did you know that Friday 13th was meant to be a really good lucky day meant for fucking because it was dedicated to Freyja, the goddess of love and fertility and the patron goddess of Fridays
but then Christianity found out about it and were like “Fucking???? outside of marriage????? NO NO NO!!!” and decided it was a horrible terrible bad unlucky day and you need to be super careful of everything you do in case you die or some shit.
so thanks Christians for ruining everyone’s fucking fun
“Nothing is more meaningful or honorable to me than have my birthday on the same day as the Storming of the Bastille. So I celebrate today with a picture of the best character I’ve ever played in my life! Nothing but love!” – Pedro Caetano, via Instagram.
Giant tarantulas keep tiny frogs as pets. Insects will eat the burrowing tarantulas’ eggs – so the spiders protect the frogs from predators, and in return the frogs eat the insects. Source
This has blown my mind for years. It’s so unreal. It’s almost the same exact reason humans and cats started living together.
Tiny frogs are tarantula housecats. A science fact seldom gets to sound that much like meaningless word salad.
This is legit, guys. And I’m excited about it.
Someone needs to draw a tarantula person with a tiny pet housefrog now. Please let this be a thing.
A powerful witch runs away after the villagers try to execute her, couple years later children randomly start disappearing. She’s taking abused children away from their parents and raising them in the woods. But once they grow up and leave, they forget how to get to the witch’s house and their memories of her become blurry.
The town was evil. But the children? They were still pure, there was still good in their hearts, trickling out of their mouth and ears and gentle hands.
She stayed there for years, trying to protect them as much as she can. Even after the villagers had enough of a witch living amongst them, she still took in the lost children.
Every parent’s worst nightmare is their children growing up. The witch was no different.
Her kids, they called her mama once. And now when they passed her as adults, they didn’t even give her a second glance. As far as she figured, they didn’t remember her at all.
(She’d tried talking to Benjamin once, one of her favourites, because he had been a clingy child who couldn’t bear to leave her side. He was thirty when she tried visiting him. When she approached him, he treated her kindly, but the kind of pleasantness you show to strangers and not someone you call your mother.)
The witch was sad, of course. But there was nothing she could do; they had to go, sooner or later.
One of her boys entered her room. “Mama?”
It was Peter, her oldest. He was turning eighteen in a couple of days, and soon it would be his turn to leave.
It hurt her to see him already.
“Yes, love?”
“I am leaving soon,” Peter said. A statement, not a question. “But I don’t want to.”
“You have to, love. None of your siblings wanted to leave,” she answered, simply. “But the hour you turn eighteen, you’ll forget. And you’ll wander off, and then you’ll never find your way back.”
Peter looked sulky. “Isn’t there some way to make me not forget? I don’t want to forget you, ever.”
She almost laughed because of how close she was to crying. Her boy. Her sweet, sweet boy.
“I’m sorry, love.”
He slammed the door behind her when he left. Peter had always been a fiery one.
When she opened the door on the day of Peter’s eighteenth birthday, she expected him to be gone by then.
Instead, her boy was sitting on the bed cross-legged, holding an empty bottle.
He had drunk a potion. An anti-aging potion.
“I found a way, mama,” he said, his eighteen-year-old hands clasping here, firmly. “I don’t want to forget you.”
He left, too, when he got bored of being cooped up in the house with no company. But he visited her every few years, bringing her stories of how he visited children, following in her footsteps.
They called him Peter Pan, the boy who never grows up.
I’m going to say something super controversial here: billionaires shouldn’t exist
i used to think billionaires were like. slightly richer millionaires but for reference: a million seconds is 12 days, a billion seconds is THIRTY TWO YEARS.
no one can convince me that it’s possible to possess a billion dollars, much less dozens of billions of dollars, and not be a disgusting terrible shitty unethical heartless human being
i’m reading a very manly 1950s account of a hunt for el dorado but i’m thirty pages in and the narrator has already described his traveling companion as “handsome” 4 times, “extremely handsome” twice, “exceedingly handsome” once, his voice as “quietly husky” and “a husky whisper,” his fingers as long and deft, his body as “tall and cat-like,” and his eyes as some variation of ice-blue at least three times.
just men being dudes. dudes being pals. it’s great. this is great.
“Ever since he had aimed that gun at my throat, I had liked him immensely. And now I liked him even better.”
oh my god
“I awoke when a beam of light fell across my eyes. Jorge had come into my room carrying a lighted candle.
‘I’m going with you,’ he said quietly.
‘I can’t pay you.’
He smiled. ‘I thought I was a partner?’”
OH MY GOD
according to apparently every adaptation of a search of el dorado, i think we can conclude that maybe the real el dorado was the homosexuality we found along the way
#i’m adopting this as a term for someone working to understand their sexual orientation #‘oh megan dated dudes exclusively in college but these days i hear she’s on the road to el dorado’ ( @buetterfliege )
From now on, every person figuring out their sexuality is on the road to el dorado
the real treasure was the gay we found along the way
every other damn story I’ve seen the pot-smoking wise kung fu master mentor character always dies but not iroh.
Obiwan and yoda die.
dumbledore and Sirius black die. The fucking turtle in kung fu panda dies. There’s a whole trope about it. Uncle Ben dies after giving peter parker wise words.
there will be a moment when you realize you are more grown up than your parents are. this is the loss of childhood, my love. it is when you’re standing in the kitchen and one of your parents is screaming about something and you recognize: you will let them win the fight not because you are wrong, but simply because you know that they will keep shouting unless you drop the subject. you expect them to have childish understandings of things. they will hold onto their concept of the world as if it was not a changing thing. they must be right, and they must be somehow more right than you, always, in everything. their idea of control is so necessary to who they are that you just let it go.
this is the moment. you are 11 or 17 or 21. and you realize that you’re more mature than they ever were.
and in some odd, sad way, this frees you. where they have stagnated, you continue.
For those saying in the notes “wow teens really think they’re more mature than their parents just because they disagree lol?” No, it’s not about that.
It’s about seeing my mom use childish tactics of name calling, and changing the topic to another issue when my sisters call her out on something. When my sister asked her what was so wrong about homosexuality and my mom only had one response, “It’s not normal,” to every follow up question my sister had. It’s when my dad decides to make a joke, and getting unreasonably angry when it’s not recieved well, deciding that we just can’t take a joke and not that he didn’t read the room right. It’s when my aunt is proud of herself for being close minded and laughs at my sisters and I for trying to say that maybe she shouldn’t be.
As a younger teen I had a theory that because my mom ran a daycare out of our home for so many years that she now only knew how to argue like a child. It’s been years since the daycare and she still resorts to childish tactics. And as I got older I saw it more in the other adults in my life. My sisters see it too, and we’re becoming experts in how to navigate our them as if we were the parents learning how to control our children.
I love my parents I really do. But at 23 years old it is indeed a bit sad and frightening to realise that these figures of authority really dont hold that much more over me in terms of maturity anymore. And that yeah, there are many scenarios I have to navigate as the adult in the situation, and be
the one willing to let things go.
Basically, it’s the realisation that respect is earned, not demanded simply because someone is older.
QueerGalaxies 