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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Claire Keane
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if i look back, i am lost
Keni
ojovivo

Kiana Khansmith
hello vonnie
Cosimo Galluzzi
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@amessbutok
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it really is insane how waking up early will grant you access to some of the most beautiful sights and sensations in the world that will make you want to live forever, but only if you overcome the gauntlet of a thousand razors that is getting out of bed early. truly one of life's little saw traps.
"this too shall pass" well can it fucking get on with it
Anyway. Fuck the monarchy. May their wealth be redistributed and their memories fade into irrelevancy.
Thinking about a duct tape wizard

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i love comforting nihilism. who cares, weâre all gonna die. eat that cake. buy that eyeshadow. be nice to people. you dont owe the world shit. the stars dont care about what we do. give anyway because why spend your eighty years on this rock miserable and making other people miserable. the sun is going to blow up and weâre all gonna die someday. make the most of what time you do have. use the fine china for taco night and microwave lunch. smell the flowers. tell a stranger they are beautiful.Â
âthey can say whatever the hell they want I donât care Iâll say âfuck youââ
âdid you just flip the bird at us?â
âI did flip the bird, yeahâ
âbut did you flip it at US?â
âyo bruh if this starts a fight how easily can I get out of troubleâ
ânot veryâ
âSo like I flipped the bird but it TOTALLY wasnât at youâ
With art we can create and play at being gods. Sara Linda Poly
Aberfan is one of those places that I really can't speak or write about in any kind of eloquent way. I don't think you can go there and not be affected by it. It always lives in you afterwards.
It always strikes me how fresh the flowers are.
Context (from my post about it here) because today marks 55 years since Aberfan:
Mining was Walesâ primary industry, and nearly every South Wales town was essentially built around its colliery. It was commonly said that without the pits, there would be no towns. These mines were regulated by the National Coal Board, a government institution. At the time, devolution had not happened in Wales, and all Welsh issues were governed by one department, the Welsh Office, which was an office of the British government based in Cardiff.
The tips that dominated the landscape near Aberfan were terribly placed. The man who was responsible for choosing their location was not given any training in how to determine where to tip the coal waste, and unfortunately he decided to use an area which was notorious for its underground springs. It flooded all the time, and local children would play in the springs, which were visible on all the Ordinance Survey maps of the time. They werenât secret.
In 1963, a spoil heap tipped into a valley, causing massive damage but luckily not killing anyone. After this, it was recommended that all mines conducted a review into their spoil heaps, examining every one and reporting back to the central body with comments about its safety. This was not done at Aberfan because the two men responsible for doing so didnât get along, and didnât want to work with each other on the report.
In the years before 1966, local councillors and villagers consistently raised concerns about the location of the spoil heap behind the school in Aberfan, given the fact that Tip 7 was on the top of a hill behind the school and was on top of an underground spring. These warnings were repeatedly ignored.
At 9:15am on 21st October 1966, the last day of the school term, the underground spring underneath Tip 7 caused the coal to become slurry; a thick liquid coal. Unable to bear the weight of the solid coal at the top, the bottom of the spoil heap Tip 7 collapsed, tipping 40,000 cubic metres of slurry and debris onto the village, directly on top of Pantglas Junior School. It also destroyed a water pipe, flooding the town and hindering rescue efforts. 116 children (half of the children at the school) were killed, either drowned or suffocated, as well as 5 teachers. The total death toll of the disaster was 144. Every single street had a bereaved family. Half a generation was lost.
Volunteers came from all over South Wales and beyond to help the rescue efforts, which quickly became recovery attempts. The disaster happened at 9.15am; no-one was found alive after 11am. Volunteers worked into the night. Whenever they thought they heard the sound of someone beneath the slurry, a whistle would be blown, and silence would fall. Some miners ended up digging through the hardened slurry for the bodies of their own children
In the wake of the disaster, which to date is the largest disaster involving children in the UK, a charitable fund was raised by the public which amounted to ÂŁ1.6mil. In todayâs money, the amount raised would be ÂŁ27.8mil. This money was supposed to be used to rebuild the community at Aberfan and to provide care for the injured and traumatised children who had survived. Some parents were asked to prove the extent to which they had suffered after their childrenâs death in order to have access to compensation from this fund.
A tribunal found that the National Coal Board was responsible for the disaster. The NCBâs defence was that the disaster had been âunforeseeableâ, despite the knowledge of the springs, the previous tips, and the warnings from local people and miners. The tribunal dismissed this and found that the NCB was at fault because it hadnât trained its staff in how to tip safely, and had repeatedly ignored the warning signs â of which there were many â of the disaster. 9 individuals were named in the report as being at fault. None was disciplined. All kept their jobs.
Afterwards, the villagers of Aberfan began a campaign to get the remaining spoil heaps removed. The government refused, saying that it would be too expensive. Despite being found liable, the NCB refused to pay for the removal. Eventually, the villagers stormed the Welsh government buildings at Cardiff after they arrived and were refused permission to speak to anyone. Armed with bags of slurry from the remaining tips, they dumped them into the government offices, suggesting that the government might like to live with the slurry instead.
Eventually, the head of the NCB, fed up with the villagers asking him to pay for the disaster for which he had been found wholly responsible, decided that he needed to take money from the Aberfan Disaster fund. He took ÂŁ150,000 (10% of the entire total of the money raised) and used it to remove the spoil heaps, with the support of the government.
In 2007, the Welsh Assembly repaid ÂŁ2mil in order to compensate the fund for the amount requisitioned by the NCB. The fund is still in use today, and mostly deals with the psychological trauma of the current residents. The fund was also used to build a community centre near one of the residential streets where the slurry also fell, and a memorial garden on the site of the former school.
Apparently, there was some discussion in the government as to the amount of compensation each bereaved family should receive. Some government officials were worried that, as residents of a low income and working class area, the local people would be unable to deal with receiving large amounts of money and would not spend it on their children, and should therefore receive smaller payments.
Parents were accused by NCB insurers of trying to âcapitaliseâ on their childrenâs death when they expressed dismay at the offer of ÂŁ500 compensation (ÂŁ9,380 in todayâs money), which had been raised from an initial offer of ÂŁ50 (ÂŁ938 today.)
Half of the survivors of the disaster have experienced PTSD. Survivors of Aberfan have been found to be three times as likely to live with PTSD as other adults in a comparison group who had also experienced life threatening traumatic events.
The Charity Commission refused to use the donated funds to pay grants to children who had survived âphysically uninjuredâ, despite the fact that these children, all aged under 11, were severely traumatised. Many couldnât sleep alone, and were terrified of the dark. This wasnât entirely the fault of the Commission as regulation of payments made by charity trusts were very inflexible; nevertheless, the surviving children were left to recover within an already fractured community.
Even today, 55 years later and in the midst of a global pandemic, the flowers on all the graves are fresh.
reblog and make a wish! this was removed from tumbrl due to âviolating one or more of Tumblrâs Community Guidelinesâ, but since my wish came true the first time, Iâm putting it back. :)

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Why did the art thiefâs van run out of gas as he drove away from the museum?
Because he had no Monet to buy Degas to make the Van Gogh.
an important lesson about making mistakes:
you can still get a cookie
How does a robot eat a cookie?
I think you misunderstand mailbotâs intentions
Can I offer you a terrible joke in this trying time?
I really enjoy just existing in hotels. The long identical hallways. The soulless abstract art. The weird noises the air-conditioner makes. Strange city lights in the window. Six stories off the ground. Strangers chatting in the hall. Nothing in the dresser. No past, but an infinite present.Â
Scooby Doo idea: Daphne Blake as the weird rich kid whose parents signed her up for a shit-ton of rich-kid extracurriculars like polo, fencing, and all of this other shit so they wouldnât have to deal with her/bolster her college resume. She puts a lot of effort into actually being good at all these extra-curriculars bc sheâs competing with all of her ~super successful and talented~ sisters for attention and ends up athletic as hell and socially stunted and likeâŚreally aggressive and competitive and never quite satisfied with anything sheâs doing. The only other âHigh Societyâ kid who can put up with her is Norville âShaggyâ Rogers âan anxious stoner with freaky strict parents whose only friend prior to Daphne was his equally anxious rescue dogâDaphneâs been beating up Shaggyâs bullies for years. Then thereâs student council dweeb Fred Jones whoâs always been groomed to be this âleaderâ by his parents and is always pressured to go to these youth leadership things and stuff and yeah heâs pretty good at directing group projects, but really Fredâs kind of shy and more interested in engineering, forensics and maybe criminal justice and heâs been friends with this chick Velma Dinkley in engineering club whoâs brilliant but sheâs also tactless, awkward and very bitterly sarcastic to cover up for the fact that her book smarts far outweigh her social skills.
 So then thereâs this mystery downtown and all five of them show up and thereâs a mutual, âOh hey itâs you: The weird kid from my school. What are you doing here?â and everyone goes around. Fredâs like, âOh I knew the owners of this place and they said they might have to close down because of this ghost and I told Velma about it and Velma thinks we can get to the bottom of this.â And Shaggyâs like, âScoob and I didnât want to be home right now and we honestly didnât know about the ghost but hey Daphneâs here so we feel safe enough to hang out and maybe Scoob can sniff out some clues or something.â And then everyone turns and looks at Daphne and Daphneâs just like, âI want to fight a fucking ghost.âÂ
I appreciate all of this.
fine, you know what, FINE, iâm just going to LEAN INTO being an on-fire garbage can, whatever. this is who i am now. whatever. WHATEVER!!!! death comes for all of us.Â
Daphne Blake is very good at almost everything. She should be: she practices. Fencing, polo, archery, dance, tennis, volleyball, karate, yoga. She wrings them out of herself minute by minute, gesture by gesture until her muscles have memory.
She doesnât mind the work. Daphne likes to struggle. She likes the feeling of victory when she gets to the end: learning a music piece, defeating an opponent, adding a language to the rĂŠsumĂŠ sheâs been building since she was ten. She doesnât have to be the best, but she likes to be better.
She likes looking down.
Daisy revolutionized city-based trauma centers, Dawn redefined modeling with her The Body Is Art campaign, Dorothy was the first woman to win the Triple Crown of Motorsport, and Delilah is so highly decorated sheâs run out of room on her dress blues.
Daphneâs sisters were born with the promise of one perfect thing written on their palms. Daphne was born with empty hands, and cannot make anything perfect. Daphne is only ever very, very good.
Norville âShaggyâ Rogers is high, right now. He is looking at the spiral of stucco on his ceiling, his dog Scoobyâs head on his stomach, one hand in a bag of Cheetos and the other holding a joint. He isnât floating, but heâs thinking about it.
âDaph,â he says, heavy eyes blinking open. âWhat timeâzit?â
Daphne lowers her epee. She has a national tournament this weekend. Her parents might come.
Then again, Shaggy knows, they might not.
âFour-fifteen,â Daphne tells him. She flicks her red ponytail off her shoulder, adjusting and readjusting her grip on the sword until it meets some unwritten standard. âWhen you finish your Cheetos weâll go over to the fair grounds. It wonât open until seven so we can have a look around before it gets busy.â
Daphne is a nationally ranked fencer; captains the Crystal Cove Country Club womenâs polo, archery, and tennis teams; speaks French, Italian, Spanish, and Russian; she can even apply eyeliner on a train. Shaggy saw her do it once, in Paris.
Daphne is the child Shaggy thinks his parents probably wanted. Good at everything she tries, and tries at everything she does.
Shaggy had his first panic attack at age nine. He was seated at a piano. It was his first recital and he was going to play a piece by BĂŠla BartĂłk. He had liked the song while learning it: fast, uneven, somehow new every time, new enough to keep up with the way his brain could never seem to settle. Shaggy liked it because he was never bored playing it, and he was always bored, in a strange way, in a way that made his heart beat fast and, sometimes, his stomach ache as if he was starving. Sometimes he was bored even when he wasnât boredâsometimes he became distracted and forgot what he was doing. He lost things all the time. It drove his mother crazy. It made his parents yell like the first three bars of the BartĂłk piece, Norville! focus Norville! sit still Norville! Norville! Norville!
Shaggy fell apart in trembles on the piano bench, in front of everybody, in front of his panicked teacher and his wide-eyed classmates and his father, who only sighed and said he was doing it for attention.
âShaggy,â Daphne says, and he realizes his eyes have fallen shut again. When he opens them, sheâs bent over him, grinning, too sharp. Daphne is always a little too sharp.
âWhat?â
âYouâre not gonna chicken out on me, are you?â
Shaggy thinks about it. He feels good. Calm. Daphne always makes him feel calm. Sheâs kinetic and sharp-sharp-sharp. She sucks up all the energy in the room and leaves him feeling like he finally has enough room to breathe.
âNo,â he decides, âbut Iâm bringing Scoob and weâre stopping for burgers.â
Fred Jones is an Eagle Scout. The boys on the football team make fun of him, but the boys on the football team also go nuts for the jalapeĂąo cheddar popcorn he sells, so frankly Fred thinks they can shut it. Fred had liked having tasks he had to complete before he became an Eagle. He had liked learning about nature, about how to survive in the woods, about how to build a fire.
He had liked learning how to identify tracks and what a branch looks like when it has been broken by human hands. Heâs not going to be a park ranger or anything but he likes knowing how to leave something undisturbed. He likes thinking of nature the way theyâd taught him to think of a crime scene at Forensics camp: How are things? How should they be?
Anyway, Fredâs dad had been excited. He likes when Fred gets elected to thingsâcaptain of the football team, president of Student Council, Editor-in-Chief of the high school paper.
Fred hadnât wanted any of those positions, but his dad didnât get excited about a lot of things, andâŚit was nice. When he did.
Fredâs phone buzzes. He flicks open the lock screen and reads Velmaâs text: meathead bring a flashlight.
hi Velma, Fred types back. my day was great thanks for asking.
Fred has enough time to go to the kitchen and make himself a ham sandwich before Velma replies. The text says neat story. Thirty seconds later, she follows up with, iâm outside.
Fred looks out the window behind the sink. Mrs. Dinkleyâs terrible van is idling in their driveway and Velma is already getting out of it, jogging up to Fredâs front door. He shoves his feet into the tennis shoes heâd last abandoned in the foyer and opens the door before Velma can knock, catching her with her hand half-raised.
âLookit you, eager beaver,â she drawls. âDâyou have the flashlight?â
Fred lifts his keychain. Itâs got a small but powerful flashlight dangling between his house and locker keys. âAlways be prepared,â he recites.
She cranes her neck as she peers over her shoulder. âIs your dad home?â she asks.
âNo, heâs got a town hall meeting until dinner. They announced the plans to build a parking structure where the Neubright Community Center is and everyoneâs pissed.â
âWith great power, etcetera etcetera,â says Velma, then pauses. âWait, the community center in south Cove? The only one with free daycare and after-school programs?â
âYeah.â
âWow. Like, fuck your dad.â
Fred doesnât say anything. He knows. He knows. But itâs his dad.
Velma winces into the silence. âUh. Anyway. We should get going. The fair opens at seven and we want to get there before the crowds move in.â
Velma Dinkley is almost always right, but never says the right thing. She doesnât know why. She doesnât mean to. Words come tumbling out of her mouth before she can stop them, and they almost always lead to that terrible beat of silence where the wrongness hangs, suspended, until someone is gracious enough to speak into it.
Everything lines up in Velmaâs head: numbers, logic, equations, puzzles, those stupid Mensa games. But it never comes out right, or at least not just right. Her mother says she gets âa toneâ when she speaks sometimes that makes other people feel like she thinks theyâre stupid.
First of all, itâs not Velmaâs fault if people are stupid, and itâs not her fault if they know it, and itâs not her fault if they find out only in comparison to Velma being smarter than they are.
But of course Velma lives in the world, so itâs not her fault but it is her problem.
She hadnât meant fuck your dad, for example. What she had meant was: fuck the mayor. The mayor is Fredâs dad but she hadnât meant to say it like that. Fred idolizes his dad. Velma knows that.
Anyway, Fred never gets mad. Everyone else gets mad eventually but Fred hasnât, not since they were kids at Forensics camp together and Velma hadnât had anyone to partner with and had been trying so hard not to show anyone that it bothered her. And then Fred had said, âHey, we can have three in our group.â
Velma gets things right and people wrong. Her mother says sheâll grow out of it. Velma isnât sure.
âSo what makes you think we can do what the police canât?â Fred asks, taking a left-handed turn that Velma wouldnât have risked.
Velma rolls her eyes. âThe police said that a ghost pirate tried to commit murder by tampering with a roller coaster, Fred. If our baseline of detection is âjinkies! we think a ghost did it,â I am sure we can find something to bring to the table.â
Fred laughs. âWe can put that in our report,â he says.
âScoob wants a BLT,â Shaggy informs her, and Daphne rolls her eyes.
âScoobyâs a dog, so heâs getting the cheapest thing on the menu,â she says.
Shaggy frowns. âDaph, youâre like, a literal millionaire,â he points out. âAnd weâre at the drive-thru of a Dennyâs. Splurge on the BLT, dude.â
âPotheads who live in four-story houses shouldnât throw stones,â Daphne snaps back.
âOkay, girl wearing a Burberry tracksuitââ
âUh, maâam? Is that all?â
Daphne blows a long breath out of her nose. She glances at Scooby, who is sitting in the back seat but with his head on the arm rest between them. He looks up at her and whuffles what she swears to God sounds like, âplease.â
âNo,â she tells the machine, sighing. âAnd a BLT.â
âSweet!â Shaggy cries and holds his hand up for Scooby to high-five. He ruffles the hair at the top of his dogâs head and beams over at Daphne like sheâs won him a prize. âThe Scoob looooooooves bacon.â
In the fourth grade, Daphne found Shaggy in the hallway, shaking so hard she thought his teeth might fall out. Some kid from the grade aboveâRed somethingâwas standing over him, calling him names. Daphne hadnât really thought about it before punching that kid in the nose. She hadnât thought about it before crouching down in front of Shaggy and trying to get him to breath steady. She hadnât known what to say, but Shaggy had joked, âLike, wow, you hit like a girl,â between shuddering breaths and Daphne had laughed.
Nobody in Daphneâs family is good at telling jokes. Not like Shaggy is.
âEat those quick, you two. Iâd hate it if the scent of delicious burgers lured the pirate ghost to us.â
Shaggy swallows a big bite. âLikeâyou didnât say there would be a ghost!â
Daphne is neither convinced nor unconvinced of the reality of ghosts, so she shrugs. âI said we were going to check out the fair grounds! I thought you knew they said it was haunted.â
âLike, why would I know that?â
âIt was all over the news!â
âI donât read the news!â
âWell, ghosts probably arenât real,â Daphne assures him as they pull into the parking lot.
ââProbablyâ is like, not as reassuring as you think it is, Daph,â Shaggy mutters, but gets out of the car and directs Scooby to get out, too. Heâs still gently high, and his belly is full, and itâs not dark out yet.
And anyway, Daphneâs here. Heâs seen her split an apple with an arrow from across two tennis courts.
âCâmon,â Daphne wheedles. âIâll make you guys some Scooby snacks when we get home.â
Scoobyâs ears perk up.
Shaggyâs about to answer when another car pulls into the lotâwith any luck, it will be fairgrounds staff and theyâll be told to leave.
Instead of that, Fred Jones gets out of the car with a girl that Shaggy has Latin class with. Shaggy knows three things about Fred Jones:
His father is the mayor.
His Student Council presidential campaign rested on cafeteria and vending machine reform.
He and Daphne kissed once, in the seventh grade, on a dare. Â
âJones, what are you doing here?â Daphne asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
Shaggy guesses it wasnât a very good kiss.
âHi, Daphne,â Fred says. He likes Daphne. Itâs not that he canât tell that Daphne basically hates him; he can, but he likes her anyway. He likes what her hair looks like when she sits in front of him, and how she grips her pencils too tightly. As far as he can tell she hates him because he beat her for Most Promising in their freshman year yearbook, which seems unfair because itâs not like Fred voted for himself.
Velma knocks his shoulder with hers. âTheyâre saying a ghost broke that roller-coaster that fell apart last week,â she says. âWeâre going to figure out what really happened.â
âSo, like, you donât think it was a ghost?â asks the guy Daphneâs with, a tall and shaggy-haired kid Fredâs pretty sure is stoned. âHa, ha. Ghosts. Right?â
âRight,â says Fred, as reassuringly at he can. The guy seems nervous, so Fred puts a hand on his shoulder. âIâm sure it was just mechanical failure.â
âAnyway, what are you doing here?â Velma asks, eyeing Daphne Blake skeptically. Fred had kissed her in the seventh grade and told Velma afterwards that her lips had tasted like clouds. Velma had said that clouds had no taste.
âScoob and I just came for, like, the free burgers,â says the guy with Daphne, who Velma is pretty sure is named something preposterous like Orville or Neville. âWe hunt neither ghosts nor, like, pirates.â
âWell, great news for you: weâre going to prove it wasnât either of those stupid ideas,â Velma tells him. âRight, Fred?â
âSure thing,â Fred says.
Daphne snorts, then tightens her ponytail. âWhatever,â she mutters. âCome on, Shaggy.â
Velma frowns. âWaitâyou do think it was the spirit of the Dread Pirate Roberts?â
âThe existence of the afterlife can neither be proven nor disproven,â Daphne says, and throws a grin over her shoulder thatâs so sharp Velma feels her lip get bloody from it. âAll Iâm saying is, if it was the spirit of the Dread Pirate Whats-His-NameâŚâ she shrugs, and shoves the sleeves of her track suit up over her elbows. Fredâs smile widens.
âThen Iâm gonna fight a fucking ghost.â

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renaissance in the 21st century
i love when iâm super emotional and crying over everything and i feel so misunderstood because i feel too much! and then i get my period and itâs like oh yes i am ruled by mundane biological processesÂ
mood when i sleep for a full day and only desire to feel w a r m for some reason and then two days later my body decides to revolt against itself.