i just sighed, the universe replied

Fucking kills me how diet culture has ruined bread. Bread! One of the oldest and most universal foods on earth! The thing that connects us to each other and to our ancestors whose names and faces are lost to history! And some dipshits decided that it’s “so bad for you” because they’re scared of carbs and love shaming fat people.

Having ur main emotional response be crying is so embarrassing like ill be trying to explain why im mad or ill try having a serious convo abt smthn that upsets me and ill start crying like a baby and i have to like turn around and go “i am not crying 4 pity or to emotionally manipulate u im crying cuz im a little bitch, give me a sec”

Damn this post rlly struck a cord with u guys hello mfs who cry easily i love all of you and care you

Y’all my mom told me for my entire childhood that when I cried as a response to things I was being manipulative. It took me YEARS of expensive therapy to realize I am just a lil bitch.

suggestions for gender neutral version of mom/dad? something less formal than just ‘parent’

please note that while progenitor, guardian, spawnpoint etc are all respected titles, they are more the equivalent of mother/father than an affectionate nickname you would scream through the house multiple times a day. gimme something we can use people

I just tried to combine the words and got “dom” and i cant-

but wait, if we reverse ‘dom’ you get ‘mod’. I suggest we use ‘moderator’ as a gender neutral version of mom/dad

Admin and op would work makes them sound powerful and in charge of everything

Admin (respectful) Op (derogatory)

Okay, but on an actually serious note, Baba is used in several different languages, but the meaning changes between mother, father, or grandparent. However, it is not used in English afaik, so it could be a good English option.

how quickly we forgot that zendaya is meechee

In the first poetry workshop I ever took my professor said we could write about anything we wanted except for two things: our grandparents and our dogs. She said she had never read a good poem about a dog. I could only remember ever reading one poem about a dog before that point—a poem by Pablo Neruda, from which I only remembered the lines “We walked together on the shores of the sea/ In the lonely winter of Isla Negra.” Four years later I wrote a poem about how when I was a little girl I secretly baptized my dog in the bathtub because I was afraid she wouldn’t get into heaven. “Is this a good poem?” I wondered. The second poetry workshop, our professor made us put a bird in each one of our poems. I thought this was unbelievably stupid. This professor also hated when we wrote about hearts, she said no poet had ever written a good poem in which they mentioned a heart. I started collecting poems about hearts, first to spite her, but then because it became a habit I couldn’t break. The workshop after that, our professor would tell us the same story over and over about how his son had died during a blizzard. He would cry in front of us. He never told us we couldn’t write about anything, but I wrote a lot of poems about snow. At the end of the year he called me into his office and said, “looking at you, one wouldn’t think you’d be a very good writer” and I could feel all the pity inside of me curdling like milk. The fourth poetry workshop I ever took my professor made it clear that poets should not try to engage with popular culture. I noticed that the only poets he assigned were men. I wrote a poem about that scene in Grease 2 where a boy takes his girlfriend to a fallout shelter and tries to get her to have sex with him by tricking her into believing that nuclear war had begun. It was the first poem I ever published. The fifth poetry workshop I ever took our professor railed against the word blood. She thought that no poem should ever have the word “blood” in it, they were bloody enough already. She returned a draft of my poem with the word blood crossed out so hard the paper had torn. When I started teaching poetry workshops I promised myself I would never give my students any rules about what could or couldn’t be in their poems. They all wrote about basketball. I used to tally these poems when I’d go through the stack I had collected at the end of each class. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 poems about basketball. This was Indiana. Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. I told the class, “for the next assignment no one can write about basketball, please for the love of god choose another topic. Challenge yourselves.” Next time I collected their poems there was one student who had turned in another poem about basketball. I don’t know if he had been absent on the day I told them to choose another topic or if he had just done it to spite me. It’s the only student poem I can still really remember. At the time I wrote down the last lines of that poem in a notebook. “He threw the basketball and it came towards me like the sun”

No umbrellas we get cleansed by the rain like stevie nicks wanted

good news everyone. crows no longer need instructions to build tools and have started building them from memory, as well as passing the knowledge onto future generations of crows. oops!

better news everyone. crows have learned to construct these tools from unrelated items! they no longer need to follow the original blueprint they were given and are able to improvise using their surroundings.

Superb you funky little corvids

happy mother’s day to miss honey from matilda

when will modern directors be bold enough to give us a fight seen choreographed to tained love

that’s an old soviet propaganda technique called whataboutism. it implies that all actions share a moral equivalency and since no one is perfect, standards are unnecessary