was just a move the dean made, to make use of me. when we all take a picture, the dean brings me in the front. in the first three we take, i am not smiling.
it is odd. “i exist.” i say, “i deserve to exist.”
“oh my god,” he groans, “we get it, you’re a feminist.”
bug i made for your consideration.
I have considered it and come to the conclusion that this bus absolutely rules. Thank you.
WHAT HAVE I DONE
Infohazards are not real
Information cannot infect you. It cannot make you do something you don't want to do.
leoreturns:
I have been waiting all year to post this.
Will it hit a million notes today?
Will it hit 2 million notes today?
hey everyone "I" have something to show "you"
I know the exact pressure it takes to crack a rib during CPR. But last Tuesday, I learned a patient’s silence can break a doctor’s soul.
His name was David Chen, but on my screen, he was "Male, 82, Congestive Heart Failure, Room 402." I spent seven minutes with him that morning. Seven minutes to check his vitals, listen to the fluid in his lungs, adjust his diuretics, and type 24 required data points into his Electronic Health Record. He tried to tell me something, gesturing toward a faded photo on his nightstand. I nodded, said "we'll talk later," and moved on. There was no billing code for "talk later."
Mr. Chen died that afternoon. As a nurse quietly cleared his belongings, she handed me the photo. It was him as a young man, beaming, his arm around a woman, standing before a small grocery store with "CHEN'S MARKET" painted on the window.
The realization hit me like a physical blow. I knew his ejection fraction and his creatinine levels. I knew his insurance provider and his allergy to penicillin. But I didn't know his wife's name or that he had built a life from nothing with his own two hands. I hadn’t treated David Chen. I had managed the decline of a failing organ system. And in the sterile efficiency of it all, I had lost a piece of myself.
The next day, I bought a small, black Moleskine notebook. It felt like an act of rebellion.
My first patient was Eleanor Gable, a frail woman lost in a sea of white bedsheets, diagnosed with pneumonia. I did my exam, updated her chart, and just as I was about to leave, I paused. I turned back from the door.
"Mrs. Gable," I said, my voice feeling strange. "Tell me one thing about yourself that’s not in this file."
Her tired eyes widened in surprise. A faint smile touched her lips. "I was a second-grade teacher," she whispered. "The best sound in the world... is the silence that comes just after a child finally reads a sentence on their own."
I wrote it down in my notebook. Eleanor Gable: Taught children how to read.
I kept doing it. My little black book began to fill with ghosts of lives lived.
Frank Miller: Drove a yellow cab in New York for 40 years.
Maria Flores: Her mole recipe won the state fair in Texas, three years running.
Sam Jones: Proposed to his wife on the Kiss Cam at a Dodgers game.
Something began to change. The burnout, that heavy, gray cloak I’d been wearing for years, started to feel a little lighter. Before entering a room, I’d glance at my notebook. I wasn’t walking in to see the "acute pancreatitis in 207." I was walking in to see Frank, who probably had a million stories about the city. My patients felt it too. They'd sit up a little straighter. A light would flicker back in their eyes. They felt seen.
The real test came with Leo. He was 22, angry, and refusing dialysis for a condition he’d brought on himself. He was a "difficult patient," a label that in hospital-speak means "we've given up." The team was frustrated.
I walked into his room and sat down, leaving my tablet outside. We sat in silence for a full minute. I didn't look at his monitors. I looked at the intricate drawings covering his arms.
"Who's your artist?" I asked.
He scoffed. "Did 'em myself."
"They're good," I said. "This one... it looks like a blueprint."
For the first time, his gaze lost its hard edge. "Wanted to be an architect," he muttered, "before... all this."
We talked for twenty minutes about buildings, about lines, about creating something permanent. We didn't mention his kidneys once. When I stood up to leave, he said, so quietly I almost missed it, "Okay. We can try the dialysis tomorrow."
Later that night, I opened my Moleskine. I wrote: Leo Vance: Designs cities on paper.
The system I work in is designed to document disease with thousands of data points. It logs every cough, every pill, every lab value. It tells the story of how a body breaks down.
My little black book tells a different story. It tells the story of why a life mattered.
We are taught to practice medicine with data, but we heal with humanity. And in a world drowning in information, a single sentence that says, "I see you," isn't just a kind gesture.
It’s the most powerful medicine we have.
this girl was showing all the signs of being a secret mermaid so i pushed her into the pool and she turned into a forty foot long mosasaurus which is tbh way cooler
not really sure how to get her out though
for those of you asking why i pushed her into the pool in the first place: i work for a duplicitous small town aquarium and i'm trying to kidnap mermaids to jump through hoops and shit to entertain tourists and make money. fucking obviously. now that i know she's actually a mosasaurus though i Have fallen in pure-hearted love with her