how it feels to accept you're fucked forever
Jules of Nature
Stranger Things
$LAYYYTER
sheepfilms
Keni
Claire Keane

#extradirty

blake kathryn
šŖ¼
Cosmic Funnies
hello vonnie
Mike Driver

Kiana Khansmith
art blog(derogatory)
h
noise dept.
dirt enthusiast
I'd rather be in outer space šø
tumblr dot com
will byers stan first human second
seen from Vietnam

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@scandalousnunnery
how it feels to accept you're fucked forever
This 200-year-old bridge built without a single nail is a wooden bridge located near the village of Gulli (Juli) in the Tabasaran region of Dagestan, Russia. It is known primarily by its description rather than a formal historical name in English-language sources. The bridge is approximately 10 meters (about 33 feet) high.
The bridge was constructed by local Tabasaran people using traditional joinery techniques, relying on precisely cut, interlocking wooden joints and wooden pegs (sometimes called ātrunnelsā or dowels) instead of metal fasteners.
The builders used only local wood and stone that were available to them. A metal bracket visible on the bridge in some photos is a later addition and does not serve a functional or structural purpose.
The ingenious design allows the structure to flex and adapt to natural changes in temperature and humidity, which contributes to its incredible longevity. It has withstood harsh weather conditions for two centuries and can even support the weight of a passenger car today.
It stands as a testament to the advanced engineering knowledge and craftsmanship of traditional builders, showcasing the sustainable use of natural materials and the enduring strength of time-honored techniques.
Peter Croy, Metamorphosis
1: Untitled (Crucifix), David Lynch
2: Crucifixion Study, Francis Bacon
3: Crucifixion, Rico Lebrun
4: Flesh, Antony Gormley
Zionists:
Actual Israeli history:
If anyone else has some Israeli history tidbits, feel free to share!
"At least we're getting richer"
Anti-Shell subvertising in the London Tube
tg: t8i72
Aboriginal Dot Art by DOROTHY ROBINSON NAPANGARDI
Vanitas (1770/engraving) - Daniel Nikolaus Chodowiecki
Lāoeil du peintre - Salvador DalĆ - 1941
My three girlfriends. And yes, they smoke weed.
do they smoke weed?
Yes, actually.
you mean she isnt just smoking a cigarette? but a weed cigarette?
Itās called a buntā¦. Not weed cigarette⦠And yes, it is a weed bunt. They all smoke weed bunts before we kiss. (They are my girlfriends,)
They donāt look like they smoke weed.
Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Fuck You. Iām so angry you are so lucky my three weed smorking girlfriends are rubbing my shoulders to calm me down Iām so mad.
YourĀ āweed smoking girlfriendā has a Hello Kitty tattoo on her belly. The one in the middle.
I printed out a photo of your avatar and taped it to my punching bag that I punch and I mutter your URL with every strong punch I punch you twerpā¦. Donāt ever Talk about Blaiz or the wicked Tat(tattoo) I drew on her ever again I Donāt wanna see you standing outside my home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever again ok leave us alone this is the FINAL FUCKING WARNINGĀ
Well that escalated quicklyā¦ā¦
What, was that? Hmm? Come again. *Blaiz grabs my shoulder* Come on Jory, they arenāt worth it, please. * I jerk my shoulder shaking her hand off* NO! NOOOOO!!! *starts to just pummel you with my big fucking fists. With each blow I let out a furious yell. The blows come quicker and harder and the yells get louder. Iām yelling so loud and now Iām crying. BREAKING POINT. The week was hard and I canāt take anymore. Iām opening sobbing at this point while you blood gurgle. All three of my girlfriends struggle to pull me off and they finally succeed and lead me away from the goo pile that is now your body*
haha oh my god
who even is this dude? someone needs some anger management classes.
love how he keeps reminding us that āI HAVE THREE GIRLFRIENDSā, āTHEY ALL KISS MEā, and āTHEY SMOKE WEED HURRP DURRā.
and letās not forget the āBlaizā and her āwicked tatā, or that he doesnāt āwanna see you standing outside [his] home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever againā, and that this is āthe FINAL FUCKING WARNINGā.
āthe goo pile that is now your bodyā
iām dying over here, jesus
please, Jory, come challenge me to a bout of internet witticsisms; i promise, itāll be fun.
*shoots you dead* Heh, idiot⦠*leaves with my three weed smorking girlfriends to go hold hands and kiss.*
this dude playin omgĀ
Come again? *The bar falls silent. No one dares to make a sound, as you have just said a very poor choice of words at a very dangerous time. I remain slumped over the bar, not looking back to you. One hand limply holding an almost empty bottle, the other hand cradling my head. I repeat the question, this time louder.* Come again?! *You can hear me slur the words, the sentence sounds like a real struggle for me to get out. Iām clearly intoxicated. A bead of sweat rolls down your face as you realize you might have just fucked up in a very major way. Everyone else in the bar is pretending to not notice what is going on. The bartender idly washes a mug with a cloth. His eyes are closed and heās muttering something to himself. A handful of people hurriedly leave. One person looks back at you, a look of sorrow on their face. They almost say something, but shake their head and cast their eyes down to the floor, and leave. But not you. You stand, petrified. A quick look at me reveals Iām still Ā at the bar. You look to the exit, thereās still time. But thereās not, thereās not, thereās not. Your fate was sealed the moment you opened your mouth.* Mother fuck.. what did you say?! *I slowly rise from my stool and being to lumber over to you. Ā I look a mess. My hair is unkempt, I havenāt shaved in what looks like months, there are dark heavy bags under my eyes, my shirt is stained and has holes in it, and Iām missing a shoe. But the main thing you notice is the gun tucked into my jeans, and my massive muscle arms that look like they were made for punching. You know that song about the boots that were made for walking? Yeah, itās like that only instead of boots itās my muscles and instead of walking itās punching. As I drunkenly sway over to you, you think of your family⦠Will they mourn you, or will they try and forget this blotch of stupidity, that their child insultedĀ theĀ Jory publicly, ever happened to their family? Your thoughts are cut short as I now stand face to face with you. I grab your face and pull you even closer.* Playin?! There was nothing playing⦠no playing you fuck. No playing⦠it was real.. the realest thing Iāve ever know.. felt⦠Love. I loved them⦠Blaizā¦. Chas-Chas⦠Funk⦠I loved all three of em⦠but theyā¦*My face is wet with tears and Iām blinking constantly in vain to hold them back.* They left me⦠left⦠*Almost instantly the sadness leaves my face and is replaced with pure anger.* Playin? Playin?!Ā *My hand leaves your face and starts to head to what you think is the gun. You close your eyes and see God looking at you, shrugging.Ā āPft, you brought this upon yourself dude.ā He says as he waves his hands at you dismissively. But instead of the gun, my hands grab yours. Your eyes jolt open and the anger is gone from my face. There is only sadness.* Left me⦠* I fall to the floor and sob.* Wow, grow up. *You say before you leave the bar but are hit almost immediately from a car and are killed upon impact.*
Happy 420
āi should take a walk for my mental healthā boring, tired, i donāt even really wanna do it tbh
āi need to check the perimeterā i need to check the perimeter
First pages of a beautiful art nouveau edition of an essay on gardens by the Renaissance philosopher Francis Bacon, who was born #onthisday in 1561. Read the whole thing here: https://publicdomainreview.org/collection/francis-bacon-on-gardens-1902 #otd
Marat safin
you dumb asshole, you just won $0,000
šfuck