fever-dreamer97:

Bakugo:

Izuku: What?

Bakugo: I asked you if you could sing in my place tonight.

Izuku: I can.

Bakugo: Then what is that?

Izuku: I-

Bakugo: What is that?

Izuku, holding an otamatone: It’s my otamatone.

Bakugo: You said you would sing tonight.

Izuku: And I can sing…through my otamatone.

Bakugo:

Based off this:

nim-lock:

therustyskull:

liina-puff:

pileofknives:

zeesqueere:

ohtehnoeszombies:

goofballproximitysurveyor:

when people put “trigger warning” on their content without specifying what the trigger warning is for

this post contains notes

does it?

does it though?

Fuck is going on here

post expired

Son of no notes ghost post.

obsessed with how tumblr just sometimes Does This 

(via kreftropod)

chaumas-deactivated20230115:

chaumas-deactivated20230115:

Last week I accidentally took an edible at 10x my usual dose. I say “accidentally” but it was really more of a “my friend held it out to my face and I impulsively swallowed it like a python”, which was technically on purpose but still an accident in that my squamate instincts acted faster than my ability to assess the situation and ask myself if I really wanted to get Atreides high or not.

Anyway. I was painting the wall when it hit. My friend heard me make a noise and asked what was wrong—I explained that I had just fallen through several portals. I realized that painting the wall fulfilled my entire hierarchy of needs, and was absolutely sure that I was on track to escaping the cycle of samsara if I just kept at it a little longer. I was thwarted on my journey towards nirvana only by the fact that I ran out of paint.

Seeking a surrogate act of humble service through which I might be redeemed and made human, I turned to unwashed dishes in the sink and took up the holy weapon of the sponge. I was partway through cleaning the blender when it REALLY hit.

You ever clean a blender? It’s a shockingly intimate act. They are complex tools. One of the most complicated denizens of the kitchen. Glass and steel and rubber and plastic. Fuck! They’ve got gaskets. You can’t just scrub ‘em and rinse them down like any other piece of shit dish. You’ve got to dissemble them piece by piece, groove by sensitive groove, taking care to lavish the spinning blades with cautious attention. There’s something sensual about it. Something strangely vulnerable.

As I stood there, turning the pieces over in my hands, I thought about all the things we ask of blenders. They don’t have an easy job. They are hard laborers taking on a thankless task. I have used them so roughly in my haste for high-density smoothies, pushing them to their limits and occasionally breaking them. I remembered the smell of acrid smoke and decaying rubber that filled the kitchen in the break room the last time I tried to make a smoothie at work—the motor overtaxed and melted, the gasket cracked and brittle. Strawberry slurry leaked out of it like the blood of a slain animal.

Was this blender built to last? Or was it doomed to an early grave in some distant landfill by the genetic disorder of planned obsolescence? I didn’t know, and was far too high to make an educated guess. But I knew that whatever care and tenderness and empathy I put into it, the more respect for the partnership of man and machine, the better it would perform for me.

This thought filled me with a surge of affection. However long its lifespan, I wanted it to be filled with dignity and love and understanding. I thought: I bet no one has hugged this blender before. And so I lifted it from its base.

A blender is roughly the size and shape of a human baby. Cradling one in your arms satisfies a primal need. A month ago I was permitted to hold an infant for the first time in my life, an experience which was physically and psychologically healing. I felt an echo of that satisfaction holding my friend the blender, and the thought of parting with it felt even more ridiculous than bringing it with me to hang out on my friend’s bed.

ALT

(via death-cannot-kill-you)

hera-the-wizard:

thetyrannosaur:

maxwellkattermann:

wingdingle:

shutthedirk:

attention to all dashcon attendees

someone urinated into the ballpit while it was empty and posted it in the tag

stay out of the ballpit

there are people who think this is a joke

this is not a joke

please stay out of the ballpit for the safety of your health

Ancient scribes detailing horrible events

happy ballpiss day!

(via dreemurr-skelememer)

gingerfan24:

The Emperor, Guilliman, and Saint Celestine all standing in the same room. Call that the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.

mihrsuri:

wearelibrarian:

greenreticule:

peggedpirate:

thefrysh:

brunhiddensmusings:

crazyintheeast:

marzipanandminutiae:

tallahasseemp3:

This is just The Magnus Institute.

Nope.

They have a gas-based firefighting system instead of sprinklers for obvious reasons. It does lower the percentage of oxygen in the building, but not enough to kill anyone.

I found this by googling “Yale library fire oxygen.” It was literally the first result.

Fact-checking is your friend.

It’s true. It’s not the fire suppression system that kills you. The Librarians come and personally murder you for starting a fire in a library. But you didn’t start a fire you say? No matter. You are collateral damage. Everybody gets killed to show that arsonists have no chance of escaping justice

an orangutan traveling at non-euclidean speeds erupts from the aether to clothesline you into another dimension

god im trying so hard to decipher that last addition and im coming up empty

what’s not clicking

#you learn about the non-euclidian orangutan in semester 1 of an mlis - @cappurrccino

@bibliothekara

(via sludgebat)

blankfairy27:

(via infininoodle)