#*writes this down*

[toxycodone]

$30 immediately for something gross about Senshi or Chilchuck -your bestie 💞

👀👀‼️ oh. That is. That is so tempting.

My goal is to raise $100 for Gaza over the course of a month. I think. That’s doable

[captainkingsley]

baby dragons whose scales are much more shiny and iridescent in order to hide in their parents' hoards

[blueboxbeagle]

By LabradoriteKing on Pinterest

[charbroiledchicken]

if it's good enough for you, then it deserves to be made. don't let anyone else decide if your story is worth it or not.

[vendetta06]

the world is getting so ugly and bleak and it’s hard not to feel so hopeless. but we have to remember that they want us to feel that way.

it reminds me of this quote by dan savage - “During the darkest days of the AIDS crisis we buried our friends in the morning, we protested in the afternoon, and we danced all night, and it was the dance that kept us in the fight because it was the dance we were fighting for.”

joy is resistance. it’s really scary times but we are all in this together.

[tippenfunkaport]

Can't believe NaNoWriMo just did this, but literally.

[hannibal-is-my-comfort-show]

Headcannon that Jason got the headstone from his grave and put it above his bed because it says 'Here lies Jason Todd' (he broke off the good soldier bit ofc) and thinks it's the funniest thing ever, some of the family, of course, are horrified.

Dick, at Jason's before they go out on patrol: Hey Jaybird, make sure to bring a spare respir--WHAT THE HELL?!?

Dick, looking frantically between Jason and the headstone: this is clearly a threat. Somebody knows your identity. I swear to GOD when I find who did this--

Jason, looking up from his phone comepletely unbothered: oh yeah, about that

--------

Bonus:

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Tim, climbing through Jasons bedroom window: Hey, its me, dont shoot. Do you have a first aid kit here right?

Jason, getting up from where he was reading in bed: ugh yeah sure, one sec

Jason, proceeds to grab a sticky note saying 'DOES NOT' and jabs it onto the headstone so it reads 'Here DOES NOT lie Jason Todd':

Tim:

Tim: okay that's funny

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

people all collectively coming to tumblr to see if ao3 is down for other people too or if it’s just them and their wifi is so poetically nostalgic when you think about it, because in some way, it’s the equivalent of those times in the past when you’re a kid and visiting your grandparents’ home and there’s a blackout and so you just walk outside of the house to see if your neighbors experience the same thing too. the ao3 is just. like. a modern version of that

[mosstrades]

THE FRAMING. CAUGHT BETWEEN TWO OF HER. OH GOD.

[ceausescue]

applying for jobs seems to mostly consist of lying and submitting to indignities, which is whatever. but it is very difficult for me to override my innate instinct that anyone demanding i write a cover letter has insulted me so greatly that the only way to retain my honor is violence

[complete-clownery]

Okay guys

[tootkin-goblin]

Just remembered, as I was cooking some potato, about that time I went on holidays at my (now ex) girlfriend's grandma and met her whole family on this side.

All of them, the uncles, the aunts, the cousins of all age and gender, all of them told me about the legendary mashed potato that the grandma does. How good it is, how they can't reproduce it, and how the grandma has never told the recipe to anyone ever. A mystery, a secret she's going to take to the grave!

And like, it's a very good mashed potato. The recipe is simple, you boil some big potato, then you mash them with salt, pepper, herbes de Provence (a mix used almost everywhere in the south of france made of rosemary, oregano, thyme, basil, chervil, tarragon, bay leaf, fennel, marjoram, sage, and wild thyme), a good chunk of butter and a dollop of olive oil.

I know because she was very happy to show me how it's done when I, alone, went to help her in the kitchen (:

[sanct1f1ed]

favorite stan twins characterization is that they're both equally insane. stanley just gets more air time to show it off. loosely inspired by a post i read earlier but here's some absolutely insane things both of them have done

stanley:

drugged a person and turned them into an exhibit in the mystery shack

had a vegas wedding to a prospector-themed novelty dispenser

gave mabel a grappling hook

failed to steal an animatronic badger

chewed his way out of the trunk of a car

punched at least three bald eagles

is multiply divorced, possibly even with the novelty dispenser

committed premeditated murder on a llama

faked a heart attack to get on Wheel of Fortune

took his clothes off in front of a live studio audience on Wheel of Fortune

has a rivalry with a fifth grader, a grandmother, and a man who exclusively dresses like a corn cob

stanford:

pulled a gun on a bus driver when he wouldn't let a pig on board

directly assisted in mind-controlling ronald reagan during his election in 1980

gave mabel a crossbow

got bitten by a vampire bat and subsequently began sampling human blood

owns contraband outlawed in 9000 dimensions; keeps it in an extremely flimsy plastic case

"accidentally" set a hawk on fire

has exes ranging from as normal as his old college buddy to as weird as a triangle and an alien with 7 eyes who put a metal plate in his head

wears turtlenecks because he's hiding multiple tattoos he regrets, including one themed around "all star" by smash mouth

is an Extremely wanted criminal across hundreds of dimensions; was completely kicked out of one for card counting

is, bizarrely, super into the band Eurythmics

can see shrimp colors

[excarow]

Everytime ao3 is down I'm reminded of two things:

One is that humans have and always will love telling stories, and they will continue to do so even if there is no benefit to telling these stories, but simply because we love creating things

The other is that a concerning amount of us use fanfiction as an extreme form of escapism that we can't function without and we should probably look into that

[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.

[cirrup]

I now live in the Mulan au please forward all mail to this address