@munnchausenzip i can't lie, it goes hard (x) (x)
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@rukipon
@munnchausenzip i can't lie, it goes hard (x) (x)

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A little video we all should take a moment to watch and think about.Â
Instead of thinking about what divides us we should think about what we have in commonâŚ
Iâve reblogged this on every account I have.
This is simplistic and intended to tug on heartstrings and all that shit but guys I really needed to see something about people not being dicks so if you needed that too please watch this.
Thanks for this, Denmark.
Hilariously funny that they let the guy known for wandering off without warning to look at birds was allowed to do this
#famously few birds in space#probably the safest place to take him
Castle in the Sky (1986) The Wind Rises (2013) Spirited Away (2001) My Neighbor Totoro (1988) Princess Mononoke (1997) Kiki's Delivery Service (1989) The Boy and the Heron (2023) Ponyo on the Cliff by the Sea (2008) When Marnie Was There (2014) Howl's Moving Castle (2004)
ICE now tackling press.
Source.
Interview where he talks about what happened.
A photographer for Getty isn't even a journalist so much as an archivist. ICE violently disrupted the apolitical documentation of what they were doing, violating any and all rights that might flimsily stand in their way. It would have been just as wrong had they done this to an MSNBC reporter hellbent on a spin, but now Abernathy's neutral action as a photographer has been rendered necessarily political by ICE's violence.
They know what they're doing is objectively evil. They have no intention of stopping.
previous tags from @nihilisticspacequeer, which provide a bit of context for why Abernathy threw his (extremely expensive) camera
they got way more on camera too. lookit this shit. source
they knock him down from behind, they're kneeling on him, and they've set off tear gas. his arms are pinned under him and he can't breathe. look at this photo of his face.
I'm gagging and literally thought Iâm going to pass out. I couldnât breathe. I was thinking I only have a couple of breaths left and I donât know whatâs going to happen after that. I had taken that last shot and I threw my camera. I lifted my head up and saw one photographer taking photos. I threw my camera and then I threw my phone.
this last picture is his camera on top of his citation.
but the insane thing? yk how he said
I had taken that last shot and I threw my camera.
THIS IS THE LAST SHOT
THIS is the photo he took before he threw his camera. how poignant.
check out the article source too, it's a really good read.

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something something the poetry of science etc
woah
yeah
why is religious Christmas imagery all so joyful and pleasant? where is the inherent horror of the birth of Christ? A mother is handed her newborn child, wailing and innocent. Her hands come away sticky. Red. Simply by giving her son life she has already killed him. He is doomed from the beginning. Her love will not save him from suffering. Because the thing cradled in her arms is not a baby, it is a sacrifice: born amongst the other bleating animals whose blood will one day be spilled in the name of what demands it. the night is silent with anticipation. Mary, did you know? That your womb was also a grave?
Tags via @noknowshame
You donât get to leave this in the tags
in which BBC Business Editor Robert Peston explains revolutionary socialism to a six-year-old
My favouritest sport fact ever is that in 1990s 2 cardiac surgeons watched an f1 race to save the lives of countless kids. The Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children (GOSH) kept losing the lives of patients after successful heart surgeries. Specifically the 10-15 minutes after a bonefide clinically successful surgery patients would die:
And so the two surgeons filmed a handover after heart surgery and sent it to the Ferrari pitcrew who were told to critique and improve handover process
And from this:
we got this:
The error rate during patien handovers dropped from 30% to 10% with the F1 informed protocol.
I literally love this fact so much because being an pitcrew member is such a thankless job because theyre underpaid and overworked mechanics and they literally saved lives in this instance.
Doctors at Great Ormond Street Hospital turned to Formula 1 for answers. By studying Ferrariâs pit-stop teamwork, they redesigned how patien
I love this!
And it that it wasn't a one and done.
The doctors went to the race tracks to watch the car changes and the pit crews went to the hospitals and watched a live transfer and offered suggestions and they kept working with them to improve.
After there was a successful improvement of the most vital metrics of a handover of a patient from surgery to ICU, the pit crews also worked with other hospitals for other procedures and it's now a whole thing of trying to apply the specialized, streamlined and speedy teamwork and nonverbal coordination of pit crews to other high-risk fields.
This is a perfect example of how two very different fields of knowledge meeting can make a huge leap forward in progress.
i am nooooot locked the fuck in. im locked the fuck out. call the locksmith

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Its obvious to me when people who post about canaries in mines have never met a canary. Like yeah the miners had a special device to revive the canary because canaries are one of the most adorable creatures on the planet and they make adorable little chirping sounds and honestly probably loved the sounds of machinery and people talking so it was probably loud and friendly with the workers. Whatever though maybe meet a canary sometime and youd understand
If you see this animal every day at work, and it sings to you during your hardest bouts of labor, you will be distraught if it dies. Even if you know this creature is meant to die in lieu of you, you still hear it when the labor is at its hardest and your muscles are struggling against the weight of your work. It is so small, smaller than your soot-stained hands and louder than the death that follows you. You dont want it to die. The same as a woman does not want her candle to run out ; she knows that is the point, its flame is meant to burn the wick and melt the wax ; but she is not indifferent to its wasting away. She may even save her favorite candle as not to burn it too quickly. Now imagine you are that woman, and there is a way to rebuild your favorite candle that you love the smell of and the way it flickers. Would she rather throw her candle out? Or would she rebuild it? That is a canary to these miners. Would you allow an animal to just die when it has been singing for you? It reminds you that it is alive, and you are too. Its stop of song signifies the lethal danger you are in. Why abandon it? Is the miners' love for a little bird really that surprising?
Why does this read as though written by a coal miner of the era in which a canary was needed.
Because time is an illusion and love is infinite
Love how tumblr has its own folk stories. Yeah the God of Arepo weâve all heard the story and we all still cry about it. Yeah that one about the woman locked up for centuries finally getting free. That one about the witch who would marry anyone who could get her house key from her cat and itâs revealed she IS the cat after the narrator befriends the cat.
Might I add:
The defeat of the wizard who made people choose how theyâd be to be executed
The woman who raised the changeling alongside her biological child
The human who died of radiation poisoning after repairing the spaceship
The adventures of a space roomba
Cinderella finding Araura (and falling in love)
I donât know a snappy description but the my nemesis cynthia story certainly lives in my head
hilariously, these are almost all in my fic tag. so, a compiled list from the notes (and some extras):
The God of Arepo (graphic novel 1 / 2 / 3) (ebook)
The Monster of Sentan
The Witchâs Cat
Raise Both Children
Stabby the Roomba (honorable mention)
Cinderella Marries the Prince (comic)
My Arch Nemesis Cynthia
Pirates and Mermaid
Eindred and the Witch
The Demon King
The Cornerwitch
Grandmother Beetroot
Apocalypse Daycare Worker
Grandmother Accidentally Summons a Demon
New Year Saga
A Story About Changelings
Ranger in the Kingâs Forest
The Difference Between a Hare and a Rabbit
Goblin Men (Canines)
I am in love with you /p
Adding Faceblind Prince Charming and Cinderella
21. The human who died of radiation poisoning after repairing the spaceship
22. The defeat of the wizard who made people choose how theyâd be to be executed
adding the Doctors Without Borders one
I LOVE tumblr storytime, so hereâs a bunch more your weekend reading. Enjoy!
24. The Queen with Three Cursed Children
25. Tiny Dragon with one coin hoard
26. Haunted house
27. Shark hero was about to go rogue
28. Grandma lives in the woods comic
29. A Different Aftermath comic
30. Battery (microstory but I love it so much)
31. Itâs A Date comic
32. Supervillian kidnaps rivalâs kid and they want to stay
33. Narrative Town
34. I have been hired to clean the wizard tower comic
35. Robot Apocalypse
36. The Statues That Do Not Weather
37. Kushiel
38. Tooth Fairy
39. Alien abduction
40. Felonious wish-granting
41. When humans met actual space orcs
42. Space cousins
WAIT REBLOG THIS VERSION INSTEAD
43: Valhalla Does Not Discriminate Against the Kind of Fight You Lost
âMay you have a life of safety and peaceâ, said the witch, cursing the bloodthirsty warrior.
The words of the slain hold tremendous power.
Itâs why any sensible warrior is a master of swift endings. Such as an arrow through the eye or a clean separation of head from shoulders. In a pinch, a slit throat will do. Though it really is best to avoid giving your enemy the chance to make even garbled curses out of their last bloody breaths. For even those without the slightest touch of magic have been known to make a curse stick if itâs uttered on the cold brink of death.
Eindred the Bloody collected curses in the same way that other warriors collected scars. Even in the wild chaos of battle, he was known to take a knee, pressing his ear to a felled enemyâs laboring lips.
May your every loved one die screaming in pain.
I hope you die with your eyes stabbed out and your heart in your hands.
You will never know happiness.
Your existence will be suffering.
May your greatest enemy rise from the grave and never leave you alone.
The last was his most recent curse, and Eindred wondered if it meant some great murdered brute was tracing his steps, waiting to catch him while he slept.
Eindred crossed the peninsula with a company of barbaric warriors, gaining a new curse from every enemy he felled. Not all of them would stick, he knew. But some undoubtedly would. And he would deserve every one.
Others in his company treated him with to wary, sidelong glances, because surely it was dangerous to travel with one so cursed as he. But Eindred was a force in battle, relentless and unstoppable as an icy winter gale, and so they swallowed their complaints, and contented themselves with leaving a wide berth on either side of his scarred, patchwork arms.
Eindred was marching at the back of the company when they came upon the village. It was a collection of squat, wooden homes tucked beneath a snow capped mountainside. From thatched rooftops, wisps of smoke from cooking fires rose, painting the blue sky in pale, meandering strokes.Â
This company tended to leave such settlements alone, and Eindred was glad for it. No warriors would be found in tiny mountainside villages, and though he might live to fight, he had no interest in wholesale slaughter.Â
This time, however, the company leader - a silent, brutish man, held up a hand.
Their company was running low on food, it turned out, and even from a distance, the warriors could see the villageâs sheep - a trail of white spots on the green hillside.
Eindred was disappointed when, ultimately, violence erupted in the quiet village, though he did not lay down his thick handled blade.
The shepherd boy had refused to give up his masterâs sheep, and when he shouted, a blacksmith had burst from his home, wielding a great hammer in his hand.Â
The battle was short.Â
When all was done, four lay dead. The shepherd, the blacksmith, and two young men whoâd foolishly taken up crude wooden spears. The rest of the villagers huddled, terrified in their homes. The warriors expected to slaughter the sheep with no further trouble, but when they turned back to the field, an individual stood blocking their way.
His hair was dark - as the hair in these parts tended to be, and his face was sharp, both nose and cheeks splattered with freckles. Golden eyes beheld the warriors, and he watched them with a steady, measured gaze. Without the slightest hint of fear, he stood before them, his simple robe fluttering in the icy mountainâs breath, and said: âThese are simple people. They have little in way of money or goods. It wasnât for nothing that the shepherd, blacksmith, and teenagers died. They need these sheep. And I cannot allow you to take them.â
The other warriors in the company laughed at the young manâs foolishness - for that was what it looked like to them. Eindred did not laugh, however. Though the strangerâs voice was light, the air stirred around him.Â
It was rare to encounter one who commanded magics. Rare - but not impossible. And so Eindred alone was unsurprised when the young man turned his golden eyes to the heavens and summoned great branches of lightning which cleaved the skies above them. The world erupted and the men around Eindred screamed.
Eindred, whoâd expected something like this, had already begun running.Â
Later, he would think it odd that the witch hadnât bothered to move. But in the heat of battle, with lightning splitting the field at his back, Eindredâs attention had narrowed to the rough point of his blade - and then, the crimson place where it pierced the witchâs chest.
The skies silenced as Eindred pulled the wet, crimson blade free of its target.Â
It took just a moment for the witch to fall, but in that single, infinite moment, Eindred was subjected to the full weight of that golden gaze.
Legs folding beneath him, the witch crumpled, collapsing back onto the wild, wet grass. Eindred knelt beside him, grimly eager to hear the curse and be done with it. Surely a curse at the lips of one so powerful as this would finally bring an end to things?Â
To take oneâs own life was an unspeakably shameful end for a warrior such as he. But a curse? Well, one couldnât help how the wrong curse might speed things along.
The witchâs black hair was damp from the dew in the grass, and when he turned, it stuck to the side of his face and neck. His mouth opened and closed. Holding his breath, Eindred leaned in.
â-my hutâŚitâs just pastâŚthe next hill over,â the witch whispered. âIn it, I keep medicines and herbs. For the villagers. And travelers who pass.â
Eindred shook his head. He didnât understand.
Impossibly, the witch smiled. When he lifted a hand, Eindred twitched, expecting to be struck.
The witchâs bloodied finger, however, did nothing more than tap his chest. And then, in a wet, rattling breath, the witch, with his great power finally spoke his curse.Â
âMay you live a life of safety and peace.âÂ
Eindred sat, his thick, scarred knuckles braced in the dirt as the cold mountain wind whistled down the hillside at his back.
âWhat?â he whispered.Â
But the young manâs golden eyes were blank and empty, and the other warriors lay dead in the field. Only the relentless wind snapped and whistled in answer.
Eindred left.
Within a month, heâd joined up with another company. And it soon became clear the witchâs death rattle had been a curse of great power indeed. For wherever Eindred traveled, peace inevitably followed. Enemy warriors surrendered and when they didnât, members within Eindredâs own company had sudden changes of heart. As for Eindred himself, not a single person would raise a blade against him, and Eindred had never been the sort who could raise his own blade against one who had no wish to fight.
And so for another month he wandered, hapless, without even the dark purpose of collecting curses which had driven him for the last several years.Â
Heâd been raised with a sword in his hand, brought up knowing full well that his job in life would be to cut short the existence of any who stood against him. Not even thirty, and his soul was exhausted, worn ragged by such an life. And so, heâd sought a way out if it. Eindred had accumulated a terrifying number of curses - curses which would surely have felled lesser men than he. Before everything had gone wrong in the tiny village, heâd been sure it was only a matter of time before they overcame him.
But now, the witchâs single curse had overpowered them all.
Eindred was safer than heâd ever been in his life. Heâd never known such a quiet, terrible peace.Â
After another month, he returned to the mountainside village. He didnât have any good reason to return - other than perhaps the distant hope that a villagerâs rage might be enough to overcome the curse. As he climbed the grassy hillside, he resigned himself to potential death by club or rake.
Keep reading
Sometimes weâre unsatisfied with a thing we made because when it only existed in our head, we saw all the things it could have been and when itâs done we know all the things that it isnât, but we canât see the way it expands into a million new things when someone else unpacks it in their head.
Oh wow

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fuuuuck i just realized that the future idealized version of myself cant exist without current me being the catalyst for change and doing hard things. has anybody heard about this
It also takes art to restore old paintings that look like scabs...