Sometimes when Lucky Ducky creates clones of himself via mitosis, the clones come out a little bit wonky. This is one such clone that Ducky has allowed to live. His name is Paul. Be nice.
YOU ARE THE REASON
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shark vs the universe

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One Nice Bug Per Day
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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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Keni
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@lukarsio
Sometimes when Lucky Ducky creates clones of himself via mitosis, the clones come out a little bit wonky. This is one such clone that Ducky has allowed to live. His name is Paul. Be nice.
yet another cat test
Choose all squares that contain: Geto Suguru
Well I feel a little bad
hi aromantics and asexuals and aroaces. I love you.
also everyone who's anywhere else on the aspectrum and everyone who's questioning if they're aspec. hi I love you too.
Sorry I drew this instead of just drawing Grace in a dress. I think trying to understand how weird humans are about clothing would b really annoying
I got a job at a gas station across from a casino and a guy keeps coming in to buy whole cartons of cigarettes and talks in the third person calling himself "snake eyes pete" and every time I tell him his total hes like "tell ya what if old Pete rolls a snake eyes why dont you give it to him for free?" and he rolls the same set of loaded dice on the counter and it does not matter how many times he rolls snake eyes I will not give him the cartons for free he gets so mad
My babies 🥺❤️🩹
do u like frogs
yeah like a pretty normal amount I think
The tailors at Colonial Williamsburg made a suit for their cat
The best part is that they were inspired by a diary entry from 1775, written by a 12 year old tailor’s apprentice who had been left unsupervised all day and decided to make a suit for a cat. Here’s a link to the blog post about it, but I’ll just paste the whole diary entry here:
“I had been at work about two months when Christmas came on – and here I must relate a little anecdote. The principal [the tailor] and his lady were invited to a party among their friends…while it devolved on me to stay at home and keep house. There was nothing left me in charge to do, only to take care of the house. There was a large cat that generally lay about the fire. In order to try my mechanical powers, I concluded to make a suit of clothing for puss, and for my purpose gathered some scraps of cloth that lay about the shop-board, and went to work as hard as I could. Late in the evening I got my suit of clothes finished; I caught the cat, put on the whole suit – coat, vest, and small-clothes [breeches] – buttoned all on tight, and set down my cat to inspect the fit.
“Unfortunately for me there was a hole through the floor close to the fireplace, just large enough for the cat to pass down; after making some efforts to get rid of the clothes, and failing, pussy descended through the hole and disappeared; the floor was tight and the house underpinned with brick, so there was no chance of pursuit. I consoled myself with a hope that the cat would extricate itself from its incumbrance, but not so; night came and I had made on a good fire and seated myself for some two or three hours after dark, when who should make their appearance but my master and mistress and two young men, all in good humor, with two or three bottles of rum. After all were seated around the fire, who should appear amongst us but the cat in his uniform. I was struck speechless, the secret was out and had no chance of concealing; the cat was caught, the whole work inspected and the question asked, is this your day’s work? I was obliged to answer in the affirmative; I would then have been willing to take a good whipping, and let it stop there, but no, to complete my mortification the clothes were carefully taken off the cat and hung up in the shop for the inspection of all customers that came in.”
“I was hoping they’d beat me and forget about it but to my horror they stuck my work up on the fridge”
Not just any fridge-
The public fridge
Moyuu doodles
When people argue that food from Chinese and Mexican restaurants in the US are not 'real' representations of that culture's cuisine ignore the historical reality that these dishes were developed by diasporic communities striving to recreate the flavors of home with available resources. Such criticism frames adaptation as a loss of authenticity, rather than recognizing it as a sincere and evolving expression of culture by people separated from their homeland.
Too good to leave in the tags
Trio designs bc why not (The day I'm happy with my designs of them is the day I leave these trenches)
the year is 2035. the new beauty standard is for women to cut their ears off, as ears are a masculine trait which make the face look too big and hearing isnt necessary as it doesnt align with being demure. evil feminists say perhaps this is unnecessary and ears are natural. women are agressively proclaiming they are cutting their ears off due to sensory issues
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Posted: 20:45 UTC 31 July, 2026
the thing they dont tell you about learning to "trust the process" is that you forget and relearn it every single time you make a new piece of art. unfortunately there is no cure either
a chart of what i mean for the visual learners in the audience
There’s a realistically nonzero chance that this will be a conceptually novel and thought-provoking reinterpretation of the themes and symbolism of a tragic casualty of vengeance and circumstance within a complex classic but I’m scared
This Woman Has Not Read Hamlet
Okay so again I don’t know what I was expecting and I’m not surprised so this feels a little unfair but it seems I’m actually a little mad about this actually
Ophelia as a character is shown to be restricted as women were in her environment to her relationships with men. Her father, her brother, and her romantic interest. She isn’t just The Girl in this story- she can easily be interpreted as any woman of her standing at this time.
And because of this- as women were, and still often are- her personhood was reduced to the context in which she served others: a daughter, a sister, a lover. She is nothing else because all she is allowed to be, all she CAN be, is what she can offer, what she can PROVIDE, the esteem in which she is held by those men.
So we see a person whose personhood is, in effect, a shadow cast by the relationships in which she belongs. “Belongs” in the possessive sense, because she has no agency, no worth or value beyond those relationships, and it doesn’t matter if she is happy or not because she couldn’t live any sort of meaningful life apart from them.
In this circumstance in which Ophelia has been raised, in this society, in this position, the Existence of Ophelia is a shadow cast in the light of three candles. Her father, her brother, her lover, who can shine their lights and cast as many shadows as they wish while she cannot.
Her brother is leaving. He is no steady pillar. If she is not sistered, she is not a sister.
And then her lover, he loses his mind. He goes hot and cold, loving and then cruel and then kind and then completely nonsensical. If she is not loved, she is not a lover.
And then her father is killed. And if she is not daughtered, she is not a daughter.
Physically, emotionally, spiritually, the context she exists within is taken away, and so she is nothing. Just the shape of a girl left adrift in a vacuum.
She is a construction of other’s perceptions, and when she is no longer perceived in a way that is stable, she loses her stability. She’s never been truly alone in herself- never seen herself outside the eyes of those who see her, patronize her, value her, and so her fate is tied to their perceptions. Her value is what they find her value to be; her personhood is what they find her personhood to be.
Ophelia dies covered in flowers, singing in a river. A nonsensical caricature of what a girl should be- beautiful, whimsical, lighthearted, young, left literally and figuratively adrift. Desperately grasping to fulfill the role she was shaped into despite no longer possessing the context in which it has function. Like post-traumatic stress, all that’s left of her is the flinch-and-run response to the bang of a gun you hear on the radio a hundred miles from the battlefield. A reaction to an action that is no longer happening.
She is reduced to Madness as Madness truly is- the rational, logical, straightforward actions of a hero suddenly dropped into the wrong story, giving the right answers to the wrong questions.
I’m not an academic, so my interpretation might be way off, but I love Ophelia because broadly speaking she is an answer to the question of what makes us who we are. If a tree falls in the forest, and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound? If a tree is not perceived, is it even a tree? If your only value is to others, what are you when there are no longer others to value you? What happens when their value of you wavers? Fluctuates madly without reason? What are you then?
But yeah, Taylor, girls should stay slay. Hashtag girl power
Sorry to reblog this again but l've been thinking about it all day and managed to boil it down and figure out WHY it was making me so angry
When you read the text and then the lyrics, what the song is essentially saying is "Ophelia died because in her society, a woman without a man was as good as dead. Fortunately I have a man, so / don't *need* to be a fully actualized person in my own life. Hashtag girlboss". Which so wildly misses the point that it’s sort of amazing that the construction of the song itself betrays absolutely no rational reasonable shred of a clue that it’s anything less that 100% sincere in this interpretation.
Unfortunately, "I don't need to be a self-actualized person to survive because I will never run out of people who need me to fulfill the role I play for them in society" would have been a far more powerful statement, especially given the “showgirl” theme, and if I believed for even half a second that this super secret deeply encoded confessional communiqué was even slightly conscious or deliberate then l'd be far more willing to overlook the fart ass doodoo peepee rhyme scheme
You see me dancing By the river all alone Singing my laments so sweetly On the hem of my dress You’ll find buttercups and roses Clinging onto silk Exactly where they’ve been sewn Why don’t you call out for me Before I drown myself in melancholy Swear your loyalty to me, myself, and I Seize my destiny for me I would gather you flowers Larkspur and lavender I’d give my soul to you in the name of Ophelia Lift me out of my grave Free my heart from its cage Kneel down in front of my stage I’ll play the role of Ophelia Compare my beauty to the sun, the stars, the sky Pledge allegiance to my hands, my hips, my eyes Raise your head and take control The way that I like And don’t forget to call me Call me Ophelia
PERMISSION TO WRITE A BANGIN BASSLINE AND SOME BRASS, SIR?!
Emilie Autumn’s Opheliac has entered the chat