whiskerless-lamp2

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Might fuck around n proceed without certainty idk

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any amount of love given will never be love wasted any amount of love given will never be love wasted any amount of love given will never be love wasted

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i don’t know. i’m barely a person. i just want to be kind and hold someone’s hand. eat an ice cream cone. stare at the lake. feel the sun on my skin. lay in the grass. run through a sprinkler. it’s so easy to forget life is supposed to feel like a deep breath and not a gasp

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Since the holiday toy drive post is circulating again, I figured this would also be helpful! Food insecurity is such a massive problem in America, in general, and if you have the means to help feed others, I think you should take that opportunity. Here are some other tips:

1. If you’re planning on donating items from your own pantry, please check the expiration dates on the packaging. Think of your donations as gifts to bestow, not castoffs to be rid of. It’s awful to think of people feeling like they got scraps someone else just didn’t want. Everyone deserves dignity with their meals.

2. If you’d rather give money to a food bank, that’s also great since they buy food in bulk and know what items are most wanted/needed!

3. Not everyone has access to appliances like stoves or microwaves or hot plates so if you can donate items that don’t need to be heated up, that would also be greatly appreciated!

🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽

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they really let this dude solve murders

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buddhist furry calculating what sins to commit to get reincarnated as the animal they wish they were. like a darts player

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every day i discover the meaning of life and then i lose it again and then again a new day and i discover the meaning of life and lose it by night time and then again and so on

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middle aged lady on my bus just called someone's partner "your whimsical idiot boyfriend" over the phone . with sincere frustration might I add

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awesome story. black doctors and nurses are the best.

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[“With amazing sleight-of-hand someone slips something into my pocket through the wire mesh. So adroitly is this done that I scarcely notice it, and the guard misses it altogether. And again. And again. A small square of paper, folded several times, falls to the floor. A note! Quickly, I cover it with my boot: like all the other zeks I wear tarpaulin soldier’s boots. Only mine are smaller than the regulation issue; Igor somehow managed to get a pair in my size and passed them to me in prison. Whew! Looks like nobody saw the note. I drop my handkerchief, then scoop up the note as I bend to retrieve it. I have not yet acquired the dexterity of a zek. Never mind, I will learn.

When everything quiets down and the guard turns his back on us again, I start to examine my booty.

“Hello, there, Irisha! My name is Volodya. My term expires in three years time. I am very fond of poetry. My favorite poet is Omar Khayyam. Here are some of his verses that I remember by heart, I hope you like them too.”

And, on a separate piece of paper, verses out of the Rubaiyat, closely written in tiny script (he must have written them when the train was stationary). Almost no grammatical errors. How about that! Much can be expected during transportation to the camps, but hardly something like this. Later, these verses were to be confiscated when I was searched upon arrival at Lefortovo prison, as were the Tyutchev and Pushkin poems which I had copied out and which were “travelling separately.” Instead of having them returned to me, I was given a document listing them as confiscated; the document stated that these poems were found to be slanderous, ideologically dangerous, and for this reason had been destroyed by burning. The reasons for this bizarre act was not hard to guess: the Kiev KGB staff are not expected to know anything about literature, and they had simply decided that these poems had all been written by me. It had not occurred to me to note that this poem was written by Pushkin, or that one by Tyutchev, as I had known them from childhood. So by courtesy of the ignorance of the Kiev KGB, I was arbitrarily elevated to genius rank: writing about the mountains of Georgia, the depths of the Siberian mines, about thunderstorms in early May… Naturally this “creativity” only served to increase the vigilance of the KGB. That’s right, my bright sparks: keep your eyes peeled and your ears open; what will be will be.

[…] Among the notes I discover a caramel in my pocket. The aniline colors of its wrapper have imprinted themselves on the sweet itself in bright red and violet diamond shapes. We used to joke about these caramels in Odesssa, saying that they were made of pure acetone. It melts, slowly, in my mouth. I will never know whose gift this is. Maybe it was slipped to me by that young, blue-eyed man with ringworm on his shaven head, or that elderly, homely-looking woman with the smiling wrinkles, or that swarthy “stripey” (a term applied to those who are on special regime, and therefore almost certainly doomed). Whoever it was— my heartfelt thanks. This caramel is the best I have had in my life. I reply to the notes as clearly as possible. The notes themselves I destroy, for we shall soon be in Moscow and that means we will be searched. I keep only the verses of the Rubaiyat: if they find them, let them search for a zek called Omar Khayyam.”]

grey is the color of hope, irina ratushinskaya, 1988

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can't even jerk off because i'm thinking about the horrors of society

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sources? a little birdie, et al. (2024)