Interests: Video games, photography, cooking Tags: ADD as ****
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Studio Ghibli Postcards [Link] « Macdrifter](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4jf5cSRSj1qz4rlzo1_500.jpg)
Bears with words on. 30k+ notes. Budgie, you need to draw more bears.
(via liquidiousfleshbag)
Jayse Hansen has posted a ton of stills highlighting his UI work on The Avengers. (via David)
I love stuff like this. The Avengers interfaces are so pretty.
It’s apparently World Goth Day. If you have not discovered Goths Up Trees, yet, you’re welcome.
This reminds me of a story that’s been stuck in my head for far too long.
How to get a Goth out of a tree@Everything2.com
Teddy was up on a low limb of the oak, clinging to the trunk and sobbing in terror. His thin body trembled in the cold moonlight. He’d broken two of his carefully-manicured, black-lacquered fingernails. His mascara was running down his cheeks in sticky black rivulets, and his lipstick was smeared.
A half-dozen clubgoers were gathered nearby, staring up at him curiously, helplessly. A couple seemed irritated. None were doing anything to get him out of the damn tree.
“Teddy?” I called, stepping toward him through the crusty snow. “What’s the matter?”
“Stop it!” he shrieked. His pupils were hugely dilated. “Bunnies! You’re h-h-hurting the bunnies!”
He began to wail loudly, so loudly that anyone within a five-block radius was bound to hear. The cops would surely come if we didn’t get him down and get him quiet. His sister would never forgive us if he wound up in jail.
I turned to Rose, who was puffing on a clove cigarette.
“What the hell is he on?” I asked her. “Acid?”
She blinked at me behind her silver granny glasses. “Uh uh. I think he took a bunch of motion sickness pills.”
“Scopolamine?” I asked.
“I guess. He’s tripping balls,” she added helpfully.
Sigh.
I began to walk toward Teddy more slowly, picking up my skirts and stepping carefully around imaginary rabbits.
“What do you see, Teddy?”
“B-bunnies. Pink bunnies. All over the ground. They bust when you step on them. Got b-bunny guts a-all over me,” he hiccuped.
“There’s no bunnies,” I said gently. “Come down from there. You’re going to catch your death up there. You’re ruining your fishnets on the bark.”
He shook his head, his eyes wide. “Don’ wanna hurt the bunnies.”
Shit.
I walked back through the parking lot to the club. The Project Pitchfork song thudding within made the pebbles near the door jump with every bass beat.
“Sorry, can’t let you back in,” the bouncer said.
“I don’t want back in,” I replied. “I just want to borrow Osiris for a couple of minutes.” I pulled ten dollars out of my pocket. “Do you think you could find him for me? It’s kind of an emergency.”
Osiris’ real name was Shaquim Johnson. His father had briefly played as a middle linebacker for the Chicago Bears, and was deeply disappointed that his only son had no interest in sports aside from some casual weightlifting.
The bouncer took my money and disappeared into the club. A few minutes later, Osiris emerged, stooping low to get through the door. When he straightened up, I was staring him in his leather-clad solar plexus.
“What’s up?” he asked. He had the kind of deep voice you imagine gods having.
“Teddy’s freaked out and climbed a tree. He’s yelling so much, I’m scared he’ll bring the cops. Can you get him down and get him to our van? Please?”
“No problem.” He flashed me a dazzling white smile, and strode across the snow to the gaggle of goths around the tree. His hobnail boots left prints bigger than my head.
Teddy screeched when he saw Osiris approaching: “No, not the Candyman! I didn’t eat that fish!”
Unperturbed, Osiris lifted Teddy out of the tree, slung him over his shoulder, and carried him to Rose’s minivan.
We bundled Teddy under a blanket, gave him a piece of bubble wrap to play with, then piled in around him to take him back to his sister’s house in Urbana.
“Bunnies,” he whispered. “Poor little bunnies.”
It was going to be a long drive home.
(via speakgirl)
Troy and Abed in LEGO
Created by Barry Donovan
Rancor Attacks Luke Skywalker
Created by Oliver Kude
“People get really irritated by mental illness. ‘Just fucking get it together! Suck it up, man!’ I had a breakdown, and a spiritual friend came to visit me in the psych ward. And they said, ‘You need to get out of here. Because this is the story you’re telling yourself. You know, Patch Adams has this great work-group camp where you can learn how to really celebrate life.’ It’s something people are so powerless over, and so often they want to make it your fault. It’s nobody fault. I started thinking of suicide when I was 10 years old—I can’t believe that that’s somebody’s fault. Like, ‘Oh, you’re just an attention getter.’ Mental illness isn’t seen as an illness, it’s seen as a choice…. I have a joke about how people don’t talk about mental illness the way they do other regular illnesses. ‘Well, apparently Jeff has cancer. Uh, I have cancer. We all have cancer. You go to chemotherapy you get it taken care of, am I right? You get back to work.’ Or: ‘I was dating this chick, and three months in, she tells me that she wears glasses, and she’s been wearing contact lenses all this time. She needs help seeing. I was like, listen, I’m not into all that Western medicine shit. If you want to see, then work at it. Figure out how not to be so myopic. You know?’”—Maria Bamford (via yeshairy)
Putting the “BAMF” in Bamford.
Buckle up and be stronger! DUH.
The stigma of mental illness is real and sucky.
A few years ago I lost my temper with my kids and in my anger I told them that they were lucky I was their mom. I yelled that if when I was their age I’d behaved the way they were behaving, my father would have hit me with a belt. They went silent and looked at me. They were so young. They’d never heard about anyone being hit by a belt. The moment after I said what I did I wished I could unsay it, but I couldn’t. So then I apologized and told them a bit about my why I’d been afraid of my father when I was a kid.
They laughed. They actually believed I was joking. Even upon further explanation, they refused to accept what I was telling them was true. It could not be true. They knew how grown ups behaved and it was not the way I described to them—’like monsters and ghosts’—my son said. Like monsters and ghosts.
I had to sit down. It was like after all those years of moving on and processing and letting go and forgiving and coming to peace with and not even giving a shit about it anymore disappeared and everything I ever had to feel or understand or release about who my father was to me was right there and finally decipherable, thanks to the unadulterated and perfectly reasonable perception of my two children, who had such a perception because they’d never in all of their lives encountered a grown up who’d hurt them. Because of this they could concisely and without reservation scoop the last remaining maybe-I-really-am-to-blame bullshit out of my innards and set it on the table so it wouldn’t any longer live inside of me.
My children gave me a new story to tell myself. Not that my father is a monster or a ghost—he’s neither—but that, like your mom, some of things he did don’t make sense. And they never have to. Those things might as well have been done by some fantastical figure in a scary story that has nothing to do with you or me. We can let it sit like that. We can put it in its proper place.
— sugar is back and bringing me all of the crying. (via isabelthespy)(via liquidiousfleshbag)
I hate baths. I see them as laying around in your own filth. Ew. If I take a bubble bath or a soaking bath, I shower off afterward. Ew.
You are washing yourself in BUTT WATER. Water that been all up in your ass crack is right next your face. Think about it, people!
that’s why you shower right before you take a bath!
and then again after
so really
baths are hella wasteful
but so fun when you’re home alone with a bottle of wine and a whole lot of sing-along music
You could make the same argument for air. BUTT AIR
