Birds actually like to stick their heads in things and chirp/sing because of the way the sound waves bounce off the inside. It’s like the birb version of when you yell HELLOOOOO into a canyon to hear the echo 🙂
A guy just came to my house while I was home alone to ask if I was single why are men like this
Okay y’know what I’m gonna soapbox for a hot minute
When I was in high school, a man who I’d thought was the parent of a school friend followed me out to the grocery store parking lot greenhouse where I worked. It was dark, and late, and it was me, alone, in a chain link enclosure with one exit and a register full of cash. He called me up to the fence and asked if I wanted to get dinner, or go dancing. I was scared and shaking and told him no several times, and he only left when I falsely said I had a boyfriend. I was very aware that if he were to come over the fence, or just wait at the exit until I eventually had to leave, I could do nothing about it.
When my hair was very short, a hairdresser sent me to the barber’s side of the store so they could get the back of my head with clippers. The barber followed me out to my car to ask me out afterwards. I was very aware that we were the only people in the parking lot when it happened, and that the lot itself was tucked behind the building with no clear visibility to the road.
Today, a man I’ve met once made it very clear he knows where I live, and used that knowledge to express a romantic interest. If he ever decides that he’s unhappy with how I responded, he knows where I live. He knows what my car looks like. It is impossibly easy for him to determine when I’m home alone, and now I have to live with that knowledge.
Every woman I know has at least one story like this. My roommate had to be escorted to her car every night when she was a waitress, in case some man was waiting for her or a coworker’s shift to end.
If the person you want to ask out cannot physically run away from you when you are asking, YOU CANNOT ASK THEM OUT. You cannot ask someone out if they are at work. You cannot ask someone out if you’ve followed them to a remote/unoccupied/enclosed area. You cannot GO TO SOMEONE’S HOME UNINVITED to ask them out. You are not being romantic. You are not “taking initiative”. You are terrifying the person you want to woo. If they say yes, it is not because they want to, it is because they are terrified of what might happen if they say no.
I’m so tired of being terrified by men who think they’re being romantic.
“Every woman” you say. Do you personally know every woman in the world? Don’t presume to speak for others, and don’t make this a gendered issue either.
Actually every woman in the world is in one big group chat and they’re all telling you to fuck off
Also! She literally said “Every woman I know” you colossal fuck.
“Don’t make this a gender issue” ok buddy but it literally is? It’s the epitome of a gender issue, one gender is affected by this and put in potential danger because of the way society is.
And to let you know, both me and every other woman in my life have all dealt with something like that. And while OP said it was everyone they knew, I’m just going to upgrade it to everyone who identifies as a woman has dealt with this bs
A necromancer falls in love with a healer. Describe their lives together.
Their house is odd, people say. That it’s both warm and cold all at once. People whisper about the garden out back, where some of the plants are black. Sometimes they whisper about the inside, about the table that holds both a mortar and pestle, and a complete set of bones. One of their cats is dead, they say. People fear a lot of things about their house, but nearly all of them have been inside.
They have four shelves in their house, for their books and jars and things they need for spells.
One of these shelves is stuffed full of books. The books are thick, fat, heavy. If the wood had a voice, it would speak in a groan. Half of them are soft, brown leather, with gold traced in plantlike designs on the spine. Half of them are black, heavy and cracked, with bookmark ribbons the color of blood and pentagrams on the covers. There are plants tucked into the corners. Some trail green fingers across the ledges. Some reach with thorns.
Another of the shelves is full of jars and bottles. Some of these jars are filled with potions that glow a dim yellow, or swirl a cheerful green. Some of the jars are filled with blood or crushed bits of bone. Some of the smaller bottles are full of dried clippings of rare plants. Some of the bottles hold things that move. But each jar has a neat little label, with the same gentle writing.
The third shelf is by a window, and it holds plants of various sizes. Most of them are small and green, meticulously watered and trimmed. But there are a few, scattered amongst the green, that have thorns longer than thorns should be, or leaves a bit too dark, too shiny.
The last shelf is full of bones. Cat bones. Dog bones. Bird bones. A skull. Fish bones. Wishbones. Snake’s fangs. Sometimes the bones move. Sometimes they don’t.
They have two tables. One holds a mortar and pestle, a small cauldron, bandages, some crystals. One of them has bones perched on the corners and a pentagram etched in the middle.
Dried herbs hang from the ceiling, and there is a box of litter on the floor.
They have two hearths; one for cooking, one for magic.
The walls are a deep green, the floor a wooden brown. The windows are large and lined with plants. The rooms are lit with floating crystals.
Everyone fears their house, but nearly everyone has gone inside. What is it, the healer asks, and her eyes are kind. What do you need?
A pain reliever. A bone set. An illness cured. A child delivered.
What do you need, she asks, but sometimes the answer is nothing. There isn’t anything to heal. So the healer nods, steps aside, and gestures to her wife, the necromancer.
And the necromancer looks at you, with her dark eyes and dark robes stitched with blood-red runes, and for a moment you are afraid. But then her eyes clear, and she smiles, and she asks. What do you need?
“OK. I lied earlier. THIS was the highlight of my parenting week. Sending my 13-year-old daughter into the store for (whispers) “feminine hygiene products,” and having the following text exchange. I died, she gave me life, I died again. And she drew an illustration, on the spot, ON HER PHONE, to drive her point home.“
Gay-lesbian solidarity would have been someone telling michaelangelo what titties looked like
Okay but consider:
The Catholic Church DESPARATELY trying to explain to him what titties are without it sounding like they knew what a naked woman looked like
Anyone could hire a woman off the street to model, and many artists did so perfectly fine and painted/sculpted anatomically gorgeous women, what I like better is Michelangelo being like UGH I went out looking for models in the red light district again and would you believe not a lady whore to be seen, all I found were these STRAPPING YOUNG MEN ohhh well what can you do cmon boys strip off history is calling
I spent the afternoon arranging our books by size and color (and it’s so satisfying and looks amazing) and my partner came home and stared in shock at the bookcase and then said “i’m a librarian, you can’t do this.”
him: you split up all the song of ice and fire books
me: yeah i know, they’re all primary colors, it’s perfect
him: [self-destructs]
You’re a monster
As a former bookstore employee, this hurts my soul. I mean, sure it looks nice, but how do you find anything?
it has occurred me during this process that apparently not everyone thinks about books by what color they are? like, literally when i’m looking for a book, i picture it in my mind. i have a very…tactile experience with the books i read and idk! i thought everyone did that lol.
my partner was like “how will i find [this book] for instance” and i replied “easy, it’s purple” and he looked at me like i was a witch.
OP your brain is neat and I love you for it you funky little color-coded cupcake. But you’re still a monster.
Variously Backup 