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this will be the year I finally convince everyone to abandon New Year's resolutions in favour of Yule Boasting, the clearly superior tradition

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the author's barely disguised longing for a kinder world

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Tortuga is the pirates' port in Pirates of the Caribbean, famously quite lawless

its rude to reblog things from people you arent mutuals with fyi. :/

💀 my brother in christopher

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Okay, I really hate to do this - all over again - but! Although I recently got a little software job to scrape together some sort of living and as a springboard into something better, my feelings went from Lmao to Mao pretty quickly once my landlord informed me that, since I'll now be letting from him instead of subletting from a departing roommate, he's demanding a €350 deposit by the end of December.

I'm only getting paid by the middle/end of January, and for now I'm completely hosed, nobody to borrow from, and it's no use trying to delay either; he's a hardass and he could make my life miserable. Do y'all think I could raise that with your assistance? It's literally the last motherfucking hurdle at the last fucking minute... 😬😬😬

Please consider helping, and please boost this if you don't mind. I swear I'll pay it forward once I have real fucking money of my own. I wouldn't have survived this long exile without your kindness!

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Some other handy quotes

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Art by Leksø Tiger

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Witchcraft, Wisdom, Death...

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it seems like deeply unfair to have only one life. i mean it's fair in the sense that we all have equal number of lives. but i'm talking about being unfair to be the kinds of things that we are and then pencil us in for only one life. like there's an urge to be the whole world

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truly some people have no genre savviness whatsoever. A girl came back from the dead the other day and fresh out of the grave she laughed and laughed and lay down on the grass nearby to watch the sky, dirt still under her nails. I asked her if she’s sad about anything and she asked me why she should be. I asked her if she’s perhaps worried she’s a shadow of who she used to be and she said that if she is a shadow she is a joyous one, and anyway whoever she was she is her, now, and that’s enough. I inquired about revenge, about unfinished business, about what had filled her with the incessant need to claw her way out from beneath but she just said she’s here to live. I told her about ghosts, about zombies, tried to explain to her how her options lie between horror and tragedy but she just said if those are the stories meant for her then she’ll make another one. I said “isn’t it terribly lonely how in your triumph over death nobody was here to greet you?” and she just looked at me funny and said “what do you mean? The whole world was here, waiting”. Some people, I tell you.

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How to Respond to Criticism

Stop doing everything. Don’t say anything or be anything. Get as small as you possibly can without disappearing. Don’t exist. Or keep existing, but differently than before.

Remember: criticism is the same thing as wholesale condemnation and also murder, so react accordingly.

Apologize, but don’t really mean it, and plant a seed of secret resentment so deep in your own heart that years later you can’t even remember that you’re the one who nurtured it and made it grow, it seems that much like a native part of you.

Sink into a hole so deep that no one can ever find you.

No. No. No. No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no NO. NO.

JUST DIE. JUST GET SICK AND DIE AND THEN YOU’LL FEEL TERRIBLE YOU EVER SAID THOSE THINGS BECAUSE I’LL BE DEAD AND YOU’LL BE SO SO SO SORRY AND YOU’LL WISH YOU COULD BRING ME BACK BUT YOU CAN’T.

Give up on all of your goals immediately.

Tell everyone you know about the criticism, but in a way that makes it clear that you expect them to publicly find it ridiculous and assure you there’s not a shred of truth to it. Do this repeatedly, first while sober, then later after several glasses of wine on a Wednesday afternoon when no one else is really drinking except for you. “Can you believe it?” Ask them that repeatedly. “Can you believe that? About me?” Ask until no one will meet your eyes.

Remember that life is a rich tapestry.

Become so rich and strong and tall that you’re a giant made out of gold and nobody can hurt you and everything you do is perfect and you can use your laser diamond eyes to melt the lungs of your enemies.

Dwell on it.

You can either be perfect or the biggest piece of shit who ever existed but not both, so if the criticism is right, you are the biggest piece of shit who ever existed. If it is not right, you are perfect and everyone else is wrong.

Fall in love with whoever criticized you. Don’t walk away until you’ve ruined their marriage.

Whisper their criticism every night to yourself until you have it memorized, word for word. Remember it forever. Have the words stitched into the shroud that covers your body before you’re lowered into the tomb so you and your criticism can embrace one another for eternity.

Do not rise above it. Never rise above anything. The sky is no place for a human.

Be sure not to separate the tone of the criticism from the content. If it was said ungracefully, it cannot be true. If it was said reasonably, it cannot be false.

Send an email explaining why you don’t deserve to be criticized, then another six emails after that, each one explaining the last, like a set of Russian nesting dolls that don’t think it’s your fault.

Set fire to something that was once beautiful.

Run into a cave and break your ankle so that people have to come find you and they see you lying at the bottom of this beautiful cave and maybe there’s a waterfall and the light from the crystals makes you look really beautiful and they say “Are you okay?” and you say “I think so” and they say “oh my God have you been here alone this whole time with a broken ankle” and you say “it’s okay” and they say “you’re so brave” and you are brave and you look so beautiful surrounded by cave crystals and everyone stands over you and says “oh wow” and “you poor beautiful thing” and “I’m so sorry we let you run into the cave but I’m so glad we found you” and let them carry you home and promise to be your best friends forever and that everything’s their fault and also they named the cave after you and you’re prettier than all of your enemies and your enemies all died of jealousy while you were in the cave.

Remember that there are only two kinds of people in the world: fans and haters. No true fan would ever express a criticism of you or your work; conversely no hater could ever seek to engage in a good-faith debate about something you said or did they disagree with. Dismiss everything everyone has to say about you.

Move away.

If it’s a close friend, say “Thank you for being so honest with me,” and then never talk to them again.

Do something with your feelings right away. It doesn’t matter what. Lash out, make a sculpture, whatever.

Log into YouTube and call someone “living Hitler” and “a waste of skin” until you feel better about yourself.

Remember, if someone doesn’t like your work, that means they don’t like you, and they wish that you had never been born, so just lay down in the road and die.

Mallory Ortberg, The Toast

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see, when i think of bread, i first and foremost imagine something like this

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Bounce

Elliot and Magdalene bounce within three days of each other.

Magdalene bounces first, at the ripe old age of 82, bed-bound and breathing only with the aid of a respirator. The pooling blood in her legs had formed into little coagulated beads, and one finally dislodged and swam the stream to her brain, where it wedged in tight like a pebble caught in the rudder of a boat and flat-lined Magdalene.

The on-call doctors do nothing but watch. Magdalene’s heart stops, and her brain waves quiet to nothing, and the wisp of breath vanishes from her throat. The flat keen of her monitors confirms she is entirely, unmistakably dead. The nurse assigned to her sits at Magdalene’s bedside, idle and distracted, fingers fiddling her pager, hovering, waiting.

It takes 20 minutes for Magdalene’s vitals to stir again. A single staccato blip breathes back into her heart rate monitor. A second blip follows. And a third. Her heart rate stabilizes. Her blood oxygenation spikes. Her monitors flicker back to life. The bedside nurse removes the breathing tube from her throat and marks Magdalene’s chart as “bounced”.

Elliot bounces 3 days later - from the blunt force trauma of falling down the hospital stairs. He claims he fell while trying to visit Magdalene one floor below. He also claims to have forgotten about the elevator. The doctors all suspect he intentionally bounced himself, but it’s not worth fussing over. Ethical bouncing is common enough. And for the sake of joining his wife, his bounced age is close enough. Elliot isn’t even hospitalized. His bouncing is perfectly clean.

For the next 4 months, Elliot visits every day to wheel Magdalene around the hospital garden. She is able to leave her bed now, but she is still immobile, her hips too worn to support her weight. So Elliot pushes the wheelchair, and they talk and talk about hopeful nothings, two octogenarians moving in frail, stuttering, slow circuits around the garden pond. They have a lot of plans to make, and a lot of time to pass, and a lot of bad jokes to tell. Elliot likes to flex his trembling arms and say he’s spry again, like a 60 year old, and he can feel it. Magdalene doesn’t tire of the joke. She laughs every time.

Keep reading

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which of my household appliances am i most closely related to

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I started using Head and Shoulders ten years ago for itchy scalp and dandruff, and then for ten years I have not had itchy scalp and dandruff, so I thought “why do I still buy shampoo to combat itchy scalp and dandruff when I do not have itchy scalp and dandruff,” so I stopped buying the shampoo for itchy scalp and dandruff and can you guess I have now? Can you predict what currently afflicts me? It’s alright if you can’t because apparently I fuckin couldn’t either

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at work: i could be cooking and cleaning and coding and reading and working out and weaving tapestries and playing video games and climbing a mountain and having sex and filming a movie right now yet they keep me trapped in this prison. idle hands are the devils plaything and i am being forcibly molded into his perfect conduit. i must break free, seize the day and waste not the beauty inherent to finite mortal life

at home: my one true passion upon this pointless earth is bog mummy imitation

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I couldn't picture anything based on the description, but it makes perfect sense now and is 100% accurate actually

saw a porn screenshot where the guy is like distractedly touching a boob and staring off into space as though he barely notices the girl is there and is mentally reliving his experiences with arctic survival cannibalism