why so silent good messieurs
I’m SEVERELY disappointed this post didn’t include the eye witness statement of the mirror crash incident in question
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@jesterbells
why so silent good messieurs
I’m SEVERELY disappointed this post didn’t include the eye witness statement of the mirror crash incident in question
People don’t even say w00t anymore.
This sux00rz…
can i get a w00t? in this economy??
if you are a parent, or may become one, or you are otherwise likely to arrive in the situation of caring for a child while they eat, promise me this: if a child doesn't like a certain food or food group, you will ask them WHY. and specifically, you will pay attention to either confirming or ruling out "it makes my mouth itch" or "it makes my stomach hurt," both of which are medically important info that children may not provide unprompted. which i know because this PSA has been brought to you by "i spent my entire childhood and much of my early teens eating peas and lentils while wondering why everyone else liked the Violently Itchy Mouth Sensation so much, like were they a bunch of legume masochists or something, before i finally realized that Violently Itchy Mouth Sensation was in fact a sinister demon appearing only to me, and her true demonic name was: Legume Allergy"
Do not let your child suffer from spicy bananas!
complimented a womans clear raincoat this morning and she said Well i feel like a sandwich
For all the many flaws of the tagging system on this hellsite, it is so perfect for Sending Home. A man's not dead while his name is still spoken, and what are the tags but the Overhead of tumblr? They aren't the posts themselves, but they are metacommentary on posts, notes to friends, info to be passed on. The message has been logged and is continuing to be sent on. GNU
btw it's so fucking stupid you can be anxious physically in your body even after you've decided mentally you don't care. I'm supposed to be in charge here
Mercy, my tiefling rogue Harper, and Astarion.
Thousands of starfish had washed up on the beach, and a little girl was diligently throwing them back into the water, one at a time.
A man came up to the girl and said, "You'll never save all of them. What you're doing is pointless. It doesn't matter."
The girl threw another starfish into the water. "It mattered to that one."
The man snorted and walked away.
The girl kept throwing starfish, one after another.
To throw one starfish back into the ocean takes a trivial amount of effort, but to throw ten, or fifty, is much less so. The girl had not learned much of biomechanics, but she began to feel the strain in her back. Her skin had softened from the seawater, and the starfish themselves were abrasive. Her fingers had pruned. Her shoulder hurt. She was cut, twice, on her fingers, as the same storm that had stranded the starfish had also brought up broken shells and crab carapaces. The skin of a starfish was like sandpaper.
She tried switching hands, and could throw the starfish less well, and it wasn't long before she had mirrored all her injuries. She was bleeding, though the blood wept rather than flowing, briefly staining the starfish pink before they were tossed into the ocean.
It seemed as though there were just as many dying starfish as when she'd started.
After three hours, the girl was sunburnt. A passing man had told her that she should stop what she was doing, and had offered her some water, which she took, but he hadn't helped to throw the starfish back.
The girl's hands were cracked, scraped, and raw. Saltwater found the wounds, but she'd gone numb, and her motions became more mechanical.
"It mattered to that one," she thought to herself, "It mattered to that one," over and over, like a mantra. Her muscles ached, but the ache became familiar. When she'd started, her throws had been beautiful things, guided by purpose, but now they were sloppy and threatened to pull her off balance.
She did fall, more than once, landing on sand that was filled with jagged debris, and sometimes she was slow to get up. But she did get up, because there were more starfish to save, tens of thousands of them.
Night fell, and it was harder to see the starfish, but they were still in need of help. She was tired, and the cuts on her fingers had multiplied. The skin had been wet for too long, and in one place, on her palm, where she had gripped a thousand starfish to throw them, a piece of white skin had come off.
Still, she kept throwing starfish.
Her mother didn't find her until after midnight.
"Hi mom," said the girl. Her voice croaked. She had been saying, "It mattered to that one" under her breath for long enough that her vocal cords had strained. She threw another starfish into the ocean.
"You need to come home," her mother said.
"These starfish will die without me," said the girl.
"I know," said her mother. "But you need to come home, because if you keep doing this, you'll collapse on the beach, and like a starfish, you'll need to be rescued too."
The girl stooped down, back aching, and picked up another starfish. Many of them had died by this point, but there were still uncountably many that lived. The rough skin of the starfish grated at her tender skin, but she rose and threw it, arm protesting, and watched it fall down into the water.
Her mother grabbed her gently by the shoulders. "I'm bringing you home," she said. "It would be better if I didn't have to carry you, but I will if I have to."
"I don't want to be the sort of person who leaves starfish to die," said the girl, shrugging off her mother. But a part of her did want to be carried, because she'd walked for miles along this beach, one stooping step at a time.
"I know," said her mother. "But to survive, you have to be. Save as many as you can, but take breaks, get good sleep, eat well. Then go back and save more."
The girl swayed where she was. She was close to passing out, though maybe it was because her rhythm had been interrupted.
Her mother held out a hand, so they could walk together, like they'd done when she was smaller.
And it was then that she noticed the scars on her mother's hands, the calluses and rough spots, the places where cuts had healed. She had seen her mother's hands many times before, but had never asked why they were that way.
The girl slipped her hand into her mother's and began to cry as they walked back home.
Mercy, my tiefling rogue Harper, and Astarion.
Man it must feel really good to be a character in a campy action comedy and realize you're the villain. You won't get to live happily ever after with the woman you love, but you get to slot perfectly into your role in opposition to the hero with the ease of following a well-trodden path, being as dramatic and extra as you can, giving in to emotional displays and brutality without restraint, showing off your sick combat skills, delivering dramatic threats, hurtling inexorably towards your inevitable humiliating defeat knowing that without you, there would be no story.
This post brought to you in particular by the moment in Legend of Zorro where I swear you can see a heartbroken Count Armand realize "Oh. I see. I'm the villain. Well, then, I'll be the villain." And boy does he!
writing challenge!
open up your document and put words in it
When your dad gets stuck in your mind kinda
we are not born to die!! what are you talking about!! do you think a book begins just to finish? do you think a song opens with a beautiful chord just for it to end? you don’t read the book to finish it, you read the book to eat up the excitement and the emotions it evokes!! to learn and to digest and to fall in love and be heartbroken!! you listen to the song to dance and dance and sing your throat raw!!! to cry and smile and swell with the harmonies!! yes, we are born with the inevitable fate of death, we are mortal after all, but that is merely the finale of the play!! the final act, the closing of the curtains - we are not born to take a bow and exit stage left!! we are born to love and be joyous and yell and move and learn and cry and feelfeelfeel!!! we are not born to die, silly, we’re born to live!!!
This is so violently hopeful and uplifting everyone needs to see it
Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination.
Wasn't the whole point of the original book (and season 1) that people do actually have free will? Like, heaven and hell were trying to follow the plan they have always believed in, and then it just never came true because the main characters have proven that the big plan is bullshit. And yeah, they have talked about the possibility of heaven and hell fighting against humanity... But doesn't that kind of prove that humanity is one of the big players? As strong as the supernatural forces? I don't know, the finale seemed to contradict the main themes to me. Also, I just personally dislike the plot in which the ineffable husbands do actually affect the narrative. Them being totally fucking useless was my favourite gag ever. Anyway, in my personal universe, this finale is not even canon. Everyone else can go on enjoying it, of course.
last thing I will say is if your leads spend three seasons and six thousand years having an argument that hits the absolute heart of what your story is about, and that argument never gets resolved, I reserve the right to call it unfulfilling
THIS ^^^^^
That was my reaction