spiced potatoes

Couple + Sibling/relative third wheel is honestly an S-tier trio dynamic and I wish we saw more of this in media.

Bonus points if the non-related half of the couple is just as committed to keeping the third wheel around as the related half.

its 2026 i cannot handle any more fucking "author A obviously ripped off author B" discourse by people Who Have Only Seen the work of author B and admit themselves that they have no further knowledge of the literary landscape they are moving in. like.

Folks really need to reacquaint themselves with this concept

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Draw it badly or it'll never be drawn.

“Trans men don’t make good music it’s all cringey ukulele indie pop” name a trans male musician who makes music like that other than cavetown

i dont want to derail from op's original point, but there have been a lot of wonderful reccs on this post, and i DO think we as a community need to do more to uplift trans men/transmasc musicians instead of stereotyping all transmasc musicians as "cringy". so, i sat down and went through every comment, tag, and reblog on this post (at least, all of the ones that are visible to me) and compiled a list, and i included some of my own favorites that i didnt see mentioned!

I was missing English one day, American, really, with its pill-popping Hungarian goulash of everything from Anglo-Saxon to Zulu, because British English is not the same, if the paperback dictionary I bought at Brentano’s on the Avenue de l’Opéra is any indication, too cultured by half. Oh, the English know their delphiniums, but what about doowop, donuts, Dick Tracy, Tricky Dick? With their elegant Oxfordian accents, how could they understand my yearning for the hotrod, hotdog, hot flash vocabulary of the U. S of A., the fragmented fandango of Dagwood’s everyday flattening of Mr. Beasley on the sidewalk, fetuses floating on billboards, drive-by monster hip-hop stereos shaking the windows of my dining room like a 7.5 earthquake, Ebonics, Spanglish, “you know” used as comma and period, the inability of 90% of the population to get the present perfect: I have went, I have saw, I have tooken Jesus into my heart, the battlecry of the Bible Belt, but no one uses the King James anymore, only plain-speak versions, in which Jesus, raising Lazarus from the dead, says, “Dude, wake up,” and the L-man bolts up like a B-movie mummy. “Whoa, I was toasted.” Yes, ma’am, I miss the mongrel plenitude of American English, its fall-guy, rat-terrier, dog-pound neologisms, the bomb of it all, the rushing River Jordan backwoods mutability of it, the low-rider, boom-box cruise of it, from New Joisey to Ha-wah-ya with its sly dog, malasada-scarfing beach blanket lingo to the ubiquitous Valley Girl’s like-like stuttering, shopaholic rant. I miss its quotidian beauty, its querulous back-biting righteous indignation, its preening rotgut flag-waving cowardice. Suffering Succotash, sputters Sylvester the Cat; sine die, say the pork-bellied legislators of the swamps and plains. I miss all those guys, their Tweety-bird resilience, their Doris Day optimism, the candid unguent of utter unhappiness on every channel, the midnight televangelist euphoric stew, the junk mail-voice mail vernacular. On every boulevard and rue I miss the Tarzan cry of Johnny Weismueller, Johnny Cash, Johnny B. Goode, and all the smart-talking, gum-snapping hard-girl dialogue, finger-popping x-rated street talk, sports babble, Cheetoes, Cheerios, chili dog diatribes. Yeah, I miss them all, sitting here on my sidewalk throne sipping champagne verses lined up like hearses, metaphors juking, nouns zipping in my head like Corvettes on Dexedrine, French verbs slitting my throat, yearning for James Dean to jump my curb.

Alright ive seen enough