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adhdbreadbin

How To Validate A Child’s Work Without Swearing and Saying “Lil Dude That’s Fuckin Sick”

girlsclothes-deactivated2023030

what do people in their twentys do except go to the grocery store……….

what-grace-has-forgiveness

sometimes we lie in bed paralyzed by the knowledge that life is neither meaningful nor enjoyable

asgarddropout

and then we go get snacks

rhaella

lemony snicket was really out there teaching us as elementary schoolers about grey morality, about how neither good nor bad people always get what they deserve, how being clever and kind doesn’t always guarantee you will triumph (although it’s certainly better than the alternative), how ignorant/complacent/dismissive though well-meaning adults can have just as harmful an impact on children as those with ill intentions, and how not every story has a happy and complete ending

poorpoorpitifulme

Also the meaning of, like, a whole bunch of words

hanacassiopeia

And how to make a very nice salad

1000drawings

life after death by Justin McElroy

helloitsbees

*sees art* oh wow this is so cool, i really like it

*sees artist’s name* now hold on,

rooksandravens

I was curious so I looked in to this. Different Justin. He was @voodoochicken here on tumblr, but he has left and he now goes by thoughtographic on wordpress, twitter, and instagram.

kingofdoma

is that a third, distinct justin mcelroy from the reporter that regularly gets his mail sent to podcaster justin mcelroy by mistake?

themoosebaruniverse

Into the Justinverse

6balls

today i finally put together a “book” that one of my classes wrote together last year and felt it was necessary to bring back this classic not-at-all-prompted contribution from a then 7 year old: “I got stuck in a castle. I was in its jail. They did not feeded me all I had was a porta potty. I was in jail because I didn’t even know there were taxes there. Except I lied. I read a lot about England and I decided I did not want to pay taxes.”

6balls

please appreciate that this child was free to write about literally whatever she could imagine about herself time traveling and she wrote about being jailed for tax evasion in the middle ages

leonardcohenofficial

fun studying tip: if you’re a procrastinator, play tom jones’s “what’s new pussycat” on repeat while writing your papers and do not turn it off until you are finished, it will motivate you to finish that essay as quickly as possible

riverboatfrogs-deactivated20181

make sure to throw one “it’s not unusual” in the middle while u take ur quick snack break

captaincrusher

Here you have the Infinite Jukebox that will play an infinite version of What’s new pussycat, randomly jumping through the verses and never getting to the end.

leonardcohenofficial

do you ever regret a post and the hell it creates

urparty

Does anybody else like, revert back to the books/tv/movies u loved as a child whenever things in your life are about to change

urparty

me packing my things for college:

itslarsyouguys

I do think it was the right choice for the graphic novel to portray Angus more straight, just as an intelligent but otherwise regular little kid and not smartass Griffin, but I regret that we lost the line “Ok, I mean, I did detective good enough to see through your horseshit, so I can’t be too bad.”

anxietyproblem

kohkohkohla

Same energy

helpimsotired

Justin McElroy talking about accessibility in live theatre (June 9, 2019)

formichi

la-laborista-republiko

HOOPS

littlebluecaboose

*on a date*

babe….when im with you……shrimp heaven really *is* now……

imthedoctorbasicallyfun

the bartender who has seen you use this line on at least 5 different dates: you can’t keep doing this daniel

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

mrbulian

trans-mouse

This is the funniest thing I’ve seen in weeks. Literally, I’ve never been this funny in my entire goddamn life

circamortem

“wrong! you owe me seven dollars”

blorpimorpi-deactivated20240919

“WHA -HA-ADO YOU MEAAAN????”

the-cheshire-cat-grin

this man gives off wildly chaotic trickster fey vibes

harmonyblast

“WRONG ITS A KING OF DIAMONDS”

kurosmind

this man is channeling Mollymauk Tealeaf so hard

hummingirls

i’ve been conditioned to feel instant joy upon seeing this guy’s face on my dash

traumaticbackstory

I’m so proud because the whole time i was watching I could see the trick for the first time tho

gumrude-deactivated20240402

“look: one, two three—you owe me seven dollars now—look”

ratbeast

Late tonight a bunch of staff are playing a game called role call and if you thought fugitive was wild just w a i t until i tell you how this goes cause role call is absolutely terrifying

We aren’t letting the campers play it so that lets us up the scare factor by 147%

ratbeast

Ok so the game had to be pushed back a few days so we can figure out scheduling so heres the gist of it.

The more people you have for this game, the better. It has to happen at night. The people get into a straight line, and begin to walk in that line all around the area. They cannot turn around and look at each other, and cannot speak; with the exception of the person at the front of the line.

That persons job is to begin the role call. They simply say, “Role Call!” And their name, then each person down the line says their name in turn.

Here’s the kicker: there’s one person not included in the line. The Taker. They have the job of stealing away the person at the end of the line as silently as possible. The game’s sole purpose is to instill a sense of fear and paranoia in whoever is in front, because as more people get taken, there are less and less people to say their names during the Role Call.

The front person decides when they want to start the Role Call. Obviously, the more often it’s said, the less scary it is. But as more and more people disappear, they become Takers and can then do more damage than just the one.

Some Takers can replace the person they stole, making the person directly in front of them either incredibly paranoid or safe. At least until the Role Call. Takers cannot say anything during it, so it usually ends up more terrifying to know that the person behind you is silent. Again, everyone in the line cannot make a sound except responding to the Role Call.

The game is over when the person in front is taken. There is no winning, only waiting. Waiting for your turn to go. Imagine the fear that person in front has, when they softly announce “Role Call” only to find that everyone behind them is gone.

Not exactly a game for the weak willed.