Hey @ihavelegs - Tumblr Blog

i love how whenever something gets popular the underground tormented avant garde bloggers start becoming self conscious of liking it/finding it funny, and it eventually evolves into aggression towards it. doesnt matter what it is. unrelated but i saw someone call isopods cringe today

bogosbinted

This is the most important post on this site

lunah-goodbye

x

nicolapeltz

favourite movie characters — Wanda Maximoff/Scarlet Witch in Captain America: Civil War (2016) dir. Anthony & Joe Russo.

“I can protect myself.”

beginagain

eating out in a pandemic:

hello! i am a service worker and i do actually understand going out to eat occasionally right now for special occasions or because you are on the brink of losing your mind! but here is the thing: please respect the service workers when you go as much as you can. here are some ways to do it:

*wear your masks when they come near you, meaning pop them on even if they are just asking how your meal is.

* i like to leave my hand sanitizer bottle on the table both because i am using it often and because i want the service workers to know i am for ease of mind.

* i always do this, but right now it’s more important. if you are at a place where you take your own dishes to the trash, do it! it’s not the time to be lazy. workers have to touch your dirty dishes. if you are not at a self serve place, please stack them appropriately for easy carry! this means larger plates all together on the bottom, then smaller, then smallest. a neat little pile. collect your trash and set it on top of your dishes for easy removal and tossing. believe me, this makes a huge difference! instead of touching multiple dishes to stack them ourselves or to dig out trash, we only have to touch one.

* tip. listen, right now, i am tipping even at fast food drive thrus. it’s a respect thing.

* speaking of drive thrus, wear your mask in them. it’s 10 seconds of your time versus the life of them and their loved ones.

basically - i am, to a degree, thankful that some people are still coming out to eat. it helps me maintain my job and income. but there is fear everywhere and there are customers who make it blatantly obvious they do not care about us, both by refusing to wear their masks and by pretty much saying it to our faces. the more people that make this easier, the better it will be and the safer it will be.

beginagain

not to beg for notes but this one would actually mean a lot to me if it was spread around like... working in the food industry right now really does come w it’s own little unique safety hazards and stressors and if more people were taught how to be conscious of that it could literally improve the current quality of life for me and people like me

birdhug

i cannot stop laughing at send no pee

amygdalae

Keying/graffiti-ing someones car is old news now if someone cheats we go at their wardrobe with a seam ripper

yknow what? Fuck you *unstitches all your shirts and jeans*

melyzard

My mother did this to my father once. They got into an argument, my very pregnant and hormonal mother stormed off…except they lived in a tiny apartment so the only place to go was to shut herself into the closet for a good long sulk. And while she was sitting in there, fuming, she looked up and saw her sewing kit on the shelf, and all my father’s uniforms hanging right there.

So she picked one shirt and one pair of trousers, carefully, methodically ripped every third stitch out of every seam, and then hung them back up together so that he would be likely to pick them at the same time. This took her a couple hours, so by the time she was done, the anger had worn down. She came out, she and my father had a talk that ended in apologies, after which they were tired and went to bed. My mother swears up and down that she meant to warn my father about the sabotaged clothes in the morning, but he wore a different uniform set and they were both still feeling a little raw, so she didn’t want to bring up the fight again. She decided to tell him that night instead.

And then she forgot.

Anyway, about four days later, my father apparently came home roughly an hour after he left for work, his clothes slowly, gently shredding off his body, the most bewildered expression on his face. “Paula,” he said, his voice mildly shell-shocked. “Paula, my clothes are broken.”

My mother promptly burst out laughing so hard that she went into labor. And that’s the story of my birth, heralded by petty vengeance and utter confusion.