itsybitsygingie

[itsybitsygingie]

[itsybitsygingie]

did you ever consider becoming a literary writer rather than a fantasy writer? w

I don't think I ever wanted to be anything more than a storyteller and a writer. Other people can decide where the books get shelved.

[itsybitsygingie]

[itsybitsygingie]

King Charles and his … consort (abridged version)

[itsybitsygingie]

Heartbreaking: girl has to get out of bed

[itsybitsygingie]

parents be like "your mental illness is so hard to deal with" my brother in christ you are the one who caused it

[itsybitsygingie]

if psychic Pokemon glow like in the anime when they use their telekinesis or whatever I bet that like at least once a week their trainer sees them glowing with no floating item in sight and have to be like “WHAT ARE YOU FLOATING? WHAT DO YOU HAVE” like when your cat is chewing something you didn’t feed them

[itsybitsygingie]

This too shall pass (x)

[itsybitsygingie]

thinking about the time i was struggling to open my water bottle in class, and a girl that i had spoken to maybe 3 times came up to me and went

"let me help you baby"

and then proceeded to struggle to open the bottle

[itsybitsygingie]

“Mean girls all grow up to be nurses!”

“Mean girls all go into social work!”

“The mean girl to teacher pipeline!”

Y’all, these are just pink collar jobs. The reason you think there’s so many “mean girls” in these fields is because they’re all like 97% women. Of course some of them are gonna be assholes. There’s assholes everywhere.

We get it. Your job isn’t like other girls’ jobs. It’s a cool job.

[itsybitsygingie]

The eradication of adobe flash dress-up games directly led to the creation of NFT's.

[itsybitsygingie]

y’all: here’s some alternatives to tumblr in case the site get merked on dec 17th

me:

[itsybitsygingie]

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.

[itsybitsygingie]

suzanne collins killing prim after everything katniss did to save her.......... THATS how you write a story about the brutality and futility of war ma'am thats what we call a compelling and fucked up narrative yessums thats storytelling babes!!!!

[itsybitsygingie]

protect them

[itsybitsygingie]

floppy floop

Maki

[itsybitsygingie]

“In 1404, King Taejong fell from his horse during a hunting expedition. Embarrassed, looking to his left and right, he commanded, “Do not let the historian find out about this.” To his disappointment, the historian accompanying the hunting party included these words in the annals, in addition to a description of the king’s fall.“

LMFAOOOOOO rip to that guy