Sadako, the female ghost from The Ring, appearing at a japanese baseball game between the Hokkaido Nippon-Ham Fighters and Yakult Swallows.
spotify watching me listen to megan thee stallion, doja cat, marina, and lorde all in the span of an hour:
Actually Spotify looks like this while it watches you listen to four very popular musicians on the top 100 charts.
Same vibes
Basic rules for analysing fiction, an incomprehensive list jotted down in a hurry:
- The protagonist isn’t always right
- The protagonist isn’t always good
- The protagonist isn’t always written to be relatable or likeable
- The narrator isn’t always right
- The narrator isn’t always good
- The narrator isn’t always telling the truth
- The narrator isn’t always the author
- The protagonist’s moral compass, the narrator’s moral compass and the author’s moral compass are three entirely different things that only occasionally overlap
- Pay attention to what characters do and not just what they say
- Pay special attention when what the characters do is at odds with what they say
- A lot of the time the curtains are blue for a reason. If they aren’t, you should read better books
One more:
12. The antagonist isn’t always telling the truth
So many times I have seen people apparently just … forget that it’s possible for fictional characters to be (a) mistaken or (b) lying, and say things like “we know this to be true because [character] said so here” (or, worse, “this fact is canon because [character] said it”).
The antagonist isn’t always telling the truth, the protagonist isn’t always telling the truth, the secondary and minor characters aren’t always telling the truth, the narrator may be telling the truth but if the narrator is also a character in the story then don’t count on it.
i think as a society we should go back to designing furniture w little feet. it would heal us.
please look me in the eye and tell me this doesn't spark joy
You’re telling me a LOBSTER squeezed this lime?
Gin and clawnic
This is your bartender everywhere in Maine
#to have the confidence of a mediocre white man #speaking on matters he knows nothing about
Hey @adamtheredbeard did you notice the image suspiciously cut off before the end of the tweet? I wonder if that softlib had anything else to say...
I see a lot of tags from Communists gloating in the reblogs, very confident that they know better than this guy...
But I'd wager that basically none of them do. It isn't just a matter of historical knowledge, either. For instance, "#mediocre white men" is part of a push for a form of scientific racism (based on "correct" race ratios that are just made up), and you didn't notice.
They talk about it a lot in others, but they tend to be pretty weak in their ability to spot when they're giving in to hatred and it's distorting their thinking.
I'm really sick of people dissing on figures like MLK because they weren't violent activists. They assassinated MLK because his activism was actually fucking WORKING. And that only made him a martyr and furthered progress for black America. Black America owes a LOT of its success in the fight for civil rights to MLKs pacifist approach.
Also, apparently Malcolm X wasn't killed by other activists because he was getting more moderate, but by the government.
Let's assume this genius mixed Malcolm X up with MLK. If the state killed King - and I don't believe it did - SOP's logic still applies. You only make your enemy a martyr if you think they'll be more dangerous alive.
These people have to discredit and distort who MLK was and what he believed, because it's inconvenient. Nothing more.
Surprise triplets 😂
I can’t decide what’s funnier, if this was a genuine candid photo of the father’s shock, or if he was an excellent sport and was like “hey folks, know what would be hilarious…”
“Yknow, Ted, the guys at the bar are gonna wanna know what it was.”
“Bring the photo! It’ll be funnier if you bring the photo.”
Story Time!
My father, who is an identical twin, has two older sisters who were also identical twins. My grandfather’s favourite way to tell the story was that in 1956 when he was awaiting the arrival of 🤷♀️ Child™️, the doctor (who, in the small town where we’re from, had delivered my aunts a few years earlier) came to the lounge, lit a cigarette and took a seat next to him.
“Clifford… how are ya?” the doctor greeted.
“I’m alright… yourself?”
“Good, good…good, so how many ya want this time?”
My grandfather, even in the retelling of the story heaved the most world weary sigh and said, “…how many ya got?”
