#Arthritis in horses

[horsentale]

Pain Relief

I love Horse N Tale horse pain relief products and pain management spray. Nothing else I’ve tried makes a dent in my back pain, but Horse N Tale ArthritisEz spray works well.  I ordered more to make sure I had some on a trip to a theme park.  I sprayed it on in the morning, rubbed it in and spent the day pain free!  That has never happened before!  My husband used the PainEz for the neuropathy in…

[dogcancerfoundation]

Supplements for Arthritis in Horses

If you’re looking for natural supplements for arthritis in horses, full-spectrum CBD oil may be right for your horse. CBD is a non-toxic and natural supplement that has anti-inflammatory properties. It also doesn’t have any psychoactive properties, which can make it an appealing option over other medications. CBD oil is now legal in all 50 states, so if you have access to the internet, there’s no…

[the-martyrfication-of-the-matron]

In contrasy to Garroth, Zane LOVES horses. This is basically canon anyway. Zane is such a horse girl.

(This is canon in mystreet but I think it's also the case in mcd)

Every time I mentally picture Zane, it is on the back of a horse.

I imagine he particularly has a black Arab, just because they’re a very distinctive breed of horse and because the one Arab horse I’ve ever encountered has been a fucking nutter.

[sweater-equestrian]

post farrier grass break

[theprissythumbelina]

there's nothing like calling up a friend on short notice and knowing they'll drop everything to help you when you need it

[mad-hare]

“Barney I need you to lift your back feet so I can pick them”

“Best I can do boss”

[talkethtothehandeth]

I can’t believe I used to bend down to clean horses’ hooves for an hour at a time with multiple horses like it was nothing— 12 year old me holding a 17 hand (big) horse’s leg between mine and bending in half while scraping out those hooves until they were spotless??? What the absolute fuck dude I can’t even bend down to pick something up off the floor without, at the very least, wincing in pain and cursing god

this is what it looks like (not me)

[aroace-genderfluid-snake]

my joints: snap crackle pop

me, under my breath: pop it, lock it, polka dot it. country fivin’, hip hop hip. put your-

[newsoysauce]

quick tip for trans guys if you have allergies or just in general. don't get tape with transtape's old adhesive. it's just better not to. i have hives all over my back. if it's the only thing they have in stock don't risk it. just don't. it's not worth it.

[horsentale]

Love Horse N Tale Products

I love the Horse N Tale Products I am very thankful for them!

CUSTOMER REVIEW I love the Horse N Tale Products I am very thankful for them! We love hearing from our customers or potential customers. Especially seeing pictures of you and your equine athletes with our products and how they have helped treated many conditions and ailments.  Below is a customer video testimonial. CUSTOMERS LOVE HORSE N TALE PRODUCTS Horses and their owners love our all…

[tovarishch-dyke]

the fact that I feel like I have no control over my life really increases by 200000% when I’m constantly being dissuaded from giving my horse the proper medicine he needs because someone has a misunderstanding on how NSAIDS work. I am literally losing my mind over this

[starscreamingg]

*through gritted teeth* I love working in the restaurant industry I love working in the restaurant industr

[harunayuuka2060]

Crowley: .......................

Crowley: Dark Mirror, what are you doing, bringing old people here?

Grandma MC: *was knitting when the horses showed up* Where are they?

Grandma MC: Poor horses looked so thirsty. I was about to fetch them some water.

Crowley: ...

Crowley: Granny, do you understand where you are?

Grandma MC: *hearty chuckle* No. I am used to getting lost.

Crowley: Erm...

Grandma MC: Do you have a chair? I can't stand for too long because of my arthritis.

Crowley: Here, Granny. I will call for others to assist you for the time being.

Grandma MC: Oh don't trouble yourself, young man. I'll ask for help when I need it. *smiles kindly to him*

Crowley: ...

Crowley: Thank you, Granny. *smiles back*

Grandma MC: *holding Grim* Good kitty... You're a good kitty... *gently petting him*

Grim: Mrhmm! I'm not a cat! I'm the most powerful wizard Grim!

Grandma MC: *chuckles* Yes, yes. Cats have always been magical.

Grim: ...

The students: ...

Crowley: It seems you can tame magical beast, Granny.

Grandma MC: Tame? Oh no. Animals are gentle when you know how to communicate with them.

Leona: Yeah, right.

Ruggie: *nudges him*

Leona: What?

Ruggie: Don't disrespect granny.

Leona: Huh? That's not your granny. Why are you being overprotective?

Crowley: ...

Grandma MC: Oh, it looks so peaceful. Thank you, young man.

Crowley: I— No, Granny. I don't think it's suitable for your condition to live in a place like this.

Grandma MC: It just needs a little bit of cleaning.

Grandma MC: Ah, we can ask those floating gentlemen inside. *referring to Ramshackle ghosts*

Crowley: ...

[heedmywarnings]

One last time

(Full Chapter)

In which you insult them one last time. (Aka me insulting pixels even tho I'm on Hiatus)

(Written when I was on Hiatus lmfao)

Warning: Cursing, lots of them.

》 - Chapter 2

Masterlist

♤~-~♤

You were finally captured. It took three months to get where you are, standing before you are the Archons who participated in the hunt, and now they will execute you.

"Before you here, is the Impostor that stole our beloved deity's face" Barbatos started, looking down upon the people, "As if you didn't" you said, barely a whisper "Would you like to repeat that, thief?" The Goddess of Justice whispered on your ear as she pulled your hair, "I SAID, AS IF YOU DIDN'T" you repeated, the crowd gasps because they are very very shocked because they gasped.

Also this moon cake im eating doenst taste good.

"What?"

"You were born from the desires of people, meaning if Decarabian wasn't a tyrant then you wouldn't even be born!" The crowd screams defending the Wind God, "Oh come on! He stole the face of his DEAD friend!" You yelled, "Don't get me started with how he abandoned his nation for the tyrants to just invade Mond. Lady Venessa freed Mondstadt from the Lawrence clan!" Technically, Venti did help but you need to get the crowd on your side.

"That's enough," Ei said approaching you as she unsheath her sword, "You also abandoned your nation! What? because your sister, THE TRUE RULER of Inazuma died?" At this point everyone is appalled.

"T-"

"Don't even get me started with you, you rat tailed motherfucker. You literally made a deal with the fatui, you knew Childe was gonna summon Osial and you let it happen. More so, you faked your own death because you didn't feel like ruling over Liyue? Or was it because you finally understood that you're just incapable of being an Archon? The only reason you survived the Archon War was the adepti and yaksha that you expended!"

"..."

"And who's to say you didn't commit any crime?" Ei said after the shock had dissipated, "What crime!? How do you think a mere mortal were to steal a God's face!?" You screamed through a horse voice, now you've got everyone talking, (like the jury in the Ace Attorney.)

"Is your god suffering from sever little-bitchitis to the point you'd hunt anybody who look REMOTELY similar to them?"

The Archons were stunned, it seemed like you made everyone hold their breathe. "Such blasphemy won't go unforgi-" "I don't need your forgiveness, you cockroach arthritis-suffering bitch," you cut Zhongli off.

"Hey now...let's not say something will regret, huh?" Nahida said, through the familiar gentle voice, "I won't regret anything that comes out of my mouth." You replied, not finding any reasons why Nahida should be insulted.

"By far, the only Archon that ever helped the Traveller was the Dendro Archon! And she was even locked up!" You said, "You, Barbatos, you just avoided any talk about traveller's twin. Morax, why did you sign a contract that silences you about their twin? Do they scare you that much? Are you really that weak and pathetic?" You said apathetically and sarcastically.

"I am under a contract, and I must abide by that contract," Zhongli replied with a more... confident form, you can't wait to crush it, "Didn't you also sign a contract with the mortals of Teyvat that you'd never hurt them? WELL WHAT ABOUT ME? WHY AM I AM EXCEPTION?" Technically, he didn't, but if they were gonna use lies and deception to win this argument, you might as well do the same.

"Because you're nothing but an Impostor, not even worthy to be called human" Ei said, striking her blade on your thigh, you gasped in pain. "Hah! And what are you? You were an Impostor that created another Impostor because you can't handle the guilt of being one!" At this point it was useless to argue, they were pissed off but the people? They don't believe you, but they've also lost faith to their Gods.

And so, what did you achieve? Death and your name on the history textbooks saying that you were the reason that Teyvat rebelled against their Gods...

So, are you ready to resurrect later in life to attack the Archons (verbally) once more?

Next chapter coming out idk when

[idksmtms]

happiness (David Von Erich x reader) - evermore series

A/N: The way this movie wrecked me should be studied…

Also, I know the actual song is about a break up, but the line “there will be happiness after you” just made me think of death.

Summary: Maybe none of these coincidences were signs, but you wanted to believe they were. You wanted to believe that David was rooting for your happiness. 

Word count: 2,669

Trigger Warnings: 18+, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, light to heavy angst, major character death is mentioned (but happens before events of oneshot), movie spoilers!!!, grief, moving on, guilt for moving on (ig could also be classified as survivor’s guilt), it’s kinda fluffy too, just nostalgic tbh, (please let me know if I missed any) 

Disclaimer: This is based solely on the portrayals of the brothers in the movie, not the real people. I do not own any of The Iron Claw characters. I do not claim to own any of The Iron Claw characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so. 

Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)

In a faraway barn of an already isolated horse ranch, sat an easel. On the easel was a canvas, a work in progress painting of shadows and darkness, anger and grief, made with splotches of red, black, grey. In front of the easel on a stool, sat you, wearing a messy apron over an old pair of jeans and an old flannel that still smelt a little bit like… him. The doors of the barn were thrown wide open (possibly because they never quite closed anyway) and filled the large room with bright sunshine. When the sun would eventually continue its course across the sky, the light would turn green from all the trees lined up on the other side of the barn and make everything suddenly feel like it wasn’t quite real. You loved those moments. If you were in one of the melancholic moods that still set in occasionally, then the green and yellow light made you feel like you had floated above the world, and if you just reached out, you could somehow find David. When you were in the good moods that now came with increasing frequency, you felt like it was a little sign from David everyday. A little reminder of the happiness you could still find, that he wanted you to find. 

It had taken you a long time to get to this place, this precarious tightrope of happiness that spanned over the chasm of grief. You could still remember the days after you had gotten the news, his mother’s soft voice over the phone telling you that his intestine had ruptured at some point in the night and he had died in his hotel room. Alone. Sometimes that hit you harder than the fact that he had actually died. That he had died thousands of miles away from family, from love, all on his own. You tried not to think about it too much now, it was an unnecessary train of thought that only made you feel worse. You could do nothing to change it anyway. 

But when his mother had told you, you had sat down on the edge of your bed and not moved until your own mother found you hours later. It was like life had suddenly been put on hold now that he was gone, that life wasn’t even possible now. Then, when the night came and the news slowly began to sink in again, you cried. First soft, silent tears that hurt your insides more than anything. Your throat clogged, your pursed lips pressed so tightly to each other they were bruising, and your hands shaking like you had developed arthritis overnight. Your hands never did quite stop shaking since that night. 

It had taken all your remaining strength to attend the funeral, to stand next to his brothers who had these broken expressions on their faces that made you hate the world all the more. His father with his stoic face that made you wonder if he had ever even loved David. And his mother, swaying slightly as she stood, tears streaming down her face that somehow made your own feel even more painful. 

The funeral was the last time you had left the house for a good month. You walked around your own family’s ranch house like a ghost, always making it just to the front door before turning back. You spent the most time in your room, because that was where all your memories with David were gathered, from all the gifts and pictures to the actual memories of him laying sprawled across your tiny single bed, feet dangling over the edge, cowboy hat over his eyes as he snored like a walrus. He used to say that it was the only time he ever really got good sleep, and you never had the heart to disturb him. You would simply adjust the little flap of duvet that could be pulled out from under him to cover his chest and stomach, then sit down at your desk chair to get any written work done that you might have. Then, a few hours later, when his absence from his family could no longer be abided, the phone would ring shrill through the house, and he would jolt awake, shaking his head to get the hat off his face and look around as if he had never stepped foot on the earth before. You always giggled, rolling your chair closer to the bed and gently petting his hair to calm him down as he blinked blearily and turned to you, depositing his head onto your shoulder with a little grumble. And the phone would keep ringing, left unanswered, until the second time they called, when you finally extracted yourself from David’s muscly grip, and went to sweet-talk whichever of his brothers had been given the duty of finding him while he gathered his things and bounced out the door. 

Before, whenever you had lain on the bed and thought about this, it had hurt excruciatingly, like someone was running a slow, twisting, drill through your chest. Now you just laughed, appreciated the peaceful moments you both had together. 

Your room still looked like it had then, though. Pale painted walls covered in memories, shelves full of them. One wall had letters pinned all over it, all from David when you had had a little phase of romanticism and had forced him to write and send you letters. He had taken it up with enthusiasm, even if he hated anything that remotely reminded him of sitting at a desk at school. He had written you a letter almost everyday for two months before you told him that you were running out of space to keep them, and maybe a phone call was better because then you got to hear his voice directly in your ear. You still read them sometimes, laughing at the insane amount of words he had to cross out or the little illegible scribbles that were surely supposed to be words but you couldn’t figure out which ones to this day. His handwriting was horrendous, but you loved him even more for it. 

Another wall had every picture you and David had taken together, a mishmash of polaroids and developed film that showed the story of your relationship. There were the shy pictures, when the relationship was still new and you had been a little nervous around him, and he had simply thrown his arms around you, rested his head on top of yours, and told the person to ‘take the goddamn picture’. Then there were the post-match pictures, one perfectly timed polaroid of you throwing yourself at him, wrapping your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, pressing an obnoxious kiss to his cheek while he shined almost white from the sweat under the flash. You couldn’t remember which match it was from now, you were pretty sure it was written on the back, but that had been standard practice for you after every match he won. 

The last picture of the collage, right at the bottom corner, was the last picture you had taken with David. It was just before he left for the airport, both of you standing in the driveway in front of their house, almost the same as the first picture you had taken together, just a different location. You were standing just in front of him, leaning back against his chest while he wrapped his arms over yours and rested his chin on top of your head. You were smiling so bright your eyes were squinted closed and he wasn’t even looking at the camera but down at you as if he could see your face from that odd angle. It was a cute picture, but you never looked at it fondly. Sometimes you were tempted to throw it out, but you couldn’t throw out anything that had even a hint of David on it. The picture just reminded you of how much you didn’t know, of how many signs you might have missed of the path David headed down. He had never told you about the drugs, the little energy boosters as his father had described them later. And you had thought the coughing and vomiting were an upset stomach. The toilet was always flushed when you came in to check on him, the sink always washed properly. You had even given him some medicine to take when he had assured you that there was nothing wrong. You had only found out from Kevin later that when David had excused himself to the bathroom at the wedding he had been coughing up blood. And that had led to the anger. 

For a long while, your love for David had turned into an unfair anger. You looked back on that period with a heavy heart full of regret. You hated yourself for it now. But rationality hadn’t mattered to you then, so deep you were in the valley of grief. You had hated him for not telling you about the drugs, for not telling you about the blood. Why did you have to find it all out after he died? Why did you have to find it all out from someone else? Didn’t he trust you? Didn’t he love you, or at least know that you loved him so much that nothing could make you stop loving him? Of course, later, when you began thinking clearly again, you had to realise that it was about him, not about you. That it was his own fear and pain and insecurities and whatever else was going on in his head at the time that led to this, not you. But after this initial hatred, came the somehow even more irrational one. You hated him for leaving you. You hated him for leaving you behind on your own. You hated him for dying… At the same time you knew you couldn’t hate him for that, it was the same as hating someone with cancer for dying. They didn’t choose it. They didn’t want it. Sometimes in the dead of night, when you convinced yourself to step past the threshold of the front door, you would wander the fields around the house, telling David in a whispered voice full of rage how much he had hurt you, how you couldn’t forgive him for this. 

Then, one day, you had gotten out of bed slowly, and wandered around the house in your pyjamas, when you found your mother pulling things out of the attic. She smiled at you, clambering down the ladder and wiping her dusty hands on her jeans before gently pinching your cheek between soft fingers. Her smile was soft, loving, a little bit sad because she had loved David too, loved the light and fun he had brought into the house, and she loved you more than anything and it hurt her to see you this way. 

“I’m just clearing out the attic, seeing if we have any things to donate,” she told you with a shrug as if you had asked her; your mouth hadn’t even been close to opening. You weren’t even looking at her, but at the box set next to the ladder, one of the top flaps pushed open and a peak of dark blue shimmery fabric flashing out. You got onto your knees, gently peeling the box fully open and pulling out the dress that had been shoved at the top. 

You spread it out on your lap, gently caressing the fabric as it fanned out and tears filled your eyes so you could no longer see the details, only the colour. It had been the dress from one of your favourite memories with David. 

It was only a few weeks after you guys had started dating, possibly a month after, and he had saved up some money to take you on an elaborate date. Dinner at the cute italian restaurant in the city centre, a stroll down to the ice cream shop, arm in arm, before he drove you out into the farthest corner of the farthest field of the farm in his pickup truck, the bed piled with every spare pillow and blanket from the house (including the ones from his own bed) so you guys could lay down snuggled up and stargaze. 

You had worn this dress, and kissed David until you were breathless, and he had been his best self, joking around and whispering sweet words in your ear and wrapping his big arms around you so your face was pressed into his chest and the world closed in to be just the two of you. 

And you smiled, a bright, watery, smile with sniffles and tears streaming down your cheeks as you caressed the fabric of the dress and your mother got on her knees to wrap herself around you as you hiccuped out sobs and pressed your face into the slightly musty dress. 

You had had probably the worst night of your life the night before you found the dress. Your thoughts had been the darkest they had ever been, verging on irreversible decisions that would have only made everything worse for everybody. And then here the dress was, reminding you of the happiness you had experienced with David, the elation and laughter and smiles and just pure joy he had brought to your life. And suddenly, for that moment, everything was a little better. 

And slowly, with each passing day, you got out of bed again and again, you left the house in the sunshine again and again, and you found all the signs of David, the little coincidences that meant just a little more because of him, because you believed he was trying, wherever he was, to still bring you happiness. 

And with these little encouragements, these little signs, you began to grow again. You refurbished the abandoned barn into an art studio, a place for you to use creativity to let out all the suffocating emotions. Each day you would come into the barn bright and early, just as a beautiful sunrise turned everything from orange to pale yellow, and you would sit down on the stool in front of the easel, and think, feel, paint. 

The signs kept coming, once a little bird, a sparrow, flying into the barn and landing at the top of your easel, watching you paint and occasionally letting out little chirps of encouragement. You spoke to it as if it was David, “I know it looks really dark right now, but I wanted a dark background so the bright colours in the middle would pop more later,” you explained. Another day it was the stray cat that hung around the farm, the one that had avoided you since her existence, suddenly coming to sit down beside your stool, purring and napping next to you the entire time you painted. “I love you,” you whispered to the cat as if it was David sitting down next to you again, “maybe too much.” 

And now here you were, humming some song from the radio as you painted a dark image, something to represent the moments of your hatred so long ago, something to capture it and put it away so you could look back and see how much you had grown since. The new person you had become. The person who understood that you couldn’t make the grief go away by hating the person you missed. The person who knew that she had been happy with David, but she could be happy now too, and both of these things can be true. The person who still didn’t really know what to do, or how to handle the grief and the feelings, but was ok with it anyway. 

So yes, there was a new you, a you after David that he wouldn’t get to meet. But you gave him the best of you. And you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

A/N: the emotional depths I went to to write this… 

Taglist: @nosebeers, @tourturedfolkloredepartment,

[reachartwork]

[private please, if thats alright] i used to follow you for your ai stuff back in 2021/22 when things were first kicking off (actually i thought you'd quit because of all the scandal lol) and the models and output were a lot 'sloppier' and kinda illegible but as far as i can see the stuff you're working on now is clearer looking and more coherent, so i was wondering - do you have any thoughts on the 'aesthetics' of AI and what specifically brings it unique merits and strengths as an art tool? for example i personally find a lot of modern ai art to be boring and soulless looking because it has neither stylistic interest (compared to the blatant 'inhumanity' of older models) nor a human person making base-to-base decisions about what it looks like, but i also havent been really paying too much attention to the AI scene except when it comes up in images searches. also, sorry if its not a question you want to answer, but do you do any more traditional styles of art as well? i find my art sensibilities are really effected by the mediums i work with so i would love to know if you have any similar experiences wrt ai and non ai works. thank you!

this is a side account so i can't answer privately, but, that being said;

i actually agree! for general purpose arting i preferred the secret horses style of total illegibility, and my main goal in my secret projects is to be able to reorganize around that style but with sharper, crisper lines and higher resolutions. part of why the whole "secret horses" style of ai medium fell through the cracks was because a: diffusion models were significantly faster and b: diffusion models scale upwards significantly better - they can produce higher resolutions and perform upscaling, which CLIP + VQGAN (the old method that made all the jank we all used to love) can't really do.

i think people whose sole interest in ai is making shitty advertisement images, or giant anime boobs, or some other lowest common denomenator slop, like... okay. you do you, the saying is "90% of everything is shit" for a reason, but obviously i think that's incredibly boring. i think the reason we see a lot of it is because a: the Good Artists who use AI are still effectively social pariahs, particularly on twitter and tumblr, just via dint of their medium, and b: ai puts art making in the hands of EVERYONE and it turns out not everyone has good taste (see: 90% of everything is shit), so you just see a lot more shit by volume.

anyway in terms of "traditional art" i am an author (READ CHUM) and a bassist, although i haven't been in a band in many years as my arthritis prevents me from playing for very long or very well anymore. if you mean traditional art as in like... paint and easel, or pen and paper, the answer is no. i've never had the ability to comfortably grasp anything with my hands even before the arthritis happened and now i lack not only the fine motor skills for it but also the pain threshold. i do like legos though, and i'd love to start making lego dioramas.

thanks for asking :)