a rare cat has appeared today

allthebestofmemes is your #1 source of funny

I’d never thought I’d have to make one of these posts but wow

So anyways, my dash is basically filled with Haikyuu!!, SnK and Tokyo Ghoul right now, and while I like it, I’d like to see more diversity you know?

So please reblog (i will only check out blogs that reblog) if you post any of the following things!

Bonus points if you tag what you post in your reblog! It’d make it much easier for me.

Note: I probably won’t follow you if you don’t tag your posts (the names of the anime/game/show, triggers, etc.)

Also, if my mutuals could spread this around I’d really appreciate it as well!

Ok so what I’m looking for is:

Reblog this if you’re ok with people instant messaging you out of the blue.

Like, starting random conversations, discussing head cannons, feel free to message.

@ girls who wear fake eyelashes to school: the fact that u take the time to glue individual hairs to ur eyeball to look nice for ur education is admirable and i envy u because I do not have nearly that amount of dedication

As a guy, I never notice unless I’m inches from a girl’s face anyway so what’s the big effort for?

Also, maybe biased because I prefer girls without makeup tbh

i have a feeling u don’t get too close to any girl’s face anyway so unfortunately your preferences are completely irrelevant

allthebestofmemes is your #1 source of funny

the new star wars looks so good

people ask me where are you gonna be in 5 years i say i don’t have 2021 vision 

most male singers literally bring nothing to the table but 2 octaves and a hot body

tyler joseph??????????????? brendan urie???? Patrick stump?????????

So I was telling my dad about neko atsume and he just scoffed and said “you don’t need a damn video game for that” and went out to our backyard and put apples and pears all around our yard and now we’re just watching the squirrels come and go and he’s naming them all after old military generals

Now look forward with purpose, and try it again.

*sprays single, solitary ant with an entire can of bugspray”

me @ ant: tell your friends.

Today, I fucked up... by pranking my wife

So I have been setting this prank up for about 3 weeks now, but unfortunately the fruits of my labor came to fruition yesterday. All for the best I guess.

Background: My wife and I are very healthy and we eat the same thing for breakfast every day, well maybe a solid 350 days a year. It is egg whites and toast. It has got to the point that if I don’t eat this for breakfast my entire day feels “off.” I put salsa on my eggs while she uses ketchup and she has to have ketchup or else she will not eat breakfast. We have a backup bottle or two in the pantry just in case she runs out.

3 weeks ago: I notice that her bottle is running pretty low and she has to actively shake the bottle to get the last remnants out. We are pretty earth conscious as well, so nothing goes to waste, use until the last drop! There is still just enough left in the bottle that I can tell she is thinking that she shouldn’t recycle it just yet and puts it back into the fridge. I notice this thought process going on in her head and decide I should mess with her. Once we finish up breakfast she goes to get ready. I take one of the full bottles of ketchup and add just enough to the almost empty bottle so that she will have the amount needed for breakfast the next day. Breakfast the next day rolls around and she does the same thing adds ketchup to her breakfast and decides there is just enough to save and puts it back in the fridge. I again refill the bottle with just enough for the next day. I should also mention that she is short, I hid the refill bottle at the top of the pantry so she could not see that it had been opened and used.

2 weeks ago: After 7 days slyly watching her add ketchup to her breakfast I can begin to see an intrigued look on her face when she is prepping her breakfast. She doesn’t say anything, but you can tell she has taken notice of the bottle. This goes on for another 7 days.

1 week ago: Breakfast continues to go off without a hitch and every time she adds the ketchup to her breakfast she gets a little twinkle in her eye, like she really really wants to say something about it, but doesn’t want me to make fun of her being crazy and thinking the ketchup bottle is never ending. To the point that she will look at me, start to say something and then stop herself change the subject and put the bottle away. I have never looked forward to breakfast so much in my entire life!

All this week: She is on the verge of saying something everyday. Its becoming hard to not laugh while watching her add the ketchup to her eggs, but I am laughing hysterically on the inside. At this point I have used roughly a half bottle of ketchup refilling the other one. This is all I can imagine when watching her

Yesterday: She adds ketchup to her breakfast and looks me directly in the eye and dead serious says, “/myname/ we have a fucking magical ketchup bottle.” I could not control my laughter and proceed to loose my shit while she tries to explain to me how she has used the exact same bottle of ketchup for 3 weeks and it has been almost “empty” the entire time. She now thinks I am laughing because of her belief in magic and she is trying as hard as possible to convince me that she is serious and it IS magic. I proceed to go into the pantry, take out the half empty bottle of ketchup and place it on the counter. It all finally clicks in her head and at that moment the empty ketchup bottle clicked into my head, but don’t care because I made a magic ketchup bottle happen so I am essentially Jesus.

TL;DR made my wife believe we had a magic ketchup bottle, but it hurt just as much as normal bottle when flung at my face.

suzuya juuzou - mobile wallpapers

How

This isn’t real, I am obligated to believe that it is impossible for any person or animal to have these most perfect eyes in the whole universe

makes me so happy

thEYRE SO PROPORTIONAL TO ONE ANOTHER IM cRyInG

this is too pure for my sinful eyes

I’m so confused

Interesting concept

When I was nine, possibly ten, an author came to our school to talk about writing. His name was Hugh Scott, and I doubt he’s known outside of Scotland. And even then I haven’t seen him on many shelves in recent years in Scotland either. But he wrote wonderfully creepy children’s stories, where the supernatural was scary, but it was the mundane that was truly terrifying. At least to little ten year old me. It was Scooby Doo meets Paranormal Activity with a bonny braw Scottish-ness to it that I’d never experienced before.

I remember him as a gangling man with a wiry beard that made him look older than he probably was, and he carried a leather bag filled with paper. He had a pen too that was shaped like a carrot, and he used it to scribble down notes between answering our (frankly disinterested) questions. We had no idea who he was you see, no one had made an effort to introduce us to his books. We were simply told one morning, ‘class 1b, there is an author here to talk to you about writing’, and this you see was our introduction to creative writing. We’d surpassed finger painting and macaroni collages. It was time to attempt Words That Were Untrue.

You could tell from the look on Mrs M’s face she thought it was a waste of time. I remember her sitting off to one side marking papers while this tall man sat down on our ridiculously short chairs, and tried to talk to us about what it meant to tell a story. She wasn’t big on telling stories, Mrs M. She was also one of the teachers who used to take my books away from me because they were “too complicated” for me, despite the fact that I was reading them with both interest and ease. When dad found out he hit the roof. It’s the one and only time he ever showed up to the school when it wasn’t parents night or the school play. After that she just left me alone, but she made it clear to my parents that she resented the fact that a ten year old used words like ‘ubiquitous’ in their essays. Presumably because she had to look it up.

Anyway, Mr Scott, was doing his best to talk to us while Mrs M made scoffing noises from her corner every so often, and you could just tell he was deflating faster than a bouncy castle at a knife sharpening party, so when he asked if any of us had any further questions and no one put their hand up I felt awful. I knew this was not only insulting but also humiliating, even if we were only little children. So I did the only thing I could think of, put my hand up and said “Why do you write?”

I’d always read about characters blinking owlishly, but I’d never actually seen it before. But that’s what he did, peering down at me from behind his wire rim spectacles and dragging tired fingers through his curly beard. I don’t think he expected anyone to ask why he wrote stories. What he wrote about, and where he got his ideas from maybe, and certainly why he wrote about ghosts and other creepy things, but probably not why do you write. And I think he thought perhaps he could have got away with “because it’s fun, and learning is fun, right kids?!”, but part of me will always remember the way the world shifted ever so slightly as it does when something important is about to happen, and this tall streak of a man looked down at me, narrowed his eyes in an assessing manner and said, “Because people told me not to, and words are important.”

I nodded, very seriously in the way children do, and knew this to be a truth. In my limited experience at that point, I knew certain people (with a sidelong glance to Mrs M who was in turn looking at me as though she’d just known it’d be me that type of question) didn’t like fiction. At least certain types of fiction. I knew for instance that Mrs M liked to read Pride and Prejudice on her lunch break but only because it was sensible fiction, about people that could conceivably be real. The idea that one could not relate to a character simply because they had pointy ears or a jet pack had never occurred to me, and the fact that it’s now twenty years later and people are still arguing about the validity of genre fiction is beyond me, but right there in that little moment, I knew something important had just transpired, with my teacher glaring at me, and this man who told stories to live beginning to smile. After that the audience turned into a two person conversation, with gradually more and more of my classmates joining in because suddenly it was fun. Mrs M was pissed and this bedraggled looking man who might have been Santa after some serious dieting, was starting to enjoy himself. As it turned out we had all of his books in our tiny corner library, and in the words of my friend Andrew “hey there’s a giant spider fighting a ghost on this cover! neat!” and the presentation devolved into chaos as we all began reading different books at once and asking questions about each one. “Does she live?”— “What about the talking trees” —“is the ghost evil?” —“can I go to the bathroom, Miss?” —“Wow neat, more spiders!”

After that we were supposed to sit down, quietly (glare glare) and write a short story to show what we had learned from listening to Mr Scott. I wont pretend I wrote anything remotely good, I was ten and all I could come up with was a story about a magic carrot that made you see words in the dark, but Mr Scott seemed to like it. In fact he seemed to like all of them, probably because they were done with such vibrant enthusiasm in defiance of the people who didn’t want us to.

The following year, when I’d moved into Mrs H’s class—the kind of woman that didn’t take away books from children who loved to read and let them write nonsense in the back of their journals provided they got all their work done—a letter arrived to the school, carefully wedged between several copies of a book which was unheard of at the time, by a new author known as J.K. Rowling. Mrs H remarked that it was strange that an author would send copies of books that weren’t even his to a school, but I knew why he’d done it. I knew before Mrs H even read the letter.

Because words are important. Words are magical. They’re powerful. And that power ought to be shared. There’s no petty rivalry between story tellers, although there’s plenty who try to insinuate it. There’s plenty who try to say some words are more valuable than others, that somehow their meaning is more important because of when it was written and by whom. Those are the same people who laud Shakespeare from the heavens but refuse to acknowledge that the quote “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them“ is a dick joke.

And although Mr Scott seems to have faded from public literary consumption, I still think about him. I think about his stories, I think about how he recommended another author and sent copies of her books because he knew our school was a puritan shithole that fought against the Wrong Type of Wordes and would never buy them into the library otherwise. But mostly I think about how he looked at a ten year old like an equal and told her words and important, and people will try to keep you from writing them—so write them anyway.

*sobs for like the umpteenth time this day and reblogs the fuck out of this*

Always Reblogging.

if i was rich i would never let new friends know until like a few weeks later when i know they genuinely like me and then one morning theyd wake up with a letter that says their student loans have been completely paid off and attached is just a picture of me wearing sunglasses and doing double peace signs with the caption “oh yeah btw im rich”

If you were rich you wouldn’t be wasting your time trying to get attention on Tumblr.

thats where youre wrong bucko no amount of money will satisfy my need for attention