dreamofbecoming

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Looool

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The business shaman's business suit without a single flaw

His PHD in business ghosts, as well as business law

See him hunt for business seeds oer hill and business dale

Licking ash from cigarettes like business oyster shells

Beneath the burning business stars, he dreams of business things,

of wise and elder business ghosts, of ancient business kings.

So hail the business shaman! May your business berries fruit!

May never loss of profit stain your flawless business suit

[dreamofbecoming]

hi i’m really sorry to bother you but i just wanted to warn you that you follow someone on here

this can't be true

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TIL anyone who's going to overwinter in Antarctica has to have had their appendix out. Because removing an appendix that's not causing any trouble just as a precaution is way better than having one that's about to burst when you're on the ass-end of the planet with no way to be rushed to a hospital if shit gets real.

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i’m only on reddit for r/Kevin

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a good sumerian inexplicably donated five packs of 500 temporary tattoos to the classroom, each pack featuring identical pictures of a different invasive species of bug

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The peter parker mao cup

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Phoenix

A speedpaint video of this will be available at my Patreon soon 😊

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The Wreck of the "Covenant", by Newell Convers Wyeth, 1913

It was the spare yard I had got hold of, and I was amazed to see how far I had travelled from the brig

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Okay so like. You know your own name as a kid, right?

You remember how it sounds, how your parents say it, how your friends say it- you learn how to spell it, and maybe even what it means and why it was given to you, and it's yours.

It's not a tangible, physical thing, like your hair or your fingernails, but it's yours. It belongs to you.

So, like. Imagine there comes a point in life where everyone gets their name tattooed to their forehead, or something.

Could be when they're two. Could be when they're twenty. Hell, it could be when they're eighty, or ninety-nine, or whenever. But it's everybody, and it's inevitable, and it happens.

Now imagine the time comes for you, and you get up after and look in the mirror and realize they spelled it wrong.

And you have to go outside and live your life in a world where everybody is so totally used to knowing people's names on sight that not a single person second-guesses that your parents named you Susam, or Ahley, or Benjabib.

And you know it's wrong, every time you hear it, but you can choose to explain every single time- every time you're called in a coffee queue, every time a teacher picks you in class, every time you meet a new person or bump into a stranger or are greeted on the street, by children and employers and door-to-door salesmen and your fucking waitress- or you can kind of just learn to grit your teeth and ignore it.

You still notice, of course- maybe you learn to accept it, maybe you hate it every time, but whether you do anything about it or not, you still know. You know people have the wrong word for you in your head.

You know they still mean YOU, but it's not you.

So what's your solution?

Do you shrug, decide it doesn't matter, and go about your life?

Do you smear the typo over with foundation, pencil in new letters every morning?

Do you stare into the mirror sometimes and think, "wow, I should really get that fixed"?

Maybe you save up your money and get it removed, or covered up, or changed to something else. Maybe the whole damn thing was wrong, and you've been a Jacob running around as a Hailey this whole damn time.

That's the best way to explain it. It's not an easily-provable thing, or a demonstrable thing, or a feeling I can one-for-one substitute as something else-

but that's what it's like to know you're not a girl.

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GRIEVING SISTERS by Bayard Wu

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Yash Darji aka Yash Earth (Indian, based Vadodara, Gujarat, India) - Indian Flying Fox - Gujarat, Photography

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draws boromir with the white tree draws boromir with the white tree draws boromir with the white tree draws boromir with the white tree draws boromir with t

[dreamofbecoming]

“It’s strange.”

“Hmmmm?”

“I’ve been on the road most of my life,” Jaskier says, “yet you’re the only witcher I’ve ever met. You would think I’d have stumbled upon at least one other.”

Geralt chews slowly, thinking of how strongly Jaskier smells of his territorial pheromones. How his kind were careful to treat one another’s mates with caution, lest they inadvertently cause conflict within their dwindling numbers.

He hadn’t thought about it before, but other witchers probably assume Jaskier is his mate and act accordingly.

Geralt shrugs. “It’s a big continent.”

It was bound to happen sooner or later: Geralt and Jaskier would eventually cross paths with one of Geralt's brothers. As it turned out, it was Eskel—which, Geralt thought, was probably the best possible outcome.

“Nice to meet you,” Jaskier said warmly, extending a hand to Eskel with a friendly smile. He didn’t notice the quick glance Eskel shot Geralt’s way, as if seeking permission to shake his hand. Geralt gave a subtle nod, signaling it was fine.

As Eskel took Jaskier’s hand, Geralt unconsciously moved a little closer, his presence protective.

“It’s good to finally meet Geralt’s mate,” Eskel said.

“Geralt’s what?” Jaskier asked, bewildered.