a softer side of punk @theknitpunk - Tumblr Blog

in 1978, sanrio made a crocodile called big challenges. he was never used for anything.

he believes that you can overcome your own big challenges !

where's that masterpost of quotes that have no right going as hard as they do. I'd like to submit "Protagonism is best left to teens and the insane"

kellyroman

A loop animation I made of one of my ink drawings~ Website | Shop | Instagram

hannahlockillustration

BREAD! BREAD! BREAD!

afeelgoodblog

Blahaj in a suit

mindless-cinematic-trash

hools

BIG LOVE! BIG CHALLENGES!

endurae

toothybj

I'm stepping on Dave's Rapooza's territory here...

coolsaddad-blog

Roses are red, that much is true, but violets are purple, not fucking blue.

feels-for-the-fictional

I have been waiting for this post all my life.

marzipanandminutiae

They are indeed purple, But one thing you’ve missed: The concept of “purple” Didn’t always exist.

Some cultures lack names For a color, you see. Hence good old Homer And his “wine-dark sea.”

A usage so quaint, A phrasing so old, For verses of romance Is sheer fucking gold.

So roses are red. Violets once were called blue. I’m hugely pedantic But what else is new?

ineptshieldmaid

My friend you’re not wrong About Homer’s wine-ey sea! Colours are a matter Of cultural contingency;

Words are in flux And meanings they drift But the word purple You’ve given short shrift.

The concept of purple, My friends, is old And refers to a pigment once precious as gold.

By crushing up molluscs From the wine-dark sea You make a dye: Imperial decree

Meant that in Rome, to wear purpura was a privilege reserved

For only the emperor!

The word ‘purple’, for clothes so fancy, Entered English By the ninth century

Why then are voilets Not purple in song? The dye from this mollusc, known for so long

Is almost magenta; More red than blue. The concept of purple is old, and yet new.

The dye is red, So this might be true: Roses are purple And violets are blue

squeeful

While this song makes me merry, Tyrian purple dyes many a hue From magenta to berry And a true purple too.

But fun as it is to watch this poetic race The answer is staring you right in the face: Roses are red and violets are blue Because nothing fucking rhymes with purple.

cryoverkiltmilk

last-flight-of-dickarus

Hirple - To limp or walk awkwardly

Cirple - An old Scots word for the hindquarters of a horse

nobodybetterhavethisoneoriswear

“Roses are red, violets are purple,

My boner for you has caused me to hirple.”

…

My, how romantic!

wouldthatcreationhadformedmeman

DYING. I AM DYING.

gleafer

When a certain someone keeps dropping into the shop too often and a demon has had enough.

zforzelma

I really really really wish "clinical depression" was called something else because with a name like "depression" everyone thinks they know what it feels like because everyone has been devastatingly sad before. It's part of the human experience!

But it's not - that's not - it doesn't - it rarely. uh. feels like that.

zforzelma

the best way I can describe it is that it's like a shadow everywhere so dark it obscures everything that's not two feet in front of your face. You can go through an entire day without feeling anything at all. Dishes pile up because they're not urgently required for your survival. Projects that take more than one day - or things that you have to start preparing in advance feel so far away that you just... don't prepare. You don't keep in touch with people that aren't immediately in your vicinity and it's always surprising when they're angry because the last thing you remember is being close to them.

When you're with people that make you happy, it's all you can see and you can't remember ever being lonely.

When you're alone, it's all you can see and you can't remember ever being loved.

When something bad happens, it's all you can see and you can't imagine anything good happening ever again.

It's like your skin has been scraped raw and even a little sand is unimaginably painful. So you do everything you can to avoid sand. You seek out anything you can find for pleasure. Some people seek out food. Some people seek out sex. Some people self medicate with drugs. It makes you a hungry little animal. An eyeless deep sea creature. Months can go by without you noticing. Years.

So calling it the "i feel sad" disease doesn't really ring true to me.

pirateprincessjess

When I was a kid my family pretended to get raptured so I would think I was left behind on earth while they all went to heaven.

I was like 8 years old and my sister and mom had gotten really into the Left Behind novels (bible fan fic about the rapture). In the books when the rapture happened the clothes that people were wearing when they got raptured were left behind in neatly folded piles.

One day when I was getting home from school my family decided that they would leave piles of neatly folded clothes around the house, and then hide in the basement.

The intended effect was that I would get home and see the clothes then, think that my family had been raptured and that I wasn’t good enough to get into heaven… or something?

The problem was that I had never read these books, and didn’t really think about the rapture very often. There was no reason that I would see some laundry on the floor and think “The rapture happened and I’ve been abandoned by God! I’ll never see my family again!! Oh nooo!!!!”

I just sat down and watched cartoons and eventually my family got bored and revealed that they were all hiding in the basement.

It’s a good thing I didn’t understand the joke, otherwise that shit would have been traumatic.

dietspam16

saxifraga-x-urbium

The Health Secretary has said that transgender hospital patients in England may be banned from being treated in female- and male-only wards.

more fucking petitions because this clown car country cannot stop with the bigotry for 30 seconds

uk people it takes 5 seconds and you checking your email to verify

everyone else: rebloge please

writing-prompt-s

Humanity has finally reached the stars and found out why no one had contacted us. The universe is in a sad state. As such, Doctors without Borders, Red Cross, and many othe charities go intergalactic.

lyricwritesprose

The thing the recruiters don’t tell you about space battles is that you die slowly.

Ships don’t blow up cleanly in flashes and sparks. Oh, if you’re in the engine room, you’ll probably die instantly, but away from that? In the computer core, or the communications hub? You just lose power. And have to sit, air going stale and room slowly cooling, while you wait to find out if the battle is won or lost.

If it’s lost, nobody comes for you.

It had been about half a day (that’s a Raithar day, probably a bit shorter than yours) and Kvala and I were pretty sure we had lost. Kvala was injured, Traav and I were dehydrated and exhausted, and Louv was dead, hit by shrapnel when the conduits blew.

Most fleets give you something, of course. For Raithari, it’s essence of windgrass. I looked at the vial.

“It’s too soon,” Traav said.

Kvala gestured negation, shakily. She had been burned when conduits blew, and her feathers were charred, and her leftmost eye was bubbly and blind now. Even if we were rescued, she probably wouldn’t survive. “You know we’re losing the war.”

They couldn’t deny that. “It doesn’t mean we lost the battle.”

“Doesn’t it? The Chreee have better technology. Better resources. And they have their warrior code. They don’t care if they die.”

“We can’t give up!” Traav protested. They were young, a young and reckless thar who had listened to a recruiting officer and still believed scraps of what they had been told. “Any heartbeat now—”

There was a clunk. Something had docked with our fragment of the ship.

“You see?!” Traav crowed triumphantly.

Kvala exchanged glances with me. The Chreee never bothered to hunt down survivors. What was the point, after all?

The Aushkune did.

There weren’t supposed to be Aushkune here. They were supposed to hide in nebulas.

But if there were—

If there were, we were too late. The windgrass couldn’t possibly destroy our nervous systems in time to stop the corpse-reviving implants, and once you were implanted, it was over—or it would never be over, depending on how you looked at it and whether Aushkune drones were aware of anything—

Footsteps.

Bipedal. The Aushkune were supposed to be bipedal.

And then the blast door opened, and a figure stood in it. My first thought was, robot? That’s almost worse than Aushkune . . . But no, it was a being in some sort of suit.

Who wore suits?

“Friendly contact,” the suit’s sound system blared, as the being moved over to Kvala. “Urgent treatment. Evacuation.”

“Who are you?” Kvala struggled upright.

Despite the primitive suit, the blocky being was using up-to-date medical scanners. “Low frequency right angle shape,” it explained—or maybe didn’t explain. Two more figures came into the room and put Kvala firmly onto a stretcher.

“You’re with the Chreee, aren’t you?” Kvala was not at all happy to be on a stretcher.

“Not Chreee,” the sound system said. “You Man. Soil Starship Nichols.” The being hesitated. “Rescue Chreee as well. On ship. Will separate.”

“You what?” I said faintly. Who would do that?

“Oath,” the being explained.

“What kind of oath? To what deity?”

The shoulders of the being moved up and down. “Several different. Also none. For me, none. Just—oath.”

I exchanged glances with Traav, who looked as unsettled as I was. I had never, ever heard of groups cooperating when they couldn’t even swear to or by the same power.

The being scanned me. “Have water,” it said. “Recommend.”

Raithari have fast metabolisms. I could—would—die of thirst quickly, and painfully.

“Where will you take us,” Traav asked, “after you give us water?”

“Raithari to Raithar. Chreee to Chreeeholm.”

“Chreeeholm would kill them for failing,” Traav remarked.

The being hesitated, and then said, “War news sometimes bad. Sometimes lie.”

We had learned long ago not to believe the recruiting officers, but what did that have to do with anything?

“And you—what?” I asked. “Just fly around looking for battles and rescuing victims?”

The being seemed to consider this. “Best invention of soil,” it said finally.

Most of what it was saying didn’t make any sense. Did it worship soil? But it had said that it had sworn to no deity . . .

Madness.

On the other hand—war was a deliberate, rational act by deliberate, rational people, and I wanted no more of it. So why not embrace madness and see what happened?

“Soil Starship—Rrikkol?” I asked, stumbling over the word.

“Yes. Soil Starship Nichols.”

I followed the being in the suit.