Your Daily Dose Of Cat Memes

i sometimes forget that this is everyone’s first time on earth too. like. this is my first time seeing a butterfly this color. but its that little girl’s first time seeing any butterfly, ever. and i accidentally left a bag of groceries at the store after paying and now i’m cursing under my breath and it’s like. there a thousand other people out there who did that today too. and a thousand more from yesterday. and. like. we’re not actually alone. and we’re not actually failing. at least not in a way that a few billion people haven’t before you

Exercises for all the homies who want to have a long career drawing.

The true problem with being an artist and drawing all day (as I wanted my whole life) is that human backs are not designed to hold that position, so it is very common for artists and designers to have really stiff shoulder blades, creating a chain of muscle strain towards the arm AND the back… and a lot of pain.

These are some physical exercises for artists and honestly anyone who works at a desk.

(all credit to my physiotherapist)

he gave himself the job of bathing the foster kittens

marrieds

i don’t know what else to say except that AI art is no longer simply a source of creativity or a wonder of human creation. it has become actively hostile and destructive toward the very thing it pretends to uplift and celebrate. it is void of any human element, any soul or ounce of emotion or self-expression. continuing to use AI art knowing that it comes from theft and robbing artists of their livelihood is disgusting. we need your support now more than ever. stop giving these thieves your money and admiration.

Continuation of birthday drabbles for @penny00dreadful, prompt: crack (IM GONNA BE ON SCHEDULE FROM NOW ON)

“Steve,” Eddie whines, voice high and breathy and feverish, “please, my beloved, come closer.”

“I’m not burning dinner so I can check your forehead. It’s the same as it was twenty minutes ago.” Steve stirs the soup, and Eddie whines louder.

“I can see the light, dearest mine,” his boyfriend moans, and Steve hears the thunk as Eddie rolls off the couch.

Steve does not look up from the soup.

“Please,” Eddie sniffles, out of Steve’s line of sight, “bury me next to my uncle, under the apple tree so children might one day find joy upon my grave.”

“Wayne’s not dead.” Steve deadpans, lifting his face from the soup to grab the bread he’d bought on his way home, laying two slices out on a baking try and slathering them with butter, “and I think he might find issue with you saying—”

“Make my funeral be not a solemn affair,” Eddie goes on, interrupting him, “but a celebration of my life which was cut so very short.” He hacks a particularly dramatic cough, and Steve slides the bread under the broiler.

“Will do, babe.” Steve goes on, finding the strength to humor him, “I’ll make sure they play Megadeath as they lower you into the ground.”

“Traitor!” Eddie croons, “my most trusted beloved, betraying me so wholly as to play the turncoats tunes during my body’s final hours upon this earth!”

Steve pulls the soup from the burner, and takes two bowls from their cabinet. “Parsley on yours?”

Eddie pauses. “Only a little.”

Steve grabs the parsley from the fridge, and hears Eddie take another large breath.

“Make my gravestone read something honorable, please, my dearest. Have it commemorate my many great achievements. Slayer of Devils. Conquerer of Hells. Worshipper of fat asses.”

Steve pours the soup into bowls. Pulls the browned bread from the oven and takes it all to their small living room, where Eddie is still lying between the couch and the coffee table.

Eddie gasps when he sees him. “It is but an angel to carry me away! This must be the end! Please, my love, stay true to me and never bed another. My spirit could not bear it, even in death. It is my only request.”

Steve sets down their food. “Do you want to eat on the couch or the floor?”

Eddie scratches at his eyes. Then holds out a hand. “Help me?”

Steve hauls him up. Gently. Eddie’s still warm, despite the dramatic flair. His skin slightly clammy as Steve situates him, wrapping a blanket around his lap and placing the bowl in his lap. He goes in for a kiss, but Eddie ducks his head.

“Don’t wan’ you to get sick.” He sniffles, fishing a tissue from his sweatshirt. He wetly blows his nose.

Steve kisses him on the forehead instead. Gives him his soup, and joins him on their lumpy couch.

Eddie eats with his mouth open, his nose stuffed to hell, and swallows. “Thank you.” He sniffs. “‘S really good, Stevie.”

Steve hums. “What happened to dearest-mine? My love? Angel?”

Eddie laughs, and it turns into a coughing fit, and Steve has to hold his bowl of soup so it doesn’t spill all over his lap. Eyes watering, Eddie smiles. “Dearest-mine,” he begins, taking the bowl back, “my love, my angel, my one and only, thank you for the soup. How did you know this would be the only cure? My spirit will now never have to watch you bed another, for I will be able to stand by your side for many years to come with this delicious elixir of life.” Eddie leans into his side, and Steve kisses his temple.

“I love you too.” Steve murmurs.

Tag list✨: @hotluncheddie @hitlikehammers @hbyrde36 @littlewildflowerkitten @chaotic-waffle

@westifer-dead @perseus-notjackson @finntheehumaneater @theheadlessphilosopher @spectrum-spectre

@itsall-taken @marvel-ous-m @bookworm0690 @acasualcrossfade @transvampireboyfriend

(IM SORRY FOR TAGGING YALL TWICE IN ONE DAY AGAIN BUT LAST TIME PEOPLE SAID IT WAS OKAY SO)

To anyone who believes fairy tale romances never happen in real life, may I remind you that JRR and Edith Tolkien met and experienced a forbidden love in their youth, and then were separated for five whole years because of his guardian’s rules that he could not date till he was 21, and she got engaged to someone else only because she assumed he’d forgotten her and lost hope that she could ever be with him, but then on his 21st birthday, he wrote her a letter saying he still loved her and wanted to marry her, she responded basically saying ‘if I’d known you hadn’t left me on the shelf, I would never have said yes to anyone else,’ then a week later she greeted him at the train station and then immediately dumped her fiancé, and they got married and she converted to his religion and danced for him in a flowering field far away from the trenches into which he was drafted, which left such an impression that he crafted an entire story about the most beautiful maiden in the world who danced in the woods and made enormous sacrifices to be with the man she loved, and they had four kids and remained faithful to each other and blissfully grew old together and their gravestones are now marked with the names of that same fictional couple that he created, who broke every rule and overcame every possible obstacle to be together and get a happy ending, who only did all that because he based it all on their own real love story.

Art by Justine Thibault

Art by Alba Real