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My Agent: They want you to be Blorbo.

Me: From The Show?!

Agent: Yeah, they’re offering you the role of Blorbo in The Show.

Me: Glup Shitto?!

Agent: Glup Shitto all day: you’re gonna be Whatshername, you’re gonna be That Girl from the Thing.

Me: 😱

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Physalis fairy

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The rats are conducting dark rituals in my living room

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The next episode of Philosophy Tube is up for $15+ Patrons, and it’s also on Nebula!

It’ll drop on YouTube on the 24th!

https://www.patreon.com/posts/78727236

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Kitchen Nightmares is really just like

Owners: i don't know why my restaurant is failing. Chef Ramsey please help

Ramsey: hello i am Gordon Ramsay. How is the food

Owners: we have the best food

*food comes out*

Gordon: this is an alive rat

Owners: our customers love te alive rat. We have the best food. Every day they order the alive rat.

*dinner service*

Customer: oh my god this is an alive rat

Waitress: is everything okay?

Customer: no it's an alive rat

*food is sent back*

Owner: this has never happened before. Fuck you Gordon Ramsay you should just leave. People love the alive rat

*Gordon goes in the freezer*

Gordon: there are 25 molds unknown to science. The rats have set up a lab to study them. Blimey. Scientist rats. They've unionized.

*later*

Gordon: your food is bad

Owner: no!!!!!!!!

Gordon: yes

Owner: oh my god our food is bad

*remodel, menu change*

Owner: oh my god Gordon Ramsay you saved my life thank you so much

Gordon: promise never to serve alive rats again, yeah?

Owner: yes of course

*end of episode*

Gordon: ratatouille ammirite? *He walks away chuckling*

End card: the restaurant was shut down three months later because they went back to serving alive rats.

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servant of many masters

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OH MY GOD I GOT LOCKED OUT OF MY ACC

im back now lol anyways heres a short story~~~

“I’m Eliza. Age 15, turning 16 tomorrow. The youngest and now only child of Marianne Charle’. That’s my mother. So, I’m Eliza Charle’. My ‘family’ of two is pretty normal. All my siblings vanished at age 16, and Mom isn’t taking it very well. She always insists they’re still here, always leaving food for them. I reckon she’s off her rocker. But I don’t say that. She can get scary. I think our family is cursed. Of my three siblings, only one could ‘escape the curse’. Caroline. She was the first. We were just celebrating her birthday with our neighbours across the road, a nice barbecue on a nice day. We forgot the cake. Caroline offered to get it for us, like the angel she was. Skipping across the road, cake in hand, she was hit. It happened so slowly. We all stood motionless, as the bright pink ice-cream van slammed into her tiny frame. Plates slipped out of uncles’ hands, cutlery clattered to the ground as we ran to the bloody smear on the road, red skid marks trailing towards an unrecognisable lump of human roadkill, her face contorted into an eternal smile. But that’s a dark subject matter. I don’t like talking about it, especially not to myself.”

I fidgeted in my chair, twirling a pencil. There was a photo on my desk. It was 5 years ago. Before any of this happened. Before Caroline died. Before Avaline left. Before Caleb left. Before Dad walked out on us. We were on a fishing pier. I looked at goofy 11-year-old me, dangling a snapper from a line, Caroline patting me on my head and Avaline posing like a diva. Caleb was holding onto Mom behind us, and Dad was taking the photo. Click. The latch - Mom’s home.

“Sweetie! I’m home!” Her cheery voice was stark against the dim atmosphere, the rustling sounds of Thai takeaway and the savoury smell of rice noodles wafting through the air. Calling me down, she stood at the bottom of the stairs, twirling her pink car keys. Plodding down the stairs, I stuffed my hands in my pockets and forced a smile. Arriving at the table, Mom was dishing out 4 portions of Pad Thai. One for me, one for her, one for Caleb, and one for Avaline, she says. Sitting down at the once populous dinner table, she sits across from me and smiled. “So, how was school?” “It was good,” I muttered, a mouthful of food muffling my speech. Serving me more food, she continued. “How are your friends?” “They’re good.” We ate in silence. 

 After lunch with mom, I returned to my room to sulk. 4:37. Still have seven and a half hours left. Telling Mom I was going out with friends, promising to be back by midnight, I left for what might be the last time.

“Caroline, how did you do it?” Standing over her grave, I placed some yellow tulips beside the headstone. Taking the shovel lying on the ground, I sunk it in and started digging. Unearthing the coffin, I climbed into the hole and pried open the lid. Almost instantly, I was hit with the powerful smell of formaldehyde. A linen cloth lay like a blanket over her body, showing only a beautifully preserved head. Blonde hair placed around a freckled face with closed eyes and an eternal smile. She looked so peaceful, as if she were only sleeping. I pulled away the cloth covering her body, and it quietly settled on the edge of the wooden coffin. Caroline’s body was bandaged. White fabric covered her arms and legs, itself also covered by a blue silk dress. Looks like the funeral people only touched up her face. I lay my hands on her and closed my eyes.  As I drew the cloth back over Caroline and closed the lid, I heard a noise. Clunk. A key fell into the hole. I felt bony hands clasp my shoulders, and a mouth whisper into my ear. “13 Birch street.” It said. Turning around, I briefly glimpsed red, glowing eyes before they evaporated into black smoke. Picking up the key, I saw something. ‘13 Birch street’ was scratched into the handle. Sounds fishy. But what other choice do I have? Climbing out of the hole, I reburied Caroline and left.

The house looked normal. No signs of blood sacrifice or satanic ritual. Plain wooden beams held up a second story over the verandah, and the fly screen door had been left ajar. Behind that was another door, this one locked. Placing the key into the lock, I turned it and pulled the handle. Click. It opened. Walking into the house, I checked the time on my watch. 9:32. Not much time left. 

My footsteps plodded on the wooden floorboards. Thump. Thump. Thump. Clunk. Something was below this one. When I looked closely, I saw another keyhole. Slotting the key in, I turned it and a trapdoor popped out beside me. Looks like I have the master key. Stairs descended into the darkness below, the eerie silence broken only by a bird chirping harshly in a tree outside. Thankfully, I still have my torch. Flicking the switch to the ON position, I followed the stairs down. 

At the bottom was cement - perhaps the floor of a wine cellar. Drawing the torch upwards, I saw knives. Lots and lots of knives, arranged in neat rows along the wall, short ones, long ones, machetes, kitchen knives, butcher knives, short daggers, and more unnamable instruments of death. A little to the left, and I saw metal. Lots of it. Metal wire had been hastily fashioned into a wide mesh that covered the entire wall, the ends sawed into sharp, jagged, points. Then there was something else. A red liquid was pooling on the floor, I swung the torch up. Something black.

I screamed. My voice was hoarse and broken, but I screamed anyway. Nobody heard me - at least, I didn’t expect they could - then something smacked me in the back of the head.

“Sweetie?” A voice roused me from my unconsciousness. Mom? Where am I again? Opening my eyes, it all flashed back to me. There were bodies. Hanging on the metal. 2 of them. They were still dripping with blood. Avaline and Caleb. My heart raced, and I tried to scream, but it was muffled by a cloth gag in my mouth. Wire was wound around my hands and legs, cutting into my limbs as I struggled to get free. “Hello!” A voice came from behind me. Mom. She poked her head from above, looking over me. She had a manic smile on her face, nothing like her usual cheery self. Click. The lights turned on. I could see the room in full now. Cement covered the floor like the wires did the wall in front of me. I sat on the stairs, a grandfather clock to my right that hid behind my mother’s shivering frame. She checked the clock. 11:55. 5 minutes left. 

“I suppose you have questions, honey.” She took a knife off the rack hanging on the wall, watching as the light glinted off it. “It began 5 years ago. When Caroline died. I heard a whisper. From a man who referred to himself as Mr Edburt. He placed his bony hands on my shoulders and whispered into my ear…

 ‘Let’s play a game. When one of your children turns 16, I will try to kill them. If I kill one like Caroline over there, I get to keep it. If you kill one, you get to keep it. If you keep more children than me, you win. If I keep more children than you, you lose. If I keep the same amount of children as you, you lose. And if you lose… I get to keep everyone. Let’s play.’ 

When I turned around, he was gone. But I could just see those red, glowing eyes in the corner of my vision, a puff of black smoke where they once were. From that day, he kept whispering. Whispering that he would take Avaline, that time was running out… I was so scared. So I did it. At midnight, while she was asleep, I stabbed her in the heart. She died. Then I saw him. Mr Edburt. Climbing through the window. He was dressed in black funeral clothes, with a wide-brimmed hat. He looked at me in disbelief, as if he didn’t expect me to do it.

‘You killed her. Your own child. Very well then, that’s a point for you.’

Then he vanished. When he vanished, so did all the blood. There was no evidence that she even died. On her corpse lay a key. It was engraved with an address: 13 Birch street. So I went there. The same thing happened with Caleb. And now you. I was hoping to kill you in your sleep, but it seems it’s too late for that.” 

She looked at the time. 11:59. One minute left. Walking over, she began to cut my bonds. “You’ll willingly come with mommy, right?” 

60, 59, 58. 

“You won’t struggle, right?” 

57, 56, 55. 

“Don’t think of it as murder… think of it as a release.” 

54, 53, 52. 

She leaned in for a hug. 

51, 50, 49. 

I leaned in too. 

48, 47, 46. 

I wrapped my arms around her. 

45, 44, 43. 

She wrapped her arms around me. 

42, 41, 40. 

My knee shot up, colliding with her stomach. 

39, 38, 37. 

Winded, she stumbled back. 

36, 35, 34. 

Running up the stairs, she grabbed my ankle. 

33, 32, 31. 

Tears were rolling down my face. 

30, 29, 28. 

Tears were rolling down hers. 

27, 26, 25. 

“It’s for your own good! Don’t you know I only want the best for you?” 

24, 23, 22. 

I kicked her in the face. 

21, 20, 19. 

She fell back, letting go of me. 

18, 17, 16. 

I scrambled to the top. 

15, 14, 13. 

The trap door was locked. 

12, 11, 10. 

I unlocked it. 

9, 8, 7. 

Climbing out, I ran to the door. 

6. 

Mom was behind me, kitchen knife in hand. 

5.

I opened the door. 

4. 

I ran outside. 

3. 

Across the lawn. 

2. 

Through the path. 

1. 

Onto the road. 

0. 

I made it outside! 

Still on the road, I saw the headlights of a bright pink ice-cream van. The same one that killed Caroline. It happened so slowly. I saw Mom, still wielding a knife, sobbing on the verandah. I saw the van, still splattered with Caroline’s blood. I saw the lights glaring blindingly as the van drew closer. And I saw him. Mr Edburt. His mouth grew to a wide smile, and time sped up- the van ploughed into me, something warm, hard and cold all at once spreading through my lungs, and all faded to black. 

“I win.”

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cis people can be weird freaks all the day all the time and it’s just a fact of life but the cycle of outrage is so obsessive about trans women that if there’s one trans woman in bumfuck nowhere Winnipeg who likes to idk wear a bra as a hat or something then suddenly it’s all over tucker carlson and reddit and libs of tiktok and everyone has to have an opinion on the Winnipeg Bra Hat Wearer and if she’s proof that all trans women are freaks or if she’s actually trans or not and whether the trans community has to condemn the Winnipeg Bra Hat Wearer lest anyone think they endorse her actions, meanwhile a cis woman wears a bra as a hat and people are like oh ya that’s just Brenda she’s a bit of a weirdo, anyway how’s about the weather

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GUYS.

OK so as you know I’m in containment right now in Alaska for showing “anomalous characteristics” because my head is a clock and on fire. My only entertainment other than heavily monitored internet access is the Seekers (Erin Hunter) series.

So I started talking with the armored guard with a machine gun and a reality anchoring belt on about Sherlock and

HE

SHIPS

JOHNLOCK!!!!!!!!!!

I cannot stress this enough. The ship has sailed, y’all. 

My personal cell’s goddamn guard in this top-secret underground company bunker filled with beasts that go against the laws of nature ships Johnlock. If he can see it, anyone can.

And then he said, “WE NEED SEASON 3″! And I was like “SO MUCH YES!!” And we shared fanfics and fanboyed all night. Unfortunately he got disposed of this morning as a agents and guards are expendable company resources but that’s that and this is this.

The ship has sailed. Johnlock is inevitable! 

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I don’t even know how to explain how much this post means to me I straight up cried laughing the first time I saw it and it still makes me laugh every time I see it. it’s been months

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love this song

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Ancient Egyptians were using 20-sided die as early as 200 BCE. Source

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As chair of the wizard- [PARRIES A SPELL] As chair of the wizard counc- [PARRIES A DIFFERENT SPELL] As chair of the wizard council, I- [PARRIES A DIFFERENT SPELL] As chair of the wizard council I think staffs should be illegal during these meetings.

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Tumblr isn't even a website to me it's like if my diary was a groupchat

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Pozier- A short story (by me)

The large clock reads 8:30 as Margaret walks to the bus stop, right on time, like she is every day. There she waits. Her black leather shoes tap on the asphalt, their wearer impatiently checking a watch. The bus is late. 8:32. 8:34. 8:37. 8:40. She is the only one standing there, probably because not many people catch this line.

Then a black car pulls up. A tinted window rolls down, and the driver smiles politely. 

“Mary Pozier?” he asks, his eyes meeting hers. 

“Why, you’re more beautiful in person.”

Margaret blushes in embarrassment, but recomposes herself.

“Me?” she asks, looking around for anyone else.

The man laughs.

“You aren’t just beautiful, Mary, you’re funny as well! No surprise that Trucs de Vêtements hired you! Now hop in, or you’ll be late for your photoshoot.”

Shrugging, Margaret pulls open the back door and steps inside. She sits on the cream-coloured leather chair and exhales as she depresses into it. 

“Champagne?” asks the man, notioning to a minibar where the front passenger seat should be.

“Sure.” she replies, letting the man take a classy brand of liquor from the fridge and pour her a glass.

He hands it over, and starts driving.

“Well here we are.”

The car stops in front of a large building, glass windows covering every floor from ground to roof. Handing the man her empty glass, Margaret leaves the car. She does not watch it drive away, but instead walks towards the door. Another man is there to welcome her inside, opening the door for ‘Mary Pozier’. 

“Hello there, Madam Pozier.” he says, offering to take my coat. 

I give it to him, and he neatly folds it up.

“I assume you’re ready for your photoshoot.” he says, giving a curt nod.

“I am,” I say. “But remind me, what is it again?”

“You’re modelling our new items of clothing, Madam.”

“And what kind of clothes are they?”

“Expensive clothes.”

Reluctantly, Margaret nods in reply, and follows the man down the hallway. 

Brushing down her t-shirt, she suddenly feels underdressed compared to the two men she had met, both in full formalwear. 

“Don’t worry, Mary. You’ll be out of those cheap rags soon, anyway.”

The man presses a button for the elevator that dings upon arrival. The doors whoosh open, letting Margaret and the man enter, before closing once again.

Assistants guide Margaret into a white dressing room, with clothes carefully hung on hooks attached to the wall. After she got changed, stylists quickly did her makeup and hair, and guided Margaret into another room. In the centre of the room is a pedestal, adorned with a black handbag that would go great with her expensive look. As per the photographer’s request, she takes it, and steps onto the pedestal.

“Just pose like you do every time, and let the cameras work their magic.”

Awkwardly posing, Margaret could feel stares from the staff.

“Mary seems a bit… off today.”

“Yeah! Her hair was much harder to do as well.”

“And didn’t she have those diamond earrings?”

“And that pearl necklace she said she never took off?”

“Now that I think about it… She looks a little different, doesn’t she?”

“Where’s the bathroom?” Margaret asks after the photoshoot.

“To your right down the hall.”

The assistant walks away, leaving no witnesses to see Margaret place the handbag into her fur coat, take the lift down to ground floor, and walk out the great glass doors.

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>:(

abi whats ur thoughts about pinapples on pizza

wouldn't be my first choice but you do you babes