I GOT A FUCKING RAISE THE POTATO WORKED WTF
This potato works. Every. Fucking. Time.
Reblogging because it’s a damn potato and I want to encourage people to assume potatoes are magical.
w-what if potato is actually lucky

roma★
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Origami Around
Monterey Bay Aquarium

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Today's Document
dirt enthusiast
Cosimo Galluzzi
wallacepolsom
Keni
Xuebing Du
DEAR READER
tumblr dot com
h
Jules of Nature
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
art blog(derogatory)
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
One Nice Bug Per Day
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@puddingpieohmiohmy
I GOT A FUCKING RAISE THE POTATO WORKED WTF
This potato works. Every. Fucking. Time.
Reblogging because it’s a damn potato and I want to encourage people to assume potatoes are magical.
w-what if potato is actually lucky
I’m every one in this
MAN 1 (in a high pitched, whiny voice) Look what you’ve done to my peonies!
WOMAN (angrily) They’re marigolds!
MAN 2 God! I think she’s right! They are marigolds!
MAN 1 I may not know my flowers, but I know a (yells in her direction) bitch when I see one!
It’s back!
I looked this up because I had to know what it’s from. It’s a film called The Gay Deceivers (1969), and it’s about two straight men who, seeking to avoid the draft, claim to be gay, but then have to keep up the pretense when the army places them under surveillance.
The man in the red cardigan in the clip was played by Michael Greer, who was openly gay himself - unusual for the time. He actually worked closely with the director and rewrote much of the film’s dialogue to reduce the homophobia and make it more realistic. As a result it’s quite progressive for its time, having a gay character, played by a gay man, living in a happy same-sex relationship, which is more than a lot of media offers us today.
Plus the clip is delightful.
I just looked it up on wikipedia and fucking
The twist is that even after the pair is caught, they are not inducted into the military. The Army investigators assigned to watch them are themselves gay and are trying to keep straight people out of the Army.
EDFIAWFOWEFUHSFUIHOFIUHFOIFUHFOIUH
World Heritage Post
I feel like I oscillate between being the Mom Friend and the Dad Friend
I will either pack an entire bag of snacks and water and hand them out like Costco samples, comfort them through all their issues
Or I will half-listen to the stuff going on in their lives, ask if they have gas money and pay anyway, make the absolutely worst jokes because “someone has to” and respond to their interests with a “that’s nice champ” and if I don’t say it I’m definitely thinking it don’t test me
There’s also moments where I’m the Harbinger of Chaos but that’s more like Aunt with a Cat vibes.
🦔
This is Charles. He wants to go on a journey around tumblr. could you show him around?
Fast boi
(via)
I needed this.
Thank you to all the people who posted this so I ended up seeing it. I really needed this right now. Thank you!
Yeah… Not gonna lie… I cried…
We need more people like this
Goddamn it stop making me feel human
The therapist I wanna be.
Text in the image:
“I’m a therapist and keep this poster in my waiting room, apparently it’s saved a few lives.”
I don’t like the phrase “a cry for help.” I just don’t like how it sounds. When somebody says to me, “I’m thinking about suicide. I have a plan: I just need a reason not to do it,” the last thing I see is helplessness.
I think your depression has been beating you up for years. It’s called you ugly, and stupid, and pathetic, and a failure, for so long that you’ve forgotten that it’s wrong. You don’t see any good in yourself, and you don’t have any hope.
But still here you are: you’ve come over to me, banged on my door and said, “HEY! Staying alive is REALLY HARD right now! Just give me something to fight with! I don’t care if it’s a stick! Give me a stick and I can stay alive!”
How is that helpless? I think that’s incredible. You’re like a marine: trapped for years behind enemy lines. Your gun has been taken away, you’re out of ammo, you’re malnourished, and you’ve probably caught some kind of jungle virus that’s making you hallucinate giant spiders.
And you’re still just going, “GIVE ME A STICK. I’M NOT DYING OUT HERE.” “A cry for help” makes it sound like I’m supposed to take pity on you, but you don’t need my pity. This isn’t pathetic. This is the will to survive. This is how humans lived long enough to become the dominant species.
With NO hope, running on NOTHING, you’re ready to cut through a hundred miles of hostile jungle with nothing but a stick, if that’s what it takes to get to safety.
All I’m doing is handing out sticks.
You’re the one saying alive.
I legit cried at this. I’ve needed to hear it put this way. Bless this post.
Every time I see this post I stop to read the whole image. It always helps — even on the good days.
Because it wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t shameful to seek help. It wasn’t pathetic to “cry for help”. I was looking for a stick, be that from myself or from someone else. I was trying to find a way out. I was trying to heal myself.
this is fuckin incredible.
I’m sorry if I repost to many of these, but if it could be someone’s “stick” then it’s worth it
For anyone that needs to read this today.
-FemaleWarrior, She/They
They also have this one and I think quite a few others but these two I keep on my phone and pull up on my bad days.
Text in the second image:
“Why are you so lazy?”
But you’re not lazy. Lazy is when you shrug things off because you can’t summon up the give-a-damn. When you’re curled up tight on your chair, at your desk, alone and grey and desperately wishing that you had your life in order, that you did all those things that you had to do, that it didn’t feel like breaking rocks just to feed and clothe yourself and get some sleep, that’s not lazy.
People don’t understand. You tell them “It’s Hard.” They tell you, “No it isn’t. You’re just lazy.”
You start to wonder if they’re right. Is breaking those rocks easy for everyone else? Are they that much stronger than you? They don’t look like they’re struggling. “Just try harder,” they say. But you’re trying. It’s not working. Breaking boulders in your path until you’re spent isn’t lazy, and you do it day after day.
You’re not lazy. Most people don’t have those rocks to break.They don’t even know what it’s like to have to break rocks to get things done. They don’t understand how hard you have to work, and how hopeless you feel, when you try and fail to do what they do easily. Things hard harder for you, they really are. And if those people had to deal with your problems they wouldn’t be doing any better.
You’re not lazy. You’re not weak. You’re fighting hard. I guess I just want you to know that I know that.”
End image text
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it did not work, but i can help
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the only super long Tumblr post I love
it wIGGLES
this is so stimmy
@fullsunjaehyun
This made me cackle like an idiot 😂 please scroll fast
stop fucking using the word psychotic to describe bad behaviour and violence already god fucking damn it
oh my god i'm so tired psychotic does not mean violent it does not mean angry or erratic. it refers to a person suffering from psychosis, a loss of touch with reality that includes hallucinations and/or delusions. psychotic people are not inherently violent and y'all need to understand how much stigma you create when you again and again incorrectly use the word psychotic without even thinking about it
would appreciate if non-psychotic people could reblog this
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!
happy pride month to country mama lynn and country mama lynn only
Someone give this woman a damn crown and medal
Happy pride month to country mama lynn and ger gay son only
aint it crazy how many people realize they're queer when they have the language to express how they feel and a support system to encourage self exploration????
Las leyes de la física son inquebrantables.
comrade danny
And this is why we love Danny DeVito
Your phobias, let me hear ‘em
spiders
Check your DM’s
Thalassophobia
Check your DM’s
heights
Check your DM’s
Walking in front of a braked car at a stop sign