50 pads and a pair of sunglasses

I can’t believe this is happening. It’s like we’re living in Real Husbands of the White House

Blathers: Hideous ugly bug. Foul. Absolutely repulsive. Anyway I'm going to lovingly care for this ugly ugly creature. Please bring me more. Thank you. Yuck.

I just heard my mom tell my brother, “when you die, you will go outside and garden until your father says you’re done” and it took me a second to realize that my brother was playing a videogame and this was not a theological discussion.

Purgatory

please remember that I am a Canadian illustrator and it is fucking bizarre to come to me with medical questions

Why would you limit yourself to drawing Canadians?

everyone else unfollow me I want to be alone with arsnof

Still trying to come to terms with the fact I'll never be a librarian who can speak a dead language and be recruited by a ruggish but handsome explorer for a quest to lift the curse and save the world

@thebibliosphere

This is so cool, because tartan patterns were originally family symbols. Almost every Scottish clan has a unique one. Even my family has one. It’s like saying LGBT+ is a family, one you can belong to even if your blood family doesn’t accept you.

IMPORTANT

so i didn’t realize kuzco is literally only 17 in the emperor’s new groove and the pacha-kuzco dynamic becomes like 8x funnier bc pacha has accidentally adopted a teenager

despite my many fantasies about it i just wouldn’t make it in the victorian era. i don’t have it in me. one of my close, ambiguously gay companions would tenderly brush a strand of hair back from my forehead, or hold my hand while rubbing their thumb over the back soothingly in a show of emotional support, or send me a heartfelt, affectionate letter lamenting our time apart and looking forward to our next meeting with dried flowers handpicked and pressed into the paper and i’d just end up sprawled over the nearest couch or draped languidly across my four-poster bed, letter still clutched loosely in one of my limp hands, sighing dramatically and succumbing to fits of weeping at irregular intervals until my concerned family were forced to call the physician, who would take one look at me and instantly diagnose me with nervous hysteria, and lock me up in the attic of my own house to prevent me from inflicting myself on polite society or, even worse, writing poetry

no one talk to me today i diagnosed myself with female hysteria