#think of death

[hamletthedane]

Thinking about him (the soldier in Poynter’s Faithful Until Death painting watching an apocalypse unfold around him with horror in his eyes as he tries to keep himself standing beneath a doorway, based on an actual 19th century archeological find of a man in full soldier’s garb under a doorway at Pompeii)

[markwateneymemorialcrater]

Please note. The orange one is not included because A. He isn’t a billionaire. And B. Calling him obnoxious is too kind for him.

[callizinc]

[captainjonnitkessler]

Sometimes I wish we would start calling out the performative radicalism on this site for the poser bullshit it is. "Remember, it's always morally correct to kill a cop!" "Don't forget to firebomb your local government office!" "Wow, it sure would be a shame if these instructions on how to make a molotov cocktail got spread around!"

Okay. But you're not killing cops or firebombing government offices. You are posting on a dying microblogging website to a carefully-curated echo chamber that has radicalized itself into thinking that taking the absolute most extreme position on any subject is praxis but that anyone discussing the most practical way to effect actual change is your sworn enemy. You do not have the street cred OR the activist cred to be talking about killing cops, babe.

[bamsara]

Finor, the first follower.

[chase-solidago]

So you found a dead body in the woods

The worst thing you've worried about, going on hikes, happens. This happens often, in the grand scheme of things. It's always joggers and dogwalkers and hikers. My unlucky day came on October 24, 2022.

So what do you do when you find a dead body?

Look in the other direction and take a breath. Panic wont help you or them.

If you are comfortable, approach them and try to help. If not, it's okay. I was unwilling to approach (they looked real dead) and my 911 operator was 100% totally supportive and okay with that.

Walk a little ways away. There is no reason why you need to keep staring at them. It's okay. Seeing a dead person is really wack!

When you've caught your breath, call 911. My first thought was "Oh god, I don't want to talk to cops." and, good news, it's not cops! 911 responders are different people. They are trained to talk to you, to reassure you, and to help you. They are there for you. They understand you are freaking out. They are kind and patient.

Your new buddy, the 911 person, will help you figure out where you are, exactly. They have access to your location via cell-tower and GPS, but if, like me, you were off-trail (oops), they might need your help navigating to you. I offered to also send a photo, and he provided an email, which he received immediately. I deleted the photo I took right away.

Hang out on the phone with your dispatch friend. They're going to want to keep in touch with you as the paramedics approach. Are you freaking out by chattering too much? Are you freaking out by being dead silent? Both are okay! Apparently, my panic response is to become Super Midwestern Chatty. I was able to make him laugh, which I count as a win.

Holler to the paramedics. My paramedics came deep into the ravine-filled woods, about six men, steering a rolling bed thing. We shouted at each other until they made it to the body. It would have been funny, watching them fumble along, if it wasn't so serious.

Get out of there! The paramedics don't need anything from you. They're busy doing their job. They shooed me back to the trail and to the parking lot. I didn't have to go anywhere near the body.

Meet cops in the parking lot. In my situation, the cops didn't want anything from me. They were just picking their noses in the parking lot while the paramedics did the real work. The cops said thanks for helping, while covering their bodycams, because they're pigs.

Go eat donuts. Christ, that was a lot. Let yourself comedown and get some sugar to kickstart your system.

Feel good that you gave a family closure. Yeah, that sucked. Yeah, your therapist is going to hear about this. Yeah, next time you come to this location, you're going to need a friend with you. But you did the right thing. You'll never know their family, but know that you gave them closure.

[just-a-random-bakugo-stan]

“Eww don’t ship them ! They’re just friends/ they hate each other/ they barely have any interaction/they never even met/they’re not from the same series !”

Pussy. Back in my days, we shipped Elsa and Jack Frost to hell and back because they were both ice themed.

[strangeracrossthestreet]

@mariyyum twitter post: Recipes that have been passed down to me by my Palestinian mother 🇵🇸, and I've had the honor of sharing them with all of you. #freepalestine

1: Cheese Manakeesh (cheese pies)

2: Homemade Hummus w/ chicken koufta

3: Msakhan (the National dish of Palestine)

4: Sfeeha (meet pies)

Follow her on: twitter instagram youtube tiktok and her own blog for more.

[hegodamask]

ANDOR S02E09 Welcome to the Rebellion x Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope

[kensatou]

(✿◕‿◕) die (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)

[palarien]

sketched this out at jury duty actually

[ouijeebies]

Sharing Paradise ✨

She definitely has favorites…

[hoshizoralone]

reflection

[kiras-law]

light "if someone tries to read my diary i will set my drawer on fire" yagami

[thebibliosphere]

My dad was a bit of a tearaway growing up. He still would be if it weren't for the advancing arthritis and my mother holding him back by his shirt collar for the last 50 years.

They both grew up in the slums of post-WW2 Glasgow. My mother talks about living in damp, mold-ridden basement flats and her mother owning multiple cats to keep down on the rats, while my father likes to recount how he grew up every night looking at the stars... through the hole in the roof.

He was also best friends with my mother's brother, which was how they met at the tender ages of 9 and 11 and got married ten years later. But before that, my dad was in a gang. They'd cut about the back streets with skinned knees, hand-me-down bikes rattling over cobblestone streets away from the polis. Mucky boots full of holes thudding over the tin roofs of the outhouses as they hopped the walls to avoid getting caught smoking—a habit my father laments he picked up at age 11 and has never been able to shake.

One time, in his mid-teens, my dad saw another boy getting the shit kicked out of him. Not an unusual site in that part of Glasgow back then, especially when the football was on and the bars spilled out into the streets with the drunken malevolence of festering religious bigotry that still, sadly, prevails to this day. But this was no honest scuffle. This was five to one, ten to one, depending on Dad's mood when he tells the story. And for all he was a scruffy wee toe rag who was no better than he ought to be, my dad had a firm sense of fairness, and the fight in front of him was not fair. So he jumped in and started battering the fuck out of people.

It's worth noting that my dad and I share many traits. Our humor, our love of words, and most notably, our height. My dad is 5ft 2 on a good day, 5'3" at a literal stretch. It earned him the nickname "wee barra," a name that's stuck to this day, even as my father shrinks with age and begins to resemble a Norman Rockwell-esque grandpa: silver-haired, red-faced with a smile that makes you think of Christmas.

Anyway, turns out the boy he rescued was the son of a reasonably well-known crime lord. The kind of mad cunt who'd give you a Glasgow Smile if you cut in front of him at the post office but who also donated to charity, loved his kids, and could be very kind and generous to a boy in over his head who saw an unfair fight and moved in to break it up.

I wouldn't say they became friends. More acquaintances you could nod at in the street. And when the time came for my dad to get down on bended knee and ask my Mum to marry him, that passing familiarity meant they got a discounted price at a local pub venue to host the wedding festivities. All proper posh and swanky. Or as posh and proper as a pub in the 70s could be.

Sadly, in the literal weeks running up to their wedding, my Mum's father grew sick and died. Lung cancer. It'd been eating away at him for years, and nobody knew. So while my mother sat by her father's deathbed, nursing him to the end, my father had to reschedule their wedding and help plan for a funeral instead. It was with no small trepidation he showed up at the pub and was led into a back room to say, "er, very sorry, but, er, we won't be going ahead with the wedding, er, would you mind waiting for the rest of your money... please?"

And this crime lord, this terrifying figure of a man, humphed and grumped and said, "very sorry to hear that, lad. Did things just not work out?"

So my dad explained about his future father-in-law, the funeral, and needing to help look after his future mother-in-law, and he recounts how the room got very still and quiet, and after a pause, this monster of a man renowned for violence turned toward the safe behind him, reached in and pulled out an envelope—the one my father had written "wedding deposit" on—and handed it back to him.

"Away and take care of your family, son," was apparently all he said, and my dad, clutching the envelope to his chest, nodded, said thank you about a million times, then legged it out the door.

I remember thinking the first time I heard this story, probably about the age of 9 or 10, still fully entrenched in the moral parables being taught to me every Sunday in a dusty church basement, that there was some higher moral to impart. Like how even the most monstrous of men could be capable of kindness and good and redemption. Upon voicing this, my dad laughed so hard that he inhaled his cigarette.

"Christ, no. Don't be daft," he said, between hacking coughs. "The lesson is don't owe money to the fucking mafia."

Anyway, that's the man who taught me right from wrong and how to read, write, and tell stories. It should probably help explain some things.

And today, we found out the cigarettes finally caught up with him. Lung cancer. We don't know what stage yet. He says he can breathe just fine, which is funny because I feel like I'm suffocating.

I don't know what to do.

But at least I don't need to tell a crime lord I can't pay him the rest of his money. Small mercies.

[dunmeshistash]

One of the things I really appreciate about Dungeon Meshi is how the text is so clearly full of love for animals. Like the true kind of love Laios feels for the monster where he wants to know everything about them, but most of all he respects them and loves them as animals.

One of the chapters I can't stop thinking about is the one about Anne the Kelpie. It's kind of impressive how well it illustrates the different kind of love people have for animals. And how someone that loves an animal isn't necessarily an animal lover. If that makes sense.

When Senshi calls out Anne what he says is "Don't worry Anne's Harmless" but she isn't, she's a wild animal.

Marcille immediately reacts positively about it thinking it's cute she accepts the treat Senshi has for her. And hers and Chilchuck's reaction to Senshi wanting to cross the river on her back is more surprise while Laios immediately realizes how bad of an idea it is.

But Laios is the animal monster lover so how come when he finally is faced with a "docile" monster he doesn't react positively like the others? Marcille even calls him a monster. That's because Laios loves monsters, and Senshi loves Anne.

I've seen this attitude around me several times, where people love a specific animal but what they love is their idea of that animal, they don't really know them because they don't love the animal part of them.

It becomes a "this one is special because I love them" that can quickly become an issue for the animal as much as it is for the person. It's something unfortunate I see time and time again irl.

Anne wasn't wicked, Anne wasn't mean, Anne didn't trick him. Anne was a wild animal and Senshi loved her as Anne but not as a kelpie.

She acted on instinct, maybe she did love Senshi in the way kelpies can love, but animals are still animals and must be respected and treated as such. Climbing on top of Anne's back was the equivalent of putting your arm inside a alligator's mouth, the mouth is gonna close because that's what they're designed to do.

The real life equivalent I see the most of "I love this animal but I don't love the animal part of them" is with dogs. If you insist on loving an animal without acknowledging they ARE an animal they might hurt you, you might hurt them, it will only end in grief.

The best way you can love an animal is by understanding they're an animal.

That is all to say I don't mean that the love Senshi felt for Anne wasn't real or that it's all his fault. He couldn't have known with the information he had and unfortunately it came down to the worst outcome.

I just love dungeon meshi dearly.