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pov your food and fridge get freaky

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I feel like more people should know about the Filipino phrase bahala na si Batman. quite literally, it means it's up to Batman. on a more figurative level, it means that you're leaving something to God/fate - metaphorically represented by Batman, of course.
big event that you haven't prepared for but you're going anyway? bahala na si Batman. major exams coming up and you haven't reviewed yet? bahala na si Batman. about to do anything remotely risky/luck-based? bahala na si Batman.
anyways, I just think it's hilarious that Batman is now a part of our culture through this saying. is this a thing in other cultures/languages too? let me know!
tags from @wizardpigeon and @jason-todd-did-nothing-wrong
your average filipino in Gotham who used to live in Manila: *gets up abnormally early to avoid the morning traffic, wades through a partially flooded street, ends up getting mugged, survives a supervillain attack* eh, ganyan talaga, bahala na si batman [loose translation from tagalog: that's just how life is, batman will take care of it]
their friend who is a Gotham native: you know batman?
filipino: batman's real?
For those, like me, who wish to incorporate this into their personal lexicon, here's the pronunciation:
Definition of the Tagalog word Bahala na si Batman. in English with, and audio.
Scene 9: [twitter] [completed scenes together] AO3: [scripts]
I still like the idea of Bruce Wayne making a point to take each of his kids individually out to movies, even though there’s a movie theater in his house, because he needs all of them to experience a joy that’s permanently beyond him which is “going to the movies with dad and having him still be alive when you get home” and it usually isn’t until they get home and talk to their other siblings that they realize why he was white-knuckling a blackjack for the whole 20-foot walk from the movie theater doors to the back of Alfred’s towncar
Bruce, taking a 13-year-old Dick Grayson to his first concert (Britney Spears, 2004 Onyx Hotel Tour at the Wachovia Center with backstage passes) and paying off the whole security staff to let his butler keep the car idling directly outside the stage door so they can leave quickly after the show. Alfred’s already bought one of everything in Dick’s size from the merch table because it’s very important that they all get in the armored Lincoln Continental with bulletproof windows as quickly as possible after the show, so this can stay a happy memory for Dick as an adult that doesn’t constantly compel him to do anything
Bruce takes Damian to see Detective Pikachu because he knows Damian loves animals and they both love detective work, but he isn’t aware ahead of time that it’s an emotional story about a father whose presumed death makes his son realize he should’ve been more open to a relationship with his father, and their eventual heart-warming reunion and decision to go into detective work together. It’s an incredibly meaningful night for both of them. Neither of them ever directly mentions this to the other or realizes that the other read into it as deeply as they did

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I ??? woke up at 3am with this scene fully written in my mind palace and quickly jotted it down in the Notes app
*
Clark’s shaking his head before he realizes he’s doing it, and feels a twinge of embarrassment at his own bad manners when Bruce stops mid-word to look at him, brows raised.
“No?” he says.
“No,” Clark says, again without thinking, and again with the reflexive urge to apologize. Somewhere his mother is tutting without knowing why. But he doesn’t apologize, because he’s already saying, “No, it can’t—it can’t be that.”
“Okay,” Bruce says slowly. “Can you elaborate?”
He is, honestly, having trouble taking his eyes off the screen. The mockup design of his new suit is there, dark and sleek, ridged like tactical gear. The blue is like the last shade of evening before you can’t call it evening anymore, the color of nine PM in Kansas in July, so exact there’s a strong chance Bruce color-picked it from a photo. The yellow accents are the cool fluorescent yellow-green of lightning bugs. The red is dark as arterial blood. Every aspect of the suit has been updated—the colors deeper, the angles sharper, the S extending to the corners of its frame—but Bruce has done it without changing the fundamentals. It’s immediately recognizable as the Superman suit, just… well, a little cooler, maybe. A little more of the times. Even the tailoring is modernized. The neckline. The shape of the boots. Where the belt hits at the waist. Clark can tell just by looking that Bruce has not only spent a lot of time on this in general, he’s spent a lot of time designing it specifically with Clark in mind, Clark’s needs and preferences and the small discomforts of his current suit, things he might have mentioned offhand after a mission but never with the assumption that Bruce was listening or filing it away. No doubt the next slides of this presentation will detail all the hidden features of the new suit, and they’ll all be incredibly thoughtful if not slightly overkill, and Bruce will pretend his sole motive here was practicality and risk reduction and respond to any thanks with a curt nod.
And Clark wants to thank him. He will. It’s just.
“It can’t be… cool,” he says, inane. Bruce is watching him with that steady look that used to feel clinical, piercing, and now mostly reads as attentive. “It can’t be—like yours. Tactical, military-grade.”
“Lightyears beyond, actually.”
“It has to—Ma said once, a kid should be able to draw it with crayons. You know? I can’t look like a weapon. I have to—I want to look like a friend.”
He can feel himself flushing. It’s rare that he speaks like this, and rarer still that he does so while being stared at intently. Bruce may think of himself as the darkness, but his gaze is a spotlight: unwavering and revealing and more a little sweat-inducing, for one reason or another.
“Sometimes, when I show up, people laugh,” Clark says. “If it’s somewhere out of the way, where they haven’t seen me before. I show up and I look like a festival performer. It’ll be the worst day of their lives, and they’ve got no reason to trust my face, but when they see what I’m wearing—it goes from ‘Who are you?’ to ‘Who is this guy?’ And that’s a good thing.”
“Hard to be afraid of a man dressed in primary colors,” Bruce says, almost to himself.
“Exactly.”
“I see. Thank you,” he says, “for explaining.”
Clark tries not to show how surprised he is to hear that. Judging by the crook of Bruce’s mouth, his success is negligible. “Of course. Sorry I didn’t—I mean, thank you, obviously, for going to such trouble. I didn’t mean to come in here and—I really do appreciate it, I can tell you put a lot of work in—”
Bruce’s eyes cut away. “No. No need. I didn’t ask, before I…. It was only a first draft. If you’re amenable, I’ll incorporate your feedback into the second one.”
“Oh! Yeah. Yes, of course, but you really don’t have to—”
“If you have any further notes, I would like to hear them.”
There’s something determined in the lines of his face. Clark has the sense that this moment is important, that it’s a turning point, even if he’s not sure why. It feels like striking out into a sea of ice, a blank white expanse under which something precious and vital is hidden, has been hidden all along, just waiting for him to find it. To want to.
“Sure,” he says. He looks back at the suit and swallows, and knows Bruce will see the flicker of his throat and take some meaning from it, and wishes he knew what the meaning was. Or maybe Bruce won’t notice or read into it at all. Maybe Clark needs to calm down, in fact. “Um. I don’t want to assume, but does it… do things?”
“It does things,” Bruce confirms, after the barest pause. “Let me show you the next slide.”
I feel like Bruce Wayne projects the kind of amiable playboy 'fun' vibe that he'd be the type of celebrity that certain interviewers feel comfortable surprising with puppies.
You know the kind of shows I mean.
The late-night talk show situations where they're making benign small talk with their smiling guest, and there's a segment where animals get brought out, usually to talk about some sort of ecological relief effort.
So you're watching your trash TV talk show late at night, and you get to watch billionaire pretty boy Bruce Wayne be begrudgingly talked into holding a (relatively) harmless creature which inevitably gets a lot of delighted shrieks from the audience as it starts being a lot more active than the handler promised. And to his credit, Bruce doesn't flinch, he doesn't freak out. But his eyes are a little wide, and his voice a little tight as the smile on his face takes on a slight rictus quality before he's inevitably rescued by an apologetic handler who is also laughing because they all know there was no real danger, it was just funny to put Bruce, who is an undeniable good sport and already laughing along, out of his comfort zone for the sake of charity.
Meanwhile, up in the Justice League headquarters, several founding members of the League are wondering how fast they can get a fake Oscar award shipped to the space station because fuck off. Absolutely fuck off, Bruce. Where the fuck did he study? Juilliard? (Probably.)
(Clark ends up going to a novelty store during the commercial break. It's faster than trying to get anything shipped, even with the infrastructure Bats built for them. He finds it several days later taped to his console in a conspicuously empty briefing room. It's gaudy and awful, the words "Best Actor" engraved on the plaque. No one's around to see him smile. No one comments when it vanishes. Everyone thinks it's been yeeted out an airlock. Dick absolutely comments when it shows up in the manor, stashed in one of the trophy cases that sprung up for all the bat kids' school awards. Bruce has no idea how it got there. Must have been Alfred. (It was not.))
Anyway, consider, for your amusement, Bruce Wayne getting highjacked on The Gotham Toight Show with a handful of wriggling puppies and, for a split second, not having to pretend he's delighted to be there.
I need you all to know this was in my queue, so it jump scared me when it popped up on my dash, but that I also misread "puppies" as "puppets," and now I'm choking to death on my water imagining Bruce Wayne on a guest panel with Kermit the Frog and Ms. Piggy whose puppeteer is absolutely shooting their shot through the medium of puppetry.
"Bruce Wayne, everyone. What a fantastic guy. All right, don't go anywhere, folks, we'll be right back after the commercial break when we'll be joined by the legendary Kermit the Frog and the effervescent Miss Piggy as they promote their latest movie, The Muppets Take Metropolis!"
The applause is deafening for a moment as the live band behind the podium strikes up a lively tune, ushering them into a commercial break.
"Really, thank you, Bruce," Murray Franklin says over the noise, angling his mouth away from the microphone on his desk. "You couldn't have got me to hold that fucking thing for all the money in the world."
Bruce inclines his head, a benign smile ever in place. "Oh, you know me, Murray. I'll try anything once."
"Well, that sounds promising," says a shrill, familiar. Bruce turns in time to find stagehands working rapid-time to construct a staging area behind the couch. And two humans holding two very distinct puppets aloft. Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy.
"Hi-ho, Kermit the Frog here." The frog puppet extends a hand toward him, causing a ripple of laughter to go up from the audience. Bruce arches an eyebrow at the puppeteer but reaches out to take the felt-green hand being offered to him. Apparently, he's not supposed to engage with the humans. "This is my companion, Miss Pigathia Lee."
"Mr. Frog," he greets the muppet formally, feeling the first hint of a genuine smile tugging at his mouth. "Charmed to meet both of you. I'm a big fan of your work."
"Oh, gosh! Really?" The Frog gushes, emoting the pure joy Bruce remembers from watching television as a child. "I could say the same to you! All that good work you do for the city! It's really something."
"Thank you." Don't cry, Bruce thinks suddenly. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.
Christ, it's like Mister Rogers telling you you did a good job.
"All right, save it for the camera," Murray interjects good-naturedly, pressing a finger to his ear and listening to whatever the producer is saying on the other end.
"Mr. Wayne?" Bruce turns to find his handler waiting for him, a makeup artist behind him. "Can we ask you to move over for this next part?"
"Of course." Bruce shuffles over. As he leans back, arm stretched out across the back of the couch he realizes what they're doing. They're using his bulk to block the sight of the puppeteers from the angle of the fourth camera. Clever.
He sits placidly as the makeup artist dusts powder over his face, listening to the instructions about how to talk to the muppets. Don't look at the puppeteers, look at the puppets. Treat them like real people. Try to keep it pg-13. Just act natural.
Natural, he thinks, his eyes skirting up to the stage beams and the shadows hovering above them. There's nothing natural about being Bruce Wayne.
"And we're live in five, four, three, two, one..."
The music swells to rising applause, and his smile slips back in place, as firm and solid as his armor. He zones out as Murray goes through the introductions. He's learned that no one minds if Bruce Wayne looks a little checked out at times. Christ, he's tired. He's half tempted not to go on patrol tonight. There's a dull ache building behind his eyes, and his ribs still hurt from getting hit with a crowbar. He hopes Dick is all right. Last night's patrol had been hard on both of them, hard enough that Dick had to miss school and spend the day in bed. Though he'd gotten up before Bruce left, adamant that he wanted to watch him make a fool of himself on television. He hopes no one else is watching. He hopes there's a mild disaster happening somewhere, and he won't have to listen to Clark ribbing him about how good he is with children and animals. Again. It's like being made fun of by a slice of apple pie.
Slowly, he becomes aware of the presence beside him. Bruce looks down to find Miss Piggy staring up at him, snout turned upward, head tilted in a manner that heavily suggests flirtation. Oh God
"Not that you have anything to worry about, Mister Wayne," the high, piping voice of Kermit the Frog informs him. "Gotham's far too damp for us Muppets to want to take over Wayne Tech, too."
Bruce smiles. He's vaguely aware of the plot of The Muppets Take Metropolis. Something about taking over LexCorp. He's surprised Luthor green-lit it. The other billionaire is normally so precious about being taken seriously.
"Oh, I don't know about that, there are lots of nice swamps around here," he says, gaze still on the amorous pig puppet inching closer to him. "Mud baths, too."
"Really?" Miss Piggy drawls, flicking her blonde wig over her shoulder, much to the amusement of the audience. "And are any of these mud baths on Wayne ground?"
He can't help but smile properly at that, mouth crooking to the side. He supposes he should have seen this coming. "Oh, yes," he says, inflecting the famous Bruce Wayne charm into his voice. "More than you can shake a stick at."
When the puppet's hand comes to rest its hand on his arm, his laughter is genuine. This might be the surrealist fucking thing that's happened to him in a while. And that's saying something because he got dosed with fear toxin last week.
"Now, Brucie," Miss Piggy drawls, "Don't tempt a girl with a good time."
Some absurd instinct makes him angle his body toward the muppet, smiling down at it like a real person. "Oh, Piggy Lee, you should know I never tempt. I can call you, Piggy Lee, can't I?"
"Honey, you can call me a cab because I'm ready! Let's skedaddle!"
"Well, how about that!" Murray exclaims, drawing the attention back to him as the audience loses it. "Kermit, he's trying to steal your girl!"
The Frog turns to look at him, to Miss Piggy, then back to Bruce. "Y'know something, Murray, I don't mind. Say, Bruce, are, uh, are any of those swamps nearby?"
Oh, he's never going to live this one down.
***
"So what's it like?" Clark asks, tone deceptively neutral.
"What's what like?" Batman asks, tone sliding like gravel over sheet metal.
"Meeting the Muppets?"
He thinks about it. "Surprisingly hard to look at the humans."
Clark nods sagely. "I've heard that."
The amount of psychic damage I'm taking from the tag "Bruce Wayne Muppet Threesome" is not insignificant, but I suppose I had it coming.
Also, because I might as well ride this crackfic into the Lazarus Pit:
The Muppets eventually do make a film with Gotham in it. The premise starts not unlike the other Muppet movies, where the Muppets are fractured, and Kermit is trying to get the gang back together. For this, he must travel around the US, finding the location of the other Muppets.
When the time comes to find Miss Piggy, the screen cuts to Wayne Manor, the other Muppets standing outside the imposing iron gates.
"Well, we tried," Rizzo intones nasally, already walking off. Gonzo catches him around the neck, hauling him back.
"Where are you going?"
"Home! What, you think she's going to leave Bruce Wayne?"
Kermit's face goes through numerous stages of grief before squaring into the kind of grim determination that can only happen when you have a fist for a jaw. "We have to try," the Frog affirms, then stoically presses the gate buzzer.
The scene cuts to inside the manor, where Miss Piggy is shown lounging on an opulent chaise, surrounded by immense wealth and luxury. Empty bottles of champagne everywhere and an inordinate amount of food. It's clear there was a party last night. She is dressed not unlike Debbie from the Addams family, her face covered by a fluffy pink eyemask embroidered in gold thread that reads "Wake Me In Paris" in gaudy, swirling font. In the background, a picture of Bruce Wayne and Miss Piggy can be seen on a table. The frame is neon pink and shaped like a heart. Bruce looks happier than he's ever done in his entire life. (Probably because he couldn't stop cracking up when it was being taken.)
There's a knock at the door, and she wakes with a snort, ripping away the eyemask. "What?" she demands harshly before correcting herself into a more ladylike twinkle. "I mean, who is it?"
Alfred appears as firm and imperious as ever. Perfectly straight-faced. "Forgive me, madame, but we appear to have a common rabble at the door."
"So? Release the hounds. Brother, do I have to think of everything around here?"
Alfred clears his throat, the slightest twitch of a smile on his face. It's gone before the camera can narrow in on it. "It appears they are friends of yours, madame. Ah, one Mister Kermit the Frog and, um, associates."
"Kermi!" she exclaims before she can stop herself. "I mean, uh, very well, send them in."
The Muppets traipse into the opulent room, googly eyes roaming everywhere in astonishment. "Wow," Gonzo breathes.
"Food!" Rizzo exclaims, lunging toward the comestibles and shoving his face into a bowl.
Gonzo hauls him back, glancing at Alfred apologetically. "Sorry.
But Kermit only has eyes for Ms Piggy. "You look well, Pigathia," he says solemn and sincere.
"I do? I mean, of course, I do." She harumphs, turning her back on him. "How could I not? I'm only the wealthiest pig in the world." She turns back, expression coy over her shoulder. "What do you want?"
"Well, we're trying to get the old gang back together. Our old theaters being shut down, and I just thought that maybe one last show might--"
"That's why you're here. For the show?"
Kermit takes a deep, shuddering breath. "No. That's not why I'm here. Gosh darnit, Piggy Lee, I want you back. I love you, and I know deep down" -- "way down," Rizzo supplies before getting elbowed -- "that you love me too."
She turns slowly. As though drawn by some invisible string. Her expression falls. "I do. I did. Once upon a time. But Kermi... Bruce takes care of me."
"I'll say--" "Rizzo!"
She carries on as if the others hadn't spoken. "I know you love me. But I also know I'll only ever be second best to the show. With Bruce," she sighs dreamily. "He's rich, handsome, and most importantly, dumb as a rock. I'm the most important pig in town. I'm practically running the joint. You really think I'm going to give up all this." She gestures around the grandeur. "For a penniless Frog who can't see past the next show?"
"Well..." Kermit hesitates, face falling. "Yes. I guess... I guess I did."
Gonzo and Rizzo share a look. "I think we better go," Gonzo says, placing a consoling hand on Kermit's shoulder. "Come on, guys. It was nice seeing you again, Piggy."
"Yeah, real nice," Rizzo intones, shoving as much food into his pockets as his little rat hands can grab.
Kermit shakes himself. "No. I refuse to believe it! This isn't you, Piggy Lee. You might think it is, but it isn't. All this wealth, the silk robes, the fancy food. I know you, Piggy Lee; I know you better than anyone, and you're not this shallow. You're a performer, a star. You were made to be loved by the stage. Not just some... some billionaire playboy who can give you whatever you want whenever you want. I have to believe that because otherwise, what the heck has it all been for? What have we been for? So what do you say, Pigathia? Will you come home? Come back to the show where you belong. For me?"
There's a long, heavy pause, and Miss Piggy sighs.
The following scene cuts to the Muppets flailing down the Wayne Manor driveway, yelling comically as several snarling rottweilers chase them.
"And stay out!" Miss Piggy yells after them. When she turns back to Alfred, she resumes her ladylike poise. "Alfie, be a dear and tell Brucie I'll be home late tonight. Mama's got some shopping to do."
"Very good, Madame."
She eventually shows up at the Muppet show at the last minute to save the day, a happy, bumbling Bruce tagging beside her. Later, when the Muppets are all on stage, the human protagonists, who are in the audience and seated next to Bruce, remark, "Wow, I can't believe they raised the money to save the theater!"
"They didn't," Bruce says with a small, knowing smile. His gaze turns to Miss Piggy adoringly, sighing wistfully. "But I just can't say no to that pig."
Henceforth it becomes Muppet canon that Miss Piggy and Bruce Wayne are in a heated on-again-off-again relationship. Neither Kermit nor Bruce seems to mind each other, leading to an episode of Sesame Street several years down the line where Elmo explains that sometimes a child can have one mommy and no daddy, or one daddy and no mommy, or have one daddy and one mommy, or two daddys and no mommies or vice versa, and sometimes if you're the Wayne kids, a daddy, a frog, and a pig.
Bruce will never live it down, but it's worth it. Letting the Muppets into his life is possibly the best longcon of his life. Who the fuck is going to believe he's Batman now? No one. Not even the butts matching can hold up to him being Miss Piggy and Kermit's sidepiece.
i want to believe that the other batboys get so caught up in how damian NEVER acts like a normal child, that whenever they see him engaging in regular kid activities™ everyone is on high alert whilst trying to preserve the moment.
tim's with kon and they walk past jon's room to see him and damian playing toy cars? they start walking faster until they're a safe distance away, to stop in their tracks and share a mutual "what the fuck???"
jason and damian are arguing, something jason says strikes a nerve, and damian just stops and breaks the stoic act. jason has NO clue what to do with himself, because nothing he's ever said has gotten a non-violent reaction out of the kid.
dick's taking damian to the cinemas, and lets him pick what they watch. damian picks a kids movie, and doesn't make comments about it seeming 'childish' or 'boring', instead he looks genuinely interested. dick goes along with it but is really taken aback.
damian's patrolling with the other boys, and sustains a mild injury. everyone's used to him fixing himself up and never making a big deal out of it. they've seen him break bones and refuse medical attention, mainly because of how the league trained him. so when they get back to the batcave, and are all getting fixed up in the infirmary, everyone's shocked when damian, sitting to the side about to patch himself up, starts crying, because he's exhausted and hurt.
whenever the boys see damian asleep anywhere but his room, they make sure to tip-toe past and tell the others not to wake him. usually when this happens it's because he's been so exhausted, that he's sat down to watch a show, been playing with titus, or doing schoolwork, and he's just fallen asleep in the middle of it. afterwards, dick especially, makes sure that damian's sleeping enough, which is hard, because no one can tell that he's tired until he physically passes out.
ive slid too far down the jiang cheng stannery slope. when i first finished reading mo dao zu shi, i thought of him as a morally grey character and could admit that he'd made some major mistakes, but now im unironically willing to argue that my poor little meow meow did nothing wrong. your honor my client had zero political capital. your honor my client had no other choice. your honor my client should not be judged for not having all of the relevant information when he was actively being lied to. your honor have u considered that i love him.
anyways my controversial fave deserves nothing but quality time with jin ling, reconciliation with wei wuxian, 500 puppies, and 1000 years of prosperity for lotus pier and yunmeng region. oh and also some therapy because jesus fucking christ dude
.
"if i was orpheus i would simply not turn around" yes you would. if you were orpheus and you loved eurydice, you would. to love someone is to turn around. to love someone is to look at them. whichever version of the myth — he hears her stumble, he can't hear her at all, he thinks he's been tricked — he turns around because he loves her. that's why it's a tragedy. because he loves her enough to save her. because he loves her so much he can't save her. because he will always, always turn around. "if i was orpheus i would simply —" you wouldn't be orpheus. you wouldn't be brave enough to walk into the underworld and save the person you love. be serious

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that scene in tlo where thalia tells percy he can't start feeling sorry for luke bc luke made his choices. and thalia reveals that the reason they couldn't make it to camp in time for all of them to make it to camp was bc luke kept picking fights. and annabeth never saw this as wrong bc luke was her hero. so thalia had to pick up the pieces. and percy thinking both that luke was put in a cruel position and that luke was putting others in a cruel position. and percy is the only character who understood both sides of luke bc annabeth sees only the best of him and thalia sees only the worst. and that's why percy is the prophecy kid and the one who gives luke the knife. bc annabeth had spent the entire series essentially giving luke the knife when he didn't deserve it. and thalia was never going to give luke the knife. but percy is the only one who can see exactly when luke deserves the knife.
gods
as much as the concept of Jesus being a fairly normal lad has its charms, im personally very intrigued by the idea of him being just… extremely weird. not even in a mystical sense, just…….staggeringly BIZZARRE.
you go to the well to get some water, and here’s Miriam’s boy, staring at the sky, completely still. his expression is unreadable. you hazard a hello and ask how he’s doing, and he slowly, unblinkingly, lowers his gaze on you (he’s 8 and is missing his frontal teeth, not that this is making you any less uncomfortable) and says “I cannot speak of the state of my being, Nathan son of Saul, my brother, but rejoice for the water you shall take today will be as pure as the soul of the children of Heaven”
…you start sweating
normal person in 1st century Nazareth: making my way downtown, walking fast
*sees J boy, 8 yo, staring at you from across the street*
normal person: walking faster
even funnier, the only person 100% on board with his Prophetic Kid Talk is his mother Miriam, an otherwise placid, absolutely normal woman around 25 or so
kid JC, coming home at twilight, a single white dove following him and chirping with weirdly human-like precision:
moth̫́er,̦͌ ̮̉i h͙̉av͔̽e ͓͗b̘̃r̞̓o̮͘u̲̒gh̟͒t̺́ you a do̗͐ṽ͙e̢͘ ͈̾m͒͢a͈̽dē̝ ỏ̘f ͈̓c̆͜l͔̂aỷ͇ aṋ̑d̳̿ g͢͞i̹̾fted̖͡ ̻͐it ͓͂w̖̿it̎͜h t̥̃h͙͒e ̨̒m̧̂i̡̍ŗ͒â̫cḷ̔è̤ ̛̻of̞̅ l̘̈i̛̦fè̳
Miriam: ! that’s my little boy :) now let’s go get ready for dinner :)
her husband Yosef, a carpenter who only marginally got signed up for this:
This post is so Christian, but it’s the spicy kind of Christian that gets you murdered by other Christians for heresy, so I’m torn.
literally biggest form of compliment i’ve ever gotten
that means the angels are babysitters then
here have more
You guys really need to read Christopher Moore’s Lamb, if you haven’t.
Always reblog Cryptid Jesus
I made more. cause it’s fun
Tim finished his pancakes and set an elbow on the table, resting his face on his fist. It was earlier than he liked to be awake, and he wasn’t really paying attention— the voices up and down the table sounded more like vague humming than actual conversations.
Dick passed him a mug from across the table, and Tim took it, tuning in again with conscious effort.
“—while I’m getting set up,” said Jason, “and figuring out what I need.”
“Therapy,” Damian suggested.
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
“Bruce, come get your kid,” said Jason, glaring, “before I kick him through a window.”
Damian glared back. Tim scooted a little farther away, just in case Jason did decide to start a brawl over breakfast. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Bruce shook his head. “He might be right.”
“Says—” Jason looked around the kitchen, gesturing at the lot of them in a can-you-believe-this kind of way. “Says you?”
“I think that—”
“I think you’d better sign up yourself or get off my back. You know what? There’s an idea.” Jason held out an arm, smirking, to offer a handshake. “I’ll go to therapy if you go. What do you say?”
Bruce didn’t move.
“I thought so,” said Jason smugly. “If you—”
Bruce reached over and shook Jason’s still-extended hand. “Deal.”
“What?”
“I’ll schedule for next month.”
“What?” Jason snatched back his arm, eyes wide, but Bruce had already turned towards Alfred instead.
“I assume you have a list of therapists?”
“Updated regularly, sir,” said Alfred, smiling, “although I do still suggest—”
“Not that one,” said Bruce immediately.
this weed tastes like the lake I nearly drowned in as a kid
I've been staring at these tags for a while @persnicketypansy.
padme's handmaidens are such an underrated concept. i mean, yeah you can call it women supporting women and leave it at that but like. its so much more intense than that. they basically created the persona of queen amidala together. they assigned her specific mannerisms and tone of voice and breathing patterns and all of them studied that well enough to play the role perfectly. they put all of the derangedness teenage girls put into discovering their own identity into perfecting mimicry instead & they did all that knowing that their role will always be to die in padme's place if it comes to that. idk what insane levels of devotion does it take to be like 14 and you've become so intimately familiar with your friend that you can quite literally become her. there's friendship & traumabonding and then theres "my entire life is dedicated to dying for this woman" and then there's that but with added identity fuckery and thats what the handmaidens have going on with the bonus point of being 14

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god i'm so tired of everybody's bad faith interpretations of everything. where's the trust. where's the forgiveness. where's the understanding that most things are complex and most people have many layers. and like the black eyed peas once said. where is the love
a wild therapist has entered the chat
the counter to this is a technique one of my mentors called Most Respectable Interpretation
When you're in a situation where you're thinking "argh this person wishis me ill/oh this is a bad thing/oh they're plotting" etc, take a deep breath, remember that the other person is a human being with a rich inner life who wants to be a good person just like you and ask yourself: What is the Most Respectable Interpretation I can think of for why this could be happening?
Because the thing is? You have no fucking idea either way!
You think you can! You believe you know!
But you cannot! FOR YOU CANNOT READ MINDS!
Mind reading, my loves, is a cognitive distortion.
And since you cannot read minds and no matter how much you think you know about another person's intentions, you can never be 100% sure?
This is a gift to you from the universe. Because now you are free! You can choose to interpret their actions however the fuck you want!
So why not choose the Most Respectable Interpretation? This will give you so many gifts. This will allow you to relax, to be less anxious, to be less suspicious of people, to make good faith readings. When you start to do this? The vibes you give off will improve and people will like you more and want to be around you. This works. I know this works because I've done it and I've improved my mood and started to attract people (when I'm not having a stress or a trauma response that our ADHD underdeveloped ACC couldn't handle :[ thanks no thanks brain) and I've watched my clients implement it and improve their relationships and outlook on just everything really.
I will tell you my intention for sharing this so you dont have to wonder it: I believe in this tool. I love this tool. It has helped me and I want to help you because I want less people to make bad faith interpretations. I want the internet to be friendlier and kinder and I think the Most Respectable Interpretation skill will help lead to that outcome.
It's really powerful. One of my favorite tools. Give it a try if you want. It takes practice but I think it can help.
Anyway I love you I hope you love you too. Good luck out there and remember, to ask what could be the most kind, respectable, generous, or if that's too much for you, neutral reason for this thing happening?
sally jackson is literally the only person ever. she's so amazing. she's perfect. she's so kind it makes people cry. she listens to nirvana. she's beautiful. she fought a bull. she can cook. she's everyone's mother. she's a writer. she sings sad songs and applies them to her life and cries. she killed her abusive ex husband and sold him to get money for an apartment. she used to work at a candy store and bring percy samples of his favourite flavours. she shot a monster with a police gun in the middle of a war. she started making food blue because she's petty and she knew it would piss gabe off. she's an icon. she's the moment. no. 1 milf. no one's doing it like her.