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I’m sorry, but aren’t we collectively tired of all our clothes being made of polyester?

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Happy Pride Month

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I was looking for reference for bracket fungi, and I ran into this:

And second I saw that, I was like “wait, that looks familiar…”.

Then it hit me.

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i hate when i send someone a meme in another language and they're like "uhm... translate? 😒" fucker i sent you a meme where 90% of the words have an english cognate and/or you don't need to know what they're saying to find it funny. can you at least TRY

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this april fools reblog to let your followers know that they are not safe from getting DEERED

DEERED

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reblog this if you're ok with spam boops i'm about to be such an overachiever

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POV: booping someone shorter than you

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hey everyone its april fools. but dont worry i dont have anything planned. just going to sit here and...

I LIED !!!! GET PRANKED

POST BELOW ME GET FUCKING WET

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Reblog to let your followers know that they’re safe from jumpscares/screamers/etc from you on April 1st but they are NOT safe from getting boop’d like an idiot amen

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So sometimes I write stuff, like, creative writing for media I am interested in. I create characters and lore and background. Today it is Transformers.

Today it is the worst person I have ever created.

TW/CW: blood, needles, medical setting, surgery/operations, caste like systems, elitism, medical trauma

The processor.

Such a delicate element of Cybertronian biology, an intricate network of connection and wires, brought to life by energon, electricity moving faster than his optics could see.

It was a privilege to see the processor so up close. Lights blinking, systems whirring, the almost indiscernible clicking of the chronometer. He was ignoring his own, using his patient’s steady clicking to keep his awareness of the passing of time.

It was only when the helm was open, when the dome was removed, that he got to hear the sounds. At times he could tell just from a glance what those delicate, thoroughly designed systems were optimised to do. Intended to do.

The fans of the mech below him grew louder, a clear sign of discomfort. Of possible waking.

“Shhhh, its okay, you're okay,” Red Cross murmured, his servos stilling as his focus shifted to the machine he'd connected himself to, flooding his patient's systems with anaesthetic.

The mech stilled again.

Good.

Perhaps having mnemosurgical needles installed was not the most accepted within the medical community, but he hadn't regretted it a single day. The rush of connection, the possibilities laying at his fingertips, the complete life of someone unfolding before him. The control he had over their memories. Their thoughts. Their ideas.

It wasn't uncommon for non-medics to have good ideas. He was more than happy to hear them out, to develop those ideas for application and use within his field.

It was so easy to convince them to talk to him. To have them follow him to his domain. An explanation here, a demonstration there, they ate from his palm. It was exhilarating. Intoxicating. If he hadn't been destined for medicine, if his function had dictated else, perhaps he could have been a great politician. After all, isn't politics just using the correct words to convince your way is right?

Images slid through his processor, stills of memories, thoughts and dreams. He didn't care for their other experiences, all he needed was the smell of disinfectant and the clicking of their chronometer. His lips parted, glossa running across it slightly as he pressed further, needles probing deeper into the core of this being, sliding between printplates and impossibly thin wires.

Deeper. More. He needed the treasure, he needed the fruit of his labour, he needed the victory and ecstacy of another success. Another addition. Another idea to cement himself in medicine.

His first patients hadn't survived. He'd been told this would likely happen, even with his steady servos. A surgeon with shaky servos might as well offline, what purpose could they have?

No, his servos had been as steady as ever. And in the grand scheme of things, what were a few casualties in the name of science? At times there was a price to advancement, to improvement, to the betterment of all. Why would a nameless mech be worth more than the lives of the many?

His venting hitched. The wash of memories slowed down, the first bubbles of thoughts and ideas finding their way through his connection with this mech's very essence. They sunk into his processor, his bright blue eyes dimming as victory washed over him. It filled his frame with joy, with satisfaction to its core.

He bit his glossa. He could relish in his success later.

The memories were extracted from the mech's mind, the ideas leaving nought but a trace of their existence. He'd had enough practice with tweezers, removing foreign bodies from hosts that didn't need them.

No, this nameless mech certainly didn't need those ideas. A miner could only hope to retrieve the materials for a good medic, but to aspire any higher would be foolish. Unnatural. After all, how could a demolitioner's hammer ever be of use in the delicate works of operation? How could his scalpel ever wish to carve out rocks and ore? No. Your destiny is your function. And he had just relieved this poor mech from doubting the good creator of all, from doubting the path Primus had laid out for him.

Red Cross extracted himself from the miner's helm, taking up a fine cloth to wipe the energon residue on the sharp points on his digits. The scent of freshly drawn energon no longer bothered him, he had gotten used to it early on in his career. He knew the limited amount of bleeding wouldn't be a risk to someone of his stature.

Though, in all honesty, if he died...

A glance was cast at the monitoring device.

Who would miss a nameless miner?

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Can I watch a great film knowing the actresses in it were terrorized and mistreated the entire time? Can I watch a football game knowing that the players are getting brain injuries right before my eyes? Can I listen to my favorite albums anymore knowing that the singers were all beating their wives in between studio sessions? Can I eat at the new fancy taco place knowing when the building that used to be there got bulldozed eight families got kicked out of their homes so they could be replaced with condos and a chain restaurant? Can I wear the affordable clothes I bought downtown that were probably assembled in a sweatshop with child labor? Can I eat quinoa? Can I eat this burger? Can I drink this bottled water? Can I buy a car and drive to work because I’m sick of taking an hour each way on the subway? Whose bones do I stand on? Whose bones am I standing on right now? 

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Send me a number and I’ll write a micro story using the word or phrase

(creator note: I recommend 3-10 sentences but go for a longer piece if you really feel it! Replace pronouns as needed for the character / point of view)

don’t leave 

this was a mistake

[I] trusted [you]

one chance

help

illusion

silent fury

sunbathing

falling

righteous

drastic

candles

too loud

overgrown

trembling hands

in dreams

empty

flinders

sea change

alone, finally

collapse

nap

sated

tender

senseless

how dare [you]

hide

something about [them]

sweat

harsh whisper

breeze

dust motes

saccharine

bauble

filthy

total control

defy

soak

accursed

pet

comfort food

savior

undone

cheap

svelte

shimmer

crave

rampage

nightfall

accost