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"Do you ever dream of land?" The whale asks the tuna.

"No." Says the tuna, "Do you?"

"I have never seen it." Says the whale, "but deep in my body, I remember it."

"Why do you care," says the tuna, "if you will never see it."

"There are bones in my body built to walk through the forests and the mountains." Says the whale.

"They will disappear." Says the tuna, "one day, your body will forget the forests and the mountains."

"Maybe I don't want to forget," Says the whale, "The forests were once my home."

"I have seen the forests." Whispers the salmon, almost to itself.

"Tell me what you have seen," says the whale.

"The forests spawned me." Says the salmon. "They sent me to the ocean to grow. When I am fat with the bounty of the ocean, I will bring it home."

"Why would the forests seek the bounty of the oceans?" Asks the whale. "They have bounty of their own."

"You forget," says the salmon, "That the oceans were once their home."

i’m still learning anatomy myself so i wouldn’t use this as more than just a general tip but…. I am fascinated by speculative monster anatomy and this is something i discovered years ago and thought i would impart amongst my fellow monster enthusiasts :)

mind you, the second set of pectorals can look kind of funky so i understand aesthetically why people would prefer not to draw them but! if you are someone interested in anatomy, i think this is a thing people dont really think about when giving their OCs wings/extra limbs and i think it’s kind of neat!

having executive dysfunction, ADHD and just a complete lack of any conception of the workings and passage of time means that i consistently roll a critical fail in punctuality

“Life’s Lil Pleasures” by Evan Lorenzen 

©2015 Evan Lorenzen

generate a girlfriend here and tag this with what kind of girlfriend you got

So here is that tutorial thingy i promised.

All of it is pretty basic stuff, no secret ingredients in there, still, i hope the way it’s put together is somehow comprehensible.

“A house I pass on the way to work has this sculpture in its yard. Its about 8 feet tall.”

(Source)

Why I’m Absolutely an Angry Black Woman By Dominique Matti

Because when I was five, my kindergarten classmate told me I couldn’t be the princess in the game we were playing because black girls couldn’t be princesses. Because I was in third grade the first time a teacher seemed shocked at how “well-spoken” I was. Because in fourth grade I was told my crush didn’t like black girls.

Because in sixth grade a different crush told me I was pretty — for a black girl. Because in 7th grade my predominantly black suburban neighborhood was nicknamed “Spring Ghettos” instead of calling it its name (Spring Meadows). Because I was in 8th grade the first time I was called an Oreo and told that I “wasn’t really black” like it was a compliment.

Because in 9th grade when I switched schools a boy told me he knew I had to be mixed with something to be so pretty. Because in 10th grade my group of friends and I were called into an office and asked if we were a gang, or if we had father figures. Because in 11th grade my AP English teacher told me that I didn’t write like a college-bound student (though I later scored perfectly on the exam).

Because when I volunteered in Costa Rica that summer, I was whistled at and called Negrita. Because when I asked my host father if that was like being called nigger, he said, no, it was a compliment because black women are perceived to be very good in bed. Because I was a kid.

Because I watched from the bleachers while the school resource officer didn’t let my brother into a football game after mistaking him for another black boy who was banned. Because the school resource officer maced him for insisting he was wrong. Because I was suspended for telling the school resource officer he didn’t deserve respect. Because my senior year boyfriend said nigger.

Because I was one of two black girls in the freshman class at my college. Because at meetings to talk about how to attract more black students, someone suggested that the school attracted a certain demographic (sustainable living, farming, general hippiness) and that maybe black people “just weren’t interested in things like that.” Because my college boyfriend called me a “fiery negress” as a joke when he ordered for me at a restaurant. Because the boyfriend after that cut me off for saying he was privileged. Because I can’t return to my hometown without getting pulled over.

Because when I got married people assumed I was pregnant. Because people who know I’m married call my husband my “baby daddy.” Because my pregnancy with my son was plagued with videos of black lives being taken in cold blood. Because their murderers still walk the streets.

Because the nation sent me a message that my son’s life didn’t matter. Because when Tamir Rice was murdered I curled up on the bed and sobbed, cupping my belly. Because my son heard me sobbing from the inside. Because they don’t care about us. Because when I was 7 months pregnant my neighbor asked me to help him move a dresser up a flight of stairs.

Because I am not seen as a woman. Because I am not allowed to be fragile. Because the nurse that checked me in at the hospital to deliver wouldn’t look my husband in the eye. Because the vast majority of people won’t look my husband in the eye. Because when the doctors put my son in my arms and I saw that he was as dark as his father, I knew life would be even harder for him.

Because he will be regarded the same way I was. Because he will be forced to grow up before he is grown. Because strangers at the store think it’s okay to reach into my son’s stroller and touch him without a word to me. Because we aren’t entitled to boundaries. Because they think we are here for their enjoyment. Because people don’t think we are people.

Because my nephew told me he couldn’t be Spider Man like he wants to because Spider Man is white. Because when he was four he said that he wants to be white so that he can go on a boat like the people on TV. Because I couldn’t save him from that. Because I can’t protect my son. Because I can’t protect myself.

Because my stomach sinks whenever I see a police car. Because when my husband leaves the house at night I am afraid he’ll be killed for looking like somebody. Because I worry that if I went missing like the 64,000 other black women in this nation, the authorities wouldn’t try hard to find me. Because I am disposable. Because I am hated. Because we keep dying. Because they justify our deaths. Because no one is held accountable. Because I am gas lighted.

Because I have been told that by speaking about being oppressed I am victimizing myself. Because our murders are filmed and still pardoned. Because I don’t know what it means to let loose. Because doing the things that my white peers do with ease could cost me my life — trespassing in abandoned buildings, smoking joints, wearing a hoodie, looking an officer in the eye, playing music loudly, existing. Because I am afraid to relax. Because I am traumatized.

Because there isn’t a place in the world white supremacy hasn’t touched.

Because I am trapped here. Because the playing field isn’t leveled. Because I love my skin. Because I love being a woman. Because not hating myself is considered radical. Because I’ve been called racist for defending myself. Because all the major protests are for cis black men. Because I’ve been told that talking about the women who’ve died is taking away from the real issue.

Because I get no break from fighting. Because everything is a struggle. Because my anger isn’t validated. Because they don’t care about my pain. Because they don’t believe in my pain. Because they forgive themselves without atoning. Because I’m not free. Because the awareness of it permeates everything. Because it’s not ending. Because they teach the children that it’s already ended. Because someone will assert their supremacy over me today. Because they’ll do it tomorrow.

Because I want more. Because I deserve better.

i used to get self-conscious over the smallest things but friends let me tell you that today i had to smuggle a furious 8ft python onto the bus during the school rush and not a single person noticed. not one. if people don’t care enough to notice a shopping bag writhing and seething with barely-contained reptilian hatred then i promise you that no-one will pay any attention to that blemish you’re fretting about or how you’ve done your hair

Irish people; The faeries aren’t real

Irish people; No fucking way will I go in that faerie ring

Head canon of a young, drunk Tony Stark. (or just Tony Stark in general really)

Today, I fucked up by getting drunk and stealing lawnmowers while on my bike at 3AM.

Well, this actually happened six months ago, during the summer.

I am 19, can’t legally drink, an engineering student, and my family comes from a mix of Appalachian and Deep South. This is the perfect set of conditions for a guy like me to build a stove top distillery. So I did. It was a glass jar with some thin copper line, and looked ghetto as all get-out, but it worked! I could take my fermented sugar solution, and after a few distillates, come out with something so strong you could easily use it for fuel, which I was going to tell people is what I was making if it was ever found.

But anyway; I was up one night drinking this stuff, and worked it out to the equivalent of 10-15 shots of 40% liquor, when I remembered that there was this old run down house with a lawnmower on the front porch that had obviously not been used in the past few years. I decided I would go be the Stealthy Lawnmower Vigilante, and rescue it from disrepair! While I was stone cold drunk. Brilliant. I thought about getting in my car and driving, but the only thing that stopped me was knowing that the belts make a horrible squealing, and its hard to be a Stealth Lawnmower Vigilante in a squealing car. So I took my bike. Much quieter.

By this time, I probably had a BAC of at least 0.20. I was riding down the street, sometimes weaving all over and starting to talk in a southern accent. By the time I got there, I could hardly stand up. I stumbled onto the front porch, and tool half an hour “quietly” removing the lawnmower from the leaves and soil it was buried under. I tried to get my drunk ass home, but its hard to ride a bike drunk. And uphill. And one handed because the other hand has a death grip on a freshly liberated lawnmower. So Drunk Me does the only sensible thing at the time. I stripped off my pants, tied one leg to the mowers handlebar, and the other to my bikes seat post. I then decided it was best to ride home down a well lit street so I could see. If anyone looked out their window, they would have seen the Stealthy Lawnmower Vigilante, Riding his bike down the middle of a normally busy road, with no pants, and a loud clattering lawnmower tied to his bike. Yeah, not suspicious at ALL.

By the time I got home, I realized something; Not only do I have no where to put this mower, BUT PEOPLE WILL ASK QUESTIONS ABOUT WHERE IT CAME FROM. SHIT. Now, still being drunk off my ass, I decided to take it out to the park by my house, which has a convenient storm drain. After more stealth pants-less rattling along, I finagled the mower into the drain, and made it back home. The next morning I couldn’t find my pants, then remembered they were still tied to the mower. I did this several times since, with a total of three Liberated Mowers, one Commandeered Roto-tiller, and half a tank of propane.

Too Long; Didnt Read > Never led a bored engineering student build a still, or else he’ll sneak out at night and “Liberate” all the small engines he can find. He might also take off his pants while doing it.

Follow TIFU: Your daily dose of the BEST fucked up stories. | (cr)

Halloween Kitties! 

Let’s not forget to acknowledge Alexandre Dumas this Black History Month

The writer of two of the most well known stories worldwide, The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo was a black man. 

That’s excellence.

imagine if the oceans were replaced by forests and if you went into the forest the trees would get taller the deeper you went and there’d be thousands of undiscovered species and you could effectively walk across the ocean but the deeper you went, the darker it would be and the animals would get progressively scarier and more dangerous and instead of whales there’d be giant deer and just wow

The Morning After I Killed Myself

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.

I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach.

The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.

Things we lost in the fire: Anakin Skywalker

Do you know what this is? This is The Heart from Auschwitz.

An act of defiance. A statement of hope. A crime punishable by death.

On December 12, 1944, locked inside Auschwitz, Polish teenager Fania turned twenty. After spending a year in a concentration camp, Fania didn’t expect her birthday to even be remembered - but her best friend, Zlatka, risked everything to make her a birthday present, a paper heart. 

Simply making the heart - or carrying it - could get either of them killed.

The heart was signed by many of their friends, bearing notes in Polish, German, French, and Hebrew that announced "When you get old, put your glasses on your nose, take this album in your hand and read my signature again,“ and “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!” It was an act of great sacrifice and love for a friend.

Less than 40 days later, they began the Death March from Auschwitz to Ravensbruck, and from Ravensbruck to freedom. Fania carried the heart under her arm the whole time. And survived.

Fania donated the heart to the Montreal Holocaust Memorial Center in 1988, where it is a featured piece of their exhibit. You can read more about the story of Fania and Zlatka in  Meg Wiviott’s Paper Hearts, coming September 2015.

More than 2,000 people are missing. Towns are practically wiped off the map. People’s homes have been torched.

That isn’t a scene from a horror movie, it’s the aftermath of a brutal terrorist attack in Nigeria. And few people are talking about it. (via micdotcom)

Awaiting the Eiffel Tower’s response…

(via aatombomb)

Just signal boosting. Can’t forget about what’s (currently) going down in Nigeria.

(via socratescloset)

Please please read this.

(via beautiesofafrique)

Other sources - BBC, Guardian, Independent, CNN, Wall Street Journal 

(via teashoesandhair)

Drink and Draw. Yes. #dooble #drawing #drinkndraw #sketchbook #hauntedBoy