Biggest Fucking Mood.

tbh the most unrealistic thing in harry potter is when mrs weasley in the first book asks “now what’s the platform number?”

like this woman has been going to that school for seven years and then dropped kids off on the same place for nearly ten like why on earth would she forget the platform number

The other day I got a bug up my ass about lake Natron, because I’ve seen the photos of the calcified remains of animals that died on the lake (contrary to popular rumor, the lake doesn’t outright kill them as soon as they touch it but it probably doesn’t help), but I’ve only seen those photos in black and white. I’m sure you’ve seen them.

This particular photographer posed them for the photos, but I thought, you know, calcified remains should be really interesting to see in color, so I tried to find some that had been taken by others, in color. It was not nearly as visual stunning, they were just white rotting remains.

But what caught my eye wasn’t the dead. It was the fucking lake.

It’s BLOOD fucking RED.

It’s super alkaline (typically 10, but can get up 12, and just so we’re clear, pH13 melts skin, go look up Lye), blood fucking red (terrifying), and oh, it gets to be 106F/41C in the water (which is not scalding but still unreasonable for a LAKE). Red spirulina cyanobacteria (toxic!) thrives here and provides food for the main denizen of the lake…. fucking lesser flamingos.

Look at their fucking mud nests! They have to build nests out of mud because there’s nothing else and the water is caustic enough to kill their babies before those babies are tall enough to stand out of the water! The parents are feeding them crop milk that contains BLOOD.

Additionally!! The chicks often get soda anklets from soda and other minerals collecting and hardening around their feet and legs, which is the major killer of lesser flamingo chicks! They’re so hard that they would need to be hammered off! Like with a hammer or a smashy rock!! Humans had to do this for thousands of babies one year just to keep them from all dying off after we screwed with the balance of minerals in one of their lakes!

Look at this place! What is that black void!!

You need to leave!! You have found flamingo Silent Hill!! What are you still doing here!! I’ll tell you!! They’re still doing there because literally the death lake protects them from predators, nothing big enough to be a threat to them gets across the lake to get them. There are millions of them living there safely.

What the fuck. what the FUCK nature. This is some of the most amazing shit you’ve ever pulled and hardly anyone knows about it. I’m on to you. I see your blood lake with your pink goth bird decorations. I see you.

I made a printable coloring calendar! It’s got all twelve months plus blanks in case you like writing out all the months and whatnots yourself. It’s a mere $3 on Etsy and Gumroad; Etsy splits it up into three files, but it’s all the same thing. It prints on standard letter-sized paper and you can stick it into your discbound planner or three-ring binder, whatever floats your boat. Reblogs are appreciated, feel free to post pics and tag me if you color your own 💙

minneapolis winter aesthetic, driving edition

periodic car horns outside (’f you ask me they sound vaguely like ducks with bad senses of direction who just scream whenever they get too close to each other)

driving very slowly down a hill with a four wheel drive truck patiently following your snail’s pace ass because listen buddy We’ve All Been There

guestimating where the parking spaces in the lot Probably are

plan an extra thirty minutes to brush six inches of frozen nonsense off your windshield and dig trenches behind your wheels before starting your commute

the windshield wiper thing when you park and pull them up so they don’t freeze and your car looks like a bug with antennae 

the knowledge deep within your soul that if necessary you will pilot this vehicle directly into a snowbank and you have made your Peace with this reality

lane dividers are a thing of the past just stick to the right of the road and pray

that look/nod of We’re All Doing Our Best It’s Okay when you fuck up and panic and the other driver sees you

Whats up with Hei Hei in some of the Moana promo art and posters? Like

And like 

And even???? 

He’s so angry and ready to Throw Down 

But then in actuality he’s just 

Disney explain

SOUND: https://www.ruspeach.com/en/news/6077/ Каждое утро - это шанс начать жизнь заново. Every morning is a chance to start life over. утро [ùtra] - morning начинать [nachinàt’] - to start жизнь [zhìzn’] - life www.ruspeach.com

the things i would imagine running alongside the car when i was a kid

Could somebody be a paramedic if they were missing a forearm?

Y’know, sometimes a question comes along that exposes your biases. I’m really, really glad you asked me this.

My initial instinct was to say no. There are a lot of tasks as a paramedic that require very specific motions that are sensitive to pressure: drawing medications, spreading the skin to start IVs. There’s strength required–we do a LOT of lifting, and you need to be able to “feel” that lift.

So my first thought was, “not in the field”. There are admin tasks (working in an EMS pharmacy, equipment coordinator, supervisor, dispatcher) that came to mind as being a good fit for someone with the disability you describe, but field work….?

(By the way, I know a number of medics with leg prostheses; these are relatively common and very easy to work with. I’m all in favor of disabled medics. I just didn’t think the job was physically doable with this kind of disability.)

Then I asked. I went into an EMS group and asked some people from all across the country. And the answers I got surprised me.

They were mostly along the lines of “oh totally, there’s one in Pittsburgh, she kicks ass” or “my old partner had a prosthetic forearm and hand, she could medic circles around the rest of her class”. One instructor said they had a student with just such a prosthesis, and wasn’t sure how to teach; the student said “just let me figure it out”, and by the end of the night they were doing very sensitive skills better than their classmates.

Because of that group I know of at least a half-dozen medics here in the US with forearm and hand prostheses.

So yes. You can totally have a character with one forearm, who works as a paramedic for a living.

Thanks again for sending this in. It broadened my worldview.

xoxo, Aunt Scripty

disclaimer    

The Script Medic is supported bygenerous donations on Patreon. Have you considered donating?

Fancy afree eBook?  

so i’ve seen this around a lot and i always felt like the version i listened to just. didn’t have everything? sO! i edited together my three favourite versions of the tik tok sea shanty! enjoy!!

(listen with headphones if possible!)

(yes i know the ending is bad oKaY-)

*shyly whispers* do u think u could do another Greek Mythology story~

“Your tapestries are sofine,” the merchant says in wonder, “that you must be blessed by the goddessAthena.”

Arachne tosses herhead, braided hair falling over her shoulder like an obsidian waterfall,“What’s Athena got to do with it? My hands wove these, not hers.”

The merchant blanchesand looks to the sky, as if expecting Zeus himself to smite them for blasphemy.Personally, she thinks the king of the gods has better thing to do with histime. “Ah,” he says weakly, “I suppose.”

He pays her for herwares and she leaves, almost immediately bumping into a hunched old woman withgrey eyes. “Do you not owe Athena thanks for your talent?” she croaks, gnarledhands curled over a cane.

Arachne is not stupid,but she is foolish. They will tell tales of it. She looks into those grey eyesand declares, “Athena should thank me,since my talents earn her so much praise.”

She pushes past her andkeeps walking, ignoring the goddess in humans skin as she disappears into thecrowd.

They will tell tales ofher hubris. They will all be true.

~

The next day she bumpsinto the same old woman at the market. Everything goes downhill from there.

“Know your place,mortal,” Athena says, grey eyes narrowed. There is a crowd around them, andArachne could save herself, could walk away unscathed, and all she has to do issay her weaving is inferior to that of a goddess.

She will not lie.

“I do,” she sayscoolly, “and in this matter, it is above you.”

She is not honest as avirtue, but as a vice.

Athena challengers herto a weaving contest. She accepts.

~

Gods are not so hard tofind, if you know where to look.

“It’s a volcano,” thebaker repeats, looking down at her coins, as if he feels guilty for takingmoney from someone who’s clearly not all there.

She grabs her bag ofsweet breads and adds it to her pack before swinging it over her shoulders,“Yes, I know. Half a day’s walk, you said?”

“A volcano,” he insists, as if she did not hear him perfectly well thefirst dozen times.

“Thank you for yourhelp,” she says. He’s shaking his head at her, but she knows what she’s doing.

She walks. She growshungry, but does not touch the bread she paid for, and walks some more. Thesun’s begun to set by the time she makes it to the base of the volcano. It’stall, impossibly large, and for a moment the promise of defeat threatens tooverwhelm her.

But Arachne does notbelieve in defeat, in loss. They will tell tales of her hubris. Those taleswill be true.

She ties a scarf aroundher braids then hikes her skirt up and ties the material so it falls only toher thighs. She fits work roughened hands into the divots of cooled magma andbegins her slow ascent.

~

The muscles in her legsand arms shake, and her hunger pains are almost as distracting. Her once whitedress is dirt smeared and torn and sweat makes her itch as it covers her bodyand drips down her back.

“What are you doing?”

Arachne turns her headand bites back a scream, looking into one giant eye. The cyclops holds easilyto the volcano’s edges, even though her hands are torn and bleeding. Sheswallows and says, “I heard you like honeyed bread. Is it true?”

The creature tilts hishead to the side, baring his long fanged teeth at her. She thinks he might besmiling. “You’ve been climbing for hours. What do you want?”

“Is it true?” sherepeats, refusing to flinch.

“Yes,” he says, lookingat her the same way the baker had, “it’s true.”

“There’s some sweetbread in my pack, baked this morning,” she says, “it should still be soft.”

His hands are bigenough and strong enough that it could probably squeeze her head like a grape. Insteadhe gently undoes her pack and reaches inside. The honey buns look comicallysmall in his large hands, and he swallows half of them in one bite. He lickshis fingers clean when he’s done, and his smile is just as terrifying thesecond time around. “I am Brontes. Why are you climbing my master’s volcano?”

“I’m the weaverArachne,” she takes a deep breath, “I need your master’s help.”

~

They tell tales ofHephaestus’s ugliness.

They are not true.

He’s got a broad,angular face and short brown hair. His eyes are like amber set into his face,and his arms are huge, and he’s rippling muscle from the waist up. He has legsonly to his knees. From there down his legs are bronze gears and golden wire,replacements for the legs destroyed when Hera threw him from Mount Olympus.

“Had your look, girl?”he asks, voice rough like he’s always a moment away from breaking into acoughing fit.

“Yes,” she says, anddoesn’t turn away, keeps looking.

His lips quirk up atthe corners, so it was the right move. The heat is even more oppressive insidethe volcano, and all around him cyclopses work, forging oddly shaped metal thatshe can’t hope to understand. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to find me,girl. What do you want?”

She slides her pack offher shoulders and holds it out to the god, “I have a gift for your wife. I havewoven her a cloak.”

He raises an eyebrowand doesn’t reach for the bag, “You believe something made with mortal handscould be worthy of the goddess of beauty?”

They will tell tales ofher hubris.

“Yes.”

They will all be true.

With a gust of wind theoppressive heat of the volcano is swept away, leaving her chilled. In its placestands a woman – more than a woman. Aphrodite has skin like the copper of herhusband’s machines and hair dark and thick and long. Her eyes are deepest,richest brown, piercing in their intelligence. People don’t tell tales ofAphrodite’s cleverness. That is because people are stupid.

“Let’s see it then,”she says, reaching inside the pack and pulling the cloak from its depths.

It unrolls beautifully.It’s made from the finest silks, and it shimmers in the light from the forges.The hem of the cloak is sea foam, speaking of Aphrodite’s beginning, and upalong the cloak is intricate patterns it tells of her life, of her marriage andher worshippers and escapades, all with the detail of the most experiencedartist and the reverence of her most devoted followers.

Her lips part insurprise and she slides it on, twirling like a child. “Gorgeous,” Hephaestussays, though Arachne knows he does not speak of the cloak. She doesn’t takeoffense.

The goddess smiles andArachne’s heart pounds in her chest. She does her best to ignore it – Aphroditeis the goddess of love, after all. It is only expected. “Very well,” thegoddess says, “you have my attention.”

Arachne swallows.Aphrodite’s attention is a heavy thing. “I have offended Athena,” she says,“She has challenged me to a weaving contest.”

Their faces somber.Hephaestus rubs the edge of a sleeve between his fingers and says, “Athena willlose such a contest, if judged fairly. She does not take loss well.”

“I know,” she says,“you are friendly with Hades, are you not?”

There are no tales oftheir friendship. But she’s staking her life on its existence, because whywouldn’t it exist – both of them even tempered, both shunned by Olympus, bothhappily married.

Gods hate being made tofeel lesser. It is why they say Persephone was kidnapped, why they sayAphrodite cheats with Ares. It is why Athena will crush her when Arachne winsthe weaving contest.

“Clever girl,” Hephaestussays, smiling.

Aphrodite stares at herreflection in a convenient piece of polished silver. Arachne assumes Hephaestusleft if lying there for that express purpose. “Very well!” the goddess says,not looking at her, “when Athena sends you to the underworld, we will entrenchupon our uncle for your release.” She turns on her heel and points a finger ather. Arachne blushes for no reason she can think of. “In return, you will weaveme a gown, one equal to my own beauty.”

A gown as exquisite asthe goddess of beauty. An impossible task.

They will tell tales ofher hubris.

“I accept.”

They will all be true.

~

The contest goes asexpected. Athena’s tapestry is lovely, but Arachne’s is lovelier.

The goddess’s face goesred in rage, and her grey eyes narrow. Arachne stands tall, ready to accept thedeath blow coming for her.

The blow comes.

Death does not.

~

She is an insect. Even if she can make it back to Hephaestus’svolcano, even if they can help her, they will not know it is her. She has nohope left, no course of action, she should just give up. But –

She doesn’t believe indefeat, in loss.

It was a terribly longjourney on foot, that first time. It is even longer this time, although now shehas eight legs instead of two. She makes it to the volcano, and creeps inbetween crevices, until she finds out a hollowed room, one with a sliver ofsunlight and plenty of bugs to keep her fed.

Athena’s cruel joke ofallowing her to weave will be her downfall. Her silk comes out a golden yellowcolor – it will look exquisite against Aphrodite’s copper skin.

~

It takes seven yearsfor her to complete it. She hasn’t left this room in the volcano in all thattime, and as soon as it’s done she scurries out back toward the village. She’sa large insect, but not that large.

She arrives just as thesun begins to rise, and leaves before the first rays have even touched theearth, her prize tied to her back with her own silk.

Arachne doesn’t returnto her room. Instead she goes to the more popular parts of the volcano, hurriesand runs around terrifying stomping feet until she finds who she’s looking forand scurries up his leg and onto his shoulder.

“Huh,” Brontes looksonto his shoulder and blinks. “What on earth are you?”

She cautiously skittersdown his arm, waiting. He bends closer and lightly touches her back. “Is – is thata piece of a honey bun?”

She looks up at him,waiting. It’s her only chance, if he doesn’t remember, if he doesn’t understand–

His face slowly fills witha cautious kind of wonder. “Arachne?”  Shejumps in place, being unable to nod, and Brontes cautiously cradles her in hismassive hands, “We must find the Master immediately!”

She jumps down, landingin front of him and running forward. “Wait!” he calls, and she makes sure he’s runningafter her before skittering back to her corner of the cave. It’s almost toosmall for him to enter but he squeezes inside and breathes, “Oh.” He stares forseveral moments, and Arachne climbs her web and waits. Brontes shakes himselfout of his reverie and uses his powerful wings to bellow, “MISTRESS APHRODITE!”

There’s that samebreeze and she’s in the crevice with them, “What was so important, Brontes,that you had to yell?”

Arachne sees the exactmoment that the goddess sees the gown, golden yellow and glimmering, madeentirely of spider silk. “Beautiful,” she says, reaching out a hand to brushdown the bodice. Her head then snaps up, “Brontes, where’s Arachne?”

She warms at that, thatAphrodite knew it was her weaving even though she hasn’t been seen in sevenyears.

They’ve told tales ofher hubris.

They are all true.

Brontes points at theweb, and Aphrodite steps over and holds out her hands. Arachne crawls onto thegoddess’s palms. “Athena is more powerful than I am, I cannot undo her work,”she says, “but I know someone who can.”

Then they are in frontof a river. A handsome young man stands there waiting with a boat. “GoddessAphrodite,” he says, “we weren’t expecting you.”

“Thanatos,” shereturns, “I need to see Persephone.”

The man’s face stayscool, and for a moment Arachne fears they will be refused and she will be stuckin this form forever. Then he smiles and says, “My lady is of course availablefor her favored niece.” He holds out a hand to help her onto the boat, “Pleasecome with me.”

~

Arachne weaves a dressfor Hades’s wife as a thank you, and returns to her volcano.

“I can take yousomewhere else,” Aphrodite says, “you don’t have to hide here.”

Arachne pauses at herloom. She has lived in this volcano for seven years. It’s her home. “Would youlike me to leave?” she asks instead.

Aphrodite scoffs, “Ofcourse not! How could I dress myself without you here?” She’s wearing thespider silk dress Arachne spun for her, and she’s working on another for thegoddess now. Aphrodite runs a gentle finger down Arachne’s cheek and for amoment she forgets to breathe. “You are the finest weaver to ever exist.”

She looks up at thegoddess, “Then as the god of crafts and goddess of beautiful things, where elsewould I belong besides with you and Hephaestus?”

To declare your companyequal to that of gods is the height of arrogance and blasphemy.

They tell tales of herhubris.

“An excellent point,”Aphrodite murmurs, and tucks a stray braid behind Arachne’s ear.

They are all true.

gods and monsters series part iii