thirtyknives

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suggestions for gender neutral version of mom/dad? something less formal than just ‘parent’

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what ppl defending kids on ipads don’t seem to understand is that there are other ways to keep kids occupied. my mom had a whole bag full of little toys and games for me to play with while waiting in lines at disney world. once your kid is like 7 or 8 they can read a book. they can color. or they can literally just sit there and imagine things. i did that a lot as a kid.

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Pale Fire

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Just saw an ad for fucking Kellog's cornflakes wherein a shirtless blindfolded man tied to a bed is like "Wait.. are you... eating??" and it pans across the bed to reveal that his partner is, indeed, too distracted to have sex with him bc she is chowing down on corn flakes. Now I've been caught up in wondering whether:

a) John Harvey Kellog would despise this ad; the mere proximity of bondage-play to his brand name and beloved anti-porn flakes is unforgivable

b) John Harvey Kellog would enjoy this ad, because it shows a young woman forsaking the temptations of the flesh in favour of eating a wholesome and nourishing bowl of cornflakes

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"That's a made-up word" Buddy I have terrible news about every word in every language ever

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"This fic is literally just porn, why do you care about the quality of the editing" unfortunately, both my brain and my dick have strong opinions about verb tenses.

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Messy sketch

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I think I may never be sad ever again. There is a statue entitled "Farewell to Orpheus" on my college campus. It's been there since 1968, created by a Prof. Frederic Littman that use to work at the university. It sits in the middle of a fountain, and the fountain is often full of litter. I have taken it upon myself to clean the litter out when I see it (the skimmers only come by once a week at max). But because of my style of dress, this means that bystanders see a twenty-something on their hands and knees at the edge of the fountain, sleeves rolled up, trying not to splash dirty water on their slacks while their briefcase and suit coat sit nearby. This is fine, usually. But today was Saturday Market, which means the twenty or so people in the area suddenly became hundreds. So, obviously, somebody stopped to ask what I was doing. "This," I gestured at the statue, "is Eurydice. She was the wife of Orpheus, the greatest storyteller in Greece. And this litter is disrespectful." Then, on a whim, I squinted up at them. "Do you know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?" "No," they replied, shifting slightly to sit.

"Would you like to?"

"Sure!"

So I told them. I told them the story as I know it- and I've had a bit of practice. Orpheus, child of a wishing star, favorite of the messenger god, who had a hard-working, wonderful wife, Eurydice; his harp that could lull beasts to passivity, coax song from nymphs, and move mountains before him; and the men who, while he dreamed and composed, came to steal Eurydice away. I told of how she ran, and the water splashed up on my clothes. But I didn't care. I told of how the adder in the field bit her heel, and she died. I told of the Underworld- how Orpheus charmed the riverman, pacified Cerberus with a lullaby, and melted the hearts of the wise judges. I laughed as I remarked how lucky he was that it was winter- for Persephone was moved by his song where Hades was not. She convinced Hades to let Orpheus prove he was worthy of taking Eurydice. I tugged my coat back on, and said how Orpheus had to play and sing all the way out of the Underworld, without ever looking back to see if his beloved wife followed. And I told how, when he stopped for breath, he thought he heard her stumble and fall, and turned to help her up- but it was too late. I told the story four times after that, to four different groups, each larger than the last. And I must have cast a glance at the statue, something that said "I'm sorry, I miss you--" because when I finished my second to last retelling, a young boy piped up, perhaps seven or eight, and asked me a question that has made my day, and potentially my life: "Are you Orpheus?" I told the tale of the grieving bard so well, so convincingly, that in the eyes of a child I was telling not a story, but a memory. And while I laughed in the moment, with everyone else, I wept with gratitude and joy when I came home. This is more than I deserve, and I think I may never be sad again.

Here is the aforementioned statue, by the way.

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guy whose genitalia is one of these

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We can refer to anything that doesn’t require horses to work as being horseless. The horseless carriage. The horseless pencil. The horseless laptop. The Horseless Large Hadron Collider.

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Boy, you people sure stay up late. We keep odd hours.

Near Dark (1987) dir. Kathryn Bigelow

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Big gains on the neocities this week 💪 got the cats page looking good and formatted the music diary less chaotically (i had like 3 extra divs just hanging around and my style names were like... "groovin" "wolf" "bits" [very very babys second css]). And now that i have a better grip on how stuff works (namely flexbox) i thumbnailed a realistic layout and im like 60% there.

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Triple J's holding an Australian Music Hottest 100, lets gooooooo

https://www.abc.net.au/triplej/countdown/hottest100

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The Australian tax department everyone