music teachers: i’m going to simplify the terminology for these teenagers so they’re not intimidated by a swarm of italian and french
dance teachers: if these 7 year olds don’t know it’s called a pas de bourrée pas de chat fouetté plié en deuxième coq au vin what’s the point
dance: our naming convention seeks to maintain and honour tradition and live the ancient beauty. perhaps if we speak the same language as balanchine we can achieve his greatness
music: it called oompah cause it go oom and then it go pah
I know, I know, gatekeeping the outdoors, that’s supposedly bad, right, but I think if you show up to do a hike and you brought a portable speaker with you to play music while you hike, I think, like hear me out, there should be a gate, and someone at the gate should keep you from doing the hike.
playing music in public should get strong social disapproval
Recorded music, anyway. Live music is different rules. If you want to lug an entire cello up a mountain you can do whatever the hell you want.
Carrying a speaker on a hike to make everyone listen to your bullshit, and simply sitting under a tree and playing a fiddle in the woods, are two activities so different they may as well not exist in the same world.
I think the critical difference is that the bringing of recorded music with you ties the space to Elsewhere, whereas the creation of live music with an instrument you brought both binds you to the space, and drags everyone who hears you play into it as well.
long distance mutuals <- used to be in the same fandom together and have both moved on to other fandoms but stay mutuals and wave at each other when passing by (scrolling on dash) and catch up when we can (liking each others posts)
Naming the female razor brand Venus is so personally offensive to me….you think Venus the goddess of love and sex and beauty was shaving her PUSSY? Go kill yourself
basically, i think the general rule of thumb is: if someone REALLY wants the blood that’s inside of your body, and they’re like… a vampire, or a dracula, or some sort of mansquito, then that’s probably okay. a dracula and a mansquito are made for removing things like blood and swords from inside your body.
that’s basically fine.
if something wants to get at your blood, and they’re, say, some kind of murdersaurus, or maybe a really big frog, that’s where the problems start to arise. a really frog is not made for removing blood, and your blood knows this, which is why it is so vehement about wanting to stay IN your body instead of coming out.
unfortunately this will not deter a really big frog, because a really big frog is full of things like prizes, and value, and quite a lot of hatred, and it would REALLY rather like to replace any and all of those things with your blood, and basically by any means possible.
These words scan with a fantastic degree of confidence considering that together they make no sense at all
One of the things I resent most about being Animal Brain Apex Predator trapped in Maximum Productivity Society is that I have to work when the weather is gross, instead of following my natural instinct to burrow myself into something dry and soft and sleep until Optimal Foraging Conditions
It is dark and cold and wet and miserable and I have a warm dark quiet hideaway full of food and drinking water that is safe from interlopers and for some ungodly reason instead of holing up there to conserve my energy, I am standing up in a brightly lit beige room for several hours. A possum wouldn’t put up with this shit. I’m going to bite someone
Listen. I grew up with these dogs. Im a cat person, no shame, but Great Pyrenees are hands down my most trusted domestic animal and are hardcore as fuck.
When I was a kid, between six and fifteen, one of our Pyrenees would escort me, off-leash, between my grandmother’s house and mine. I’d just have to call him, and he’d show up and walk me there, placing himself between me and anything he considered threatening- Cranky farm animals, holes in the ground, bodies of water, etc.
That same dog found a (unfortunately deceased) lamb my grandfather had buried a few hours earlier, dug it up, realized it was cold and not breathing, and carefully carried it to our barn, where he covered it neck-deep in straw and tried to cuddle it warm again to bring it back to life.
One of our older dogs, at about sixteen years old (keep in mind, this breed tends to average out at about 12 years max) had arthritis in his hips, a bad back, and a respiratory issue, was fucking ancient and essentially palliative, but would still go stock-still out of nowhere, let out one subtle “boof”, and then set out at an awkward-yet-speedy bunny-hop sprint at the slightest whiff of a cougar, bear, or wolf. Like, grampa would jump fences. Gentle geriatric giant would kick up to 7k to protect the family, never mind the three other, much younger dogs already on the case.
When I was a baby, like a literal in-diapers infant, he would lay on the ground and let me dress him up as a wizard and crawl all over him with zero complaint.
His nephew was 100lbs and often alarmed visitors who mistook him for a bear, yet never so much as bumped into a person in his life and feared only string and kittens.
a Great Pyrenees is not Balto. A Great Pyrenees is Robert McCall, John Wick, and John McClain wrapped in Marry Poppins and a snuggly Mr. Rogers wool sweater.
They are not only the best dog, but I would argue that they are also the MOST dog.
