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looking for happiness at the bottom of the ocean

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When I was 3 years old I went to a preschool that had this little green crocheted crocodile finger puppet that was my absolute favorite toy to play with of all time. I named her Chelsea, because Chelsea starts with C and crocodile starts with C and more often than not wild animals in fiction aimed at kids have names that start with the same first letter as their species. I played with Chelsea every day, because she was my favorite toy, and because the other kids weren't really interested in her, and also because I eventually started to hide her in a special secret spot in the room so no one else would find her before I did. She was so beloved by me that when I graduated from preschool, my teachers gave Chelsea to me permanently, because it was clear no one else would ever love that little crochet crocodile as much as me anyway (in part because I hid her). They waited a few weeks after I graduated before doing it, too, and sent Chelsea with some post cards as if the crocodile had been on a whirlwind "travel the world" vacation before deciding to come live with me.

And Chelsea remained my favorite toy all through my childhood. There were others I loved nearly as much, like my Imperial Godzilla and the big red T.rex from the first Jurassic Park toy line and my tiny knockoff plush Charmander, but Chelsea always held the place of honor in my heart. She was my absolute favorite toy.

I kept a lot of my favorite toys through adolescence, even if social pressure eventually got me to give away a lot of them (and some, y'know, broke). That's obviously not surprising to you if you've followed my blog, since I still collect toys into my adulthood. But it's important to note because while I know I made a conscious effort to never throw out Chelsea every time I pared down my collection... at some point, she went missing.

I became aware of it when I graduated from high school. I was feeling really emotional about leaving that stage of my life and, y'know, becoming an adult and shit, and in that state I decided to find Chelsea to reassure myself that I hadn't entirely left childhood behind. But Chelsea wasn't there. No matter how hard I looked, I could not find Chelsea anyway.

And that was, like, devastating, because the only explanation was that somehow, at some point, I had accidentally tossed her out with some other "childhood junk" while trying to grow up and be responsible in my teen years. I had literally thrown away my childhood in a careless attempt to be more grown up.

Of course I knew she was just a toy - nothing more than some yarn twisted together in the loose shape of a crocodile, lifeless and soul-less and more or less worthless in the objective light of day. But she was also Chelsea, my best friend since i was three, my stalwart little pal, a source of comfort for most of my life at that point, and I had just... tossed her out! Like garbage! What kind of person was I becoming if I could do that to my best friend?

I was very visibly distraught, and my mom noticed. Being very crafty, she tried to find the pattern for Chelsea so she could knit me a new one. The problem is, she had no idea where to find said pattern. She checked all her books of crochet patterns, and when that failed she tried the internet, but no matter how hard she looked, she found nothing.

So my mom found the next best thing.

The original Chelsea was a tiny finger puppet, and I had "met" her when I was three. Well, I was eighteen now - shouldn't Chelsea have grown too? And as has been established, this crocodile was fond of whirlwind vacations. My mom found a pattern that looked as much like Chelsea as possible while also being a much bigger crocodile, and gifted her to me before I left for college - to show that while we can't stop the flow of time or how it changes us, that doesn't mean we have to leave it behind.

And yeah, I decided to believe it. That's Chelsea now. Yeah, I know that in reality it's a completely different set of yarn made by my mom rather than... whoever it was that crocheted the original Chelsea, but then, Chelsea was never really the yarn. She was the feelings I put into the yarn, you know? So that's Chelsea, all grown up, and still my most prized toy.

...

Flash forward... Jesus, eighteen years, holy shit. A few weeks ago I saw a post trying to identify a different crochet crocodile pattern, and thinking it was cute, I decided to try and look for it on ebay and etsy, just to see if maybe I could find it. I didn't, but do you know what I found instead?

A very familiar crochet crocodile finger puppet. An intensely familiar one, you might say. Of course I bought it. And of course I asked the seller if, perhaps, they might have the pattern for it or know where it came from (they did not, alas). And after a few days, she showed up at my house.

She's not Chelsea, obviously. For one thing, she's far too clean and fresh looking - Chelsea was very well loved, and looked the part, while this crocodile finger puppet has definitely not endured years upon years of a child's affection. And, more importantly, she's not Chelsea because we've already established that Chelsea grew up into a bigger crochet crocodile. This has to be Chelsea's younger sister, Cici.

And if I could find another of Chelsea's kind after all these years, then maybe, with a bit of luck, I might find the pattern for her, and be able to make more of them. Fill the world with Chelseas.

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Im at work and nobody knows that im painting Doris from Shrek in Pre-Raphaelite style on my ipad.

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real question,

why do proshippers love rape so much? do you guys want to rape someone irl?

why do you guys love pedophilia/grooming so much? have you ever had thoughts about doing those actions or irl minors?

why do you guys love incest so much? is this just a way for you to vent your frustration cause your sibling(s) /step sibling(s) rejected you for your literal illegal behavior?

why do you guys love all these crimes so much? why do you love it when someone calls sexual and predatory abuse attractive as if it hasn't traumatized billions of people word wide?

this is like a genuine question I'm being deadass

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Michael Schneider

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consider: teenagers aren’t apathetic about everything they’re just used to you shitting all over whatever they show excitement about

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When the human known to us as Christ arrived in the underworld, gods and shades alike were horrified. It was always a big deal when demigods arrived in the underworld, but this one had died so brutally, a young man, not even old enough to grow a beard, tourtued to death at the will of his own divine parentage, the blood dripping from his shade's hands.

The high gods of the underworld brought him up to their tower to figure out what happened. Christ had recoiled from them at first, thinking they were Devils, but had to take Anubis's hand to ascend the tower's steps, as his legs were badly wounded. The gods of the dead looked at him with both sympathy and horror, it was the first time a he had seen a god look at him with either of those emotions.

Hades swore that this was his brother's doing, but even then it crossed a new line. The description of a god impregnating a young girl in Bethlehem fit what Hades knew of Zeus, but to harm his own son in such a way, as part of a ploy to try to gain all of Rome for him alone, had proven his brother's reign growing darker. Still, he took mercy on the young man, promising him at least three days safety in the underworld without his father trying to claim him again. Hades wondered if the poor girl knew when she held her child that he was born to suffer and die, just as the mothers of great heros knew their destiny. Hades hoped Chrsit would have a chance to stay longer, his wife would return in the fall, and he had the same kind eyes as her, she would probably like to know him.

Hel came to comfort Christ once he had a chance to rest. She helped tend his wounds, and pet his head, and for the first time christ was held by a divinity that didn't expect anything from him. And she told him stories of her father to cheer him up after meeting with such a horrible fate. And she told him that no father should ever do such a thing as what his father had done to his child, that if she had known in time she would have saved him. And she let him be comforted as a human, instead of being a lord of all humanity. And for a momment he didn't have to be the son of god who felt alone while bleeding and dying, but the son of the carpenter Joseph who had been reminded of home when he felt the wood of the cross.

He wasn't allowed to stay, his father wanted him back, back to be the bleeding prince of a new and lonely kingdom. And the underworld wept for him, not because the underworld was deprived of Christ, but because Christ was deprived of the underworld.

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As , the United States, potentially heads into another forever war I can only think of this quote.

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shorthands for dumbassery that i have grown to love deeply

"how dare you say we piss on the poor" in response to someone misinterpreting your post

"_ isnt gonna fuck you" for suck up behavior

"woah. should we tell everyone? should we throw a party?" for who the fuck cares

"and what if the world was made of pudding" for when would this ever matter.

"and sharks are smooth both ways" for a group of people heatedly arguing with 1 guy who is fucking with them all

".. but its about a witch in the alps finding her lost cat" for someone trying to sanitize something to the point of absurdity

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Writever Juin 2025

1. Glace

40 ans de recherches, 10 ans de fabrication, 8 testeurs morts et 3 gravement blessés pour ma machine à remonter le temps. Mais ça valait le coup ! Je goûte enfin les véritables glaces au lait du XXIième siècle, quand il y avait encore des vaches. Le premier me parle d'avoine, je lui en mets une, justement. #writever

2. Brigade

J’ai été averti de la violence et du manichéisme des brigades de restaurant étoilé, de la toute puissance du chef. Mais je ne m’attendais pas à découvrir des grenades dans les grenades, de vraies lames dans les couteaux, et des souches de tétanos dans la sauce rouille. Quel genre de cuisine est-ce là ? #writever

3. Dénoyauter

Je cri au contact des petites pattes du noyau sur mes doigts. Il dresse alors deux paires d’antennes noires et brillante dans ma direction. L’analyseur m’assurait que je trouverais toute la nourriture nécessaire à un humain sur cette planète, pourtant majoritairement couverte d’arbres fruitiers. J’ouvre un autre fruit pour en avoir le cœur net : ses pépins sont autant de moucherons qui s’envolent aussitôt. #writever

4. Rissoler

J’ai enfin trouvé une autre source de nourriture. De l’extérieur, on dirait un plan de basilic, mais dont l’odeur est bien plus forte. En creusant , j’ai découvert des petits tubercules d’un rouge violacé en forme de rognons. Ils semblent tendres et sucrés. Ce n’est qu’une fois la poêle sur le feu qu’ils ont commencé à hurler. #writever

5. Pierre

Les trolls sont plus difficiles à reconnaître une fois pétrifiés. J’aurais du y penser avant, car c’est seulement cuite sur pierre de troll que la mandragore devient un remède contre la malédiction de calcification. #writever

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Local goat discovers joy of painting

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"We're living through the ongoing fascist collapse of the United States but I still gotta clean the kitchen and go to work tomorrow" sure is the mood right now, huh.

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artist:  Dorota Sroka

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More wip tamagotchis, nautiloid edition.

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a world without trans people has never existed and never will

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