NYC mayoral candidates asked what "should be banned" in the city and bench appearo came in this with BOILING take

Walk through the steps of this fabulous frog magician and axolotl unicorn! It’s always nice when I can do a painting in one day. This was a pure delight to paint! Hopefully you enjoy!

⭐️🌙🐸🦄

i like to go in the bathroom and splash water on my face and pretend im a male protagonist under a lot of stress

i think we all have that one piece of media we like that’s basically “i love this thing, but i dont think everyone should watch this thing and would not categorically recommend it to other people i know, this thing has a lot of problems and i am the first person you should ask if you want to know a long list of criticisms, but i REALLY ENJOY THIS THING” its like holding up a can of trash to everyone else and saying “you are a reasonable person and you would not enjoy touching this garbage and i value that about you” and then pouring it out on the ground and rolling around in it yourself

Every time I rewatch breaking bad I’m completely STUNNED by how fast Walt resorts to cooking meth to pay his medical bills. He doesn’t try literally anything else before resorting to meth. He finds out he has cancer and then immediately contacts the first meth dealer he can find and is like “let’s be partners.” Like I cannot emphasize enough that cooking meth was Walter White’s FIRST resort, not his last. His old college friends even offer him an executive position at an immensely successful business he helped found so the health insurance would cover most of it and his pay would more than cover the rest, and he turns it down because he doesn’t want “handouts.” The story of breaking bad is about Walters descent into immorality and depravity but he really fucking hurtles off the diving board at the first chance he got and ignored the people throwing him life preserves.

all r/relationships posts are either:

1. "My [26F] husband [43M] has suddenly started [doing blatantly abusive thing]. Am I in the wrong?"
2. "My [37F] husband [39M] and I have been together for 8 loving years. But three months ago, he learned about Chris Angel, and he's now decided he wants to spend his life performing motorcycle stunts in front of penguins. I don't want to crush his dreams but he's used up all of our life savings. Advice?"
3. "My [34M] wife [32M] has always had natural brown hair. Last week, she decided to dye it blonde. Should I file for divorce?"

i wasn't supposed to write about roses or blood or silver, about hearts or wings or galaxies; my teacher used to press her hands, firmly, to the top of our poetry stacks and beg us - love different. she was bored of it. i'd go home and write something with each of her off-limits words, emboldened by spite.

for a stint of time, i was a reader for a poetry magazine, shifting through thousands of submitted writings, each hopefully printed onto my tiny laptop screen for next-submission-viewing. one editor had a pile where we would put all the poems with parsnips or cauliflower, one pile for long-thin emergency rants that devolved into a blank scream, one pile for mentions of belladonna and chartreuse - for a whole year, i'd go to bed hearing chartreuse and silver and cities playing in my head in calligraphy. every three months, the beautiful public eye would become just-fascinated by pretty things. unusual, beautiful monstrosities. one winter, all about daises. the next, a fascination with posies. i watched the world spin from catching love in language to the same five phrases - help, it's ending, i'm alone, help, it's dark here, come home, help -

later, as an english teacher, i saw patterns. every semester, one million essays about four specific things. it wasn't pretty enough to be a teachable moment: the content they wanted to discuss was all extremely violent; a broken anthem of climate change and constantly being videoed is destroying us. i would wake up shaking, worried their visions were prophetic, soon-to-be-true. selfish, i couldn't handle the constant semester-to-semester panic they scribbled into six paragraphs, MLA-formatted text. read the world is ending fifty times every month; sob to your therapist i'm not doing enough, tell your students: please, no more violence, i don't have the right stomach.

each one seemed the same poem: we're dying, and nobody is coming to save us.

there are very few celebration poems these days. i want to rest my hand on a stack of poems about love in big red wings. love in a jacket, standing under an open galaxy. love written on the bicep, in an anatomically correct heart, with an arrow shot through the center so you can see the pink viscera of surviving a wound - so you know that even permanent tattoos are permeable. blood on the snout of a newborn lamb. silver rings around the pink scales of a pigeon's leg, and her hand around the ribs of a bird. i want to read boring essays about lunch. about which video games run the best graphics. about carnivals. about love in big cliche terms: standing in a garden of parsnips, clutching daises to her chest, eating raw meat over the body of a rich man.

i want to open the poetry magazine and have pages of sonnets about bluebells. about survival. about a mundane, beautiful spring. about sitting with your dog on a front porch, writing without spite, happily toying with the idea of ice cream.

my student sends me an email. i know you said to write about what brings you joy. but nothing really makes me happy these days. i don't know what i'm doing.