Someone left a diet pepsi can on the empty table next to us and a person walked by it on the way to our table. They looked at it curiously, then anxiously touched it and then scurried to our table saying ‘YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO TOUCH THE ART AND I TOUCHED THE ART!’

So we had a long discussion about dadaism and what is art and is art art and what makes an art an art and how the majority of artist’s statements are complete and utter bullshit fabricated to fill an arbitrary word count. 

It should be mentioned that this person worked in an art museum and that we are both went to art school. We are certainly qualified to expound upon the 2% reduced fat fuckery that is art movements. 

So when our visitor left our table, my girlfriend grabbed an index card and made the art official art. 

If it’s still there tomorrow after the cleaning crew has been through, then its is now official art art that goes in an art art museum. If it is gone, then someone has TOUCHED THE ART. 

And that is part of the art.

The act of the janitor tossing it in the bin… is a statement on art. 

We all think we’re god-damned hilarious. 


 In which Jughead sees Betty for the first time since her return from LA, friend-fluff. 

In the hours after midnight, when the grey wraith of fog crept along it’s streets, Riverdale resembled a ghost town. The neon shine of Pop’s Chock'lit Shoppe was a single sliver of life in the desolate surroundings – and without it, those passing through would have certainly mistaken the town as abandoned.

It was during this time, before dawn broke, that Jughead Jones III felt most relaxed. Usually the sole patron of the diner, Jughead could be found sprawled across an entire booth, battered sneakers kicked off to the side and face buried so deeply behind a laptop screen that the area beneath his nose was erased. Save for the sound of his fingers flying against keys, and the sporadic clatter and chime of Pop polishing cutlery, the soda shop was quiet and still.

It reminded Jughead instinctively of home – back when his mother had been awake all hours of the night, scurrying around their living room in search of empty beer bottles, cigarette butts, and burger wrappers that needed disposing. A veritable exorcist, ridding her husband’s demons from sight. Ever the insomniac, Jughead had often drifted in-and-out of slumber to the noisy chorus of glassware colliding in the trashcan.

When Pop appeared to clear the stack of dishes beside him, Jughead closed his eyes, buried his spine into the booth’s cushions, and pretended he was in bed – the chink of china striking china was just Jellybean rummaging through their kitchen, pursuing a plate big enough to hold all her midnight snacks. This was not the first time he had done this – nor would it be the last. Much like a baby craved the soothing notes of a lullaby, Jughead longed to fall asleep listening to the sounds of his family. Though he knew it was foolish to do so, Jughead pretended that he would awake to find himself in his bedroom, and maybe if he just squeezed his lashes tight enough together –

The bell at Pop’s counter clanged, loud and shrill, spearing Jughead’s reverie. His eyes snapped wide open and landed on the only sight more welcome than his room: Betty Cooper. Stencilled in the entryways florescent lighting, she appeared so pale – shockingly white except for the unnatural blush on her cheeks. Being so ashen, the carnation-pink of her lips, the green of her eyes, and her golden halo of hair – which Jughead suddenly longed to thread his fingers through – seemed ethereally bright, unnaturally contrasted. For one mad, fleeting moment he believed he was looking at an angel.

Betty hadn’t spotted him yet and rather than making his presence known, Jughead watched her intently. To someone on the outside, it would have appeared that he was checking her out – long legs, pretty face, a slight figure – but that was far from the truth. Rather, Jughead was mentally cataloguing all the ways in which this scene was wrong. Specious, even. Elizabeth Cooper did not spend the hours following the semi-formal at a diner of all places – she spent them gossiping at Kevin’s place, or at an after-party, or on her doorstop, chastely kissing a football player goodnight.

Order placed, Betty turned, appraised the tables, and then locked eyes with him. “Jughead,” she exclaimed, frowning. Sharp lines cropped up on her forehead. “What are you doing here?”

Hurt prickled inside Jughead. He wasn’t an idiot – he knew his feelings for Betty were entirely one-sided, that Archie Andrew’s hold on her affections was iron-clad. He knew that despite missing her the way a sailor aches for the sea, Betty had spent her time in Los Angeles numb to his absence. He had thought though, perhaps misguidedly, that upon returning home she would at least be pleased to see him.

“I missed you too, Betts,” Jughead began sardonically, raising his eyebrows at her; for a split-second they vanished beneath his fringe. “How was my summer?” He paused and pointed at himself, all exaggerated movements, slowly and deliberately. “There’s nothing much to report but thanks for asking. Although I do think The Coneheads would have been impressed by my cheeseburger consumption.”

Betty sighed and slipped into the seat across from him, her dress crinkling around her thighs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” she said contritely. “It’s just late and I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” she paused to fold her hands into her lap. “Or anyone, for that matter.”

Jughead blinked and drew back a little. “Sorry to disappoint,” he muttered, more to the sprinkling of crumbs on the tabletop than the blonde in front of him.

“No, no,” Betty began with a shake of her head, “I’m glad you’re here.” Wringing her fingers together, she added: “My mind is just all over the place tonight.”

“I can see that,” Jughead told her. Seeing Betty’s puzzled expression, he gestured at her outfit. “You mistook Pop’s for the semi-formal.”

Betty tugged the edges of her skirt defensively. “Oh, be quiet,” she said, smiling. “I know I’m slightly overdressed.”

“And Thorn Hill is just slightly big,” Jughead joked, pinching the air between his thumb and index finger.

read the rest

anonymous asked:

An injured Time Tracer appears and collapses in front of Elgang and behind the Time Tracer appears Diabolic Esper telling them to stop his younger self from becoming him. (If someone want to do this I would be really grateful)

Esper steps through his portal and watches the Elgang scurry around with the medical supplies. He doesn’t stop to talk to them. He quietly made his way to the bleeding Add. 

“Are….Are you me…?” Add asked softly. “Did you come to…ridicule me…?”

Esper folds his arms and sighs loudly. “Well, yes but I came here to tell you to stop.”

“Why? I have to see her…I-!” Add flinches greatly when Esper punches the wall hard, missing his head.

“I’m telling you not to fucking do it, you prick!” He hisses. “I went back. I tried to change the past! And you want to know what happened to me?”


Esper jabs a finger at his chest, directly at the glowing crystal. “This! You don’t want to fucking how much it hurts! Just take my advice and don’t go back!”

Add nods timidly and Esper removes his bleeding hand, grumbling angrily.

One of these days I want to have a proper conversation about “Good is not a thing you are; it’s a thing you do.” (A line written by G. Willow Wilson, a Muslim) and how different religious and philosophical traditions understand that. Because a lot of Christian thought is about how good is a quality you cultivate in yourself by doing good; some theologians go so far as to suggest that doing good is only important inasmuch as it purifies your soul. C.S. Lewis wrote about how bad thoughts reveal badness hidden in the soul the way flashing a light reveals rats in the cellar before they scurry off; just because there’s no evidence of them most of the time doesn’t mean they’re not an issue. See also: virtue ethics, a lot of Thomist thought, the idea of original sin, sanctification, and humans *becoming* more godlike. I’m not sure if this way of thinking is unique to traditional Christianity or not, but I’d be interested to discuss it.

(Okay to reblog, and for people who see it and don’t know me: I have a background in Catholic theology but no longer subscribe to most of it.)

With a good caregiver the answer is “indoor cats have a better quality of life,” hands down.

An outdoor cat has the benefit of entertaining themselves, they can engage in natural behaviors such as climbing, digging, hunting, and sunning. If they’re a social cat, they may enjoy the company of other neighborhood cats.

However, they would be exposed to more daily stress. Stress scurrying across the road with a car barreling down, stress from trying to keep other cats off their turf, stress from coming across native predators or dogs.

It’s also more difficult to monitor health of an outdoor cat, so although they may enjoy hunting and digging they won’t enjoy having worms. They won’t enjoy struggling to pee, or being constipated, which their owner may not pick up on because they do most of their business in the neighbors garden.

Their deaths are often less “quality” as well, the reason free-roaming cats tend to live shorter lifespans is because of trauma and illness. They may enjoy sunning themselves, but wouldn’t enjoy dragging themselves to the side of the road to die because they chose the wrong patch of asphalt. They may enjoy climbing, but wouldn’t enjoy it if a bird of prey snatches them off a branch.

Indoor cats with inadequate owners will become bored, depressed, and often destructive. If fed poorly they’re more likely to be obese or develop health issues such as renal, thyroid, or urinary problems. This is, clearly, not a good quality of life.

However this can easily be remedied by providing an enriching environment using cat shelves, crinkle tunnels, cat trees, scratching posts, etc. and engaging in daily interactive enrichment.

If the cat craves the authenticity of an outdoor experience enclosures can be purchased or made, or they can be harness trained to safely enable their desire to roam. Ways to bring authentic outdoor fun inside is providing f/t feeder chicks or rodents, letting them hunt purchased feeder insects, or providing a dig box with soil from the yard if it’s pesticide free.

It’s also easier to monitor a cats health. Cats tend to hide if they’re ill, being around them all the time gives you a better feel for their behavior and if somethings off. It’s also easier to monitor their litter use and urine / stool health, which is often an early warning sign. Being able to notice the issue sooner means less time the cat is suffering, and if it’s a serious health issue the cat then has a better chance of recovery.

The quality of death is often better, a well-cared for indoor cat is most probably going to die of age or from euthanasia.

So the quality of life for an outdoor cat may be situationally better than the quality of life of an indoor cat who has a unqualified owner, but an indoor cat with an owner who knows what they’re doing and is willing to put the time and effort into having a pet isn’t missing any of the “pros” an outdoor cat experiences but is spared the “cons” both the outdoor cat and the poorly owned indoor cat suffer.

If quality is the deciding factor for I would suggest looking through this testimony from behaviorists, veterinarians, and other experts who encourage indoor cats and reading the part of the FAQ discussing the Indoor Cats Are Depressed myth.


I am bisexual! I’m going for drinks with this gay man, whom I have a crush on! 


This one is a good one. So there were these gigantic man-made spiders that couldn’t breed but they found a loophole; they could burrow inside baby doll heads, explode them, and spider babies would scurry out. So these spiders were growing in population pretty fast and people were freaked out by it so they were like taking all the baby dolls and burning them. Me and some people I didn’t know where at my cousins house and one of the spiders got in and we had to quickly find any doll heads but we were too late because there was a doll head (that looked like that one creepy doll from Toy Story) so the doll head exploded and all these little spiders poured out of it. We captured the baby spiders and the big spider in a big metal box and then we took it to some guy who lived in a shack in the middle of Australia; he was like that old and wise archetype but also a redneck type. We told him we need to find a way to stop these spiders from populating. He told us that he wouldn’t help because he believed the spiders had a right to live. As I was waking up I realized the reason spiders were burying themselves into doll heads because the only other option was to borrow into real baby heads and they didn’t want to do that shit. See, they wanted to populate and preserve their species but they weren’t going to sacrifice our children to do it. I also noticed that they didn’t try to hurt me or my crew…THEY JUST WANTED TO LIVE PEOPLE! THEY JUST WANTED TO LIVE! 

anonymous asked:

Steve's puppy is in love with his shield. She insists on sleeping in it, eating out of it, and is not impressed when Steve tries to swap in a replica to fool her.

Tabitha was tiny and black and white with a little black spot around one eye and Sam took one look at her and joked that she had the same worried crease between her eyes that Steve did.

He’d adopted her from down South, a pit mix of some kind that was attentive and sweet.  And curious. Snuffling around his gear and when she tipped his shield over on accident she went scurrying away, only to creep back when it didn’t chase her and nose at it until she realized it was perfect for a rocking-bed.   

Steve took approximately 300 pictures and decided there was no harm in letting her doze in his shield while he set up her bed and bowls and toys and made sure he’d puppy-proofed everything.


Only that wasn’t the end of it.  A week later, and she was still nudging it with her nose until it tipped over and snuggled in for the night every night.  He’d given her a meat bone earlier in the day and she’d trotted off with it, tail high, to curl up in his shield and chew on it.

It was on his next mission he decided things had to change.  The fur could be easily brushed away and the bone bits washed off, but the leather straps had little teeth marks in them that would soon be big teeth marks and Steve realized he might have encouraged a bad habit without meaning to because it happened to be cute.

So he bought her one of the plastic replicas he found on Amazon and set it on the floor for her.  She was interested at first but had barely gotten a paw in it before she pulled back and left it for his actual shield.  He put treats in it and tried redirection and she kept stubbornly (like you, Sam smirked as he filmed some of Steve’s unsuccessful retraining) refusing to use the plastic shield.  

He went on Etsy and bought a cosplay replica that was an impressive facsimile.  So good, Tabitha laid down in it.  

For five minutes.  

It was Clint who finally fixed everything, sending T’Challa a series of photos and a note that simply read “a little help?”.

A week after that, a package arrived from Wakanda.  Inside, a perfect replica of Steve’s shield in pink, white, and blue with “Tabitha America” painted on it and half-dozen leather straps for her to chew.

  • *the lab*
  • Molly: *working*
  • Molly: *thoughtfully* If you ever get married, would you invite me to the wedding?
  • Sherlock: *looking through the microscope* Can't have a wedding without the bride.
  • Molly: ...
  • Molly: *blinks* I-I was talking to Anthony.
  • Sherlock: *looks up*
  • Molly's Intern: *waves awkwardly*
  • Sherlock: ...
  • Sherlock: ...
  • Sherlock: So was I.
  • Molly's Intern: *panicky* What?
  • Sherlock: *looks back at the microscope; embarrassed* Get out.
  • Molly's Intern: *scurries off*
  • Molly: *amused* That wasn't nice. I needed him.
  • Sherlock: *blushing* quiet.
  • Molly: *steps closer; smirks* That's no way to speak to your bride.
  • Sherlock: *smiles; nonchalant* that's a yes?
  • Molly: *laughs* Of course.

When Oikawa fell in love, it was nothing like in the novels

His eyes would have been drawn to Hajime’s subtleties in the most inconvenient of times; the way his hair mussed in the back after practice, how his muscles worked in perfect sync as he spiked, the barely-noticeable dimple that only appeared when he smiled a certain way. He would have been oblivious as to why was he taking such sudden interest in his childhood best friend.

He would start to feel all shaky and nervous when Hajime’s eyes met his. He would feel hot blood flooding his cheeks and lose the ability to form coherent sentences.

Then one day realisation would strike him, and he would bang his head again the wall because it must have been obvious to everyone but himself, and how could he be so thick?

But when Oikawa fell in love, he did neither of those things

He knew exactly what was going on from the moment they were talking high school options and the idea of not having Hajime around crushed him. Oikawa was too aware of how his mind worked to mistake such possessiveness for mere friendship.  

That night, he had lied away in bed, reality crashing against him like furious sound waves. He felt humiliated by the nature of his feelings, and yet there they were, nestling in his chest in an impossible mixture of warm and cold. He was in love with Hajime, wasn’t he?

Oikawa Tooru fell in love all at once, like diving headfirst into cold water, and there was no turning back. One day Iwa-chan was his partner in crime, first to smack him in the head whenever he said something absurd, first to tend to his wounds when he would over extenuate himself in practice. The next, he was the cause of Oikawa’s lack of sleep and focus, which rapidly evolved into fully-fledged migraines, protagonist of his most embarrassing daydreams. Oikawa never half-assed anything.

And he had managed to corrupt the only beautiful thing, the only simple one in his life, in the turn of one night.

(Part Two)