sat through a lecture on paleolithic and neolithic culture and society and all i can think abt is how from as early as there have been anatomically modern humans (and even before in some cases) there is archaelogical evidence of gender and sexual variance, caring for the elderly and disabled, a drive to make art and music, a powerful affection for animals and each other, and a desire to learn as much as possible about the world as we can and yet people will still insist these things are not human nature and therefore unnatural, that the things we consider to be essentially human in nature are very recent in the span of our history or felt by only a rare few and not something integral to our humanity and success as a collective whole.
the more we study and analyse history the more we learn what it means to be human, all the good and all the bad, the closer we come to understanding that many things people have considered to be weaknesses of character, illnesses of the person, or meaningless in the face of our mortality are functionally necessary to our humanity and cannot be erased or ignored
DRYP - an app that keeps your plants alive and happy
Hi Tumblr!
I know I’ve been gone for a while.
In part it’s because I’ve been working on an app!
I keep a lot of plants. I think everyone should!
- They clean your air
- They give you something to name
- They give you something to take care of
- They teach you about care, needs, and resources
- They make you look like you’re good at decorating
Here are some of mine:
But some people, because they’re overwhelmed or simply can’t figure out how to start, think that plants are out of their reach.
DRYP is for newcomers and experts.
It reminds you when to water
And it helps you fix what’s broken
If you think the world would be better with this app in it, please consider contributing to the Kickstarter!
I’ve tried to make it worth your while:
Again here’s the link to contribute:
DRYP - an app that keeps your plants alive and happy
And if you like me / if you like my idea, please signal boost!
Your name is Sylvester Surgebreak, and you don't like blood very much.
Come to think of it, you haven't liked it since you were very small, and most of the fish you pulled from the water of the Bay were ever at once glad for that and also probably utterly disgusted with you as a goblin. You couldn't so much as pull the hook from their mouths, you had to cut it off instead and go hungry, and least of all could you be counted on to do something like gut the fuckin' thing.
These facts did not change as you got older. Even when you took it upon yourself to make as many bad decisions as you could muster in a short period of time they did not change, which is probably somewhat surprising considering the lot you took company from, and years later you still wonder how you managed to keep said company while also being entirely squeamish about the whole thing.
Well, most of the time.
Most of the time you were terribly violent, but never bloody, and most of the time whomsoever happened to be getting water-boarded for the trouble they'd caused you or one of your betters was more or less happy for that. You did not cause many scars because scars require the splitting of flesh and sometimes the movement of bone and, frankly, you just cannot stomach any of that.
Most of the time.
Sometimes it didn't quite work out that way, and there'd be this awful (euphoric?) feeling before you found yourself wrist deep in someone's stomach or pulling at tendons when you were sure no noise would leave the room, just to see how their fingers moved or to prove you weren't kidding when you said you were 'going to check and see if they'd swallowed that cog-damned key'. Yeah, really-really.
Those moments are few and far between, and you're glad for that. The bile that lifts, sweet and sour on the back of your tongue, usually comes just after and it tastes just terrible. It tastes like regret; like how really bad decisions taste the moment after you make them, which is precisely what you are tasting now. You are tasting the bittersweet aftermath of a decision you – or some part of you – made about thirty seconds prior, when this surly little sumbitch had decided he wasn't going to cooperate and you, oh, you, decided for him that he was.
Unfortunately you're also pretty sure that the lower half of the man's jaw being removed for the trouble it'd gone through to cuss some sweet nothing at you is not going to make it any easier for him to do that cooperating. While you wipe the vomit from the edges of your lips with the back of your glove you hope, damn it all you hope, that it'll do the trick for his friend who got to watch it all. You lay your ears back to yourself and wonder, too, if instead of that he's going to laugh at you. You did this, he'll say, you did this and you got squeamish about it? What a bitch, he'll sneer, what a little bitch.
You decide not to turn around because you can hear the ragged, visceral sounds of a man drowning in their own life-blood and you're pretty sure it'll make you sick again if you look at it. Instead, you draw a little recorder from your jacket-pocket and sigh into the tiny microphone undoubtedly hearing the very same behind you.
“Expedition, code-name Syl Is A Thoughtless Asshole, log...what is this, four?” comes your grumble. “I think it necessary to insist I had no intention of being an asshole, but that desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“All he did was call you a slimy cunt you fuckin' psy—hgck!”
The desire to shut the man's friend up with a good pat on the teeth has allowed you to successfully overcome your squeamishness for just a moment, and you shake your hand of its ache while continuing, “A trade route is a precious thing, Baroness. You'll kindly forgive me my trespasses if they can, in fact, be called trespasses, but as far as I could tell it weren't my fuckin' smile you hired me f-- I swear to Cog, kid,” you have the sense to muffle the recorder in your palm, at least, but hiss regardless: “If you say one more fuckin' word I will...eugh, oh, hrk--god, there's so much of it, nevermind—no, shut it. Just-- shush. Quiet.”
Louder, then, you continue, “My smile ain't that great, so you must have hired me because I looked half useful. I refuse staunchly to give too many sordid details over this neat little bit'a wires, but let this stand as audible proof I at least got something done when you sent me waltzin' from your office.
“And I have,” you breathe, swallowing a thick glob of nauseated mouth-sweats, “gotten something done.”
You take the next few moments to explain yourself; that the man making all those awful noises behind you (no, no, the noises, not the words—he's someone else) is surnamed Wrenchcrack, and that he had plans to pay some of the merchants your Baroness sent along an otherwise safe and well-traveled route a visit that would have cost her precious information. It is terribly unfortunate, you relay, that he cannot tell you his name himself but...he's missing some of the equipment required to form words. His friend, the high and trembling voice actually forming coherent and very generous sentences, is the one who goes on to add that they answered to a man who has the audacity, you add, to call himself Trade-Baron Wrenchcrack.
“Who sends their own kid to do this kind'a shit? I mean, did he think the man wasn't gonna run into any set-backs?” is the second-to-last thing you mutter into the recorder while it and all its little electrical currents go through the motions of capturing the sounds that follow those words: the sounds of clothing tearing, voices hollering, liquid of some sort spilling this way and that, and then the crackling roar of a blaze.
You nearly forget about the fuckin' thing in your back pocket whilst watching the wamrth you've created and making sure to vomit again at least ten feet away. Luckily, it falls from that space and when it lands at your feet a few inches from the puddle you'll have the sense to pick it up and cough. “Whups—Syl, out.”
This time, you did not wake to the eyes of your cousin or your friends.
“Now, strike!”
This time you wake up to father, to Gadgetzan, to home, and you are not entirely certain you are thankful for it.
“No? What is the matter with you?” You father’s voice, which sneers at you now, is the same one that greeted you when you opened your eyes. The hazy faces of cousins and lovers you only had in wonderful dreams fades easily in the face of his growling, and when you look up from the bloodied mug of the most recent victim let to suffer your training, sitting there on the ground with a hand on his nose, you feel a little sick for it. Your sire hates it. You kind of hope he dies mad about that in pure spite of the diffidence that tilts your ears back and shrinks your broad shoulders like a little boy.
You tower nearly half a foot above him and, still, the severity of the man frowning before you is enough to set you back to childhood. “He’s beaten, father,” you explain, weakly gesturing with your hammer. You never struck him with it, but a slip up on the young man’s part earned him a rather rough kiss from your shield. If he’s lucky his nose will work when it heals; you’re a lot stronger than you realize.
“Is he?”
“Soundly,” you add, exasperated, and drop your weapon to make the point a little clearer.
“Your sister would have struck until the point was made,” Jasper Gearsnap, possibly the person you hate most in this ruined world, croons like it was the obvious thing to say. Like killing the man for any trouble at all is worth the trouble itself. He must have seen you bristle, because the smile that curls up onto his lips is one you don’t often have the luck to catch. That alone is enough to strike you into silence, and without another word you turn from the shorter man to help the goblin still sitting, bleeding on the hard-packed dirt, back to his feet.
You’ll feel shitty about the frightened cringe the guard, a mere boy, gives later. For now, you await the curt dismissal of your father – “Go on, then.” – before helping him inside and into the care of one equally exasperated doctor.
This time, you are no one’s Sunshine, and to tell the honest truth you’d rather have been left to dream.
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