Southern Corroboree Frog

[artbyblastweave]

What, the forest-dwelling entities with imperfect human mimicry who insinuate themselves into groups of hikers? Yeah, we had one of those. Clocked it immediately, of course. Honestly it kind of fell in that so-inept-it's-kind-of-charming range. We just played along until it'd had it's fill of marshmallows and shambled back into the treeline. We might have been violating some kind of killjoy wildlife contact best practices but what the hell, can't plan around every little thing. Why, what happened to you guys

[eikotheblue]

these tags are gold omg

[rhysintherain]

It's a misconception that the mimics are hunting humans when they trail along at the back of hiking groups.

In fact, the creature you'll find suddenly walking beside you and acting as if they've always been there is almost certainly a juvenile, as the adults lose the ability when they reach reproductive age.

Recent studies suggest the forest mimic is less like a preying mantis (mimicry as a hunting strategy) and more like a cuckoo (mimicry as a protective strategy for their young). Adult forest mimics will leave their offspring near a group of hikers while they forage during the day, and retrieve them near trailheads in the evening. Groups of hikers provide safety from predators and allow the parents of the species the freedom to forage more widely.

For this reason, the traditional advice to never let a mimic into your vehicle is still very important, as this would separate the young mimic from its mother. If a juvenile forest mimic does follow your group to the parking lot, you can keep it entertained with trail snacks, dad jokes, and simple goofs. The mother will usually collect them shortly before sunset.

When you notice the woods around the trailhead go silent and feel a sense of nameless foreboding, find an excuse to avert your attention from the juvenile so it can sneak back into the forest to rejoin its mother, convinced it's fooled another party of unsuspecting humans.

[fandomcompass]

surprisingly wholesome takes from the cryptid community here

[doggeddetermination]

@monstrousproductions

[writing-prompt-s]

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

[sadoeuphemist]

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.

[sameenbyhat]

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.”

[stu-pot]

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.”

[corancoranthemagicalman]

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.

[threefeline]

[writing-prompt-s]

This is amazing!

[suturesque]

“From the joking that went on among the actors painting the theater lobby that afternoon, I learned that ‘coming out’ meant having your first homosexual experience. And what you came into, of course, was homosexual society. [...] The origins of the term were debutante cotillions, those sprawling, formal society balls where, squired by equally young and uncomfortable cousins, brothers, or schoolmates, young ladies of sixteen or so ‘came out’ into society. [...] During that afternoon’s painting, I first learned what ‘a camp’ was—the color scheme the directors had chosen for the theater (peach, gold, and azure), for one. I also learned that ‘to camp’ (and the gerund ‘camping’) denoted dressing up in drag and, by extension, acting in a particularly effeminate manner, either in private or in public—flouting the notions of the straight world by flaunting the customs of the queer one. The noun form was the base form: ‘Oh, my dear, she is such a camp!’ (‘she,’ in such cases, almost always referring to a male.) Etymologically, of course, ‘camp’ was an apocopation of ‘camp follower.’ Camp followers were the women, frequently prostitutes, who followed the armies across Europe from military camp to military camp. Since the military have always had a special place in homosexual mythology, and presumably because the advent of a large group of young, generally womenless men was as good an excuse as any for cross-dressing among the local male populace so inclined, the then-new meaning of the term—’to go out and camp it up’; ‘to have a mad camp’ (and ‘a mad camp’ was the phrase most commonly in use)—gained currency in England during World War I and had been brought back to the United States by American soldiers. Calling something ‘a camp’ followed the same linguistic template as calling a funny experience ‘a riot.’ Indeed the two were often synonymous.

[…]

Differences are what create individuals. Identities are what create groups and categories. Identities are thus conditions of comparative simplicity that complex individuals might move toward but (fortunately) never achieve—until society, tired of the complexity of so much individual difference, finally, one way or the other, imposes an identity on us.

Identities are thus, by their nature, reductive. (You do not need an identity to become yourself; you need an identity to become like someone else.) Without identities, yes, language would be impossible (because categories would not be possible, and language requires categories). Still, in terms of persons, identity remains a highly problematic sort of reduction and cultural imposition.

Through the late sixties a sensation-hungry media began rummaging through various marginal social areas for new and exciting vocabulary. In almost every case, once a new term was found an almost complete change in meaning occurred as the term was applied to more or less bourgeois experiences and concerns. ‘Rap’ had already been appropriated from the world of down-and-out amphetamine druggies [...] ‘camp’ had already been borrowed from gay slang, largely in the wake of a popular 1964 Partisan Review essay by Susan Sontag (“Notes on ‘Camp’”), after which it all but lost its meaning of ‘cross-dressing’ and became a general synonym for ‘just too much.’ Spurred on by June ‘69’s Stonewall Riots and the rapid formation right afterward of the Gay Liberation Front, the term ‘coming out’ over the next eighteen months changed its meaning radically.

Gay Liberation proponents began to speak about ‘coming out’ of ‘the closet’—the first time either the words or the concepts had been linked. [...]

The logic of coming out—in this new sense—was impeccable. Sixteen and seventeen years before, the House Un-American Activities Committee, along with its hounding of Communists, had been equally vigilant in its crusade against homosexuals. HUAC’s logic was that homosexuals were security risks because we were susceptible to blackmail. Said the Gay Liberationists, if we’re ‘out,’ nobody can blackmail us and nobody can accuse us of being blackmailable. So let them all know who we are, how many of us there are, and that we’re proud to be what we are.

[…]

As a result of Stonewall and the redefinition of coming out, I had to consider that while I approved vigorously of coming out as a necessary strategy to avoid blackmail and to promote liberation, there seemed to be an oppressive aspect of surveillance and containment intertwined with it, especially when compared to the term’s older meaning. Before, one came out into the gay community. Now, coming out had become something entirely aimed at straights. Its initial meaning had been a matter of bodily performance. (It involved coming.) Now it had become a purely verbal one. Despite its political goals, was this change really as beneficial as it was touted to be? Since it had been a case of displacing a term rather than adding a term, hadn’t we lost something in that displacement?

We heard the phrase more and more; it became almost a single word. The straight media began to take it over. [...] I found myself wanting to stop people every time they began to say the phrase—to slow them, startle them with a slash struck down between the words, make them consider what each word meant separately, remind them of all the possible meanings—historical, new, and revolutionary—that the two could be packed with, either apart or joined.”

—Samuel R. Delany, “Coming / Out” in Boys Like Us: Gay Writers Tell Their Coming Out Stories. 1996

[shinraalpha]

i love how Gandalf invested in Hobbits in year one and has been pushing them ever since. Thorin, i hear you need help with a breaking and entering. Can I recommend one of these little cunts? Silent as fuck, trust me. Elrond my dude i know you're skeptical but these four chucklefucks just transported a weapon of mass destruction all the way here. Theoden, you've gotta get yourself a hobbit man, I've got a spare one here. Denathor you big prick, take a hobbit - literally this is the bottom of the range but listen to him sing. Beautiful little bastard.

[elodieunderglass]

The mileage on this one is totally normal Elrond. Hey speaking of can I park him here for a while

[the-birth-of-art]

h/t to @namasteinside for the lol

[zinjanthropusboisei]

In "Unfinished Tales" there's a section where the Fellowship gets Gandalf to tell his side of the story about how he recommended Bilbo to Thorin's company and this is literally how it went down:

[carsen-daily]

There were just so many great additions to this post that I had to put them all in one place.

[pocket-deer-belly]

(through gritted teeth) sometimes what's good for your mental health isn't another do nothing day or a little treat sometimes what's good for you is putting in some of the work. Not all of it at once but sometimes you have to finish that essay or at least take the next step or you have to clean your room or at least dust the shelves or you gotta do the laundry or at least put it all in the hamper and it's not fun and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks and it sucks but you have to because i read a post on the internet that told me that's what being nice to yourself is sometimes

[pocket-deer-belly]

Are you guys ok you’re all reblogging this post a lot

[mahinaluna]

Polynesians did also rely on a form of a physical map called a stick chart, illustrating the specific wave and swell patterns surrounding different island chains. These were particularly helpful during cloudy conditions when the sun and stars were less useful. To navigate the Marshall Islands, the Marshallese represented ocean swell patterns using parts of coconut fronds and shells as islands. Like a subway map, they don’t so much represent distances as they do relationships. The complex and decorative stick charts were often only understood by the person who made them. They were memorised before a voyage by the pilot who would lie on the floor of a canoe to get a sense of swell movement and often lead a squadron of 15 or more boats.

[baddestvenus-in-virgo]

sometimes I am just amazed at how my ancestors managed to navigate the entire Pacific Ocean with these. knowledge that was nearly lost and is being re-learned.

[gamebird]

AH! I'd heard of these, but this is the first time I've come across pictures.

[bayouette]

I have a folder called Time is a Flat Circle in which I collect evidence of humanity. Here is most of them.

[aqueerkettleofish]

Okayokayokayokaybut "My hand will wear out but the inscription will remain" is kind of a power line BEFORE you factor in that it is, in fact, over a thousand years old.

[dduane]

It’s always good to spend a few moments, on a quiet day, looking through the Family album.

[shymagnolia]

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

[shymagnolia]

okay so i just got my dream job??? a week after applying to it?? and now i’m thinking….maybe this is the good luck post

[flagellant]

…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment

likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post

[coffee-or-hot-cocoa]

i need all the help i can get for finals

[finnglas]

Hey so

the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like. 

So you know. 

This might be the real one, y’all.

[azaraspirit]

what the hell? i could use some luck *hits reblog*

[i-love-you-beautiful]

You know what I could use some luck

[nailsinmywall]

This post genuinely altered the trajectory of my life and how i make a lot of my decisions and i think about it so much

[deep-state-partisan]

[m0thmancore]

suck, and i cannot stress this enough, my cock to the fucking base

[m0thmancore]

oh no! i dropped this screenshot that explains how to bypass this with a free adblocker! you shouldn’t reblog this or anything; it’d be terrible if people used this advice to watch ad-free youtube!!

[southern-corroboree-frog]

morality of the christian kind

It's fascinating that despite the fact that I am atheist, agnostic, pantheist even: if I see a god, I see it in everything, divinity everywhere, love in every person place and thing; despite all this rejection of Christianity and monotheism, I still cling inexorably to the Christian method of ascribing morality. We are all automatically guilty, we must spend our lives working and working to become clean, pure, absolved of sin.

No, that's not quite right. I have never believed we are all born sinners; I avoided that damning view on others. But somehow I believe it of myself. Somehow this search for forgiveness for a crime I committed to the world for being born, this was the part of my Catholic upbringing I internalised.

Who am I seeking forgiveness from? Who have I wronged, that I eternally seek their pardon, any pardon for the atrocity that is my daring to exist?

I ask an innocent world for a way to make up for my guilt. I pour my nauseating criminality onto a sheltered child of a universe, making ruin of a utopia. If you've ever been on the receiving end of an apology from someone you cannot yet forgive, you'll know how troubling it is: are you obliged to release this person from their debt to you because they throw themselves prostrate before you and weep bitterly, railing against their past selves? Their self-loathing somehow becomes your responsibility, a cruel switching of blame. Suddenly, you are the tyrant standing between them and their happiness.

I am the supplicant in this scenario, placing the impetus on the innocent to give me my contentment.

This is, perhaps, the greater of the guilt I carry: that in seeking redemption I have made myself near irredeemable.

[southern-corroboree-frog]

they will know, they will know

i will love the earth the way i was never taught to

loudly, and bravely, and never in secret.

i will love the earth, and all its quiet people, i

will love it all, fierce and proud, and they will

know, they will know they are loved.

i will love the way i never knew growing up

i will love in hands held in soft evening

sunlight, i will love in laughter after fear, i will

love in understanding, in acceptance, in calm

and gentle patience.

i will love in sympathetic crying, screaming

together against the unfairness of it all, and

wipe the tears from their faces when our

voices give out.

i will love how i never knew

love that is safe, constant

love like the tides that wash and whisper,

building and destroying, creating anew every

day.

i will love the world, and all its quiet people,

and one day i will be one of its people, and i

will learn to love myself

[lovingrot]

hey white leftists

[lovingrot]

seeing a lot of white people and i just have to say

[southern-corroboree-frog]

Orpheus and Eurydice, or, how turning around wasn't a crime

When Orpheus turned around, and saw Eurydice behind him, she was smiling. Even as her shoulders shook with tears, even as she fell backwards once more into the dark, she smiled at him, smiled at the one she loved.

You see, Orpheus had made a mistake, and yet he made it out of love. When Orpheus looked behind him, when he broke the promise he made to himself, to Eurydice, to Hades himself, it was less a damaging of faith, and more a promise of a different kind: it said, “I love you, and I will love you, and when I looked behind me to see if you were there it was not to say that I don’t trust you but to say that I could never bear to walk out of this hell and find that you had been left behind.”

And Eurydice was lost to the dark again, as the bargain Orpheus struck was dissolved by his actions, yet Eurydice never once regretted locking eyes with him once more, because she loved him and he loved her, and no bargain lost can break that bond, nor death sever the ties that bind them both.

[southern-corroboree-frog]

you see, the thing is, one day

hey no because the thing is

you could wake up tomorrow and decide that you don't want it to be like this anymore

you could wake up and think

no. no. this isn't the world i want. 

and so you might start changing things. 

just little things. barely noticeable, you might think. 

you lift the little bugs from the footpath and rest them on a branch nearby. 

you help a friend up after you've been sitting down for a while. 

you carry a bag for someone .

you smile a little brighter at the stranger passing by.

little things, little things. 

you stand a little closer to the person waiting next to you at the traffic lights, and hold your umbrella out so as to protect you both from rain. 

you place the extra lemons from your garden outside your house with a sign next to it saying "take them, please!"

you linger a little longer in an embrace, willing your love to seep through their skin, hoping it'll settle a little firmer into their heart. 

the world is very sad, you think. 

a lot of darkness and very little light. 

"life isn't fair," you've heard them say. 

"that's just the way the world is." 

but

we are the people living in this world. it's our life that we are living. 

surely, surely, you think

surely we can make things fairer. bring a little brightness back to the world. 

the thing is

the thing is

maybe you'll start thinking this tomorrow

or maybe you've already started thinking it today

and you're thinking

why doesn't everyone feel like this?

but you see

the thing is

one day we'll all wake up

and we will

you see, love is contagious. love is so easily spread. it's an infinite resource and there grows more of it the more of it you use. 

one day

one day

you'll wake up

and everyone's home will have

a little basket of fruit from their yard

with a sign saying "take them, please!"

everyone will stop for the little creatures crossing their path, and carry them gently to a plant nearby. 

everyone will smile brightly at each other, everyone will linger in one another's arms, because our love will be so plentiful that it will bring us all so close, and we will love one another so strongly and we'll ache to let each other know. 

you see

you see

none of us want to hurt each other

sadness isn't nearly so satisfying to spread as joy.

one day we'll all wake up and love will be the greatest thing we know, the most plentiful thing we possess. 

perhaps it'll be next week, perhaps it'll be in a year. 

one by one, people will begin to love again. 

do you think 

tomorrow

you might be one of them?

[weavemama]

PLEASE BE CAREFUL FOR ANYONE WHO USES “BLUEBUFFALO” FOR THEIR DOGS!!

[itsalburton]

@k9kesi

[indirispeaks]

And cats.  Blue Buffalo killed @sidneystrange ‘s cat.

[sidneystrange]

THIS THIS THIS!!

I’ve been telling everyone I know for YEARS not to buy Blue Buffalo.

This is the short story:

A few years ago I took my sick cat, Ankh, to the vet. The vet and vet tech asked what I fed her. I told them Blue Buffalo. They looked like I had just told them I fed her razor blades and cyanide. They diagnosed her with pancreatitis and said that nearly all of the cats they’d been seeing lately with pancreatitis were being fed Blue Buffalo.  They gave her medicine and sent her home.  Two days later she had a seizure and died right in my arms. 

The day after she died Hannibal started displaying the same symptoms she had so I panicked hard and took him to the vet.  Got the same meds and the same diagnosis.  Luckily Hannibal survived.

I wish Ankh had survived. She was only ten and the best cat I’ve ever had. Literally the best and five years later I still cry when I think about her.

FUCK BLUE BUFFALO.

[k9kesi]

I don’t know the full story behind the tweets above, but a Google search shows there HAVE been several recalls regarding this brand, especially in 2016. I would absolutely avoid as it is not worth the risk.

[taigas-den]

@ladycyon

[espikvlt]

Good god thank you so much for sharing this because I’ve lately been considering switching to this brand cus it’s supposed to be so much better than all the others but good god what the hell.

[daxondax]

I worked in a vet for a little while and I shit you not, when a dog came in with constant diarrhea they were always eating Blue Buffalo. We changed the food and the dog got better every time. Blue Buffalo is garbage food and never feed it to your pets.

[the-lowz-of-highz]

I’ve never heard of this brand but I love my dog with all of my heart and I’d be broken if I ever accidently fed her this and got her sick (people give me different dog food to try all the time). I’d hate for anyone else to lose their pet also.

[angelbabyspice]

um?? what the fuck? holy FUCK my boyfriend and I were just about to start feeding our cat blue buffalo omg

[merodygirl]

Wft really?? Im never going to buy that killer food!! Praying for your pets!

[kyller-biis-deactivated20180114]

I’m so glad I know this, I’d be heartbroken if my dog died

[transbrotherhood]

not trans related, but i have like no followers and this needs a wide audience

[huskofyourself]

blue buffao has had many recalls for reasons including:

- salmonella

- mold

- aluminum

- melamine

- toxic levels of vitamin d

- propylene glycol

please share this with any pet owners you know, this is extremely important

[omgwhatsittoyou]

Reblogged August 2019

[windrunncr]

Never buy Blue Buffalo. They’ve been awful for years.