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"endos make a mockery of REAL systems" "ace people make a mockery of REAL queer people" "nonbinary people make a mockery of REAL trans people" "self-diagnosed people make a mockery of REAL disabled people" "bisexuals make a mockery of REAL gay people" "non-dysphoric trans people make a mockery of REAL trans people" "trans lesbians make a mockery of REAL lesbians"

arent you tired? arent you tired? arent you tired?

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a howling ray of light pierces my eyes

the bells of parting toll

the answer born out of the history built by god

tastes like sand

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the lion does not concern themselves with only liking media that is currently popular

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desmond and his factives of altair ezio and connor

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i dont even play any of the hoyo games sometimes they just design characters that make me go ohh youre pretty! let's find some posts about you

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the heretic

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congratulations!

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the great performer

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Fursuits are literally awesome I think you have to be a completely whimsiless empty husk of a person to see a fursuiter and have an instinctual disgust reaction. I have nothing in common with these people............ how can u see a big colorful masterfully made cartoon animal come to life in front of you and just go "ew :/ that's weird"

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person in fandom: eeeyikes!!! i hope im writing this character in this short little fanfic right >_< eeekkk what if my takes on my meta are all wrong and everyone will Kill me!!

guy in professional comic industry: okay lets mischaracterize every single character that appears in this comic for 50 or so issues

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I think I may never be sad ever again. There is a statue entitled "Farewell to Orpheus" on my college campus. It's been there since 1968, created by a Prof. Frederic Littman that use to work at the university. It sits in the middle of a fountain, and the fountain is often full of litter. I have taken it upon myself to clean the litter out when I see it (the skimmers only come by once a week at max). But because of my style of dress, this means that bystanders see a twenty-something on their hands and knees at the edge of the fountain, sleeves rolled up, trying not to splash dirty water on their slacks while their briefcase and suit coat sit nearby. This is fine, usually. But today was Saturday Market, which means the twenty or so people in the area suddenly became hundreds. So, obviously, somebody stopped to ask what I was doing. "This," I gestured at the statue, "is Eurydice. She was the wife of Orpheus, the greatest storyteller in Greece. And this litter is disrespectful." Then, on a whim, I squinted up at them. "Do you know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?" "No," they replied, shifting slightly to sit.

"Would you like to?"

"Sure!"

So I told them. I told them the story as I know it- and I've had a bit of practice. Orpheus, child of a wishing star, favorite of the messenger god, who had a hard-working, wonderful wife, Eurydice; his harp that could lull beasts to passivity, coax song from nymphs, and move mountains before him; and the men who, while he dreamed and composed, came to steal Eurydice away. I told of how she ran, and the water splashed up on my clothes. But I didn't care. I told of how the adder in the field bit her heel, and she died. I told of the Underworld- how Orpheus charmed the riverman, pacified Cerberus with a lullaby, and melted the hearts of the wise judges. I laughed as I remarked how lucky he was that it was winter- for Persephone was moved by his song where Hades was not. She convinced Hades to let Orpheus prove he was worthy of taking Eurydice. I tugged my coat back on, and said how Orpheus had to play and sing all the way out of the Underworld, without ever looking back to see if his beloved wife followed. And I told how, when he stopped for breath, he thought he heard her stumble and fall, and turned to help her up- but it was too late. I told the story four times after that, to four different groups, each larger than the last. And I must have cast a glance at the statue, something that said "I'm sorry, I miss you--" because when I finished my second to last retelling, a young boy piped up, perhaps seven or eight, and asked me a question that has made my day, and potentially my life: "Are you Orpheus?" I told the tale of the grieving bard so well, so convincingly, that in the eyes of a child I was telling not a story, but a memory. And while I laughed in the moment, with everyone else, I wept with gratitude and joy when I came home. This is more than I deserve, and I think I may never be sad again.

Here is the aforementioned statue, by the way.

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i actually think its incredibly funny that people can just log on to the internet and get in a fight with a guy in another country. what a privileged time we live in. you used to have to go to war to do that

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man this guy is my favourite character (throws rocks at him) (throws rocks at him) (throws rocks at him) (throws rocks at him (thr

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broken links are enriching for a wiki article theyre basically seasoning. theyre chili flakes

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youre not “bad at art” you just need to find a character to latch onto to where you draw them 1 million times and you improve dramatically