dworkiniferous

internet populism is so dumb. "it's so fucked up how i'm not paid enough for a $28 lunch every day. that's what lunch costs!!" "how come no one builds houses with courtyards anymore. when did this become such a luxury??" i hope communism wins so these people will suffer

literally the thrust of so much zoomer political extremism is "turn back the clock to when i was seven and my parents made a lot of money and we all lived in a big house"

Between Repressing It Harmfully Forest and Making a Big Deal Out Of It In Order To Excuse Your Avoidable Failings To Yourself Desert lies a resplendent plain, bathed in eternal sweet sunlight....... and no one has ever been there. Ever

it's 2028, you hear your husband approaching from behind. no time to think, just react. you duck to the floor, grab his arm as it sails over your head, and yank down hard while using your ass to shove him upwards, sending his body flipping over you and slamming into the crockpot full of buffalo chicken dip. your friends hear his cries of pain and get to work barricading the dining room with chairs. you select the largest and sharpest ceramic shard of the crockpot, wrap a dish towel around the base to get a better grip, and start sprinting toward your kids in the playroom. but when you stand in the doorway, the kids are already facing you with eerie grins. you freeze for a moment. one of them giggles, not playfully. your reflexes kick in and you duck behind the doorjamb. a volley of poisoned darts whistles through the space you had just occupied. oh, so that's how they want to play? so be it. you invoke rešep̄ (an ancient near eastern god of war and disease) and your visage takes on the aspect of a skeletal gazelle enveloped in green flame. you now have poison immunity. you stride confidently into the room, to your children's cries of horror, and toss your ceramic blade out spinning. revolving like a frisbee, wreathed in the same ghastly plague-fire as your own form, it emits a low hum as it elegantly arcs around the room and cleaves each child in two at the neck. you reach out to retake hold of the blade and it shreds your hand into pieces without slowing, showering bony chunks across the room. the shard sails through the window, gracing your manicured side lawn with an anointment of shining broken glass, and ascends higher and higher into the humid evening air. kneeling, you look on as it dwindles into a mote of green light, over the dark forms of willow oaks, over the great pillowy clouds illuminated by the final dregs of a red sunset; as it becomes nothing more than another star in the night sky, and then nothing at all. you feel a great yearning. your friends have stormed into the playroom unnoticed and are beating you to death with pieces of mangled furniture.