"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
No title available
Mike Driver
pixel skylines
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Xuebing Du
Love Begins
tumblr dot com
🪼
NASA
RMH
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Keni
styofa doing anything
One Nice Bug Per Day
No title available
KIROKAZE
occasionally subtle
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
h
seen from Malaysia
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seen from United States
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@shadow-wolfy
ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ
ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ
ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ
ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ
ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ
ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ
ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ
ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ
ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ
they get so gay off those tasks.......
my sister: when does the show come out. with the two gay men
me: the???
her: the two gay men. one big one little.
me: one big one little???????
her: they have red chairs
me: .......TASK, MASTER......
vomits
"Rings" by ND Stevenson
My absolute favourite comic journal by Stevenson. Made me cry my eyes out. Even when I can't articulate it, it gets to the core of what I think love is.
I don't know that I transitioned because I felt "in my core" that I'm a woman or whatever. I don't relate to those stories of people who had it already figured out when they were kids, I mean my egg didn't crack until I was 21. I didn't know that I wanted to be a woman. What I did know was that I hated being a man. Like, all of it, comprehensively.
All the social norms. The standard of emotional detachment and performative machismo. The expectation that I treat men as competition and women as sex objects. The fact men tried to befriend me through boys club bullshit, endearing themselves to me by treating me as "one of the guys." The fact women were fully in their rights to feel threatened by me and avoid me, just because I was a man. The fact that there were privileges offered to me specifically because I was a man. I found it all deeply hollowing.
As I got older, my body disgusted me for all the reasons I was told men are supposed to like it. It was too large, too strong, too hairy. Too masculine. Which is frankly hilarious because in hindsight I was obviously like, a malnourished twink. Women in fact weren't afraid of me at all. I still vividly recall how my then-girlfriend from college approached me specifically because she thought I seemed "passive and non-threatening." And still it was too much. I was barely a man, and yet I was too much man. I could never like myself as a man. Could never lead a life worth living as a man.
The knowledge that I was a man felt like an immovable weight chained to my leg, something that kept me from ever becoming anyone I could be proud of being. Suffocating and meaningless. I turned to philosophy, learned all the reasons people choose to keep living, found none of them compelling. What meaning could I possibly construct in a life I had to live as a man? What god was worth worshipping if they had cursed me to live a life like this?... My options exhausted, I settled on repression. I'd just... bear with it. Work hard, raise a family, live vicariously through them. In a corner of my mind, a piece of me hoped desperately that reincarnation was real, so I could be a girl next time.
It's not that I didn't know transition exists. In fact I knew several trans people. But the concept had never been presented to me in a way I could see myself in. I didn't have some sense of absolute truth in my core that told me I was definitely 100% a girl, and the few trans women I knew were so confident in themselves, so accomplished and whole and liberated, that I could never in my life find them relatable. "That could never be me", I thought to myself.
I lost my virginity on my 20th birthday. I felt... numb, afterward. I didn't understand why it was such a hollow experience. Sex was supposed to feel good, right? It was supposed to. If I was going to be a man, I had to enjoy this. And I tried to seem like I did, but in our nakedness, all I could think about was how disgusting my body was, as I felt myself being sweaty and smelly and hairy and gross. And hers was so beautiful. So desirable. So... worthy of existing. Everything I wanted to be, but never could.
In the following months, the thought wouldn't leave. It felt like a raw, dull pain in my skull. I thought about my future. I thought about carrying this pain for the rest of my life. About being a man for the rest of my life. About growing old as a man. About dying as a man.
A year later, I came out as a trans woman. Two years after that, I started HRT. In march, that was six years ago.
I still don't have that sense of absolute truth in my core. I'm not sure my core contains anything at all. But I am quite certain, at this point, that I am a woman. Because I know that being a man hurt, and being a woman does not.
Welcome to Taskmaster!!! Would you like to play a game?
Oh, i remember this! No truck fucking, but also hard to explain...?
Basically, a lot of truckers feel VERY attached to their trucks, to the point where it's common for truckers to refer to them as their "first baby".
So, knowing this, this trucker's wife organised a photoshoot where her husband's "first baby" got to meet his "second baby". Kind of like those pregnancy photoshoots with dogs?
He thought it was great, and they shared it on social media trucker groups. In a turn i would not expect, a lot of other truckers got really emotional about it. Like, grown men cooing over a stranger's pregnancy photoshoot, going to their wives and asking if they can do something similar 🥺🥺🥺. All in all, strangely wholesome???
Ohhhh, the truck is the big brother :)
Like showing your baby bump to the family pet 🥺
i'm still deeply into making fake porcelain things -> here's a little fox. also featuring hollow filigree joints which i have wanted to make for a long time but haven't had the right project or motivation for.
after a suicide attempt in 2016
“When Daddy comes in, he carries you to bed. Is there anything you feel like you could eat, Pokey? Anything at all? All you can imagine putting in your mouth is a cold plum, one with really tight skin on the outside but gum-shocking sweetness inside. And he and your mother discuss where he might find some this late in the season. Mother says hell I don’t know. Further north, I’d guess. The next morning, you wake up in your bed and sit up. Mother says, Pete, I think she’s up. He hollers in, You ready for breakfast, Pokey. Then he comes in grinning, still in his work clothes from the night before. He’s holding a farm bushel. The plums he empties onto the bed river toward you through folds in the quilt. If you stacked them up, they’d fill the deepest bin at the Piggly Wiggly. Damned if I didn’t get the urge to drive to Arkansas last night, he says. Your mother stands behind him saying he’s pure USDA crazy. Fort Smith, Arkansas. Found a roadside stand out there with a feller selling plums. And I says, Buddy, I got a little girl sick back in Texas. She’s got a hanker for plums and ain’t nothing else gonna do. It’s when you sink your teeth into the plum that you make a promise. The skin is still warm from riding in the sun in Daddy’s truck, and the nectar runs down your chin. And you snap out of it. Or are snapped out of it. Never again will you lay a hand against yourself, not so long as there are plums to eat and somebody-anybody-who gives enough of a damn to haul them to you. So long as you bear the least nibblet of love for any other creature in this dark world, though in love portions are never stingy. There are no smidgens or pinches, only rolling abundance. That’s how you acquire the resolution for survival that the coming years are about to demand. You don’t earn it. It’s given.”
excerpt from Cherry by Mary Karr, context being after a suicide attempt at age 13
And at some point they have stopped being "made with love"
Remembrance, a Hellblazer pride story (featuring Xanthe Zhou) by us and @pdmarshall-comics. With authenticity consultant help from @manggageprek.
A fancomic about memories, grief, and generational queer tension.
to raise money, Wikipedia should do that thing CNN did where they sold shirts with headlines on them. I would kill for a shirt that had the article title and Wikipedia layout for Homosexuality in Medieval Europe
Homosexuality in medieval Europe Wikipedia shirt. Unisex Gildan cotton tee with the Wikipedia article on Homosexuality in medieval Europe pr
no killing necessary, you can get any wikipedia page on a shirt from wikishirt and 10% of profit goes to wikipedia
supervisor asked me to draw a snowman on our chalkboard so I drew a little snowman on a piece of cardboard and showed it to them. “Oh, that’s cute–WHY DOES IT HAVE PEOPLE LEGS”
>:]
EDIT: my art has received stunning reviews such as:
“what is wrong with you???!”
“that’s disturbing”
“WHY”
“I’m having a panic attack”
“get that Steven King garbage away from me”
“I like his showgirl legs”
came in today and couldn’t find the snowman doodle so I scribbled another one real quick and put it where the first one had been. Supervisor came back from lunch and I’m “how’s Frosty been” and they look over and say “oh he’s still in the same–WAIT THAT’S A DIFFERENT ONE THERE ARE TWO NOW” O_O
so of course I doodled some more on break. Tomorrow they’re going to come in to Buff Frosty and Ballet Legs Frosty
>:]
Where is the drawing @abutterflyobsession?!? Show us the cursed image!!!!
tbh I’m not sure how cursed they really are because my coworkers are weak. Have a couple quick recreations:
This first one is what started all the fuss. Kinda tame, really.
this one is waiting for my supervisor to find tomorrow morning. Buff Leggy Frosty
this is a tumblr-only one because the Ballet Leg Frosty I doodled at work looks a lot different
coworker: what are these drawings for?
supervisor: she draws them to TORMENT ME
me: so I’ve been tormenting my coworkers with Leggy Snowmen
therapist: you what
me: if you give me a piece of paper I can show you
therapist: … no. Okay, yes.
me: *draws frosty and shows it to him*
therapist:
therapist: *takes paper and pen away from me* there’s something wrong with you
me: finally! a professional diagnosis!
square up leggy frosty is back again
this is for all the people who tagged this post as ‘unhinged’ thank you so much I am delighted
every day is leg day for frosty
coworker keeps doodling weird monsters everywhere so I must retaliate
‘tis the season
just overheard a mum in the museum ask her seven-year-old child ‘shall we say bye-bye to the skull?’
A few months ago I had to bring this beauty home from London:
This is Junie, a gilded horse skull on a 2m tall frame, with a rotting bridle and discordant rumbler bells plaited into her mane. When she moves, she makes a horrendous jangling and chattering noise, and when she's still the smell of decaying leather and river mud radiates off her.
I was sweaty, pissed off, I had been mudlarking so I stank as well, and I was generally not presenting a very warm or welcoming figure as we sat in the first-class lounge and I was acutely aware that the giant horse puppet wasn't the most sociable thing either. And then, a mother and daughter came in - The mother looked exhausted, but the daughter, maybe ten at the oldest, was properly on the verge of a meltdown... Until she saw Junie.
Immediately, she was calm. She came over, very quietly, and asked "Can I look after your horse?" - I looked at her Mam, and the Mam shrugged and nodded. I handed Junie's reins to the girl. What followed was about an hour of the girl in deep conversation with Junie, as if she was a real horse, bringing her cups of water, stroking her nose, checking that her bridle wasn't too tight, walking her around the lounge, and whispering in her empty ossicles. By time I went for my train, she was eating biscuits and happily waved Junie off with a "BYE HORSIE! GET HOME SAFELY!"
Kids LOVE skulls.
After a few asks of "Is Junie a Mari Lwyd?" I feel like I need to protect the good name of the Welsh, because Mari Lwyd is a beautiful, powerful mare, and carries with her an incredible Welsh-language folk tradition which has been a big part of how Welsh culture has kept the Welsh language sacred and alive despite constant persecution by English speakers. It feels like it's really rude and cruel to Welsh people to act as if Mari Lwyd is just any old mast-beast (the collective name for the various head-on-a-pole animals mostly found in the East Atlantic Archipelago) rather than a specific Christmas tradition that happens to include the very famous horse skull animal.
(And, as someone who plays in other horse skull traditions that are NOT Mari Lwyd, I feel like it is my responsibility to make that clear - Which I have apparently not being doing as well as I hoped! - because I don't want to continue the trend of either a) Treating Wales as Magical Ye Olde Wizardland or b) Taking Welsh stuff and saying "Close enough, it's English now")
Junie is more closely related to Poor Old Horse, the Yorkshire manifestation of a mostly English tradition of the old horse as a character in mummers' plays, where the horse has reached the end of his days and is slaughtered and brought back to life (And depending on the telling this is either "And he stood up from under the pole axe, miraculously restored to youth" or it's "And after the axe struck home, and the saddler had his hide, and the hounds had his flesh, and the scrap man had his shoes, and the upholsterer had his hair, and the cutler had his bones, the man who held the bridle took the whip to his soul and said 'Get up Dobbin, your job's not done...") - It's definitely a tradition that survives because it draws the parallel between the worn-out old workhorse and the way that the bosses treat the human worker (I must admit, my favourite version of the song is the one where after "Get up Dobbin, your job's not done!" The rider sits astride Dobbin's soul, and Dobbin rides him straight to hell). Traditionally, Old Horse's skull is painted black or red: This below is the Old Horse of Hootton Pagnell, the first photo collected in 1976 by Ruairidh Greig, and the second from a Bonhams catalogue in 2015 when the horse was sold into private hands:
From Mr Greig's own website:
"Mrs Ward-Norbury confirmed the story that she outlined in her letter. The skull was retrieved by her family from the pond where it had been dumped by the band of mummers, who had been regular annual visitors but who broke up after a final performance in the village. She was told this by her Grandmother, who died in 1931.
The performance was most probably of the Old Horse play, in which a comic horse goes lame and is treated by a blacksmith and a farrier, a local version of which was described in 1903 (Wilson, 1903). I discovered a near complete version of the play a few miles away at Elsecar. This can be seen, together with further details about the custom, in my online thesis (Greig, 1989)."
Junie herself is gold for two reasons, 1) Because I wanted her to look like a catacomb-saint or a holy relic 2) Because I enjoy gilding things.
She also has a couple of siblings: The Old Tup who comes with a full set of organs, and two more horse skulls (December and Dobbin) Because apparently I now run some kind of Dead Horse Sanctuary and people keep finding old horse skulls and giving them to me. They're all beloved and live in a herd in my living room where they have plentiful access to brandy, fire, human souls, and space to perform their natural behaviours.
Peace and love on planet horse ❤️
Thank you @laughingfate ! It’s a lovely story!
