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gotta love how in 2012 Tumblr, all the replies on even slightly weirdly worded posts and replies were like "oh mY GOD what did I just read" and "THIS ENTIRE WEBSITE IS ON DRUGS" and a long series of Superwholock gifs of people flailing and laying face down on the ground and generally overreacting

and in 2022 someone can just calmly post shit like "off I fuck on my weekly journey into the deep murky woods to snort a line of ants off the Woodland Ghoul's dick" and nobody even comments, they'll just quietly nod like yeah mood and reblog that shit.

Maybe a faint little "yeah that's valid" hiddne quietly in the notes.

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i miss tumblr i wish it was still around. but it’s not

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Very much looking forward to the drama and action from the newest Dimension 20 series. I'm all aboard the bus!

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Kinda after dark:

Theater kids, did you notice the wolfs furry meat hammer when you first saw into the woods?

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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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An alligator friend..

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me frm 2016 lookin @ me frm 2022

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maybe the real treasure is the silver we found along the way ( yt )

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I got six words for you: I got four words for you: I got 2 words: Fuck you

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and please remember to stay up late because that’s free time

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at what point do you think the atla writers were like “ohoHO so yeah roku wears that hairpiece bc that’s just what we doodled when we were coming up with character designs but WHAT IF it was ACTUALLY given to him by his tragic sworn-brother turned enemy?? What if we make it a symbol of roku’s deep connection to sozin, his greatest friend and his greatest failure?? what if only the crown prince is supposed to wear it, but at one point in time roku and sozin were so close that tradition didn’t matter half as much as what they had with each other?? What if even decades after their friendship ended roku still wore that hairpiece every single day of his life? What if he died wearing the symbol of his best friend’s love for him as that friend stood above his body and watched it happen and did nothing to stop it? What if it remained a part of his immortal spirit form even after death, a constant reminder that for all the pain and suffering and resentment that existed between them, love was there first, even if it lost in the end? Would that be fucked up or what?” i can only imagine that after they were all done crying they gave the guy who came up with that a raise and a kiss on the lips

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I must have clicked on something because the YouTube algorithm is showing me nothing but USA Nostalgia propaganda, and it's shit like "breakfast foods no one eats anymore because we've lost our way as a country and need to get back to our roots."

And then it was 30 minutes of listing things like bacon and eggs. French toast. Oatmeal. The occasional baked dish that "parents did back then because they wanted you to know you were loved," and no, I am not paraphrasing. The AI voice repeated that phrase over and over again.

"Back when parents cared about their children and cooked real food for them and wanted breakfast to feel like a warm hug."

"Back when good food was all you needed for good health!"

And the comments were all just boomers going, "so true!"

I could feel myself losing brain cells.

Like, what do you mean bacon and eggs are no longer eaten? What the entire fresh fried fuck are you talking about???!?

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I’m just saying if Daniel Radcliffe, the literal protagonist of the Harry Potter franchise since the age of ten years old, was able to disavow JK Rowling and move on from the HP universe then actually what the fuck is anyone else’s excuse. There is no one else on the planet who can say their entire childhood was HP more than that guy and he still cared about trans people more than the average tumblr user who says “we’re protesting by making all her characters queer and trans!!” like you can do better. You should do better.

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Was talking to a coworker today who explained that her grandfather was like Snow White “but Californian. And an old man.” in that the creatures of the forest would follow him around and presumably duet with him.

“When he died the ravens sat in the trees outside for a week, watching. Taking turns. A horde of raccoons tried to break into the house every night, tearing at the siding. Eventually they gave up, but it was unsettling.”

“Aww. They were checking on him!” I said, like a normal person. Internally, I thought “Maybe you could do the thing you do with dead pets, where you show them to the living pets so the living pet understands they’re gone. But I guess if you did that to a bunch of scavenging species, they’d be like “Well, that’s very sad but he IS food now.” So what you’d need, for human sensibilities, is some sort of transparent corpse barrier. Like a see-through coffin oh that’s what the dwarves were doing! You’ve stopped paying attention to this conversation about the loss of a beloved family member you gotta phase back in.”