So This Was A Pre-planned (and Likely Paid For By The Kremlin) Show: To Invite Zelenskyy, Scold Him Like

Ron DeSantis just kidnapped a 13-year old boy.

Earlier this evening, at around 7 PM CT U.S., Rebekah Jones (notably one of DeSantis’ biggest political enemies right now) underwent a raid on her home by state police.

Guns were pointed in the face of her 13-year old son, Jack. They arrested him under the charges of digital terrorism and “on state orders.”

They are refusing to let him go home and they are refusing to let Jones see him.

These are her screenshots recounting the incident from earlier tonight. They were taken at 10:23 PM CT U.S.

Reblog. I don’t care who you are, reblog this. We have to make sure that this doesn’t get buried – it’s already happening.

I really can’t believe I’ve been on this hell site for 8 years

love as medicine (that only you can't seem to take) - judas h.

so can we start hunting down white liberals now or what

Body Pillow

Taehyung x Reader requested by anon (May) | 27.) First cuddle

Warnings: Literally fluff and gentle pining, drunken shenanigans 

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: This is poorly edited, oh god. 

I give up on trying to teach myself what a drabble is, because idk if I’ll ever understand what it means to write a DRABBLE. Anyway this is hella overdue but I’m still working on these cuddle prompts! Hope anonnie May is still around to read this horrible mess 🥺💕

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵  

<< prompt list >>

Wow, you were getting sleepy.

It was the alcohol, no doubt about it, but for some reason this time getting tipsy felt a little different. Usually you were quite reserved and withdrawn when mixing alcohol and social interactions, but tonight it was just you, your roommate Jimin and his close group of friends having a pizza night in.

Well, after half a year of getting to know them they’d fast become friends of yours as well, but they were still a pack of loud, goofy college boys that drove you mad with their testosterone stink 90% of the time. You really did have to take them in small doses to begin with, but all seven were amazingly driven people through and through. You loved them for it, and honestly sometimes you really just needed to be in their presence to relax and de-stress.

Like right now, actually. 

Keep reading

Hey Archivist, I offer you this pen in exchange for another one that isn't quite as...well, you know. I found this one on the floor of the Ancient Metaphysics section of the library, and it refuses to write down anything but questions. I tried to use it for my math homework and the ink rearranged itself into a pondering of existence itself. The ink is a nice glittery purple, though!

If we are trading pens that compel, you may as well take this matched set of mist-grey quills. Each wells with ink from no apparent source, and each one has its own quirks. The gold ink seems to project a vision of the words you’ve just written, hanging over the paper itself like an afterimage following a flash of light. The one that writes in turquoise ink keeps your inspiration flowing to a good stopping point: undoubtedly useful, but make certain you have cleared the afternoon just in case. The last, writing in a rather jarring green and purple, cannot write anything incorrect and may therefore be helpful with math homework (although after some initial testing on my part that seems to be restricted to the knowledge of the bearer, rather than a tool with which to determine the essential truths of the universe. Perhaps things you learned at one point and now can’t remember will still qualify?) They weaken kept apart, so I present them to you as a whole; I hope they are more helpful than the pen you give up.

I Don’t Know How Many Souls I Have

by Fernando Pessoa

I don’t know how many souls I have. I’ve changed at every moment. I always feel like a stranger. I’ve never seen or found myself. From being so much, I have only soul. A man who has soul has no calm. A man who sees is just what he sees. A man who feels is not who he is. Attentive to what I am and see, I become them and stop being I. Each of my dreams and each desire Belongs to whoever had it, not me. I am my own landscape, I watch myself journey– Various, mobile, and alone. Here where I am I can’t feel myself. That’s why I read, as a stranger, My being as if it were pages. Not knowing what will come And forgetting what has passed, I note in the margin of my reading What I thought I felt. Rereading, I wonder: “Was that me?” God knows, because he wrote it.          

bitch

My damn ficus tree needed trimming again because she keeps growing more and more branches to reach sunlight when she's already got a perfectly good spot with plenty of sunlight in it but she's not content with that. "I need to grow bigger and further and grow more leaves so I can beat the competition and reach out of this shade into the sunlight!" sweetheart it's your own branches and leaves shading you.

My sweet precious ward to whom nature gave no brain. You know not that you live in paradise, that you only compete against yourself. You live in a world of plenty where your ambition festers to greed, and your greed would be your downfall. That's why I have to prune you so much.