corgiss

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sighs dreamily

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longing

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Lemme tell u guys a story

In my freshman year, my great grandma passed away. She never threw out or sold anything worth keeping if she could help it, having grown up in the Depression, so when she passed, my grandma suddenly inherited a lifetime’s worth of treasured items. She distributed most of them to her kids and grandkids, saved some sentimental items, and donated most of the clothing and trinkets to charity. I got back the stuffed leopard I’d given great-grandma in the hospital; the fur was still as soft as it’d been when I bought it. One of the biggest things she had to sort through was jewelry. For a year after my great-grandma died, my grandma was setting out organized rows of costume jewelry on basement tables and chivvying her granddaughters to take what they wanted.

And then, after all the choosing, she snuck me into her room while my cousins picked through wristwatches. On her bed were two small jewelry boxes: an old wooden one, and a cushioned one in white pleather.

“I brought you in here because if I gave these to your cousins, they’d sell it. I don’t want these sold. Do you understand?”

I understood.

This is the story of the biggest lie my grandma ever told her mom.

Great-grandma’s birthstone was garnet, and she loved the look of the stones, but could never justify paying for some. Her husband worked constantly, and so did she, and new clothes for the kids was more important than jewelry at the time. When my grandma was 16, she saved her first paychecks to buy her mom a garnet ring for Mother’s Day; that’s what was in the wooden box. The original receipt, handwritten, was crammed into the lid. Great-grandpa saw that ring and teared up; he’d always wanted to get his wife something nice like that, but hadn’t ever had enough money for it. Determined, he vowed to change that. He set aside money for years, slowly, hiding it away in a box in the attic, vowing to buy his wife something she could always wear with her ring.

Time passed, and inflation happened, and he slowly squirreled money away in the hopes that jewelry might get cheaper again sometime. Time passed again, and age had little mercy on him. He got older, typed up a note, and placed in in the box, describing what the money was for; he knew his time was near. Under no circumstances was the money to be spent on anything other than giving his wife a nice gift. The letter read, “One day, my dear Ruth, you’ll have garnet earrings to match that ring.” It’s what great-grandma had always mourned missing; she had such a nice ring, and no good earrings to go with it.

Well, men don’t live forever, and when great-grandpa passed away, my grandma cleaned out her mom’s attic as she prepared to move somewhere smaller. Going through boxes of polaroids and paper clips, she stumbled on the box of earrings money, note and all. She stashed it with her coat, and after that day of cleaning, went to the jeweler before her mom could try and spend the money on something too sensible. She came back with the white pleather box; sure enough, still nestled inside that box were two clip-on garnet earrings.

”Mom never got her ears pierced, you know. That’s why it took so long to find a good pair.”

Once she’d gotten the earrings, grandma presented them to her mom, along with the note. The paper was obviously old and warped by moisture, but it was legible. My great grandma cried happy tears and treasured those earrings more than any other jewelry; the last gift her husband could give her. Decades after the fact, I’d seen her wear them to Christmas parties and worry over them, checking that they stayed on her earlobes.

There was never any note from great-grandpa. Never any box. Never any earring money. My great-grandpa had spent his saved money keeping himself and his wife confortable throughout retirement. To set aside hundreds of dollars, even a bit at a time, for garnet earrings, was never a thought that crossed his mind. My grandma had seen her mom, exhausted, wracked with grief, and lied through her teeth about where she’d gotten the money for those earrings. She faked the note and everything, making sure her mom wouldn’t wonder where the money came from, and never winced at the pinch in her own pockets. And she never told a soul, not even my mom, until great-grandma was safely and thoroughly buried herself.

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the amount of times I’ve seen a piece of media claim that a character wears red because it hides blood and blood stains drives me insane. red cloth does not hide blood!!! black cloth does!!!!!

red cloth turns dark when wet. if it stains, it stains brown. black cloth is much easier to hide blood with, because the only indication of it being wet is a shine to it, and stains are only visible if they bleach the fabric.

this is of course dependent on the type of fabric, but as a general, red cloth does absolutely jack shit to hide blood.

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while I don’t agree with that referring to men in their 30s-early 40s as “old man yaoi”, I UNDERSTAND why many people who primarily consume honest-to-goodness BL manga are quicker to call it that, because there is just such poor representation for men that aren’t hairless dehydrated 20-something twunks. They’re wrong, but I get why it happens.

I also understand that “middle-aged yaoi” isn’t as fun to say as “old man yaoi”, even when it’s more technically accurate.

So I would like to propose new vocabulary: Grown Ass Yaoi. yaoi that’s grown ass men. they’re not old but they’re not young adults either. you get me? Grown Ass Yaoi

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reblog if you have skilled writer friends and you're damn proud of them

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well the eagle eats my liver every day around 3pm, but otherwise i can meet when it best suits your schedule!

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Do you believe in any superstitions? for example walking under ladders being bad luck, not opening umbrellas indoors, etc

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“I asked ChatGPT —”

Okay well I asked the picture of Michael Jackson in my pocket and he told me to get the fries with my burger soooo

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Stop using the word degenerate to mean horny challenge

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I had this truly awful lady I worked with many years ago. She was rude, callous, and generally pretty unpleasant. She was exceptionally homophobic to my face. She told me incredibly upsetting stories about animal abuse.

But even with all that negative karma I don’t think anyone deserves to have their boyfriend literally die on them while having sex.

Which is what happened to her.

He orgasmed and apparently that ruptured a blood vessel somewhere important can’t remember if it was brain but I think so and he died with his dick still inside her which I’m pretty sure is the kind of thing that should guarantee you free therapy for the rest of your life.

But the craziest part was that she performed CPR and actually managed to restart his bodily function which is absolutely mind boggling. Can you imagine going from mid coitus to life saving procedure? The presence of mind she must have had. It’s bonkers.

Ultimately, he didn’t live. While she’d gotten his body going his brain never resumed function and he passed a few hours later.

But because she’d kept his heart beating he was at the hospital when he died and he was an organ donor. They were able to harvest his organs under ideal conditions. Even though she didn’t save him she did save three or four other people by resuscitating him.

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ok because the other poll was bugging me:

Bracketed according to the REAL tumblrina demographics. Reblog or whatever. Sample size or whatever.

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boop! forgot to post this here

also a lil bonus if you wanna connect it to my other post :3