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(via File Photo)

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It’s Pride Month Eve, so leave out some milk for Freddie Mercury and his cats.

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wanted to paint these owls

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Enemies to "I accidentally came across you while you were vulnerable and scared and I'm not a total asshole so I tried to help you" to "accidental mutual uncovering of softer sides and vulnerabilities" to "I can't be mean to you anymore, not out of pity but because it would feel weird betraying that brief truce we had" to "Fine I'll make an effort to be nice to you now I guess" to "actually now that we're not actively hating each other you're not so bad I guess" to "i think we're friends but I'm not going to say that because I'm afraid you're not gonna feel the same way" to "oh you also think we're friends? Great" to lovers

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mh computer tryin to say chimichangas I give uP

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A crow stealing a handful of Cheerios. Photo: Queenie Lynn Zook.

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*emerges from the other room covered in blood* you should see the word document

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i would kill for the confidence of novelists who write genius-poet characters and then actually write samples of the “genius” poetry in the book. if i were a novelist writing a genius-poet i’d just be like “trust me, the poetry’s real good.”

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I'm still waiting on some parts for the grappling arrows, but here's another fun one in the meantime!

As always, I'll put some extra info and lessons learned on Patreon for those interested!

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two hobbits taking the time to embrace one another after a near-death moment despite the horror and grief and violence around them, despite their people's fear of boats and water, despite their need for secrecy and urgency. this is what it's all about. taking the time to do what matters. to care, to hope, to love, to be there for one another. the world is burning around us but I still love you and we can extinguish the fires together, no matter how high they are and how small our hands

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Police officers could solve real problems. They could be out there feeding hot soup to the unhoused, making sure that hazardous garbage is kept away from daycares, or doing something about all these birds that keep shitting on my car. Instead of those productive things, Officer Bringdown is here, on the side of the road, spending my tax money to hand me a ticket for more of my money.

Or at least he would be, if he could figure out how to work his dorky little ticket printer. You see, I have an ace up my sleeve. Not only is my car old, and difficult to place, but I’ve made certain modifications to the vehicle that render its legal state “complicated.” My shark of an attorney, Max, brags about the bear trap of intermingled kit-car laws and year-of-manufacture exclusions that have led to this vehicle being one hundred percent approved-of by the government, in any condition I dictate, whether they meant to or not.

“Uhh, how do you spell ‘Duesenberg’ again?” the cop asks, betraying his lack of education in the classics. I spell it out for him, and explain again that the replica registration exception of December 1986 means that a 1921 Model J does not need to have operational turn signals or a functional speedometer.

“How is this a replica of a 1921 car? It says Plymouth on the hood.” he asks me suspiciously, behind mirrored aviator shades. I am familiar with this shift in conversation. I see now that he has fallen into the first legal pit without complaint. I was hoping for a more worthy opponent.

“Officer, has the state rendered upon you an encyclopedic knowledge and unimpeachable legal authority of what a 1921 Duesenberg Model J consists and does not consist of?” I ask him, reading off a sheet that has been provided by my attorney, who would really rather that I shut the fuck up entirely, but who I know secretly thrills at the chance to end another state trooper’s career in the court of law in which he is akin to a walking god. Dude has groupies.

The cop demurs, tries to change the subject, save some face. “What’s that smell?” he asks.

“Hydrazine.”

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Lugbúrz by Adam Burke aka Nightjar

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