me: my life sucks, i want to kms
claymation mary oliver who appears when i'm drunk: Oh, but the world is waiting for you. take action! make mistakes!
me: you're trying to get me to kill miranda cosgrove's dog again aren't you
claymation mary oliver: he's evil, my darling
If my cat could talk it would just be "My God! Allow me to lick your hands for fourty five minutes! Thereafter I intend to smell your feet! I will round off the night by breathing directly into your nostrils while you try to sleep! Good God!"
I KNOW ITS NOT THAT DEEP BUT WATCHING SOMETHING LIVING STRUGGLE TO USE ITS OWN BODY DUE TO HUMAN GENETIC INTERFERENCE (SOMETHING IT CANNOT EVEN FATHOM) JUST MADE ME FEEL A BIT COLD INSIDE
crumbl cookie is the perfect avatar of declining empire. a century spent razing our prairies in order to inflate treats with cheap syrup, shifting the overton window of indulgence. it’s accumulated to this moment of lacanian jouissance: a 1000 calorie cookie that tastes like shit