Falling in Love with Angels

what I think will happen if I message my mutuals

the image was making me really sad so i drew the little guy being taken care of

To be loved is to be changed

Winter has arrived on Poob.

Start your 7 day free trial of Poob today, and watch smash hit Martin Scorcese's Goncharov.

cant have sex with my IOS wife because my dick doesn't fit her portussy so now i have to go to the shitfuck apple store and buy the like 200 dollar strapple

sitting my white ass down and listening

When I say “I love this artist” I either know 5 of their songs that I play on repeat or I know their entire discography and you just have to guess which one it is

if USPS has a million fans, I'm one of them

if USPS has 5 fans, I'm one of them

if USPS has 1 fan, that is me

if USPS has no fans, I'm no longer alive

if the world is against USPS I'm against the entire world

till my last breath I support USPS

I joke but actually USPS is the literal lifeline for so many housebound disabled people who receive lifesaving medications through it- especially housebound people in rural areas. so many private shipping companies do not serve rural areas. try getting anyone else to drive hours into the middle of nowhere to deliver. try it. not all disabled people live in urban areas. USPS saves disabled lives ‼️ without USPS many housebound disabled people will die.

USPS is a disability rights issue

My grandpa, who was the linchpin of his Post Office for YEARS because he could trace any piece of mail no matter how disastrously misrouted, in the pre-internet era no less, is spinning in his grave right now and furiously grouching about the part of the Constitution stating the necessity of the Postal Service.

Also, USPS is last-mile service for…like EVERY private delivery service, especially in rural areas.

me (user since 2010) everytime this site is in a 50/50 situation of being nuked every 3 years

whats-a-leonard-nimoy:

“I got a fan letter from a young lady. It was a suicide note.

So I called her, and I said, “Hey, this is Jimmy Doohan. Scotty, from Star Trek.” I said, “I’m doing a convention in Indianapolis. I wanna see you there.”

I saw her — boy, I’m telling you, I couldn’t believe what I saw. It was definitely suicide. Somebody had to help her, somehow. And obviously she wasn’t going to the right people.

I said to her, “I’m doing a convention two weeks from now in St. Louis.” And two weeks from then, in somewhere else, you know? She also came to New York - she was able to afford to got to these places. That went on for two or three years, maybe eighteen times. And all I did was talk positive things to her.

And then all of the sudden — nothing. I didn’t hear anything. I had no idea what had happened to her because I never really saved her address.

Eight years later, I get a letter saying, “I do want to thank you so much for what you did for me, because I just got my Master’s degree in electronic engineering.”

That’s…to me, the best thing I’ve ever done in my life.

I cry every time.

The look on his face in the last one. He is just glowing he is so proud.

Happy Leland Melvin Day!!!

Happy Leland Melvin Day!

Happy Leland Melvin Day!

Happy Leland Melvin Day!!!

Video captions: And stop trying to show your ex what they missed out on! Stop trying to teach your family a lesson for not believing in you! Stop trying to shit on your haters! Do it for you! Do it because you deserve it! Do it for YOU! Water your dreams with love! Don’t put no hate and resentment, and try to — “oh Imma fucking show them, Imma show” — FUCK THEM! Fuck them, do it for you! They don’t matter! They NEVER mattered.

In the first poetry workshop I ever took my professor said we could write about anything we wanted except for two things: our grandparents and our dogs. She said she had never read a good poem about a dog. I could only remember ever reading one poem about a dog before that point—a poem by Pablo Neruda, from which I only remembered the lines “We walked together on the shores of the sea/ In the lonely winter of Isla Negra.” Four years later I wrote a poem about how when I was a little girl I secretly baptized my dog in the bathtub because I was afraid she wouldn’t get into heaven. “Is this a good poem?” I wondered. The second poetry workshop, our professor made us put a bird in each one of our poems. I thought this was unbelievably stupid. This professor also hated when we wrote about hearts, she said no poet had ever written a good poem in which they mentioned a heart. I started collecting poems about hearts, first to spite her, but then because it became a habit I couldn’t break. The workshop after that, our professor would tell us the same story over and over about how his son had died during a blizzard. He would cry in front of us. He never told us we couldn’t write about anything, but I wrote a lot of poems about snow. At the end of the year he called me into his office and said, “looking at you, one wouldn’t think you’d be a very good writer” and I could feel all the pity inside of me curdling like milk. The fourth poetry workshop I ever took my professor made it clear that poets should not try to engage with popular culture. I noticed that the only poets he assigned were men. I wrote a poem about that scene in Grease 2 where a boy takes his girlfriend to a fallout shelter and tries to get her to have sex with him by tricking her into believing that nuclear war had begun. It was the first poem I ever published. The fifth poetry workshop I ever took our professor railed against the word blood. She thought that no poem should ever have the word “blood” in it, they were bloody enough already. She returned a draft of my poem with the word blood crossed out so hard the paper had torn. When I started teaching poetry workshops I promised myself I would never give my students any rules about what could or couldn’t be in their poems. They all wrote about basketball. I used to tally these poems when I’d go through the stack I had collected at the end of each class. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 poems about basketball. This was Indiana. Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. I told the class, “for the next assignment no one can write about basketball, please for the love of god choose another topic. Challenge yourselves.” Next time I collected their poems there was one student who had turned in another poem about basketball. I don’t know if he had been absent on the day I told them to choose another topic or if he had just done it to spite me. It’s the only student poem I can still really remember. At the time I wrote down the last lines of that poem in a notebook. “He threw the basketball and it came towards me like the sun”

moment of unspeakable beauty today when one of my coworkers called another coworker "judas" for not splitting a can of white monster with her, and i got to watch the guy who sits next to me open a new google tab, type in "jeudis," and say quietly to himself "french thursday...?"

reblog to give your headache to elon musk instead