Goddamn It I God Rick-rolled So Badly. Im Never Going On Youtube Again

GARYYYYYYYYYYY

read cucumber quest

Gary. Just Gary.

today i found out Timmy Turner from Fairly OddParents is nonbinary, according to the show wiki

Writing Prompt #5

‘Park’

There’s this park across the street where I live.

Looks like your average park; with it’s benches and gravel pathways and trees and bushes. A stone fountain stands in it’s centre, with water spewing out of the gargoyles’ mouth.

A bit gothic, I realise now. But that was it.

It sounded like your average park too. Bird songs in the morning, leaves rustling when it’s windy, kids yelling after school. I could always hear the crunch crunch of the gravel across the usually quiet street, and it comforted me.

Most of the time.

There were other times, of course, when I woke up in cold sweat. Everything quiet and still, except for the crunch crunch of the gravel.

These times, I pulled my covers up to my chin and prayed. Hoped against hope - against the fear that seized me in its claws and refused to let go - that I’d live to see the light of morning day.

You ask me, you ask; ‘what’re you so afraid of? Maybe it’s just someone who went for a late night walk.’ Of course, after daybreak I’ve thought of that. I tried to dismiss my terror as stupid, childish, or even at that slightly overcooked chili I had the night before.

But try as I might, I still could not bring myself to look out the window the nights it happened. I still wrapped myself up in my covers, and shook.

Eventually, they started getting more frequent. I’d spend nights in a row with barely enough sleep and covered in sweat - shaking like I just stepped out in winter with nothing but shorts.

My friends would ask to hang out, and we’d go to the park because it was close. I didn’t use to mind walking through the trees, but the sleepless nights were starting to get to me. I could’ve sworn I saw the gargoyle’s eyes move along as I walked past - could’ve sworn that the rustling of leaves sounded like whispers.

Eventually, it got bad. Really, really bad. I’ve tried filing a police report, but they waved me off and said they had bigger things on their plate than ‘mysterious gravel crunching’.

I was frustrated, but mainly because they were right. I still couldn’t bring myself to even sit up on my bed - much less look out that damned window.

Then it happened.

It was daytime, with the sun shining in and the children playing around on the park across from me. I looked out my window then, a half-smile of my face as I remembered my own childhood days.

Then I froze.

The gargoyle. I could swear that the gargoyle had moved. For the years I’ve spent living across from it, I knew how it looked like the back of my hand now. I knew how the whole damn fountain looked, and could probably draw it from memory alone.

The gargoyle had never been facing me head on like it did now.

That was the last straw for me. I packed my bags and went to live with one of my close friends. I sold the house, though barely just resisted from dropping the price down too steeply - after all, nothing had happened.

Yet.

One day, on my way to work, I passed by a newspaper stand with an eerily familiar picture on its front page. With shaking hands, I unfolded it, and read the article.

A brutal murder, it said, in the house just a street away from a park. The picture was grotesque enough - and I could tell that they’d avoided giving the worst. The details were identifiable enough.

An all too familiar bedroom, half a body on the floor, and the other half presumably missing. Blood that coated every inch of the wall like a fresh coat of paint, and deep deep gouge marks on the window sill.

The article had said that investigating parties assumed that the murder escaped out the window, and had cut through the park to run free. They warned all those who lived in close area to the park to be wary of strangers - never open the door to anyone you don’t know.

They still haven’t found the murderer when I checked months later.

I’d visited the family of those I sold the house to. They welcomed me - albeit a bit shakily - and served me tea.

‘They said they’ve been having sleepless nights,’ one of the mothers had said to me. ‘They-they said-oh god if only we’d listened.’

Her wife wrapped her arms around her shoulders and held her close as I half-murmured comforts from across the coffee table. Her gaze met my own as she silently comforted - the grief in them so deep I nearly fell through.

Eventually, the couple moved out, I heard. Travelled far away, where they cut off from their own family and friends. The investigators still worked to find the assailant, but the case was growing cold and I doubted that they’d actually find who did it.

And me? I bought a new apartment from long nights and extra shifts. One far away from parks and gargoyles and gravel. The close friend that I’d stayed with had helped me move in.

‘Looks good,’ they praised. ‘Hopefully you can actually get some sleep in here this time.’

We’d laughed about it. The whole incident had been months ago - nothing more than a bad memory that we occasionally poke at just for the laughs.

That first night, I woke up to the crunch crunch of gravel.

what is the word ‘seriousness’ it’s supposed to express like, the serious-ness of a situation or a person, right? but why is it why does the word ‘seriousness’ not sound serious at all it looks like someone did a thing and just added in a half thought later to make it fit  ‘seriousness’ ‘serious-ness’ what?

it fits so perfectly im-

if anyone wanted to ask me why I like writing, I’d say that the people in my head need to be free. Because they do. Once I die, I’ll bring all the thoughts I ever had with me and none of you will know - none of you will be able to know what thoughts I had when I was alive. And I have worlds and communities and cultures inside my head and I don’t want to bring them down with me, I don’t want to be the only person who ever walked the streets or talked to the people or danced the cultures. The worlds I make may be filled with people - but they’re all me, and the streets are lonely. I guess I’d mostly say it’s because I want to share. I want to share the worlds, the lands, the realms I make. I want to share the stories I’ve told to myself so many times.  I want to put my mark - however small - so that when I do inevitably die, I won’t bring this world I made down with me. I don’t want to walk the streets alone anymore.

“[Name] is offended and overreacted to something I said, and it’s all their fault for being a ‘snowflake’. They blocked me lol.”

If you sound like this, stop and think.

The term “offended” in these situations is usually being used to mock people reacting out of fear. And it’s usually used on minorities.

If someone was “offended” by something you said, and blocked you as a result, it’s usually because they’re terrified that you acted against their rights as a human being. They’re scared of you for believing, and/or parroting, hate-speech related things that have lead to them getting killed in the past (and even the present.) When death has happened, and is still happening, “edgy hate speech” is no longer a joke. (Not that it ever was in the first place.) It could mean you’re a threat. Even if it’s online, the fight or flight response of hearing these things shouldn’t have to be tolerated.

So yes, TLDR;

If you make fun of someone’s understandably harsh reaction to you being a bigot - you’re an asshole. You’re nauseating, and insensitive,

and you deserved the block.

Be gentle with yourself, you’re doing the best you can.

Unknown (via thoughtkick)

as a non-binary i can confirm that fungi do marginally interest me because they remind me of someone important to me

As a nonbinary person interested in befriending & flirting w\ other nonbinary people, I have decided it is in my best interest to learn much much more about assorted fungi