What if every dog is reincarnated into another dog after they die and whenever you see a person walking a dog who goes crazy and tries to meet you and be your best friend it's really your childhood dog trying to tell you he knows and misses you??

me at a restaurant waiter: here's ur cup :-) me: oh thank you waiter: *puts down cup* me: thank you waiter: *fills cup up with water* me: thank you waiter: i'll be back soon with your food me: thank you

eating is so badass i mean you put something in a cavity where you smash and destroy it with 32 protruding bones and then a meat tentacle pushes it into a pool of acid and after a few hours later you absorb its essence and transform it in energy just wow

I heard an interview today about Al in creative spaces and the man being interviewed said "Al is data, and Data can only look backwards. Creativity looks forwards." And I need to sit with that in the best possible way.

worst thing a fanfic author can do is never updating or publishing there fics, Publishing is scary... ok. I get it. But I believe countless good fics never see the light of day because of that fear. And today, there's an extra fear: being accused of using AI. worst thing a reader can do? Attack the author. And yes, that includes casually accusing them of using AI. 🤔

do u ever send smth in a chat thats not even risqué like "i luv salsa" but no one responds so u start overthinking it like... maybe one of their parents died making salsa.... maybe they were all just talking abt how they hate salsa... maybe salsa isnt evn REAL AT ALL to them 😭😭

The dream ADHD career: A role where you’re allowed to jump between projects, solve unexpected problems, and work in short, intense bursts of hyperfocus… without being punished for not having a “consistent routine.”

In the town in southern Spain where my mother grew up, you're not supposed to sweep the floor while someone in the house is eating, because it means you're sweeping their luck out the door with the crumbs. I thought this was one of those things older relatives say and nobody actually follows, until I visited my great-aunt last summer and watched her physically wrestle a broom out of my cousin's hands mid-lunch, over a plate of half-eaten paella, shouting something in rapid Andalusian Spanish that translated roughly to "are you trying to make us poor." My cousin, twenty-six years old, immediately put the broom down like it was on fire. I asked my aunt later if she actually believed it, and she gave me a look like I'd asked if she believed in gravity. "It's not about believing," she said. "It's about why risk it over dust." On my last night there she caught me sweeping crumbs off the counter while my uncle was still finishing his coffee. She didn't yell this time — just gently took the broom, waited until he set his cup down, and then swept, humming, completely unbothered. I asked how long you're supposed to wait. She said until the cup is empty, obviously, and looked at me like I'd asked something a child should already know. I haven't swept during a meal since, not even in my own kitchen four thousand miles away, where nobody would ever find out.

I'm sick of smelling weed at every public place, I live in NY, though not the city. Back in early 2000s, I remember cigarettes everywhere. Then it seemed over time the amount of cigarette smoke I had to smell on a given day became less and less, things were great for years. Every once in a while you'd get a whiff of a cigarette but it wasn't everywhere. Now here we are, and it feels like I can't go to any public gathering place without smelling weed. At the park? Weed. At the beach? Weed. Going to an outdoor music event? Weed. It's disgusting and annoying, and frankly I'm sick of it. I hope all you potheads are happy that you are ruining the public spaces by making them more trashy.

I get asked for my # out in the wild a lot, and I provide it sometimes. But they have to score 100% on a little test, typically involving three questions, in order to have conversation. Another one did not pass the test: ❌

Halfway through checking into a hotel in Glasgow, the receptionist asked, "And is your wife joining you later?" There is no wife. Never has been. Instead of saying this like a functioning adult, something in my brain panicked and produced, "Hopefully." She gave me an extremely sympathetic look. Then the room wasn't ready, so while waiting in the lobby, another employee brought over two complimentary glasses of prosecco. "For when she arrives." Now there was an accidental missing-wife narrative happening. An hour later I came downstairs for dinner alone. The first receptionist saw me and very gently asked, "Still nothing?" At this point correcting them felt somehow cruel. "Still nothing." At breakfast the next morning, a waiter silently put an extra croissant opposite me. Checking out, the receptionist squeezed my hand and said, "You deserve someone who shows up." The taxi driver outside asked how my stay had been. "Apparently," I said, "I've just survived a divorce."