I have seen this post probably at least 20 times courtesy of @lukadjo, each time passing over it thoughtlessly and only now do I process the bizarreness of it
I have seen this post probably at least 20 times courtesy of @lukadjo, each time passing over it thoughtlessly and only now do I process the bizarreness of it
I have seen this post probably at least 20 times courtesy of @lukadjo, each time passing over it thoughtlessly and only now do I process the bizarreness of it
No one ever tell me anything bad about the person who runs this account.
the person who runs this account, Katie Gouldin, is an evolutionary biologist who has an EXCELLENT podcast called Creature Feature which compares and contrasts the weird behaviors of man and beast! she is super cute and funny too!
oh thank GOD
Toad Prison for Goblin Crimes
Use your scientific knowledge to shitpost immaculately.
My friend’s little brother (non-verbal) used to hide people’s shoes if he liked the person, because it meant they had to stay longer. The more difficult it was to find your shoes, the more he liked you.
One day my cousin came over, and she was a bitch. When it was time to leave, my friend’s brother handed her shoes directly to her and she went on and on about how he must have a crush on her because he only “helped” her.
us aros (rightfully) complain that most of the aromantic “representation” we get is creators saying their character is aromantic on twitter or whatever
but nothing compares to the absolute nonsense that the 2010s steven universe fandom went through
after the show ended, one writer was like “i’ve always seen peridot as aroace and deliberately wrote her to come off that way” while a different writer said “i’ve always seen peridot and lapis’s relationship as romantic and deliberately wrote it to come off that way.”
naturally wwiii broke out in the fandom over this
so yeah, we didn’t even get a word of god confirmation. we got two priests saying contradictory things while the congregation duked it out in the parking lot
my most adornopilled half serious take is that the classic Dragon Quest plot of plucky teenagers killing an evil god subscribes to great man theory and is therefore fascist.
maybe your stupid found family should “gain XP” through rigorous self critique like a proper Marxist
a JRPG that is just a band of young teenagers reading Lenin in real time.
You’re only allowed to get mad at this post if you understand the full rhetorical context of the term “adornopilled”. My posts are ONLY for intellectual gamers who close the car door in an effeminate and antifascist manner.
Btw dark souls is historical materialist bc history is a literal object you can hold.
In scp lore, the goat is burnt down by the foundation because it actively creates keter class anomalies, and the people who build it are a cult that does this on purpose
I cannot imagine 1) That the Corporation Rim would produce free entertainment 2) That Murderbot paid for any of its serials. The entertainment feed is HuMaxFlix Plus with 500 different micro subscription options, and Murderbot has been the universe’s most prolific TV pirate this whole time.
Explains why it’s able to use the shows as currency
I don’t use AI to write. I use my sense of humor, deep hidden trauma, 5 mental illnesses, years of TV, and the few books I read every now and then like God intended
That Hamlet post reminds me, people blame Romeo and Juliet for “getting everyone killed”, but the text itself very specifically blames the lords Capulet and Montague. If you want to get to the nitty gritty:
Mercutio got himself killed. Romeo was very specifically trying to not have a swordfight, and Mercutio decided to start one because he thought Romeo was being a pussy. Tybalt actually killed him, but if you’re talking about who “got him killed,” that was Mercutio fucking around and finding out.
Romeo killed Tybalt. This is the one death that I think you can reasonably lay at Romeo’s feet. If he had run off with Benvolio and got the Prince’s men, Tybalt would have been arrested. That said, if my best friend (no matter how stupid) was killed right in front of me and the killer told me that friend sucked and so did I, I cannot guarantee I would do differently.
Lady Capulet said she hired people to kill Romeo. He beat them to the punch on that, but I think it should be pointed out.
Romeo killed Paris in self-defense. There’s a lot of different ways you can play this, and Paris did think he’d broken in to vandalize the tomb of his girlfriend, but once again Romeo specifically begged someone not to fight him and that wasn’t enough.
Romeo killed himself because he thought Juliet was dead. Friar Lawrence had a stupid idea and Juliet followed through on it because her father was going to force her into bigamy (and arguably marital rape), so if anyone “got” this to happen it was Lord Capulet.
Juliet killed herself because her husband was dead, her cousin was dead, her parents had turned on her, the woman who she thought of as a second mother abandoned her, and she was in a room with one guy stabbed and another guy poisoned right as the law was about to break in. Once again, I don’t know what I’d do in her situation.
My Shakespeare professor said that Romeo and Juliet is the only Shakespeare tragedy not caused because of anyone being evil- Lord Capulet and Tybalt (and Mercutio) are dicks, but they’re not Iago or Richard III. None of them wanted the play to end in a pile of bodies. You can’t even point to one specific act and say ‘that was the specific action that caused all of this.’ It’s a surprisingly modern (as opposed to mythic) play in that regard.
Thats the weirdest erotic sentence i’ve read all month
this fucking post singlehandedly ruined my life
You don’t really appreciate how fucking great fan fic is when it comes to writing sex untill you stop to recognise how Serious Literary Stars fail at writing sex.
Forget what his dick is doing, what are her breasts doing? How do a pair of fat sacks attached to a ribcage barrel-roll anywhere? Let alone across a man’s mouth and then his wanger immediately after? Sir, why is your mouth so dong-adjacent? Is your weiner detachable, is that it? Do you have your joystick clutched in your hand so that you can score a sweet schlong-to-titty-roll immediately after a kiss and then proceed to beat your banana all over her body in the world’s most failed attempt at erotic massage??? HOW DO YOU THINK SEX WORKS???
Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch.
She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage.
Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings.
“Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child.
Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin.
“I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.”
“I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.”
“Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.”
Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine.
“We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…”
“Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.”
Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has.
“Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.”
Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project.
She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still.
“Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once.
Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.”
Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.
They all live happily ever after.
*
Here’s another story:
Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it.
“He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that.
They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail.
“Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl.
“You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says.
“Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way.
His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons.
The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain.
“What you got there?” The miller asks them.
“Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.”
“My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.”
“Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs.
Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them.
“Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says.
Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.”
“Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?”
They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights.
When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after.
*
Here’s another:
James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering.
“It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight.
“Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says.
That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy.
When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy.
But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read.
Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can.
James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees.
“Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?”
James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”
“save me, substance abuse!” i cry. before you can moralize to me about the dangers of addiction, a noble and powerful steed gallops into the room - my horse whom i have named “substance abuse”. you learn an important lesson about making assumptions. i snort a line off its back
this reminds me of me and my friend’s horse named Drugs
when i was in middle school me and my friends had a small yellow horse eraser we fondly named “drugs”. this lead to a lot of middle school tomfoolery around his name and saying shit like “Ma’am, so and so took drugs from me” and other dumb shit like that.
eventually, our english teacher, Mr. R, caught onto the joke. instead of writing us up or sending us to the principal though, he played along, making similar jokes like “(name), stop taking drugs.” “hey. you three. you need to share drugs if he’s going to be at the table.” “no drugs today, guys?” so on and so forth.
by the end of the school year it had become a very fond joke between us and this english teacher, so we decided since we were moving onto our freshman year, we decided to give our eng teacher this little yellow horse eraser.
so we go find our english teacher, Mr. R, who was setting up cornhole with our principal and other “big important people” for our 8th grade graduation party, and we hand him the little eraser.
to which he yells as loudly (and happily) as he can: “YOURE GIVING ME DRUGS?!!”
i actually went back to visit him before i left for college, and to this day he still has Drugs on his desk, and regularly tells his new students about me and my friends. ty op for reminding me about Drugs the Horse
Today at work we were unpacking a big box, and I looked at the box and thought, huh. That box looks much smaller than me sitting on the ground, but I bet if I really scrunched down I could fit most of my body inside the box. And I had one leg fully in the box before I realized:
I am not a cat
I am work
I am wearing a nice suit and might need to appear in court later
tumblr user making a post: “damn i love pasta carbonara”
terf blogger in the notes: “Yes, my female brain agrees with this post whole-heartedly! As I read the words of this post, I could feel the eggs in my uterus shifting in their ovaries happily, as my vagina clenched in understanding. This post really made my understanding of the gender binary more concrete, and made me once again so so glad of my womanness”
i love winter sso much but trying to think of things to do with friendss during winter is the worst. do you want to come freeze to death outside with me
I can’t get healthcare because this form is broken but at least I agree with it in spirit.
Do not contact me. There are no options for contacting me.
ooh, now it wants to know if I’m one of the four sexes: male, female, trans: female to male, or trans: male to female.
great job guys, that’s not how it works
oh my god. after filling in that sex option, it also asks for:1. my gender. Options are: M, F, MTF, FTM, NB, Other2. What my birth certificate said my gender was. They’re seriously asking my AGAB.3. My orientation. Straight, Gay/Lesbian, Bi, Queer, Another, Unknown.
ALT
i modified the form slightly before selecting my gender
If Luigi murdered a homeless black guy going through a mental health crisis on a train, Luigi would have been exonerated because of a technicality that said homeless guy was dying anyway or some shit. They’d ask “what about his family?” If Luigi stabbed and killed some brown people instead of shooting some CEO, the police nor the FBI would not have placed bounties on him nor began a manhunt like they didn’t when the exact thing happened on the same exact day in the same fucking city only minutes apart.
Terrorism is not only a socially constructed term but a politically charged one that is dictated by what action that the labeler deems impermissible. When health insurance companies deny, delay, and depose millions of people to their inevitable deaths, it’s not deemed terroristic. It is an acceptable social murder and let’s not soften the term because it is in fact murder that they are committing. But that man’s one act exposed what the authoritarian class thinks of us all. We aren’t valuable.
transandrophobia isnt real the way transmisogyny is real because thats not how intersectionality works. transmisogyny is specifically the intersection of oppression transfemmes face of transphobia and misogyny. for transandrophobia to be real, androphobia itself would have to be real. men are not an oppressed class. there is no systemic disenfranchisement men face for being men when living in a patriarchal society. transmascs absolutely face transphobia, and there are certain aspects of transphobia that may be different between transmascs and transfemmes, but that is not transandrophobia.
This is a fantastic explanation for why the term faces skepticism and I appreciate it because it’s finally made the argument against it click for me
The remaining issue is, I don’t have a different word to use when I specifically reference “transphobia that is distinctly directed towards trans men in ways that combine transphobia bioessentialism and mysoginy, that is similar to but also slightly different from that which is directed towards trans women” that still acknowleges that trans men are not women
IE, “You’re not a man, you just hate facing oppression as a woman”, “You’re not trans, you just have internalized mysoginy”, “You don’t have to be a man to accomplish your goals, You’re just pretending to be one so you don’t have to face female gender discrimination”, “Transitioning to male means you’re eager to oppress women”, “Now that you’re a man you don’t have to deal with mysoginy or gender-based violence”, etc
I think the men’s rights movement is bullshit, don’t get me wrong, but walking around being an openly trans man, emphasis on trans man and not just man, seems to read to a lot of people as “female gender-traitor pervert”, and I don’t have the VOCABULARY for that experience
and this particular exchange, the “men aren’t oppressed” vs “I don’t have words to talk about how trans men are oppressed,” is a great example of another way transandrophobia functions: through hermeneutical injustice.
“hermeneutical injustice” is a type of epistemic injustice, the other type being “testimonial injustice.” these terms were coined by Miranda Fricker in 1999 to describe a framework by which particular marginalized groups or people are barred from expressing, describing, or sharing their understanding of their own lived experience.
to briefly explain the two subtypes, testimonial injustice refers to someone’s descriptions of their own experience to be distrusted, erased, or silenced based on the belief that they are not a reliable narrator or are otherwise being disingenuous somehow. Trans men often experience this too, but my main focus here is hermeneutical injustice, which is an imposed limitation on someone’s ability to interpret their own experiences - limitations on which types of inferences are considered valid or acceptable, or what vocabulary and concepts are allowed to be used in discussions.
Think of the aim of the fictional constructed form of English known as “Newspeak” in George Orwell’s 1984 - in the book, the intent of the language’s architects was to limit the types of ideas that could be entertained in conversations and even thoughts, removing ideas like “bad” and replacing them with ideas like “un-good.” The goal there was that anyone dissatisfied with the Ingsoc regime would be forced into discussing it in terms of mere shortcomings (ways it wasn’t good) and not the active evils that it perpetrated (ways it was bad).
So by limiting trans men and mascs’ ability to create terms for ourselves, this is what is being done - we are not able to name and specify the forms of oppression that affect us specifically unless we have the language to do so; without terms like “transandrophobia” (or transmisandry, or antitransmasculinity, or any of the other more niche terms that have been coined in an attempt to avoid this hermeneutical injustice) we must refer to “transphobia that is different than what transfems face” or constructions that are similarly awkward and circumscribed. Notably, these constructions force us to compare our struggles to transfems or cis women - much like “un-good” forces one to think in terms of a certain ideal of perfection while “bad” allows us to directly name problems, depriving us of our words for direct oppression against trans men do not allow us to discuss our own experiences without reference to the experiences of others.
We do not want to compare struggles. We do not want to say who has it better or worse. We just want the space to describe what happens to us, in our own words, so that we can raise awareness of the struggles we face and the solidarity we need.
THIS IS *EXACTLY* WHAT I MEAN!
“Men’s rights activists” dont need to exist because we alreadu live in a patriarchy- men already have rights, they just exist as pushback against feminism.
Just like how “white power” movements don’t need to exist because white people are already getting preferential treatment- they exist as pushback against civil rights movements.
But when I, as a transmasc, need to say, “I am continuously being reduced to a mysoginistic caricature of female victimhood in a way that denies my identity as a man”, that does NOT exist as pushpack against transfemmes
In this case, having a word to describe an experience is NOT an “all lives matter” reactionary movement- a counter-protest to a valid protest designed to undermine the movement- it’s just. Developing vocabulary to speak on a different problem
like. Why do you say “seafood allergy” when we ALREADY say “peanut allergy”? If it’s not an allergy to peanuts, you should just say “allergy”.
Well. Yeah, we could, but then how would I most efficiently describe my allergy to seafood
i would also like to add to this the fact that transandrophobia was coined by a black trans man who states that hatred, demonization, and fear of men IS an intersectional aspect of his oppression. as i am not black, i am not qualified to speak on the specific intersection of how blackness, manhood/masculinity, and transness intersect. i recommend checking out his blog @/saint-speaks to read about what transandrophobia means to hymn, as i think it’s an essential part of this conversation.
Yeah, to add to the most recent addition, not only is the term intersectional, it’s allowed to ‘work’ as a word differently from the way transmisogyny does.
Just because the word transmisogyny is a direct smushing together of transphobia and misogyny which are both their own axes of oppression, that doesn’t mean that any and all intersectional language has to follow this rule, else it doesn’t ‘work’. Because intersectionality doesn’t only look at intersections between oppressions, but also how different aspects of your identity will change how oppression will look.
It’d be nice if the people telling us we need to be more intersectional could actually learn what intersectionality is, and not use what they think it means as a weapon to silence us when we are directly applying intersectional lenses to our own experiences.
As mentioned in another branch of this post, transandrophobia is an unpaired word. It may lose that status at some point in the future via back-formation, but.
Transmisogyny is not an unpaired word, but transandrophobia is. It’s as simple as that. We don’t need to go further: this is basic grammar stuff.
when i was really little and had just learned how to write my full name . i noticed my twin brother had really messy handwriting. while mine was like … as nice as it could be for a little kid. so i wrote my name in his handwriting on a wall and i waited to see who our parents would get mad at . and they blamed him. and that was when my life of crime began
all joking aside it’s really funny that like little kids do things like that sometimes . my mom would look at her phone everytime she was at a red light so i got into the habit of saying “green” once the light changed so she would know . one day i was like “i wonder if i say green while it’s red if she’ll go” and so i did . and she did . and i got yelled at real bad
though looking back on it what the hell was she doing relying on like a five year old . who was a chronic shoplifter and liar . for that . i’m surprised we didn’t get into more accidents
My mom is Deaf so when I was like 5 I plugged all the drains in the bathroom with towels & toilet paper and turned the bathtub and sink on full blast before we went out to go shopping cause I knew she wouldn’t hear it and I flooded the entire house for no reason
ok that is some nasty shit i can’t even believe the amount of damage that would’ve done 😭
Today on “Indigo posts fanart for the niche indie game visual novel nobody following him knows about”, we’ve got a mothman! Not THE Mothman, that would be his dad. I firmly believe he has ADHD just like me because come on. Look at him. He goes on long rambles that can bore and confuse some, he’s very bubbly, loud, and energetic, he tends to forget about responsibilities or procrastinate on them until the last moment… need I go on? He’s just like me fr fr.
when i was really little and had just learned how to write my full name . i noticed my twin brother had really messy handwriting. while mine was like … as nice as it could be for a little kid. so i wrote my name in his handwriting on a wall and i waited to see who our parents would get mad at . and they blamed him. and that was when my life of crime began
all joking aside it’s really funny that like little kids do things like that sometimes . my mom would look at her phone everytime she was at a red light so i got into the habit of saying “green” once the light changed so she would know . one day i was like “i wonder if i say green while it’s red if she’ll go” and so i did . and she did . and i got yelled at real bad
though looking back on it what the hell was she doing relying on like a five year old . who was a chronic shoplifter and liar . for that . i’m surprised we didn’t get into more accidents
My mom is Deaf so when I was like 5 I plugged all the drains in the bathroom with towels & toilet paper and turned the bathtub and sink on full blast before we went out to go shopping cause I knew she wouldn’t hear it and I flooded the entire house for no reason
ok that is some nasty shit i can’t even believe the amount of damage that would’ve done 😭
[image description: a post from r/exmormon titled “Turns out she is a lesbian, I am a woman, and neither of us are Mormon lol” with two selfies attached. the first shows pre-transition OP, and her long-haired partner. the second shows OP now, who’s transitioned, and her partner, who’s gotten a short haircut and glasses. both smile for the camera. the post has 1,402 upvotes, and a comment underneath says “Nothing more classically LDS than two wives” /end description]
since I saw multiple people asking this before I scrolled far enough to find an image description: LDS is the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, that is, the Mormons, who at least in their early history practiced polygyny, that is, the flavor of polygamy that involves multiple wives per marriage but not multiple husbands.
tortoises are knights, but sea turtles are more like traveling merchants or itinerant preachers
armadillos are also knights, but they lack lieges, and thus purpose. pangolins are astrologers, oracles, etc who wear robes of bronze scales for the aesthetic effect of the clanking and gleaming and so forth
pillbugs and other isopods are like if a siege engine or an armored supply wagon was a little guy.
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