My Hoya plant bloomed 🩷 what pretty little flowers 🩷🌿

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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

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Acquired Stardust
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JBB: An Artblog!

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I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
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@darkcupcakemoon
My Hoya plant bloomed 🩷 what pretty little flowers 🩷🌿
Black cats are lucky. (via leahweissmuller)
MAN [IN THICK ACCENT]: Black cat bring good luck. Not bad luck. I have black cat - See, him face - And I am not dead today: Good luck!
“See him face”
I sure fucking do see him face
Him face
Reblog him face for good luck in 2021
Reblog him face for good luck in 2021 (2)
Reblog him face for good luck in 2022
Reblog him face for good luck in 2023
Magic is a lot like cooking. There might be a most authentic or historically correct way to do something, but sometimes the Right Way is whatever your grandma is doing.
ppl seem to do this thing in fandoms where theyll take a character whos inherently kind and trusting of people and then they make the fanon version of them ignorant or innocent to certain things by default and i dont like it
what about the characters who know the dangers of loving and trusting but do it anyway out of strength? what about the ones that know more than anyone about what heartbreak people can cause, and love quickly and wholly because they dont want anyone to feel unloved and discarded ever again? what about them?
So this is how my day is going...
I was radicalized against capitalism at a young age when I had to give all my goddamn gems to Moneybags in Spyro
oh no the horrors are back [<- horrors had never left or ceased]
Don't mind me.... Just trying something out.... Unless you like the art, in which case, you can mind all you want...
Btw, I painted all of these myself, on myself 😊 (those boobs are in fact, mine)
Don't mind me.... Just trying something out.... Unless you like the art, in which case, you can mind all you want...
Not to sound like a fuckin hippie but please for the love of god start noticing and appreciating the natural world around you. You don’t have to go hike the entire Appalachian trail or anything and I get that not everyone has access to the outdoors for various reasons, but just fucking … look around you when you’re outside. Notice the sky and the sun and the birds and creatures. Start caring about them. I’m begging you.
I am learning to imagine the future:
My sycamore tree began life in the gravel at the edge of a parking lot. If trees can feel pain, that is a painful, unlucky death. I carefully dug it up and put it in a pot I made out of a disposable cup.
Hello small one. This world may be cruel, but I will not be.
I decided to take care of it, not expecting it to survive, and when my sycamore tree unfurled one tiny leaf and then another, it chiseled a tiny foothold in my terrified brain, the kind of brain that doesn't remember a world before the atomic bomb and before 9/11.
I googled the lifespans of trees. My neurons had to stretch and expand to accommodate what I learned: My sycamore tree may live five hundred years. It's hard to think something so big. In twenty years, my baby sycamore tree will be three stories tall, and the home of many creatures. In five years, my sycamore tree will be taller than I am. In one year, it will be summer.
There's this concept called sense of foreshortened future where people who have lived through trauma can't conceptualize a future for themselves because deep down they don't expect to survive, When I look forward, all I see is fire and death, melting ice and burning sky. We were raised Evangelical. All we see is Judgment Day, except there is no heaven.
But now there is a tiny gap in the wall, a crack in the door of my cell
and on the other side, I see a tree
There is, in the future, a great old sycamore tree, full of clean winds and the stir of a thousand wings. A hundred years from now. Fifty years from now. There will be forests in that world. There will be a world.
It takes courage, but we have to imagine it.
Most tree species can live in excess of three or four hundred years. I think I'm learning something. I think there are ancient voices saying hello small one, touch the dirt and the leaves, for now you are part of something that cannot die
in 2030 I will be thirty years old and the world will not have ended and there will still be hummingbirds, and we will have photos of the stars more beautiful than we can now imagine.
I planted an Eastern Redcedar; they may live nine hundred years. There will be nine hundred years. The people in that time will remember us. Maybe we will meet the aliens (hi aliens!).
I will blow out the candles on many birthday cakes in a world where there are wolves in dark forests far from home. I am learning to imagine the future. I learned recently that elk were reintroduced to the Appalachian Mountains after over a hundred years of extirpation, and that they are expanding their range.
That tiny crack I can see through now opens a tiny bit more:
Maybe elk will pass through my hometown, maybe there will be a forest where the pasture is on the high hill that I can see from my home
say it, say it, say it: ten years, thirty years, a hundred years from now
I am learning to imagine the future. There is a crack in the wall of this prison, of this machine, of this darkness, and through it, I see a tree.
being alive is great because there are so many different vegetables you can sauté. but then there are also the horrors
i hate you cars i hate you driving i hate you gas stations i hate you highways i hate you paid parking garages i hate you random plots of grass that could be turned into parks but are just sitting there empty i hate you trucks
i dont want to be an adult i want to go to the shiny secondhand trinkets store and spend seven hundred dollars
god is hiding somewhere in here and he is only $4.99