cecinestpasunblog

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if only dog had a bigger bed available, or perhaps two. maybe even a human bed. alas, he must make do with a measly little pillow.

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i dont believe in gender for real its just a fetish thing to me

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One thing I really like about Beverly Engel's book It Wasn't Your Fault, which is about PTSD-induced toxic shame, is that quite a bit of it deals with people who haven't broken The Cycle of Abuse (TM) and have gone on to hurt others. That's a really underserved and vulnerable patient population, and statistically, it's also MASSIVE. I don't think I've read a single other self-help type book on PTSD and self-loathing that confronts the possibility that you're exactly as bad as you think you are.

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I miss the world being tactile. I miss pushing buttons. I miss switching over to your favorite radio station in the car without having to look, I miss punching in a customer’s phone number without having to look, I miss sending a sneaky text without having to look, I miss turning on my morning alarms without having to look… I miss pressing physical buttons for cash amounts and knowing that you did it correctly because you felt the correct release under your fingertips. I miss the satisfying clinks of my grandmother's 80's typewriter. I miss the crunching of gear mechanisms beneath the pads of my flesh. I miss the tick-tick-tick sensation. I don't want to touch and retouch a surface covered with the visible smears of thousands of fingerprints. I don't want to talk to my T.V. remote. I don't want a keypad to rise up as a smooth, steely reminder that our tools are losing the human feeling of texture, grit, and raw material. If I have to touch another screen I might die.

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As , the United States, potentially heads into another forever war I can only think of this quote.

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Anyone got that poem written from the perspective of an English teacher where they know deeply personal things about their now adult students because of the essays they wrote

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I took my little brother (autistic, mostly non verbal) out and he was using his voice keyboard to tell me something, and this little boy (maybe 4 or 5?) heard him and asked me "Is he a robot??" I tried to explain to him that no, he isn't a robot, he just communicates differently, but my darling brother was in the background max volume "I am robot I am robot I am robot I am robot"

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i dont care how corny iris by the goo goo dolls is bc i love iris by the goo goo dolls and i will continue screaming iris by the goo goo dolls from the top of my lungs every time i hear iris by the goo goo dolls for the rest of my miserable life 

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“He would not fucking say that” except its the badly written source material so he did, in fact, say that

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the human mind is prone to catastrophizing when left unoccupied. And that’s why it’s important to always have a little Blorbo to rotate in your head. It acts as a protective charm of sorts to redirect your imagination away from harmful spirals

thoughts without Blorbo: oh my god I was so cringe in seventh grade why did I do that

thoughts with Blorbo: I haven’t considered the interactions with bleebus; I must rectify this immediately

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Guy who is ostensibly a furry artist but seemingly unable to make a fusobacterium. This is what autocorrect suggested instead of fursona so that's what this post is about now.

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the problem with "tumblr is dying add me on discord" is that posting on tumblr is like jovially walking down the street chatting to no one in particular and dming on discord is like having a sleepover conversation with one specific person both are good but theyre not substitutes

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Ask yourself: what’s good about this moment right now? Is the sun out? Can you hear birds? Are you drinking coffee? Can you smell freshly cut grass? Is your bed soft and warm? These little things are oh so precious and yet seem so arbitrary.