flower dogs 🐕🌸
The black dragon (Detail), 2018 - acrylic on canvas. — Guillermo Lorca (Chilean, b.1984)
happy 3-year anniversary to this iconic video :)
crewdlydrawn
Forever love having on-recorded-media the moment Tom Hardy realized his inside thoughts became outside thoughts and did so ON CAMERA.
not to be pedantic but it annoys me so much when people talk abt how chatgpt is "lying" or "making things up". or esp when people say it "refuses to admit" to lying. like girl that is a toaster oven
"it REFUSED TO ADMIT that it LIED to me" it is a line of code generating letters in the most algorithmically probable order
verycreativeandfunnyname
In made an Hall of the mountain king edit in honor of this batshit insane post (for which i may or may not be partially responsible, too) by @one-time-i-dreamt, enjoy :)
i think this definitely belongs in some weird category, im just not sure which
I NEEDED THIS TODAY, THANK YOU
Every pride, you must reblog this. No exceptions
I love that four different people on my feed scheduled this joyous person to reblog by 8am on June 1. I look forward to seeing this a dozen more times today.
I love this song.
It’s so hard being a silly goose in this anti-whimsy society
I was trying to come up with Memento Mori imagery
and what if: it was a kitty
Like to charge reblog to cast
You’re not casting
Keying/graffiti-ing someones car is old news now if someone cheats we go at their wardrobe with a seam ripper
yknow what? Fuck you *unstitches all your shirts and jeans*
skitzofreak
My mother did this to my father once. They got into an argument, my very pregnant and hormonal mother stormed off…except they lived in a tiny apartment so the only place to go was to shut herself into the closet for a good long sulk. And while she was sitting in there, fuming, she looked up and saw her sewing kit on the shelf, and all my father’s uniforms hanging right there.
So she picked one shirt and one pair of trousers, carefully, methodically ripped every third stitch out of every seam, and then hung them back up together so that he would be likely to pick them at the same time. This took her a couple hours, so by the time she was done, the anger had worn down. She came out, she and my father had a talk that ended in apologies, after which they were tired and went to bed. My mother swears up and down that she meant to warn my father about the sabotaged clothes in the morning, but he wore a different uniform set and they were both still feeling a little raw, so she didn’t want to bring up the fight again. She decided to tell him that night instead.
And then she forgot.
Anyway, about four days later, my father apparently came home roughly an hour after he left for work, his clothes slowly, gently shredding off his body, the most bewildered expression on his face. “Paula,” he said, his voice mildly shell-shocked. “Paula, my clothes are broken.”
My mother promptly burst out laughing so hard that she went into labor. And that’s the story of my birth, heralded by petty vengeance and utter confusion.
