pipistrellus:

pipistrellus:

I love that phenomenon where ur talking to another neurodivergent person for the first time and u haven’t quite grocked their flavor of brain yet and they haven’t grocked yours and you’re both using your Acceptable Friendly Person Getting To Know You Script on each other but of course those scripts have been calibrated mainly for use with, like, normal people, so you just end up being like two conversational roombas bonking gently off one another like “hello fellow human” “hello fellow ‘hello fellow human’” until you both at some point manage to adjust your programming and actually like, communicate

It’s like when I was a kid I had two furbies and when you put them next to each other they’d just natter nonsensically past one another for a bit and then at some point one would abruptly recognize the other with its furby sensor or w/e and it would shout “DANCE!” and the other one would flap its ears and reply “HEY, DANCE” and then, in perfect unison, they would begin to rock back and forth while chanting “doot doot doo doot doot doo”

It’s exactly like that. I love it. Crazy people are the best, we are super excellent, i love us, i love crazy ppl

I wrote this post in my head while having a major dissociative episode in the bathroom and its the best and truest thing Ive ever said

katy-l-wood:

This did not go where I expected from the first tweet and now I am laughing so hard I am crying.

suriel:

this reply in the comments tho

anexperimentallife:

dwinkus:

when I was a kid you had to do the charlie the unicorn voice whether you liked it or not. you had to say candy mountain charlieeee in the voice. not like these days

just-an-adam:

transamus:

increasingpanic:

transamus:

kissing you on the forehead

with tongue?

with tongue. 🥰

happyhealthycats:

clairelovexo:

siren-kitten-his:

kidzbopdeathgrips:

happyhealthycats:

heatherwanderer:

timemachineyeah:

happyhealthycats:

Citra is REALLY bad at meowing. She sounds like a broken party favor when she remembers to actually meow.

OH MY GOD

Being an orange female kitty is already rare, but you had to go adopt the one in a million who can’t cat properly

She came in a two pack so I had to.

Simcoe (left) and Citra (right), both girls. Both rescues. Both biological litter mates (sisters). Both long term loving projects to teach human trust to.

Simcoe got 100% of the meowing capabilities.

Originally posted by desingyouruniverse

WAIT! WAIT!! So, are you telling me that actual, normal meow was the sister? Who, seemingly, just meowed at the moment because she saw her sister struggling so she tried to help by giving her an example???

THAT was actually Seymour. Who does also love Citra, but wasn’t really helping. He’s just very vocal because he’s an exclamation mark in a cat’s body.

ironychan:

My co-worker wrote out a list of predictions for the world cup and that’s how we learned he thinks there’s a country spelled “Brazeel”.

a-frogge-bip-a-smal-beastie:

gsirvitor:

WHAT

witch-without-gender:

thedaddycomplex:

So, okay, fun fact. When I was a freshman in high school… let me preface by saying my dad sent me to a private school and, like a bad organ transplant, it didn’t take. I was miserable, the student body hated me, I hated them, it was awful.

Okay, so, freshman year, I’m deep in my “everything sucks and I’m stuck with these assholes” mentality. My English teacher was a notorious hard-ass, let’s call him Mr. Hargrove. He was the guy every student prayed they didn’t get. And, on top of ALL OF THE SHIT I WAS ALREADY DEALING WITH, I had him for English.

One of the laborious assignments he gave us was to keep a daily journal. Daily! Not monthly or weekly. Fucking daily. Handwritten. And we had to turn it in every quarter and he fucking graded us. He graded us on a fucking journal.

All of my classmates wrote shit like what they did that day or whatever. But, I did not. No, sir. I decided to give the ol’ middle finger to the assignment and do my own shit.

So, for my daily journal entries, over the course of an entire year, I wrote a serialized story about a horde of man-eating slugs that invaded a small mining town. It was graphic, it was ridiculous, it was an epic feat of rebellion.

And Mr. Hargrove loved it.

It wasn’t just the journal. Every assignment he gave us, I tried to shit all over it. Every reading assignment, everyone gushed about how good it was, but I always had a negative take. Every writing assignment, people wrote boring prose, but I wrote cheesy limericks or pulp horror stories.

Then, one day, he read one of my essays to the class as an example of good writing. When a fellow student asked who wrote it, he said, “Some pipsqueak.”

And that’s when I had a revelation. He wanted to fight. And since all the other students were trying to kiss his ass, I was his only challenger.

Mr. Hargrove and I went head-to-head on every assignment, every conversation, every fucking thing. And he ate it up. And so did I.

One day, he read us a column from the Washington Post and asked the class what was wrong with it. Everyone chimed in with their dumbass takes, but I was the one who landed on Mr. Hargrove’s complaint: The reporter had BRAZENLY added the suffix “ize” to a verb.

That night I wrote a jokey letter to the reporter calling him out on the offense in which I added “ize” to every single verb. I gave it to Mr. Hargrove, who by then had become a friendly adversary, for a chuckle and he SENT IT TO THE REPORTER.

And, people… The reporter wrote back. And he said I was an exceptional student. Mr. Hargrove and I had a giggle about that because we both knew I was just being an asshole, but he and the reporter acknowledged I had a point.

And that was it. That was the moment. Not THAT EXACT moment, but that year with Mr. Hargrove taught me I had a knack for writing. And that knack was based in saying “fuck you” to authority. (The irony that someone in a position of authority helped me realize that is not lost on me.)

So, I can say without qualification that Mr. Hargrove is the reason I am now a professional writer. Yes, I do it for a living. And most of my stuff takes authorities of one kind or another to task.

Mr. Hargrove showed me my dissent was valid, my rebellion was righteous, and that killer slugs could bring a city to its knees. Someone just needs to write it.

This is the first time I’ve seen this post but I know I’m gonna love reading it every time it shows up on my dash

wedarkacademia:

(via violentwavesofemotion)

bunjywunjy:

cerastes:

funny-tik-toks:

Living Cartoons

IT IS FUNNY BECAUSE HE IS NOT A TOILET for best line of 2020

louisegluckpdf:

louisegluckpdf:

every time i sit down 2 watch a horror movie i think of that one tweet :/

rb if you too sit down in ur room and watch horror movies alone

wizardshark:

foxhardt:

you dont have to be a parent to understand the horror of walking into a room to discover that the baby crawled out of his crib and onto that pottery wheel you forgot to turn off, and while the baby is spinning around and around, the dog is sitting there all calm, like a person, gently using his paws to fashion the babys soft cartilage head into something a little more modern.  it might be the classic tale of bad parenting, but lets see where the dog is going with this

This post is from 2013. It has less than 100 notes. Together we can revive this work of art that tragically ahead of its time. We’re ready for it now