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I took my little brother (autistic, mostly non verbal) out and he was using his voice keyboard to tell me something, and this little boy (maybe 4 or 5?) heard him and asked me "Is he a robot??" I tried to explain to him that no, he isn't a robot, he just communicates differently, but my darling brother was in the background max volume "I am robot I am robot I am robot I am robot"

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“women don’t have the capacity for misogyny” have you ever met a mother

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Cyclists are perverts of a high degree

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screaaaammm somebody just called me a bootlicker for being annoyed that my coworker is so bad at her job thats its making everyone elses jobs way fucking harder i can never ever ever ever turn anon off

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i miss 1990 when i didn’t exist

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u may not follow me but i’m in your orbit bitch

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wish I had enough radiation to set off a geiger counter but come with no health repercussions

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Being the only bi cis guy amongst almost exclusively trans friends and peers is wild because in theory its like im living in a horny manga where all of a dudes friends turn into hot babes, but in reality they are hunting me like the last bison on the prairie. 5 years ago I mentioned bionicle and one of them asked when I was starting estrogen.

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you cant just fucking mix potions bro… you mix a health and a mana potion you know what you get? purple potion. you know what purple is? it’s poison idiot. people go to magician school for this shit

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i hope a ceiling fan falls on the empty spot in the bed next to you and it starts understanding your needs

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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 didn't have cell reception at the camp site so I had to take notes. highlight reel:

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a bird flew into one of the tents and the baby wanted to help chase it out but my dad told him to stand back so he wouldn't scare it. so the baby stood next to the tent flap and said in the softest coaxing voice "it's okay, little bird"

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my cousin was hiding behind a tree for hide and seek and as the baby searched the campground a tiny child from a nearby campsite happened by, saw my cousin, saw the baby searching, and immediately yelled at the top of her lungs "he is behind this tree!!"

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I said "is the rain ever going to stop?" and without looking up from his drawing the baby said "yeah. it always does"

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then later I said "is it still raining?" and the baby barged out of the tent and then started singing at the top of his lungs "raindrops are NOT falling on my head... NO raindrops are falling on my head!"

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baby: auntie mac, I am chatgpt. ask me a cookie recipe.

me: okay! can you tell me a cookie recipe?

baby, giggling: one book. one chair. one camp site. one fyashlight.

me: one flashlight?

baby: no. one fyashlight. and TWO flashlights.

me: one fyashlight and two flashlights? what is a fyashlight?

baby: I don't know. and another chair. and the MOON.

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"Baby Dinosaur is very excited to see a waterfall for the first time! I can tell how he is feeling without him even saying anything."

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my mom: [baby] come look at this!

baby, in anguish: oh no no no no no no no. is it a flower.

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we forgot his doll when we went to the waterfall and he was really upset so I got out my notebook and said "look! I'll write Baby Anna a letter telling her all about the waterfall, so she won't feel like she missed out!" and he stopped crying and thought about that and finally said reasonably "Baby Anna can't read"

(the letter idea did work though. we read it out loud to her)

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"well, should we start packing up?" "NO! I am very used to how everything looks right now."

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(half asleep in the car seat) "mommy, I love you more than anything in the whole world. I love you more than cars and... even more than sticks I love you."

"

next time we're going to go camping in my back yard *⁠\⁠0⁠/⁠*