I fuckng said they should have checked on her I fucking said!
Misplaced Lens Cap

tannertan36
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TVSTRANGERTHINGS
todays bird
taylor price
trying on a metaphor
YOU ARE THE REASON

@theartofmadeline

Love Begins

Andulka
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Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

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occasionally subtle
hello vonnie
Peter Solarz
$LAYYYTER
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@ella-anonymouse
I fuckng said they should have checked on her I fucking said!
Your fourth most recent emoji predicts how much crazier 2020 will get for you
sometimes you don’t heal right. that’s all. they give you a timeline they allow you to feel sympathy and then, at a certain point, it’s “a pity party”. they tell you it wasn’t that deep. that worse things happen to better people and that you’re lucky to have your tongue and your teeth.
last night i cried about dropping a plate but i was crying about getting rejected again but i was crying about getting rejected ever in the first place but i was crying about how i’ll never amount to anything but i was crying about how time doesn’t seem to be working right anymore but i was crying about
my roommate made a face. get over it.
i cut my hands picking up the pieces. that’s how it works, you know. if you handle glass before you’re ready, it only ever serves to make you bleed.
be gentler this year, watch closer. it’s a hard time to feel lonely. to come back to a bad house that still smells like rot. to have to smile as though nothing has happened, as if no voices were ever raised, as if you all forgot. to have to eat in front of laughter, to have to hear snide remarks, to struggle through the pressure of consumption. to be caught in the riptide of: if i love this person, if this person loves me, why does all of this make me unhappy.
watch, is all, for those who still feel this time is a wince. that don’t have happy. hold their hand under the table. use their pronouns loudly. no longer hear the argument, simply stare down and cold-shoulder. we are not patient this time around. we are only here for the good light and the songs and our own causes.
we are in the process of making our new holidays. our new traditions. no bigotry in this house. no hatred. you put us under a meat grinder, did you not expect us to be tender now? you cannot turn my hand into the hardness you raised me by. i will make this sweet potato casserole and i will be sweet and i will expect you to abide by that same sweetness, so help me, so help me.
this is my prayer: if i am going to be gentle, let me be gentle in the way that saves another. if i will have to put-up-with, i better be helping someone else up, too. if i have to struggle, i will be struggling alongside someone else, even if that person is across the internet or over the phone or someone new.
i am sick of others stealing this season from me. not this time. i follow the sun. i am harsh, and warm, and lovely.
i think some men hear “hunger” and think: the body when it is an ache, but only just-so. a hunger can be ignored. a hunger can be tricked.
but this is not my hunger. the hunger of daughters. i inherited it from my mother’s throat, and she cut it from her mother’s ribs, and she stole it from her mother’s hipbones. this is a hunger honed properly. it is not a single empty plate. it is sixteen seasons of starving. this hunger did not erupt. it was taught to me by the sweetness of a closed fist. to be and take and have less.
the hunger is not of food, although sometimes it is of food. each taste of it comes craving up my tongue: tonight’s desire to speak up is a lime orange, frothy and hot. i savor the slime yellow of shoving anger down, of unhysteria, of learning how not-to-shrill at the snakebite. i crunch the holiday venom of slapped on the ass and click it over my teeth at trainstations.
i am unasking of my boyfriend. i do not nag my father. i let the man talk over me. i smile daintily and laugh quietly and shove all i am into this hole in me, this sliding that never gulps enough, and i say: i will be going into the kitchen now, do you need anything?
i am always, always, always hungry. some days i think if i start to consume i will simply never stop, that i will unhinge from the back of my ears and be able to shove every snippet of sugar i denied myself, every backtalk or unladylike or starving. i will shove cakes and a whole roast beef and every man who thought he knew hunger into my bones and i will say: see! this is hungry! to not only be denied but to teach myself the art of denying, that even i refuse myself the fine things, that even i hold back and cut carbs and stay sitting. that to take feels wrong, and ugly, that to be wanting is selfish, that to desire is raw.
this is hungry: that full should be so ugly that we remove ourselves from our own lives in taxes, to be “not too much”, to be small, and quiet, and passive. this is hungry: when i go to sleep i dream of a knife and only understand it in the context of cutting. this is hungry: that even my desires disgust me.
we daughters with our sallow eyes. we understand: she was committing an act of war, the beautiful persephone.
my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them.
“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of… sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.
“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.
the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.
my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.
the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.
my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”
She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”
“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings.
the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.
the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.
the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks to be sure i spoke to only him and no one more, for fear a man might snatch me. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?
the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.
the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.
it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spent so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.
i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.
the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.
the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold
but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.
my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.
like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.
i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.
Musicologists teamed up with machine learning experts to train a computer to make viral Tik Tok songs. This is what it came up with.
I’ve just discovered my new favorite painter, Vittorio Reggianini - those smarter than myself probably already know of him as an Italian painter from the 1800s who made satin look even satiny-er than satin. I just cannot get over how much he loved painting women who were NOT. HAVING. A. MAN’S. SHIT.
But there was one hottie that everyone seemed to like, and I can’t blame them…
Vittorio knows what the ladies like.
I love this. Vittorio is throwing some not-so-subtle shade on the misogyny of the era in that last one. Around that time, mass market printing was finally a thing, and people wrote the hell out of some novels, especially fiction. And the people who read the novels were mostly women, because they had somewhat more time on their hands. Middle and upper class men decided they were above reading. They frequently criticized the women for reading novels, saying it was going to corrupt their brains and turn them all into anarchists and lesbians. (Which wasn’t entirely untrue, lots of subversive and queer stuff was distributed in novel form.)
So that last painting is a dude getting over himself and the prejudices of the time and sharing an interest with the ladies, which is infinitely hotter than a dude invading personal space and looming over you like in several of those other paintings.
Every book in the History of Literature summed up in a single sentence
I ugly-laughed at several of these.
Inktober is going well so far!
Hello my friends, homies and gentledorks. Today I have for you a tattoo that I have designed which will hopefully soon adorn my skin.
This is my version of Mollymauk's tattoo. I wanted to use the Victorian flower language so I picked amaryllis, begonia and poppy. I hope you like it.
Keeps You Going
If a woman has
STARCH MASKS
O N H E R B O D Y
does that mean
she has been pGReNant bef o r e?
DANGEROPS
Pranget sex?
Will it hurt baby top of his head????
Can uu get,,,
𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓰𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮
38+2 weeks
PREGANANANT
can uu go down a
20 foot waterslide
while uu are
PEGNAT?
For anyone who doesn’t know what this is referencing
this video legit never fails to make me laugh and i’ve seen it god knows how many times
the most important part
All tapes left in a car for more than about a fortnight metamorphose into Best of Queen albums