No title available
ellievsbear
Acquired Stardust
JBB: An Artblog!
Origami Around
blake kathryn
Misplaced Lens Cap
pixel skylines
styofa doing anything
Kiana Khansmith
RMH
No title available
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
almost home
oozey mess
🪼
One Nice Bug Per Day
#extradirty
wallacepolsom
Xuebing Du
seen from Germany
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Jordan
seen from Brazil
seen from Brazil
seen from Tunisia
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from South Africa
seen from United Kingdom
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seen from Vietnam
seen from Germany
@sunnycreatures
hi:)
we’re plural, alterhuman, and queer, all forms of plurality are valid, all forms of queerness, alterhumanity, and "weird" identities such as objectum, posic, + Whatever else are cool as fuck
do whatever you want forever and ever
our art sideblog is @wanderingcreatures and u should follow it:)
not a cat but it's the art i did this evening. please enjoy
im going through my skyrim screenshot folder
Who names their character Susan
I’m poisoning an enchanted crossbow, which I gave a nickname to so I wouldn’t accidentally sell it. The name of the weapon is “delicious quinoa, Susan”.
A Mutual Understanding Between Nerds
(nods sagely) (nods basily) (nods rosemarily) (nods saltly) (nods star anisely)
I wrote a eulogy
"I wrote a eulogy for my best friend last week. Then I read it to him. At the pub. On a Tuesday."
He was alive, holding a pint, looking at me like I'd lost my mind. Maybe I have.
I'm Mick. I'm 70. The man across the table was Barry. Seventy-two. Best mate for 46 years. Met on a building site in 1979. He dropped a plank on my foot. I called him something unrepeatable. He bought me a pint after the shift. Haven't gone a week without talking since.
Three months ago we went to a funeral. Bloke we'd worked with. Cancer. The eulogies were beautiful - people saying what he meant to them, things they'd clearly never said to his face. And all I could think was, he can't hear any of this.
Every beautiful sentence. Every "he changed my life." Said to a room of crying people and a box of wood.
I turned to Barry. Whispered, "What a waste."
Drove home. Couldn't sleep. Because I realised, if Barry died tomorrow, I'd stand up and say extraordinary things about this man. Things I've never said in 46 years. And he'd be in the box, missing all of it.
So I wrote them down. Took a week. Harder than expected - not finding the words, but admitting I had them.
Rang him. "Tuesday. The Crown. Need to read you something."
"Have you joined a book club?"
"Just come."
Same corner table. Pint of bitter. Crisps. I pulled out the paper. He saw my hands shake.
"Mick. What's this?"
"Your eulogy. I'm reading it now because I'm not wasting it on a day you can't hear it."
"Have you gone mad?"
"Probably. Shut up and listen."
I read it. In a pub. To a man very much alive and very much uncomfortable.
I told him about the plank and how it was the best injury of my life. About the night he drove forty minutes in rain to help change a tyre. About how he rang every day for three months after my divorce and never once asked "Are you alright?" - just talked about football and weather, because he knew I didn't need a question. I needed a voice.
I told him he was the funniest man I'd ever known and his jokes were terrible and both things were true. That he'd been a better father than he thinks. That his wife's a saint and he knows it. That I'd have been a worse man without him.
He didn't look at me. Stared at his pint. Jaw tight. Doing that thing men do when the feelings arrive and they'd rather swallow glass than show it.
When I finished, long silence. Then he picked up his pint, took a sip, and said,
"You're paying for the next round. And the one after."
That was his answer. Perfect. Because Barry doesn't say "I love you too." He says "you're buying."
But in the car park, he hugged me. Not the quick back-pat. A real one. Thirty seconds. Neither let go first.
And he said quietly into my shoulder, "Don't read that again at the real one. I want new material."
Who would you write a eulogy for - while they're still here?
Don't wait. The flowers can't hear. The box doesn't laugh. Say it now. At the pub. Over a bad cup of tea. You'll feel ridiculous.
They'll look uncomfortable. It'll be the most important thing you've ever done.
Read them the speech while they can still hug you in the car park.”
.
starting a collection
* (Oh, these parentheses I keep opening?
* (I'm collecting them.
* (Right now, I'm 1,762 parentheses deep.
* (Oh, my precious parentheses... (I don't ever want to close them!
* Oh, these parentheses I keep closing?)
* There’s some guy who keeps opening them.)
* Right now, they think they’re 1,762 parentheses deep…)
* But really? They’re all closed.) Thanks to me.)
every child should have a specific stuffed animal/toy that they develop an antagonistic relationship with
some of my most significant core memories involved getting into heated arguments with the furby who lived in my closet. essential component of my pre-teen character development. necessary anguish
sometimes small children will inflict years of torment & waterboarding on their victims before burying them in an unmarked concrete grave, that's just part of growing up
the post that keeps on giving (via @zenyeetaa):
#okay we weren’t children when we did this but me and some old roommates kept a baby doll in the freezer #at first it was to jump scare the next person who opened the freezer #but he was in there for a few months and then when we decided it was time to pull it out a bunch of fires broke out across our county #so we put him back in the freezer. we named him chippy and drew a mustache on his face #we tried pulling him out of the freezer a few times after that but some horrible event would happen every time without fail #when we moved apartments we had a special cooler to bring chippy with us #as far as i know chippy is still in a freezer somewhere
