Look, if you’re starving in a post-apocalyptic wasteland and suddenly someone is like ‘oh I have tons of food and it just happens to be meat do you want some lol’ you CANNOT act surprised when it’s people. You simply CANNOT.
There are times and places where it is realistic to expect NOT to be served people. For example, in a pie shop underneath a barber shop. THEN you can be all 'OH GOD IT’S PEOPLE.’
If you are in a post-apocalyptic wasteland and are suddenly served a really good meat pie, you have to know it’s people. Do you see any cows? No, they all apocalypsed. It’s your neighbor.
If you’re served food in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, ask yourself these questions first:
Do I trust the person feeding me?
Is this meat fresh, and if so, have there been any livestock non-apocalypsed recently?
Have I seen Kevin within the past week?
Am I willing to commit the penultimate culinary taboo? (The ultimate culinary taboo is putting pineapple on pizza, a crime I regularly commit)
My brother is a librarian, and his library is one of the ones that hosts Drag Queen Story Time.
He is also 6'3", 300 lbs of Heavy Weapons Librarian.
This week, some karen showed up to take video of said storytime. She was unmoved by the director of the library telling her their policy against taking video in the children’s room.
My brother was also unmoved. Specifically, he was unmoved from his position directly in the line of karen’s cellphone. She got video of an acre of blue broadcloth shirt, and that’s it.
Other people who showed up to scowl at the drag queen decided they had other things to do that day when my brother scowled at them. He inherited our Mama’s scowl, and it’s a good one.
Sometimes, an ally looks like a big fat bald white guy. Sometimes, an ally looks like a wall.
but if there’s platonic kissing whats next??!!!!????? sex without romance??????!? romance without sex?????!!!!? friendship?????? friends with benefits????!!! platonic lOVE????? staying out of other people’s business???????? WHO KNOWSS
Whenever I see anything like this my first thought is that @thebibliosphere will know what these words mean.
Unfortunately, you would be correct.
“Vampire facials”, which many people think is needling but is actually far, far worse, refers to platelet-rich plasma facials, in which blood is taken from a patient, processed in a centrifuge to extract the plasma and then re-injected it into the face. It’s supposed to make the skin “heal” itself because of platelets or some shit, giving you a more youthful look. Kim K helped make it popular after it was on her show but I know she also supposedly regrets it.
It’s uh, controversial to say the least. And not just because it sounds like painful bullshit but because lack of regulation for this sort of thing has lead to a couple of cases of HIV transmission happening.
The penis version is that they’re doing the exact same thing, taking plasma from themselves or a donor and injecting it into the penile tissue, supposedly to treat erectile dysfunction, but a lot of the men doing this are doing it just to get a girthier look.
And if you think I hate knowing all this, you’d be right.
i hope you’re proud of yourself Joy.
god it is three in the morning and i can’t go to bed without inking like several dozen flowers but holy fuck yall
you know i think you could construct a perfect little hell for william shatner where somehow he is stuck in a limbo where star trek the original series is airing fully new in 2012 and he has to go on the con circuit and answer questions about if kirk and spock are queerbait or if kirk and spock are in love and if kirk is openly bisexual etc and like it would be two warring forces his desire to make dumb off the cuff jokes about it and also the fact he does kin kirk and see him as himself and is like no what are you saying i am gay because you see this character that i see as me is gay how dare you and it would be like watching a snake eat its own tale disgorge its tail and then be baited by a simple treat to begin eating it again while leonard nimoy next to him is like i am glad that spock can be personally so meaningful to you earnest 14 year old who asked me a question
Last week I accidentally took an edible at 10x my usual dose. I say “accidentally” but it was really more of a “my friend held it out to my face and I impulsively swallowed it like a python”, which was technically on purpose but still an accident in that my squamate instincts acted faster than my ability to assess the situation and ask myself if I really wanted to get Atreides high or not.
Anyway. I was painting the wall when it hit. My friend heard me make a noise and asked what was wrong—I explained that I had just fallen through several portals. I realized that painting the wall fulfilled my entire hierarchy of needs, and was absolutely sure that I was on track to escaping the cycle of samsara if I just kept at it a little longer. I was thwarted on my journey towards nirvana only by the fact that I ran out of paint.
Seeking a surrogate act of humble service through which I might be redeemed and made human, I turned to unwashed dishes in the sink and took up the holy weapon of the sponge. I was partway through cleaning the blender when it REALLY hit.
You ever clean a blender? It’s a shockingly intimate act. They are complex tools. One of the most complicated denizens of the kitchen. Glass and steel and rubber and plastic. Fuck! They’ve got gaskets. You can’t just scrub ‘em and rinse them down like any other piece of shit dish. You’ve got to dissemble them piece by piece, groove by sensitive groove, taking care to lavish the spinning blades with cautious attention. There’s something sensual about it. Something strangely vulnerable.
As I stood there, turning the pieces over in my hands, I thought about all the things we ask of blenders. They don’t have an easy job. They are hard laborers taking on a thankless task. I have used them so roughly in my haste for high-density smoothies, pushing them to their limits and occasionally breaking them. I remembered the smell of acrid smoke and decaying rubber that filled the kitchen in the break room the last time I tried to make a smoothie at work—the motor overtaxed and melted, the gasket cracked and brittle. Strawberry slurry leaked out of it like the blood of a slain animal.
Was this blender built to last? Or was it doomed to an early grave in some distant landfill by the genetic disorder of planned obsolescence? I didn’t know, and was far too high to make an educated guess. But I knew that whatever care and tenderness and empathy I put into it, the more respect for the partnership of man and machine, the better it would perform for me.
This thought filled me with a surge of affection. However long its lifespan, I wanted it to be filled with dignity and love and understanding. I thought: I bet no one has hugged this blender before. And so I lifted it from its base.
A blender is roughly the size and shape of a human baby. Cradling one in your arms satisfies a primal need. A month ago I was permitted to hold an infant for the first time in my life, an experience which was physically and psychologically healing. I felt an echo of that satisfaction holding my friend the blender, and the thought of parting with it felt even more ridiculous than bringing it with me to hang out on my friend’s bed.
everything actually falls on a binary scale of “badass” and “cute” and god punishes me every time I step out of line by being both or neither but I do it anyway this time out of spite
