did you know when you suddenly jerk awake while falling asleep, another version of you from a different timeline just died
This post fucked me up.
It’s actually because your heart rate decreased so quickly that your brain jerks you awake to make sure you’re still alive.
i dont know wHICH ONE IS WORSE
Whenever there is an oil spill in the world’s oceans, a sea slick is “born”. Countless animals lose their lives to the thick, clinging clutches of oil, dying miserable, wretchedly drawn-out deaths. Sea slicks are born of the lost souls of those animals and the sludge that bound and choked the life from them. As such, sea slicks are always referred to as “they” and “them” rather than “it”, and it’s said that if you chance upon a sea slick near the surface, their soft, melancholy vocalisations carry the haunting remnants of sea birds and the whispers of shoals of fish.
Despite their fearsome appearances, they are very much docile creatures, preferring to near-constantly swim through the depths and the quiet of the sea they were robbed from. Sea slicks are amortal, being unable to die, as they were never truly what we would call “alive” to begin with. Over time, however, sea slicks do disintegrate, usually over the span of several years, losing pieces of semi-sentient oil to the surface waters.
Ambitious wixes track sea slicks to gather these pieces, as they make especially valuable, durable invisibility cloaks capable of protecting wearers from even the deadliest of spells.
I love this! Modern, industrial fantasy creatures. Wow, so cool!
It was his voiceIt was his mouthIt was his lipsNot in his eyesJustIn his wordsJustIn his kissIt wasn’t himIt was his laughit was his teethIt was his tongueCuz he was young…It was his speechIt was his shirtIt was his jeansIt was his scentHe wasn’t rudeHe wasn’t meanButit wasn’t meantit wasn’t himIt was just mehe wasn’t it- jhené aiko efuru chilombo
When I was seventeen and preparing to leave for university, my mother’s only brother saw fit to give me some advice.
“Just don’t be an idiot, kid,” he told me, “and don’t ever forget that boys and girls can never just be friends.”
I laughed and answered, “I’m not too worried. And I don’t really think all guys are like that.”
When I was eighteen and the third annual advent of the common cold was rolling through residence like a pestilent fog, a friend texted me asking if there was anything he could do to help.
I told him that if he could bring me up some vitamin water that would be great, if it wasn’t too much trouble.
That semester I learned that human skin cells replace themselves every three to five weeks. I hoped that in a month, maybe I’d stop feeling the echoes of his touch; maybe my new skin would feel cleaner.
It didn’t. But I stood by what I said. Not all guys are like that.
When I was nineteen and my roommate decided the only way to celebrate the end of midterms was to get wasted at a club, I humoured her.
Four drinks, countless leers and five hands up my skirt later, I informed her I was ready to leave.
“I get why you’re upset,” she told me on the walk home, “but you have to tolerate that sort of thing if you want to have any fun. And really, not all guys are like that.”
(Age nineteen also saw me propositioned for casual sex by no fewer than three different male friends, and while I still believe that guys and girls can indeed be just friends, I was beginning to see my uncle’s point.)
When I was twenty and a stranger that started chatting to me in my usual cafe asked if he could walk with me (since we were going the same way and all), I accepted.
Before we’d even made it three blocks he was pulling me into an alleyway and trying to put his hands up my shirt. “You were staring,” he laughed when I asked what the fuck he was doing (I wasn’t), “I’m just taking pity.”
But not all guys are like that.
I am twenty one and a few days ago a friend and I were walking down the street. A car drove by with the windows down, and a young man stuck his head out and whistled as they passed. I ignored it, carrying on with the conversation.
My friend did not. “Did you know those people?” He asked.
“Not at all,” I answered.
Later when we sat down to eat he got this thoughtful look on his face. When I asked what was wrong he said, “You know not all guys do that kind of thing, right? We’re not all like that.”
As if he were imparting some great profound truth I’d never realized before. My entire life has been turned around, because now I’ve been enlightened: not all guys are like that.
No. Not all guys are. But enough are. Enough that I am uncomfortable when a man sits next to me on the bus. Enough that I will cross to the other side of the street if I see a pack of guys coming my way. Enough that even fleeting eye contact with a male stranger makes my insides crawl with unease. Enough that I cannot feel safe alone in a room with some of my male friends, even ones I’ve known for years. Enough that when I go out past dark for chips or milk or toilet paper, I carry a knife, I wear a coat that obscures my figure, I mimic a man’s gait. Enough that three years later I keep the story of that day to myself, when the only thing that saved me from being raped was a right hook to the jaw and a threat to scream in a crowded dorm, because I know what the response will be.
I live my life with the everburning anxiety that someone is going to put their hands on me regardless of my feelings on the matter, and I’m not going to be able to stop them. I live with the knowledge that statistically one in three women have experienced a sexual assault, but even a number like that can’t be trusted when we are harassed into silence. I live with the learned instinct, the ingrained compulsion to keep my mouth shut to jeers and catcalls, to swallow my anger at lewd suggestions and crude gestures, to put up my walls against insults and threats. I live in an environment that necessitates armouring myself against it just to get through a day peacefully, and I now view that as normal. I have adapted to extreme circumstances and am told to treat it as baseline. I carry this fear close to my heart, rooted into my bones, and I do so to keep myself unharmed.
So you can tell me that not all guys are like that, and you’d even be right, but that isn’t the issue anymore. My problem is not that I’m unaware of the fact that some guys are perfectly civil, decent, kind—my problem is simply this:
In a world where this cynical overcaution is the only thing that ensures my safety, I’m no longer willing to take the risk.” —r.d. (via satdeshret)
Welcome to HERE. My #DailySketch
If I had my way I would do nothing but draw images and stories of characters discovering odd worlds and encountering strange people or things. It’s all I want to do. Those are the kinds of stories I want to tell. I wish there was more of a place in the direct market for this kind of material. Not just for me as a creator who wants to make and sell it there, but as a fan of those kind of stories, and a father who’s son is intrigued by them as well.