Terry knew.
"...the kind who brushed the dog and told their children bedtime stories..."
That passage leads into this one:
Yup.
Terry knew.
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
Not today Justin
Acquired Stardust
sheepfilms
occasionally subtle

Kaledo Art

@theartofmadeline
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Show & Tell

Love Begins
Cosmic Funnies

tannertan36
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Peter Solarz

Kiana Khansmith
todays bird

shark vs the universe
Sade Olutola
RMH

ellievsbear

seen from Canada

seen from United Kingdom
seen from Japan

seen from United States

seen from Singapore

seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Maldives
seen from Netherlands

seen from Germany

seen from Malaysia
seen from Belgium
seen from Japan
seen from United States
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seen from United Kingdom
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@danvogelsong
Terry knew.
"...the kind who brushed the dog and told their children bedtime stories..."
That passage leads into this one:
Yup.
Terry knew.

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don't give up
By the wonderful @myjetpack
I joke around a lot about how I would pay So Much Money for a Pokemon: Eevee Version where the entire selling point is finally giving us an eeveelution for all 18 types and also some dual-types.
And then I saw this:
And I am no longer joking.
With 171 potential combinations, it is entirely feasible to make a Pokemon game centered around Eevee.
Why? Because Eevee deserves it. And because we have had an egregious dearth of new Eeevee content since Sylveon dropped.
Here’s my pitch:
The region you live in is an island where Eevee basically became the endemic dominant organism. (If Gamefreak really wants to fuck around and find out, they could play around with real-life evolutionary theory concepts. They’ve used recent games to teach kids about stuff like environmentalism and conservation and energy/power production, so why not?)
The Pokemon Professor in the game will be a distant relative of, idk, Professor Rowan or Professor Sycamore, who decided that studying Pokemon evolution is too broad and decided to focus on what really matters: Eevee and Eevee-Associated Phenomena.
The player is tasked with filling out the Eeveedex.
The gym leaders still specialize in particular types, but they still only use Eeveelutions, of course. A fire-type leader can have Flareon as their signature ‘mon, sure, but for the rest of their team it’ll be dual fire types. Which might actually add to the difficulty level, especially if you get some weird type combos like fire/grass, because then you can’t just walk in and annihilate their entire team with a single not-overleveled water type unless it’s got some appropriate moves.
The Elite Four follows the same trend but with trickier type combos. The Champion has a six-Pokemon team full of the most seemingly contradictory type combos, like fire/water and normal/ghost. And lots of unexpected movesets, like the absolute badass that is Cynthia.
In the post-game Professor Oak will show up to give you the National Dex and you can have access to other ‘mons, as a treat, but until then? You get Eevee and its various -eons. It’s Eevee’s time to shine, which means Eevee and -eons only.
(I might make one (1) exception. There can be That One Fisherman with an entire team of Magikarp, if Gamefreak insists on carrying on that trope. Or he could just have a team of six Vaporeon that only know Splash. I’m willing to compromise.)
@inprogresspokemon
My time has come! (mobile link)
An “Eevee Island” spin off would be fun. I’m a far way from all 171, but maybe someday!
ANTI-CAPITALIST AFFIRMATIONS
i am allowed to spend my time creating things, even if they are not beautiful.
there is no such thing as a "real job." all forms of work are real and valid.
there is nothing that i need to accomplish to be worthy. i am already worthy.
doing nothing is good for my soul.
i am not defined by what i produce.
my worth cannot be measured by my paycheck, my job title, or a list of professional or academic achievements.
i do not need to monetize my hobbies, it is enough to spend time doing something i love.
i will not let society decide what success looks like. i can define what successful life looks like for me.

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What is the key to enjoying life? (x)
My boys. Er. Two grown men not my boys at all.
Why they're smearing Lina Khan
My god, they sure hate Lina Khan. This once-in-a-generation, groundbreaking, brilliant legal scholar and fighter for the public interest, the slayer of Reaganomics, has attracted more vitriol, mockery, and dismissal than any of her predecessors in living memory.
She sure must be doing something right, huh?
A quick refresher. In 2017, Khan — then a law student — published Amazon’s Antitrust Paradox in the Yale Law Journal. It was a brilliant, blistering analysis showing how the Reagan-era theory of antitrust (which celebrates monopolies as “efficient”) had failed on its own terms, using Amazon as Exhibit A of the ways in which post-Reagan antitrust had left Americans vulnerable to corporate abuse:
https://www.yalelawjournal.org/note/amazons-antitrust-paradox
The paper sent seismic shocks through both legal and economic circles, and goosed the neo-Brandeisian movement (sneeringly dismissed as “hipster antitrust”). This movement is a rebuke to Reaganomics, with its celebration of monopolies, trickle-down, offshoring, corporate dark money, revolving-door regulatory capture, and companies that are simultaneously too big to fail and too big to jail.
Keep reading
“These talking points got picked up by people commenting on Judge Jacqueline Scott Corley’s ruling against the FTC in the Microsoft-Activision merger. The FTC was seeking an injunction against the merger, and Corley turned them down flat. The ruling was objectively very bad. Start with the fact that Corley’s son is a Microsoft employee who stands reap massive gains in his stock options if the merger goes through.“
“This is surreal: a judge ruled that a corporation’s radical, massive merger shouldn’t be subject to full investigation because that corporation itself set an arbitrary deadline to conclude the deal before such an investigation could be concluded.“
Two points that stood out to me about the microsoft/activisiion judgement recently.
apparently, I joined this tumblr place at 03/30/2009 9:41:12 PM.
if anyone wants to see when they signed up for tumblr, visit the above post. it displays your registration timestamp when you view the post itself, but when you reblog it, it’ll copy that timestamp.
that blog is a little bit of chaotic tumblr magic i built for april fools a long time ago.
i consider this a sort of spell circle tbh
A group called Patriotic Millionaires has failed to get Congress to raise their taxes or boost the minimum wage. Now they're taking their co
Late last year, people in tiny Whiteville, N.C., were recruited to weekly meetings with a group they'd never heard of. They got cold calls, flyers in the mail and in-person pitches at the local Pecan Harvest Festival. Did they want to come talk about the economy with Patriotic Millionaires?
That was intriguing enough to some.
"My first thought of it was, really? They care about Columbus County? Cause nobody cares about Columbus County like that," says April Thomas, who has three children and works at a vape and tobacco shop.
Others showed up for the freebies: door prizes, dinner and $50.
Over a month of meetings, dozens of residents got a crash course on inequality and learned why this group of rich people wants to pay higher taxes and raise the minimum wage.
The nonprofit Patriotic Millionaires has lobbied Congress to make changes for more than a decade. Its members see inequality as a danger — they worry big money is corrupting politics and driving civil unrest. But they haven't had much success. President Donald Trump's 2017 tax cuts largely benefited the wealthy, and even when Democrats controlled the Senate in 2021, they failed to pass a bill to raise the minimum wage.
"We hit a wall," says Erica Payne, the group's founder. "We have hammered them on both sides of the aisle for 12 years, OK. It's time to go to the people who hand them their power."
Enter Whiteville, population less than 5,000. It's in a swing state where the minimum wage is still $7.25 an hour, the same as the federal rate, which hasn't been raised since 2009. The state has even barred cities from boosting their own minimums.
Payne notes that low-wage workers make up more than 40% of the labor force. "They are the most powerful people in the United States of America, if only they realized it," she says.

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Imagine making a small talk with your barista and they slide their social battery badge down a level
OMG I bought that pin last week and it arrived today!
*For the people asking I bought the pin HERE
imagine sliding this down mid conversation lmao
In a good day I'm in yellow ngl...
You're at a lunch with friends when they all stop talking.
They were distracted by the low health sound of your social health bar
Do-do do-do do-do
I need this for... reasons.
To those of you who know me: this. Save this and I require this for Christmas or my birthday next year.
Reagan was truly a sack of shit
Wow....
A lot of people beyond Ben Barnes have said that Reagan’s 1980 election campaign conspired to keep American hostages in Iran.
Carter was famously absent during his 1980 campaign because he'd locked himself in the White House, determined to get the hostages released. He worked every diplomatic channel, made hundreds of phone calls, wrote letters.
Even Reagan blasted him for not being more visible. In pre-internet days voters only got to see their presidential candidates on brief TV appearances or in newspaper articles. Carter was simply too distracted to do any of that. Meanwhile Reagan was everywhere.
She's not kidding: the hostages were released 20 minutes after Reagan took the presidential oath.
Then all 52 were flown to a NATO base in Germany where they were greeted by former President Carter. He'd flown over to Germany in anticipation, where he met them at their airplane, shook their hands, and welcomed them home.
BY NAME. He'd memorized all 52 names & faces.
Carter is, was, and always will be a fuckin legend.
Me: *trying to find an ergonomic mousepad for my horrible wrist problems*
Amazon: How about Rin from Fate/stay night with her boobs out?
Me: Mm... no.
Amazon: Well, how about Tracer from Overwatch with her boobs out? This one has realistic 3D nipples!
Me: There's no way that's a legit product. Also, no.
Amazon: All right, how about...
Me: Why do you feel the need to do this.
I expected you to be 100% on board with that last one TBH
I'm looking for something for my home office, which means it needs to be something that won't require explaining if it happens to be visible on camera during a videoconference with a 75-year-old community centre youth athletics program director from rural Saskatchewan.
You know what the really dumb thing is? These stupid novelty mousepads are literally my only option. Like, sure, I can get one with a corgi butt or a pair of pigeons or something that isn't obviously smutty, with a bit of searching, but just a plain, regular mouse pad? No dice – every single regular manufacturer of ergonomic mousepads seems to have switched to a somewhat firmer gel material that doesn't work for me at all. If I want the old-school squishy silicone, it's novelty mousepads or nothing, and 95% of them have their tiddies out.
#wait THATS why my mouse wrist pad is sub par?? #i didnt realize there was a difference (@jarl-deathwolf)
Quite possibly, yes. Within the past five years or so, practically every maker of ergonomic wrist supporters has switched from liquid silicone gel to either solid rubberised silicone or air-filled memory foam. They're lighter than the liquid stuff and aren't prone to split or leak, making them much cheaper to ship and store, but they also don't work as well. Practically the only folks still using the original material are purveyors of mousepads with anime boobs on them, because it's the only stuff whose natural consistency is sufficiently boobily.
I Googled "professional liquid silicone mousepad" and saw a bunch of stuff that looks promising. I don't know how rampant deceptive naming is in the mousepad industry, though.
I bet you saw a bunch of mousepads that look like this, right?
Those are typically deceptively labelled – 99% of the time they're air-filled memory foam with a bunch of popular keywords jammed into the title for SEO. The few that are genuinely liquid-filled are no generally no better – as far as I can tell, most of them sport a plastic membrane filled with some sort of oil, frequently also mis-labelled as silicone.
(And of course, as noted above, the ones that really are silicone are almost always the solid rubberised stuff these days, not the old-school liquid stuff.)
My wife and I use these
Small Wrist Rest Mouse Pad, Mini Cute Pig Ergonomic Mousepad Memory Foam Design Pig Shape Wrist Support Pillow Rest Cushion Mat for Office Computer Laptop,Comfortable and Pain Relief(Starry Sky) https://a.co/d/dCb0IAB
They're cute, fairly innocuous, and smell like berries.
Guy who’s only ever seen Rocky Horror Picture Show watching his second movie with the word “horror” on the cover.
Random mansion generator
The Procgen Mansion Generator produces large three-dee dwellings to toy with your imagination, offering various architectural styles and other options. Each mansion even comes with floorplans:
https://boingboing.net/2019/07/12/random-mansion-generator.html
Oooooh! Saving this
That’s fun
Hey, but don’t fall asleep on this Medieval Fantasy City Generator
Reblogging for the last!
why did you spell 3D like that

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Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to be empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
Always reblog Arepo and his god