almost home
Three Goblin Art
macklin celebrini has autism
we're not kids anymore.
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
todays bird
dirt enthusiast
Stranger Things
oozey mess
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
shark vs the universe
d e v o n
Cosimo Galluzzi
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Sade Olutola
Origami Around
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
ellievsbear
trying on a metaphor
One Nice Bug Per Day
seen from Argentina
seen from Italy
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Arab Emirates
seen from Brazil
seen from Argentina
seen from United States
seen from Tunisia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Bangladesh
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@fallenchapter
I have no idea what’s going on
Congrats, we have reached a period of time where there is a generation that does not remember the first memes.
Look, i’ve been on tumblr for nine fucking years and I don’t get this meme. I remember seeing it at some point, but have no clue what it means.
because this meme is pre tumblr and pre-youtube and is about 17 years old, almost twice as long as you’ve been on tumblr the ancient depths of albinoblacksheep will never die
We were born to make historyyyyyy ♥
Gays will see the word frog and instantly reblog huh
How do you people find this so fast
frog
Instantly reblogging
U kno what???? Honestly?? All jokes side about the Duolingo owl, Duolingo is one of the only language education services I know of that doesn’t charge for the full course and I really think we don’t appreciate that enough in a world where knowledge is severely (and increasing) restricted based on income. I just went through the app store and downloaded every language app I can find, and the only two that didn’t charge hefty subscription fees to access all the lessons were duolingo and memrise. Support free education.
rb with whether people assume you’re older or younger than your actual age
This is Lee Anderson MP.
You may remember him from the time he illegally dumped boulders to block access to a travellers’ site, or the time he advocated forced labour camps for residents of a council estate, or perhaps from the last election when he faked a doorstep interview with a friend pretending to be one of his constituents, or for being investigated for antisemitism for sharing Soros conspiracies on Facebook.
He’s now commissioned this survey to stoke up a phoney culture war:
Wouldn’t it be a terrible shame if anything happened to it…
https://www.leeanderson.org.uk/BestOfBritishSurvey
Reblogging for any followers in the UK to see
How many altos does it take to screw in a lightbulb? None, they can’t get that high.
How many sopranos does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
One, she holds it up and waits for the world to revolve around her.
How many singers does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
Two. An alto to actually do it and a soprano to stand by and ask “isn’t that a little high for you?”
u wanna fucking go
here for this fight
How do you know a soprano is at your door?
She can’t find the key and doesn’t know where to come in
anyone else remember being 13 on tumblr and every morning youd scroll down until you got to posts from the night before like it was the morning paper
A London fall
Source
This is a stunning picture ❤️
Gorgeous!!❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤
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!
Beautiful
The last bit is new, and is beautiful!!!
Fahrenheit is a far superior unit for measuring everyday temperature than Celsius and no I do not accept criticism.
Before someone says “Uuhh Celsius is easier, 0° is freezing 100° is boiling” AT WHAT ALTITUDE? Celsius us NOT always boiling at 100°. Water doesn’t boil at 100°C in Nepal. Water doesn’t boil at exactly 100°C in a huge chunk of the USA (like, for instance, the entire state of Colorado). In fact, the boiling temp of anywhere in the world that’s 500+ft (150+ meters) above sea level is already off by half a degree C. Also, freezing temperature changes based on what’s IN the water that’s being frozen, so 0°=freezing isn’t always true either.
When it comes to “okay, at my altitude, with the water I just got out of the stream here, at what temps will it boil and freeze?” those temps will not be precisely 100°C and 0°C. They might be close, but if they’re off by even a fraction of a degree, then why do “0″ and “100″ as numbers matter at all? Having specific rules for temperature may be useful in a scientific environment and in order to run experiments and test hypothesis in a controlled way, but in everyday life? The temperatures for Celsius are just as arbitrary as Farenheit, don’t lie to yourself, and stop using your lie to justify why Celsius is better.
Also a lot of the “everyone should just use metric already” discourse has a tinge of “my culture’s way of doing things is better than yours” and the next time some European tells me that I shouldn’t use feet I’m giving them distance in 尺貫法 instead.
YES this is petty and YES this is a hill I will die on.
Non-American westerners acknowledge your superiority complex challenge
Lmao pot calling the kettle black on culture superiority complexes
my mom still says czechoslovakia
Your mom was alive when it was still called Czechoslovakia? I think she might be a time traveller bro...
when do you think it stopped being czechoslovakia
If i was a sickly little peasant boy designated by the aristocracy to carry messages back and forth for pennies and you found me against our citys outer wall with a deep wound in my chest from a musket ball and a letter cluthed in my hand and i told you that my dying wish was to have someone read that letter to me so i would know i died for something important and you open it up and you find a single large illustrated diagram of an onion would you tell me what it was? What would you say?
this is the content I stick around for. you can't find shit like this on twitter.
THE NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS 1993 | dir. Henry Selick
Had a suspected broken toe for the last 4 weeks. Gotta pop up to the hospital again for an X-ray, making it my third visit there in a month for 3 unrelated things.
Ooh boy life is fun.
X-ray done. Find out on Friday if it’s broken or something else. Ngl, none of these potential causes are sounding great right now
Had a suspected broken toe for the last 4 weeks. Gotta pop up to the hospital again for an X-ray, making it my third visit there in a month for 3 unrelated things.
Ooh boy life is fun.
