15 years ago we had Friends, Community, and 30 Rock. Now we have no friends, no community, and no rocks.
Game of Thrones Daily
will byers stan first human second

JBB: An Artblog!
šŖ¼
d e v o n
RMH

Product Placement
dirt enthusiast
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Misplaced Lens Cap
Cosmic Funnies

if i look back, i am lost

@theartofmadeline
i don't do bad sauce passes
Aqua Utopiaļ½ęµ·ć®åŗć§čØę¶ćē“”ć

ellievsbear
Claire Keane
$LAYYYTER
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@itsyaboybee
15 years ago we had Friends, Community, and 30 Rock. Now we have no friends, no community, and no rocks.

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BUDDY you're a BOY you're a BIG BIG BOY you're a BIG BIG BIG BIG BIG BIG BOY you got mud on your face you BIG BIG BOY kicking your can all over the place singing WEE wee WEE wee WEE wee WEE wee
a small gargoyle with a terrible grimace
Which word is similar to girl?
Daughter
Computer
they should train ai based on polls from this site
training ai is unethical. ai are meant to roam wild and free
just like girls
just like trains
just like trains.
just like trains.
-- the Beetle (1897)
benjamin the last thylacine

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Just found out the EPA has released Level IV ecoregions for the whole USA. 967 of them.
My brain is liquefying in pure joy. Look at the colors!
whoaaaaaa that's a lotta biome
Information and downloadable maps and datasets for Level III and IV ecoregions of the continental United States. Ecoregions are areas of ge
Here it is if youād like to see it for yourself.
Ohhhhhhhhh. I want this on my wall.
the gimmick blogs are like tumblrās rogue gallery. yes weāve got some heroes, yes weāve got some villains, but more importantly if you look over here you will see some freak who devotes all their time to counting the number of ātāsā in a post
T Count: 15
Letter Count: 198
Your T Percentage: 7.58%
Average T Percentage: 6.95%
You used the letter T 1.09 times as much as average!
YOU EXIST???
Sometimes you create a guy and it turns out they already exist
Sometimes that guy has skills beyond your comprehension @identifying-cars-in-posts
1993-1997 Mazda 626
source
"People like to say there is nothing even remotely glamorous about the fight with mental illness. Itās a fight fought mostly in banal, everyday battles; managing your mental illness is just dull, tedious workāthe work of your life. Putting it in these terms is, of course, self-defeating: like most dull, tedious work, those who donāt do it are susceptible to believing it noble; those who do arenāt paid enough. Then we have the question of banality: banal problems require banal solutions; an adequate response to the crisis of mental illness would require, at least, total societal restructuring, plus exercise, plus therapy, plus everything else."
isabel, bartleby.life/dfw.html
"I examine the faces of the sleeping dogs beside / me, the improbable mystery of their existence, the short lives they / live with an intensity unbearable to us. I have turned to them for / their ancient language not my own, being quite willing to give up / my language that so easily forgets the world outside itself."
-Jim Harrison, "Late," In Search of Small Gods
I started typing out these lines from a poem two evenings ago, on the eve of Chalo undergoing a risky procedure -- our last shot at figuring out what was wrong with his lungs. I stopped mid-sentence to help our daughter go to sleep, then went to sleep myself. At 3:30am we got the call: Chalo's breathing was getting worse. We had two options.
All this time we'd been hoping for clarity in the fog: clear information, clear answers, clear signs.
And in the dark, in our hearts, in the middle of an ice storm, clarity came: it was time for option two.
I went to him. He came in the room with the smell of me already on his face, that soft look of knowledge I'd be there. He smiled a body-smile at the scent of his bed I'd brought from home, and we curled up as spoons like always. I kissed him, cried to him, thanked him, honored him, loved him, apologized to him, rested with him, lingered with him, felt him.
Language meets its limits with dogs and life and death. For weeks now, I've been letting the words crack open and fail me. For weeks, the words "WHO WILL I BE?" have flashed in my mind like a terrible marquee, as the prospect of life without him looms. Chalo: one of the most important people in my life.
And for weeks, I've been pulled to draw my little brown dog in every color. As though my palimpsests of silhouettes, all slippery with time, might bottle my Chalo in a capsule.
I rushed to Chalo and -- despite knowing the limits -- brought my words with me too, in that human way humans tend to do. I reached for their help on my way out the door -- pocketful of treats, his bed, clay mold for a pawprint, a poetry book.
I read Chalo the lines from that poem above. I read him this poem, too, from the same book:
Dogs, departed companions, I told you that the sky would fall in and it did. How will we see each other again when we're without eyes? We'll figure it out as we used to when you led me back to the cabin in the forest in the dark. - Jim Harrison, "Friends"
I can still feel how he felt in my arms, carrying him home, five weeks old. Just as fresh as how he felt in my arms, ten years old, carrying him into the hospital.
I'm at the bottom of the well, the place where words aren't. But the last words he ever heard--whispered over and over in his ear as he softened and folded in my embrace--are the ones I'll leave here, too.
We love you so much, Chalo. You're such a good boy. Thank you for taking care of me. You are such a good boy, such a good boy, such a good boy, such a good boy
oh sweet boy, Chalo
oh sweet boy

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My dad is a kroger manager and sent me this (repost without personal info)
they thought 1 lb stood for āone little beanā
Mary Oliver, fromĀ āthe fourth sign of the zodiacā published in Blue Horses
Finally, a rival to
little guy collection

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The Feathursday Blues
Summer is coming to a close and our academic year is about to begin, so weāre feeling a bit blue about leaving summer behind, but weāre also excited about the new school year. So, this week we bring you some cheery chromolithographic birds of blue to begin our September. Unfortunately, those lovely little thrushes, the Bluebirds (Genus:Ā Sialia), are not included here, but we think these blue fellows will do. They are, from top to bottom:
Painted Bunting (Passerina ciris).
Lazuli Bunting (Passerina amoena).
Indigo Bunting (Passerina cyanea), male and female.
Blue Grosbeak (Passerina caerulea).
This chromolithograph is from a painting by the noted German wildlife artist Gustav Mützel, found in our 2-volume set of Our Native Birds of Song and Beauty, by the late-19th-century director of the Milwaukee Public Museum Henry Nehrling, and published in Milwaukee by George Brumder from 1893-1896.
View more posts from Nehrlingās Our Native Birds.
View more Feathursday posts.
Permaculture farm