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a deserving porcupine

@deservingporcupine / deservingporcupine.tumblr.com

an tumblr old - I like pie (& Simon Snow) (& also Good Omens)

i like working at plant store. sometimes you ring up someone and there's a slug on their plant and so you're like "Oh haha you've got a friend there let me get that for you" and you put the slug on your hand for safekeeping but then its really busy and you dont have time to take the slug outside before the next customer in line so you just have a slug chilling on your hand for 15 minutes. really makes you feel at peace with nature. also it means sometimes i get to say my favorite line which is "would you like this free slug with your purchase"

@holyknuckled you get it. lterally what are we here on earth for if not to occasionally impose gastropods upon unsuspecting customers. this story is delightful

oh? my god???

yeah, Exactly like that

never related to authors being like "childhood is such a blessed innocent time", catch me with that jane eyre shit like "such dread as children only can feel" and "I then sat with my doll on my knee til the fire got low, glancing round occasionally to make sure nothing worse than myself haunted the shadowy room"

CHILDHOOD IS MARKED BY FEAR WITHOUT THE WORDS TO EXPLAIN IT

In the Middle

of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's,

struggling for balance, juggling time.

The mantle clock that was my grandfather's

has stopped at 9:20; we haven't had time

to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,

the chimes don't ring. One day I look out the window,

green summer, the next, the leaves have already fallen,

and a grey sky lowers the horizon. Our children almost grown,

our parents gone, it happened so fast. Each day, we must learn

again how to love, between morning's quick coffee

and evening's slow return. Steam from a pot of soup rises,

mixing with the yeasty smell of baking bread. Our bodies

twine, and the big black dog pushes his great head between;

his tail a metronome, 3/4 time. We'll never get there,

Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, urging

us on faster, faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,

sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh

of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up

in love, running out of time.

Poem text by Barbara Crooker (b. 1945)

Leonid Pasternak  (Ukrainian, 1862–1945) - The Torments of Creative Work

oh leonid, we're really in it now

Leonid, you really understand it.

Save me Leonid, from my empty Word document

Leonid what should I do about the emails

Babe are you okay? you reblogged Leonid Pasternak's Torments of Creative Work again

Leonid Pasternak is the best! My favorite of his is The Night Before The Exam (1895).

My man Leonid continues to be relatable

Friends, mutuals, random passersby — if you are doing anything to protest in this trying time, if you are emailing or calling your reps, if you are going to protests, if you are volunteering, if you are trying to quietly talk to conservative friends and family and express your concerns, if you are doing anything — I want to personally thank you for your service from the bottom of my heart

the worst part of "you'll understand when you're older" is that you really do understand when you're older

The second worst part is, once you get older, you find yourself saying "you'll understand when you're older" with Full Comprehension of how fucking annoying you're being right now, but also knowing that it's all you can say.

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aromanticyork

“You deserved better than you got, Someone’s got to say it sometime ‘cause it’s true. People should have told you you were awesome Instead of taking advantage of you. I hope you love your life now, Like I love mine. I hope the painful memories only flex their power over you A little of the time.”

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