Very Old Drawing But I Think It Would Be Neat If Penny Had An Insect Obsession ... Instead Of A Porcelain

Canon

Again and Again

Featuring FTM Alivaby performing as: seahorse papa! I wanted to do a bittersweet time-lapse,,

I'll probably post the frames eventually! And feel free to share (only) this GIF (with credits and link) ^^ Let me know if the BBU team sees it hehe 👀

I like to imagine that little Mel loved the song "On Melancholy Hill" so much (she’d throw hours-long tantrums just to make Ken sing it or play it for her) that Ken eventually thought, "Melancholy Hill" would be the perfect name for her.

If you're trying to get over your fear of Hell, I recommend Bart D. Ehrman's book, Heaven And Hell: A History of the Afterlife. Or if you can't read the book, you can watch his lecture on YouTube. As you learn how all of this stuff organically developed and evolved, you can see that there's no good reason to take anything conservative Christians say about eternal damnation very seriously.

Reblog this to support the selfship(s) of the person you reblogged it from!

Since some days, an indirect showing of support is just a lil easier. ♥

the shock value really gets ya huh

Can’t wait for, like, 2025 when we look back on the 2018/2019 era and say “hey, remember when we were all really freaking depressed? That was a crazy time! Glad we aren’t like that anymore”

"you don't have to transition to be trans": overdone, dull, runs cover for taking away medical care from those who need it

"you don't have to be trans to transition": exciting, poignant, radical perspective on the right to bodily autonomy

I think I may never be sad ever again. There is a statue entitled "Farewell to Orpheus" on my college campus. It's been there since 1968, created by a Prof. Frederic Littman that use to work at the university. It sits in the middle of a fountain, and the fountain is often full of litter. I have taken it upon myself to clean the litter out when I see it (the skimmers only come by once a week at max). But because of my style of dress, this means that bystanders see a twenty-something on their hands and knees at the edge of the fountain, sleeves rolled up, trying not to splash dirty water on their slacks while their briefcase and suit coat sit nearby. This is fine, usually. But today was Saturday Market, which means the twenty or so people in the area suddenly became hundreds. So, obviously, somebody stopped to ask what I was doing. "This," I gestured at the statue, "is Eurydice. She was the wife of Orpheus, the greatest storyteller in Greece. And this litter is disrespectful." Then, on a whim, I squinted up at them. "Do you know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?" "No," they replied, shifting slightly to sit.

"Would you like to?"

"Sure!"

So I told them. I told them the story as I know it- and I've had a bit of practice. Orpheus, child of a wishing star, favorite of the messenger god, who had a hard-working, wonderful wife, Eurydice; his harp that could lull beasts to passivity, coax song from nymphs, and move mountains before him; and the men who, while he dreamed and composed, came to steal Eurydice away. I told of how she ran, and the water splashed up on my clothes. But I didn't care. I told of how the adder in the field bit her heel, and she died. I told of the Underworld- how Orpheus charmed the riverman, pacified Cerberus with a lullaby, and melted the hearts of the wise judges. I laughed as I remarked how lucky he was that it was winter- for Persephone was moved by his song where Hades was not. She convinced Hades to let Orpheus prove he was worthy of taking Eurydice. I tugged my coat back on, and said how Orpheus had to play and sing all the way out of the Underworld, without ever looking back to see if his beloved wife followed. And I told how, when he stopped for breath, he thought he heard her stumble and fall, and turned to help her up- but it was too late. I told the story four times after that, to four different groups, each larger than the last. And I must have cast a glance at the statue, something that said "I'm sorry, I miss you--" because when I finished my second to last retelling, a young boy piped up, perhaps seven or eight, and asked me a question that has made my day, and potentially my life: "Are you Orpheus?" I told the tale of the grieving bard so well, so convincingly, that in the eyes of a child I was telling not a story, but a memory. And while I laughed in the moment, with everyone else, I wept with gratitude and joy when I came home. This is more than I deserve, and I think I may never be sad again.

Here is the aforementioned statue, by the way.