the way these strikes get framed is always so funny to me
"the strike could stretch on until the end of summer" or the execs could pay their workers
"there won't be ANY new shows because of this strike" or the execs could pay their workers
"no more content for us because the mean old writers and actors are-" OR THE EXECS COULD PAY THEIR WORKERS
I know people on tumblr looove stories of underwater cave diving, but I haven't seen anyone talk about nitrogen narcosis aka "raptures of the deep"
basically when you want to get your advanced scuba certification (allowing you to go more than 60 feet deep) you have to undergo a very specific test: your instructor takes you down past the 60+ foot threshold, and she brings a little underwater white board with her.
she writes a very basic math problem on that board. 6 + 15. she shows it to you, and you have to solve it.
if you can solve it, you're good. that is the hardest part of the test.
because here's what happens: there is a subset of people, and we have no real idea why this happens only to them, who lose their minds at depth. they're not dying, they're not running out of oxygen, they just completely lose their sense of identity when deep in the sea.
a woman on a dive my instructor led once vanished during the course of the excursion. they were diving near this dropoff point, beyond which the depth exceeded 60 feet and he'd told them not to go down that way. the instructor made his way over to look for her and found a guy sitting at the edge of the dropoff (an underwater cliff situation) just staring down into the dark. the guy is okay, but he's at the threshold, spacing out, and mentally difficult to reach. they try to communicate, and finally the guy just points down into the dark, knowing he can't go down there, but he saw the woman go.
instructor is deep water certified and he goes down. he shines his light into the dark, down onto the seafloor which is at 90 feet below the surface. he sees the woman, her arms locked to her sides, moving like a fish, swimming furiously in circles in the pitch black.
she is hard to catch but he stops her and checks her remaining oxygen: she is almost out, on account of swimming a marathon for absolutely no reason. he is able to drag her back up, get her to a stable depth to decompress, and bring her to the surface safely.
when their masks are off and he finally asks her what happened, and why was she swimming like that, she says she fully, 100% believed she was a mermaid, had always been a mermaid, and something was hunting her in the dark 👍
Wall•E and Eve have the same dynamic as Connecticut Clark and Malfina.
I really don’t know how to explain myself.
what was i made for?
“ophelia” by john everett millais but it’s barbie and for the sake of this concept let’s pretend that there is in fact water in barbieland
Move aside swagless boutta get a new Wizard’s Staff that comes loaded with spells like “open locked doors” and “dismantle car”
I'm a big fan of Elephant Trunk Snakes they look like a seal was turned into a snake as a punishment by a genie
Human beings b like. *sits and stares peacefully at a fire* *sits and stares peacefully at the ocean* *sits and stares peacefully at a sleeping animal*
a small rhythmic motion: is happening
us for 6 million years and counting: talented brilliant showstopping incredible
Sex traffickers will target cars that look feminine
I just realized what my last selfie was making me think of and I apologize for accidentally recreating that pic where Daniel Craig looks like a lesbian 😔
Anyway, fuck the CEOs and other execs. Support the strikers.
Enjoy a drink on one of my special coasters. Yea I custom made them (the coasters) to be so light the drinks condensation makes em stick to the bottom of your glass, but still heavy enough that when it (the coaster) finally clatters to the ground it's loud as fuck and shatters your nerves and makes you spill your drink everywhere. Why am I doing this? Well, it's a sex thing for me
“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
Sometimes twitter be hitting
This is even funnier with context attached
I’ve been trying to find this gifset because this is relevant now more than ever.
holy crap Adventure Time
So I'm seeing some people with very obvious bias and potential financial reasons lying outright or by omission about why the WGA and SAG-AFTRA are continuing to work with A24 during the 2023 Strike and I've got the answer for you:
It's cause A24 agreed to all the terms that the WGA and SAG-AFTRA put forward and have been granted "waivers" to allow their members to work as long as they stick to the agreement pending the final agreements being finalized.
These actors are not SCABing, A24 isn't being given a pass because they're not one of the bigger studios, they're being given a pass BECAUSE THEY DID THE RIGHT FUCKING THING.
So let that be a lesson to the other studios, cause if A24 can do it then they sure as hell can.
it is SO FUNNY when you’re watching a show with horses in it and within the plot of the show the horses are “”””upset””” but the way they communicate this is by placing a nervous nickering sound bite over what is clearly a calm horse placidly performing a practiced trick
like clearly this is the correct and humane way to pretend a horse is upset and unhappy but it’s soooo funny like this guys ears aren’t even pinned back!!! he’s just vibing!!! dude did the least amount of rearing to get his apple treats and he can see his handler right behind the camera already reaching into the treat bag!! he’s getting a good grade in being a good little boy and his mommy is going to be so proud
See also: every “scummy sewer rat” used as set dressing in modern tv and film is a healthy, chubby lil boi with a nice shiny coat bc he lives a blessed little rat life full of fruits and nuts and tummy scritches
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.
