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#pilferingapples – @zenosanalytic on Tumblr
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Racing Turtles

@zenosanalytic / zenosanalytic.tumblr.com

"Why run, my little Phoenician?"
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pastelmelody

Roommate went out of town once, asked me to look after her cat.

Night one she comes down meowing at me. I go check her food/water, they're full. Litter box empty. Make sure my roommate's door is still open and she's not locked out of her room or something. I try to pet her and she dodges me, offer her treats and she won't have it, try playing with her but she won't play, try just ignoring her and she won't stop following me around meowing at me.

So I call my roommate, concerned maybe she was sick or in pain and that's why she was being so insistent despite having all her needs met.

Roommate goes: "OH! She wants you to go to bed. Go upstairs to my room and just sit in my bed with her for a few minutes. She should curl up and get comfortable. Once shes laid down she usually lets me go back to what I'm doing she just can't seem to go to bed on her own"

Sure enough, I go sit on roommates bed and she just happily jumps up, curls up on the blanket, and purrs herself to sleep.

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lenacraft

I like when cats try to give their humans healthy habits.

Don Pierrot of Navarre always sat up at night until I came home, waiting for me on the inside of the door, and as soon as I stepped into the antechamber he would come rubbing himself against my legs, arching his back and purring in gladsome, friendly fashion. Then he would start to walk in front of me, preceding me like a page, and I am sure that if I had asked him to do so, he would have carried my candle. In this way he would escort me to my bedroom, wait until I had undressed, jump up on the bed, put his paws round my neck, rub his nose against mine, lick me with his tiny red tongue, rough as a file, and utter little inarticulate cries by way of expressing unmistakably the pleasure he felt at seeing me again. When he had sufficiently caressed me and it was time to sleep he used to perch upon the backboard of his bed and slept there like a bird roosting on a branch. As soon as I woke in the morning, he would come and stretch out beside me until I rose. Midnight was the latest time allowed for my return home. On this point Pierrot was as inflexible as a janitor... Twice or thrice Pierrot sat up for me until two o’clock in the morning, but presently he took offence at my conduct and went to bed without waiting for me. I was touched by this mute protest against my innocently disorderly way of life, and thereafter I regularly returned home at midnight. Pierrot, however, proved hard to win back; he wanted to make sure that my repentance was no mere passing matter, but once he was convinced that I had really reformed, he deigned to restore me to his good graces and again took up his nightly post in the antechamber.

Cats : trying to make us go to bed at a Reasonable Time since forever (so they can wake us up at 3 am for treats)

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The inherent homoeroticism of killing your enemy and immediately regretting it

It’s about rage, it’s about obsession, it’s about making that two-person war your entire raison d’être. It’s about loving and mistaking it for hatred and loving and loving and loving to the point of destruction. His or yours, it doesn’t matter. And you think seeing him dead at your feet will make you feel better, but all you feel is a whole lot of nothing.

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These animals are phantoms as well as monsters. They are, because they exist; if they were not, reason would be justified. They are the amphibia of death. Their improbability complicates their existence. They border on the human frontier, and people the region of Chimeras. You deny the vampire, the octopus appears. Their swarming is a certainty which disconcerts our assurance. Optimism, which is the truth, nevertheless almost loses countenance before them.

Victor Hugo, still completely losing what little chill he possessed over the existence of the octopus.  (via pilferingapples)

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okay so this post is wrong but what the heck it’s a Tumblr post, right, it’s mostly a joke, only it’s so perfectly echoing an idea I’ve seen elsewhere too, from actual paid critics and academic critiques, that Hugo “wasn’t writing for emotional teenagers”, that he’d be horrified by fandom, that he was too High and Erudite for the likes of  screaming theater kids and emotional teenagers

y’all. Y’all. 

Victor Hugo knew what fandom was.  And he absolutely LOVED it. 

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