tumblr developers cranking it into overdrive to make sure one of the few unique and usable social media sites remaining becomes a half-formed failed homunculus clone of tiktok like every other fucking website
ADHD
Add onto this the constant feeling of being overwhelmed. You didn’t get the laundry done yesterday and now there are piles of it. You forgot to take out the chicken so now you’re trying to throw something together for dinner at 9 pm. You forgot to order your prescription and now it’s the weekend so you’re going to go without for 2 days. There are dishes in the sink. You forgot to plug in the vacuum so now you can’t even clean the floor. There are hobbies you can’t do because you’ve convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to experience fun until the work is finished. Slowly, it all builds and you are left sitting there with so much to do and the inability to organize tasks leaves you paralyzed and lost amid everything! Honestly, you fucking break down crying because you feel like an incomplete person incapable of caring for themselves.
So Universal Pictures may have just intentionally over-pruned all of the city owned trees in front of their LA corporate office in an effort to fuck with the WGA/SAG-AFTRA picketers during what is predicted to be the hottest week of the year so far:
And the LA City Controller is looking into it:
Once again it looks like it's time for:
[I.D. edited text over a zoomed in image of gummy worms, the text reads "who up writhing and contorting". end I.D.]
maybe i’m just a commie but i think people shouldn’t be at risk of homelessness if they’re in between jobs
actually y’know what
Last week I accidentally took an edible at 10x my usual dose. I say “accidentally” but it was really more of a “my friend held it out to my face and I impulsively swallowed it like a python”, which was technically on purpose but still an accident in that my squamate instincts acted faster than my ability to assess the situation and ask myself if I really wanted to get Atreides high or not.
Anyway. I was painting the wall when it hit. My friend heard me make a noise and asked what was wrong—I explained that I had just fallen through several portals. I realized that painting the wall fulfilled my entire hierarchy of needs, and was absolutely sure that I was on track to escaping the cycle of samsara if I just kept at it a little longer. I was thwarted on my journey towards nirvana only by the fact that I ran out of paint.
Seeking a surrogate act of humble service through which I might be redeemed and made human, I turned to unwashed dishes in the sink and took up the holy weapon of the sponge. I was partway through cleaning the blender when it REALLY hit.
You ever clean a blender? It’s a shockingly intimate act. They are complex tools. One of the most complicated denizens of the kitchen. Glass and steel and rubber and plastic. Fuck! They’ve got gaskets. You can’t just scrub ‘em and rinse them down like any other piece of shit dish. You’ve got to dissemble them piece by piece, groove by sensitive groove, taking care to lavish the spinning blades with cautious attention. There’s something sensual about it. Something strangely vulnerable.
As I stood there, turning the pieces over in my hands, I thought about all the things we ask of blenders. They don’t have an easy job. They are hard laborers taking on a thankless task. I have used them so roughly in my haste for high-density smoothies, pushing them to their limits and occasionally breaking them. I remembered the smell of acrid smoke and decaying rubber that filled the kitchen in the break room the last time I tried to make a smoothie at work—the motor overtaxed and melted, the gasket cracked and brittle. Strawberry slurry leaked out of it like the blood of a slain animal.
Was this blender built to last? Or was it doomed to an early grave in some distant landfill by the genetic disorder of planned obsolescence? I didn’t know, and was far too high to make an educated guess. But I knew that whatever care and tenderness and empathy I put into it, the more respect for the partnership of man and machine, the better it would perform for me.
This thought filled me with a surge of affection. However long its lifespan, I wanted it to be filled with dignity and love and understanding. I thought: I bet no one has hugged this blender before. And so I lifted it from its base.
A blender is roughly the size and shape of a human baby. Cradling one in your arms satisfies a primal need. A month ago I was permitted to hold an infant for the first time in my life, an experience which was physically and psychologically healing. I felt an echo of that satisfaction holding my friend the blender, and the thought of parting with it felt even more ridiculous than bringing it with me to hang out on my friend’s bed.
Last week I accidentally took an edible at 10x my usual dose. I say “accidentally” but it was really more of a “my friend held it out to my face and I impulsively swallowed it like a python”, which was technically on purpose but still an accident in that my squamate instincts acted faster than my ability to assess the situation and ask myself if I really wanted to get Atreides high or not.
Anyway. I was painting the wall when it hit. My friend heard me make a noise and asked what was wrong—I explained that I had just fallen through several portals. I realized that painting the wall fulfilled my entire hierarchy of needs, and was absolutely sure that I was on track to escaping the cycle of samsara if I just kept at it a little longer. I was thwarted on my journey towards nirvana only by the fact that I ran out of paint.
Seeking a surrogate act of humble service through which I might be redeemed and made human, I turned to unwashed dishes in the sink and took up the holy weapon of the sponge. I was partway through cleaning the blender when it REALLY hit.
You ever clean a blender? It’s a shockingly intimate act. They are complex tools. One of the most complicated denizens of the kitchen. Glass and steel and rubber and plastic. Fuck! They’ve got gaskets. You can’t just scrub ‘em and rinse them down like any other piece of shit dish. You’ve got to dissemble them piece by piece, groove by sensitive groove, taking care to lavish the spinning blades with cautious attention. There’s something sensual about it. Something strangely vulnerable.
As I stood there, turning the pieces over in my hands, I thought about all the things we ask of blenders. They don’t have an easy job. They are hard laborers taking on a thankless task. I have used them so roughly in my haste for high-density smoothies, pushing them to their limits and occasionally breaking them. I remembered the smell of acrid smoke and decaying rubber that filled the kitchen in the break room the last time I tried to make a smoothie at work—the motor overtaxed and melted, the gasket cracked and brittle. Strawberry slurry leaked out of it like the blood of a slain animal.
Was this blender built to last? Or was it doomed to an early grave in some distant landfill by the genetic disorder of planned obsolescence? I didn’t know, and was far too high to make an educated guess. But I knew that whatever care and tenderness and empathy I put into it, the more respect for the partnership of man and machine, the better it would perform for me.
This thought filled me with a surge of affection. However long its lifespan, I wanted it to be filled with dignity and love and understanding. I thought: I bet no one has hugged this blender before. And so I lifted it from its base.
A blender is roughly the size and shape of a human baby. Cradling one in your arms satisfies a primal need. A month ago I was permitted to hold an infant for the first time in my life, an experience which was physically and psychologically healing. I felt an echo of that satisfaction holding my friend the blender, and the thought of parting with it felt even more ridiculous than bringing it with me to hang out on my friend’s bed.
'can i copy your homework?'
'yeah just don't make it obvious'
the like to reblog ratio being almost the same is so funny, people are NOT happy with at this update lmao
My queers, we really need to put the "no men" thing away. Men are not inherently bad. There are queer men. There are questioning men. There's men that are just plain cool. Denying these men a space at our table is not helping - except the TERFs. I just came off the back of reading a transphobe gleeful rant about the need to have pride without men - They of course mean me. This kind of stuff is damaging to me and I really need us all to take a step back and maybe kill this "men dni, men not allowed" stuff. What you mean is "no men who are going to do mean stuff to me." And frankly those men won't give a shit about that kind of boundary.
But I promise you there's a fleet of good honest men who will see that and be sad they're not allowed in your version of queer spaces.
PATRIARCHY is what you hate. Dni Patriarchs.
"Men DNI" in a blog's header gets an immediate block from me. If you're going to reject--wholesale--roughly half the population, I don't want to know you.
Honest, I don't know the intent but cosigning for me as a translady who always gets weirded out by em.
First of all, there's trans men. That's obvious. Trans men are some of the most wonderful people on this god damn planet. And second, there are some very cool, very kind, very compassionate cis men out there. And if you're saying "no men", you're gonna miss out on some of the most wonderful people you could ever hope to meet. The no men thing is broke
Sometimes it says no cis men but that doesn't make it feel any better tbh.
oops
think i figured out how to replicate this (you're welcome dev team (btw hire me @staff))
- write a tag
- copy text from a tag that has the #
- paste that text into a tag youre *editing* (doesnt seem to trigger on new tags)
my wicked concubine keeps demanding i kill my best servants for her amusement
bro she is purposefully isolating you
Never forget: this year is the 10th anniversary of the Year of Luigi
People die on the job every summer. Remember that water and shade breaks are crucial when working in the heat, and calling emergency services for signs of serious heat illness (fatigue, nausea/vomiting, headaches, dizziness, clammy skin, confusion, agitation, slurred speech, high body temperature, rapid heart rate, etc.) is entirely appropriate. If you’re afraid to call 911 for reasons such as being undocumented, you’ll need to get very familiar with how to prevent, recognize, and treat heat illness. If you are symptomatic and not allowed a break, water, or medical treatment, walk out. No matter how broke you are, your job is not worth your life.