Shypaintervoid - Monster Mash - Tumblr Blog

What an unsurprising & completely expected turn of events that literally everyone saw coming 😮

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Like. You just translate hours of your life into money, anad money into hours of life traded away? Fucks you up man.

The funnier version is converting money into Monster Energy. Electric bill cost you $110 this month? That's 35 Monster Energies, or one weeks worth.

Or uh, you ever think about ordering take out and reflexively translate the cost of the food & delivery into how many hours of labor it cost you?

I literally can’t get myself to sit through movies that don’t have women. I’m like where the fuck are the women? Why are there so many men? This is boring as fuck goodbye

"My first language has a perfect saying for this, but it doesn't make sense in english :("

Say it anyway! You don't owe them perfect clarity. Be profoundly cryptic, speak in riddles, make them ponder what the fuck you meant by that. The anglos, like porridge, must sometimes be stirred, so they don't burn stuck on the bottom of the pot.

i get into a horrific car accident while carrying a crock pot full of meatballs in the passenger seat. at the hospital, the surgeons cannot sort out which chunks of meat are me and which are not, so I end up with several meatballs sewn into my guts. despite this I make a full recovery, and they elect not to remove the meatballs because quote 'they seem comfy in there.' i go on the talk show circuit and become moderately famous as The Meatballs Woman. when i die i am buried under a gravestone with meatballs carved on it. in the year 2438, a grad student from what is now Cambodia who is studying the late pre-collapse American Empire writes her thesis on this, concluding that I probably never existed and was a conflation of several real stories and urban legends. years later, a pop-history book wildly misinterprets this and several other things, arguing for the existence of a historic American religious pantheon including figures like The Meatballs Woman, Florida Man, Emperor Norton, etc. this book sells bizarrely well and inspires a new neo-pagan movement, which in turn leads to a weird shipping community, resulting in a small but vibrant scene of ABO fics featuring me and MrBeast (who in this context has been interpreted as a god of excess and trickery)

this chilling scenario is only one of the multiple reasons I am going to attempt to not crash my car today

But... I love them.

No, I suppose I should go.

Hi if you ever find yourself in a relationship saying anything along the lines of "well I can't leave cause I would never be able to find something better than this because I'm trans/fat/aging/antisocial/unlucky" I beg of you to run. Please. You can find and build better but in order to do that you have to take the first step out the door. You do not have to endure abuse, mistreatment, or just plain incompatibility for the sake of a fraction of happiness. You don't.

afaik the only augmentative suffix in English is -zilla.

Even Panem had high speed rails man...

What are we even doing...

reblog to fucking bite the person you reblog from

apple blossomed trees / roots with the birds

I just reada really good fic but halfway through I realized "oh shit this is really familiar.... didn't I write something like this once?" And as I kept reading I kept predicting what happened next and the further I went the more convinced I was that they'd ripped off my story-

like, copied the ENTIRE plot and re-written it, just better than I had? The characters were more fleshed-out than mine were, and the POV was more interesting, and the pace made more sense- but it was MY STORY?

So close to the end I was like "holy shit.. do I message them? Ask if my story inspired theirs? Should I be angry? Flattered?" Cause their tags and description didn't mention me AT ALL, which, sure, it's fanfiction to begin with, but if you're using my work than at least credit me as inspo, right? Just to be courteous?

But I get to the end of the final chapter, and it's not finished, and I'm kind of disappointed cause I never finished my story and I was really immersed in their version now and had been looking forwards to seeing how they tied up my loose ends- so I scroll to the bottom to leave a comment, and.

It's MY URL.

IT WAS MY STORY THE WHOLE TIME.

THE ONE *I WROTE*.

In *2013*.

And FORGOT ABOUT

BECAUSE I WAS SO INSECURE ABOUT MY SLOPPY, SHALLOW, AMETEUR WRITING

And I'm just sitting here now staring into space thinking about every shitty story I've ever written now like

IT WAS ALL GOOD?

IT WAS GOOD THIS WHOLE DAMN TIME??

I'M A GOOD WRITER?????

somewhere between 'go fuck yourself" and 'no wait let me do it'

This is what Rasputin would've wanted.

5 years ago, I was in Rehab.

10 years ago, I was watching my Potential and Opportunities dissolve and evaporate in an ocean of cheap gin and expensive whiskey.

But 5 years ago, I was in Rehab.

One of the exercises they had us perform was to imagine ourselves happy, 5 years in the future.

Many of us in that room had forgotten how to imagine nice things happening to them. A few snorted (well, I snorted), finding the notion that we’d even still be around in 5 years grimly humorous.

For about half of us, it was the last stop on the way down.

But I indulged the therapist. I was there, after all, because I did not want to die. So, I imagined myself, 5 years hence.

Happy.

It came to me all at once; an artistic remix on Norman Rockwell’s Freedom From Want, reframed with myself placing food at the table.

Sunday Dinner At My Place, I answered, when it came my turn to share my fantasy. I was asked what food I imagined eating.

It’s not the meal itself, I said, it’s the implications framed around it. Sunday Dinner At My Place means that I have a Place. It means that I have Family that will actually speak to me and friends who actually want to see me. It means money enough not just to feed myself but others too. It means having the time to spare to take the time preparing the meal.

A lot of nodding heads all around me. A struck chord. Many people with no Place, in that place. Nowhere that would lament their leaving.

5 years hence, as I lay down to sleep in my Home, with my Wife and my Son, surrounded by my Art and my Flowers, I reflect.

It was a long road. It was hard. We lost people. So many people. There were long days and long nights and hospital stays. Angry arguments with ghosts. I changed, in ways I never hoped for, or expected. Good ways, finally, for once. Slowly, against the backdrop of a world in chaos, I found my mind.

Sometimes, My Wife wondered aloud, what she did to deserve me. After some stumbling with my feelings, I eventually settled on an answer.

I’m a Rescue.

She gave me a Home.

And, so, I gave her a Family.

It seemed fair

This Sunday, my folks, which whom I have not had a shouting match in years, will come over for dinner. We will cook and eat together. My Friend became My Wife, and she took a piece of me and with it she made Our Son. There will be many hugs, and no violence. Good Things Happened.

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but you don’t know what the future holds.

don’t give up yet, ok?

It could get good, even.

From a home on honeydewcraft

A huge number of people are already getting fucked over when it comes to being allowed to cast a vote in the upcoming elections. Let’s try to minimize what that number COULD be as much as possible. It might also be useful to have the number for the ACLU written down (or already in your phone) so you can CALL THEM while still at the polling place and get whatever information is needed in order to see about having the ACLU sue them. Write down names. Get witnesses. Take photos. MAKE IT VERY CLEAR TO THE POLLSTERS THAT YOU ARE GOING TO HOLD THEM ACCOUNTABLE. (Unless you have reason to believe they’re going to be assholes and try to have you arrested for doing so, in which case, be as subtle as possible.)

I am happy they are finally figuring it out, but I also think it is sad that it took so long for neurotypical people to go "maybe I should also work on understanding people, instead of making them do all the explaining"

“Medieval peasants couldn’t handle my Spotify playlist” but could YOU handle a medieval bard relaying the epic of Beowulf over the course of an hour? Humble yourself.