im back lmfao. im playing wizard101 and losing my FUCKING mind. ima riot if I donât git gud at this game lmfaooooo, Iâve only been playing for 13 years
ojovivo
todays bird
dirt enthusiast
d e v o n

tannertan36

Origami Around
Keni
Claire Keane
macklin celebrini has autism
Jules of Nature
Cosimo Galluzzi
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
will byers stan first human second

if i look back, i am lost
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blake kathryn
RMH

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pixel skylines

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@pretty-awkward
im back lmfao. im playing wizard101 and losing my FUCKING mind. ima riot if I donât git gud at this game lmfaooooo, Iâve only been playing for 13 years
So I learned that horses can make enteroliths, which are like rocks, inside their guts. Horse pearls. Any cursed details on that?
HORSES GOT ROCKS?????
horsesâ rocks? the rocks in horses?? horse rocks???
Oh right. The rocks. The rocks specifically chosen to go in the horseâs stomach. Horseâs rocks.
I did my thesis on eugenics and forced sterilization in Canadian history (indigenous specific) and the next cis woman to say that men should collectively be forced to get vasectomies for points on some kind imaginary scoreboard of rights is getting sent a copy of the records I had to sift thru of men, mostly indigenous, racialized, developmentally disabled, or poor men, being sterilized against their wills and often without their knowledge.
I once again must remind people that "don't like abortion, get a vasectomy" isn't the gotcha you think it is, and that reproductive justice means supporting people who are targeted by the state both for forced birth AND for sterilization and child apprehension, as they're linked closely.
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.
âHope youâre a harvest god,â Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. âItâd be nice, you know.â He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. âI know itâs not much,â he said, his straw hat in his hands. âBut - Iâll do what I can. Itâd be nice to think thereâs a god looking after me.â
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.
âYou should go to a temple in the city,â the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. âA real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. Iâm no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?â It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. âI mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. Itâs cozy enough. The worshipâs been nice. But you canât honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.â
âThis is more than I was expecting when I built it,â Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. âTell me, what sort of god are you anyway?â
âIâm of the fallen leaves,â it said. âThe 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. Iâm a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then itâs gone.â
The god heaved another sigh. âThereâs 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. Youâre so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.â
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. âI like this sort of worship fine,â he said. âSo if you donât mind, I think Iâll continue.â
âDo what you will,â said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. âBut donât say I never warned you otherwise.â
Arepo would say a prayer before the morningâs 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 Arepoâs 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.
âUseless work,â the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. âThere wasnât a thing I could do to spare you this.â
âWeâll be fine,â Arepo said. âThe stormâs blown over. Weâll rebuild. Donât have much of an offering for today,â he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, âbut I think Iâll shore up this thingâs foundations tomorrow, how about that?âÂ
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. Arepoâs 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 Arepoâs 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, Arepoâs ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.Â
âThere is nothing here for you,â said the god, hudding in the dark. âThere is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.â It shivered, and spat out its words. âWhat is this temple but another burden to you?â
âWe -â Arepo said, and his voice wavered. âSo itâs a lean year,â he said. âWeâve gone through this before, weâll get through this again. So weâre hungry,â he said. âWeâve still got each other, donât we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didnât protect them from this. No,â he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. âNo, I think I like our arrangement fine.â
âThere will come worse,â said the god, from the hollows of the stone. âAnd there will be nothing I can do to save you.â
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.
âI could not save them,â said the god, its voice a low wail. âI am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.â The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. âI have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!â
âShush,â Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. âTell me,â he mumbled. âTell me again. What sort of god are you?â
âI -â said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepoâs head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
âIâm of the fallen leaves,â it said, and conjured up the image of them. âThe 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.â Arepoâs lips parted in a smile.
âI am the god of a dozen different nothings,â it said. âThe petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -â Its voice broke, and it wept. âBefore itâs gone.â
âBeautiful,â Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. âAll of them. They were all so beautiful.â
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.
âOh, poor god,â she said, âWith no-one to bury your last priest.â Then she paused, because she was from far away. âOr is this how the dead are honored here?â The god roused from its contemplation.
âHis name was Arepo,â it said, âHe was a sower.â
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. âHow can I honor him?â She asked.
âBury him,â the god said, âBeneath my altar.â
âAll right,â Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
âWait,â 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. âWait,â the god said, âI cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.â
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
âWhen the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,â the god said, âWhen the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,â the godâs voice faltered. âWhen War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.â Sora looked down again at the bones.
âI think you are the god of something very useful,â she said.
âWhat?â the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. âYou are the god of Arepo.â
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragediesâhomes 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 godâs work on his dying breath.
âHello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,â called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the godâs eyes wept down onto curled lips. âArepo,â he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
âI am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,â Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
âThatâs wonderful, Arepo,â he responded between tears, âIâm so happy for youâsuch a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? Youâll be adored by all.â
âNo,â Arepo smiled.
âFarther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.â
âNo, I will not go there, either,â Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
âFarther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,â the elder god continued.
âActually,â interrupted Arepo, âIâd like to stay here, if youâll have me.â
The other god was struck speechless. ââŚ. Why would you want to live here?â
âI am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.â
IT GOT BETTER.
HI LETâS SHARE NICOLEâS WORDS ON THE SUBJECT!Â
It has been literal years but every time I see Martinâs tweets posted somewhere and his word is shared as truth while her post is not shared it sort of reiterates the fact that we trust men to speak about feminism more than we believe women who experience it.Â
Interesting, innit? https://medium.com/@nickyknacks/working-while-female-59a5de3ad266
Reading her account of how their boss treated her blows me away. Men are so emboldened that they will literally admit to illegal discrimination casually and face no consequences.
In all the years of seeing this post Iâve never seen a link to her side. Didnât even know sheâd written one.
Adding screenshots of her post. His whole post is there without needing a link. Hers should be, too.
Also, she posted this is 2017! Itâs fucking 2020 and Iâve seen his side of this for years, but it took 3 years for her side to make its way to my dashâŚ
Iâve reblogged his story at least twice; itâs time for Nicoleâs.
I got so angry while reading her side of it
good for her tho like Nicole you icon <3
I'm so proud of you for coming out as a shorty
thank you! pick me up now
pick me up now please.
i want to reach the top shelf
@lemememeringue
So many TV shows/movies depict the Epi Pen as a total solution for anaphylaxis...it's not. The Epi Pen gives you 30 minutes to get to a hospital where they can save your life. TV makes it look like you just have to use the Epi Pen and then the crisis is over. Do people without allergies or a loved one with allergies know that an Epi Pen only buys you time? The more I see this on TV the more I worry...
**Maybe you should reblog this because I'm actually worried that most people don't know.
Omg so much this! I have to use my epipens about three times a year and my doctor recommends I shoot both of them in my thigh and then call an ambulance! They are a STABILISER not a cure!!
Elephant trunk snake facts?
elephant trunk snakes are completely aquatic and covered with tiny, velvety scales and baggy skin that make it almost impossible for adults to move around on land!
that's okay though, because wild elephant trunk snakes tend to pick up a thick covering of algae on those weird scales that gives them extra camouflage in the water and makes them all look like they're sporting punk-rock hairdos.
Got any facts on nilgai or red lechwe?
right so I know those are both antelopes but I had to google ânilgaiâ to refresh my memory aND THATâS AS FAR AS I GOT BECAUSE LOOK
LOOK AT THEIR LITTLE HEADS
OHOHOHOHO
OHOHOHOHOHOO
They look like what happens when you have caps lock on and you press shift on the first letter
This does not look like a real animal
I drew this animal in 2nd grade and didnt even know
HEY WAIT A MINUTE!! Wasnt there a post like that? Like someone liveblogged being attacked and they just played possum because they felt awkward?? Or maybe they pretended to drown in someoneâs pool just to be a dick and didnât know when to stop until they were hidden in a closet. Or something
Am I making sense to anyone?
eevee x alcremie pokemon fusion! đâď¸
đŻđŻđŻ
is there an app for like baby names where you and ur partner swipe like tinder until you agree or something
A few months ago I beat the Elite 4 In Pokemon Emerald with just a Heracross named BEEDO, so I made an animated video of his conquest. Awesome 8 bit RSE Elite 4 Remix is by Pokeli!
In a room full of non-native speakers, âthere isnât any chance of understandingâ. It might be their language, but the message is often lost
âA lot of native speakers are happy that English has become the worldâs global language. They feel they donât have to spend time learning another language,â says Chong.
âBut⌠often you have a boardroom full of people from different countries communicating in English and all understanding each other and then suddenly the American or Brit walks into the room and nobody can understand them.â
The non-native speakers, it turns out, speak more purposefully and carefully, typical of someone speaking a second or third language. Anglophones, on the other hand, often talk too fast for others to follow, and use jokes, slang and references specific to their own culture, says Chong. In emails, they use baffling abbreviations such as âOOOâ, instead of simply saying that they will be out of the office.
âThe native English speaker⌠is the only one who might not feel the need to accommodate or adapt to the others,â she adds.
Iâve been thinking about this post all day, and the article glosses over one important detail. All of the ânative English speakersâ the article mentions belong to the same niche demographic: white collar/corporate professionals
English corporate speak is itâs own fucked up dialect.Â
Itâs so incomprehensible and exclusionary that even a native English speaker with a masterâs degree in English will have difficulty parsing it. Trust me when I say that nobody who isnât a business major knows what the fuck âsynergyâ means.
And the jargonâs just half the problem. The other half is the gross overuse of hobby-specific expressions and analogies.
Go to most corporate offices and youâll be bombarded with sports analogies that only make sense to someone who spends all their free time watching ESPN.
I tracked down this quote I read in a tumblr post years ago:
âI remember working with a law school in which white men heavily dominated the faculty. They used lots of sports metaphors (doing an end run, Monday morning quarterbacking, and so on), with legal jargon thrown in for good measure. I suggested that this was not a particularly welcoming trait in their school, that in fact it was sexist, but they paid little attention. I made my point by speaking for about five minutes in dressmaking terms: putting a dart in here, a gusset there, cutting the budget on the bias so it would be more flexible, using a peplum to hide a course that might be controversial. The women in the room laughed; the men did not find it humorousâŚ.Language is power, make no mistake about it. It is used to include and exclude and to keep people and systems in their places.â
- Frances E. Kendall, Understanding White Privilege
My point is,
This kind of poor communication probably shouldnât be blamed on monolingualism alone. Itâs most certainly made worse by an exclusionary and elitist work culture.
Youâll probably encounter far fewer communication issues talking to a cashier at a tourist trap than you will talking to a lawyer or a stockbroker.