hey guys just a reminder!
Hey, time for your meltdown.
i don't do bad sauce passes
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@drhughgrection
hey guys just a reminder!
Hey, time for your meltdown.
…I want to just draw a fashion zine of just Miss Piggy, oh my god. she is so underrated and underutilized, where is my succession-like muppets satire thing LOL I want it so bad. let me do it disney call me pls
EDIT FOR JAN 2025: I’M MAKING A ZINE OF MISS PIGGY FASHIONS. It is happening, I have heard your comments. Please stay tuned to my instagram for updates!! Here’s a preview:
thank you for like, a bajillion notes!!!
ugh sorry guys, I got a job literally right after posting this and it’s been insanely busy, forgive me…. I’m gonna post what I was gonna put in the zine here, no need to pay or anything (but if you like I have a kofi, I’d hugely appreesh hehe)
sorry to string you guys along for I guess a whole damn year, hahahah
drawing is all sbout becoming good at illustrating one character at 3/4 angle and nothing else no backgrounds no props no furniture no money no job no future
whats sexier
horns
tails
no nuance. fight about it
fuck it. round 2
whats sexier
halo
wings
halo considering any affix above the head not directly attached
i have a third one
whats sexier
teeth
claws
PLEASE REBLOG THE THIRD ONE TOO I NEED TO KNOW
just because someone is your favorite character doesnt mean theyd have the same moral alignment as you. wheatley from portal wouldnt say "my pronouns are he/him, thank you for asking!" hed say "what uhh. what does that mean. um. you mean the nouns im most "pro" at is that what youre saying? i like to think im pretty pro,, at all nouns really. umm lets see... apple, kazoo, bubble, happy, door, umm... cake. not too fond of cake really i think its alright but. not my Favorite. if it were up to me though id eat a whole cake in one sitting. if i were a human. not a human, clearly. also not sure if id, know what cake even tastes like. if i tried it. no tastebuds. no Mouth... no. hole. anywhere on my body. haha um,, well anyways id. id say im pretty Pro Nouns. dont see why anyone wouldnt be... what? you mean what i Go By? what do you. ohhhh. ummm. the male ones. the male pronouns. if i can remember what they are... definitely the ones for guys. manly men. like me. pretty sure im a man,,," and you need to accept this
Posts that momentarily turn your internal voice into a professional voice actor
allow yourself to be a beginner
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!
Springtime patron
write a story about how you became the world’s most powerfull person… by accident.
You learn about the butterfly effect in school. The concept is interesting, but not so interesting that you don’t fall asleep partway through the movie. You hear something distantly about a butterfly beating its wings and hurricanes. You think it will never apply to you.
You know now (not then) that power comes through and from favors.
If you had known that then you would probably not have done so many.
(This is where it starts.)
One.
There is a strange creature crossing the road behind the lecture hall. You stop on your bike and frown at it. It looks a little like a turtle, but it’s limbs are longer than any turtle you’ve ever seen. It’s stretched out on the hot asphalt, long, pale limbs clawing forward towards the small stream that runs on the other side.
You hop off your bike and gently pick the creature up, hands under the belly of the shell like you learned from the internet.
Imagine your surprise when the shell slides off the creature instead, dropping a tiny woman onto the asphalt.
“Water,” she croaks, tiny eyes screwed shut. Her eyelids are the size of yours which means they’re huge on her. “Please.”
(You will not know until later what exactly please means to the fae.)
You feel yourself move through your shock. You pick her up and take her to the water’s edge. She slips under the surface, pale skin flashing like the scales of a fish, and she’s gone.
You’d wonder if your roommate slipped you something this morning if she wasn’t back a moment later, pushing a small rock into your hands.
“A boon,” she says. Her eyes are large and black, suited for her underwater world. “For a favor.” She smiles, showing teeth jagged and sharp like a piranha.
When you blink, she’s gone.
You stare at the rock in your left hand. It’s smooth and worn from years in water, an interesting swirl of granite and quartz. “I wish I knew,” you tell it.
The rock ices over so fast that you don’t have time to drop it. The frost swirls across your skin, burning you where it touches, and you watch in horror as your skin turns a mottled black and blue.
You fall to your knees from the pain and choke on a scream as the stone sinks into you, touching your bones and sending more ice through your marrow. It climbs up your arm and touches your eye, changing you vision so now that you’re see double, a strange, blue world juxtaposed next to the one you know and love.
Keep reading
what do you mean elon musk did a nazi salute on live tv at the united states presidential inauguration twice and is now erasing the evidence off the internet by replacing the footage with the crowd cheering instead?
would be a shame if people reblogged this, wouldn’t it?
thank fucking god I'm not 14 anymore
hey if you are 14-17 It does get better you are just in your caterpillar goop era
Also sometimes the goop era lasts a little longer than other people's goop
Reporting in just 6 weeks shy of 50 years-old: You will re-goop several times in your life, often emerging with different wings and maybe even different skills. You're gonna be okay.
Fuck I needed to hear this today.
There's many goops but things do generally get better with each goopening. Especially that first one.
are therapists using this post as advice for their patients??? hello???
that 50yo saying we regoop again and again is giving me much-needed hope. I'm definitely re-goopening and re-emerging, and hearing that this is growth and not just suffering is empowering <3
Some subsurface scattering studies! Say that three times fast 😂 I can’t figure out if the light or dark background works better, so I included both.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ If you like monthly drawing challenges, sign up to the flame tier and join us ~ we just got started on the February challenge, in which we’ll be making master studies of sculptures and statues!
Their cable management leaves something to be desired...
Transcript: Sun: "Gentle... Gentle Little Star. GENTLE." y/n: "Relax Sunny. You're like a mechanical junk drawer in here." Sun: "That's not our fault!!" y/n, muttering: "Then stop eating glitter glue."
No text under cut! :3
My hand slipped... Close ups and a little suggestive joke under the cut
saw a woman comforting her sobbing child saying “i already told you, you have to keep looking forward, looking back just gets you hurt” and i thought she was sharing a beautiful life lesson about the importance of letting go of regret and resentment. but it turns out the kid just wasn’t looking where he was going and ran into a wall
When you see it, REBLOG IT.
Depression Hotline: 1-630-482-9696
Suicide Hotline: 1-800-784-8433
LifeLine: 1-800-273-8255
Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386
Sexuality Support: 1-800-246-7743
Eating Disorders Hotline: 1-847-831-3438
Rape and Sexual Assault: 1-800-656-4673
Grief Support: 1-650-321-5272
Runaway: 1-800-843-5200, 1-800-843-5678, 1-800-621-4000
Exhale: After Abortion Hotline/Pro-Voice: 1-866-4394253
If you ever want to talk: My Tumblr ask is always open.
trans suicide prevention hotline: 877-565-8860
Just in case anyone needs it
Every single odd number has an “e” in it.
LISTEN-
Not all of them. 30 and 50 aren’t spelled with the letter e in it …
father god
…if you can split a number in half evenly, it’s even. 30 and 50 are odd.
-_-’
(15+15=30
25+25=30)
25+25 = 30? You sure about that??
Lord have mercy….
Bye
3 days into 2018 smh
LMAOOOOOOO
One
Three
Five
Nine
And since everything else after that is a variant of these numbers, then all odds have the letter ‘E’.
🗣YOU FORGOT SEVEN!!
It keeps getting worse.
LMAOOO WHAT IS GOING ON
My head hurts…
This is why that Tumblr University shit was the dumbest idea ever just look at this
who failed yall?
IM SCREAMING
You whole ass forgot about eight - a number with an e and is pretty fucking even
why would 8 be brought up if it’s EVEN in a post about ODDS??????? the post said “every single ODD number has an ‘e’ in it” not “every single number with an ‘e’ is odd” what the fuck
3 days until 2019 and we’re still here
happy New year’s eve
I’m going to bring this flaming dumpster into 2019 so future generations can see what a mistake Tumblr was
Er, guys two is odd and doesn’t have an e. Just saying…
did you deadass just try to tell me two is odd? i’m fucking crying throw the whole website away
Reblogging for the last one😂
The one thing I notice is that no matter how much you want to throw this site away, you just can’t.
TWO IS ODD?!?! PFFFTT I’M SCREAMING
Wait what about zero that’s an odd number ,no?
ok but hear me out fifty and thirty make up for the fact they have no e by the way they are pronounces third-E fifth-E
bro why do 30 and 50 matter THEY’RE FUCKING EVEN
what the actual fuck is happening
1 is an even number
I’m gonna smack you
-30 and -50 have an e in them
Wait why are we so quick to throw away the Zero idea
Zero isn’t a number
It can’t be divided by two though, can it
It can??? 0/2=0??
OD NUMBERS
onE
thrEE
fivE
sEvEn
ninE
OD numbers huh?
Anything that ends with a 0,2,4,6,8 is even and the rest is odd (1,3,7,9) stop freaking out y’all
YOU FORGOT 5
DUDE WHAT ABOUT FOUR
What about it?????
THAT DOESN’T HAVE E IN IT
THAT’S BECAUSE IT’S EVEN?????
A R E Y O U G U Y S O K A Y
21 days away from 2020, folks.
Please tell me I can start the new freaking decade with a post arguing about something as stupid as this. Please. 🙏
This is art at its finest
where did you all go to school?
Tumblr University, were you not paying attention?
3 months into 2025 and this is still goind
Sorry, what year do you think it is?