Like to charge reblog to cast
You’re not casting
i think all quiet on the western front and the lord of the rings are in direct conversation with each other, as in theyre the retelling of the same war with one saying here’s what happened, we all died, and it did not matter at all and another going hush little boy, of course we won, of course your friends came back
someone should remake lord of the rings as a grandfather telling a fantasy story to his grand child with flashbacks to world war one showing the dead boys and men the characters were based on. grandpa why didn’t they just fly. because they didn’t. they didn’t.
i’m fine
I will never get over how Tolkien & Lewis took the horrors of war and spun them into fantasy.
Shivering in the trenches dreaming of cozy hobbit holes, shaking as bombs pockmark a forest and imagining each shallow mud-filled crater contains a new world—that maybe there are still as many beautiful things in the universe as there are bombs—that maybe the world is bigger than this moment and this ugliness and one day this will be a peaceful forest again full of small ponds.
I mean look at these photos of the shell craters in Sanctuary Woods, near Ypres Belgium and tell me it’s not the Wood Between The Worlds:
…oh.
you’re twelve years old and you break your father’s hand when he hi-fives you. the first thing you learn is that the smallest slip up can hurt the people you love. your (foster) father smiles and says it’s okay (it’s not).
your parents are not your parents. the idyllic farming community that raised you is not your home. you’re a You-Don’t-Know-What from You-Don’t-Know-Where. all you know for sure is that you’re not human.
so you can fly. so you can run fast. so you can lift cars. so what? why do you even have this power? what should you even do with it?
your father said do what’s right, so that’s what you do.
you stop a robbery. the man’s knife shatters against your skin and you see the same fear in his eyes that you saw in your father’s when you were twelve. you catch a falling child before it can hit the water. his mother looks at you like you’re a god.
they love you, even though they don’t know you. the most powerful man in the world hates you because they love you.
you wanted to write when you were younger. you wanted to tell stories that needed to be told. you never wanted to star in them. you never wanted super-geniuses and demi-goddesses looking to you for advice; like you have any idea how to handle threats to reality itself. you’re just a kid from smallville who’s trying to do the best he can with what he’s given.
you try and get back to the farm as much as you can. it feels normal being back among the open wheat; where everyone smiles because you’re that nice Kent boy.
when you were younger, you pretended to fly, hands out to your sides and running through the tall grass by the river. it doesn’t look as beautiful from on high; the details get lost and the colors of your hometown blur together from a mile above ground.
the problem with flying is that it puts you so far above people you care about
"Surprisingly, really, given the last time you two met, you tried to destroy him. I was there and I do remember, oh very clearly, the look on your face Archangel Gabriel, when you told my only friend to shut his stupid mouth and die. And I... did not... care for it. "
Theres no amount of fanfiction or wishful thinking that could have possibly prepared me for the satisfaction Davids absolute godly delivery gave me in this scene.
I have been rereading my Discworld books, and there's this visceral feeling I get when I look at the back of my older paperbacks to see a smiling face with bright eyes and a caption which reads, 'Terry Pratchett lives-...'
And there's this weight to the paper, and you feel it, and regardless of everything else, yes, there is a part of you that knows it to be true, one way or another.
Pratchett lives, just as the Turtle Moves.
This thing, Starbucks’ Apple Crisp Oatmilk Macchiato, is fucking delicious, FYI. Tastes like an actual apple crisp. 10/10, A+, no notes, will drink again.
The Iced Pumpkin Cream Chai Tea Latte is pretty good, too, but a teeny bit on the cloying side for me.
fun fact!! it turns out that now when u make a new blog, tumblr forces you to follow 3-4 people before you can change your icon or modify your blog in any way!! this, of course, means that, yes, some of the "potential bots" many of us have been automatically blocking could have possibly been genuine new users who were only just seconds in to having an account!!! tumblr is literally screwing new users over!!!!
OK, SO!
Just to confirm for myself that this was true, I went and made a new account and took some screenshots.
After the usual inputting of email, username and birthday (which, I don't remember if tumblr used to require you to enter your birthday? I feel like it didn't??) it takes you to this page:
it requires you to follow five tags from a selection of categories (I didn't count the exact number of categories, but there's a lot. The right section of the screen scrolls down). I followed some very neutral tags:
The "Next" button doesn't become click-able until you pick all five.
After that, it took me to this page:
it suggests 10 different users for each tag that you selected in the previous page (the right side of the page scrolls down to all five tags). As far as I could tell, there wasn't a way to ask for more users in each tag.
Again, the "Next" button doesn't become clickable until you follow three people.
And finally after that it took me to the dashboard:
There wasn't any way to change my icon before this point. So long story short, seems like the og post is true y'all :/
That being said, this only applies to blogs that still have the standard tumblr-generated icons, which is pretty easy to distinguish from the pretty-lady-icon porn bots 🤷🏻
Oh, goddammit. I’ve probably blocked a whole BUNCH of regular newbie users. Dammit, Tumblr.