#Harshed Mellows

[dearyallfrommatt]

"U.S. Blues”

Another from that Deadicated tribute and another cover from the Mars Hotel album. Fine with me, as I like that record. Anyhow, this is by the Harshed Mellows, who only exist for this one tune. It’s basically three-fours of the Georgia Satellites, three-fifths of Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers, and Atlanta-based vocalist Michelle Malone, who’s played with or written songs for everyone from ZZ Top to the Indigo Girls. For the record, that’s Satellites frontman Dan Baird singing and if you’ve ever heard the ‘80s song “Keep Your Hands To Yourself,” you might recognize his voice.

[hms-incorrect-quotes]

Soul: Well, needless to say. Uh-oh Spaghetti-os.

[aurumacadicus]

Well. Put down my cat this morning.

Rest in peace, Callie. No one knew the decadence of relaxation like you.

[adobe-outdesign]

“dude you’re not still upset about me draining your life force are you? that was like 1000 years ago, let it go”

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

why is job hunting.

that's it that's the post

[woundlingus]

What the fuck is up with alarm clock anxiety it’s actually the worst. New job, new people, I’ve been out for like five years with disability in the prime of my youth so I’m a little awkward. I don’t care about ANY of that. My alarm clock scary, tummy hurt, oooooh alarm gonna yell at me in the morning better wake up ten times in the night just incase I can wake a minute before hand and not have it yell at me I don’t likey :( cause I’m just a little guy ooooh don’t yell at meeeeee :(

[gamergirl929]

Relax it isn’t that deep Orlando sat the majority of their starters

Umm, I am relaxed?

You must not be though, since you felt the need to come to my inbox and tell me how to behave on MY OWN blog.

Also, starters or not, Orlando got the L, next to the loss isn't going to be an asterisk that notes the fact they didn't start their usual players, it's a loss, no matter who started or not.

[danthropologie]

Now I don’t know how far along checos wife is or when she’s due but quite frankly I don’t care…… hear me out……. indulge in this delusion…….. imagine this….. she’s due November. checo can’t race. he’s at the birth of his child. who’s going to fill the second red bull seat?…….. well Daniels back baby and he runs those Vegas streets. here comes podium number 33 (for max of course)

🍯 🦡

daniel pulling double duty broadcasting live on espn2 from the cockpit of his car incredible talented brilliant show stopping never been done before etc

[battlfofendorr]

Reaping What You Sow

A Brio fic

Chapter One

Autumn settled into Detroit and the greater outlying suburbs with the usual flair - vibrant fall foliage, hay bales on every other corner, and pumpkin festivals all around the fringe of the city, declining further into the city proper until concrete and chain link eclipsed the celebration of the season.  The air took on that lovely chill - a crisp bite that nibbled at every inch of exposed skin. 

Sun dresses gave way to long-sleeved sweaters, leggings, and scarves. Jackets, and hats - even mittens, in the early morning, before the sun had risen high enough to fight back some of the building frost in the air.  Once, it had been Elizabeth “Call me Beth!” Boland’s favorite time of the year.  It was a season of abundance - of prosperity - or at least had always been, before. Car sales, spurred on by the return to school - the departure for college, the impending holidays - burgeoned, and the coffers of House Boland overflowed. 

On some level, Beth thought it might be a genetic love – after all, her strawberry blonde hair blended in with the fall leaves.  The dark charcoals and warm scarves made her pristine white skin pop, that cool flush from windchill gave her that incomparable glow. She was built - as some people were built for sandy beaches, or clear white ski slopes - for the seasonal tip into autumn, no matter what her wardrobe of unending sun dresses might suggest.   

No, Beth had reveled in the holidays, a distraction from the monotony of the school year, a break from the merry-go-round of pick-up, drop-off, parent night, and PTA. An excuse to break out a baking sheet, a glue gun. To prove that she might not have come from a perfect household, but, despite having no solid example to follow, she was an exceptional parent – an exceptional mother. 

The best, or damn close to it. 

Perhaps she’d gone overboard in the past, with the pumpkin-trimmed porches, and homemade apple pies, and cookies decorated to look like the season itself - leaves and acorns, happy pumpkins, and little pitchers of fresh apple cider.  Maybe she’d worn one themed cardigan too many, or put out one too many hand-picked throw pillows.  Maybe she’d let slip a little too clearly that she loved the holidays as much - no, more - than she loved the trappings for her daily life.  

But hadn’t she just been doing her best? Wasn’t she just trying to stay in the neat little box she’d been packed into? Mother. Wife. Homemaker. How could anyone fault her for that? 

…and yet, somehow, that was exactly what was happening – her checked-out and moved-on husband – adulterer, nay, whore – was finding more than just fault in her enthusiastic decor.

He’d once been an athlete and his body was still as fit and trim as ever. Of course it was - he’d always had her there, to watch the kids while he went on his daily runs, his bike rides, his trips to the gym.  Or, ahem, the “gym.” He was lightly tanned from time spent enjoying his summer sun - and especially the pool at his apartment complex.  A good looking man, for his age. He even still had all his hair, as thick and lush as when they’d been awkward teenagers.

Charming, when he wanted to be, but at some point he’d given up not just on charming her, but on loving her. On seeing her.

At some point, he’d started giving her that look - like instead of a part of Team Boland, she was the enemy.  

That same look he was giving her as he walked in the front door and started dropping their four kids’ overnight bags on the floor.  

“Do you have to do this every time?” He gestured at the house - the overabundance of orange, red, and yellow that had replaced the neutral summer look of the house.  “It’s too much, Bethie. You always–”  Dean paused, like he was hesitant to tell her what he was thinking: that she’d decorated just to show him up. Like it had been part of an elaborate plot to make him look like a bad father. 

Somehow, it was worse that he didn’t finish his sentence, just left it hanging, accusatory.  You always… 

And she was supposed to scramble to fill in the blank. 

Always what? Show off? Do too much? Care, even if nobody else does? 

Maybe, once, she’d have felt ashamed. Admonished. Maybe she would have fussed after him, contrite, and made his favorite soups. Would have apologized for being so - as he liked to say - extra.  Maybe she would have dimmed over and blotted out all the things she was proud of, to try and make him happy. Papered over her wants, her likes, to compromise and build that mythical “theirs.” 

Once. 

But not anymore. 

“I’m sorry, but you moved out. I’m not responsible for your decoration choices. And I have no intentions of–”

“Oh, that’s what this is about, is it?” He stood up tall, taking up more space now that she’d given him something to argue back on. “Me, moving out? Is this how you punish me? Show me what I’m missing out on, so I’ll regret leaving?” 

As if the carefully-arranged gourds had anything to do with Dean-the-disappointment Boland. Had ever had anything to do with him.  No, it had been for her sister, Annie. Then, her first son, Kenny. For the next of Beth’s children, too - Danny, Julie. Emma.  

For the neighborhood kids - because it was expected. Because it was lovely. 

And for Beth herself - for the child she’d been, once, that would have loved the beautiful front porch, the perfectly-iced cookies, the autumnal garlands, the wreaths. For the kid she should have gotten to be, but hadn’t. 

“You should go,” Beth said, carefully, more neutral the deeper into anger she waded. There was no reason to shout - no reason to argue. No reason to entertain Dean’s tantrum in her own house.  Dean - his opinions - no longer mattered. Thus the separate houses. The split holidays. The whole ex-ness of it all.   He’d thrown away their life, first, and no rewriting history or forgiving him could erase that, no matter how hard she’d tried just to forget, to move on. 

He - of all people - had no high ground to cast stones from. 

“Come on, Bethie, you can’t just–”

Bethie. The thing he always called her when he wanted to manipulate her, or to invalidate her. Bethie, like she was still a child, and not a grown woman. 

“I can just,” Beth said, though which of them she was reassuring, she couldn’t have said at the time.  “This is my house. It’s my time with my kids. You can go.”

She turned away from him - dismissed him like she’d send off an overly-enthusiastic waiter.  Mercifully, he left, slamming the front door just loud and hard enough to upset the pumpkin she’d spent twenty minutes perfectly placing on the wreath hanging over the door. 

“I’ll get it,” her oldest son - Kenny - said, and for a second, Beth saw in her boy all the things she’d once seen in Dean.  Because once - a very long once ago - Dean would have tripped over himself to help her. To prove that he was a white knight, and she was his damsel in distress. 

Maybe it was spite, or just the need to reclaim a season that she’d always loved, but an idea sparked in Beth’s mind, and started to grow.  He was disdainful of her harvest decore? He didn’t appreciate it? 

She’d show him - and the kids both.  She would pack up the kids and take them out to the country, where the red-orange-yellow leaves were a flare of vibrant colors. Where the hay bales piled high, and apples could be plucked straight from the trees. Where cider flowed like, well, cider. It would be all the kids could talk about for days. Weeks, maybe. 

They’d love it - after all, her blood ran in their veins, and that autumn affection, it was as innate to her as breathing. 

It was a good idea - the best she’d had in such a long time. 

Communion with their nonexistent pumpkin-kin.  

Beth carefully took the little orange foam pumpkin from where her son had tried to stuff it, paused long enough to re-fix it in a nest of plastic fallen leaves, adjusted Kenny’s haphazard placement, and then she reached for her phone.  If she was going on a life-changing, mood-boosting trip to the countryside, she had to invite her sister, Annie, and Annie’s son, Ben, of course, and the last third of their little friend triangle, Ruby Hill, with her husband Stan - if he wasn’t too busy working - and their two children, Sara and Henry.

The family - her family. The one she’d built for herself, regardless of Dean.  

Maybe she’d make a picnic. Pile all their warm throw blankets into the car, and thermoses of hot chocolate, and they’d stop somewhere on the way to one of the many harvest festivals, just friends, just family, and none of the drama and frustration that was so determined to build up around her, to suffocate as surely as the role of Dean’s wife and mother had once felt so isolating, so suffocating. 

They’d have caramel, pet a sheep, or a pony. They’d wander in a corn maze.  

It was brilliant. And the one person who could have ruined it - could have torpedo’d the idea faster than even Dean might have - hadn’t answered a text in three days. 

Why not? 

It’s not like she should be hanging around the house, waiting. 

Beth Boland might be many things. Quick to cry during sappy movies.  Too fixated on appearances.  Slightly - ever so slightly - uncertain about her own future.  

But after a lifetime of it, she’d never again be the girl that sat around in the big, perfectly maintained house and simply waited. #

[cypaira-the-skeleton]

LN The Janitor sketches + Raven

I haven't drawn more than one sketch for a while!

(except for the comic)

I started simple by making a portrait of Roger, looking like a good boi, then used the rest of the space to draw him in full body; which I'm finally happy about.

Second page, I really wanted to draw Raven getting chased down by The Janitor; especially since she's originally a LN OC Child

What I forgot to mention (and forgot about 😅) is that Roger finds chasing down troubling runaway children...exciting. I'm not saying he's sadistic (like some Teacher we know about 👀) but since he's not entirely human I imagine he's got some sort of 'Predatory' instinct whenever he's running after them. Yes he still finds it annoying, but at least it makes his monotonous job more interesting.

I feel proud of them😁

[yuukimiyas]

໒꒰ྀི っ◞‸◟c ꒱ྀིა feelin v much…not cool rn…

[artemisbarnowl]

Someone in my building loves powderfinger and I can tell they're going thru it when every month or 2 they blare "my happiness" but now we are following it through with "free falling" by Tom Petty and I would really rather they kept that one in the inside ya know

[qierxing]

alright i am not a gin person

[captainbfresh]

Had a dream I was at a party and there was this massive silicone ice cube tray shaped like a life sized dog and if you filled it up with ice and an alcohol of your choice when it got cold enough it turn into one big alcoholic slush puppy and came alive and you could scoop alcohol slush out of an opening in the back of its neck and give this weird cold blue dog icy cuddles and I don't think I'll ever be as happy as I was when my massive booze dog came to life and gave me kisses

[ssspringroll]

oh shit new shape for the xaxxed family

[notjusthespongenextdoor]

google how do i rejoin the tumblr RP community when i have no energy to RP and don't have any characters i'm particularly interested in right now