Here are some final pictures I took of my girl, Hyori. She was the sweetest, most well tempered pet I’ve ever had. She loved people and other rats and loved to play, climb, and give kisses. She’s been staying with my best friend @i-m-snek while I was planning my wedding and, recently, finding space in my house. Due to unfortunate events, she birthed a litter of babies and began to bleed internally, as something must have gone wrong with her birthing moments. In these pictures, you can see her ears and skin are white, the pink gone. My bestie took wonderful care of her, made sure she stayed warm, and gave her lots of final treats. I gave her a tiny piece if Mandarin Orange to lick on before we put her to sleep. She left peacefully and with just as much love for us as she’s always had. She was definitely tired and I didn’t want her to suffer anymore.
Laura found some shiny stars and soft substrate to lay her in so she looked comfortable and natural as we put her in the box.
I love you baby girl. You’ll be a part of my yard for good ❤✨💛
Hey Baelin, what kind of guitar have you ordere :o Curious about what your preferred type of guitar is!
the 2016 fender duo-sonic reissue! i’ve wanted a short scale fender for years because of my tiny hands, and vintage is uhh expensive so this new series was really hard to pass up. went for that weirdly tasty orange since daphne blue only came with a humbucker in the bridge. TOO psyched for it and it’s taking TOO long to get here
One of the most beloved and oft-quoted moments in the ridiculously beloved and oft-quoted film Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory is the sequence in which the unbalanced candymaker displays his newest invention: lickable wallpaper. As the children and their guardians go to town on the wallpaper, Wonka declares: “Lick an orange. It tastes like an orange. The strawberries taste like strawberries! The snozzberries taste like snozzberries!”
We laugh, because “snozzberries” is obviously a fanciful, fictional word, and nobody knows what they really were. Except that Roald Dahl, the book’s author, knew exactly what snozzberries were: They’re dicks. Snozzberries are dicks. Willy Wonka made those kids lick dick-flavored wallpaper.
It turns out the guy who thought a story about an insane recluse casually murdering a group of children had a pretty fucked up sense of humor.
she is the sun. she is the fire in your heart and the heat on your cheeks. she is the stars in the sky and the life of the plants. she brightens your day and tells you there’s hope. she’s a hot summer’s day, and the sticky inbetween of your fingers when you eat an ice cream cone. she wants to save the rainforests and she will she will. she’s the orange lick of your candle flame and the pride you feel when you finally get yourself out of bed and open your front door to face the day. she’s the diploma in your hands, and she is that feeling you get when you stand on stage to shake the principal’s hand, smiling. the one that screams you could be anything, do anything. (you can). she’s the twinkle in your eye when you talk about what you love. she’s the glitter of the nightclub, and the roar of the lion. she is who she is and what she is and what she’s going to be and she’s not sorry for it. she lives in all of us, and she wants to be brought to the surface. she wants to soar.
All day long the sky had threatened rain, with thick, rolling clouds heaving across it in shades of grey and black. There had even been faint drumrolls of thunder later in the afternoon, but still no rain. The company was certainly grateful for the little reprieve; travelling in the rain was miserable, and, at times, quite bone-chilling.
The ominous sky had eventually darkened into a night bathed in shadow, with star and moonlight being concealed by the thick cloud. You were grateful to be huddled in front of a warm fire, glowing and crackling pleasantly in the dark and keeping the chill at bay. You sat with your knees drawn to your chest, your cloak wrapped snugly around your whole body and tucked up under your chin. It was actually quite cozy, and as you pulled your cloak a little bit tighter you thought to yourself that this moment was almost perfect. Almost.
my 11 year old sister was hungry and decided to make a potato. She’s 11. Not much cooking experience, but ya know, its a potato, what can go wrong??
WELL. She stuck it in the microwave for 8 minutes. When there was about two minutes left, she ran into the dining room like a chicken with her head cut off, yelling about a fire. My dad and I ran into the kitchen to watch as this tiny ass potato the size of a baby’s fist slowly revolved in the microwave, smoke pouring out and orange flames licking the top.
As my dad frantically threw the potato into the sink, burning his fingers and cursing over the sound of the fire alarm, I turned to my sister and told her she was far too old to be playing hot potato.