desolationarchivist

[desolationarchivist]

Worlds Apart — the Harpy and the Mermaid

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Why do people keep reblogging that photo of a goth chick in a combine harvester

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Smart is attractive

Educate me on some shit I don’t know boo.

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If you see this you’re legally obligated to reblog and tag with the book you’re currently reading

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Pixel Art by Philipp A. Urlich

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It is your sworn duty, when you're in your 30's, to do something every day that would have gotten you viciously bullied in high school.

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when me and my boyfriend make meals we have a tradition of sending each other unappetising off-centre photographs of them in poor lighting. we call this "wikipedia food".

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This is so wholesome

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his ass is NOT getting away from the sound of the woman that loved him 😂

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(never degraded someone before) you have your mother's cruelty. and your father's cowardice.

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random anecdote for father's day: one time during a long car ride my dad asked me, "you're familiar with Murphy's Law, right?" and i was like "isn't that the one about how anything that can go wrong will go wrong?" and he said "yeah, exactly" and i said "why do you ask?" and he went "well, have you heard of Cole's Law?" and i said "no, actually, what's that?" and he said "it's mostly lettuce and carrots with a little dressing mixed in"

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love when a mother asks if they have ever done anything to hurt you. ma'am, you will literally never be ready to have this conversation

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Social anxiety Is so funny you'll really be wondering "is it normal to get your clothes dry cleaned?" Yeah brother they built a whole business around it called "dry cleaning"

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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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completely sober in the club googling WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?

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there's just something so funny to me about shitty harvests

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When I was little I had an irrational fear of when you tried to turn off your Windows XP and the screen would gradually turn Grey as you choose which power option to enter

That shit was SCARY!!!