not me almost driving off without my straw from dunkin because the barista was incredibly handsome and had such a sweet smile and was taller than the window so he had to duck down
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I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.
What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.
What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.
What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.
The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.
And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.
But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.
I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.
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i cant get over the ball being so CLEARLY all for crowley i can't get over aziraphale trying to woo him with a WHOLE FUCKING BALL because that's what he knows that's what romance IS for him because he's been wanting to dance with crowley ever since dancing was invented and he's so stuck in time with the way he dresses and talks and he still thinks a dance is the high of romance AND HE MADE A WHOLE ENTIRE FUCKING BALL FOR CROWLEY JUST SO HE COULD DANCE WITH HIM like now it's so fucking obvious he gave away his BOOKS without a second thought and it was all for crowley he organised a whole JANE AUSTEN THEME BALL just so he could have an excuse to finally dance with the love of his life and i can't get over this i'm shaking my fists and pacing up and down he did not give a single fuck about anything other than dancing with crowley and HE BARELY TOUCHED OTHER PEOPLE'S HANDS WHILE HIS WHOLE FUCKING PALM WAS PRESSED TO CROWLEY'S AND i need to lie down
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We get it, Disney. We get it.
Star Wars is not for women.
Star Wars is not for Black people.
Star Wars is not for Asian people.
Star Wars is not for Queer people.
Star Wars is not for anyone who is marginalized and has different lived experiences.
Nope. Star Wars is ONLY for cishet white men. We hear you loud and clear. We know you don’t care about us at all.
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[ID: A mostly cool colored, digital three page comic of teen Gojo Satoru talking to young Tsumiki Fushiguro.
Page one: Gojo makes a sandwich for Tsumiki who's leaning on the kitchen island. Tsumiki says "Thanks for the snacks, dad" and Gojo responds "No problem, Tsumi."
In the next panel Gojo complains "Man... I wish Megumi didn't hate me so much. At least you call me dad..." Tsumiki comments "Megumi does that too, though?"
In the third panel, Gojo activates his Six Eyes like a flashlight and yells "When!? Where!? Do you have it on camera!?" to a surprised Tsumiki.
Page two: Tsumiki thinks about the various times Megumi has called Gojo 'dad,' including when Gojo gave them a bad hair cut, when the divine dogs bit Gojo, when Gojo made soup, and lastly when Megumi asked Tsumiki to ask Gojo to make snacks which is all represented in blue tinted drawings. In the last panel she has a devious smile and is labeled "8 yr old who just realized how funny she can be"
Page three: Tsumiki cheerfully says to a gleeful Gojo "In your dreams!" The second panel shows them zoomed out with a lighting strike going through Gojo's shattered heart while Tsumiki has a cat like smile. In the third panel with a light orange background, Tsumiki is smiling while Megumi comes up behind her and asks "Why's dad crying?" /End ID]
Before this happened
Edit: It has kindly been brought to my attention that Tsumi means sin in Japanese I'm so sorry Tsumiki I should've taken five seconds to check I just wanted matching nicknames with Gumi 😭
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Cass’s Apocalyptic Series has a death grip on my heart... and has been ripping it to pieces with this latest update.
But I trust Cass, and their reassurance that there will be a happy ending; and that it’s not the end for Uncle Tello.
Unfortunately, that triggered something in my brain that I absolutely had to get out before it killed me.....
Please accept this meme to help cope
@somerandomdudelmao I am so, so fucking sorry.....
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