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what if plagg 😂 had whatsapp 😂😂

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The best way to wake up

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why are teen girls this hysterically funny for no reason

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bro i LOVE indigenous fusion music i love it when indigenous people take traditional practices and language and apply them in new cool ways i love the slow decay and decolonisation of the modern music industry

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I actually passed away quite a few years ago, but I'm a very private person and never told anybody.

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I have this suspicion that the way Americans regard beauty in their environment is completely different from the rest of the world.

How come that even when they’re middle class or above they are still satisfied with ugly houses in boring suburbs and tacky interior design? Why are they so insistent on depriving themselves of beautiful things in daily life. Why do you have a 6 bedroom home with a pool and your sofa is still ugly?

I know this is a generalization but does it have some truth in it or am I just seeing things.

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once i master my adhd and stop believing that i’m waiting for my life to begin and accept what i cannot change and finish cleaning my room and stick to a productive schedule and drink enough water and meditate and organize all the important papers in the paper pile and start being consistent and say the nice things to myself and gain confidence its OVER for you bitches

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What's the opposite of "fuck my stupid baka life" ?

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okay, hold on, time out. that’s not fair. if they’re allowed to shoot energy beams using the power of friendship, i should be able to summon a monster using the power of divorce

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Twitter still producing bangers on occasion

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the MOST iconic 20 seconds of any anime dub i’ve ever experienced

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How come semi trucks in Europe look like “toot toot :)” and in North America they look like “HONK HOOOOOOOONK >:|”

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he was hardly monstrous then

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about meeeeeeee

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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.