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We looked inside some of the posts by robertmcevily and here's what we found interesting.
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Notes Per Post
2
Likes Per Post
1
Reblog Per Post
1
Reply Per Post
0
Time Between Posts
1 month
Number of Posts By Type
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17
Last Seen Tumblr Blogs
Fun Fact
There are dozens of funny blogs to kill time on Tumblr.
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Pickled Herring
Erik Lundqvist, a humble clockmaker in Uppsala, Sweden, fell into an unusually deep sleep one bitter night in 1780. His mind was pulled through centuries, and he dreamt vividly of a world buzzing with glowing rectangles, voices trapped inside glass, and carts that moved without horses. People stared endlessly into small handheld mirrors that showed no reflection, and children flew through the air in silver birds. No one chopped wood, no one spoke to strangers. The sky hummed unnaturally. When Erik awoke, drenched in sweat, he clawed at the shutters, gasping for clean air and the sound of an axe splitting pine. He swore never again to eat so much pickled herring before bed. [{( website )}]
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How an Introvert Defines WEDNESDAY
Withdrawal Energized by solitude Don’t call me Not planning anything Existing quietly Silence is golden Don’t take it personally All I need is tea You’ll hear from me Thursday (maybe) [{( website )}]
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Untitled #17
The most honest conversations I’ve ever had were all in my head while folding laundry.
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The Pigeon
From my ledge on 34th and Park, I see everything: lovers breaking up mid-sidewalk, cabbies cursing into the wind, and tourists pointing at all kinds of things no one else seems to care about. Humans are funny—always rushing, always yelling, always holding little rectangles they stare into like hypnotized squirrels. Sometimes someone drops a bagel and I call it divine intervention. You’d be amazed what people say to themselves when they think no one’s listening. I’m listening. [{( website )}]
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Untitled #16
Owls are just cats with wings, and we should be way more suspicious of whatever secret meetings they’re having at night.
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Blank
Every evening, Henry took the same walk through his neighborhood, a ritual of fresh air and quiet contemplation. Nothing irked him more than passing someone who didn’t offer a nod, a wave, or even the slightest acknowledgment. He started keeping count—seven tonight, ten yesterday, twelve the day before—ghosts, all of them, drifting by as if he weren’t there.
One night, determined to prove a point, he stopped mid-path, planted his feet, and stared at an oncoming jogger, waiting for the inevitable nod. The man ran past without a glance, his expression blank, his breath even, his body moving with an eerie weightlessness. When Henry turned to glare, he caught his own reflection in a darkened window—alone, as always.
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Another Six Months
"And how are we feeling this morning, Mr. Andrews?"
These are mandatory meetings. Andrews is playing the game, doing and saying what's needed to get himself approved for release.
"Well, thanks."
"Do you find me attractive, Mr. Andrews?"
This is surprising. She's never asked a question like this before. He's unsure how to respond but has no time to think.
"Yes."
Andrews is sentenced to another six months.
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Kathleen
I miss your laugh that sudden burst of validation and the way it looped around me and pulled me closer to safety
Manhattan’s lights flicker in your eyes its rhythm matches your step as you weave through its streets one part Pittsburgh, one part Poland entirely, beautifully you
I wait for you to walk back through the door so I can tell you all the little things I saved up the ones that only matter because I get to tell them to you
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A Big Enough Umbrella
One evening, when Sting was young—long before he became a global icon—he and his girlfriend were sitting on his couch when suddenly, she let one rip. Not a dainty, ignorable one, but a full-bodied, unapologetic blast that hung in the air like a bad decision. Sting recoiled, his face contorted in a mix of horror and betrayal. “Oh, come on,” he groaned, waving his hand in front of his nose. “That’s disgusting.”
But instead of embarrassment, she just grinned, tilting her head playfully. “Isn’t every little thing I do magic?” she asked, eyes twinkling.
There was a long pause as Sting stared at her, his mind racing between indignation and admiration. And then, despite himself, he laughed. Maybe she had a point. Maybe love wasn’t just about poetry and passion—it was about accepting the unexpected, the unglamorous, the… human.
Years later, as he strummed his guitar, the words floated back to him, and a song began to take shape. And while Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic became a hit, the world would never know its true inspiration.
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New Euphemisms for Pooping
"Kerplunking"
"Blasting off"
"Reverse engineering my brunch"
"Dropping a Snickers in the lake"
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