#Humor as coping

[headcanonthings]

Tim: *dies* Stephanie: Timer starts now! When do you think he’ll be back? I say two months Damian: Bullshit. One month Dick: nah, half a month Bruce, sobbing: WHAT ARE YOU DOING? TIM JUST DIED! Jason, scratching his chin in thought: One week

[obscurix]

the sexual tension between my name and a tombstone.

[xvelvetcoffinx]

someone: are you okay?

me: *pouring gasoline on myself* yeah why do you ask?

[snowberttt]

parbt 4 yayyyyyy playlist album covers

someone get this guy an ad blocker man

[westerberg]

[voidbellamy]

Bob: hey, do you want to hear my pickup lines?

You: absolutely!

Bob: okay, okay… ready?

Bob: are you hard drugs, because I’m addicted to you.

You: D:

Bob: are you me when I was a child, because I’d hit that…

You: D:

Bob: are you a needle because—

You: *now crying*

Bob: ʷᵃᶦᵗ, ⁿᵒ i’m sorry!

[socialistexan]

I can't believe they're even detransitioning streaming services now 😔

[merthurians-prat-and-idiot]

9-1-1 season 9 is actually just a full series of Eddie, Karen & Maddie trying different ways to jailbreak the 118 & Athena after they all get arrested for this whole thing.

[sunlit-mess]

silly drafts of au comic doodles ( as in cracked )

[deimcs]

Solas wants to be a hero. That's who he is, deep down. But it's easier for him to play the villain. Because that means he didn't fail. All the damage he's done, the people he's hurt— it becomes a choice.

[arthur-lesters-spinal-cord]

Turns out what was really in Oscars letter was just the Jurgen Leitner rant named swapped to be Scratch

[maxmayfieldswalkman]

why are they looking at me like i called them slurs

[obscurix]

i don’t need anyone to pray on my downfall. i am fucking great at ruining my own life actually.

[livwritesstuff]

Eddie walks into his house after a three-day work trip in NYC to find…..a lot of boxes.

Most of them cardboard, most of them labeled DONATE or TRASH or GARAGE in Steve’s familiar handwriting.

“Oh, jeez,” Eddie mutters, because he knows what this is. Sure enough, he follows a trail of boxes upstairs to find the rest of his family in his youngest daughter Hazel’s room.

“Spring cleaning?” Eddie asks.

“Spring cleaning,” Moe says with an affirmative nod.

“Just Hazel’s room?” he asks, because Moe and Robbie are looking awfully comfortable sitting on Hazel’s bed while Hazel herself is rummaging through a back corner of her jam-packed closet, Steve watching over her shoulder with his hands on his hips.

“Uh, well, Moe ‘doesn’t do clutter’,” Steve says as he looks over at Eddie, “and therefore is exempt, apparently, and Robbie’s room gives me a migraine.”

“Plus,” Moe cuts in, “Robbie’s room is all clutter. If we get rid of it all, she'd have no personality left.”

“Hey,” Robbie says, jabbing her elbow into Moe's side, “Don’t be rude.”

Steve gives Eddie a do you see what I’m dealing with kind of look as Hazel finally emerges from her closet. 

“Dad, do you want this?” Hazel asks, holding out a very small, dog-shaped notebook with a comically large spiral binding that she probably acquired when she was in elementary school, “For writing or whatever?”

“Uh…”

“Just say yes so I can move some shit out of here,” Steve mutters, so Eddie takes the notebook from Hazel, and as soon as she was turning back to her closet, Steve took it from him and tossed it into the ‘Donate’ box in the hallway.

A moment later, Hazel emerged again, turning around to show everyone two plastic lawn flamingos (mismatched, Eddie notes).

“Thoughts?” she asked.

“Hon, those don’t even match,” Steve says (and he sounds all beleaguered and everything as if all this wasn’t his crusade to begin with), “They’re two totally different shades of pink.”

“Well, did you know that they’re actually white when they’re born? And then they eat mostly shrimp and that’s how they turn pink.”

Steve just stares at her for a moment, “Okay, Haze, those are plastic.”

“You should keep those,” Moe said, “Genuinely they’re, like, decor. You can put them somewhere.”

They spend a few minutes watching Hazel precariously balance the flamingos’ spindly legs on top of her bookshelf, but it doesn't take long for something else to catch Steve's eye.

“What’s that?” Steve asks, jutting his chin in the direction of something on an open shelf of Hazel’s dresser.

Hazel fetches a plastic Starbucks cup with a dozen or so dusty rocks inside.

“They’re rocks,” Hazel points out, “From when we went to the Grand Canyon.”

“Okay…” Steve says slowly, “Do they have to be in your sock drawer?”

“Why don’t you put them on your windowsill?” Robbie suggests, “You can charge the rocks, like, spiritually.”

“Oh yeah, there’s an idea,” Steve comments, but Hazel is already halfway to the window. Still, she pauses, and then turns back to face them.

“Do you think they miss their home?” she asks.

“What?” Steve looks at her.

“In the Grand Canyon?”

“Oh, Hazel,” Steve sighs.

“We could try to ship them back,” Moe suggests.

“None of you are helping.”

[sourori]