Kiana Khansmith
Claire Keane
Love Begins
hello vonnie
Xuebing Du
Misplaced Lens Cap
we're not kids anymore.
shark vs the universe
No title available
Monterey Bay Aquarium
trying on a metaphor
Cosmic Funnies
Cosimo Galluzzi
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
One Nice Bug Per Day
cherry valley forever
★
tumblr dot com
PR's Tumblrdome
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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@over-icedcoffee
February 12, 2023 - Sunday | 54/80 of Winter
What an eventful weekend omg- the sheer amount of people I saw in person these last two days is probably more than all the people i saw in the past few months. Saturday I took over moderating part of an event for someone who called out sick + later I ate a burger. Then today I saw every single relative I have in America after a long time. 10/10 weekend in terms of using up all my energy ✨
✨ focus focus focus ✨
Less than 300 days to the medical residency entrance exams
in recent events of that zoo losing the clouded leopard, it reminded me of the time i went to a large petting zoo and there was a free roaming little black sheep. cutest little guy i ever saw, soi went to the zookeeper nearby and said ‘i think its really cute how you have a sheep thats allowed to just walk around. ‘ then the zookeepers eyes widened and he grabbed his walky talky and ran
he is everything.
I could hear this man ramble for the rest of my life
Dad Spencer vibes ✨
for my thesis, I want to explore anti colonial fantasy of the 21st century, particularly the last decade or so. I noticed you read a lot of sff and I was hoping you could give some book recs. I have read she who became the sun (wonderful, but it's more about imperialism than colonialism) and the locked tomb, which I didn't really like. so anything apart from these two would be great!
sounds so interesting!
**disclaimer I'm a dumb stem major so I am really not the expert on this but
-The Unbroken by C.L. Clark is about colonialism in a setting inspired by North Africa
-A Memory Called Empire by Arkady Martine has themes of colonialism and imperialism
-The Traitor Baru Cormorant by Seth Dickinson (and the rest of the books in the series) have heavy themes about colonialism and imperialism. Like thats the whole thing.
maybe my smart followers can comment other recommendations
Babel by RF Kuang is about colonialism with a focus on how it intertwines with language, and it’s a fantastic and well researched novel. She also has a series, the Poppy War, which has anti-colonialism themes.
There's also Servant Mage by Kate Elliott, about a woman who's been forced into servitude because the new regime says Magic Is Bad, and who's then recruited by rebels who want to restore the old order.
An Unkindness of Ghosts by Rivers Solomon.
A long time ago, some catastrophe on Earth made humanity escape in a giant spaceship that's been hurling itself through the universe ever since. Inside it, a cruel, race-based colonial societal structure has cemented itself over centuries. Aster, a brilliant young Black scientist, is a "low decker," and she and her friends find ways towards resistance.
Every character is queer and many are neurodivergent. Respectful depiction of schizophrenia. Astonishingly well-written. Explores the external violence of colonizers and the internal violence of the colonized (the rage you cannot express in the face of dehumanization).
I want a simple and quiet life. I want ordinary things in life like a simple breakfast with my own family. I want a life where home is not just a place to live but instead it's a place where no heartaches, where no-one grieve over people or different things, where no one hurt or fear from anything. I want a house where we all heal and we raise a family that doesn't need to heal. A simple life where we all eat dinner together while laughing over simple things.
When i have a home of my own, it will be filled with so much love, so much warmth, so much tenderness, there will be space to be scared, to be vulnerable, to be held, and heard. There will be laughter, there will be closeness, cooking and sharing, the table will always have food, the door will always be open, there will be touch, there will be compassion, there will be kindness. there will be love, it will be love, everyone will be loved.
– SOURCE: "guulabii" on Tumblr
when the just some guy version of waymond wang said, “you tell me that it’s a cruel world, and we’re all just running around in circles. I know that. I’ve been on this earth just as many days as you. when I choose to see the good side of things, I’m not being naive. it is strategic and necessary. it’s how I’ve learned to survive through everything. I know you see yourself as a fighter. well, I see myself as one too. this is how I fight.”
Hey students, here’s a pro tip: do not write an email to your prof while you’re seriously sick.
Signed, a person who somehow came up with “dear hello, I am sick and not sure if I’ll be alive to come tomorrow and I’m sorry, best slutantions, [name]”.
I mean, if someone wrote that to me, I’d probably believe they were sick.
“Slutantions” has me crying laughing
i once emailed my professor with a migraine. a mistake.
“I amsick will not to choir because i have a heache. i Hope its very and i am so sorry
love,
blue”
the subject line was “OW”
THE SUBJECT LINE IS THE BEST PART JSJFJSJDJS JUST IMAGINE GETTING AN EMAIL WITH NO CONTEXT OTHER THAN “OW”
As someone who has taught college, please send those emails because 1) We WILL believe that; no one would write that on purpose and 2) we need a laugh sometimes.
On the other side of this, once after getting taken to the ER by ambulance, I got an email from the professor whose class I’d passed out in, and the message had no text, just the subject line “you good?”
Reblogging for the last addition
Claritin makes me weird, but I have allergies so there’s about a month and a half block of time where I’m taking Claritin and am just weird most of the time.
Anyway, my last year of college, I got the flu or something in late March and was also taking Mucinex. I told my professor I couldn’t come to class one day by email except I couldnt think of what to say, so my medicated ass decided to make a Fry meme. I think it said something like “Not sure if I can go to class with a head the size of Texas, bottom text.” I didn’t think until the next day that it probably wasn’t socially-acceptable to tell your philosophy professor you weren’t coming to class via Tumblr style memes. When i got back to class, i found that she’d printed it out and taped it to the classroom bulletin board.
Oh shit you guys i turned on my WinXP laptop that I used to use back then.
IT WAS ON THE DESKTOP. THIS IS WHAT I SENT.
It’s even worse than i remember it
I laugh myself hoarse every time this post comes around, so here it is again.
When I am emperor, I will make everyone who refers to women’s leg hair removal as “basic hygiene” fight to the death in my coliseum.
finally it will be understood that I am doing it not for hygiene but for slut reasons
sluts are welcome in my empire, be they hairy or smooth
Confused, but cautiously willing to welcome these slippery people into my empire so long as I can put down some plastic drop clothes over the couches before they sit down, and provided they do not become evangelical or moralizing about their thigh slime. (Why stop at thighs? Why not emulate the valiant eel and opt for a full mucusoid coat?)
This probably refers to people whose thighs touch and chafe when they’re wearing shorts or skirts
Aww, and here I was planning an imperial holiday called Slime Fest, with mandatory public slimings.
Very well, anti-chafing measures are permissible. I want my subjects to be comfortable (when they are not fighting to the death obviously).
your highness can we still have slime fest?
*imperial majesty thx
Imperial majesty, can we still have the slime fest?
hmmmmmm
no I’m too sad that the eel people don’t exist and I shall declare an Imperial Day of Sulking instead
all are welcome
The imperial Majesty Sulking
for three hours each day we will open the doors of the palace to the public so that my subjects may view their emperor sulking about the eel people from the royal observation chamber
there will be hors d'oeuvre
Imperial Majesty, bring back Slime Fest or the people shall revolt
don’t threaten me with a good time
i hope every assignment. dies
reblog to eat all of your mutuals assignments like a dog
Love how tumblr has its own folk stories. Yeah the God of Arepo we’ve all heard the story and we all still cry about it. Yeah that one about the woman locked up for centuries finally getting free. That one about the witch who would marry anyone who could get her house key from her cat and it’s revealed she IS the cat after the narrator befriends the cat.
Might I add:
The defeat of the wizard who made people choose how they’d be to be executed
The woman who raised the changeling alongside her biological child
The human who died of radiation poisoning after repairing the spaceship
The adventures of a space roomba
Cinderella finding Araura (and falling in love)
I don’t know a snappy description but the my nemesis cynthia story certainly lives in my head
hilariously, these are almost all in my fic tag. so, a compiled list from the notes (and some extras):
The God of Arepo (graphic novel 1 / 2 / 3) (ebook)
The Monster of Sentan
The Witch’s Cat
Raise Both Children
Stabby the Roomba (honorable mention)
Cinderella Marries the Prince (comic)
My Arch Nemesis Cynthia
Pirates and Mermaid
Eindred and the Witch
The Demon King
The Cornerwitch
Grandmother Beetroot
Apocalypse Daycare Worker
Grandmother Accidentally Summons a Demon
New Year Saga
A Story About Changelings
Ranger in the King’s Forest
The Difference Between a Hare and a Rabbit
Goblin Men (Canines)
I am in love with you /p
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 be 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.”
pls i just want my laptop to work again. didn’t realize how my life (school, org, internship) relies so much on it.
laptops are so expensive plus im scared of how my mom will react 😀
✨ pls send laptop healing vibes✨
Uncle Buck 😍
Piazza Navone, Parione & Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore, Esquilino & Piazza Borghese, Campo Marzio.
Rome, Lazio, Italy.
