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what the fuck is your body

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do you like my repetitive and outdated music taste

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NON SIGN II is a billboard created in 2010 by Lead Pencil Studio and is located near the Canada-US border in Washington. It consists of thousands of stainless steel rods.

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(In the cuck chair)(starts booing)

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The problem with young knights of the realm is that they’re all focused on finding the Holy Grail and not the clitoris. You may see heaven but will you ever see the queen orgasm? Methinks not.

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don’t you just hate it when 🚙

um. sorry wait a minute [grabs mic]

can the owner of the blue honda civic move their car please. it’s blocking my post.

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there’s a place downtown where the freaks all come around

it’s a hole in the wall it’s a dirty free for all

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Rickrolling you via pigeon next summer

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whoever made that post that's like "depressed people aren't listening to sad music they're listening to wild ones by flo rida at 7 in the morning" has ruined my life. sitting in my car outside work right now feeling like shit emotionally but at least hollaback girl is playing on the radio

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when i was a kid rummaging thru my mums cd collection to steal Good Stuff i accidentally stumbled across one called ‘songs for bonking’ which was coloured awful negative neon picture of ppls feet on top of each other in a bed and ALL the songs were like fucking ska punk 

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I saw a sign at a nearby village advertising a "veillée", a storytelling evening, which sounded intriguing, so I went out of curiosity—it turned out to be an old lady who had arranged a circle of chairs in her garden and prepared drinks, and who wanted to tell folk tales and stories from her youth. Apparently she was telling someone at the market the other day that she missed the ritual of the "veillée" from pre-television days, when people would gather in the evening and tell stories, and the people she was talking to were like, well let's do a veillée! And then she put up the sign.

About 15 people came, and she sat down and started telling us stories—I loved the way she made everything sound like it had happened just yesterday and she was there, even tales she'd got from her grandmother, and the way she continually assumed we knew all the people she mentioned, and everyone spontaneously played along; she'd be like "And Martin, the bonesetter—you know Martin," (everyone nods—of course, Martin) "We never liked him much" and everyone nodded harder, our collective distaste for Martin now a shared cultural heritage of our tiny microcosm. She started with telling us the story of the communal bread oven in the village. The original oven was destroyed during the Revolution; people used to pay to use the local aristocrat's oven, but of course around 1789 both the aristocrat and his oven were disposed of in a glorious blaze of liberty, equality, and complete lack of foresight.

Then the villagers felt really daft for having destroyed a perfectly serviceable oven that they could have now started using for free. "But you know what things were like during the revolution." (Everyone nodded sagely—who among us hasn't demolished our one and only source of bread-baking equipment in a fit of revolutionary zeal?)

The village didn't have a bread oven for decades, people travelled to another village to make bread; and then in the 19th century the village council finally voted to build a new oven. It was a communal endeavour, everyone pitched in with some stones or tools or labour, and the oven was built—but it collapsed immediately after the construction was finished. Consternation. Not to be deterred, people re-built the oven, with even more effort and care—and the second one also collapsed.

People realised that something was amiss, and the village council convened. After a lot of serious discussion, during which no one so much as mentioned the possibility of a structural flaw, people reached the only logical conclusion: the drac had sabotaged their oven. Twice. (The drac, in these parts, is the son of the devil.) The logic here, I suppose, was that no one but the devil's own child would dare to stand between French people and their bread.

The next step was even more obvious: they passed around a hat to raise money, assuming the devil’s son was after a cash donation. But (and I'm skipping a few twists and turns of the story here) the son of the devil did not want money, he wanted half of every batch of bread, for as long as the village oven stood. Consternation.

People simply could not afford to give away half of their bread, and were about to abandon the idea of having their own oven altogether—but then Saint Peter came to the rescue. (In case you didn't know, Saint Peter happens to regularly visit this one tiny village in the French countryside to check that its inhabitants are doing okay and are not encountering oven issues.) Saint Peter reminded them of one precious piece of information they had overlooked: holy water burns the devil.

People re-built the oven, for the third time. The son of the devil returned, to destroy it and/or claim his half of the first batch—but on that day, the villagers had organised a grand communal spring cleaning, dousing every street and alley in the village with copious amounts of holy water. The poor drac simply could not access the oven; every possible path scorched his feet for reasons he couldn't quite explain. So he was standing there, smouldering gently and wondering what was going on, when some passing tramp seemed to take pity on him, pointed at his satchel and told him to turn himself into a rat and jump in there, and the tramp would carry him where he wished to go. The devil's son, probably a bit frazzled at this point, agreed without much thought, became a rat and jumped in the satchel, and of course that's the point when everyone in the village sprang from the shadows, wielding sticks, shovels, pans, and started beating the devil's son senseless. (Old lady, calmly: "You could hear his bones crack.") So the son of Satan slithered back to Hell and never returned to destroy the village oven again—and the spring cleaning tradition endured; the streets were washed with holy water once a year after that, both to commemorate this glorious day of civic resistance when the village absolutely bodied the devil's offspring and to maintain basic oven safety standards. (Old lady: "But we don't bother anymore… That's too bad.")

She told us five stories, most of them artfully blending actual local events or anecdotes from her youth with folk tale elements, it was so delightful. She thanked us for coming and said she'd love to do this again sometime. I went home reflecting that listening to an old lady happily tell stories of dubious historical veracity involving the Revolution, property damage, demonic mischief and baffling municipal decision-making is literally my ideal Saturday night activity.

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I wish depression were an emergency. I wish someone could take one look at how sick I am and go “oh my god, we need to get you to a hospital!” and then when we get there I get rushed into surgery and the surgeons say “it’s a good thing you brought her here when you did, this is a seriously advanced case” and then they put me under and spend the next ten hours pulling metres of long, sticky black strands of gunk out of my body, throwing it immediately into an incinerator so that it can’t infect anyone else. And then they could stitch me back up and I could rest a few days, and when I leave the hospital everyone can see how much better I am and they congratulate me saying “well done, you’ve been so brave, I’m so glad you’re ok. I love you.”

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For some reason I have this thing where I sometimes do not consciously feel or register it at all when I'm nervous about something that's coming up. I literally do not feel any kind of anxiety or worry about it, if you asked me what I'm nervous about I would have no idea what you're talking about. I just wake up a bit early, go about my day, and then go to bed and fall asleep at my usual time.

And then when The Thing Coming Up is done, I'm suddenly bodyslammed with being sleepy for no sensible reason. I will have zero damn clue that I was stressing about the thing until it's done with, and my body suddenly goes We Need To Do A Yawn Bigger Than The Lung Capacity Right Fucking Now and then won't stop trying to do that.

So I'll be there yawning over something that I wasn't thinking of as anything stressful, just going alright alright alright okay we get it you were scared of this thing that was literally nothing to worry about this whole time like right we get it CAN YOU FUCKING STOP.

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Every now and then I start seeing a rise of anti-breeder sentiment in notes on posts I reblog written by people who are (presumably) my followers. This is one of those weeks, so a friendly reminder:

I wholly support responsible cat and dog breeders

Purebred animals are NOT the cause of overburdened shelters or increased stray populations

Stray cat & shelter populations are almost exclusively made of domestic shorthairs/longhairs, not purebred cats

Major factors for increased stray populations are irresponsible pet ownership and management (ie. allowing cats to have kittens rather than fixing them, letting cats roam freely outside, dumping cats that are no longer wanted)— things that a responsible breeder is incentivized to avoid

Buying a purebred animal is not “stealing” a home from a shelter animal

Shelters and responsible breeders are not enemies, and both ultimately work toward the same goals of animal welfare, public education, and putting pets in homes where they will thrive

I literally have a purebred bengal cat why do anti breeder people follow me

Look at him. Your comments make him sad.