Nope @frogsondeckchairs - Tumblr Blog

they should invent putting on sunscreen that doesn't feel like putting on sunscreen

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edwin-paynes-bowtie

At the end of episode 1, Crystal tells Becky that she doesn't have to remember Esther's house or what happened there. She doesn't tell her to forget it; it's an offer, and it gives Becky the final say in whether or not she'd rather remember. This is great writing since Crystal had no choice in her own amnesia and wouldn't want to force it on anyone else.

But what I want to talk about is when Becky looks back at Crystal. The camera shows Crystal alone, but Becky made a weird face at the group.

Becky saw the boys because of her near-death experience, chose to forget the scary experience, and suddenly couldn't see them anymore and was a bit discombobulated. Crystal can rest easy knowing that Becky didn't suffer the same trauma as her.

loveridden1999

silvaurum

basketball dracula isn't real dude he can't-- *sudden squeaking noises from the shadows*

silvaurum

*two pool toys having sex tumble by in the wind* oh thank god

silvaurum

*thunderous slam dunk noise*

fallout-lou-begas

Visit Original Link

snoleopard7

hailraykin-deactivated20230814

Reblog to give mutuals a break from whatever they're been going through

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yellow-cat

(voice of a person spiralling) its embarrassing but i still havent figured out if its ok for me to be alive

skunkes

codes-and-stuffs

i do think we should normalise being like. platonically enamoured with someone. perhaps i love and admire you dearly and there's nothing romantic about it

liberalsarecool

The bubble is nigh.

softest-punk

In place of fucking around my grandma would always say "fiddle-arsing around" and I think we could bring this back because it's a very fun word to say

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papayajuan2019

hey, do you mind if i immensly value our relationship, in a way i'll never properly be able to fully verbally communicate

adelidae

getting up from bed tips

getting up from bed cheats

getting up from bed codes

getting up from bed ending explained

toxictoad

Fucking sucks to be a fan of the MAIN GUY of a thing. Like yeah this is Main Character... I know you know who he is but listen!!! I know him better than anyone else!!!

deadandphilgames

i was speaking with a guy i work with and when leaving i said okay see you monday and he went oh no i wont be in monday. im going bald. and i said ?you're what? and he just repeated im going bald monday. wont be in

deadandphilgames

update: he didn’t show up on Monday and on Tuesday he was bald

thecryptkeeper

i love women

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plague-vulture

washing dishes is evil because you go "oh fuck there's so many dishes this is gonna take foreverrr" and then you enter the dish abyss and emerge with your abdomen somehow covered in water and your hands all wrinky and then you look at the clock and what felt like half an hour was actually 10 minutes

hungwy

someone invents a recipe > their child loves it > they grow up and replicate it for their own child > their child loves it > they grow up and replicate it for their own child > their child loves it > they grow up and replicate it for their own child > their child loves it > (this continues indefinitely)

lias-perpetual-crisis

The funny thing is as a parent you always think, “mine isn’t as good as Nana made it.” But your kid adores it and one day will say “it isn’t as good as my mama made it but the kids like it.”

and on it goes

moami

and so love is passed down the chain of generations, on and on, from mouth to mouth to heart to heart

timeclonemike

Love is stored in the Multi-Generational Game Of Telephone.

the-haiku-bot

Love is stored in the

Multi-Generational

Game Of Telephone.

Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.

jordisstigander

My family has a cake recipe called “Three Generation Cake.” On the recipe card (old and faded and stained), my father explained the title, “Grandma’s cake, Mom’s frosting, and my stomach.”

Of course, I am now the fourth generation who bakes this cake. (I never met my great-grandmother. She died shortly before my dad met my mother, but he tells me stories about her. She spoke three languages and was trying to learn Portuguese when she died. She wore a fur coat over a muumuu and owned a wolfdog. When she was widowed in the Great Depression, she supported her family by playing piano in a honkey-tonk before lying her way into a radiology position. Her second husband was a British naval officer who was trained on a ship with sails and who gave her jewels by pouring them into a bowl and handing it to her at breakfast.)

My mother used it to make a wedding cake for my sister’s wedding. (My dad insists his grandma would have loved my mom, both plain-speaking women from the midwest.) My brother-in-law fell in love with this cake, to his own surprise, as he loves chocolate and the wedding cake has none. Now it is his birthday cake of choice. I have baked it for him multiple times.

One day my sister will teach her son how to make the cake from his great-great grandmother’s recipe. I will tell him stories about her, this woman I never met but who is so real to me.

The love will continue on.

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