March 8th, 2026
TikTokers are such pussies when it comes to ships. โB-but theyโre not canon ๐ฅบ๐ฅบ๐ฅบ๐ญ๐ญ๐๐โ honey back in my day we shipped characters from entirely different medias uphill both ways in the snow
They laugh but I'm actively making a giant project that appeared to me in a dream so I don't know what we're laughing at honestly
No, I am not 'hoarding craft supplies.' I am sourcing materials for a very big project that will be revealed to me at a later date- perhaps in a dream.
Each person gets two! As long as the kids are big enough to eat two and not get sick.
A full-time housewife posted a video on douyin about her husband's reaction to her eating two cake rolls in one box of swiss rolls. Cnetizens got furious after watching the video and felt that's ridiculous. So girlfriends and wives went and asked their boyfriends and husbands the question lmao.
(*Swiss rolls refer to the popular creamy roll cakes and it didn't seem to originate in Switzerland, more like it should have originated in Austria or Hungary? The term came over from tokyo anyway and that's what people used to call it)
I've been here for about 13 years I think and I've heard tumbling but NEVER tumblogs
Teach me how to use my tumblog
The radio crackled on. Robin clutched the microphone as steady as she could, the poor thing not used to the rough location of Steve's beat up Beemer.
"Evening, Hawkins," she announced into the mic. Not in her typical bravado. This was all Robin: trembling, scared, but defiant against it. "This is Rockin' Robin, here with Sailin' Steve in what very well may be our last broadcast."
She adjusts her spear, getting Steve to double check his shield. Not easy to do while speeding down the road, but when their destination is the same no matter where he goes, it doesn't quite matter anymore, does it?
"It's been a pleasure serving you lovely people and WSQK Radio," Robin continues, her voice shaking less as the certainty of her words takes over. "But it's time for us to sign off one last time."
"The end of the world is calling, baby," Steve says, loud enough for the radio to pick up. It's the first time he's ever dared to speak into it, and the wave of power it gives him makes him feel possessed. With the way his hand moves off the wheel to twist the knob of the barely functioning sound board between them, turning the music up as he accelerates and fueling his words, he may as well be. "We're here to pick up the call."
Steve grips the stick in front of the sound board, clutching the leather as familiar as the denim beneath his war clothes. "We've got one final song for you all, dedicated to an old friend of mine."
He smells ash. Tastes blood on the tip of his tongue. Feels the sting in his sides like a call from the other side.
Not painful. Hopeful.
Daring.
Trusting.
Fueling.
"We're gonna finish what you started, bud. I'm gonna make him pay."
As the first notes of the guitar solo to "Crazy Train" begin rattling his car, as his fingers tighten impossibly more on the wheel and a tear rolls down his cheek, he feels the ghost of a hand on his shoulder.
Ring laden.
Strong in its fear. Familiar in its loss.
Steve grits his teeth. Takes a deep breath as a calmness burns just as bright as the fire of vengeance.
"Eddie Munson, this is for you."
Then he shifts the stick, grips the wheel, and speeds straight into the apocalypse.
Upholding Luigi Mangione as a class hero isn't actually helping anything; not because killing the ceo was wrong (it wasn't) but because the man still maintains his innocence. You're doing no better than the cops and fraction of the public against the shooter's actions by treating Mangione as if he's unequivocally guilty.
Redirect your energy to fighting the police's bullshit prosecution and blatant public defamation of his image. Stop supporting him on the grounds of heroic actions. Support him on the grounds of there's still literally no proof he actually fucking did anything.