🐸 [Id 1 to 4 : A wood carved plump, grumpy rainfrog on a workbench, next to a carving knife. Its eyes are painted with black, burnt yellow, grey and white paint. It has buttcheeks.]
noise dept.
$LAYYYTER

Kaledo Art
dirt enthusiast
Today's Document
Xuebing Du

#extradirty

Andulka
Cosmic Funnies

ellievsbear
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Monterey Bay Aquarium

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
DEAR READER
🪼

JBB: An Artblog!
wallacepolsom
almost home

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@dreamwaffles
🐸 [Id 1 to 4 : A wood carved plump, grumpy rainfrog on a workbench, next to a carving knife. Its eyes are painted with black, burnt yellow, grey and white paint. It has buttcheeks.]

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my little sister is 5 by the way and she is fuckign hilarious im literally crying rn
Hey guys the star of Let It Snake is graduating high school today lmao
Have and Have Not (2006) Crystal Schenk
look i reblogged this because this piece FUCKS but then
then I looked in the notes and y’know.
some people seems confused.
Why a shopping cart with stained glass?
or This would be cool to shop with
or something about religion and NO
NO
THIS. Is about HOMES.
That style stained glass? Those diamonds? They speak to me, and they say “Townhouse”. and FANCY townhouse, at that. They say “City home, old home, a home that is RICH, a shelter from the storm and a safe place for a family”.
But on! a! shopping cart!
That evokes - to me - Homelessness.
The person on the street who had no other choice but to steal the best cart they could from a store’s corral just to have a way to transport the meager belongings that are all they fucking have in this world. And it’s NOT a home or a safe place or a shelter but it’s all you fucking have!
And this piece goes and puts them fucking together! AND NAMES IT.
Yeah this is fucking ART.
We're not leaving this gem to languish in the comments:
This is very good

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unfortunately there are like 23 billion other things to worry about right now but just for the record: straight people who are trying to "rebrand" pride month as "national nuclear family month" are so fucking evil. positioning gay pride as antithetical to the concept of a family is evil. doing so in a way that is explicitly white nationalism is evil. acting like queer pride is the thing that destroys families is evil.
we are not just backsliding, we are back at the milquetoast assertation "love is love." for the record: when people ask us why we need pride this is literally fucking why. when other queer people ask me if we really need all the rainbow shit, this is why. when we make a fuss about so many shows not having any positive queer rep: this is why.
it has only been 11 years since it was nationally legal for gay people to get married. homophobia is still very much alive and well - and it is often the thing that ruins a family.
D -- > Very well, in my noble magnanimity, I shall reveal the Drone Season 2026 schedule
June 21st - July 5th: Signups Open!
July 19th: Assignments Go Out
Aug 19th: Deadline to Default, Prompts Released, Sloppy Seconds Collection Opens for Submissions
Sep 6th: Fills Due, Deadline for Pinch-hitter Signups
Sep 13th: Gifts Revealed
Sep 20th: Creators Revealed
Sep 21st: Sloppy Seconds Treats Revealed
Sep 24th: Sloppy Seconds Creators Revealed
My main takeaway from working in a medical lab is that the human body is a kind of soup where some bullshit happens.
Rest = Lying Down, Eyes Closed Because other parts of the program from England made sense, I decided to try resting every afternoon. After some experimentation, I determined that the most restorative rest resulted from lying down in a quiet place with my eyes closed. I was surprised at the results from taking a 15-minute rest in mid-afternoon. Even that short break seemed to help, reducing my symptoms, increasing my stamina and making my life more stable. After a while I added a similar rest in late morning. Over time, I came to believe that my scheduled rest was the most important strategy I used in my recovery. Resting everyday according to a fixed schedule, not just when I felt sick or tired, was part of a shift from living in response to symptoms to living a planned life. The experience showed me that rest could be used for more than recovering from doing too much; it could be employed as a preventive measure as well. In the terms suggested by someone in our self-help program, I learned the difference between recuperative rest and pre-emptive rest. Surprisingly, taking pre-emptive rests greatly reduced the time I spent in recuperative rest, because I was experiencing much less Post-Exertional Malaise. The result was that my total rest time was reduced.
sometimes like an idiot i assume everyone has read bruce campbell on resting/pacing to handle post-exertional malaise affiliated with chronic fatigue. that is obviously not true! anyway here's the hot guide, i linked straight to the "schedule in mandatory complete 15 min rest as part of your day and hopefully you will get to do less surprise many hours of rest to recover" section but the whole thing is laid out pretty clearly
Repost, now do your honors.
Trans people just existing is no more sexual than when cis people just exist.

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Do u ever read a friend’s fic and it’s like holy shit how do you consider me qualified to talk to you?
No
Y’all need better self-esteem
Alright I have been enabled so I’m gonna say somethings.
Fatalistic sarcasm is a thing, however, it usually hides deep feelings of insecurity, and whether you consciously recognize this or not, it validates them. Seriously, I used to constantly make jokes about how other people’s work was better than mine, and it did nothing for my self-esteem, it was a tool to deflect from my own feelings of inferiority and it actively worked against me thinking critically about my own and other people’s work. If it was a joke I could put myself down instead of analyzing why someone’s work was better and trying to incorporate that into my own
As someone who took creative writing courses I was constantly surrounded by other brilliant people, if I hung my head in shame every time I read something as good or better than mine I never would have lifted it.
As someone who has watched a lot of writers with very good idea’s crash and burn I mean it when I say you either develop a healthy sense of respect for your own work or you stop writing.
There’s three things I really wish more people consider
1. Do you think their work is better because it’s a different style, one that you like? There’s an element to ‘the grass is greener on the other side’, I have seen people work in some amazing styles that I wished to god I could replicate, some I managed, some I never did, but there’s nothing wrong with either. having a different style Is Not the same as having a bad style, each has their own strengths and you can admire one without putting yours down
2. Knowing someone who is a better writer is a blessing and if they knew you were using their work to bring yourself down they would not be happy, mooch off that friend, analyze their work, ask them to edit your shit, as long as you’re not annoying them be shameless about it. the best thing creative writing did for me was give me the confidence to ask people to critic my work and shamelessly better each other for that sharing
3. People need to normalize being confident in their work, the quality of your work has literally nothing to do with your worth as a person, the quality of your work has nothing to do with your worth as a writer. You can write something really shitty and the only thing I’d say to you is that your trying and I respect you for that
this is true for art too btw
I have so many amazing artist and writer friends whom a very much admire for their creativity and talent
And also we’re all FUCKING NERDS ON THE INTERNET and I would give these dorks a noogie were we in physical proximity of each other.
I will continue posting in favour of there being fewer people like that
god my heart is fucking breaking for all these people THERE IS STILL TIME DO YOU HEAR ME
IT ISN'T TOO LATE AS LONG AS YOU'RE ALIVE
hi everybody i started HRT at 35 so like don't even despair
being in ur twenties makes u feel like 30 is a brick wall u either fly over or crash into but i promise u it's a door and it opens up into the rest of ur life like getting past the prologue of an open world game
very important addition from @thatsladyfaggottoyou ty <3
I started HRT at approximately 30 and top surgery at 32 just 4.5 months prior to this photo. It's never too late.
when i started hrt at 29 i was a 5'4, 110lb hourglass girl and i thought i'd never pass but it was better to be a happy freakshow than a miserable hottie. i was passing at work in about a year, and these days, almost ten years later, i regularly hear 'you're what? i would never have guessed!' even from other trans folk that i can be myself around. around my rural rednecks coworkers, i'm just another guy. i'm fat, hairy, and strong as hell. i'm happier than i ever thought i could be.
passing is a complicated and bittersweet situation, but i went into transition thinking a body like mine, a perfect girl's body, could never be made legible as gender i wanted people to see. and i got what i didn't dare hope for in only a year.
a better world is possible. if you listen, you can hear it telling you to come home.
flesh flesh flesh flesh flesh flesh flESH FLESH FLESH FLESHFLESHFLESH
MRI of a neuroscientist kissing her 2-month-old son offers a modern, unforgettable take on the classic mother-child portrait. They're curled up inside a 3 Tesla MRI scanner, surrounded by its loud beeps and bangs. Despite the noise, the baby sleeps soundly on his mom's chest, allowing for a clear image of their brains. Capturing this took several minutes, and even a millimeter of movement could blur the scan.
For some, this image highlights the delicate nature of human life; for others, it symbolizes the timeless connection between any mother and child. The contrasting brain structures-smaller, smoother, and darker in the baby-make this moment even more fascinating. [x]
This is Dr. Rebecca Saxe. The source listed here goes to some guy's instagram instead.
A venerable symbol of human love, as you've never seen it before
Reblogging for better source.

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A lot of criticism of delivery apps focuses on the fact that they offer convenience and variety, which I find much less compelling than criticizing the fact that the apps often send their contractors on fetch quests from Hell.
There are real labor problems here. Base pay is often insulting. Customer tips carry too much of the burden. Workers need better protections, more transparent algorithms, protection from arbitrary deactivation, and actual recourse when the app or a customer screws them over. Car-dependent delivery is also an environmental and infrastructural problem, though in a denser city I’d still be doing this work; I’d just be doing it by bike.
But when people talk about delivery work, I rarely see them talk to actual delivery workers. I see a lot of abstract arguments about convenience, consumer decadence, “hustle culture,” and internalized neoliberalism. Meanwhile, when I’m out working and waiting in restaurants for orders, the other Dashers I meet are usually people who only speak Spanish, people who read as neurodivergent, visibly physically disabled people, or some combination of the above.
I have not met this mythical Disco Elysium poor ultraliberal hustlegrinder-wannabe people seem to be arguing with. Maybe that archetype exists somewhere. If it exists among any kind of gig worker, it would probably be rideshare drivers. But most of what I see looks less like “rise and grind” and more like “this is one of the few forms of work available to people who need flexibility, low barriers to entry, limited managerial surveillance, or a way to work around language barriers, disability, burnout, chronic illnesses and injuries with symptoms that come and go unpredictably, caregiving, résumé gaps, or discrimination.”
That does not make the current system good. It means the current system is filling a real gap that a lot of supposedly better systems do not even acknowledge.
As a disabled person who is burnout-prone and demand-sensitive, contracting as a delivery driver has given me an unprecedented level of financial flexibility. I can work when I have capacity. I can stop when I’m deteriorating. I can build my day around my actual body instead of being trapped under a manager who thinks “reliable” means “able to perform the same way every day no matter what.” That matters. It does not cancel out the exploitation, but it is also not fake just because it is politically inconvenient.
And delivery itself is not some inherently decadent evil. Sometimes people live alone. Sometimes they are sick. Sometimes they are disabled, exhausted, overwhelmed, grieving, overloaded, or recovering from something else - perhaps the stress and fatigue induced by their own job. Sometimes they need medicine, groceries, or a meal that will actually unplug their sinuses instead of whatever generic community-care slop someone thinks they should be grateful for. Humans are allowed to need specificity. “Food” is not the same as “the food I can actually eat right now.”
A serious labor critique would ask how to make delivery work safer, better-paid, less tip-dependent, less car-dependent, less algorithmically punitive, and less precarious. It would ask what kinds of flexible, accessible work should exist for people who cannot thrive in conventional employment. It would ask how cities could support bike delivery, worker cooperatives, public infrastructure, and real protections without simply replacing one bad system with a moral sermon about how nobody should ever want takeout.
But a lot of the discourse does not do that. It treats convenience itself as suspicious. It treats wanting flexible work as false consciousness. It treats the needs of disabled people, immigrants, and other people who can't fit into traditional employment structures as details to be swept aside in favor of a cleaner political image.
I guess the opinions of delivery workers only count when they are politically convenient.
reminds me of how for some reason the phrase "doordashing Tylenol" got stuck in my head as a general critique of so many of the ways that we are so isolated from each other and from better forms of support. I meant it from both sides. I was the person living alone an hour from anyone I knew who was home sick, could barely make it to the door to pick up the delivery, and paid $30 for just a little pain relief. On other days around that time, I was the Dasher running into CVS and trying my best to find the random items people needed without the infrastructure to do so very well, getting paid $5 to accomplish it, and relying on that pay to make rent because my full time job as a high school teacher didn't come close to paying me enough to live near the school.
And for all the frustration that job caused, the problem was almost never the people ordering. It was almost always the system not being built for people.
This reminds me of the time I doordashed NyQuil and some other items from CVS. The store was only about three blocks away, so why couldn’t I just go walk there myself?
Because I had covid and I was quarantining so I wouldn’t get other people sick!
She played bass on 10,000 songs, including the most-played track of the twentieth century. She was paid $55 per session. Her name never appeared on the albums.
Gold Star Studios, Los Angeles, 1964. A woman in a cardigan walks past the receptionist, a Fender Precision bass in her hand like a briefcase. She doesn’t sign autographs. She signs a timesheet.
Her name is Carol Kaye. In three hours, she will record what will become the most-played track of the twentieth century. She’ll pocket fifty-five dollars and head to another studio, on the other side of town, for the next session.
The record label will never put her name on the album.
Between 1957 and 1973, Carol Kaye took part in roughly 10,000 recording sessions. Not as the featured artist, not as a guest, but as a hired hand. She was part of an anonymous collective nicknamed The Wrecking Crew—elite studio musicians who actually played the instruments on your favorite records while the famous bands posed for promotional photos.
The work was relentless. Three albums before the day was over. Stale coffee in paper cups. No rehearsal. The charts arrived minutes before the tape rolled. If you couldn’t read a chart and nail the take in two tries, you didn’t get called for the next session.
Carol could do it on the first try.
She started playing guitar in grimy bars at fourteen because her family couldn’t pay the electric bill. Music wasn’t a romantic dream for her. It was survival. It was a job—factory work with better acoustics and lower pay.
But she was faster and sharper than almost everyone else. She corrected charts in pencil while the producer was still explaining what he wanted. In one session in 1968, she told a famous producer his arrangement sounded like a dying dog. She chose her own line. They kept her version.
That descending bass line that drives the Beach Boys’ “Wouldn’t It Be Nice”? Carol Kaye. The propulsive groove of “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’”? Carol Kaye. The acoustic-guitar intro to “La Bamba”? Carol Kaye. The iconic theme from Mission: Impossible? Carol Kaye.
She invented techniques on the spot, out of sheer necessity. When the bass sound was too muddy for AM radio, she stuck felt under the strings and used a hard pick instead of her fingers. The tone cut through the static like a blade. It became the sonic signature that defined 1960s pop.
Bassists spent years—decades—trying to crack the secret of the Beach Boys’ gear to get that sound. They were studying the wrong people. They should have been studying Carol.
She received no royalties. No residuals. No gold-record ceremony. No credit on the album sleeves. When “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’” hit number one, Carol was already back in a studio cutting a soap jingle.
The biggest bands mimed her bass lines on TV variety shows. New York marketing departments decided a mom in classic clothes didn’t fit the rebellious-youth image they were selling. So they simply left her name off the album credits.
For thirty years, almost no one cared. The truth only began to surface in the late 1990s, when music researchers found the same union contract numbers on thousands of hit records. The very documents meant to preserve studio musicians’ anonymity betrayed them.
Think about it. Every time you heard “Good Vibrations,” “River Deep – Mountain High,” the Righteous Brothers, Nancy Sinatra, or Sonny and Cher, you were hearing Carol Kaye. She composed the soundtrack of an entire generation’s youth.
And yet the records still say nothing. She’s now over eighty. She wrote instructional books. She trained countless bassists. She is finally starting to be recognized by music historians who uncovered the truth about The Wrecking Crew.
But she never got what she deserved: her name on those albums. Credit for the music that defined an era. Recognition that those bass lines everyone associates with the “Beach Boys” were, in fact, Carol Kaye’s.
Fifty-five dollars a session. Ten thousand sessions. The most-played track of the twentieth century.
And the world didn’t know her name.
She was admitted to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2025 but refused, fuck yeah, Carol. Her official website is incredible.