The excerpt paragraph made me look up and stare at my wife for three solid minutes waiting for them to return to the couch. I couldn’t move on with my life. I had to read it aloud to them to their audible disgust and then they read all the comments with unbridled delight.
Now we keep repeating “Like Zorro.”
lowkey youve been acting like a good boy lately bro
i haven’t used a bong in 12 years bc when i was 19 i hit a bong at a party that was so tall you had to stand on a step ladder to get your mouth on it & then i called my older brother in another timezone sobbing on the toilet and he asked what was wrong and i said i couldn’t tell if i had peed or was peeing or had stopped peeing and i said “what if im still peeing and i walk back out to the party with my pants on and i’m still peeing and i can’t tell and i pee everywhere” and he took a deep breath and mustered all of the patience in the entire world in that moment and said “i cannot stress enough how much that will not happen.”
*struggles while writing* i suck and writing is hard
*remembers some ppl use ai* i am a creative force. i am uncorrupted by theft and indolence. i am on a journey to excellence. it is my duty to keep taking joy in creating.
Having a good pen that you use at work is like. If anything happened to this pen I would kill everyone in this building including my coworkers
Women love me for my decent pen. They love how smoothly it writes. Sometimes they want to borrow it and I have to threaten their lives to make sure I get it back
I thought I lost my pen today and I almost started crying
*thinks up an idea for a silly quick piece* okay haha let's whip something up real quick
*idea gets more complicated*
*idea gets more complicated*
*idea gets more complicated*
*idea gets more complicated*
oh no
oh ok
my message 2 the world
This feels @postoctobrist -core, but idk
MESSAGE TO ALL BITCHES: WE ARE SURVIVING THIS YEAR NO MATTER WHAT.
CAUSE PROBLEMS ON PURPOSE.
wishing everyone a very good luck getting through january-march without killing yourself
once again wishing everyone a very pleasant please don’t kill yourself
while kissing my cat's little head: you're a problem *smooch* you're a terror *smooch* you're a menace to society *smooch smooch smooch*
[Image transcript: "Oh, you wicked little thing!" cried Alice, catching up the kitten, and giving it a little kiss to make it understand that it was in disgrace.]
—Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll
"why are people who do cool things always so weird"
i have a startling truth to keep from you... about the relationship between cool and weird
I own a pet portrait of a Irish wolfhound that I found in an antique shop.
It’s a really good pet portrait of a dog, the dog looks so happy and the artist’s style is pleasing. In the shop I turned it over. On the back is the artist’s signature and the year it was painted. That year was 1986. It suddenly occurred to me that the dog in the portrait must be dead by this point and the owner who commissioned it must be dead as well. Someone who loved their dog enough to get such a great portrait of them made wouldn’t part with it so they must have died, that’s the only reason it would be here. I was so horrified looking at this beautiful portrait of a beautiful dog.
It occurred to me all of the 19th century paintings of dogs in my favorite museums are portraits of dead dogs commissioned by dead owners. That portraiture is haunted by nature, a snapshot of a living thing that is loved and will survive long after the subject is no longer living and the person who loved them has gone.
Then I remembered my favorite Gary Larson comic.
Anyway, I bought the painting and it now hangs in my cat’s room. My cat has a room because I love her very much. I want to commission a portrait of her.
he knew he wasn’t supposed to dig around in the trash
You’re an ancient Greek man coming home from 4 months of war to find your wife 3 months pregnant. Now you’ve embarked on a solemn quest: to punch Zeus in the face.
Soon after you begin your quest, you encounter another man in a similar situation. You decide to join forces, as two mortal men stand a better chance at punching Zeus than one. Two villages over, you encounter a woman who had relations with Zeus and was left with a highly aggressive half-boar half-man offspring. She too feels your anger and offers to join your quest. By the time you reach Mount Olympus, you’ve amassed a large and formidable army of cuckolded/ravished mortals, demigods with daddy issues, mythical creatures with scores to settle, and a seamstress who you’re pretty sure is Hera in disguise. Zeus never stood a chance.
What I find best about this scenario is that the original wife probably expected to be murdered for her infidelity at worst or have her relationship with her husband ruined as he grew to resent her baby, at best.
Instead this man looked at his beloved and said, “who did it?”
And she replied “Zeus,” accepting he probably wouldn’t believe her.
And then he sighed, strapped his sandals back on and said, “I’ll be back before the baby is born.”
“Where are you-?”
“The lord of the sky came into my house, molested my wife in my bed and ate my food. I am going to settle the score.”
“Darling, he’ll kill you.”
“He may try, if he would like.”
You’re so right, that IS the best part.
I’m personally caught up on the seamstress.
“The pathway up Olympus is guarded by dozens of traps and perils strong enough to thwart even the Titans. How are we going to get past all of…” the shepherd boy with golden eagle feathers gestured uselessly at the slopes above them, particularly the herd of eight-legged goats snorting fire.
“There’s a way around,” Yiorgos said, though he was not specifically asked. But he had been the first to begin the march on Olympus, and so felt obligated to take the lead whenever possible, “In the stories there’‘s always a way around whatever obstacles the Gods place in our way.”
He hadn’t meant the words to come out as a question, but they had that lilt to them none-the-less. And even though he hadn’t meant it to be a question, much less a question directed at anyone specific, it was directed at one all the same. Just as the eagle-feathered shepherd boy’s had.
“Way I heard it,” a woman’s voice said. Rough with the Mycenaean Greek equivalent of a backwoods accent, and with the depth of a farmer’s wife who straps cattle to her back to carry to market, “there’s a back path. Hidden behind an invisible door that only one key in the world can open.” Everyone’s eyes had turned to the broad older woman in heavy shawl sitting amidst supplies in the foremost cart. “Least, that’s what my grand-mammy always told me.” she added after a moment of dozens of eyes on her.
“Oh, we were so foolish!” That was Lydia, a lithe waif of a woman, many months pregnant, sitting opposite the seamstress in the wagon. “Of course there’d be a.. a quest. They’d keep such a key in the depths of Tartarus or in the golden chariot of Apollo, or, or-”
“Or”, the older woman cut her off in a voice both firm, but much gentler than she used on anyone else, “he’s like all husbands and has been promising to move the key someplace better for the past three thousand years but hasn’t gotten around to it.” She gestured vaguely to the hillside, “Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was under, say, that bush right over there.”
It was. Of course. And everyone in the caravan agreed that it had been a very lucky and wise guess from the nameless woman and for the upteenth time since she first sat herself down in the front wagon and announced she was coming along with no further explanation, each and every last member very purposefully gave no further thought to the matter.
This might be Derek Guy's greatest masterpiece.
(The Twitter thread is probably easier to read and easier to look at the images, but I wanted to make sure it got preserved. Images are the tweets.)
(Continued in reblog)
(continued in reblog)
End thread.
Canucks 24-25 szn
Everyone is so weird about people who cry easily. Fellas, is it evil and manipulative to *checks notes* have an involuntary stress response?
actually a coworker of mine said something interesting about this. I was saying that I truly can’t help how easily I cry, and I hate when people assume I do it on purpose.
and he paused for a second and then said, “when you’ve been taught from a young age that crying is weak and you should train yourself never to cry for any reason, you assume that everyone else has trained themselves too, so anyone who cries has to be doing it on purpose. it took me a long time to realize that wasn’t true.”
listen we’re never gonna run out of ways the patriarchy hurts all of us.
