I just recently started on Tumblr and I'm figuring things out. If I follow you, I probably saw your stuff on Instagram and decided to follow you based on that.
wallacepolsom
Not today Justin

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Cosimo Galluzzi
art blog(derogatory)
Cosmic Funnies

titsay
tumblr dot com

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hello vonnie
Sade Olutola
almost home

Love Begins

oozey mess

shark vs the universe
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Jules of Nature
will byers stan first human second

PR's Tumblrdome
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@stormgate1
I just recently started on Tumblr and I'm figuring things out. If I follow you, I probably saw your stuff on Instagram and decided to follow you based on that.
Lilly Potter married a furry with a deer fursona
I DIDN’T LEARN ABOUT THIS IN DRIVING SCHOOL
Stop says the red light, go says the green
Wait says the yellow light, twinkling in between.
KNEEL, SAYS THE DEMON LIGHT WITH ITS EYE OF COAL SAURON KNOWS YOUR LICENSE PLATE AND STARES INTO YOUR SOUL
THIS IS ALWAYS FUNNY
@irritatedlifeguard I agree with your tags.
@hellsite-hall-of-fame
nice outfit LOSER!!! 2001 called, they
hold on.
oh my god
"I asked chatgpt" well I asked Wayne Ladrian and he also fed me lies but at least he was charming while he did it. Human made bullshittery
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
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
…..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
I've been reading a lot of Harry Potter fanfiction lately, and it keeps coming up that spiders flee from the basilisk. And yeah, maybe there's a magic explanation, but what if there's a mundane one?
Peppermint oil apparently makes spiders flee.
So my current headcanon is that basilisks smell strongly of peppermint
This song has single-handedly taken over my life and it’s only been like a week
Scarecrow: I am the master of Fear!
Danny: Look, dude, I don't care what you and my knight get up to in the privacy of your bedroom, but you keep that to yourself.
Scarecrow: A wise guy, huh? Let's see how many jokes you can crack after my latest creation.
Danny: Agh! Did you just spray me with your cheap cologne?
Scarecrow: You shall know fear.
Danny: I shall know a shower to get this smell off me. What is that? Citrus? Gross.
Scarecrow: Why aren't you screaming in horror!?
Danny: Oh, I've experienced horrors alright. I have a meeting with Fright Knight after this. I won't be able to look him in the eye later.
Red Robin: This isn't what I was expecting when I used the emergency summons Constantine gave me. I thought it would bring him here not, who ever you are.
Danny: I forgot about my summoner. Hold tight, I'll save you now.
Danny to Scarecrow: Look, dude, normally I would beat you up, stuff you into a thermos, and wash my hands of it. But seeing as you're Fright Knight's lover, I'll just steal the human boy and give you a warning instead. Sound good?
Scarecrow: You shall not!
Red Robin: Wait a minute!
Danny snapping his fingers to open a protal: Shush human sacrifice. We must leave.
Scarecrow: Don't you dare! Hey!
Danny: Okay byeeeeeeee!~ *protal closes*
Batman: *crashing through a window* Scarecrow where is Red Robin!? What have you done with him!
Scarecrow: He got kidnapped by a being that feels no fear.
Batman: I will make you talk.
Scarecrow: I know I'm crazy but that's actually what happened, I swear.
I don’t know if anyone has ever done this before but, here ya go… The Different Types of Fanfiction!
I probably left a few out, but these are the most common, compared to their base fiction’s canon plot. Enjoy! XD
The crack fic is enough for a reblog.
then there are these favs…. ;)
A mark on your forehead identifies the god you must worship to stay alive, usually by joining its local church or temple. Your mark is unknown, meaning an old, forgotten god sponsored you. To survive, you must either find an old temple to worship at, or do the arduous task of building a new one
Nobody in your small coastal village has ever seen the Godmark that you were born with. It’s a dark russet sequence of criss-crossing lines, with a vertical arrowhead on the left and a circle on the right, just over where your brow meets your temple. Some of the traders who come down from the mountain say it looks like one of the scripts used in the hinterlands, but not a language that any of them recognize.
“If she’s got the temperament for it, she should try her luck inland,” they advise. “No point her starting a temple here if she’d find her people elsewhere, with a little searching.”
At first, your parents are reluctant to send you away. Though you’re well-behaved and diligent in your chores, you’re a sickly child with no God to worship. And besides, you’ve always been the dreamy type–inclined to lose track of time watching the path of rain droplets chasing down the window, or the fronds of an anemone as it sways in a rock pool.
Instead, they send you to the temple of the Storm to learn all you’ll need for your own God. You are happy there, for a time: making up beds and serving food to the castaways who pass through, keeping vigil at the lighthouse, burning incense and praying with the loyal widows and orphans of the drowned.
One such widow, an old, old lady, touches the mark on your forehead. “I recognise those letters. We wrote this way in the town where I grew up, way off past the mountains.”
Your heartbeat quickens. “What does it say!?”
She squints, eyes engulfed by wrinkles and hidden behind smudged glass. “A… Ar… Oh, I can’t remember how to speak it. I left before I learnt my letters properly. There was a war, you know. But I remember,” she says, mistily, “the most beautiful pink and white flowers used to grow, on the borders of the wheat fields…”
You try to ask more questions, but remembering the war distresses her, and so you speak of other things. When she’s drifted off to sleep, you get to your feet, go home and tell your parents: you are leaving in search of your God.
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!
I physically need Jason Todd to have several popular accounts as a reviewer of, honestly, anything.
New article in Gotham Gazette? A famous five-star reviewer already wrote a comment on what unethical methods the writer had used, along with debunking the rest of the article. And guess what? It has more likes than the original post.
New restaurant opened? Another famous critique just finished polishing a very detailed post regarding everything inside it — the decor, the cooking techniques, the service (he almost never picks up on waiters, though). It is so on the spot that, honestly, the owners can't even argue with the review.
New movie? Uh-uh, be sure you write your characters properly. New vigilante? Get detailed information on your methods of work and fighting style — and, hey, it might be even useful. New book? Be careful, someone is about to kick your ass on the Internet, unless written worthy.
The funniest part? No one assumes that it is the same person.
And the batfamily? Well, they have no time for this. Expect for... Tim.
Tim, sending a link to Vale's article: Hood. Drag her ass.
Jason: lol
Jason: give me, like, an hour–
Tim: Had I told you you are my favourite?
Jason: i might have an idea, yeah
Tim: Hood. The new restaurant is so ass. They are also homophobic and stared at me and Kon the whole evening like we killed someone. Do something.
Jason: sec
(The restaurant gets closed in, like, two days after that)
Tim: Jason. Bruce pisses me off this week.
Jason: LOL
Jason: wake up, birdie, the new article shitting on Batman's technics just dropped
Tim: YAY
Phantom has a power he refuses to use in front of any other hero.
Not because it's too powerful or anything like that.
No.
No, because while he can't hear it, apparently Ghostly Wail sounds like the screams of loved ones dying. It's his death scream, but it distorts when others hear it.
Instead of him, they hear their loved ones.
So no, he's not hiding it because of an 'Oh the darkness inside of me you wouldn't understand, this pain I bear' middle schooler syndrome thing, he's hiding it because that's really, really fucked up.
Until one day, he and another hero are in a trap.
The villain has accounted for everything, all of their powers or gadgets, except the Wail.
So.
Danny turns, looks at the other hero, and gives him an apologetic look.
Then, he turns to the villain, and lets out the Wail.
They all hear different things.
Superman hears the wails of hundreds, the loved ones of those he was too late to save, the cries he could never bear to ignore.
Batman hears himself. Two voices overlap. One, a child crying out for his parents and another, much older, crying out for a fallen Robin.
Manhunter hears the voice of a dying planet.
The Flash hears himself, the scream he uttered when that lightning bolt struck and bound him to one of the most powerful forces in the universe.
It's never discussed outside of the mission reports. One by one, they find themselves in a position where the Wail is necessary.
And one by one, they learn why they didn't know about it before.
@elodieunderglass That sure is a thing with legs!
It sure is!!!
so i took out the trash today like the good house husband i am not, leaving behind the rank smell of long forgotten noodles and the regrets of two people with memory issues
i, like any good tumblr citizen, remember the tales of the person who put two cups of vanilla extract in their oven so i did the sensible thing to get out two Caps of extract
just then, inspiration struck. a bolt of lightning straight from the muses themselves, if i could use vanilla extract.... who's to say i couldn't use other extracts?
i scoured the cabinets, i knew my partner had secreted away some illicit non-vanilla type extracts for baking, and i found it.
hidden in the back of the cabinet was a lone bottle of mint extract
i emptied my two caps with abandon into an (oven safe) glass dish and gleefully set the oven for 300 for an hour
all that was left now was to wait for the sins of the mind to be purged by the mighty mint leaf
ten minutes in... starting to smell kinda like a thin mint
fifteen minutes in, i take a nice deep breath of lovely scented air and i am greeted by searing burning minty pain
i launch myself towards the kitchen, every step closer to mint hell, every orifice on my face burning with the freezing righteous flame of menthol
im fumbling for the oven mitt to rid my home of this foul demon, i pry the oven open and am hit with a blast unlike anything else
i feel what that vine kid taking shots of mouthwash feels, i was seared raw, my tits were blown clean off, and it was just me and that devilish beguiling minty fresh taste
quickly dumping the rest into the sink i ran towards the door, begging for the sweet sweet smell of un-minted air
learning nothing from this encounter, i dare to try once more, with the tumblr-approved extract this time
wish me luck
update: the vanilla has finished cooking, it now very much smells like the pillsberry doughboy fucked a thin mint
doesn't hurt tho so.... improvement?
#congrats on commiting chemical warfare against yourself
question for any entomologists out there: if bumblebees were of a comparable size to, say, a kitten, would they enjoy resting in my lap while i gently comb their fuzz with a barbie brush? i know that i would enjoy that but i hope they would as well.
hi! as an entomologist who specializes in bumble bees— my answer is probably yes! many, if not all insects groom themselves as a way to keep clean and to keep their senses sharp, but in societies of insects (specifically bees) we see them groom each other, and colonies of bees who have more allogrooming are typically stronger and healthier! these bees who groom others are integral to the colony, and we see grooming in other social insects like termites as well, specifically in relation to the queen. you might have more luck with a flea comb than a barbie brush, just to really mimic the feeling of them and others grooming it, but i like to think they would enjoy being cleaned and pampered :)
preserving your tags here smileyystickers: #this is the best post actually#bumble bees are notably very docile too and i think they would quite enjoy curling up in your lap on a cold day#i could go more into detail but in this hypothetical scenario i think they would like it
also best possible answer or BEST POSSIBLE ANSWER??? also I’m not OP but I would BEG for you to go into more detail