Personal Space Invader

rukafais:

demonic-lionfish:

astrodidact:

This Tree Is Growing 40 Different Kinds Of Fruit At Once
This single (and quite colorfully blossoming) tree grows 40 different varieties of peaches, plums, apricots, nectarines, cherries, and even almonds — but just how does it do it?
It does it through the process of chip grafting. After sculptor Sam Van Aken bought a failing orchard in upstate New York full of hundreds of different fruit trees, he began the pain-staking process of grafting several of the different varieties together into one tree. Six years later, the result is this 40-fruit bearing tree, which includes some heirloom varieties that are centuries old.
Image: Sam Van Aken
http://io9.com/this-tree-is-growing-40-different-kinds-of-fruit-at-onc-1608917128

Wahhhhhh GMOs are bad wahhhhhhh

this tree is an overachiever
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rukafais:

demonic-lionfish:

astrodidact:

This Tree Is Growing 40 Different Kinds Of Fruit At Once

This single (and quite colorfully blossoming) tree grows 40 different varieties of peaches, plums, apricots, nectarines, cherries, and even almonds — but just how does it do it?

It does it through the process of chip grafting. After sculptor Sam Van Aken bought a failing orchard in upstate New York full of hundreds of different fruit trees, he began the pain-staking process of grafting several of the different varieties together into one tree. Six years later, the result is this 40-fruit bearing tree, which includes some heirloom varieties that are centuries old.

Image: Sam Van Aken

http://io9.com/this-tree-is-growing-40-different-kinds-of-fruit-at-onc-1608917128

Wahhhhhh GMOs are bad wahhhhhhh

this tree is an overachiever


weileash:

lllladyknucklesnotinshape:

j-e-r-a:

microraptoria:

Source. This is a real thing. It’s happening.

HIV Has Been Cured in a Child for the First Time

HIV Cure: New Drug ‘Vacc-4x’ May Become First Functional Cure Against the Virus

The Man Who Had HIV and Now Does Not

This is HUGE news, and of course no one is talking about it because it is not a part of popular culture. For the first time in the history of the world, there is a possible preventative cure for one of the most deadliest viral diseases to have entered the human gene pool. There is hope for those who have been diagnosed with a disease that may have given them only 20 or so years to live. This breakthrough in the science/pharmaceutical community means that other viral diseases and genetic mutations that were once incurable are now on the table for complete eradication. I’m absolutely seething that no one is talking about this on the news 24/7.

and while this is hella important, herpes is getting complex to the point there is no cure or no way to work with it.

I really need both of these to go viral.

!!!! THIS IS REALLY IMPORTANT !!!!

(Source: imnotjailbait)


shadowofthelamp:

bec-blanche:

shadowofthelamp:

terminalcountdown:

hellzabeth:

pimpeta-slap:

psuliem:

mpregbert:

nagekis:

binart:

DID YOU KNOW THAT MOST SBURB SESSIONS FAIL

ok [LONG POST; APOLOGIES FOR PUTTING THIS ON YOUR LOVELY ART]
this made me wonder what happens to like
the players who go godtier in a dead session
because, like, they’re immortal, and with everyone else dead there is no way they CAN die, because suicide is neither heroic nor just, so they will simply continue to reincarnate forever
until they start to go insane from lack of human contact and anomie
and although sburb keeps them from dying, i imagine that there’s some sort of degeneration going on, maybe every time they die they come back slightly wrong in some way, their speech becomes garbled and they slowly start to look less and less human or whatever
and eventually
inevitably
the only voices left for them to hear are the whispers from the furthest ring
because with all of the time in the universe, even prospit dreamers visit Derse eventually, and as the incipisphere ages the boundaries between universes start to weaken
and it’s so hard not to just give up and accept the invitation, shuck off one’s mortal bonds and leave the session for good, sliding into the many-tentacled embrace of the horrorterrors as your body fully degenerates into madness and lines of code, no longer yourself anymore
just a whisper of what once was but is no longer human.

What if that’s where horrorterrors come from? The mutated god tiers from failed sessions.

ps im crying

This is terrifying

NOTE TEAM MISFAIL: WE ARE ALL TO GO GODTIER AND KEEP EACH OTHER SANE OK? OK.

NOTE TAKEN CAPTAIN’

Your name isn’t important. Nothing is anymore. After all, the clouds block out the heavenly light above and below you, leaving nothing but gray and red.
Gray and red and the cacophony of bleeding colors, the torn rags of your friends as they lie cold and lifeless, no more sentient then the ground you kneel upon. Locked forever in time, doomed to be nothing but dolls of the monster that created you all. They will never return to the soil, will never have the dignity of death, as the game that is not a game will not allow it. You never were religious, but you have prayed. Let there be a messiah, two, three, thousands of them. Let there be something, you think every time with hands clasped tightly before ramming another victim’s weapon into your chest.
Each time, you pray a little harder, stay a little shorter. You were a player, but the outfit you have fastened yourself from the clothes of the deceased leaves even you unsure of what kind. Perhaps time, as you can see hundreds of timelines, hundreds of death of hundreds of innocent lives. You sew your rags because after the fifth time you try to release yourself your robes do not regenerate. You sew yourself but the thread is missing and the fabric is missing and your brain is only just beginning to realize the meaning of eternity.
You play with your friends. A flick of their hair here, a halfhearted hand-holding there grows to hugs and empty sobs. A tango for one and a slow degeneration into the madness you welcome.
You lose track of the holes in your robes and in your soul. The tallies blur together. Names and dates and lives fade as the clouds shudder, the ground quaking and Skia itself weeping for the victory you will never see. 
You cannot speak.
You fumble with whatever you can find, play card games that cannot be won against yourself. You try on their clothes and find they fit. You have shrunk. The coding decrees it. You shed your rags and gain new ones. You grow and cycle out the last choices of the dead. You can still hear the screams no matter how much you silently shriek for anything you can repent. Nothing obeys you.
You cannot see.
You thrive on touch and thought, but thought cannot be relied on. Puzzles and riddles have long since ceased to matter, and you wonder if you exist. A living thing reaches into your mind, twists it and molds it and you do not notice. 
You cannot hear. 
You find a sword after seconds and days and millennia of searching and stab the pain away again and again. There is nothing left to touch, nothing to maim, nothing to live for as there was nothing to live for in time long since lost. Your spirit is gone. 
You do not exist.
You are one of many.
You are the Dead Souls that will never truly be free.
Eternity is but a breath in your lifespan, and your dearest wish is death. No one will give it to you.
There is no one left to.

I’m sorry but I need to reblog this again

I’m reblogging this again in honor of 4/13 because it is still my absolute favorite writing I’ve ever done, even nearly a year later.
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shadowofthelamp:

bec-blanche:

shadowofthelamp:

terminalcountdown:

hellzabeth:

pimpeta-slap:

psuliem:

mpregbert:

nagekis:

binart:

DID YOU KNOW THAT MOST SBURB SESSIONS FAIL

ok [LONG POST; APOLOGIES FOR PUTTING THIS ON YOUR LOVELY ART]

this made me wonder what happens to like

the players who go godtier in a dead session

because, like, they’re immortal, and with everyone else dead there is no way they CAN die, because suicide is neither heroic nor just, so they will simply continue to reincarnate forever

until they start to go insane from lack of human contact and anomie

and although sburb keeps them from dying, i imagine that there’s some sort of degeneration going on, maybe every time they die they come back slightly wrong in some way, their speech becomes garbled and they slowly start to look less and less human or whatever

and eventually

inevitably

the only voices left for them to hear are the whispers from the furthest ring

because with all of the time in the universe, even prospit dreamers visit Derse eventually, and as the incipisphere ages the boundaries between universes start to weaken

and it’s so hard not to just give up and accept the invitation, shuck off one’s mortal bonds and leave the session for good, sliding into the many-tentacled embrace of the horrorterrors as your body fully degenerates into madness and lines of code, no longer yourself anymore

just a whisper of what once was but is no longer human.

What if that’s where horrorterrors come from? The mutated god tiers from failed sessions.

ps im crying

This is terrifying

NOTE TEAM MISFAIL: WE ARE ALL TO GO GODTIER AND KEEP EACH OTHER SANE OK? OK.

NOTE TAKEN CAPTAIN’

Your name isn’t important. Nothing is anymore. After all, the clouds block out the heavenly light above and below you, leaving nothing but gray and red.

Gray and red and the cacophony of bleeding colors, the torn rags of your friends as they lie cold and lifeless, no more sentient then the ground you kneel upon. Locked forever in time, doomed to be nothing but dolls of the monster that created you all. They will never return to the soil, will never have the dignity of death, as the game that is not a game will not allow it. You never were religious, but you have prayed. Let there be a messiah, two, three, thousands of them. Let there be something, you think every time with hands clasped tightly before ramming another victim’s weapon into your chest.

Each time, you pray a little harder, stay a little shorter. You were a player, but the outfit you have fastened yourself from the clothes of the deceased leaves even you unsure of what kind. Perhaps time, as you can see hundreds of timelines, hundreds of death of hundreds of innocent lives. You sew your rags because after the fifth time you try to release yourself your robes do not regenerate. You sew yourself but the thread is missing and the fabric is missing and your brain is only just beginning to realize the meaning of eternity.

You play with your friends. A flick of their hair here, a halfhearted hand-holding there grows to hugs and empty sobs. A tango for one and a slow degeneration into the madness you welcome.

You lose track of the holes in your robes and in your soul. The tallies blur together. Names and dates and lives fade as the clouds shudder, the ground quaking and Skia itself weeping for the victory you will never see. 

You cannot speak.

You fumble with whatever you can find, play card games that cannot be won against yourself. You try on their clothes and find they fit. You have shrunk. The coding decrees it. You shed your rags and gain new ones. You grow and cycle out the last choices of the dead. You can still hear the screams no matter how much you silently shriek for anything you can repent. Nothing obeys you.

You cannot see.

You thrive on touch and thought, but thought cannot be relied on. Puzzles and riddles have long since ceased to matter, and you wonder if you exist. A living thing reaches into your mind, twists it and molds it and you do not notice. 

You cannot hear. 

You find a sword after seconds and days and millennia of searching and stab the pain away again and again. There is nothing left to touch, nothing to maim, nothing to live for as there was nothing to live for in time long since lost. Your spirit is gone. 

You do not exist.

You are one of many.

You are the Dead Souls that will never truly be free.

Eternity is but a breath in your lifespan, and your dearest wish is death. No one will give it to you.

There is no one left to.

I’m sorry but I need to reblog this again

I’m reblogging this again in honor of 4/13 because it is still my absolute favorite writing I’ve ever done, even nearly a year later.


monroeology:

idon-tevenwantoknow:

THERE’S TIMES WHEN I WANT A RUSTIC CABIN IN THE WOODS AWAY FROM ALL SOCIETYimage

THEN THERE’S TIMES WHEN I WANT A MODERN ASS HOUSE image

THEN I’M LIKE I’LL ACCEPT NOTHING MORE THAN A VICTORIAN MANOR
image

THEN I WANT A PENTHOUSE IN THE MIDDLE OF NEW YORK
image

THEN I WANT ONE OF THOSE HOUSE MADE OUT SHIPPING CONTAINERSimage

THEN I WANT A FRENCH CHATEAUimage

BUT I ALSO WANT A TREE HOUSEimage

AND FALLINGWATER image

AND A LITTLE COTTAGE ON THE OCEANimage

HOUSES ARE SO COOL

I want all. All is good.


iron-inquisitor:

zombiecreaturetoken:

mindcrankismycommander:

kriskurse:

nyxweaver:

bace-jeleren:

So yesterday one of my very good friends, jacejosujura, got severely harrassed over instagram. The guy did a lot of shit, including sending her inappropriate pictures, calling her names and telling her to kill herself- but it all stemmed from her owning jace cards. That should be no fucking reason to mock a person. If I had more internet clout I would start a campaign of people taking pictures with their jace cards/ collections in protest of this asshole, but I really don’t. So you’ll just have to settle with just me. There is nothing wrong with having jace cards. Toss off.

Wow that’s really fucked up. I don’t own any Jaces but you guys totally should!

I don’t own any Jaces either, but let’s spread the word! Anyone got a place we can contact this jerkwad?

He must’ve been around for caw-blade and seeing that Mind Sculptor tiggered him to go full tilt.

I want jacejosujura to gain a ginormous collection of Jaces.
Pages and pages of them, all over the walls.
Stack Jace to the ceiling.
Just so that guy’s head explodes.

Petition for players to send her their jaces?
View Larger

iron-inquisitor:

zombiecreaturetoken:

mindcrankismycommander:

kriskurse:

nyxweaver:

bace-jeleren:

So yesterday one of my very good friends, jacejosujura, got severely harrassed over instagram. The guy did a lot of shit, including sending her inappropriate pictures, calling her names and telling her to kill herself- but it all stemmed from her owning jace cards. That should be no fucking reason to mock a person. If I had more internet clout I would start a campaign of people taking pictures with their jace cards/ collections in protest of this asshole, but I really don’t. So you’ll just have to settle with just me. There is nothing wrong with having jace cards. Toss off.

Wow that’s really fucked up. I don’t own any Jaces but you guys totally should!

I don’t own any Jaces either, but let’s spread the word! Anyone got a place we can contact this jerkwad?

He must’ve been around for caw-blade and seeing that Mind Sculptor tiggered him to go full tilt.

I want jacejosujura to gain a ginormous collection of Jaces.

Pages and pages of them, all over the walls.

Stack Jace to the ceiling.

Just so that guy’s head explodes.

Petition for players to send her their jaces?


thunderboltsortofapenny:

recoveringfrommyconvictions:

gaymerboy99:

littlelionmonster:

oldmanstephanie:

"Fuck You, Old People" — Group Piece at CUPSI 2014

"By the way, you can’t actually pick yourself up by your own bootstraps. That’s now how physics works."

FUCK. YES.

this gives me life….

"Act your fucking age" god damn, this has a good message here.

39 seconds in and I reblogged it