Cargo shorts are one of the ugliest clothes ever invented. Next to overalls.
Cargo Shorts are useful when you’re meeting a white bear in the desert and have to carry Gun Oil, condoms, weed, a crowler of craft beer and your 3DS XL with pokemon moon so
i want to be someone else’s safety. even nonromantically. i want to be “hey can i tell you something?” i want to be - i tried something new and i’m a little scared but i wanted to show you. i want to be “i knew i could trust you”. i want to be okay to hold the hand of, always ready to listen, always trying. even if i don’t get it perfect, you know? i just want to be a place other people can relax and be themselves and not worry for a fraction of an instant.
i learned that in ancient Athens, only the 300 wealthiest citizens had to pay tax; this was considered a high honor, and taxpayers competed to provide the greatest public good (x)
Sometimes I have an entire conversation with Ripley before stepping back and realizing how cool that is.
I arrive home late from a potluck and the house is dark. From the bottom of the stairs I say, “Hey Ripley, I’m back.”
“Wanna come out,” he answers, which is a pretty standard reply when I first get home. It’s midnight, way past his bedtime, but he hasn’t been out of his cage at all today because we’re dog sitting my mom’s very untrustworthy dog (with whom Ripley is unfortunately fascinated). So I say, “Sure.”
As I walk into his room he lifts up a foot in a way I recognize as meaning “I’m ready to step onto your hand,” so as I open his door I say, “Let’s go in the kitchen.” I offer him the chance to poop in the trash can, but he declines with a small clicking noise. I ask him if he would sit on a chair, but warn him that first I need to move Coat Shirt off of it (shirt is his catch-all word for clothing), and he makes a little “hm” of acknowledgment.
After he steps onto the back of the chair I say, “I’ve gotta go downstairs, can I leave you up here for a minute?”
“Okay,” he answers as I leave the room.
Upon returning I say, “Thanks for waiting in here.” It’s taken years of practice for me to talk to Ripley like he’s a person (he is), but now it’s second nature. He gets insistent if I’m quiet for too long.
“Do want a carrot,” Ripley says, leaning toward the fridge.
“I can get you a carrot.” My usual reply when he asks for a healthy food. I hand him a baby carrot from the fridge.
He takes a couple bites and shakes the carrot around gingerly in his foot. “I like it.”
“I’m glad. Can I touch you?” I reach out to pet his back but he gives me a subtle look: a twitch of his pupils and a fractional declination of his head that means “no thank you.” Ignoring this is a serious offense.
“Okay, no touch. A kiss, then?” He leans toward me and squints: an invitation. As I lean back, he makes a trilling sound and smushes the top of his head against my face. “Thank you,” I say.
After several more kisses I ask him what kind of bedtime treat he wants. “A peanut.”
A lot of our conversation is verbal, sure, but a good deal of it is also nonverbal. Most parrots don’t talk, but all of them communicate with their flock in very precise, intentional ways.
“Isn’t it odd how much fatter a book gets when you’ve read it several times? As if something were left between the pages every time you read it. Feelings, thoughts, sounds, smells…and then, when you look at the book again many years later, you find yourself there, too, a slightly younger self, slightly different, as if the book had preserved you like a pressed flower…both strange and familiar.”
She loves that look until it *rains* on the interstate.
finally. a shitty mod
okay so the funny thing about this is that it was a complete joke, and the men in the replies on twitter just Werent Getting It (also apparently whoever submitted this to this blog lol)
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