Jonelle Bethany Jade @nowheretogobutup - Tumblr Blog

tastefullyoffensive

Too cute for prison.

tastefullyoffensive

“This counts as bath time, right?”

awwww-cute

One doggo please (Source: http://ift.tt/2plkpAB)

coolsaddad-blog

Roses are red, that much is true, but violets are purple, not fucking blue.

feels-for-the-fictional

I have been waiting for this post all my life.

marzipanandminutiae

They are indeed purple, But one thing you’ve missed: The concept of “purple” Didn’t always exist.

Some cultures lack names For a color, you see. Hence good old Homer And his “wine-dark sea.”

A usage so quaint, A phrasing so old, For verses of romance Is sheer fucking gold.

So roses are red. Violets once were called blue. I’m hugely pedantic But what else is new?

ineptshieldmaid

My friend you’re not wrong About Homer’s wine-ey sea! Colours are a matter Of cultural contingency;

Words are in flux And meanings they drift But the word purple You’ve given short shrift.

The concept of purple, My friends, is old And refers to a pigment once precious as gold.

By crushing up molluscs From the wine-dark sea You make a dye: Imperial decree

Meant that in Rome, to wear purpura was a privilege reserved

For only the emperor!

The word ‘purple’, for clothes so fancy, Entered English By the ninth century

.

Why then are voilets Not purple in song? The dye from this mollusc, known for so long

Is almost magenta; More red than blue. The concept of purple is old, and yet new.

The dye is red, So this might be true: Roses are purple And violets are blue

.

squeeful

While this song makes me merry, Tyrian purple dyes many a hue From magenta to berry And a true purple too.

But fun as it is to watch this poetic race The answer is staring you right in the face: Roses are red and violets are blue Because nothing fucking rhymes with purple.

cryoverkiltmilk

hereticalapothecary

Tits out for Aphrodite

xaghytar

“Sai cos'è bello, qui? Guarda: noi camminiamo, lasciamo tutte quelle orme sulla sabbia, e loro restano lì, precise, ordinate. Ma domani, ti alzerai, guarderai questa grande spiaggia e non ci sarà più nulla, un'orma, un segno qualsiasi, niente. Il mare cancella, di notte. La marea nasconde. È come se non fosse mai passato nessuno. È come se noi non fossimo mai esistiti.” (foto mia, grazie.)