Mirroring Your Stare @mirroringyourstare - Tumblr Blog

Yeah uh sorry but we're denying you the medication that makes you regrow the hands you lost in the accident due to cancer risk.

Oh the type of cancer? Hand cancer. It's. It's significantly higher when you have hands.

Higher than for the general population of people with hands? Uhhhhhhhhh well now you're asking really complicated and sort of ideologically motivated questions.

bertysbrotbox

He's trying to learn

lazylittledragon

a brief documentation of the last hour of my life

icedsodapop

The sooner yall remember that Hollywood is the propaganda arm of the US military, the sooner yall will stop fangirling over a bunch of your White boy faves making war criminals look good becos that's strategic too.

Also, lmao at these tweets:

icedsodapop

"Everything is based on memory", cool bro will you include this then?

Ray Mendoza sir, is your memory long enough to remember the death toll of Iraqi casualties as a result of the Iraq war?

socialistexan

This needs a caption

REMINDER: luigi mangione has been accused of killing the CEO, not convicted, and the evidence presented is extremely questionable. luigi mangione is NOT the claims adjuster until proven guilty beyond reasonable doubt in a court of law, and the widespread presumption of his guilt makes it much more likely he will be falsely convicted.

gracklesong

My boyfriend is trying to explain cricket to me again. “He’s only got two balls to make 48 runs”, he says. The camera focuses on a man. Underneath him it says LEFT ARM FAST MEDIUM. A ball flies into the stands and presumably fractures someone’s skull. “There’s a free six”, my boyfriend says. 348 SIXES says the screen. A child in the audience waves a sign referencing Weet-Bix

gracklesong

The first time he showed me this I assumed he was pranking me

elodieunderglass

if people haven’t been exposed to cricket before, here is the experience. The person who likes cricket turns on a radio with an air of happy expectation. “We’ll just catch up with the cricket,” they say.

An elderly British man with an accent - you can picture exactly what he looks like and what he is wearing, somehow, and you know that he will explain the important concept of Yorkshire to you at length if you make eye contact - is saying “And w’ four snickets t’ wicket, Umbleby dives under the covers and romps home for a sticky bicket.”

There is a deep and satisfied silence. Weather happens over the radio. This lasts for three minutes.

A gentle young gentleman with an Indian accent, whose perfect and beautiful clear voice makes him sound like a poet sipping from a cup of honeyed drink always, says mildly “Of course we cannot forget that when Pakistan last had the biscuit under the covers, they were thrown out of bed. In 1957, I believe.”

You mouth “what the fucking fuck.”

A morally ambiguous villain from a superhero movie says off-microphone, “Crumbs everywhere.”

Apparently continuing a previous conversation, the villain asks, “Do seagulls eat tacos?”

“I’m sure someone will tell us eventually,” the poet says. His voice is so beautiful that it should be familiar; he should be the only announcer on the radio, the only reader of audiobooks.

The villain says with sudden interest, “Oh, a leg over straight and under the covers, Peterson and Singh are rumping along with a straight fine leg and good pumping action. Thanks to his powerful thighs, Peterson is an excellent legspinner, apart from being rude on Twitter.”

The man from Yorkshire roars potently, like a bull seeing another bull. There might be words in his roar, but otherwise it is primal and sizzling.

“That isn’t straight,” the poet says. “It’s silly.”

“What the fucking fuck,” you say out loud at this point.

“Shh,” says the person who likes cricket. They listen, tensely. Something in the distance makes a very small “thwack,” like a baby dropping an egg.

“Was that a doosra or a googly?” the villain asks.

“IT’S A WRONG ‘UN,” roars the Yorkshireman in his wrath. A powerful insult has been offered. They begin to scuffle.

“With that double doozy, Crumpet is baffled for three turns, Agarwal is deep in the biscuit tin and Padgett has gone to the shops undercover,” the poet says quickly, to cover the action while his companions are busy. The villain is being throttled, in a friendly companionable way.

An intern apparently brings a message scrawled on a scrap of paper like a courier sprinting across a battlefield. “Reddy has rolled a nat 20,” the poet says with barely contained excitement. “Australia is both a continent and an island. But we’re running out of time!”

“Is that true?” You ask suddenly.

“Shh!” Says the person who likes cricket. “It’s a test match.”

“About Australia.”

“We won’t know THAT until the third DAY.”

A distant “pock” noise. The sound of thirty people saying “tsk,” sorrowfully.

“And the baby’s dropped the egg. Four legs over or we’re done for, as long as it doesn’t rain.”

The villain might be dead? You begin to find yourself emotionally invested.

There are mild distant cheers. “Oh, and with twelve sticky wickets t’ over and t’ seagull’s exploded,” the man from the North says as if all of his dreams have come true. “What a beautiful day.” Your person who likes cricket relaxes. It is tea break.

The villain, apparently alive, describes the best hat in the audience as “like a funnel made of dove-colored net, but backwards, with flies trapped in it.”

This is every bit as good as that time in Australia in 1975, they all agree, drinking their tea and eating home-made cakes sent in by the fans. The poet comments favorably on the icing and sugar-preserved violets. The Yorkshire man discourses on the nature of sponge. The villain clatters his cup too hard on his saucer. To cover his embarrassment, the poet begins scrolling through Twitter on his phone, reading aloud the best memes in his enchanting milky voice. Then, with joy, he reads an @ from an ornithologist at the University of Reading: seagulls do eat tacos! A reference is cited; the poet reads it aloud. Everyone cheers.

You are honestly - against your will - kind of into it! but also: weirdly enraged.

“Was that … it?” you ask, deeming it safe to interrupt.

“No,” says the person who likes cricket, “This is second tea break on the first day. We won’t know where we really are until lunch tomorrow.”

And - because you cannot stop them - you have to accept this; if cricket teaches you anything, it is this gentle and radical acceptance.

jackironsides

As someone who Occasionally Enjoys Cricket, I am low key enraged that this is simultaneously utter nonsense and THE MOST PERFECTLY ACCURATE DESCRIPTION OF CRICKET

st-just

The great thing about having friends and acquaintances across a variety of professions is to really hammer home as much as possible the fact there is literally zero correlation between the amount someone actually works, the amount they contribute to society, and how much they make in a year.

s-nnoh

genuinely wheezing laughing at this description of dicken's awful pet with lead poisoning

beesmygod

important thing i forgot to mention: i looked this up bc adam read a thing about how dicken's pet was an inspiration for poe's "the raven" and we were like "well thats not true" but now that ive looked it up, i believe it

annabellioncourt

Yep! Dickens cited Grip as inspiration for the talking raven in his novel Barnaby Rudge, and Poe was one of its earliest critics (literary critic here being a career title, poe quite liked the work), and he spent time in his review discussing how raven could have been utilized to a stronger effect. Some time later, he used that concept in The Raven.

Dickens was distraught at Grip's passing and had him preserved. He currently resides in the US, in the Free Library of Philadelphia's rare books archive in Pennsylvania and can be visited with appointment.

eek-a-tron

@hydrofelicity Good stranger, pray do not hide this gem amongst the tags

rnismatch

literally i dont give a fuck about prom unless registeel is going

hero-in-high-tops

libraford

It is not enough to get into a comfy sleeping position- one must go through several and spin like a rotisserie chicken to arrive at the position you started with.