It’s been a very long weekend. I require a foot rub, butt rub, head rub, and a ride to the bedroom because I don’t want to walk anymore today.
Why hasn’t my brain sent a signal to my ovaries to cut the shit because we’re not doing the having babies thing?
Nothing like thinking you’re picking up a tuft a dog fur, and then it scurries off because it’s actually a fucking spider.
Never taking my glasses off again.
Theo Jansen’s Strandbeests, wind-powered sculptures that walk on the beach.
Why does nobody on Scooby-Doo question the existence of a talking dog? I mean, except for Shaggy, they all realize there’s a more logical explanation for all the ghosts and monsters they run into, but they’re perfectly accepting of having conversations with a fucking dog. Oh my God, if DeNiro ever started talking to me, I’d probably shit myself.
It’s unnatural for them to be this close without fighting.
Also, GET OUT OF MY SPOT, YOU DICKS. I’M TIRED.