this person’s response to being constantly assaulted by their own cats is to hide inside an enclosed tent in their living room

STOP APOLOGIZING FOR BEING WEIRD

CONFORMITY IS NOT A VIRTUE, LOVE IS

STOP SAYING YOU ARE "SO NORMAL"

THE WORLD NEEDS YOU TO BE WEIRD ABOUT IT

Hey guess what bitches Poland had a general election last Sunday and we said "fuck you" to the current fascist Orban-wannabes en masse, in a record-breaking historic turnout of 74% (that's a better turnout than the 1989 election which toppled the Soviet regime), with people of all ages standing in lines till 3 am to vote, young people actually outnumbering the elderly for the first time ever; and the result is that the progressive pro-EU coalition won and will form the next government. Been in in a stunned-but-celebratory mood since Sunday night.

It can be done.

we have already. They don't know exactly what is up with it, other than the sweat being slightly more acidic than normal and the acidic mantle being thicker and Way more acidic than normal, but it doesn't seem to have anything to do with acidosis. As far as we have tested, our family has had this since at least my great grandpa, and the guy lived to be 93 years old.

What the fuck.

op is a xenomorph descendant from that one time ripley fucked the queen

Because in its younger days it used to have RGB lights:

Some of them still work, when they want:

Though I've long forgotten how to change the color settings

NEVERMIND I JUST REMEMBERED HOW

Imagine trying to claim op is wasteful for using a plastic keyboard after they show off something that looks like it belongs at Old Friends Senior Keyboard Sanctuary.

Love how ADHD, autism and schizophrenia objectively have the same amount of traits and experiences in common, but schizophrenics aren't welcome in the metaphorical club house because they're bad for the image the neurodivergency movement is currently trying to capitalize on and with "love" I mean fuck y'all

Schizophrenics are neurodivergent, too.

Once more, for the people in the back:

Schizophrenics are neurodivergent, too!

And being neurodivergent doesn't make you immune to being ableist. If you're all for disability rights until someone is schizophrenic, then stop saying you're for disability rights. Because you're not.

thinking about the early access astarion sex scene where you do it in front of what appears to be a military weapons grade flood light

great job in the tags everybody. hit the showers

Feetprints

click and drag to take maisy car for a drive around your dashboard

if you are on mobile good news! you can just move your phone around and it is like you are driving maisy car around the real world!

describing commission ideas is so embarrassing. yea this is my guy. and i want you to draw him. jesus just shoot me already

ppl reblogging this and adding "especially if it's canon x oc" well you won't fucking believe what prompted this post buddy

Insanely based tags by @/carlyraejepsans

hlvrai is actually the perfect media because everyone in it is both taking it seriously and dicking around at the same time. it’s the beautiful equilibrium of “it’s not that deep” and “it absolutely is”. it has the cinematic beats of an actual three act structure but the beats are about beyblades and soda and heavenly sword

free my girl she did all of that, feels no remorse, and is actively planning to do more, but have you considered it was funny as hell

TBH that might even thiner they avrage

Wtf do you mean plus sized????? Thats a skinny woman?!!! Are these people blind??!!??!!

I mean it when I say the body positive movement completely turned to dust and had its effects reversed like 5 years ago

Makes a heartbeat sound effect when you get near me but neither of us can tell if it’s a horror game or a dating sim

In the first poetry workshop I ever took my professor said we could write about anything we wanted except for two things: our grandparents and our dogs. She said she had never read a good poem about a dog. I could only remember ever reading one poem about a dog before that point—a poem by Pablo Neruda, from which I only remembered the lines “We walked together on the shores of the sea/ In the lonely winter of Isla Negra.” Four years later I wrote a poem about how when I was a little girl I secretly baptized my dog in the bathtub because I was afraid she wouldn’t get into heaven. “Is this a good poem?” I wondered. The second poetry workshop, our professor made us put a bird in each one of our poems. I thought this was unbelievably stupid. This professor also hated when we wrote about hearts, she said no poet had ever written a good poem in which they mentioned a heart. I started collecting poems about hearts, first to spite her, but then because it became a habit I couldn’t break. The workshop after that, our professor would tell us the same story over and over about how his son had died during a blizzard. He would cry in front of us. He never told us we couldn’t write about anything, but I wrote a lot of poems about snow. At the end of the year he called me into his office and said, “looking at you, one wouldn’t think you’d be a very good writer” and I could feel all the pity inside of me curdling like milk. The fourth poetry workshop I ever took my professor made it clear that poets should not try to engage with popular culture. I noticed that the only poets he assigned were men. I wrote a poem about that scene in Grease 2 where a boy takes his girlfriend to a fallout shelter and tries to get her to have sex with him by tricking her into believing that nuclear war had begun. It was the first poem I ever published. The fifth poetry workshop I ever took our professor railed against the word blood. She thought that no poem should ever have the word “blood” in it, they were bloody enough already. She returned a draft of my poem with the word blood crossed out so hard the paper had torn. When I started teaching poetry workshops I promised myself I would never give my students any rules about what could or couldn’t be in their poems. They all wrote about basketball. I used to tally these poems when I’d go through the stack I had collected at the end of each class. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 poems about basketball. This was Indiana. Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. I told the class, “for the next assignment no one can write about basketball, please for the love of god choose another topic. Challenge yourselves.” Next time I collected their poems there was one student who had turned in another poem about basketball. I don’t know if he had been absent on the day I told them to choose another topic or if he had just done it to spite me. It’s the only student poem I can still really remember. At the time I wrote down the last lines of that poem in a notebook. “He threw the basketball and it came towards me like the sun”

James: “HEEHEEHEE WE PUT THE THEY IN THEM!”

Jessie: “a”

we put the they in them thursday

girl are you a kettle because you’re sooooo hot. and yelling atme