27. Gay. He/Him/They. Witchy stuff. Fandom stuff. Language stuff. Pokemon stuff. Ask me things! Submit things! Please, give me something to do. I get bored. I'm also always...
As a european i sometimes forget furefkied are actually real and not american folklore/cryptids. Like you’ve got friendly little bugs that glow in the dark….. b r uh
[ID: tiktok captioned: The moment they realized it was the real Janelle Monae on the ACLUE pride float.
Janelle stands on a small float and speaks into a microphone decorated with the trans flag. They say, "We are here, we are queer! We are trans! We are the LGBTQIA+ community and we celebrate us right now!
The video turns to the crowd and shows shots of people half paying attention to the float, then doing double takes as they see Janelle Monae singing. /]
When I think about American attitudes to parenting there's something that always comes to mind, but I don't know whether it's a real thing. All my life in American films and TV I've heard child characters addressing their dads as "sir" or being told off for not doing so.
Is that really a commonplace thing in American families, or is it just a shorthand way of showing that the character is a shitty dad?
It's more common in the South in my experience but typically in more "traditional" households. I knew a few kids growing up who had to address their parents with "sir" and "ma'am"
Saying ‘you should be bad!!’ In like Gay Voice to a white woman at starbucks has like the same psychological impact as going like ‘who’s a good boy?’ To a dog. It makes them so excited in a really endearing way.
it occurred to me that there is probably still someone out there who has never watched the anarcho-syndicalist scene from Holy Grail, and that this person might even be following me:
yeah I think part of the joke is that they’re doing hard menial labor in the fields just for the aesthetic, not for any actual purpose or goal. their job is being poor and downtrodden and slapping mud around.
If we really want to fight against this puritanical culture that seems to be hell-bent on running sex workers off the internet and banning pornography wherever they can find it, you have a moral duty to post hole on main. Doesn't have to be your own hole but you got to post it.
people keep trying to make "ladies and gentlemen" more inclusive.
I think we should go the other way around.
make more and more weird false dichotomies in greetings. "gamers and pianists". "oil painters and swordsmen". "vexillologists and entomologists". "chess masters and diamond artificers". "accountants and gendered individuals".
we need to be dropping shit into formal meetings to make people say "wait what? which one am I?"
I have started referring to my students as “critters and creatures.” I then offer them the option to decide where on the critter–creature spectrum they think they belong. They enjoy this immensely. I teach some critters, some creatures, some 50/50s, some critters with creature tendencies, some creatures with critter inclinations.
Great Mouse Detective version of Dracula happening simultaneously as the events of Dracula, so there’s just five mice in Victorian clothes unnoticed by the human cast desperately trying to kill a bat.
Dracula invited a human realtor and a mouse realtor to his castle and there were extended periods of time where he would say to his human realtor “Ah please excuse me I have business to attend to” and turn into a bat to talk to his mouse realtor.
everyone is out here with these fantastic theories and metaphors in glass onion
but i just can't stop laughing at miles bron's face when blanc says that he got the box with its stupid "children's puzzles" that took him less than a minute to solve like. that motherfucker was so offended and i loved every second of it
A mark on your forehead identifies the god you must worship to stay alive, usually by joining its local church or temple. Your mark is unknown, meaning an old, forgotten god sponsored you. To survive, you must either find an old temple to worship at, or do the arduous task of building a new one
Nobody in your small coastal village has ever seen the Godmark that you were born with. It’s a dark russet sequence of criss-crossing lines, with a vertical arrowhead on the left and a circle on the right, just over where your brow meets your temple. Some of the traders who come down from the mountain say it looks like one of the scripts used in the hinterlands, but not a language that any of them recognize.
“If she’s got the temperament for it, she should try her luck inland,” they advise. “No point her starting a temple here if she’d find her people elsewhere, with a little searching.”
At first, your parents are reluctant to send you away. Though you’re well-behaved and diligent in your chores, you’re a sickly child with no God to worship. And besides, you’ve always been the dreamy type–inclined to lose track of time watching the path of rain droplets chasing down the window, or the fronds of an anemone as it sways in a rock pool.
Instead, they send you to the temple of the Storm to learn all you’ll need for your own God. You are happy there, for a time: making up beds and serving food to the castaways who pass through, keeping vigil at the lighthouse, burning incense and praying with the loyal widows and orphans of the drowned.
One such widow, an old, old lady, touches the mark on your forehead. “I recognise those letters. We wrote this way in the town where I grew up, way off past the mountains.”
Your heartbeat quickens. “What does it say!?”
She squints, eyes engulfed by wrinkles and hidden behind smudged glass. “A… Ar… Oh, I can’t remember how to speak it. I left before I learnt my letters properly. There was a war, you know. But I remember,” she says, mistily, “the most beautiful pink and white flowers used to grow, on the borders of the wheat fields…”
You try to ask more questions, but remembering the war distresses her, and so you speak of other things. When she’s drifted off to sleep, you get to your feet, go home and tell your parents: you are leaving in search of your God.
Continuar lendo
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