starryalpacasstuff

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HJ 🌠 [230619] Instagram Update #Hong_stagram "BOUNCY🔥🔥🔥"

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I'm thinking of going in now. Hey, wait a second. You stopping me again? I thought you were the calm type. You're being reckless as hell. Don't get in my way.

PIT BABE | 2.08

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mythbusters was so good because it wasn't a killjoy show. they didn't just say "see, it doesn't work" and leave it there

whenever they find that the stunt doesn't work as portrayed in the movie, they immediately ask "what would it take to make this happen?"

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i really do think it's very funny to imagine the gang in not me somehow discussing black waking up from his coma and piecing together that it was caused by sean and white fucking for the first time. mainly because it's hilarious to think of black crashing tf out, because first of all, sean fucked his brother, and second of all, what do you mean he owes him waking up from his coma to sean fucking his brother

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shout out to the ppl i’m mutuals with that i’m too scared to talk to bc you’re really cool and i know you look gorgeous right now.

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And it took both of you a couple minutes to register that so accept you'd both fuck yourselves and move on ❤️

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I could be crazy but I swear this is where Ateez was slowing it down and making it bouncy.

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cannot stop thinking about this genuinely. the ref……

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That's a fucking novel.

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boring take from real 21st century idiots: bdsm is bad because it's basically torture

interesting take from a fictional 14th century monk: torture is bad because it's basically sex

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Tomorrow, 6/19/2024, is the date of Karan and Achi's wedding. They can get married now 😭

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baps my paws on u

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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.