look it’s the playlist i made for the blaseball fanmix exchange for nessie! go listen to it
I wanna kiss you in places you’re insecure about
tally • any prns • verifiably insane
look it’s the playlist i made for the blaseball fanmix exchange for nessie! go listen to it
I wanna kiss you in places you’re insecure about
Legit: Buy Actavis promethazine cough syrup ” lean drank purple” @ $200 per 16 oz( Hi tech, qualitest also available @ $150 per 16oz).
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what, if any, of your joints/bones pop or crack (other than your back)
fingers/toes
wrists/ankles
neck
knees
hips
elbows
collarbones
sternum
multiple (say in tags!)
are you guys ok???
i've experienced popping and cracking in all of the above so i wanna know how normal this is
we can share comedy bits involving trans people without going “see THIS is how you joke about trans people without being transphobic” can we just enjoy the joke without being reminded everyone hates us for five minutes. please and thank you
20s mobster bf whos weirdly affirming because he just answers everything with "alright boss" and "on it boss" and "good idea boss" and
I feel like this needs to be said because I keep seeing stuff like ‘if you rb from me too much i’ll block you’ in people’s bios.
PLEASE FEEL FREE TO REBLOG FROM ME AS MUCH AND AS OFTEN AND AS QUICKLY AS YOU WANT!! My tagging system was developed specifically because I know what it’s like to have a hyperfixation and want to sift through every single post about that thing. I tag every post for that exact reason. You aren’t bothering me. The notifications don’t bother me. It’s all fine.
ID: ao3 tags that say “Is it platonic? Is it romantic? Who knows but baby it’s homosexual, Get in loser we’re overanalyzing.” /end ID
But seriously, when we got our property, it was all just…grass. A sterile grass moonscape, like a billion other yards. With two big old maple trees. Just grass and maples, that was it.
But then I got my grubby little paws on it, and I immediately stopped fertilizing, spraying, and bagging up grass clippings and leaves. I ripped up sod and put in flowers and vegetables. I put down nice thick blankets of mulch around the flowers and vegetables.
When I first was sweating my way through stripping sod, I saw a grand total of 1 worm and 0 ladybugs. The ground was compacted into something that would bend shovel blades.
Now, six years later, I can’t dig a planting hole without turning up fourteen earthworms, and there are so many ladybugs here. Not the invasive asian lady beetles; native ladybugs. They winter over in the mulch and in the brush pile. I see thousands of them.
The soil is soft and rich. There are birds that come to eat, and bees of many sorts.
Like this is something that you, yourself, can absolutely change. This is something that you, personally, can make a difference in.
Like, last year I watched no fewer than twenty-nine monarch caterpillars grow up on my milkweed and fly away as butterflies. I watched swallowtails and moths grow. There are hummingbirds fighting over flowers now.
I did that. Me. You can do the same.
Is this post about making a garden or beating depression
As someone with clinically diagnosed anxiety and depression;
Yes.
Once a little boy went to school.
One morning
The teacher said:
“Today we are going to make a picture.”
“Good!” thought the little boy.
He liked to make all kinds;
Lions and tigers,
Chickens and cows,
Trains and boats;
And he took out his box of crayons
And began to draw.
But the teacher said, “Wait!”
“It is not time to begin!”
And she waited until everyone looked ready.
“Now,” said the teacher,
“We are going to make flowers.”
“Good!” thought the little boy,
He liked to make beautiful ones
With his pink and orange and blue crayons.
But the teacher said “Wait!”
“And I will show you how.”
And it was red, with a green stem.
“There,” said the teacher,
“Now you may begin.”
The little boy looked at his teacher’s flower
Then he looked at his own flower.
He liked his flower better than the teacher’s
But he did not say this.
He just turned his paper over,
And made a flower like the teacher’s.
It was red, with a green stem.
On another day
The teacher said:
“Today we are going to make something with clay.”
“Good!” thought the little boy;
He liked clay.
He could make all kinds of things with clay:
Snakes and snowmen,
Elephants and mice,
Cars and trucks
And he began to pull and pinch
His ball of clay.
But the teacher said, “Wait!”
“It is not time to begin!”
And she waited until everyone looked ready.
“Now,” said the teacher,
“We are going to make a dish.”
“Good!” thought the little boy,
He liked to make dishes.
And he began to make some
That were all shapes and sizes.
But the teacher said “Wait!”
“And I will show you how.”
And she showed everyone how to make
One deep dish.
“There,” said the teacher,
“Now you may begin.”
The little boy looked at the teacher’s dish;
Then he looked at his own.
He liked his better than the teacher’s
But he did not say this.
He just rolled his clay into a big ball again
And made a dish like the teacher’s.
It was a deep dish.
And pretty soon
The little boy learned to wait,
And to watch
And to make things just like the teacher.
And pretty soon
He didn’t make things of his own anymore.
Then it happened
That the little boy and his family
Moved to another house,
In another city,
And the little boy
Had to go to another school.
The teacher said:
“Today we are going to make a picture.”
“Good!” thought the little boy.
And he waited for the teacher
To tell what to do.
But the teacher didn’t say anything.
She just walked around the room.
When she came to the little boy
She asked, “Don’t you want to make a picture?”
“Yes,” said the little boy.
“What are we going to make?”
“I don’t know until you make it,” said the teacher.
“How shall I make it?” asked the little boy.
“Why, anyway you like,” said the teacher.
“And any color?” asked the little boy.
“Any color,” said the teacher.
And he began to make a red flower with a green stem.
~Helen Buckley, The Little Boy
Don't let studio execs and streaming corporations convince you that this writer's strike is going to ruin the art that you love. The art is nothing without the artist, and our favorite artists cannot make our favorite art when their pay is too low, their contracts too short, and their writer's rooms understaffed!!!