The best part is how you can see he’s trying SO HARD not to laugh here
Tim Curry: I’m escaping to the ONE place that hasn’t been corrupted by capitalism! [shaky breaths while trying not to smile] sssPACE
IT IS NOT JUST YOU! IT IS A THING!
WAIT THIS IS A THING? I THOUGHT IT WAS JUST ME!
CIRCUMLOCUTION UNTIL YOU HAVE IDENTIFIED THE EDGES AND BOUNDARIES OF THE THING AND DESCRIBED IT REPEATEDLY TO ATTEMPT TO TRIANGULATE ITS TRUE LOCATION
is this post an example
shout out to my fellow sexy bitches with adhd who use way more words than they really need to literally any time they write or type anything because their point has to come across 100% like they imagined it
my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them.
“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of… sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.
“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.
the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.
my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.
the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.
my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”
She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”
“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings.
the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.
the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.
the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks to be sure i spoke to only him and no one more, for fear a man might snatch me. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?
the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.
the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.
it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spent so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.
i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.
the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.
the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold
but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.
my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.
like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.
i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.
one of my cats just took a shit so rancid it woke me up from a dead sleep.
there is a lot of unintentional humor created by the fact that the characters in “Dracula” do not know that they are characters in “Dracula.”
“The people in the village are warning me about a local legend called a ‘vampire’. How quaint. When I meet Count Dracula I shall have to ask him if he knows more about this peculiar superstition.”
“I never drink…. Wine…”
Some guy in 1893 reading Dracula for the first time: Huh.. What a strange fellow…why doesn’t he drink wine?
Me, reading in a time where Dracula is the most instantly recognizable villain in pop culture: LOL HE SURE DONT
honestly i love the entire “woman falls for fearsome supernatural creature that truly loves her and treats her well instead of her intended human suitor who is only interested in the status marrying her will bring them and doesn’t care about her happiness” genre because it combines all of the things i look for in an ideal romantic partner: someone tall and strong, but also tender and kind, who cares about my happiness, and fangs
A couple of weeks ago, I was on the elevator on the way to work. This man stepped in and asked me about myself, what my major was, what year I was in college, etc.,
So I told him I was currently in a masters program for social work.
Bruh, this man straight up said, “you won’t get paid any money helping those people. What they need is some business classes. they need jobs” and i’m like :O
There is such a misconception about social work and the communities we serve. It’s more than just “getting a job”, you have to look at the factors preventing someone from getting a job. If you have a community that doesn’t serve you, then getting a job is almost next to impossible. People like to put the blame on jobless people on the people and refuse to look at the circumstances that make it so that they don’t have jobs.
and like social workers don’t get paid nothing. It really depends on where you go, but social workers are constantly sought out because of our versatility.
anyway i’m just thinking about that convo, i couldn’t even defend my program because he stepp
ed off of the elevator.
Hey just wanna give everyone a heads up that the original poem was stolen from a queer Asian women and she specifically wrote this poem about the trauma she faced at the hands of white people. Please reblog this version of this post! Also follow her on twitter!
the author is nonbinary and uses they/them pronouns but yeah hey peeps follow @ wow_im_pissed on twitter and support them via their cashapp $verypissed , their twitter also has links to their debut poetry collection! heres the last 3 paragraphs of the piece this tweet stole from
So I’m currently
enslavedemployed by a cable company, and I can offer a few pointers:
- Find a copy of the customer agreement online. Read it. Have the “big cats in boxes” YouTube video on standby so that you can renew your will to live periodically while reading it.
- Focus on the sections about cancellation
- Examine any terms regarding early termination fees, notice required, proration of the time between cancellation and the end of the billing period, and equipment return policies.
- Send a letter requesting cancellation to your carrier via certified mail. Include the date you wish for it to be cancelled. If you are not the account holder but have power of attorney, or the account holder has died and you are managing their estate, send copies of the relevant documentation with the letter.
- The day after, when it isn’t cancelled, call back. Ask for “retention” or “loyalty” and when asked why, state that you wish to cancel.
- They’ll ask you why you want to cancel. Say “I don’t want to discuss it, I just want to cancel my service.” (note: there are times when it pays to disclose your reasons; my company will waive all early termination fees and penalties if the account holder is being entering military deployment or a nursing home. Check their policies.)
- They’ll offer something nice. Bundles, discounts, free channels, etc. Say “as nice as that sounds, and as much as I appreciate the offer, I just need to cancel my service.”
- When they deflect again, ask how to return any leased equipment. They’ll launch into another spiel about that, thankful that you aren’t making them process the cancellation. Write down the process – they’ll either tell you to bring the equipment to a local office, or they’ll state that they are sending recovery kits. If it’s the latter, ask for the address that the recovery kits return to and write it down (you want to use the recovery kit if you get one, since it’s prepaid, but if they aren’t sent you’ll want to be able to return the equipment yourself.)
- After all of this has transpired, state “As I stated in the letter sent via certified mail on [date], I am ending our contractual relationship and terminating this subscription. Has my cancellation order been processed?”
- If the cancellation order has not been processed, tell them to process it. Listen to their spiel. Ask for the date that it will be terminated.
- Hang up, wait thirty minutes. Call back, ask if your account is pending cancellation or not. If not, ask to be transferred to retention and ask for a supervisor. Demand that your cancellation be processed and advise them that a complaint will be filed with the FCC if it is not.
- If more than an hour has been spent on the phone, file a complaint at FCC.gov. Forcing a customer to continue a service outside of the terms stipulated by the contract is illegal and the FCC hates it.
This went from really funny to “holy fuck what kind of nightmare dystopia do we live in that we need to be educated on how to get a company to actually cancel an account with a company that bills you monthly” really fast.
One more word of advice from someone who worked for a major US telecom provider: Do not threaten legal action unless you already have a lawyer onside.
My employer wouldn’t let us continue a call past that point; the only thing we could do was advise them to have their attorney contact our legal team and provide the appropriate contact information.
how do i get in on this kissing ghost action??
viewing queer identities as “this is the label that makes me happy and feels most accurate now” rather than “this is who I am, was, and always will be” will definitely take the pressure off, friends. changing your mind is proof that you have one.
Concept: an RPG where the suspiciously convenient merchant that seems to be following the party around is just, like, this mimic impersonating a vending machine. Communicates entirely in indecipherable grunts and whistles. The goods are sound, albeit somewhat slobbery, but don’t expect to get any change back – it’s literally eating the coins.
How is it obtaining the loot though? Is eating other adventurers too?
That’s certainly what one might assume at first, particularly as its contents consist mostly of practical adventuring gear. However, successive visits turn up a number of items which call that theory into question, including:
- A tiny chess set
- A stick of purple chalk
- A live mouse in a small silver cage
- A moderately overpriced bottle of elven wine
- A finely bound volume of halfling erotic poetry, illustrated
- A colourfully painted earthenware pot in an unfamiliar style
- A bulky wax-wrapped package that, upon opening, proves to contain a fresh-baked loaf of bread, apparently still hot from the oven
For its part, the vending mimic just gurgles agreeably in response to whatever explanation is proposed; it’s not altogether clear that it understands Common, though it certainly seems to understand capitalism!
It understanding Capitalism is more scary but whatever
why is it not common knowledge that tolkien and c s lewis once went to a non-costume party dressed as polar bears
tolkien also used to chase his neighbours down the street in full viking warrior gear, and once convinced a class he taught that leprechauns are real
IS THIS TRUE BECAUSE THIS IS GOLD. PURE GOLD
Both facts well documented. From this bio, for instance:
*touches ground* Something horrible happened here.
Proving once again that modern marketing departments had damn well better run their bright ideas past a millennial
If only to be a fly on the wall the moment marketing learned what they hadn’t previously known.
Who likes cheap psychic readings? I do! I’m just trying to learn, so I’d like it if you could help me out. I offer the above type, which is a 5 card oracle reading. I also offer a runes reading. If you’re interested in runes, let me know.
And you know, I won’t be upset if you want to share this.
Who likes cheap psychic readings? I do! And so can you!
I’m just a beginner trying to learn the cards. If you’re interested in a reading or like Norse mythology, click the link. It’s been fun so far.
It’d also be cool if you wanna share this.
Not shaving and not wearing make up are literally nonbehaviors. They’re a complete lack of action. But doing nothing is considered masculine because women are not allowed to just be. this goes double for trans women.
reblog this version because transmisogynists don’t know how to fuck off.