Today's Document
tannertan36
Sade Olutola
YOU ARE THE REASON
Not today Justin
dirt enthusiast
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Peter Solarz
No title available
JVL
Andulka
No title available
ojovivo
Xuebing Du
pixel skylines
hello vonnie
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
we're not kids anymore.
Origami Around
Keni
seen from Canada
seen from Türkiye
seen from Türkiye
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Romania
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Bolivia
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States
@mynamtimmy
You cannot say that a top grossing artist is "feral" or making you "feral." You are listening to the Billboard Top 40. You are very domesticated.
Stupid ass take. The fame of the artist doesn't define how it makes you feel. Do you not see me go hogwild eating potatoes, easily one of the top 5 most well known vegetables
We're like shooting stars you and I
its no longer labor day you cant reblog the todaybor day post anymore
posted a month ago on my patreon, original post by @turing-tested, @dog-on-it-tm, @khazel-t, @prettyboy-bigfoot (@clearcutcasualty), @rankeluck, @world-heritage-posts, @icecreamsavant, @yumiiiiiii, @jessbeinme15, @spacepaprika, @rat-on-fire, @thehottestmess, @vang0bus, @royal-random-the-yogurt-queen, @astraltrickster, @rubykgrant, @vaultoffaggotry, @adamsmasher, @cartoondog, and @unstablebill can be found here
like my omagpies comics? consider supporting me for early access and the simple pleasure of gently taping a $1 bill to my forehead here!
Reblog if you are ASEXUAL, SUPPORT ASEXUALS, or really really want to WEAR A REALLY FANCY BLACK CAPE
i was thinking about peep show again and felt compelled to redraw some screencaps
this tweet really spoke to me
consider:
-dad
or:
-dad whore
core classes as undead :)
@yeahitsak
26.08.2021
One of my closest friends is moving to İstanbul this week for her university and I’ve been running around helping her. On a personal note, there is still sometime until my school will open so I’ve been mostly sleeping and reading my old notes.
Hey, gay working class and gay rural interests, aesthetics, and culture belong within the wider LGBT+ community. Country music belongs in gay spaces. Camo and trucker caps and work boots belong in gay spaces. Trucks and doorless jeeps and shitty old beaters belong in gay spaces. GEDs and high school educations and blue collar jobs belong in gay spaces. Being broke and looking like shit belongs in gay spaces. The community isn’t owned by the wealthiest San Fransisco and New York gay-geoisie. Their interests, appearances, and beliefs do not define queerness.
Me: It’s important to remember to be inclusive of gay people from rural backgrounds.
Parts of Tumblr.com: I have literally never heard of classism and thus have no frame of reference for the idea that I should be nice to people with stereotypically low class interests and so I will make fun of those interests now.
Me: Ah so I see I have overshot where y’all are at
Everyone in the notes: Yas! I love farms! Love them chickens, farm core is my life!
Bitch we all know you like farm asthetique. What we want is support for the Actual rural southern queer community. The trailer park/pre-used prefab queers. The ones who are never going to get more than a 10th grade education and work dirty blue collar jobs with hard labor. And remember that this whole ass time we often have to lie about who we are so we can keep the shitty hard labor jobs that fuck up our bodies. And remember that these communities are also black and Hispanic communities?? I see y'all in the notes “this is so white, this is so white” like the entire South isn’t full of poc and queer poc who struggle even harder because of all this??
Broke: everyone in the rural south is white homophobic racists
Woke: the rural south has large populations of queer poc who get no support and no acknowledgement within broader queer culture past the “gay cowboy” asthetic
dont make me tap the sign again
It’s Easter and the only bunny for me is this snarky, brave and foul mouthed idiot.
Bigwig for top bun!
Holy Trinity of Annoying Cartoon Birds
Father
Son
Holy Ghost
stupid little meme i made because i couldn’t get the idea out of my head lmao
shameless promotion for our chill wsd discord: https://discord.gg/QZry7Z
give it up for the boys
Duality of man
My stage career began when I was a little under two months old, when I took the spotlight as Baby Jesus in a Christmas pageant. I’m told that I did a wonderful job and slept calmly through the whole thing, which can only speak to my talents as an actress, because I was 1. the wrong gender 2. a colicky screaming demon of a baby and 3. about as far from divine as it’s possible for an allegedly-human child to be.
I continued to be actively involved in theater as a kid (and frequently played roles of various small animals, because I was tiny for my age). Around the age of ten, I was cast as the lead character in a musical about cowboys that I no longer remember the name of. It was my first real lead role, and I took it very, very seriously. And because I am myself, that means I maaaaybe went…a little overboard.
My character’s introduction was early in the play, accompanied by the crack of a bullwhip. This was more-or-less pre internet (or, at least, our director was not tech-savvy enough to find sound effects online) and we didn’t have a sound effect track for that noise. There were plans to acquire the appropriate sound effect before opening night, but I rapidly tired of making my entrance during rehearsals to the sound of someone yelling “BULLWHIP NOISE!”
This, I thought to myself, is a problem I can solve.
I learned early in life that it’s good to be friends with people who have skills; they always come in handy eventually. After rehearsals one day, I put on my cowboy boots and biked a couple miles over to my friend Grace’s house. I went down to their basement and knocked on her older brother’s door.
“Hello,” I said. “I need to learn how to use a bullwhip.”
“….Okay,” he said. It did not seem to occur to him that he might ask further questions about why I, a tiny horrible munchkin composed exclusively of rage and pointy elbows, needed to be weaponized any further. Clearly, I had come to the right person.
My friend’s older brother would have been an SCA nerd, if SCA was a thing where we were. Instead, he was one of those unsupervised 4H kids with weird hobbies, largely oriented around ancient forms of combat. He was somewhere in his late teens at this time, and he liked to make stuff. It was an urge I, even at age ten, could sympathize with. His name was Aron.
Aron got out his bullwhip (which I had noticed hanging on his wall on a prior visit, and had filed away mentally under a for future use tab) and we went to the backyard.
“Step one of using a bullwhip,” Aron began, “Swinging the bullwhip.”
We rapidly discovered that since I was god’s tiniest, angriest creation, a full-size bullwhip was way too long for me to use. Aron’s shins suffered for my attempt.
“…Step one of using a bullwhip,” Aron said, “Making a bullwhip.”
So we went back inside, found a tanned cowhide (that he just…had? I don’t remember if there was a reason for this.) and some razor blades, and I learned how to cut and braid a bullwhip. It took a few tries, and I wound up coming back for a while, because I kept getting frustrated with the bullwhip-braiding process and Aron kept distracting me with bait like: “Hey kid, wanna learn to make some chainmail?” and “Hey kid, wanna fletch some arrows?” and “Hey kid, wanna try doing horseback archery?”
Obviously the answer to these questions was “BOY, WOULD I EVER!” Some delays are necessary to the artistic process.
(At one point my mom asked me “Hellen, what are you doing over at Grace’s house all the time?” And I, perfectly innocent, said, “Making weapons!” and my mother, who never understood why I was like this, but accepted that a girl has needs and those needs occasionally involve stocking a personal armory, said “Okay! Have fun!”)
Soon, the bullwhip, size extra small, was finished. The lessons on actual bullwhip use commenced.
It should be noted that Aron was self-taught, and really had no idea what to do, so this was mostly an exercise in the two of us standing twenty feet apart and flailing wildly with our respective whips until snapping noises happened. And then we figured out what we’d done to make the snapping noises. And then we kept doing that. Extremely vigorously. So vigorously that at one point one of the bullwhips launched into the air and caught on a tree branch and we hand to drag the trampoline over so Aron could bounce me high enough to grab it. But we persisted!
Eventually we reached a point where we could line up pop cans on a fence rail and hit them off three times out of five.
Feeling extremely accomplished and like I finally understood method acting, I packed my bullwhip into my backpack for the next play rehearsal. Soon enough, it was time for me to make my entrance.
I leaped on stage in my cowboy boots and cracked the bullwhip as hard as I could, immediately launching into the song despite the fact that the sound of five feet of braided leather breaking sound barrier had startled the accompanist so badly she’d keysmashed on the piano.
The director shouted something she probably shouldn’t have shouted in a room full of small children, and then demanded, “WHERE DID YOU GET THAT!”
“I made it!” I declared proudly. “I’m a cowgirl! I can make my own bullwhip noise!”
“You…made it?”
“Yes! Because we needed a bullwhip sound effect. And bullwhips are where bullwhip sound effects come from!”
This was, of course, impeccable logic.
It is apparently difficult to argue with a gleeful ten year old who happens to be armed with a bullwhip longer than she is tall. After some negotiation, the director agreed that I could use my bullwhip for my opening song, provided that I didn’t pop it while anyone was anywhere near me on stage and I didn’t let anyone else play with it. These terms were acceptable to me.
Somehow, no one was injured and the play went off without a hitch. We can only chalk up these things to the magic of the theatre.
Nearly a decade later, an unsuspecting college classmate asked me, “Hellen, wanna take a class on bullwhip combat with me?”
And obviously I answered, “BOY, WOULD I EVER!”
Saturday Morning Sufferin
