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let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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@frogmilo
You should be able to rot in bed for 2, maybe 3 hours after waking up before it starts affecting what time it is. If I wake up at 8:30 and lie in bed for 2hr it should still be 8:30 when I get up
ms word ms excel and ms powerpoint are all snooty disagreeable ladies who wont speak to me due to my meager dowry but then i meet their beautiful sister ms paint whos clumsy but charming and we fall in beautiful love. and i become mr paint
Forgive yourself
My resolution last year was to do one thing before bed that would make my morning feel easier, and thatâs become a daily habit that Iâm carrying into this new year.
Some nights even filling up the kettle and setting an empty mug out for my morning tea felt hard. But I was always thankful for it in the morning.
Other nights, one thing would lead to another, and Iâd wake up in a clean house with everything ready to go.
And, on a rare few nights, the one thing that I could do to make my morning easier was going straight to bed and allowing myself to rest.
What stayed the same each day is that I would take a moment to think of what I could do for my future self and do it, even after a hard day. And I would wake up knowing that I had done my best and any effortâno matter how smallâwas a kindness to myself.
Iâve been doing a lot of âa treat for future meâ moments lately.
imagine being the first ancient person to realize that the ocean and their tears taste the same. imagine realizing that your sorrow and the waves share a taste. i wouldve gone crazy
2026
fix ur sleep schedule
read fucked up books
watch fucked up movies
dance in the kitchen
learn one hard truth
drink more water
say no faster
let people misunderstand you
leave earlier when my intuition whispers âgirlâŠâ
learn a dead language
learn restraint
learn indulgence
refuse emotional illiteracy
FOLLOW JOY
fix my sleep schedule again, because growth is cyclical and iâm human
I never like it when adaptations don't portray Victor Frankenstein as a college student. I think there's a very particular type of mental state that you can only get from being a sleep-deprived, overworked college student that makes Frankenstein make sense. Grave-robbing? Stitching together a giant monster? Performing questionable experiments? Avoiding his problems by constantly fainting? Yeah, I probably did some stuff like that last semester, I don't remember
and sometimes against all odds, against all logic, we hope.
i donât need a âday offâ or a âweekendâ i need to respawn in a clean apartment with all my responsibilities reset and the complete certainty that nobody hates me
people will be like âdonât worry itâs all in your head!â like babe⊠yes⊠thatâs the problem⊠how do i get it out of thereâŠ
âDid these people [in academia who claim that they are not exposed to disabled people] realize that when they encountered the work of Rosa Luxemburg (who limped), Antonio Gramsci (a crippled, dwarfed hunchback), John Milton (blind), Alexander Pope (dwarfed hunchback), George Gordon Brown (club foot), [Jorge] Luis Borges, James Joyce, and James Thurber (all blind), Harriet Martineau (deaf), Toulouse-Lautrec (spinal deformity), Frida Kahlo (osteomyelitis), Virginia Woolf (lupus), they were meeting people with disabilities? Do filmgoers realize when they watch the films of James Ford, Raoul Walsh, AndrĂ© de Toth, Nicholas Ray, Tay Garnett and William Wyler that these directors were all physically impaired? Why is it when one looks these figures in dictionaries of biography or encyclopedias that their physical disabilities are usually not mentioned â unless the disability is seen as related to creativity, as in the case of the blind bard Milton or the deaf Beethoven? There is an ableist notion at work here that anyone who creates a canonical work must be physically able. Likewise, why do we not know that Helen Keller was a socialist, a member of the Wobblies, the International Workers of the World, and an advocate of free love? We assume that our âofficialâ mascots of disability are nothing else but their disability.â
â Lennard J. Davis, Enforcing Normalcy: Disability, Deafness, and the Body (via sociolab)
There was one of those hyperspecific polls that had an option like âyour grandfather told you war stories that he never told anyone elseâ and now I feel like I have to tell the story about how a spider saved my grandpaâs life in WWII and how my family doesnât kill spiders because we owe our existence to that One Single Spider
So to set the scene, it's the height of WWII in France and my grandpaâa 6'3" 20 year old upper Michigan farm boyâhas been separated from his company after their temporary camp was shelled. My grandpa (who, I have to add, was nicknamed 'the Suicide Kid' at this point because he worked in demolitions and bomb interception and kept taking the jobs no one wanted with the expectation that he was never going home anyway) is scared out of his wits, wandering around the French countryside alone. He has to move at night and sleep in barns and sheds during the day to hide from people who most definitely want him dead.
On one of these days, he finds a farmhouse of a very jittery couple who agree to let him sleep in the barn, with the conditions that he sleeps in the barn loft and if he's found, they disavow all knowledge that he was there. He agrees, because he's exhausted and will sleep in a hay pile if he has to. My grandpa manages to fit all six foot three inches of himself into a feed trough stored upstairs and tries to get some sleep.
However, right when he's half-snoozing, he hears motors outside and sure enough, here are some very angry officers of mixed Nazi and Vichy make confronting the couple saying someone up the road spotted an American soldier walking this way. They wouldn't know anything about that, would they? No, of course not.
All the while, my grandpaânow trying to figure out how to either escape the barn unseen or how to fight off six? seven? eight? people at onceâfreezes up and waits for the inevitable. While he does, a HUGE spider crawls next to his head and onto the loft railing. For one second, he thinks about swatting it away, but that would risk him being seen and killed.
So, instead, he lays there and waits to either fight to the death or get executed in a feed trough. And while he lays there, the spider starts making a huge web on the railing. My grandpa's transfixed by this thing. He watches her go around and around, building a solid web before plopping herself off to one side and waiting for breakfast. At the same time, the officers finally go into the barn.
My grandpa can hear them searching around, turning over crates and checking animal pens. Then, he hears one say to check the loft.
And then another say, "Don't bother. Look at the spiderwebs up there. No one's been there in a while."
And they leave.
Because my grandpa didn't swat the spider away and let her build her web, the officers thought no one was there and left him alone. They drive off and my grandpa immediately thanks the farmer couple and hauls ass out of there as soon as he can.
After this, my grandpa refused to kill any spider, and his kids did the same. Because if it wasn't for her, he wouldn't have lived and would never have had kids or grandkids. So we owe her one.
There's the man himself. Go grandpa!!
Villains in Addams Family movies go to really unnecessary lengths to defraud them of the family fortune. These people just give it away on whims all the time. If I just walked into the house and started wearing their clothes and spending their money, they wold start introducing me as Cousin Intruder and forget there was ever a time I didnât live with them.