#(except for when it's not)

[psychopomp-imps]

Yo, can you draw like Moxxie and Loona getting along like wholesome and stuff? Ty!

Moxxie's love language is remembering the little things that make you feel seen. <3 I think feeling seen goes a long way with loonie and I'm not crying about it at all.

Thanks for the request!

[existennialmemes]

I need you to understand that I am absolutely never being serious (except for when I am.)

[all-or-nothing-baby]

back on my bullshit? babe, i never left.

[mearchy]

my favorite genre of fictional character is like "i am terrifying to almost everyone, i'm very good at killing, i can endure anything, i've become exceptionally good at playing into my reputation, and if you try to give me positive social interaction i will react with confusion and cower in a corner like an abused animal. and i may try to shoot you. but there is also a chance i may imprint on you like a feral dog receiving its first loving touch! good luck."

[queer-crusader]

Look I don't wanna bitch but if your Tumblr fic takes longer to scroll past than the Do You Love The Colour Of The Sky post then it would be kinda appreciated if you put the majority of it under a Read More button

[starlightfae]

me, last week: my favorite holiday is coming up :3c mom: ? easter? st patrick's day? me: no no, it's not a holiday as in 'you get time off work' me: me: unless you and your coworkers all do something really funny

[lili-home-to-embraces-and-hugs]

The Batkids play a game called “Guess Who Bruce Is Disappointed In Today” and it is a bloodsport.

It started as a joke. It is no longer a joke.

Every morning, without fail, one of them walks into the kitchen and says:

“Guess who Bruce is disappointed in today?”

And they all take turns guessing based on crime alerts, nightly patrol rotations, and vibes.

It’s become a system.

It went like:

Jason: “I knocked out a senator by accident. My odds are high.”

Tim: “I drank seventeen Red Bulls and fell asleep on top of the Batcomputer.”

Damian: “I released three bats into Gotham General Hospital as enrichment. They were bored.”

Steph: “I called him ‘Brucie’ in front of a senator.”

Cass: Just raises a finger and shrugs.

Then Bruce walks in, dead silent, pours his coffee, looks at no one, and walks away.

Tim: “It’s Jason.”

Jason: “DAMN IT.

Rules:

If you guess wrong, you have to do patrol with Damian and listen to him rant about the superiority of traditional swordsmanship for two hours.

If you guess right, you get to choose the movie on family movie night.

If Bruce is disappointed in himself, everyone gets ice cream. That’s the law.

It got so serious they made a whiteboard. Labeled it: “DISAPPOINTMENT LEADERBOARD.”

Top scores:

Tim (17 correct guesses, possible mind reader)

Cass (14, reads vibes better than Google Translate reads Latin)

Steph (11, mostly via chaos intuition)

Jason (2. constantly thinks it’s him. It often is. But not always.)

Damian (0. refuses to acknowledge he is ever the cause)

One time Dick guessed correctly for the first time in 3 months and everyone clapped.

He cried.

Alt. Version: Guess Who Bruce Is Proud Of Today.

Game cancelled due to lack of data.

[acorviart]

not to sound like a boomer, but I need some people to learn how to write emails in a semi-professional (at the very least) format so you're not cold emailing a business/potential employer/any other stranger about formal matters in the exact same way you'd DM a close friend on instagram

the formality/language can loosen up in the email chain once you've established a rapport and you match the other person if they're being less formal, but please don't have the very first email you send a stranger be written in all lowercase ultra-casual sms slang with no greeting or signature and a billion emojis

[professor-pants]

Genre of character: submissive like a guard dog is submissive

[star-pup01]

I was promised a vessel and got thrown into a teenager who has their own shit to work through that is not being helped by this situation, and if I ever give up then the world is covered in darkness.

[teaboot]

Me, parking lot security: Do you have any ID on you today

Person I just found keying someone’s car: I’m sorry I’m autistic

Me: Cool, me too. So a driver’s license, regional ID, anything…?

Person, now crying: I can’t get in trouble I have an anxiety disorder can I just go I have really bad anxiety

Me: Yeah me too, I feel you. But you see the car’s owner will need information to file for insurance so again if I can get your name

Person: I literally have anxiety so bad I can’t do this

Me: Listen I’m not a cop, I can’t force you to stick around, but if you do wanna help with this and you’re not gonna run then eventually someone will need to know what your name is. Can you take a few deep breaths with me

Person: (crying harder) please I’m literally autistic

Me:

Me: So again I am also autistic

[badninken]

He's been hauled around by so many people and animals at this point in his life that he's starting to rate them by size and comfort level.

He's literally bent over backwards on a horse ridden by three other men here. He's having this thought in the privacy of his own mind while frowning at the sky, still shot full of lead bullets btw. Peak Law moment.

Episode 690 at 20:54 (the voice acting for this line is amazing)

[nenoname]

hunting down a specific image but finding miscellaneous storyboards/some cut panels from the stan comic story instead

[crumb-crumblet-s-crumbington]

redrew my humanformers because they have changed quite a bit :3 (especially bulkhead)

[inkskinned]

i keep thinking about how rfk said that autistic people "will never write a poem." i keep thinking about that, about if humanity is calculated on the back of old verse. how far we measure personhood is in baseball and stanza breaks.

i keep thinking - i have over 7k poems on here alone. language can be a special interest, after all. did you know the word autism comes almost direct from the greek word autos, meaning "self"? self-ism.

maybe he is right - i haven't really played baseball. i was a ballet dancer instead. and besides - my sister once accidentally hit me in the face with an aluminum bat. i'm not sure if the injury gives me half points. am i only a person in the dugout? hand in a mitt? swinging?

does softball count? does cricket? am i a person if i throw the ball to my dog. am i a person as long as the ball is in the air, or do i stop being a person as it rolls into the bushes. i took my girlfriend to fenway recently; was i a person in the sun, with my hands up, with the game laid out at my feet in a diamond. i felt like a person, but that was back in the summer, and i often feel my most person-like then.

am i more of a person because of the sheer number of things i've written? does quality matter, or is it quantity? i used to write entire books every summer in high school - i wasn't doing well. i felt the least like-a-person back then. but then - does any person feel human in high school?

in the library, ink on my skin, i feel personhood shutter at the edges of myself. actually, writing feels blissfully like not being myself. it feels birdlike; escaping into creation so my body dissolves and i survive only by muscle memory. i am not there, i am writing.

but who can deny the falconlike focus of warsan shire, the tenderness of mary oliver, the sheer skill of amanda gorman. those are poets. they are certainly human. you could line them up with the way their words have influenced us and measure their literary shadows like wings.

perhaps it was very assumptive of me to want to be a poet rather than "a [ label ] poet." i wanted the work to fill itself in, rather than be stained by what i am. i do not write in despite of my neurodivergence, i am just neurodivergent and writing.

does the poem have to be in english or can i send it through my palms into the coat of my dog. does the poem have to make sense. does the poem have to love you back.

if i break a glass, will the poem appear naturally? or is the act of breaking the glass human-enough. the shards of my life glittering out beneath me - do i have to write the poem, or is it self-evident in the pile of glass splinters? i cannot grasp this world the way other people can. regardless, i endeavor to touch - even the mess - very gently.

i broke my toenail against my coffee table recently. i released a bug outdoors. i made coffee. i walked my dog.

i didn't write a poem about any of these things.

something else, then. existing without humanity.

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Danny did his best to ignore the person trying to wake him, but they were annoyingly persistent. After a wave of "Hey"s, "Get up"s, "You can't be here"s and one muttered, "How did you get in here?" Danny finally opened his eyes to see a boy about the same age as him staring while holding up the lid to Danny's casket.

He had thought he was done being woken up after he successfully escaped his superhero responsibilities by running away from Amity, "Am I just not allowed to rest in peace?"

"Not when it's in our attic."

The ghost boy scoffed, "Shouldn't have a casket in here if you didn't want to risk something crawling in."

The guy stared at him for a long moment before Danny decided he had enough and yanked the casket closed again, this time making sure to seal it shut with ice on the inside.

"Hey!"

The ghost rolled over with a huff, determined to ignore him.

Unfortunately, he underestimated how nosey this family could be...