NASA
No title available
ojovivo
blake kathryn
dirt enthusiast
Stranger Things
pixel skylines
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Love Begins
styofa doing anything
No title available
Claire Keane
sheepfilms
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
JBB: An Artblog!
⁂
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Misplaced Lens Cap
will byers stan first human second
if i look back, i am lost
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Australia
seen from China
seen from Japan
seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
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seen from Türkiye
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@punkadyne
I thought this was an odd "I don't want to see that stuff on your resume" stock photo choice, because the guy is pretty fucking aggressive here and the woman is so done with it.
Then I realized this would be the perfect photo to describe a realistic response to those Baby Boomers who tell you to "just walk in and demand a job."
It doesn't work like that anymore. It hasn't worked like that since 1998, guys.
Beauty
Entirely for @hellmandraws‘ amusement, and to defend America from the charge of being “weakass babies” I’m going to liveblog eating licorice candy.
okay first of all, the packaging. there’s a cartoon monkey ecstatically making love to a candy monkey. Perhaps an indicator of the orgasmic bliss I’m about to experience. 12/10. my hopes, like the people who designed this bag, are obviously very high
the candy looks like rocks and not jaunty little monkeys. huge disappointment. I had to recreate stonehenge to rally my flagging spirits. 2/10
First taste: wow this is salty! I think I actually like this. I love anise so I’m pretty sure this is going to be a trip to flavortown. 8/10 me rn:
OMG THE SALT WORE OFF IT’S SO MUCH WORSE THAN I EVER IMAGINED.
IT’S LIKE EATING A SHOE.
IS THIS CANDY?
IS THIS WHAT MAKES SCANDINAVIANS SO POWERFUL?
I’m chewing and it won’t go away
it’s stuck to my teeth, I’ll be tasting this forever. shards of this will be discovered in my teeth when my body is excavated from an archeological dig tens of thousands of years in the future. somehow the smell has traveled up through my nasal cavity and all I can sense, hear, or experience is licorice. the world is an empty vessel filled with remorse and the cloying smell of decay. I’m at the nadir of my existence. -100/12
somehow, here, standing at the edge of eternity, the darkness that consumed me birthed me anew. I’m not only ready for another candy, I’m eager. I can, nay I must, immediately eat another
oh wow it’s salty! 8/10
this time I’m ready for the salt to wear off.
I WAS NOT READY
the flavor this time was different, and somehow so much worse. instead of the leather of a shoe, it was like eating an entire shoe factory. the industrial rubber of the forklift tires, a hint of diesel as secretive as a volkswagen scandal, a soupçon of hot tin roof, the sweat of non-unionized labor, and a pervasive sense that while we’re all in this together, some of us are more all in this than others. 1/10 throw off your shackles, taste buds
I can’t believe it but I’m into this. I like this. shocked and disgusted with myself, I shove 2 more into my mouth concurrently.
This is the tale of someone who ascended onto another plane of existence and has left us mortals behind to face God himself in a battle of strengths. And Win.
My Swedish cousin eats large pipes of this stuff. Pipes. They come in smoking pipe sizes.
Boys and girls of every age
Wouldn’t you like to see something strange?
Come with us and you will see
This, our town of Halloween
This is Halloween
This is Halloween
Pumpkins scream in the dead of night 🎃
This is Halloween
Everybody make a scene
Trick or treat till the neighbors gonna die of fright
It’s our town
Everybody scream
In this town of Halloween
I am the one hiding under your bed 🛌
Teeth ground sharp and eyes glowing red
I am the one hiding under your stairs
Fingers like snakes 🐍 and spiders 🕷 in my hair
This is Halloween
This is Halloween
Halloween
Halloween
Halloween
Halloween
In this town
We call home
Everyone hail to the pumpkin song
In this town
Don’t we love it now?
Everybody’s waiting for the next surprise
’Round that corner, man hiding in the trash can 🗑
Something’s waiting, no, to pounce,
And
How
You’ll
Scream!
This is Halloween
Red ‘n’ black, and slimy green
Aren’t you scared?
Well, that’s just fine
Say it once, say it twice
Take a chance and roll the dice 🎲🎲
Ride with the moon in the dead of night 🌕
Everybody scream
Everybody scream
In our town of Halloween!
I am the clown with the tear-away face 🤡
Here in a flash and gone without a trace
I am the “who” when you call, “Who’s there?”
I am the wind blowing through your hair 🌬
I am the shadow on the moon at night 🌑
Filling your dreams to the brim with fright
This is Halloween
This is Halloween
Halloween
Halloween
Halloween
Halloween
Halloween
Halloween
Tender lumplings everywhere
Life’s no fun without a good scare
That’s our job, but we’re not mean
In our town of Halloween
In this town
Don’t we love it now?
Everybody’s waiting for the next surprise
Skeleton Jack might catch you in the back 💀
And scream like a banshee
Make you
Jump
Out
Of
Your
Skin! ☠️
This is Halloween
Everybody scream
Won’t ya please make way for a very special guy?
Our man Jack is King of the Pumpkin patch
Everyone hail to the Pumpkin King, now!
This is Halloween
This is Halloween
Halloween
Halloween
Halloween
Halloween
In this town we call home
Everyone hail to the pumpkin song
Interior Design Trend: The abandoned 1970s chat show kitchen.
i have a friend who is colorblind.
i have another friend with synesthesia where she sees colors when she listens to music
my colorbind friend has always wanted to see color and because my friend with synesthesia and my colorblind friend have the same taste in music, she describes color to my colorblind friend by relating it back to music
like “the sky is duke ellington’s satin doll”
and it is the purest thing this is what pure friendship is
that’s so weirdly amazing
Moebius
Worst picnic ever
Peter Elson
Fishy story
Francine, the Fancy Brachiosaurus
This was for a card game that got approved by Target, but then the deadline went from 6 weeks for these 2 pieces, to 4 weeks for the 18 remaining pieces which is not physically possible by a human being. So have a fancy dinosaur.
Also if you like dinosaurs, check out my PaleoPins Prehistoric enamel pin kickstarter!
Have a fancy dinosaur
Judges on cupcake wars
Candace: I feel that the flavor profile of this cupcake just wasn't working for me, it was too confusing
Florian: -speaks very fast in a French accent- basically I hated it it was disgusting
Guest judge: -with mouth full of cupcake- I THOUGHT IT WAS GOOD THANKS FOR MAKING IT
When I was nine, possibly ten, an author came to our school to talk about writing. His name was Hugh Scott, and I doubt he’s known outside of Scotland. And even then I haven’t seen him on many shelves in recent years in Scotland either. But he wrote wonderfully creepy children’s stories, where the supernatural was scary, but it was the mundane that was truly terrifying. At least to little ten year old me. It was Scooby Doo meets Paranormal Activity with a bonny braw Scottish-ness to it that I’d never experienced before.
I remember him as a gangling man with a wiry beard that made him look older than he probably was, and he carried a leather bag filled with paper. He had a pen too that was shaped like a carrot, and he used it to scribble down notes between answering our (frankly disinterested) questions. We had no idea who he was you see, no one had made an effort to introduce us to his books. We were simply told one morning, ‘class 1b, there is an author here to talk to you about writing’, and this you see was our introduction to creative writing. We’d surpassed finger painting and macaroni collages. It was time to attempt Words That Were Untrue.
You could tell from the look on Mrs M’s face she thought it was a waste of time. I remember her sitting off to one side marking papers while this tall man sat down on our ridiculously short chairs, and tried to talk to us about what it meant to tell a story. She wasn’t big on telling stories, Mrs M. She was also one of the teachers who used to take my books away from me because they were “too complicated” for me, despite the fact that I was reading them with both interest and ease. When dad found out he hit the roof. It’s the one and only time he ever showed up to the school when it wasn’t parents night or the school play. After that she just left me alone, but she made it clear to my parents that she resented the fact that a ten year old used words like ‘ubiquitous’ in their essays. Presumably because she had to look it up.
Anyway, Mr Scott, was doing his best to talk to us while Mrs M made scoffing noises from her corner every so often, and you could just tell he was deflating faster than a bouncy castle at a knife sharpening party, so when he asked if any of us had any further questions and no one put their hand up I felt awful. I knew this was not only insulting but also humiliating, even if we were only little children. So I did the only thing I could think of, put my hand up and said “Why do you write?”
I’d always read about characters blinking owlishly, but I’d never actually seen it before. But that’s what he did, peering down at me from behind his wire rim spectacles and dragging tired fingers through his curly beard. I don’t think he expected anyone to ask why he wrote stories. What he wrote about, and where he got his ideas from maybe, and certainly why he wrote about ghosts and other creepy things, but probably not why do you write. And I think he thought perhaps he could have got away with “because it’s fun, and learning is fun, right kids?!”, but part of me will always remember the way the world shifted ever so slightly as it does when something important is about to happen, and this tall streak of a man looked down at me, narrowed his eyes in an assessing manner and said, “Because people told me not to, and words are important.”
I nodded, very seriously in the way children do, and knew this to be a truth. In my limited experience at that point, I knew certain people (with a sidelong glance to Mrs M who was in turn looking at me as though she’d just known it’d be me that type of question) didn’t like fiction. At least certain types of fiction. I knew for instance that Mrs M liked to read Pride and Prejudice on her lunch break but only because it was sensible fiction, about people that could conceivably be real. The idea that one could not relate to a character simply because they had pointy ears or a jet pack had never occurred to me, and the fact that it’s now twenty years later and people are still arguing about the validity of genre fiction is beyond me, but right there in that little moment, I knew something important had just transpired, with my teacher glaring at me, and this man who told stories to live beginning to smile. After that the audience turned into a two person conversation, with gradually more and more of my classmates joining in because suddenly it was fun. Mrs M was pissed and this bedraggled looking man who might have been Santa after some serious dieting, was starting to enjoy himself. As it turned out we had all of his books in our tiny corner library, and in the words of my friend Andrew “hey there’s a giant spider fighting a ghost on this cover! neat!” and the presentation devolved into chaos as we all began reading different books at once and asking questions about each one. “Does she live?”— “What about the talking trees” —“is the ghost evil?” —“can I go to the bathroom, Miss?” —“Wow neat, more spiders!”
After that we were supposed to sit down, quietly (glare glare) and write a short story to show what we had learned from listening to Mr Scott. I wont pretend I wrote anything remotely good, I was ten and all I could come up with was a story about a magic carrot that made you see words in the dark, but Mr Scott seemed to like it. In fact he seemed to like all of them, probably because they were done with such vibrant enthusiasm in defiance of the people who didn’t want us to.
The following year, when I’d moved into Mrs H’s class—the kind of woman that didn’t take away books from children who loved to read and let them write nonsense in the back of their journals provided they got all their work done—a letter arrived to the school, carefully wedged between several copies of a book which was unheard of at the time, by a new author known as J.K. Rowling. Mrs H remarked that it was strange that an author would send copies of books that weren’t even his to a school, but I knew why he’d done it. I knew before Mrs H even read the letter.
Because words are important. Words are magical. They’re powerful. And that power ought to be shared. There’s no petty rivalry between story tellers, although there’s plenty who try to insinuate it. There’s plenty who try to say some words are more valuable than others, that somehow their meaning is more important because of when it was written and by whom. Those are the same people who laud Shakespeare from the heavens but refuse to acknowledge that the quote “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them“ is a dick joke.
And although Mr Scott seems to have faded from public literary consumption, I still think about him. I think about his stories, I think about how he recommended another author and sent copies of her books because he knew our school was a puritan shithole that fought against the Wrong Type of Wordes and would never buy them into the library otherwise. But mostly I think about how he looked at a ten year old like an equal and told her words and important, and people will try to keep you from writing them—so write them anyway.
*sobs for like the umpteenth time this day and reblogs the fuck out of this*
out of all the posts on this site meant to help people get and keep the urge to write, i think this one speaks the most to me. because of all the voices saying your writing is dumb, one of the most insidious is the one in your own head.
i think i finally have something to fight back with now
“Why do you write?”
“Because people told me not to[.]”
Hugh Scott won the Whitbread Prize for “Why Weeps the Brogan?”
Amazon.co.uk has very little available from him, but making “Likely Stories” better known seems a good idea.
I’m certainly getting a copy for the workbook shelf…
Days when I wonder why the hell I do this, when the financial rewards look to be less than an equal number of hours working retail, I pull up comments like this, and think “maybe I was Mr. Scott for someone, somewhere.”
That makes it worth it. It really does.
Zach Callison (Steven Universe’s voice actor) did an AMA on Reddit.
I thought this story was cute
It's day two of Inktober and I'm already thinking about Linux.
me, using a ouija board: A... L... I... V... E...
friend: alive? ALIVE?? is it saying it's alive????
me: idk i'll keep going
me: S.. T.. A.. Y.. I.. N... A.. L.. I.. V.. E..
friend:
me: shit this is a Bee Gee board
Here it is, my first attempt at artwork and possibly over a decade. Going from left to right, we have a Jovian balloon fish, the Martian, a Bixby bug, a Drop standing on a box of cornflakes, and a shitty castle. But you got to start somewhere. Kind of surprising I was once a guest artist at a convention, huh?
me, using a ouija board: A... L... I... V... E...
friend: alive? ALIVE?? is it saying it's alive????
me: idk i'll keep going
me: S.. T.. A.. Y.. I.. N... A.. L.. I.. V.. E..
friend:
me: shit this is a Bee Gee board
