just so u know everything in the entire universe is always about love and when it isn't about love it is abt the absence of love. hope this makes sense
filmmakers and audiences and critics alike all need to start suspending their disbelief again
‘this doesn’t make sense’ so?????
explanation: a Quality Assurance Engineer is someone who (among other things afaik) does software bug testing, like in videogames or websites.
So the joke is that the QA tests the bar by doing a bunch of random unexpected things that might make it glitch.
Then when the first actual user of the bar does something that is normal and should have been accounted for way before the QA was called, everything goes catastrophically wrong because nobody bothered to think about anything other than ordering (and presumably profit?)
[image description: a tweet from Brenan Keller @brenankeller, reading: "A QA engineer walks into a bar. Orders a beer. Orders 0 bears. Orders 99999999999 beers. Orders a lizard. Orders -1 beers. Orders a ueicbksjdhd (random string of letters). First real customer walks in and asks where the bathroom is. The bar bursts into flames, killing everyone." End ID.]
just got one of those scam recruitment comments on a fic. almost feel honored. anyway. *blasts them with lasers*
Finding someone that understands The Character™ the same way you do
req'd by @darubyprincxx
eyyyyyy
badum
tiss
text: Writing is like driving cos you hit a lotta plot holes
I will literally joke about how I'm a hater then remember people literally have whole blogs dedicated to hating people and media and actually maybe I'm a lover who happens to occasionally dabble on criticising the things i don't like.
“average person eats 3 spiders a year” factoid actualy just statistical error. average person eats 0 spiders per year. Spiders Georg, who lives in cave & eats over 10,000 each day, is an outlier adn should not have been counted
An actual World Heritage Post
how does this post not have a million notes but anyone online can quote it
one week until ten years of Spiders Georg
Carrie Fountain, from "Late Spring in the Mesilla Valley", Burn Lake
Savit-e
My host mother is a woman with long twirling hair and more floral-patterned sundresses than I’ve seen in my entire life. She throws open the closet each morning to flick each dress along its hanging rail, sharp squeaks. “What can I even wear?” The dresses sway like summer willows. I sneak in behind her and grab a t-shirt and jeans from my tiny pile at the bottom.
She loves earrings that swing and she loves stain-glass windchimes which clink and muse while she pours me the bitterest cup of tea I’ve ever had in my life. I fill it with sugar and she chides me. I remind her of all the spicy dishes I make that she cannot eat, and she says, “Okay, I’ll let it go this one time.” She sips her tea black. The birds titter at her joke. We’ll have the same conversation tomorrow.
My host mother is Jira and I wonder how closely we might be related every time I catch that glimmer in her eyes like my mothers’. Jira is too tall to be my mother and her hair is not quite dark enough, but I like to believe I see it. I like to believe Jira’s country and mine are related, that maybe her great-great-grandparents and mine were friends before the records were scorched and the lines were redrawn. Or maybe our countries bore no relation to each other. Maybe they were friends anyway. Maybe they were enemies. I’ve heard every opinion.
Jira has a worry-face like my mother, but she uses it for different things, like plum prices at the market and rain clouds blundering through like clumsy creatures. It used to surprise me, since my mother reserved her worry-face for only the dourest things in her mind. I saw more and more of it from my mother before I left. “Baby maybe you should spend the summer home. Maybe you can get your money back.” She said she’d been reading things in the news. I told her not to worry. I would be safe in my travels. I feel stares pressing into my back while Jira leans over the plums. I notice Jira receives the stares too.
She hums a tune and busies herself in the kitchen in a dress I’ve never seen. She’s been in a great mood since her daughter came home this morning. I didn’t get a good look at her daughter at first because Jira swallowed her right up in her arms. But I got to see her better when I helped bring her bags in. Savine is lithe, baby-faced and a head shorter than Jira, and her eyes carry the same arch and slope as Jira’s. She has the same dimples and she moves in the same way, tilted forward, as if to let gravity do the work of carrying her momentum.
Savine is napping from her trip, and Jira seems to have forgotten all the slow and patient syllables she usually saves for me. She speaks in her rapid pace and I jog to keep up. Too many words slip through my grasp. One in particular I hear too many times. Savit-e.
“Savit-e?” I ask.
Jira puckers her lips as if to think. Her eyes rove. Footsteps tap gently closer behind me, and Jira’s eyes light up as she looks past me.
“Savit-e!” she says, motioning forward as Savine rounds the counter and pulls her mom into another hug. Savine is only 10. She’s been away almost 6 months for school, according to Jira.
A nickname, I note. Savine wears earrings like windchimes as well.
Girl help, I'm basing my worth and skill as a writer on numbers again
had a dream last night where marbles were back en vogue and everyone carried their marbles around in cute little pouches that they'd clip onto their backpacks or purse straps or belt loops so they'd always have their marbles on them and your marbles were deeply personal objects that showcased your individual personality and people would get really passionate and proud of them and playing for keeps was a deeply serious and honor-bound affair and i played a game with an old man while waiting for a bus and he told me how he met his wife while playing in a for-keeps tournament and in a miracle shot he knocked out her most precious marble a brilliant sparkling green one with an inside like a geode and when he looked up he found she was crying at its loss and so right there on the spot he proposed to her so that she could divorce him and take it back in the divorce "but in the end," he told me, "she kept me and the marble" and i awoke teary and resentful to be ripped from a fleeting world that had found for itself such a small and beautiful peace
having adhd is like "fuck, it's half past noon. that pretty much means it's one o'clock. that means it's lunchtime. that means it's pretty much three. that means it's almost five o'clock, and that means the day is pretty much over and i don't have time for any of the things i was going to do today :( time to scroll aimlessly through social media until bedtime"
the notes are so fucking funny
Anna Kamienska, from “Industrious Amazement: A Notebook,” translated by Clare Cavanagh in Poetry (March 1st, 2011)

















