bought a hoodie that amusingly has the coordinates for tokyo on it so when aliens abduct me they’ll think it’s like when a dog has an address on its collar and drop me off in tokyo when they’re done fucking me

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@nekohmancer
bought a hoodie that amusingly has the coordinates for tokyo on it so when aliens abduct me they’ll think it’s like when a dog has an address on its collar and drop me off in tokyo when they’re done fucking me
i cant wait to get a boyfriend, im all prepared. i punched some holes in the lid of this jar and i put some grass and a twig in it
there should be a tax that youtubers pay where 1.5% of all of their revenue goes back to Kevin Macleod for basically supplying YouTube with it’s own soundtrack.
who is this man and what music did he make???
if you hear a royalty free song on youtube, there’s approximately an 80% chance Kevin Macleod wrote it.
here’s some you’ve almost definitely heard:
for those wondering, yes, he also made THE generic royalty free song that was EVERYWHERE in 2014.
He has a Patreon!
And he doesn’t even make a 1000$ per month!
also, his site incompetech.com also has graph paper generators, if you’re in need of that. It has any kind of graph paper - INCLUDING hex paper, you tabletop gamers out there! (or knitting paper if you’re into that)
HOHOHOHO?
Y'all, I’ve been a fan of Kevin MacLeod for YEARS. I can identify his music within two seconds. He’s a fucking genius and he deserves all the love and credit and money people can give.
The struggle. The uneven tear. The cat fucking stomping the chocolate getting it everywhere. This video has it all.
Im fucking crying
trans bears are literally stronger than any US marine
How on earth would they be able to tell that a bear is trans. I’m not saying they can’t be but how would they communicate that.
:/
this is so fucking funny
update:
we the jury find the defendant not guilty your honor
Mom tried to call her inside but she was enjoying her pot of dirt
as much as the concept of Jesus being a fairly normal lad has its charms, im personally very intrigued by the idea of him being just… extremely weird. not even in a mystical sense, just…….staggeringly BIZZARRE.
you go to the well to get some water, and here’s Miriam’s boy, staring at the sky, completely still. his expression is unreadable. you hazard a hello and ask how he’s doing, and he slowly, unblinkingly, lowers his gaze on you (he’s 8 and is missing his frontal teeth, not that this is making you any less uncomfortable) and says “I cannot speak of the state of my being, Nathan son of Saul, my brother, but rejoice for the water you shall take today will be as pure as the soul of the children of Heaven”
…you start sweating
normal person in 1st century Nazareth: making my way downtown, walking fast
*sees J boy, 8 yo, staring at you from across the street*
normal person: walking faster
even funnier, the only person 100% on board with his Prophetic Kid Talk is his mother Miriam, an otherwise placid, absolutely normal woman around 25 or so
kid JC, coming home at twilight, a single white dove following him and chirping with weirdly human-like precision:
moth̫́er,̦͌ ̮̉i h͙̉av͔̽e ͓͗b̘̃r̞̓o̮͘u̲̒gh̟͒t̺́ you a do̗͐ṽ͙e̢͘ ͈̾m͒͢a͈̽dē̝ ỏ̘f ͈̓c̆͜l͔̂aỷ͇ aṋ̑d̳̿ g͢͞i̹̾fted̖͡ ̻͐it ͓͂w̖̿it̎͜h t̥̃h͙͒e ̨̒m̧̂i̡̍ŗ͒â̫cḷ̔è̤ ̛̻of̞̅ l̘̈i̛̦fè̳
Miriam: ! that’s my little boy :) now let’s go get ready for dinner :)
her husband Yosef, a carpenter who only marginally got signed up for this:
if ur a terf unfollow me and know that i hate you
It’s fine if you hate someone for what they believe, but maybe don’t just flat-out say it? You could phrase it like ‘if ur a terf unfollow me and never speak to me again’ or something without the hateful shaming. I know it’s too late for this post but maybe in the future? :)
i do hate you though, and you should feel ashamed :)
If u see this
Crystal i miss u pls come back its been 2 seconds and im already dead
Xoxox
UwU
You ever
You ever??
I was having writers block and so I took a break and soon enough it was 3 in the morning and I had impulsively sewn together a tiny mouse you’re welcome
For those of you who asked, I have made a sewing tutorial on how to make your very own Peaches the Mouse!
I see people reblogging this with “to buy” but this pattern is free??? Someone even asked me “why don’t you charge money for it, it took you forever to put the document together” and I said “Not a lot of people have money and if they have some fabric scraps and a couple of buttons lying around they can make themselves a little mouse friend for free and that might make them happy and that makes me happier than receiving money???” Make yourself a liddol creacher! Heals the Soul!
OP you are a hero and a scholar.
A thank you for the amazing devs that helped make an amazing game, and establish a fantastic community and fandom! I didnt draw all the devs, but my thanks you goes out to every one of them ;_; too afraid to tag anyone, but god do I love this game. Check out the mpdevsurprise tag for other cool Fanart!!!
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
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.
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.”
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 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.”
I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.
This is amazing!
Alright Lesbians, The Old Flag Sucks And So Does Our Approach To Fixing It.
So I’ve seen a lot of posts about how the L in LGBT is getting forgotten in posts about us and how people are using the fact we no longer have one unified flag to fly under, as an excuse.
The lipstick lesbian flag was offensive but at least people knew what it was.
The new flags are inoffensive but unidentifiable. Straight people don’t know what our flag is when its two feet in front of them and that’s a design problem.
So I’m here to explain why none of the flags suggested so far have really stuck in mainstream culture and hopefully fix it.
The main reason is our flags suck from a graphic design standpoint. Their purpose is not easy to figure out unless someone labels them. We’ve taken the bio hazard mode of symbolism; pick a sign that’s both memorable and meaningless and through cultural education, assign it a meaning. This is a terrible fucking approach and therefor bad design.
So here’s the checklist:
1) Flag must have meaning
2) Identifiable to everyone. A person who has no idea what a lesbian even is should know just by looking that this flag, is about girls liking girls.
3) Unique and Accessible. Can someone who is completely color blind tell that this is the lesbian flag and not the gay or trans flag.
4)Traditional Color Symbolism. Use the culture your currently in, not the culture you wish to create as no one will understand that yellow is suppose to mean femininity. For now stick with pink.
5) Not Eye Bleeding. No Neon.
6) Inclusive. This ain’t just a white lesbian flag, this is an all lesbian flag. If people feel the need to add another colored stripe after the fact to represent themselves, your doing it wrong.
So If We Must Ditch The Old Flag, Try Replacing It With This. I Think With Enough Signal Boosting This Flag Will Catch On.
Symbolism:
The brown fem sign represents all the women of color that first fought for our rights and acts as a reminder to lesbians of color today that they are welcomed.
The white fem sign represents our more privileged sisters who gave the movement numbers.
The interlocking design shows solidarity.
The Pink Triangle is an inversion of the more famous triangle used to label gays in Nazi Germany. Its a tribute to those who’ve been hurt and a light house for those of us that are still hurting today.
The top of the triangle points up and forward guiding us
The base of the triangle reminds us of where we have been and how far we have come
Also meant to look like a couple walking down a never ending street.
The black outline represents those we have lost.
The magenta stripe represents the love we all share
The light pink stripe represents all the trans lesbians that call the community home
The white stripe represents all the non-binary lesbians whom we accept with open arms
The dark pink stripe represents femininity in all it’s forms.
FEEL FREE TO USE AS ICON/HEADER/WHATEVER! LETS SPREAD THIS AND BRING UNITY! REPOST, REBLOG, LETS GET THIS FLAG OUT THERE!
ONE FLAG TO RULE THEM ALL!
Alright SO many of yous got in a bit of a huff about it being too feminine despite me pointing out that “femininity in all its forms” refers to the entire futch scale because apparently butches hate pink. so here we go butches, I fixed it. I took your color suggestions.
2.0 is here
minor changes were made to the sizes of the stripes and the centering of the triangle.
Clarifications on Symbolism:
feminity in all its forms is now represented by purple.
When I say non-binary I’m referring explicitly to any identity that is not male or female. So that by default will catch all the intersex, genderqueer, agender, ect folk. Sorry for the confusion.
The size of the stripes is not indicative of importance, the small stripes are people and identities, the big ones are feelings and abstract concepts.It’s pretty simple.
For all you knitters out there,
the triangle and the pink stripe can use whatever pink you have on hand for the trans flag, which means you’d only need to stock one extra color pink to your yarn stash. for the harder parts of the design id just grab a piece of felt and stitch it into the item like crochet people do with toys.
how many colors does the flag need to have?: 5
2 shades of pink, one shade of purple, one shade of brown, one white. (black optional)
so now that the flag is fixed we can get back to spreading the flag around and hopefully unifying under it.
NON LESBIANS FEEL FREE TO REBLOG!
ITS A BIG HELP TO GETTING THE FLAG SPREAD ROUND THE COMMUNITY
ALRIGHT SOME OF YALLS DON’T LIKE THE FLAG BECAUSE IT WOULD BE HARD TO MAKE CHARACTER ICONS OUT OF.
TO WHICH I SAY! YEAH! IT KINDA IS!
BUT I GOT YOU COVERED.
HAVE A TEMPLATE!
PUT THE CHARACTER A BIT TO THE SIDE AND MAKE SURE YOU CAN SEE AT LEAST PART OF EACH STRIPE,
LIKE SO!
HAVE A CHARACTER FACING THE OTHER WAY?
IVE GOT YOU COVERED THERE TOO!
WANT JUST THE STRIPES?
I GOTCHA
WANT JUST THE TRIANGLE?
YOU CAN HAVE IT! ITS TRANSPARENT TOO!
TAKE IT! HAVE FUN YOU FUNKY LITTLE LESBIANS!
Wow im lov this?? Yeet and whip (still rlly like the sunsetty one tho)
i wish i had a GF :^/
a Guy Fieri
yall really wanna forget that the comedian from the “LET ME IN” meme is a huge transmisogynist huh.
i had to do some digging to find the clip but here it is, at the end.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzXdYQ_eK_Y
if you’re cis you’re encouraged to rb bc i’m fucking TIRED of seeing him on my dash.
Um, In 2013 is was NOT common knowledge that ‘tr*nny’ was a slur- hell, it’s still not completely well known in society at large. Since then he’s definitely done some trans ally stuff. So I think blanket labelling him a ‘transmisogynist’ isn’t accurate. He has not been anti trans people– ‘tr*nny’ was commonly used in many circles back in 2013 and long before that in many communities, including the LGB community, drag queens etc- The early 2010s is when finally trans rights and thoughts on the word became more widely known and debated- but this was mostly known throughout the queer community- not society at large. It was fiercely debated around 2013 with people on BOTH sides of the issue. I means, there were the ‘Tranny Awards’ until 2014 when they changed their name. This is an unfair standard to wave around to someone’s one-off word use in 2013- back when it was NOT widely considered a slur.
Rbing the updated / fact checked version.
Eric Andre is pro blm, pro trans, anti-trump, and overall a chill guy.
this is the most frightening ad i’ve encountered on here
These photos were taken as he begun to have a heart attack I swear.