my friend has one of those really deep wells (like 4 ft deep!) outside of her bedroom window bc her room’s in the basement so any time it rains a bunch of frogs end up trapped down there and I climb down to get them out.
and after a while I noticed that some animal (probably a raccoon) takes its food down there to eat for whatever reason, so there are a bunch of skulls and bones. I have special permission to collect skulls for educational purposes and deliver them to certain people, so now I grab those too.
Well today I climbed down in, found three frogs, and five skulls. So I’m climbing out of this pit with a frog and a ziploc bag full of animal bones and suddenly the fattest pug and boston terrier I’ve ever seen both come over barking
and the neighbor comes over to see what’s going on. and I have these bones and these frogs and I’m like “uh, hey!”
just got my. bag of skulls.
and she says “oh! they told me about you, hahaha! are the frogs okay?”
I’m glad this is my legacy.
it’s worth noting I have to like, put my arms on either side of the well and use my upper body to lower myself into it and then I like duck down and disappear so it HAS to look weird from a distance, no matter HOW many skulls or frogs I come out with.
“make the princess speak and you will have the crown of kings.”
my knees hurt, as usual, from scrubbing. technically i’m too high of Maid Station to help out with these things, but i like seeing what happens when you clean. the development of things. how a lot of effort can make something. i like learning and trying and working hard to get towards something.
and i’ve seen them, from the back of pillars, from behind cracked doors, from beside her (on the best days) the way they talk to her. oh beautiful won’t you just look at me. oh darling. if you speak i’ll be your prince. if you speak i’ll be your king.
the princess, i know, finds the lines of suitors boring. it’s in the way her hands are always moving. she hides yawns, leaves early, we make her apologies. once, a man comes and tries to startle her into screaming. she rolls her eyes and looks directly at me. i have to hide my smile behind my sleeve. he is taken away while still screaming.
by accident, i find her once, crying. when we imagine princesses, they always cry daintily. hers is hoarse, angry, and something in it breaks me. in my station i should apologize and bow and leave. instead i am frozen, watching her shoulders heaving.
she looks up and spots me, her cheeks ruddy. i know i should go but instead i make a big show. i act as one of her princes. i make grand gestures and speak in deep voices. i frantically offer her handkerchiefs and trip over my own two feet. a smile crawls up over her, slowly. i dab my sweat away and offer her the used rag. i feign a fluster, turn a terrible cartwheel, make shadow puppets. the sound of her laugh, raw and rusty, sends shivers through me.
for a while, i do not see her after this. but then i am called to her chambers. she is crying again. i offer silly gifts, pebbles and dusting rags and a candlestick from her own kitchen, pretend to steal it, use it as a hat, rock it as a babe. she laughs more easily this time, gladly, and when she laughs i am taken by more important maids, thereby officially Excused.
it goes like this for months. the winter comes. i rarely see her. i spend my week thinking about ways to please her. i knick interesting cookies, show her shiny buttons, learn to cartwheel in a full skirt, and then promptly how to make it look foolish again. i learn how to juggle hot bread and dance as a man would, i learn how to balance on a ball and how to fall down without hurting myself, how to fake a fight with my own body, which colors she likes and which don’t please her.
i show up on a cold eve with a knotted line of scarves hidden down my sleeve, worried and breathless, wondering why she’s been crying. the door opens and she is sitting there, happy. at first i’m confused, but she waves me in. next to her is her small dessert, in two containers. i’m not sure how to respond, so i fake a fall to hear her laugh, and then sit at her feet. she gives me ice cream – so rare a treat. i know what went into making it – the hours of shaking. it’s smooth and tasty. i don’t feign my reaction, but she laughs anyway, kindly.
it goes like this. i see her more frequently. she likes giving me new things, watching me discover i hate kiwi and love oranges and would die if it made her laugh breathlessly. i’ve made her keel over with cackling and she’s put a fire in me. sometimes we just sit there, quietly, enjoying each other’s company.
it’s in her hands, always moving. little things i thought were just her, fidgeting. here’s how she says she’s thirsty, this is what her hands do when she needs a second to think, here’s how she shows she’s happy. this is how i learn to speak back to her. around her i spend much of my time smiling. i feel every visit is a gift. a new part to unravel. i find out she doesn’t respond to spoken things, that she needs to be looking in order to know you were speaking. sometimes she has me talk and she holds her hands to the base of my throat, her eyes wide and wondering. sometimes she just looks at me and i forget that i’m her jester in chief. i get caught up in her eyes, in how expressive they are when she’s happy, in how when she’s sad i feel like i’m drowning.
i never see the king or queen, but i know when she’s had a visit with them, because she never comes back happy. two winters i have known her, two winters and now we dine frequently. i am often called to stand beside her, to whisper translations of her desires into the ears of someone more important than i, someone who gets to be the voice of royalty. i can’t decide if i’m her friend or her plaything, but i don’t know i care much of the distinction. every moment i’m near her is a moment free of friction. i take stock of suitors and curtsy to them in daylight only to mock them in the candle’s eye later.
she asks me one night to stay. it has been a bad day. it’s completely not okay. i cannot say no but i cannot, by my station, stay. but she begs with her eyes and her hands and i know i’ll take the punishment.
we lie beside each other. i make sure to turn to her when i speak. in the dark she can’t see me, so i move my hands in the way i’m learning. she asks if i am ever lonely. i cannot tell her that i am always lonely without her beside me, so instead i say i think all people are very lonely and just are pretending. she laughs a little at that and says she thinks her parents are the two most lonely people that ever met. her mother was like her; broke a fairy curse and talked, just once, although nobody knows what she said. well, excepting her father, who was the only one around, and who won her hand in marriage.
from her mother she learned the art of hands, of speaking without words – from her father she learned that who she was included a curse. that she just wanted someone who would make her open like a rose – someone who could fix her. how she stared out into the royal garden and wished on flowers to be what her kingdom needs.
she fell asleep pressed against me. i couldn’t breathe. i was still awake in the morning.
the punishment never came. we spent nights like this. the handmaidens had grown to know me. whenever their princess was stubborn, i worked magic and made her lovely.
it was a terrible thing. i did too good a job, i think. the princess glowed too much or shone too brightly – or at least, i saw it that way, so who knows what the truth is. every day it felt like we were being rushed with princes.
her father’s temper at hosting failed. it was the day before her twenty-first birthday and first time i’d ever seen him. he stormed in at the end of the session. “just speak!” he said, “it’s not that hard! do for others what your mother did!”
“tomorrow is your last day of this,” he warned her, “either you pick a prince or i pick for you. i’m done with it.”
he stormed off. she was left shellshocked and trembling. that night she didn’t ask me to come, but i waited outside, just in case she changed her mind. i understood why she needed space. either she’d speak and be married tomorrow or she’d be married shortly. i heard her crying and it took everything in my power not to rush in and hold her, cradle her gently. but i cannot come into a room of a royal person without being invited. i stayed there, tears in my own eyes, thinking of treason.
the next day was a huge festival. what had been a birthday celebration was turned into a day about princes. i watched her shake her head. i tried to cheer her up. i tried everything. i frequently came inches from causing public humiliation, toed the line of mocking and failing to acknowledge my station. she wouldn’t smile. not once. not even for anything.
the day was long. the bonfire wore down. i watched her crumple into herself. i was out of ideas. i knelt at her feet. her eyes barely looked at me. just wait, i said to her with my hands, i’ll be right back. i took off running.
the price of stealing is losing my hands. these things that i spoke to her with. these things that mattered so much to me, that helped with my comedy and cleaning.
i didn’t think of them. i bloodied my fingers when i ripped the royal roses from their stems. and then i ran, as fast as i could, back to her feet. i picked them to show you, i said, as she gasped, looking at my treason, they’re beautiful and nobody told them to open to reveal their secrets to the bees. they are unbroken. as you are. as you always will be.
she fell off her throne and for a second i was beyond speaking, worried something had happened, or she’d fainted, or i’d said the wrong thing. but then she was on her knees, her arms around me, and i heard it. i heard the soft croak of her speaking. just one word, and it sent shivers down me. my name, in her voice, awkward and unwieldy, but full of love and passion, burning fire through me.
i felt a hand on my shoulder. i was pulled away from her. they already had me in handcuffs while i struggled to get back to her, to tell her i loved her, to beg her to run off with me or maybe just hold me around her, maybe just have her for a moment, because i couldn’t live without her for a moment longer.
they put me in the cells. i rotted in there, for a while or for no time at all, i’m not sure. the thorns scarred my palms. i watched the scabs build up and flake off. every time someone came down, i flinched, wondering if i would be the next to be taken and chopped into bits.
but one day the light was different. not the smoky torch of the jailer, instead a bright light in a lantern. at first when i saw her, my breath caught in my throat, mistaking her for my princess.
but she was my queen. at first we stood in silence. and slowly, i moved my hands to speak. is she married? is what came out, even though i should be more worried about me myself and me.
she is not. she bit her father on the arm when he tried to make her. then she fought him. and then ran away. it took us a bit to find her, i’m afraid. she threatened her own life and the life of everyone in this place. the queen was smiling. i was told there was a young woman who could make the princess speak, whom she would die to save, who brought roses to her feet. someone in a cell, rotting. are you her?
the memory of her voice rang through me. i’m she.
yes, her hands said, for even now, aren’t you speaking to the silent Queen?
she opened the door. come, she said, let’s get you cleaned up for the ceremony.
the crown of kings. when she wraps her arms around my neck and laughs next to me, i am royalty. when she smiles or makes a joke or asks to see my cartwheel again, i’m lost in her. i kiss her whenever i can, which is often. we have roses in a vase at the base of our bed, and for all of the kingdom, i’d give my hands if it would keep her laughing.
the next time she spoke was just once, at our wedding, where she said the two words i do to bind us for eternity. she had learned from me, from holding her hands over my voicebox, the way i learned from her how to use hands to speak. sometimes at night she says my name, just because she likes what it does to me.
i’m more blessed than a king. every day i spend with her is a day i spend happily.
Working somewhere relatively isolated meant our local Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals did not have as many resources as it would have in a more populated state. This meant the RSPCA didn’t employ their own vets and used us instead. Mostly this was for desexing anything that moved, but occasionally there would be a cruelty case that needed attention.
On case in particular, was a lovely kelpie puppy and her surviving litter of puppies. They had been seized by the RSPCA when the pups were a few days old, and raised with her in the RSPCA while evidence was gathered and court proceeding did their thing
Only after two months, the ‘owner’ started making noise that they were going to claim their dogs back and were coming to the shelter to ‘claim’ them. the RSPCA inspectors had no intention of letting them have these dogs back, but there were concerns that if they knew where the dogs were, they’d break in later and steal them back. Considering they’d already skipped court there was a good chance we’d never find the dogs again if that happened.
So on the day of concern, it was decided that the Mumma Kelpie and her four puppies would spend the day at my house while I was at work, and the Long Suffering Boyfriend would dog sit. After all, he’d grown up with dogs and the puppies would be in a crate.
He fell for their cuteness.
He wondered what could possibly go wrong if he let them out of the crate for a little while.
Like Pandora’s box opening, when my LSB opened the crate, four puppies sprung forth, each running in a different direction within the house to find something to destroy.
He could not contain more than one puppy at a time.
Every time he grabbed one to return it to the crate, the previous puppy would escape again. They roamed the house like entropy sprites, seeking things to chew and destroy.
Wonka the cat was not impressed.
Meanwhile, Mumma Kelpie would just follow the LBS around from room to room, looking smug as her offspring unleashed chaos.
Fortunately, when I returned home late from work the RSPCA inspector had already collected the dogs, after corralling them all up again.
I only witnessed a fraction of the knee-high chaos and destruction that remained. A litter of bored 8 week old puppies who have been confined most of their lives and then suddenly have free run of a house can be very creative chaos.
(And if you were wondering, they all got pet homes eventually, even though it took Mumma Kelpie months longer to be adopted.)
I saw Lindy Hemming’s work in Wonder Woman and I almost
cried. Scratch that, I did cry. Lindy Hemming didn’t use fetish lingerie
as her starting point, she used armor. Actual armor. Roman armor, to be
specific. Romans made armor out of overlapping bands of very heavy
leather. Because it was organic material, very little of it survived,
but here’s a fragment:
You can see this same technique clearly on Antiope in Wonder Woman:
And you can see it here on Diana:
It’s been highly stylized on Diana, but the inspiration, the intent, is there:
Remember when I said sometimes I can tell exactly what a designer was
looking at when they designed something? This is a piece of Roman
leather armor made out of a crocodile hide:
This is one of Hippolyta’s costumes. I almost squealed out loud in the theater when I saw it!
All the Amazons had fantastic, warrior-based details. The folklore
about Amazons cutting off a breast so they were better able to fight?
(which has no historical basis, btw) Lindy Hemming gave them a metal
breast plate on one side:
And, as a side note, can we talk about the casting of the Amazons?
All those gorgeous, strong, athletic women of all ages… swoon!
Yes, Diana’s costume has been stylized and they made her attractive,
but that costume first and foremost is armor. It’s functional:
That skirt? The shape is Roman, cut high over the thighs so it doesn’t impede movement:
Those aren’t sexy thigh-high boots:
They’re Roman greaves, meant to protect, and they buckle on. Again, ARMOR!
With Wonder Woman, the starting point, the INTENT, is
everything. The reason I literally cried watching the Amazons fight is
that FINALLY, somebody started at the right place. That design showed
respect. The intent, right from the start, was to portray those women as
warriors, and that, at least for me, made all the difference.
– on the first day of class he brought his favorite toy truck from when he was a child
– is from Argentina and has a cute accent and sometimes speaks in Spanish on accident
– teaches us Spanish phrases for fun
– very tall and awkward and has super curly hair that falls into his face constantly
– giggles at his own jokes
– on the second day of class he showed us pictures of his cat eating a salami
– the cat’s name is Pants
– i saw his teaching notes today and he doodles little flowers in the margins of his notebook
– Brought us a smiley face balloon to cheer us up when the weather was bad
– played with legos for half the class
– likes balloons a whole lot
It’s now the middle of summer. I do research in the physics department, my office is right across the hall from his. And so:
– He knows I’m into observational astronomy and despite him being a nuclear astrophysicist himself he will email me (and some of the other observationalists) interesting articles and videos about astronomy, usually and around 2am, the poor insomniac
– He became a dad yesterday! In his email he said “sorry, I won’t be in this week, I’ll be frantically googling how to take care of a newborn instead”
– his last name is Estrada and so I simply replied “congratulations on becoming an Estradad!!!” To which he replied “:D”
The basilisk (Naja regula) and the cockatrice (Regulus gallus) do have overlapping distributions, but they are not the same creature.
The basilisk is the tiniest of spitting cobras, maxing out at only around 12-14 inches. However, it is also among the most venomous, and packs both a deadly bite and the ability to spit blinding venom several feet away with deadly accuracy. But before you get too disappointed, there may be some truth to the reports of insta-death odors and environment wrecking toxins as well, though not in the way you might think. These diminutive serpents dwell in volcanic regions surrounding the Red Sea and along the Great Rift Valley, where hidden gas vents may have made it appear that local flora and fauna have dropped dead for no reason.
The cockatrice, meanwhile, is a much showier beast. A flightless member of the wyvernidae family, it is swift footed and aggressive. Both sexes possess the red head and wattle, but the male’s crest is much more pronounced and swells with blood during mating rituals and threat displays. All dragons can spit up the contents of their stomach to some degree; the genus Regulus has honed this defense mechanism to a precise spurt of chemicals that can cause a painful burning sensation and blindness, much like the spitting cobra. This is generally a last resort; they prefer to simply bite and kick.
The female lays 3-5 eggs in a shallow depression lined with dry grass and leaves. It is up to the male to incubate the eggs and protect the chicks from predators, especially mongooses, which seem undeterred by the cockatrice’s aggressive nature. Cockatrices are found in Northern Africa, as well as parts of Southern Europe.
The issue isn’t that Trump said a “naughty” word…it’s that he said it in the context of bragging about how fame and wealth means he can get away with sexual assault and he was BRAGGING ABOUT THIS
this is a pretty good summary of what Amsterdam is like
THERE IS SO MUCH GOING ON IN THIS VIDEO WHAT WAS UP WITH THE GUY RUNNING AT THE VERY BEGINNING AND THE ONE CAR HIP-CHECKING THE OTHER INTO A WATERY OBLIVION AND THE SPEEDBOAT AND AAAAAAAAAAAH
And then they destroy the stoop on that building, and just drive off???
did any of y’all see the motorcycle on the sidewalk in the other building
oh my god and the two pedestrians huddling on the very edge of the canal to avoid getting hit by the motorcycle
Saw folks in the notes saying this was from the filming of The Hitman’s Bodyguard, and sure enough…
This is apparently an anti-trans attack ad but to me it’s more like, yeah I definitely would rather we spend that money on healthcare than death machines?
How is this even a question let alone one they expect the opposite answer to? It’s pure brutality…
I like how it looks like it’s implying we’re spending $Billions on Chelsea Manning’s estradiol
I did the math when this came up on twitter.
HRT + SRS costs, on average, 25,000$. There’s 1.5 million people in the US military. Even if every single person in the US military was trans, that’s only 37 billion dollars.
That plane there? That’s the F-35, which the US has spent 400 BILLION on so far, just in developing the thing. That means the US could literally give hormone replacement therapy and sexual reassignment surgery to EVERY SINGLE MEMBER OF THE MILITARY AND IT WOULD STILL BE CHEAPER THAN THAT ONE STUPID PLANE.
(Or for that matter, the US military is planning to spend 1.5 trillion dollars on the F-35 overall. For that much money you could instead afford to give 19% of all Americans HRT/SRS. One in five people!)
Gods above and below, but do I HATE the F-35. It would cost only $30 billion or so to send literally every American to college at a public university. It would cost around $20 billion to go single-payer healthcare. Around $50 billion to completely rebuild our highway infrastructure. But no. We have to spend 2% of the ENTIRE FUCKING PLANET’S GDP on this one fucking jet that doesn’t do ANY of its multiple roles well, and the military doesn’t even WANT.
Neovaginas, unlike the f-35, are functional when wet.
Baby Nepenthes (pitcher plant). These are not easy to grow indoors due to their humidity requirements but somehow this one is lovin’ life and growing quickly.
If you get a species that prefers lower humidity and doesn’t require a temp drop, and you mist it daily, these do great indoors! You have to provide the right soil and water, they can’t tolerate minerals or nutrients due to being carnivorous plants, but they’re really not that difficult if you know what you’re doing.
BettSplendens Tumblr Evac 