princessofkazakhstan-deactivate
vampireapologist-archive-deacti
the little feet sticking out at the back is really making this a spiritual experience.
ave-aria reblogged
How does it feel to ask for a drink and instead you get a whole artistic experience.
I want a noboneserosis cat ♡
ampervadasz
ave-aria reblogged
I’m home now
Oyasumi
ave-aria reblogged
AND THAT IS HOW YOU USE AN EFFECTS PEDAL
I was gaping the entire song this is insane
If I had a dollar for every time a musician made me feel like I’ve done nothing with my life, I’d be filthy, FILTHY rich.
Musicians who use effects pedals/looping are geniuses. Knowing where and what to loop… I love seeing performances like this!!
His name is Bryson Andres.
Source: mahaldaddy
ave-aria reblogged
only-tiktoks
ave-aria reblogged
daily–cats
Aww so adorable ♡
explanatorypower
i dont understand this at all and america scares the fuck out of me
anarcho-individualist
This is the america they don’t want you to see
local-emo-mom
i love america
dalaisa-katili
This is what you call Waffle House at 2 am when the bars close and everyone is drunk and hungry
rasec-wizzlbang
*group of people having fun* this site: wtf this is so scary
wilfulwayfarer
People having safe fun at a waffle house is scary for most Tumblr bloggers, reports say.
Some context for those not familiar with Waffle House Culture:
- Waffle House is one of the few chains in America that’s open 24/7/365, and where you can get both breakfast and lunch/dinner options at any time (I have had so many Breakfast Cheeseburgers at Waffle Houses). The food is really good, and people eat there at all times of the day or night, but it’s particularly popular as a late-night post-drinking spot because it’s all that’s open and it’s the kind of food that tastes especially good when you’re hammered.
- Part of Waffle House Protocol is that all the servers and cooks greet every single customer as they come through the door. It sounds lame, but I’ve never been to a Waffle House where that greeting didn’t feel completely heartfelt. My mom is a health nut who could barely find anything on the menu she was willing to eat and yet she describes the Christmas Day lunch we had there one year as one of the nicest meals she’s ever had because everyone was so warm and welcoming. That sense of camaraderie gets turned up to 11, of course, at 2 a.m. when everyone’s shitfaced.
- The jukeboxes have Waffle-House-themed songs on them (once you have heard “Raisins in my Toast” you will be earwormed forever) and there is an arcane system of hash brown ordering: scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, topped, diced, peppered, and/or capped. The hot sauce bottles say “Casa de Waffle.”
- Once, in Oxford (UK), my husband and I walked past a kebab van very late one night and he said “why do I smell Waffle House”
- The location of most Waffle Houses means there’s some… classism that tends to get tied up with Anti-Waffle House Discourse, which is probably lending itself, in part, to this being such a fraught topic. (I’m looking at a map and apparently I was born and raised right in the middle of the Peak Waffle House Density Zone)
- It is, in the words of chef Anthony Bourdain, “indeed marvelous— an irony-free zone where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts; where everybody regardless of race, creed, color or degree of inebriation is welcomed.”
postmarxed
We’re not even gonna mention FEMA’s Waffle House Index where they determine how bad a natural disaster is by calling the local Waffle House to see if they’re open?
ave-aria reblogged
Blessed Bee
ave-aria reblogged
oh shit it must be wet beast wednesday
I’m loving this new trend of people going to zoos and participating in animal enrichment. We use to observe large exotic animals for our entertainment, but the fact is that we are now trying to make ourselves equally as entertaining for them. It’s interactive, completely parpicipatory and I would argue that eventually someone’s gonna come up with something new enough that it expland ethologists understanding about how some animals think, problem solve, communicate and feel and I think its fantastic.
urbanfantasyinspiration
Human: play?
Aquatic creature from an entirely different branch of the animal tree: play!
Shit I’m gonna start crying that was so beautiful
Reminds me of when I was very little. I barely remember it but my parents and godparents have told me about it many times. I think it was SeaWorld but it could’ve been somewhere else. I was like two. And we went to go see the dolphins. Well my mom held me up so I could see them properly. One of the dolphins saw my mom holding me up and thought my mom was showing them her baby. So the dolphin swam off then came back with her baby to show my parents. After a few minutes my mom set me down and I started running back and forth and the dolphins swam alongside the glass with me. So they showed off their baby to us and then played with me afterwards.
ave-aria reblogged
luisonte
Cuanto tiempo libre tiene la gente
these are the only kind of trick shots i want to see. where all the evidence of every previous failed attempt is clearly visible in frame.
ave-aria reblogged
bertrandcaillet-deactivated2023
story about a guy trying to make a homunculus and he uses a fertilized chicken egg and it’s, like, a really weird and sickly chicken when it hatches and he thinks he’s responsible for that but he isn’t. and he takes good care of it. short story for you. go vividly imagine it
You aren't supposed to love them. But I cannot help myself. I look at the little wet thing in my hands and all I see is my son. It is, categorically, a failure, but I cannot help myself. It is as if my body is possessed as it makes a warming box for him--I cannot call him "it."
He is so small. He is dry now, and he hops about his box making little noises. I talk to him, about the world. I tell him how handsome he is, how much he is loved. The word failure I keep locked up tight in a box in my chest. He will never hear it.
He is eating and drinking, growing stronger. He makes louder noises when he cannot see me, I cannot bear to be away. He is big enough, I let him wander around out of the box. He follows me around, asking me questions in his language. I try my best to answer.
My colleagues tell me that lead can be transmuted into gold, that through an unknown process of divine purification even the most vile can become holy. They search for it endlessly, this magical cure for imperfection, and as they speak all I can hear is my son's garbled words. I see his little misshapen face staring up at me with his bright eyes. I feel, again, that feeling in my chest, of a forgotten box gathering dust.
I will not tell them I have discovered it.