SylviaSybil

be a lurker. just read things and think about them without feeling the need to weigh in or call out or disseminate everything you encounter. it's so nice and so freeing and it's a good way to learn things.

Exit polls suggest DT cannot be caught? YOU STILL GO VOTE.

Exit polls suggest KH has it in the bag? YOU STILL GO VOTE.

Pundits are saying the country is swinging overwhelmingly red? YOU STILL GO VOTE.

Pundits are saying the country is swinging overwhelmingly blue? YOU STILL GO VOTE.

Polls can be misleading (intentionally or not). The methodology can be biased (or simply poor). Early results may not reflect what the full count will show. There may be a red mirage. NOTHING YOU SEE CONVINCES YOU NOT TO VOTE.

The biggest Democratic win in swing states means nothing if democrats don't turn out everywhere to keep the reliably blue states blue.

VOTE. Wear appropriate weather gear if you think you may have to stand in a line outside (coat, hat, gloves, umbrella, sunhat, whatever, you know where you live). Bring water and a snack and something to do (book, game on your phone, podcast and headphones, whatever, you know what you like). GO VOTE.

In October 2014 I went on a road-trip to the Dryest Place In America.

I was having a rough year, very depressed from having dropped out of college for the third time. I decided a road trip was in order to re-set my brain and get a little distance. Being that it was October, and therefore all the campgrounds in the American Southwest were filled with people who have the good sense to camp in reasonable temperatures, I elected to take my parent's minivan so I could car-camp anywhere suitably isolated, and looked up some of the southwest's geographic extremes- the highest place I could drive to (Pikes Peak), the lowest place (Badwater Basin), and for fun, the Dryest Place in the continental US, which turned out to be the Pinacate Volcanic field just west of Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument. It gets rain maybe twice a century and has no standing water, despite being less than 100 miles from the gulf of California.

It's a startlingly beautiful and alien place. The ground is a deep chocolate brown to black volcanic sand, and in mid October, the rabbit brush is turning bright yellow as it shifts to autumn, the organ pipe cacti are a dark green and stand, partially concealed in the brush at exactly human height. The air is alive with birds and insects and bats at night. The stargazing is like looking into the eyes of God.

You get there by driving down a little dirt road called "El Camino Del Diablo", or "The Devil's Road".

I drove out about three hours from Glendale, AZ to get there, arriving at sunset, and felt a profound sense of peace. I stargazed, listening to the bats hunt and sing, and slept peacefully for the first time in months.

I stayed out there for three days, sketching and painting the landscape, taking strolls through this almost alien landscape, and enjoying the light and sound and total absence of human intrusion besides myself.

On the fourth night, it was a new moon, and I awoke in the middle of the night. Something was amiss, and it took me a while to realize it was because I could NOT hear the bats. I was sleeping inside the van with the rear windows rolled halfway down rather than trying to set up the tent, so I when I sat up, I looked out of the van's reflective windows to discover what at first appeared to be A Horse.

It was something between pale gray and bright white in the starlight, standing maybe a dozen feet from the van, sniffing curiously. It made sense- I was in the middle of mustang country and there was quite a bit of foliage in the area for it and it did look like a truly wild horse- lumpy where the bones were jutting out, dusty about the hooves and face.

I was instantly seized by the sort of paralytic fear Sleep paralysis is made of. I couldn't move. It wasn't quite looking at me because it couldn't quite see through the windshield into the shadowy into the shadowy interior, but I had the distinct impression that if I looked away, it would know, and get me.

I already had problems with horses. My beloved Aunt Helen's Prize mare tried to kill me on two separate occasions, and the year before I had to carry my sister-in-law backwards out of a slot canyon whilst reciting the Saint Crispin's Day Speech as loudly as possible to keep a mustang from trampling us to death.

This is approximately what it should have looked like:

Instead, it was... off. like trying to draw a horse from memory.

The waist tapered in.

The legs were slightly too long or the torso slightly too short, probably both.

The ears were Triangular.

The head wasn't quite right- Too narrow and the jaw wasn't heavy enough.

The tail was too long and arced unnaturally away from the body.

The neck arched.

The nostrils were too high and close

The mouth too long.

Whatever this is, a Mustang it Ain't.

I watched it from the back seat as it sniffed around the front of the van, curious with about the side mirrors. It moved around the van, nibbling experimentally on the front door handle. It came up to the side windows, sniffing like a dog, and it's breath didn't fog up the glass.

Finally, it came up to the rear window, which was rolled halfway down to let the fall night air in. Not even half a pane of glass and two feet of air between us, and I could clearly see it's bright blue eyes.

Horses have Elongated pupils to give them a wide field of vision, and eyes that rotate sideways in their sockets so the pupil remains parallel to the ground. Rather creepy to watch, especially the ones with blue eyes.

A real horse that was curious about the interior of the van would have come up to the window more or less sideways, and looked at me with something like this:

Instead, the damn thing walked up and faced the back window head on, staring back at me with this:

I'm not sure how long we watched each other like that, eyes locked. My eyes burned. I couldn't blink. My mouth was dry. I couldn't swallow. My throat began to ache. I couldn't make a sound. My skin began to twitch, like I was severely dehydrated. I couldn't move. My lungs burned. I couldn't move. I couldn't move. I couldn't move. I couldn't move.

Something was touching the side of my hand on the seat next to me. It's my water bottle.

The realization must have broken the terrible paralysis in the lower parts of my brain first, because by the time I consciously realized I could move again, I was already flinging my water bottle out the window at it.

The top was open, and splashed out the window at the Mustain't.

I've never heard such a scream out of an animal. Something halfway between the sound of unquenchable rage vibrating in someone's chest and the way rabbits cry out to God when the dogs catch them.

It jumped back, pivoting away from the van, snarling at the water bottle. I don't think you're supposed to be able to see All of a horse's teeth at once, no matter how angry it is.

I watched it run into the night for some distance, it's pale body visible against the black sand and the dark gray shadow of the ancient volcanic cone it was headed for.

When the blood stopped pounding in my ears, I could hear the bats again.

I debated leaving right then, but I didn't want to get out of the van with that thing in the area, nor litter by leaving the water bottle out there. I also had the awful idea that if I left now, it might somehow be able to follow me home. I ended up staying up three hours to watch the sunrise, shaking and trying to figure out if I'd woken up from a vivid dream, if my meds had stopped working, or if that had really happened. I didn't dare move until I actually felt the temperature rise, before stepping out of the van to grab the bottle. I had my camera ready- I was still using a DSLR back then- to take pictures of the hoofprints, to show how close it had gotten to the van.

No hoofprints.

Beetle tracks in the soft sand around the van, and the clear foot-and-wing prints of a bird that had hopped around then taken off. But no hoofprints.

I went over the entire campsite with the tent broom, to make sure I removed every scrap of evidence I had ever been there, including my footprints, grabbed my water bottle, and drove the three hours back back to Glendale, then decided to do seven more hours of driving to Moab, Utah just to put more than 500 miles, the state line and at least nine things that could be considered "running water" between me and the Mustain't.

-

I still have that water bottle. It has a dent in the bottom from hitting something, but that could have happened at any time. Strange thing though. I can't drink that bottle dry. I'll have it on me, drink whatever I've put in there- water, juice, iced coffee- and eventually feel like I've drunk the whole think and that it's empty. But I open it up and it's still at least a quarter full. I drink that. I get thirsty. I open it up again. ...and there's always a mouthful left.

Not sure what the side effects of drinking from a bottle cursed by a Mustain't to always have some left are, but it lives in the Emergency Breakdown Kit in my car now, just in case I meet another one.

---

Greetings tumblypoos this is Cherry from real life, this is the blog for the iconic tumblr blorbo poll here containing THE iconic tumblr blorbos, all of them will fight to death and the winner gets to run over the losers with their lawn mower.

Remember to vote for the most iconic tumblr blorbo, not the character you like most!!

Edit: Someone commented not having the links so i added then <3

Our bitches are

Hatsune Miku vs Connecticut Clark (X)

Sasuke vs Catra (X)

Asuka vs Chat Noir (X)

Howl Pendragon vs Edward Elric (X)

Jinx vs Evelyn Wong (X)

Hiccup vs James Pokemon (X)

L vs Hunter (X)

Jack Frost vs Disneyland Peter Pan (X)

Vriska vs Luigi (X)

Marshall Lee vs Andrew Spiderman (X)

Shadow the Hedgehot vs Danny Phantom (X)

Snufkin vs Caleb Widogast (X)

Yuri Katsuki vs Lance Voltron (X)

Miette vs Shoto Todoroki (X)

Zuko vs Nico di Angelo (X)

Nico the Catboy vs Taako (X)

The first fights will start on Feb 20th and each fight will last one week because the longer it goes on the most risk at electoral fraud we have and wouldn’t it be funny?

I’ll be updating the winners after each week, you can follow me over @cherrystrawberrie​ or come and throw lemons at me whatever works for you

—

(Nico the catboy and art by @sabertoothwalrus​)

(Nico di Angelo art by Viria)

I accept this blame with joy.

Some cultures lack names For a color, you see. Hence good old Homer And his “wine-dark sea.”

A usage so quaint, A phrasing so old, For verses of romance Is sheer fucking gold.

defending a character who’s a shit person - not cool

understanding why a fictional character did a shitty thing - cool

justifying doing that shitty thing - not cool

writing abusive characters - cool

romanticizing abusive characters - not cool

writing plot lines that involve oppression and bigotry - cool

writing oppressive, bigoted views into the thematic content of your narrative - not cool

Don’t watch it. Do not watch this fucked up mess of a show. Listen, I’ve been working in suicide prevention for almost six years, and I grew up in an area that had epidemics of teen suicides. The area is actually so well known that the show-writers and producers met with leading experts in the area on the ways that the media contributes to youth suicides - and then did almost everything they were warned not to do, even going so far as to actually show the suicide on-screen. Many of the experts that they’ve spoken with are expressing grave disappointment with how the show proceeded despite their advice.

And here’s the thing.  Anything can be a swear word if you want it to be.  Conversely there are many words that exist in usage mainly as “things to say instead of a specific swear word.”  I mean, crap, when you think about it, the effing language is full of words we say when it’s not okay to say another word that means the exact darn thing.  We can abbreviate words and they become acceptable, if you can believe that B.S.  Heck, we’ve got some words that are offensive in some contexts, but not in others– I can talk about Dick Van Dyke or the poem that talks about the pussy in the well with second graders, then pull out my binoculars and let them look at tits, Around the time I take them to the stables and show them my ass, the police will probably have questions for me, but it won’t be about any indecent activity, but more about why I have all these second graders with me, and why they’re not in school.  At this point, I’m not going to tell the nice officers that next we were going over to the chicken coop so they can check out my cock, I’m in enough trouble as it is.  

To top it all off, profanity changes over time– the phrase “humbug” used to be scandalous, and now it’s right up there with “gosh” and “golly” (which, for the record, both got their start as ways to say “God” without taking His name in vain.  (Apparently, it’s okay if you take God’s nickname in vain.) )

Today, characters on television can get away with saying that they’re so pissed that they’re going to kick that guy’s ass because he’s a son of a bitch.  I even heard one of the Winchester boys call someone a dick, and let me tell you, that blew my mind.  But when I was in high school, I knew a kid who got suspended for using the word “hell” in front of a teacher.  

Most times, I swear using innocent, everyday words. When I’m frustrated, I growl “mother-loving son of a loving mother” or “oh, for the love of fluffy baby animals”. When I smack my funny bone or stub my toe, I exclaim, “sweet baby angels!” or “sunshine and daisies”.

- Your catchphrase is “what?”

- You ask someone to repeat their question then finish processing and respond halfway through they’re finished repeating it.

- You somewhat processed what someone said but your brain won’t take it.

- You mishear what people say wildly wrong. Like, wildly wrong. Then you process it and it makes wayyyy more sense than whatever you thought someone originally said.

- “Wait, what?”

- Default face is a perplexed, confused look.

- You have to deal with rude people who refuse to repeat themselves and act exasperated at the suggestion, than proceed to get angry when you won’t respond to them and/or remember what they just said.

- You can hear a car door open down the street but you can’t hear someone talking to you in the same room.

- Talking is weird.

- You’re constantly seen as a bad listener (which, maybe isn’t that far from the truth- but they assume you’re not trying), unfocused (which I tend to be, but it’s unrelated), and so on. Nobody stops to consider that maybe you have processing issues.

- You were tested for hearing issues as a kid because you didn’t respond to people or talk much, but every test came back negative and your parents were told you have perfect hearing.

- The idea of talking to two people at once is terrifying beyond imagining.

- Responding to something someone said ages ago, even with a different conversation still going, the topic has moved on, and everyone forgot about it.