Whale Shark @whale-sshark-blog - Tumblr Blog

Posts

www.rbema.com?a=30833785

Anniversary, just one day! ten-percent discount

liams10inpayne

Tell me one thing

Tell me one thing about yourself and tag 3 people.

I can’t really whistle @paula229 @solardanstem @blossom-howell

blossom-howell-deactivated20190

oh god

i still have my first bear from when i was born. he’s a mess

@golddustphan @lesterdreams @teatowelhowell

archive-lesterdreams

I’m allergic to touching cold things

@stevesbi @corgisocks @moonbeamphan

corgisocks

true fact: when i was a young child, i used to ask my mom to draw cat whiskers on my face with eyeliner. the cat whiskers truly do come from within! @phanwithdogs @dreamdilddy @accio-phan

freckleslester

i cant whistle,, like,,, at all

@sleevelessphil @levisduster @artisticxfool

sleevelessphil-deactivated20171

I can’t jump rope

@seafoamlester @dantartica @itsupposedtobecheesy

bigheartgang

I have multiple double joints in my hands/toes

@sushiunderwear @theofficial01 @justphantastic

honeyyaes-deactivated20210422

I can lick my nose

@sorta-phantastic @welcome-to-my-phantasyland @awkwardodie

cozydan

I’m allergic to peanuts

@daniel-pastel @aliceinwonderlandforever @thedarksideofhufflepuff

cxmryn-jx-blog

I’m slightly allergic to cats

@phanic-at-the-malfoys @ladders-the-album @selfishferret

selfishferret

I’m Homeschooled (God that’s a boring fact soz)

@beardedbeardduck @phanmail @datgurlmacs

lace-anne

I’m homeschooled as well! :)

@mama-genes-blues @shittypeanut @fe-ically

hare-krishna-george

I am extremely bisexual

@just-your-everyday-weirdo @phantastickilljoys @teaistheanswertoeverything

smalltittiegothboyfriend

I’m highly allergic to pineapple

@almosteverythingtrash @rosepheniox @areyounotalone

from-under-the-lilacs

I get way too attached to people, and I hate it

@twentyoneparades-to-panic-at @rotten-sunsets @killjoycrybaby

virgilmustbemoody

I have purple hair

@not-so-innocent-bi-sander @tinydemonwriter @screwupanx

not-so-innocent-bi-sander

I have 11 tattoos

@didsomeonesayprince @speechless-angel @morticiaaddams1

morticiaaddams1-deactivated2021

I have 8 pets

@ts-sideblog @cefmua56 @thuriweaver

romanssippycup

@tinysidestrashcaptain @thagrinbery @justanotherpurplebutterfly

I weigh 98 pounds. :3

tinysidestrashcaptain

I can’t swim. Never learned how, too embarrassed to admit it now. @cup-of-blue @randomslasher @thelogicalloganipus

de-is-me-deactivated20180626

I get overwhelmed by emotion so easily, sometimes I don’t talk to my friends because I don’t want them to make me happy.

@patton–here @fandomsandanythingelse @pattoncakesvirgil

honey-sunny-bee

I have a scar on my right shoulder and I have no idea how it got there

@silly-aesthetic-me @amazable01 @everyonesmadhere1556

frogoboggins

when I was little I shut a live bat in a hymm book and threw it out the church window @the-asexual-reaper @tacklesackles @hatter1010

feral-flower-child

I can do the dramatic lone tear when I cry because of a freak accident with a pencil when I was a kid. @kellyplier @fallingamor @mltcp

spacevirgil

My middle fingers bend at a freakish angle at the joint above my knuckle so whenever I try to swear at someone they just start laughing and it’s getting annoying at this point.

@lackingroman @virgillikespurple @volumes2lo-gan

loganssideblog

(Reblogging it here to organize) I’ve seen Meet the Robinsons over 30 times (and have it memorized) @novagalaxy4real @pattonscardigan @creepy-cupcakes

notafeeling

my short story will be published in a book very soon

@spooksanders (i tried to tag “samsies” at first until i remembered what ur blog was) @analogicalityhell @imin-loveanon

imin-loveanon-deactivated202006

I enjoy working in my school library

@lostin—translation @musicphanpie-b @ilovemygaydad

haunting-kind-of-high

I listen to music 24/7. Honestly, I can’t live without it.

@serenefreakgeek, @starrylittleprinces, @yourdailysunshine

maya-tl

I can bend my fingers backwards. Just a small bit.

@swapdancepapyrus @lackingroman @randomslasher

swapdancepapyrus

Lol,

I love All who watch me do my crazy shenanigans. and watch me be stoopid~

Id tag everyone, but i cant exactly do that! XDD

lonelyblackwing-kt

I have an obsession over sweets and cheesecakes. XD

@mramazingva @boshedagh @pandurrpink

mramazingva

i can growl almost like a angry dog would (sorry if its not to interesting XD)

@foxy-sierra @chloethecartooner @ania-da-peasant

spookiibuggii-deactivated202209

I used to think I was really fast as a kid and I’d chase the boys around the playground :0

@umbrella-hermit @fifizero @novuenova

fifizero

I can ribbon dance, but it’s really bad

;w;

@gallifreyan-pal @faemytho @justanerdwholikesrping

illdothehotvoice

I never learned how to ride a bike because I have terrible balance and am still too scared to try.

@karma-the-skeleton @inkscratch @satoris

simplistic-senichii

Don’t worry I can’t ride a bike either, I’ve tried like once but I was too scared to try again. :P

@lunarecliptic @wisper200 @wiiabee

wisper200-deactivated20240310

I’m 6'1? Does that count?

@kiacii @ania-da-peasant @katangelic

mirazeth

I can lick my elbow

@ishipyouwithme @justdiarythoughts @the-tur-tle-king

justdiarythoughts

Sorry, I just now got the notification.

I really like rockstars from the 80s and I regularly wear glam rock. Which, in this time, has people thinking I’m either dressed as a pimp or a drag queen. It’s glam rock, you uncultured swines. 😒

@mynerdrage @izzy-come-out-where-ever-you-are @lostonehero

lostonehero

I enjoy swing music and I wish I could swing dance

@syndcates @syndianites @impalas-tardises-221b

syndianites

I’m super insecure about everything but my love for my friends makes me do things I normally wouldn’t and I love them more for that

@do-rey-me @s1n-am0n @broadwaytheanimatedseries

do-rey-me

im super insecure abt my voice as i have a stutter (its probs not bad anymore but yanno,, my brain exaggerates the issue a lil bit) but i’m still talking!

@flora-fairie @ive-given-up-on-it @somewhatsanders

ive-given-up-on-it

There is a dent in my ankle from when I accidentally stabbed myswlf with a pencil while doing math homework in 4th grade

@time-traveling-lesbian-dinosaur @s-a-d—b-o-i @12helene13

billetdouxblossom-deactivated20

Wowow How about I don’t go outside a lot cause I am literally allergic to the sun?

@xxtigersharxx @the-phantastic-plan @wildflower-lester

xenopuslaevis

OOF when I was one-ish I fell down concrete basement stairs and didn’t even cry, I was just embarrassed lmao

@reallysag @buckyee-barnes @urlriddledwithgramaticalerrors @make-vegan-nutella-a-thing @cthebooklover @charlotteroo12 @aexo289 @seokiebear @katania48 @dansmemedealer

howlfairy

I’d rather die than eat a tomato

@blue-broken-heart @kangjiyeah @okneiljos @thoughts-of-a-teenaged-girl

blue-broken-heart

I’m allergic to tomatoes and fries

@calypsomarie @hello-my-name-is-sharpshooter @imjustrassh

calypsomarie

I’m left-handed

@lockedawayinmytower @lovelylovell @itsjustbogi

whale-sshark-blog

When I was little I was so mad that when I took my backpack off I jabbed my shoulder with my thumb nail and cut a chunk of my skin off. (I still have the mark)

@ilikephan (I have no friends since I’m relevantly new here)

dreamlightasafeather

IF YOU NEED TO CALL 911 BUT ARE SCARED TO BECAUSE OF SOMEONE IN THE ROOM, dial and ask for a pepperoni pizza. They will ask if you know you’re calling 911. Say yes, and continue pretending you’re making an order. They’ll ask if there’s someone in the room.

You can ask how long it will take for the pizza to get to you, and they will tell you how far away a dispatcher is.

Here is an example video

t-pose-to-assert-gayness

Reblog to literally save a life

anotherdayforchaosfay

I’ve done this. I’m alive because of this.

My flat-mate’s date for the night was almost as drunk as her. She had passed out in her room and locked the door. He refused to leave because he wanted to have sex. He also demanded food because he was dealing with “whiskey dick”. He didn’t like the lack of food in the fridge. I called 911, did the stuff stated above, and he was getting PISSED about how long the “order” was taking. He took my phone, demanded they “hurry the fuck up”. Police arrived two minutes later, arrested him, and helped me file a police report. Pressing charges wasn’t necessary because he had warrants on him from THREE different states for the very thing he planned to do to me. Several months after this happened one of the officers informed me he was charged with two felonies because he crossed stay lines, and will be serving no less than 35 years in prison. The officer ripped into my flat-mate about her bringing home complete strangers, while drunk, knowing full well this shit could happen.

This was 14 years ago.

Do the pizza order, do it as calmly as you can. The dispatcher I spoke to said things like this:

“If he’s drunk say you want mushrooms.” I said I want extra mushrooms.

“If he’s threatening you with sexual assault say you want onions.” I said I want onions.

She went like this with different toppings and sauces for a description of him, like pineapple if he’s blonde, black olives if he’s tall, extra large if he’s tall, etc.

They’ve heard this sort of coded call before. They’re trained for it. They will understand what you’re saying. Order the pizza.

torios

Really though. I’m in training for dispatch and this was one of the first things they taught us. Pretend you’re talking to a friend or relative, pretend you’re ordering pizza, we’ll figure it out. We’ll word questions so you can answer in an easy, casual way. Please, just make the call and we will do everything we can to help you.

skelatal-remains-deactivated201

Reblog to save a life

beauttifullife

When Your Number Is Called

My name is Courtney, and I was born at 5:15 AM on October 26th, 1988. When I was born my parents didn’t ask the doctor if I was a boy or a girl, or if I was healthy. Instead they asked, “what’s the number?”

The room braced for the doctor’s answer. My parents held each other close, both openly crying as they prayed for good news. “Her number is…” started the doctor, flipping my right wrist over and reading the black numbers that spread across it. “152310232048.”

My parents cried in relief.

I would live a good life.

I had a good number.

You see, in my world, everyone is born with a 12-digit number on their right wrist. What does the number mean exactly? Well—the number gives us the day we die. We don’t know how we will die, but we will—at that exact time. Think of it like the expiration date you see on a jug of milk. After the expiration date, you throw away the milk, right? Well, that is what the marks on our wrists mean. We obviously don’t get thrown away in the trash, but we cease to exist after that date. And just like that jug of milk buried in some landfill, we too will be buried in the ground.

My number is 152310232048.

Which means that at 3:23 PM on October 23rd, 2048—I will die.

I will live to be 59 years old.

I have a good number. It isn’t the best number. My brother is going to live to be 88. My parents, couldn’t believe it when the doctor read his number out loud. He will live 29 years longer than me. He will see so much more than me, experience so much more than me. He might even live to see his great-great grandchildren—I’ll be lucky to see my grandchildren.

I sometimes get jealous when I see his number.

But this is my life.

I can’t change my number.

It is permanent.

Medicine, money, and miracles do not change your number. You can certainly die earlier then your number, but to die before your number is rare. People just tend to be more careful. After all, when you are constantly walking around with a literal reminder of your time left on earth on your wrist, you tend appreciate the life you have a little more.

I have a good number.

I’m reminded of this when I see other people’s number.

The first time this happened was when I was 5 years old.

On my first day of school, I was in kindergarten and I’ve never really interacted with any other kids besides my older cousins. I was nervous, so when recess was called, I decided to go to the swings. Anyone who liked swings as much as me—well, they were cool in my book.

On my way to an open swing a wild boy with a dinosaur shirt, and brown eyes full of mischief, performed a back flip off the swings and nearly knocked me over in his crash landing. He jumped up, dusted off his pants and smiled at me and said, “My names Devon, and I am going to live to be 57.”

It was such a typical kid way of introducing themselves. Adults tended to be more secretive of their numbers. Wearing watches, or long-sleeved shirts to cover up their numbers, but five year olds—we didn’t understand the concept of subtlety.

Clearly.

Another body quickly landed next to him, this one thankfully on their feet. It was a red-haired girl, with two perfectly braided pig tails. “My names Fiona, and I’m going to live to be 62.”

Another body landed next to her. He stumbled a bit on his landing, and his glasses fell down the bridge of his nose as he found his balance. “Hi, I’m Oscar,” he smiled, shaking his long brown hair out of his eyes as he pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’m going to live to be 17.”

Mind you—we were in kindergarten. We were literally learning our ABC’s, learning how to tie our shoes, and zip up our coats, but the concept of numbers—that we didn’t need to learn. Our parents made sure we knew what our number was, and what their number was, and what grandma’s number was—numbers were literally ingrained into our minds, much like the literal numbers that adorned our wrists.

Which meant even at 5 years old, I knew that Oscar—well Oscar, had a bad number.

It must have showed on my face because the boy—a boy who I didn’t even know, hugged me. And as he squeezed me, he said, “It’s okay,” before pulling back and smiling. “My dad’s say that seventeen is plenty of time. They said it is isn’t about how high your number is—but it’s about what you do with the number you get.”

Looking back now, as an adult thinking about having my own child—I’d probably say the same thing to my child if they were born with a bad number. What else can you do? You can’t change your child’s number. You can’t give your child more time, no matter how much you wish you could take the numbers off your wrist and place them on your child’s—you just can’t. Your job as a parent is to protect your children, but you can’t protect them from the inevitable, so instead, you give them something else.

Oscar’s dads gave him hope.

His dads were great people. I grew close to them as we progressed through school because obviously, Oscar, Fiona and Devon and me—we became best friends after the day on the swings. We called our group “The Swingers,” much to the embarrassment of our parents. We didn’t understand why they didn’t like our group nickname when we were young, but we finally understood when we were 15—and thanks to the internet, we learned exactly what “swingers” were. But even after learning the sexual nature of our group nickname, we still kept it, because honestly, what teenagers didn’t like tormenting their parents?

“Courtney where are you going? It’s late!”

“Dad said I can go to Oscar’s house!”

“And what will you be doing at Oscar’s house?”

“God mom—we are just having a swinger party, can I go now?”

The look of embarrassment on my parent’s face was always perfect—especially in public.

Speaking of Oscar’s house. His house became the “hang out” spot for us four. Mostly because his dads had an awesome basement, and his dad Jerry was professional Chef, which meant we ate good there. But back to Oscar’s dads—they were awesome. They adopted Oscar when he was just an infant. His mother gave him up when she saw his number. It was an epidemic in our world. Foster homes were full of children with bad numbers.

But Oscar’s dads, they didn’t see his number. They just saw Oscar. This happy, intelligent, beautiful blue-eyed child who just so happened to be destined to die young. They didn’t see his number—instead they just saw Oscar.

Devon, Fiona, and I—we only saw Oscar too.

Most of the kids in our class didn’t really attempt to get to know Oscar, because honestly, what was the point? He wouldn’t be around for long. So, it was the four of us—for as long as we had the four of us.

We laughed.

We cried.

We fought.

We experienced our first kisses.

We loved.

We had our hearts broken.

We got drunk once—never again.

We got high—more than once.

We just lived.

“The Swingers” lived every day to the fullest—until the day came when four was about to become three. Oscar’s day would land just a few weeks before our Senior graduation. We always knew his number, but it never seemed real until it came so close to the actual date on our calendar.

Oscar took accelerated courses so that he could graduate before—his number came up. The school planned a graduation ceremony just for him the day before his number. His dad’s and his extended family fills the stands, the rest of his class sit in the chairs, the very same chairs they will soon fill in a couple of weeks when the class of 2007 would all walk together. The principal called out Oscar’s name, and he stepped up to the microphone.

Oscar was the schools valedictorian. He stayed late after school, he studied well into the night, he worked hard—so hard, that his dedication to his studies really got in the way of “swinger” time. One day, after another late night of not seeing Oscar because he was studying for a Chemistry test, I yelled at him. “It is just a Chemistry test Oscar! If you get a B, it won’t be the end of the world!”

Oscar barely blinked an eye at my outburst, instead, much like that day in front of the swings—he pulled me into a hug. “Look, this is the only time I have to be great,” he said. “I don’t get anything after this. So, if this is all I get—I’m going to be the best.”

And he did.

He became the best.

A 4.0 grade point average

An SAT score of 1560.

And he never filled out a single college application.

Oscar cleared his throat in front of the microphone, garnering everyone’s attention. “Thank you for everyone who came today. It means a lot, to me. Very much like my life, I’m going to keep this speech short.”

Gasps echoed through the gym and Oscar smiled.

“That was not meant to be a joke. Please don’t think that I am making light of the fact that tomorrow is my number. Instead, I say that I will keep this speech short—because I think the world tends to greatly underestimate the power of something short.”

“My mother gave me up for adoption when I was only 1 minute old. As soon as the doctor read my number, she signed over custody of me to the state. I always wondered, how can I be judged of my quality of life, before I’ve even taken my first shit.”

Laughter echoed from the students, gasps echoed from the parents, and grumbles of disapproval echoed from the teacher’s and administration. But Oscar just smiled, as he looked back at the principal. “Feel free to give me a detention this weekend for cussing,” he joked, earning another chuckle from the students.

“She was wrong—by the way,” continued Oscar, his gaze going back out to the gym. “Anyone who ever stared at my number, and looked at me with sadness—you were wrong. I have lived—not as long as our parents and not as long as you all will live—but make no mistake, I have lived. My life may have been short, but it doesn’t mean it has been any less significant as someone who lived well into their 80’s.”

Taking in a breath, he gave his parents and then the swingers a shaky smile. “Every second of every single day for the past seventeen years—have been lived to the fullest because simply, I didn’t have the time to waste. Every moment of my life has counted, cherished and loved—can you say the same thing about yours?”

Oscar died on 2:13 PM on March 16th, 2007.

Like his number said, he lived to be 17.

He had a bad number

But he didn’t let his number define him.

Instead he lived every day, until his number was called.

This story was adapted and turned into a 50 page short story, and is now available for purchase through Amazon!

The Kindle format can be purchased here for $2.99

The Paperback format can be purchased here for $5.99

It is also free with Kindle Unlimited!

Thank you for reading this story, and for your support if your purchased the book!