[...] We took a lot of different types of pictures, and in the end, the picture of my ass looked better, than the picture of my face, so that’s what went on the cover.
YOU ARE THE REASON
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@xipiti
[...] We took a lot of different types of pictures, and in the end, the picture of my ass looked better, than the picture of my face, so that’s what went on the cover.

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We are all closer to Jeff Bezos' net worth than Jeff Bezos is to Elon Musk's net worth
In Orwell’s essay “A Hanging,” the writer watches the condemned man, walking toward the gallows, swerve to avoid a puddle. For Orwell, this represents precisely what he calls the “mystery” of the life that is about to be taken: when there is no good reason for it, the condemned man is still thinking about keeping his shoes clean. It is an “irrelevant” act (and a marvelous bit of noticing on Orwell’s part). Now suppose this were not an essay but a piece of fiction. And indeed there has been a fair amount of speculation about the proportion of fact to fiction in such essays of Orwell’s.
The avoidance of the puddle would be precisely the kind of superb detail that, say, Tolstoy might flourish; War and Peace has an execution scene very close in spirit to Orwell’s essay, and it may well be that Orwell basically cribbed the detail from Tolstoy. In War and Peace, Pierre witnesses a man being executed by the French, and notices that, just before death, the man adjusts the blindfold at the back of his head, because it is uncomfortably tight. The avoidance of the puddle, the fiddling with the blindfold—these are what might be called irrelevant or superfluous details. They are not explicable; in fiction, they exist to denote precisely the inexplicable. This is one of the “effects” of realism, of “realistic” style.
But Orwell’s essay, assuming it records an actual occurrence, shows us that such fictional effects are not merely conventionally irrelevant, or formally arbitrary, but have something to tell us about the irrelevance of reality itself (…) There was no logical reason for the condemned man to avoid the puddle. It was pure remembered habit. Life, then, will always contain an inevitable surplus, a margin of the gratuitous, a realm in which there is always more than we need: more things, more impressions, more memories, more habits, more words, more happiness, more unhappiness.
— JAMES WOOD, from How Fiction Works.
What exactly do these irrational standards mean? They mean the supremacy of the detail over the general, of the part that is more alive than the whole, of the little thing which a man observes and greets with a friendly nod of the spirit while the crowd around him is being driven by some common impulse to some common goal. I take my hat off to the hero who dashes into a burning house and saves his neighbor’s child; but I shake his hand if he has risked squandering a precious five seconds to find and save, together with the child, its favorite toy. I remember a cartoon depicting a chimney sweep falling from the roof of a tall building and noticing on the way that a sign-board had one word spelled wrong, and wondering in his headlong flight why nobody had thought of correcting it. In a sense, we all are crashing to our death from the top story of our birth to the flat stones of the churchyard and wondering with an immortal Alice in Wonderland at the patterns of the passing wall. This capacity to wonder at trifles — no matter the imminent peril — these asides of the spirit, these footnotes in the volume of life are the highest forms of consciousness, and it is in this childishly speculative state of mind, so different from commonsense and its logic, that we know the world to be good.
— VLADIMIR NABOKOV, from Lectures on Literature.
Following you was such a good thing, thanks so much for all the creatures that fill my dash, it's so delightful :) [also, as another biologist, just yes. good creatures. amazing.]
So... I heard you like corvids.
Carrion Crow (Corvus corone) screams in the rain, family Corvidae, order Passeriformes, Spain
photograph by Jorge de la Cruz
Your caption inspired a poem, @herpsandbirds
Carrion crow
Screams in the rain
Order Passeriformes
Corvidae
Spain

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the b-52’s and john waters
gang get in the comments
I’m suddenly laughing at the idea of a cliche noir detective story written in the brutally concise style of Hemingway.
A woman walked into my office. She had legs. I noticed her legs. “I have a problem. I need your help,” she said. They always said that. I knew her legs weren’t the problem. I hoped she might want my help with them anyhow.
“Can you pay?” I asked. Of course she could. Her shoes were worth more than my rent. She could pay. “I can pay,” she said. Her eyes were wet. I wondered if anything else was wet. Probably not. I am not handsome. Not since the war. She was looking at my scar. Lots of people do. Most look away. Not her. She did not look away. She looked at my scar and I looked at her legs. There were two of them. I liked that about her. I liked that a whole lot. “Will there be danger?” I asked. There always is. This city bleeds danger, then drinks it right back up again.
“I’m afraid there might be danger,” she said. She had the voice of a beautiful woman. She also had the face and body of a beautiful woman. She was beautiful.
The light from the window was striped. It made stripes on my cigarette smoke. The end of my cigarette crumbled into ash. My marriage had also crumbled into ash.
“I can handle danger,” I said. I patted the butt of my gun. My gun was a Colt. My gun and my scar were all that was left from my time as a soldier. My gun, my scar, and the nightmares. I looked her up and down. “I am good at handling things.”
“It’s about my husband. He’s gone missing.”
She was not wearing a ring. It means something when a woman does not wear a wedding ring. Usually, it means that she is not married. “Seems your ring has also gone missing,” I said. I hoped her dress would join it.
Her red mouth curved upwards. She was smiling a little. “I don’t wear it outside. A diamond that large would only invite trouble.”
“In my experience, trouble doesn’t wait for an invitation.” I looked at her legs again. They were both still there. “When did you last see your husband?”

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Unquenchable greed is killing us all.
Went to the zoo today
今日のカニギター
Mount Fuji in full bloom.
Yamanashi, Japan.
The SpaceX IPO Is A Giant Unworkable Con Orchestrated By An Overt White Supremacist Huckster. “He’s endlessly mythologized by a shitty corporate press, eager to ignore his virulent racism & financial fraud bc he’s accumulated obscene amounts of money.”

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This is a deep-sea octopus from the genus Cirrothauma, filmed 2,923 m beneath the Ocean’s surface during the Doldrums expedition.
An international science team is studying the Doldrums Megatransform and Fracture Zone, a region where plate movement forms wrinkles and lines along the planet’s surface, known as fault zones. They tell the story of Earth’s tectonic history. These fault zones circulate water into the seafloor and through the crust, later releasing it with new chemical compositions, some of which feed deep-sea bacteria that fuel thriving ecosystems in the deepest, darkest parts of the Ocean. While chemosynthetic ecosystems are well documented along the ridge, little is known about what lives on the fault zones.
Credit: ROV SuBastian / Schmidt Ocean Institute
me holding a gun to a mushroom: tell me the name of god you fungal piece of shit
mushroom: can you feel your heart burning? can you feel the struggle within? the fear within me is beyond anything your soul can make. you cannot kill me in a way that matters
me cocking the gun, tears streaming down my face: I’M NOT FUCKING SCARED OF YOU
Hey OP? What the FUCK does this mean?
decay exists as an extant form of life
That’s a terrifying answer, have a nice day
World Heritage Post