so you know how at the bottom of people’s work emails it always says “think twice before printing/save a tree” or whatever

haha it turns out, not if the person who sent the email works for ag extension in a Southern state that’s heavy on the pine plantations for paper pulp

in that case their email footer says 

“It’s OK to print this email. Paper is a biodegradable, renewable, sustainable product made from trees. Growing and harvesting trees provides jobs for millions of Americans. Working forests are good for the environment and provide clean air and water, wildlife habitat and carbon storage. Thanks to improved forest management, we have more trees in America today than we had 100 years ago. Be sure the paper you are using carries the Sustainable Forestry Initiative label”

and your inner ecologist just smdhs

yes wow that’s an ecological powerhouse right there very monocrop such uniform

Make The Most of Tonight - Seth Rollins x Reader

Summary:- The WWE draft is tomorrow night and you and your boyfriend Seth are worried you will be drafted to different brands. You decided to make the most of what could potentially be the last night you two have together for a while. 

Warnings:- Smut, Swearing, Bit of Fluff (Daddy kink, I’m sO SORRY, I AM TRASH) 

Word Count- 1,478

Keep reading
Thinking in the Deep: Inside the Mind of an Octopus
In “Other Minds,” Peter Godfrey-Smith shows how the abilities of the octopus offer insight into the evolution of animal intelligence.
By Carl Safina

If we met an alien whose intelligence derived through an entirely separate provenance from ours, would we recognize the sparkle in each other’s eyes?

In “Other Minds,” Peter Godfrey-Smith hunts the commonalities and origins of sentience. He is an academic philosopher but also a diver. Watching octopuses watching him, our author considers minds and meanings.

Octopuses and cuttlefish — cephalopods — make surprisingly good foils here. Our last common ancestor, 600 million years ago, was a wormlike creature. Cephalopods are therefore an independent voyage into complexity.

“If we can make contact with cephalopods as sentient beings, it is . . . because evolution built minds twice over,” Godfrey-Smith writes. “This is probably the closest we will come to meeting an intelligent alien.” When seeking other minds, we find that “the minds of cephalopods are the most other of all…”

“What if we got a small tree?”

“What?” Lexa gasps.  “What did you just say?”  Clarke takes a step back and raises her hands up in front of her, palms out.

“It’s just that our apartment is very small this year,” she says.

“How small?”

“What?” Clarke says, looking around the tiny apartment they are standing in the middle of.

“The tree.  How small?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke shakes her head.  “The only space we’ve got is in the kitchen.”  Lexa folds her arms across her chest, but not like she’s angry, more like she is trying to pull her body back together.   Clarke knew this wouldn’t go over well.  She knew.  She hands her a mug of hot chocolate that she had prepared specifically for this conversation and leads her girlfriend gently to the couch.  “Maybe one of those three footers,” she says softly, like you would offer a consolation toy to a toddler.   “You can pick them up anywhere.”  Lexa balks.

“I know that the woman I love did not just suggest that I put a fake tree in my house.”

“Okay,” Clarke says.  “Okay, I get it, but you have to admit that a big tree just doesn’t make sense this year.”

“Christmas isn’t about sense,” Lexa pouts.  

“Okay,” Clarke says again.  “Yes, I know.”

“I don’t know if you do,” Lexa glares at her from under her eyelashes, tucking herself into a corner of the couch and holding the mug up to her chin with both hands.  Her thick Christmas themed socks are slipping off her toes, and she pushes her heel against the cushions a few times to fix them.  

“I know what Christmas is about, Lexa.”

“We need a real tree.”

“Okay,” Clarke concedes.  “Fine.  What about a small real tree?”

“How small?”

“How small would be acceptable?” Clarke perches herself on the couch next to Lexa, close, but careful to leave an inch or two of space between them while Lexa mulls it over.  She takes a few sips from her mug, brow furrowed.

“Six feet,” Lexa says, finally.

“Four feet,” Clarke counters.

“Six feet,” Lexa says again.

“Four and a half feet, and I let you put up tinsel this year.”  Lexa’s feet drop to the floor as leans forward, mug resting in her lap.


“That’s the offer,” Clarke says.

“Give me string lights in the bedroom, and you’ve got a deal.”

“Fine,” Clarke sighs.  Lexa holds her hand out, and Clarke shakes it firmly, trying to keep from grinning.   She tugs Lexa’s hand until she tips forward far enough to press her lips to hers.  “But you have to take them down before February.”

“I will not promise that.”