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I do not "tweet", I do not "snap", I do not "make a tiktok", I BLOG ON TUMBLR DOT COM, and if I have no wifi, I USE MY NOTES APP

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Maybe this therapy shit is working

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You should know that I repeated to myself whilst drawing this 'don't make it too thirsty don't make it too thirsty' and I failed spectacularly. I'm just a girl. Some more Arthur Lester. A gift for me as well as for you.

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[ID: A digital illustration of Cecil Palmer from Welcome to Night Vale. He is drawn as a thin white man with shoulder length hair bleached white and dark at the roots. He is sat at his desk in the radio station, leaning on it as he talks into a microphone, one hand on his headphones. There are a few personal pictures on the wall of Carlos, Janice, and Khoshekh. End description.]

Guess who got very, very into a certain long running local radio show in the last couple weeks!

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love without measure

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[ID in alt text]

Absolutely enamoured with them 🎤💕🧪

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How to pet your John Doe

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hera still loves polyamorus people

aphrodite still loves aroace people

zeus still loves people who are scared of thunder

poseidon still loves people who can't swim

apollo still loves people who aren't musical

helios still loves people who sunburn easily

artemis still loves people who aren't virgins

persephone still loves people who are allergic to pollen

hades still loves people who are afraid of death

athena still loves people who aren't academic

ares still loves people who don't like to be angry

hephaestus still loves people who can't craft things

being who you are is not offensive to the gods. they still love you.

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wish dragon 🌈

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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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Imagine waking up after both u and the guy you’ve been living in make ur respective Heroic Sacrifices for one another and then u wake up being dragged to the pits by some-fuckin-THING and ur body-mate crying in pure relief and glee.

Arthur Lester: “John !! *:･ﾟ✧(◕‿◕✿)✧･ﾟ:*”

John Doe: “what the FUCK happened?”

It’s a two-person one-body version of this:

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john redesign for fun

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I cannot sleep any other way

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Parkthur nation rise up 🙌🏻

plus oscar and noel, more parkthur, a jarthur doodle, and an unfinished john to bless your feed.

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Malevolent art is just. Here is fanart of a man sleeping with a hand tucked under his head. It is ship art. Here is fanart of a man holding his own hand. It is ship art. Here is fanart of a man with two of his fingers stuffed in his mouth. It is smutty ship art. Here is fanart of two men kissing. It is a threeway.

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omg he loves him so much that makes them look stupid

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Eventually your favorite fandom will forever be forgotten... except you the Merlin fandom you'll never die out and its kinda concerning.