Physics, Magical Girls, Feminism

Two? Nope. You have FIVE, minimum.

You take the apple

You take the orange

You take both

You take nothing

You take something else

And this works EVERYWHERE. 

“Are you with us or with them?”

I’m with you!

I’m with them!

You both have good points!

You’re all insane!

I’m going with that other group over there!

“You need to vote Democrat or Republican!”

Democrat!

Republican!

I switch depending on the leader and the issues!

I don’t vote! 

I vote for a third-party!

“Are you Christian or Muslim??”  

I’m Christian

I’m Muslim

I think God is one and the same and follow good doctrines of both

I’m atheist

I’m Jewish

And it’s often more subtle

Like a salesperson handing you two products and pressuring you to buy one of them, making you forget that 

You don’t have to buy anything if you don’t want to

You can leave the store and buy something elsewhere

And sometimes it can be as important as

“Are you gay or are you straight?”

I’m gay

I’m straight

I’m both? So Bi?

I like no one, I’m ace. 

I’m anything else, really, this is a spectrum and I define my own orientation.

Initiating…

Analyzing target coordinates

Trajectory adjustments required, initiate calibration protocol wigglebutt.exe

Wiggling…

Wiggling…

Calibration complete. Initiating pounce in 3…

2…

1…

Pounce initiated

Time for Walkies.

The Crawling Death, they call it. Great glossy black eight-legged fiends, some small enough to creep between the rings of your maille, some large as a splayed hand and quick as a cat, and some - so they say - the size of dogs. Or swine. Or cart-horses. The tales have been exaggerated in the telling, of course, since hardly anyone dares venture far into the gullies and ravines that lace between the majestic peaks (most certainly not at night, when the Crawling Death make their appearance, silent as a shadow).

Even if they’re not quite as large as people say, they’re certainly no less deadly. The king’s physicians, who had the unenviable task of tending to the survivors of the last failed expedition, wrote down in stomach-turning detail the precise symptoms of that merciless venom. Erupting blisters the size of a hen’s egg. Flesh blackening, rotting, and sloughing away from the bone. Sweating, drooling, trembling, nausea, vomiting, ranting and raving and spasming like a creature possessed until death seems like a mercy. Others were gripped with a pain unmatched by any wound of war, paired (curiously) with an erection hard as any standing stone.

And yet, in spite of all this, I’m planning an expedition into the mountains. It’s true, I haven’t the equipment with me to safely shelter from the bitter cold above the tree-line, out of the reach of skittering legs and poison-slick fangs. I have no blessing from the gods, and no miracle of alchemy intended to keep the Crawling Death at bay. What I do have, though, is a map. A map from a past age, a more enlightened age, where the cartographers had a decent understanding of the sciences, rather than the encyclopaedic knowledge of rumour and superstition that seems to be the requirement for a mapmaker these days. And from this map - and the journals that I found with it - I have deduced one particularly salient fact, that I am convinced will allow me to make the journey through the supposedly arachnid-infested ravines in perfect safety.

smoking weed with fairy royalty

you’re sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool lit by neon lights, but instead of water the pool is filled with peach soda

you’re an alien visiting your human boyfriend on earth and you’re entering the earth’s atmosphere but you’ve done it like thirty times so you’re just chilling

everything is endless cornfields and stormy skies and the end of the world is coming so the radio’s playing apocalyptic tunes

you’re sitting outside dairy queen at 2am w cherry topped sundaes and you’re wearing your best friend’s faux fur jacket

you’re at 7/11 at night minding your own business but when you go to leave you realize the door won’t open and all the power goes out except for the slushie machine so now you’re just chilling on the floor in a 7/11 in the blue light & hum of a slushie machine

a tiny dancer living in a dusty music box

you’re really tired and it’s late and you feel numb but you’re laughing at memes and feeling intense love for your friends

“We Wear Culture” is a collaboration between Google and more than 180 museums, schools, fashion institutions, and other organizations from all parts of the globe. It’s part of Google’s Arts & Culture platform, which is digitizing the world’s cultural treasures, and functions as a searchable guide to a collective archive of some 30,000 fashion pieces that puts “three millennia of fashion at your fingertips,” Google says.

But it isn’t just a database. Google has worked with curators to create more than 450 exhibits on different topics—say, how the cheongsam changed the way Chinese women dress—making the site an endlessly entertaining, educational portal filled with stunning imagery touching on everything from modern Japanese streetwear to the clothes worn at the court of Versailles.