Heropon very cool! @littlepon - Tumblr Blog

#rebloge for great justice

Imagine that one day as you're walking on a hot sunny path, your hat jumps off your head and lands into a muddy ditch. And you look at your muddy hat and ask it: "What did you do that for?"

"I don't want to be a burden anymore", your hat answers. "You are always carrying me around, and I can't carry you. That's not fair."

"I don't mind carrying you, little idiot", you tell your hat, "you hardly weight anything at all, and you shelter me from the sun."

"But that's different", your hat protests. "I don't mind the sun scorching on me. That happens anyway. It's literally no trouble for me to shade you too."

"Just the same it's no trouble for me to carry you. But now, because you wanted to stop inconveniencing and bothering me, I am now hatless and you are in the dirt."

dreamsareliminalspaces-deactiva

Artfully layering an axe bodyspray deodorant and two different perfume oils to create a tasteful mixture of amber, oud, mint, lavender, moss and petrichor, producing a scent that smells exactly like damp, stale, rotting laundry.

Reminds me of that tumblr user that made powdered milk with sparkling water and created instant spoiled milk

That was also me.

adeline-wheat

Do you know any other ways to speed ruin things?

#dandadan #steel ball run #turbo granny #jjba #gif t

I wish I knew any other way to do anything.

#food t #hol y s hit

i thought jojos part 7 was already out? the one where they steal your balls and run?

( <= green bean

( <= chili pepper

. <= blueberry

=3 <= broccoli

● <= orange

. <= pea

• <= plum

<3< <= strawberry

translesbianorchestra

<==}< <= carrot

shiba-boyfriend

~<O{ <= beetroot

tittytoreador

°o8~ <= grapes

halftoning-deactivated20240224

Ó <= apple

nynaeve-almeara

88- <= raspberry

shrike-dyke

c'ɔ <= bell pepper

thekaylahub-deactivated20231205

cc’ɔɔ <= pumpkin

isa-ah

-8 <= cherries

loverlighted

☆{ } <= pineapple

trapny

¶\__________ <= garden hose (to water all the plants)

wizardshark

alright everyone good work gardening today. Let's all head inside and get some lemonade now

amayikes

|■| <= lemonade

#food t

odekiisu

Call me whatever names you wish, but I think this is a much better (and healthier) attitude than “anyone under 18 should never be allowed to see any sexual imagery ever”

(For reference: this was at the Tom of Finland exhibition, containing actual, queer, kinky af pornography. There were definitely some young people there, perhaps in their late teens. There was even a parent with their baby who was probably too young to understand anything at all. And guess what, all those people are probably going to be fine.)

[ID: a sign saying “Please note: there is no age limit, but the exhibition is not recommended for children due to the explicit sexual imagery it contains. Parental or guardian discretion is advised.”]

shootingstars-or-airplanes

Hey this is a pretty cool approach maybe we should take that to the Internet instead of trying to invade the privacy of millions of adults because some parents can't parent their kids

#purity culture #sex t

thestuffedalligator

If I ever wrote a superhero story I’d want there to be a recurring shitty C-list supervillain in the background whose power was changing something’s colour and all her villainous plots would be colour-themed things like “If the city council doesn’t give me a million dollars, I will turn the city of GREEN Bay into the city of RED Bay!” and she’d turn the Golden Gate Bridge magenta or whatever.

So it’s all low-stakes villainy, but everyone absolutely hates fighting her because her very shitty superpower works really really well, and there are dozens of background characters who’ve fought her that are just permanently green now

thestuffedalligator

#the wildest thing about this is that it COULD be incredibly powerful #you turn solar panels white they aren’t gonna work anymore and that’s gonna fuck up your whole grid on a very Temperature day #you can blind people the same way #turn some water red. make your own murder scene #fuck up traffic and hide warning signs. or fences. or a building #blackmail your local hidden spy facility with neons #absolutely demolish a politician’s career because who can take a bright lime guy seriously? #red tides are devastating for a tourist beach economy #that sort of thing. you get it #but the point is she’s got all the tools and she’s hitting the nail with a wrench for no reason

@hedgewitchnecromancer yes exactly. “You can alter any material on the fly and you’re using it for superpowered vandalism?! You could destroy the environment by changing the colour of chlorophyll!”

“But I don’t want to destroy the environment. I want to turn Yellowstone purple.”

my parents visited today and their latest item of ‘what people you knew in school are up to lately’ gossip was about the absolutely BONKERS thing they’re trying to talk their friend out of doing to her daughter. I’m still in shock tbh

Their friend is helping her daughter’s boyfriend’s mom to throw a 200-guest surprise engagement party for her daughter and her daughter’s boyfriend. The daughter and the bf are not engaged. Neither of them have even discussed planning to get engaged with their respective mothers. The moms are going to surprise the bf with his late grandmother’s ring at the party and tell him it’s time to propose to his gf. In front of 200 friends and family members. Just an absolute nightmare scenario.

Oh the kicker is that the pretense they’re inviting people under is that it’s a surprise “congrats on passing the bar” party for the bf. A thing he is currently stressing about having to take for the second time and may not pass. So it may turn into a 200-person surprise “sorry you failed to pass the bar for the second time, here’s your grandma’s ring, go propose anyway” party, which is a near-incomprehensible level of public humiliation.

Bf’s mom, whose brainchild this whole thing was, has already rented out an entire waterfront restaurant for the party. In Newport. This is what “more money than sense” looks like in practice.

#rebloge for great justice #pokemon

Since this blew up overnight and people are asking, I managed to track the daughter down on linkedin today (the only social media I could find that we both have, lol) and message her. So she has been warned, and hopefully doesn't take the message poorly.

#messy

chongoblog

An Increasingly Frustrated Pokemon Trainer who wants a Sylveon but he isn’t emotionally equipped enough to understand the nuanced difference between friendship and affection so he just has like 13 Espeons and Umbreons

atreefullofstars

He ties ribbons around their necks and clips them on their ears, and never thinks they’re good enough. He ignores them when they rub against him for pets, focusing on his newest Eevee, so tiny and soft and full of potential. He keeps trying, and trying, and every time he sees black instead of pink and his face falls. Or he perks up at a glimpse of a paler color--but no, that’s the wrong shade, and there’s the forked tail, and he is even more crestfallen.

Until one day he gives up on a Sylveon. It’s never going to happen for him. He slams the door, and cries with his head in his hands, and can’t stand to look at the warm, soft bodies pressing against his back, rubbing against his knees.

He can’t stand to look at the ribbons and bows. He avoids the Pokemon for two days and then, in one explosive burst of frustration, he takes all the bows, stuffs them into the trash--only just managing to keep his trembling hands gentle on soft necks and ears. It’s not their fault. He knows it’s not. It’s his. He rubs a black ear, worried that it might be sore. It’s his fault.

He pets them more. It’s not their fault they’re not what he wanted. He feeds them, and restarts the training sessions that had ended when each one evolved. He doesn’t know their movesets; he starts reading. He learns what he can ask from them, and then learns from them too: which one would rather Quick Attack than use Confusion, which has a Mean Look that freezes even him in place. It’s fun. It’s more fun than it ever used to be, when he followed all the best training manuals so anxiously. They respond, growing and learning and butting into them for pets that he sheepishly gives them.

It’s inevitable, with thirteen of them in the same place, that eventually two would breed. He holds the tiny Eevee in his cupped palms. So soft. So warm. He knows which Espeon gave her those extra-long ears and which Umbreon is responsible for her round little nose. He is fascinated.

He pets her. He holds her. He watches her try to mimic the others and he smiles when they high-step over her or when they lift her by the scruff. She joins in on training sessions and for a moment there’s the thought--but she’s having fun copying one of her aunties and he’s not going to change that. She learns what she likes because she likes it. She’s the happiest Eevee he’s ever trained, and he doesn’t need her to be anything else.

But she changes, of course. Children grow up and Pokemon evolve. Espeon, he thinks when she changes in daylight, when he sees a pale coat--but no, that’s the wrong shade--

He is dumbfounded. The rest of them are not. They crowd around, pushing him and Sylveon together, pressing against both of them until everyone is one pile of fur and waving tails. He laughs and hugs her first--and then the nearest Umbreon, and the next.

He is happy, of course. But not because of what she is. He's glad that it means she’s happy. And she is happy. He gets the sense, watching her examine her own ribbons, that she became exactly what she wanted.

Maybe he should start keeping some stones in the house. It’s inevitable, with fourteen Eeveelutions around, that they’re going to keep breeding, and the next Eevee might want something different.

writing-prompt-s

An old and homely grandmother accidentally summons a demon. She mistakes him for her gothic-phase teenage grandson and takes care of him. The demon decides to stay at his new home.

eatbreathewrite

It isn’t uncommon for this particular demon to be summoned—from exhausting Halloween party pranks in abandoned barns to more legitimate (more exhausting) ceremonies in forests—but it has to admit, this is the first time it’s been called forth from its realm into a claustrophobic living room bathed in the dull orange-pink glow of old glass lamps and a multitude of wide-eyed, creepy antique porcelain dolls that could give Chucky a run for his money with all of their silent, seething stares combined. Accompanying those oddities are tea cup and saucer sets on shelves atop frilly doilies crocheted with the utmost care, and cross-stitched, colorful ‘Home Sweet Home’s hung across the wood-paneled walls.

It’s a mistake—a wrong number, per se. No witch it’s ever known has lived in such an, ah, dated, home. Furthermore, no practitioner that ever summoned it has been absent, as if they’d up and ding-dong ditched it. No, it didn’t work that way. Not at all. Not if they want to survive the encounter.

It hears the clinking of movement in the room adjacent—the kitchen, going by the pungent, bitter scent of cooled coffee and soggy, sweet sponge cakes, but more jarring is the smell of blood. It moves—feels something slip beneath its clawed foot as it does, and sees a crocheted blanket of whites and greys and deep black yarn, wound intricately, perfectly, into a summoning circle. Its summoning circle. There is a small splash of bright scarlet and sharp, jagged bits of a broken curio scattered on top, as if someone had dropped it, attempted to pick it up the pieces and pricked their finger. It would explain the blood. And it would explain the demon being brought into this strange place.

As it connects these pieces in its mind, the inhabitant of the house rounds the corner and exits the kitchen, holding a damp, white dish towel close to her hand and fumbling with the beaded bifocals hanging from her neck by a crocheted lanyard before stopping dead in her tracks.

Now, to be fair, the demon wouldn’t ordinarily second guess being face-to-face with a hunchbacked crone with a beaked nose, beady eyes and a peculiar lack of teeth, or a spidery shawl and ankle-length black dress, but there is definitely something amiss here. Especially when the old biddy lets her spectacles fall slack on her bosom and erupts into a wide, toothy (toothless) grin, eyes squinting and crinkling from the sheer effort of it.

“Todd! Todd, dear, I didn’t know you were visiting this year! You didn’t call, you didn’t write—but, oh, I’m so happy you’re here, dear! Would it have been too much to ask you to ring the doorbell? I almost had a heart attack. And don’t worry about the blood, here—I had an accident. My favorite figure toppled off of the table and cleanup didn’t go as expected. But I seem to recall you are quite into the bloodshed and ‘edgy’ stuff these days, so I don’t suppose you mind.” She releases a hearty, kind laugh, but it isn’t mocking, it’s sweet. Grandmotherly. The demon is by no means sentimental or maudlin, but the kindness, the familiarity, the genuine fondness, does pull a few dusty old nostalgic heartstrings. “Imagine if it leaves a scar! It’d be a bit ‘badass,’ as you teenagers say, wouldn’t it?”

She is as blind as a bat without her glasses, it would appear, because the demon is by no means a ‘Todd’ or a human at all, though humanoid, shrouded in sleek, black skin and hard spikes and sharp claws. But the demon humors her, if only because it had been caught off guard.

The old woman smiles still, before turning on her heel and shuffling into the hallway with a stiff gait revealing a poor hip. “Be a dear and make some more coffee, would you please? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Yes, this is most definitely a mistake. One for the record books, for certain. For late-night trips to bars and conversations with colleagues, while others discuss how many souls they’d swindled in exchange for peanuts, or how many first-borns they’d been pledged for things idiot humans could have gained without divine intervention. Ugh. Sometimes it all just became so pedantic that little detours like this were a blessing—happy accidents, as the humans would say.

That’s why the demon does as asked, and plods slowly into the kitchen, careful to duck low and avoid the top of the doorframe. That’s why it gingerly takes the small glass pot and empties it of old, stale coffee and carefully, so carefully, takes a measuring scoop between its claws and fills the machine with fresh grounds. It’s as the hot water is percolating that the old woman returns, her index finger wrapped tight in a series of beige bandages.

“I’m surprised you’re so tall, Todd! I haven’t seen you since you were at my hip! But your mother mails photos all the time—you do love wearing all black, don’t you?” She takes a seat at the small round table in the corner and taps the glass lid of the cake plate with quaking, unsteady, aged hands. “I was starting to think you’d never visit. Your father and I have had our disagreements, but…I am glad you’re here, dear. Would you like some cake?” Before the demon has a chance to decline, she lifts the lid and cuts a generous slice from the near-complete circle that has scarcely been touched. It smells of citrus and cream and is, as assumed earlier, soggy, oversaturated with icing.

It was made for a special occasion, for guests, but it doesn’t seem this old woman receives much company in this musty, stagnant house that smells like an antique garage that hadn’t had its dust stirred in years.

Especially not from her absentee grandson, Todd.

The demon waits until the coffee pot is full, and takes two small mugs from the counter, filling them until steam is frothing over the rims. Then, and only then, does it accept the cake and sit, with some difficulty, in a small chair at the small table. It warbles out a polite ‘thank you,’ but it doesn’t suppose the woman understands. Manners are manners regardless.

“Oh, dear, I can hardly understand. Your voice has gotten so deep, just like your grandfather’s was. That, and I do recall you have an affinity for that gravelly, screaming music. Did your voice get strained? It’s alright, dear, I’ll do the talking. You just rest up. The coffee will help soothe.”

The demon merely nods—some communication can be understood without fail—and drinks the coffee and eats the cake with a too-small fork. It’s ordinary, mushy, but delicious because of the intent behind it and the love that must have gone into its creation.

“I hope you enjoyed all of the presents I sent you. You never write back—but I am aware most people use that fancy E-mail these days. I just can’t wrap my head around it. I do wish your mom and dad would visit sometime. I know of a wonderful little café down the street we can go to. I haven’t been; I wanted to visit it with Charles, before he…well.” She falls silent in her rambling, staring into her coffee with a small, melancholy smile. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years. You never had the chance to meet him. But never mind that.” Suddenly, and with surprising speed that has the demon concerned for her well being, she moves to her feet, bracing her hands on the edge of the table. “I may as well give you your birthday present, since you’re here. What timing! I only finished it this morning. I’ll be right back.”

When she returns, the white, grey and black crocheted work with the summoning circle is bundled in her arms.

“I found these designs in an occult book I borrowed from the library. I thought you’d like them on a nice, warm blanket to fight off the winter chill—I hope you do like it.” With gentle hands, she spreads the blanket over the demon’s broad, spiky back like a shawl, smoothing it over craggy shoulders and patting its arms affectionately. “Happy birthday, Todd, dear.”

Well, that settles it. Whoever, wherever, Todd is, he’s clearly missing out. The demon will just have to be her grandson from now on.

Part II

writing-prompt-s

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

sadoeuphemist

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.

sameenbyhat

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.”

stu-pot

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 be 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.”

amlsh-deactivated20181211

aru

Tumblr Code.

geekishchic

If I ever see any of you in public, the code is “i fill my ass with orange juice”

that way we know we’re from tumblr without revealing anything

I’m just going to say this to strangers until i find a tumblr person

must keep reblogering!! Im going to be so suspicious if any one tells me this now!

Remember the answer is: ”17 cocks”

always reblog tumblr identification

this post makes me want to gouge my eyes out

sads

im laughins so hard who changed it

ace-beef

pisshandkerchief-deactivated202

WHO TF EDITED THE SHOELACE POST

pisshandkerchief-deactivated202

No seriously the edit function has been gone for years who did this

second-order-simulacra

#hol y s hit

Middle-aged magical girl.

She's been defending the Earth since the early 90s and she's very tired.

My name is Tominaga Haruka. I was chosen by a magical talking animal, and for the last 29 years I've been Earth's one and only... Wonder-Sparkle Princess.

gropeable-boychest

she's been fighting the same villains for three decades and they are also tired of it. Most of them aren't giving it their all. Half of them are in a groupchat they've added her to where they schedule their evil plans to make sure they don't interfere with each other, or more importantly, with *her* Xalkrax the space demon from outer space decided to attack the city when she was taking her vacation time once, and now he's dead, because even the power of friendship and redemption can't save you if you interrupt her rare vacations

Demon Queen Eluria: Gonna fill the city people's hearts with hatred on thursday to cause mayhem and discord.

Wonder-Sparkle Princess: Can't, got a PTA meeting.

Demon Queen Eluria: Friday?

Wonder-Sparkle Princess: A birthday party.

Demon Queen Eluria: Damn. How about I fill just the mayor's heart with hatred then?

Wonder-Sparkle Princess: That'd be redundant, lol. Maybe fill his heart with a desire to fix the fucking potholes?!

Demon Queen Eluria: LMFAO love you, bitch. Stay strong.

Wonder-Sparkle Princess: You too, gurl. How's the husband? Still dead?

Demon Queen Eluria: Yep. Thanks for that, btw.

Wonder-Sparkle Princess: Don't mess with my time off :p

Why are people tagging this '#wonder sparkle princess' like that's a thing and not a name I made up exclusively for this post?