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The super bowl or whatever I'm not american

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stuff I like

- when the person kidnapped by the villain is all ‘no one’s going to come for me’ and 

- someone does, but it’s the person they’d least expect

- EVERYONE COMES because wow, maybe I am depressed because I didn’t think I knew this many people, much less that they liked me

- no one comes and the villain gets pissed on their captive’s behalf and treats them better than their former associates did

- they rescue themselves and everyone’s so impressed but the person yells because I AM CAPABLE AND YOU SHOULD HAVE AT LEAST NOTICED I’D BEEN KIDNAPPED

- they get rescued by a deus ex machina, preferably their dad/mom/grandma/old associate who is exponentially cooler than the heroes 

basically, I like it when people get rescued and get validation

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they should legalize hanging out

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I want all animals to become sapient enough to produce art specifically because I want to see what sort of sex homunculus caricature each species would create if given the ability to draw

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Absolutely wild to me how sometimes you don't even realize the way you'd been taught to perceive things as a kid was kinda fucked up, actually, until decades later.

Example:

As a kid, I constantly lived in fear of damaging shit in my parent's house. The walls. The floors (especially the floors. The wood was beautiful. Shiny. But so easy to scratch). The cabinets.

As a sixteen-year-old, I once took my car to the dealership after work and paid a very dear sum of $250 ($10/hr cashier salary) to fix a slight scratch in the paint because I knew if my father saw it there would be hell to pay. It didn't matter that I parked far out, like I'd been taught, and someone scratched it anyway. It was my fault. I failed in my duties as a steward of my vehicle.

Every time I scratched a rim on a curb while parallel parking or got a door ding or, god forbid, didn't wash and vacuum that car every weekend, it was treated like some sort of moral failing.

Last year, when my husband and I first moved into our house, he scraped the side of our car when parking in our (Very Narrow) garage. When he told me, my first instinct was to be afraid for him. Like something terrible was going to happen to him because of this mistake. I urgently reassured him that it was okay, it was an accident, I wasn't mad. Baffled, he was like, "Yeah? I know? Like, thank you for the reassurance, but I'm only a little annoyed, I'm not upset. It's just a car." And I had to take several minutes to process that. It's...just a car.

We keep the car tidy. We maintain it. But we wash it maybe 4x a year. We only vacuum it after dirty road trips or when the dog hair starts to get annoying. It has scrapes and dings and the leather seats have stains. But that's ok. Because it's just a car.

This morning, I realized that a small rock had gotten embedded in the felt foot on one of our bar stools. Neither of us had noticed. There are now scratches on our beautiful hardwood floor. My immediate response was fear accompanied by a heavy measure of paralyzing guilt. "I'm so sorry," I told my husband, "I should have noticed. I'll figure out how to fix it, I swear. I can probably sand down that section and match the stain and--"

"Whoa, hey," he said. "It was an accident. And it's fine. Floors are going to get damaged. They're floors. We live here. There was damage in places before we even bought the house, remember? It's not a big deal. It's just a floor." Right. It's just a floor. Right.

My husband's mom is visiting and this afternoon, as I was sitting in the kitchen looking at the scratches on the floor, I offhandedly asked her if my husband had ever broken or damaged anything as a kid. "Of course," she said. Household items. A TV. A wrecked car during his teen years. I asked how she punished him.

"Why would I punish him for things like that?" she said. "They were all accidents."

Right. Of course. Right.

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i think about this a hundred times a day

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Oh he's *cooking* cooking.

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fruit-in-jars 101 by stacynguyen

"What is jam? What makes something authentically jam? Can bacon really be made into jam?

It was all very Existentialist.

The answer to those questions is a bit complicated and non-definitive. The U.S. FDA has defined jam and jelly in very specific and mathematical terms (such-and-such percentage of juice to fruit to water to sugar = jam/jelly); it also uses jam and preserve interchangeably, for the most part. While interesting, the FDA’s definitions did not matter much to me because the FDA wasn’t really using the terms in the way that we usually use the terms. Also, the FDA wasn’t comprehensive in its definitions. It didn’t tackle other fruit spreads like marmalades or curds, for instance.

The more I looked into, the more I thought, dude, this information would make a good infographic."

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tweet

Something like this would be so colossally helpful. I'm sick and tired of trying to research specific clothing from any given culture and being met with either racist stereotypical costumes worn by yt people or ai generated garbage nonsense, and trying to be hyper specific with searches yields fuck all. Like I generally just cannot trust the legitimacy of most search results at this point. It's extremely frustrating. If there are good resources for this then they're buried deep under all the other bullshit, and idk where to start looking.

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did i tell u guys i got into an argument on twitter bc i said foxes are dogs and someone tried to bring up their actual fuckin. classification or whatever and i just said “foxes are dogs cause they are fluffye” and they kept arguing with me. the entire time i was like “you will not survive the immigration to tumblr you are lucky we are not there right now”

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I'm sure tumblr would never, but hey. No sense tempting fate.

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kids born in 25 will be 2000 this year….

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this is almost certainly not a novel take but

i do wonder how much of the derisive language you hear toward "resistlib winemoms" or whatever is just "people who grew up in Safely Blue Coastal Enclaves rebelling against ppl who remind them of their mom b/c they are emotionally stunted adults"

like, as A Child Of A Very Conservative Area, i have a very vivid recollection of the first time i encountered this type of person, and my reaction was mostly baffled delight. wait you're telling me this PTA mom with unassailable Wholesome Americana credentials is gassing up the cause of trans rights at her book club. you're telling me she's batting her eyelashes and "think of the children"-ing, except instead of doing that to promote some obnoxious "ban this book from the school curriculum" agenda, she's shaming her state representative into actually funding the damn schools? i do not care how cringe her UV-bleached "i'm with her" bumper sticker is or whatever, she is working extremely hard & successfully on shit i care about and i will brook no slander against her

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sketches of current favorite evil pretty meow meow. he bites and scratches and hisses and is generally unpleasant to be around.

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a great change and a great way to execute the idea

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Y’all.

Y’ALL.

So I’m in Minneapolis right now, and decided to visit the art museum. Y’all I need to show you what I just found in a collection of Dutch paintings.

Look at the boy’s eyes and smile.

Y’all.

I’ve seen that face before. On more than one person. Those exact eyes, that exact smile.

HE HAS DOWN SYNDROME.

He’s the focal point of this painting, or more precisely his fish is, and he’s got Down syndrome.

This is from the 1600s, y’all.

“Where were the disabled people back then” FISHING, APPARENTLY.

Disabled people have always been here. You just have to look.