#are you happy now

[poughkeepsies]

we talk about it but "you know I wouldn't" "yeah I know you wouldn't" is genuinely. so fucking insane. you know I would change my entire life for you. you know I'd never move on after you. you know I'd keep your heart safe forever even if you were gone. yeah I know you would.

[11oh1]

[sonnetforbonnet]

Listen. One of my favorite parts of the "stab me" scene is Stede calling Ed a nut. Like, I could listen to him say "I've stabbed you, you nut!" over and over again. It's sweet, incredibly endearing, and just so so silly.

And then the writers had the absolute NERVE to bring it back when Ed died? How did they expect me to recover from this? Why would they devastate us in this way? What gave them the right?

[tideswept]

I think it’s vitally important that we hear more of your thots (and anakin’s 😏) on THICC obi-wan. Man is muscley and padded and Anakin is weak for it 😳

i said what i said and stand by it! 😤

#we need more of this tbh #man's a monk warrior#+4 years of war during TCW? #strong and built as hell #not shrinkwrapped #but s t r o n g

I do think his level of fitness vastly depends on what era we're talking about and this doesn't apply to AUs (unless the AU has a specific reason for him to be fit) but my guy. My guy. He is a warrior monk dude! He fights! He trains! He probably indulges in [1] terrible (and by that I mean GRAND and greasy and wonderful) meal at Dex's diner once a month and then eats almost fastidiously healthy the rest of the time.

But particularly once the war starts? There's rationing (probably with a focus on high protein) There's shortages. There's supply blockades. Stress and a highly active fighting style, training, drills, years upon years of sieges and combat. Running after Anakin. Running after Ahsoka. Doing his own feral gremlin shit. Man pulls stunts. He will jump out a window with no regard as to where he's going to land.

C A L V E S ✔️

T H I G H S ✔️

C H E S T ✔️

S H O U L D E R S ✔️

A R M S ✔️

He has them all, and Anakin is a scrawny kid when the war starts, and he's probably side-eyeing Obi-Wan suddenly filling out in ways he never did before, walking differently, distributing his weight and center of balance differently, and Anakin's not sure if he's envious or... something else.

(It's ok, Anakin. Your time will come. Your six-pack by the end of the war will be the stuff of holonet legend)

[justkillingthyme]

If I was you I would’ve killed myself a long time ago. I wouldn’t be able to live with being so fucking pathetic.

Sometimes I wonder to myself if you’re a happy person. Are you satisfied with your life? Do you get a kick from telling a 17 year old girl online to kill herself?

[gotham-snark]

Them just vibing while Bruce fights for his life in B&R 10😂

[ourstaturestouchtheskies]

photos taken by me, circa summer 2019 // Third Eye – Florence + the Machine // Make You Proud – Jensen McRae

[mcytcreativecrusade]

Little doodle I made that I had a lot of fun with. Tommy's recent stream really struck a cord with me and fits a little too well with what I'm going through so this piece means quite a bit to me. I'm getting there as well little bud. -Trevor

[en2k5]

I desided to make a edit of @machinot, because I like the animations that they create. check out @machinot because I find it cool and nostalgic especially the Nintendo DS animations. 【ｎｏ　ｒｅａｌ　ｔｈａｎ　ｙｏｕ　ａｒｅ】

[rig0rm0rbid]

Just realized I forgot to post these two Egon/Peter shitposts

[soukokumychildren]

Bringing Dazai the gift of different colour bandages!!!!

Christmas themed

Galaxy

Blue

Green

Red (to match his Chuuya)

Pink with hearts 💕

Silly ones

Ones that feature cartoons

(Tumblr won’t let me add pictures)

Chuuya: Is this what you wanted? Cause um...I think ya went a little overboard.

[11oh1]

[littlemut]

[tallestxiang]

I feel that out of all the squidward torture episodes of spongebob, 'are you happy now' is the one people are genuinely too hard on, or at least are watching wrong in my opinion.

As someone who has recovered from clinical depression, I was able to relate to Squidward in the past and this episode to this day makes me feel understood in a way.

Sometimes, it feels like no matter what you do, nothing is going right and you start to shut yourself off from those you love... but if you actually listen to them and let them help, things get better.

Squidward was shutting himself off from everyone, not going to work even. And if he actually let SpongeBob help him, maybe it would've been easier... not even just to give him a happiest memory, but just if he let him ask if he was okay

I think it's perfectly agreeable to say it's hard to watch because of how hard the episode is on him, but remember that this episode tackles the problem of self isolation and clinical depression. It reminds some of us that we aren't alone, and how far we've come once we've recovered. So next time you see this episode, just remember that it's not just a Squidward torture episode, but it's about clinical depression awareness! 🫶💖

[n4rval]

she Dr. W.D. Gaster on my I'm holding a piece of him right here til I fall onto my own creation

ok fine i am not that funny. we are done i am all out of answers

[hannahssimblr]

I tap a knuckle against the study door. 

“Dad?”

There’s silence. 

I knock again. “Dad? Are you busy?” 

He’s moving around in there, I can hear him. Closing browser tabs, maybe. Shuffling around and rearranging things, in a blind panic trying to look like he’s doing something important. I huff out a tiny laugh at the thought of him hurrying to close the minesweeper window before someone can come in and catch him doing something unserious. I don’t really know what he does in his pokey little study all evening, but one of Jen’s crazy theories is that he’s chatting online to his twenty two year old YouTuber girlfriend, to which I need to remind her, once again, that my dad is too boring to have an affair. Mom says he’s writing reports and even that sounds too exciting for him.

“Come in,” he says eventually, and I let myself into his lair where he is sitting stoically at his computer, a stack of paper, no doubt with exceedingly dull information on them is right by his side, and his hand hovers over it so I'll know he’s especially busy, and whatever it is, I had better make it quick. 

I close the door behind me and approach him while his eyes settle curiously on the stack of soft cover books in my hands. “What are those?”

“I spoke to the guidance counsellor at school this week. She gave me some college prospectuses, and I thought we could... um, look through them together”

He heaves out a sigh and gestures to the second chair. The guest chair, I suppose, not that there’s ever guests in here to sit on it. It’s uncomfortable like a lot of furniture in this house, all style but no substance, and I perch on its edge, my knee doing that annoying anxious jerking thing while dad takes off his glasses and swaps them with another pair. “Show me what you have.”

I pass the stack to him and he drops it onto his desk with a thud, picks up the first and immediately flips the front cover towards me with a completely uncalled for attitude. “What’s this?”

“A prospectus.”

“Rhode Island School of Design?”

“Yes.”

He tosses it aside without so much as a glance inside it and grabs the next, “School of the Art Institute, Chicago,” Then reads the blurb incredulously “‘Art and design change the world.’ Alright…” He raises his eyebrows and puffs out a breath as he chucks it into the discard pile. “CalArts, nope.”

My face gets hot. 

He snatches another and flips over to the back, “‘Studying here is different,’” He reads, “‘It is about making a better world, about becoming a creative force and learning to change the world through bold and curious thinking…’” He mumbles the rest and then scoffs at it as if it’s some political argument he disagrees with inside the Sunday Times, and he goes on and on in this manner while the rejection pile builds and builds and so does the feeling inside me. 

“What is this?” He says eventually. “These are all American schools. American art schools.”

“Yes.”

He scrutinises me like he believes I have gone mad yet says nothing because he doesn’t need to. I already know what he’s asking. 

The words come out of me in a rush. I rehearsed this in the hall for five minutes before having the nerve to knock, “Because I think I would get a chance at a really great education there. It’d be good for me to be away and independent and to learn a lot of new things, not just education and art, but also travel and culture. I’d really like to go to college somewhere that’s exciting and dynamic and… and…” Damn, I forgot the other adjective I’d chosen, “...Um, fun, I guess. It’s just that whenever I think about college I imagine myself in the US. I really think that’s where I should be.”

“That’s because that’s what you see in those movies.” He says movies like one might say hardcore pornography, because Christopher doesn’t waste his time with such things as movies. Christopher works, and studies, and reads endless, endless books about World War II. “You’re not going to college in the states.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a waste of time and it’s a waste of money. Do you know what it costs to attend just a year of college in the US? Before your living expenses?”

“I know, but I spoke to the counsellor about it, and she explained that there are scholarships.”

He laughs, “You’re not going to get a scholarship,” and switches back to his other glasses and shakes his mouse to wake up his PC, which has some kind of thrilling spreadsheet open on it. This 2009 financial report must be rapturously exciting if he’s more interested in it than the future of his only son and firstborn child. 

I inhale sharply, “But why couldn’t I get a scholarship?”

“Because,” He types some numbers into the sheet, “You’d have to have a pristine academic record, a long list of extracurriculars and a very persuasive personal statement,” he peers briefly at me over the rim of his specs, “I’ve been through the US education system, and I know the standard that these colleges expect of their scholarship students. You’re just not up to it.”

“I could be, if I worked hard. I’m already doing pretty well in all of my classes, like, I get Bs in most things-” I stop myself before unhelpfully adding, without even trying, “And I have extracurriculars, like, I play rugby and help out Jen with her maths work…”

“You have to understand that the kinds of people who earn these scholarships do a lot more than that.”

“Well I would do more things if I had more time to myself in the mornings, or in the evenings, or after school, or at any other point in my day when I have to ferry Ivy back and forth from-”

Dad barrels on as though he hasn’t registered that I am speaking, “And you know, as well as the extracurriculars, all of these scholarship students have exemplary records. They're well mannered, well behaved, they never get into trouble, never get detention, never mind suspension. Twice.”

I snap my mouth shut. 

“Honestly, if I was the dean of one of these,” he plucks at the limp corner of one of the prospectuses, “Art college places, and I saw an application from someone with your record, I would simply toss it out. There’s not a chance, and before you ask, I am not paying for art school when you could easily do that here. For free.”

“Okay, I understand that, but I don’t really want to go to college here if I can avoid it.”

He doesn’t ask me why. He already knows but doesn't want to acknowledge it, and it’s easier, as it always is, just not to discuss feelings. Any feelings, especially mine, which are the most irritating and irrational feelings of all. “Why art school?” He hums, idly poking around with something on screen. “Couldn’t you choose a more academic course?”

I’m surprised he thinks I’m capable based on all the things he just said about me.

“You could apply for something in Trinity. Math, maybe?”

“Maths.”

“Or if you want something more artistic you could try English. Literature. That would be interesting, don't you think?”

“Or I could just… do art.”

“I would just hate to see you become one of those arty types. One of that NCAD crowd loitering around Thomas Street with their facial piercings and crazy haircuts.”

Oh no, a haircut. I sigh, “I’m not going to NCAD. I was kind of hoping you’d be more enthusiastic about my choices, but if you don’t think they’re right, I mean… what can I do.” I loathe the laugh that comes out of me, this strange, nervous titter that I didn’t even realise I was capable of.

I get up and begin to gather the stack of prospectuses laying forlornly on my father’s desk, my hopes and dreams bound for the recycling bin. “I’ll speak to the guidance counsellor again about my options, I suppose, and then I’ll try and choose something that’s more realistic for me.”

Before I let myself out I force myself to pause and turn to him one last time, “Do you… um, if I come up with more choices for colleges, do you think you’d want to sit down with me some evening and go through them? Like, I mean, really look over all of the options and help me decide what the best thing is?”

There is a lengthy pause. 

“You know, Jude, I’m really busy, and-”

“Okay.” I leave the room and shut the door with a gentle click.

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