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All it ever does is rain, Christophe Jarcot

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In the states you can go to Walmart and buy a shotgun using your Mastercard, but a game could be censored for being LGBTQ themed.

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The Ocean at Dusk -  Kate Jarvik Birch 

American , b. 1977 -

Gouache on paper , 10 x 10 in.

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✦ ah the deep desire of having sharp teeth ✦

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not to sound like a christian facebook mom but some of yall need to have grace in your hearts for the people in your lives or the people you pass once on the road and never see again like you literally need to stop assuming the worst of everyone and their intentions it is poisoning your brain. you can be careful and responsible without being a miserable person. it is possible i promise

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Tattoo commission for AetherealAri 🐇🌙💕

Thank you so much Ari, I had a blast working on this!!

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Caged Panther by Sevil-s (Maria Sevils) - on Instagram

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my eyes are up here

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YOOOOOO I JUST GOT MY FIRST LIBRARY CARD SINCE LIKE 2007 IT WAS SO EASY???

Like they literally just needed any photo ID with an address, I thought they needed like unopened mail and paperwork and crap, it took 5 goddamn minutes, I did it on my way home from work

And was NOBODY gonna tell me libraries have websites now with ebooks and audiobooks and documentaries and British TV and shit???

Why the FUCK have I been paying Netflix

GO GET A LIBRARY CARD

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holy shit I just discovered this crazy technique for being right almost all of the time it's called "double checking something before boldly stating it as if it were fact" this could be the next big thing. this could be the song of the summer

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My toxic trait is that I judge people by their top three Shakespeare plays - just like folks who are into the horoscope judge you based on your sun, moon and rising signs.

Btw mine are Macbeth, Richard II and The Tempest

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This is your reminder to Click for Palestine today!

And donate directly to UNRWA if you have the means!

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On Saturday I said to my partner, as I have said for months, "A ten thousand dollar a year raise would solve so many of my problems."

As of this morning I was reluctantly looking for jobs because I love my job and don't want to leave it, but see: $10k raise problem solver.

As of noon today this was no longer an issue, because my boss called me with the news that I was getting a $10K merit raise.

I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. This is roughly $200 extra per paycheck. Enough to pay off debt faster, rebuild my savings, and spend a weekend a month in Milwaukee getting obscenely laid. The sex I'm going to have on $200 extra per paycheck. You can't even.

May all of you get the $10K raise your soul has yearned for. And whatever level of sex you can be satisfied with for $200.

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I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.

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“I would die for my kids” your children want an apology

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not allowed to say Harry Potter, but what was your book series obsession as a teen

mine was definitely Eragon