My boyfriend is trying to explain cricket to me again. “He’s only got two balls to make 48 runs”, he says. The camera focuses on a man. Underneath him it says LEFT ARM FAST MEDIUM. A ball flies into the stands and presumably fractures someone’s skull. “There’s a free six”, my boyfriend says. 348 SIXES says the screen. A child in the audience waves a sign referencing Weet-Bix
The first time he showed me this I assumed he was pranking me
if people haven’t been exposed to cricket before, here is the experience. The person who likes cricket turns on a radio with an air of happy expectation. “We’ll just catch up with the cricket,” they say.
An elderly British man with an accent – you can picture exactly what he looks like and what he is wearing, somehow, and you know that he will explain the important concept of Yorkshire to you at length if you make eye contact – is saying “And w’ four snickets t’ wicket, Umbleby dives under the covers and romps home for a sticky bicket.”
There is a deep and satisfied silence. Weather happens over the radio. This lasts for three minutes.
A gentle young gentleman with an Indian accent, whose perfect and beautiful clear voice makes him sound like a poet sipping from a cup of honeyed drink always, says mildly “Of course we cannot forget that when Pakistan last had the biscuit under the covers, they were thrown out of bed. In 1957, I believe.”
You mouth “what the fucking fuck.”
A morally ambiguous villain from a superhero movie says off-microphone, “Crumbs everywhere.”
Apparently continuing a previous conversation, the villain asks, “Do seagulls eat tacos?”
“I’m sure someone will tell us eventually,” the poet says. His voice is so beautiful that it should be familiar; he should be the only announcer on the radio, the only reader of audiobooks.
The villain says with sudden interest, “Oh, a leg over straight and under the covers, Peterson and Singh are rumping along with a straight fine leg and good pumping action. Thanks to his powerful thighs, Peterson is an excellent legspinner, apart from being rude on Twitter.”
The man from Yorkshire roars potently, like a bull seeing another bull. There might be words in his roar, but otherwise it is primal and sizzling.
“That isn’t straight,” the poet says. “It’s silly.”
“What the fucking fuck,” you say out loud at this point.
“Shh,” says the person who likes cricket. They listen, tensely. Something in the distance makes a very small “thwack,” like a baby dropping an egg.
“Was that a doosra or a googly?” the villain asks.
“IT’S A WRONG ‘UN,” roars the Yorkshireman in his wrath. A powerful insult has been offered. They begin to scuffle.
“With that double doozy, Crumpet is baffled for three turns, Agarwal is deep in the biscuit tin and Padgett has gone to the shops undercover,” the poet says quickly, to cover the action while his companions are busy. The villain is being throttled, in a friendly companionable way.
An intern apparently brings a message scrawled on a scrap of paper like a courier sprinting across a battlefield. “Reddy has rolled a nat 20,” the poet says with barely contained excitement. “Australia is both a continent and an island. But we’re running out of time!”
“Is that true?” You ask suddenly.
“Shh!” Says the person who likes cricket. “It’s a test match.”
“About Australia.”
“We won’t know THAT until the third DAY.”
A distant “pock” noise. The sound of thirty people saying “tsk,” sorrowfully.
“And the baby’s dropped the egg. Four legs over or we’re done for, as long as it doesn’t rain.”
The villain might be dead? You begin to find yourself emotionally invested.
There are mild distant cheers. “Oh, and with twelve sticky wickets t’ over and t’ seagull’s exploded,” the man from the North says as if all of his dreams have come true. “What a beautiful day.” Your person who likes cricket relaxes. It is tea break.
The villain, apparently alive, describes the best hat in the audience as “like a funnel made of dove-colored net, but backwards, with flies trapped in it.”
This is every bit as good as that time in Australia in 1975, they all agree, drinking their tea and eating home-made cakes sent in by the fans. The poet comments favorably on the icing and sugar-preserved violets. The Yorkshire man discourses on the nature of sponge. The villain clatters his cup too hard on his saucer. To cover his embarrassment, the poet begins scrolling through Twitter on his phone, reading aloud the best memes in his enchanting milky voice. Then, with joy, he reads an @ from an ornithologist at the University of Reading: seagulls do eat tacos! A reference is cited; the poet reads it aloud. Everyone cheers.
You are honestly – against your will – kind of into it! but also: weirdly enraged.
“Was that … it?” you ask, deeming it safe to interrupt.
“No,” says the person who likes cricket, “This is second tea break on the first day. We won’t know where we really are until lunch tomorrow.”
And – because you cannot stop them – you have to accept this; if cricket teaches you anything, it is this gentle and radical acceptance.
Tags:
#cricket #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #unreality cw? #frankly I have no idea what fraction of this is real but I doubt it’s 100% #this post was queued because my to-reblog list is too long and I didn’t want to dump it on you all at once
#cats #puns #I didn’t actually laugh aloud but it still amused me enough to reblog #this post was queued because my to-reblog list is too long and I didn’t want to dump it on you all at once
Every summer wasps come into my room. And every summer they hover in front of every artwork on my wall, then hover in front of me, then leave through the window. It’s time to face the truth: I’m running a free art gallery for wasps. And I don’t even have a gift shop!
Well build one then!
*3D prints tiny keychains*
*paints Adele Bloch-Bauer on the windowsill with honey*
*fills drops of the sweetest liqueur I have into hollow pepper seeds and writes my address on them with the smallest paintbrush in the world*
Tags:
#bugs #I didn’t actually laugh aloud but it still amused me enough to reblog #this post was queued because my to-reblog list is too long and I didn’t want to dump it on you all at once
my favorite work memory from this store will always be “hey remember when the subway inside the store closed down and they let me take a bunch of their shit for free and now it lives inside my house?”
my life is a joke
i would unironically love to have that bin
Tags:
#this reminds me of that doctor’s office poorly renovated into a house #it’s an interestingly disorienting place to visit but I would *not* want to live there #love the decor fandom #food #juxtaposition #this post was queued because my to-reblog list is too long and I didn’t want to dump it on you all at once
“…named for Robion Kirby, is a method for modifying framed links…”
{{Original alt text: “Pencil sketch: Kirby eagerly holds up a paper chain of friend links”}}
“…in the 3-sphere using a finite set of moves, the Kirby moves.”
{{Original alt text: “Pencil sketch: Kirby, still excited, imagines three spherical Kirbies performing moves like Float, Dodge, and Slide”}}
“Using four-dimensional Cerf theory, he proved that if M and N are 3-manifolds…”
{{Original alt text: “Pencil sketch: Kirby contentedly theorises surfing in another dimension”}}
“…resulting from Dehn surgery on framed links L and J respectively…”
{{Original alt text: “Pencil sketch: Does Dehn surgery need a dentist? Doctor Kirby is confused but his bonesaw and drill are ready”}}
“…then they are homeomorphic if and only if L and J are related by a sequence of Kirby moves.”
{{Original alt text: “Pencil sketch: Doctor Kirby happily waves a little gay pride flag even though he isn’t sure how it relates to dentistry”}}
“According to the Lickorish-Wallace theorem, any closed orientable 3-manifold is obtained by such surgery on some link in the 3-sphere.”
{{Original alt text: “Pencil sketch: OHHHH if you perform dental surgery on your friend links you can obtain licorice! Everything makes sense now, Doctor Kirby waves his flag and drill more joyfully than ever”}}
Tags:
#make sure to read the alt text #art #overly literal interpretations #Kirby #adorable #embarrassment squick? #this post was queued because my to-reblog list is too long and I didn’t want to dump it on you all at once
So the Spoon Theory is a fundamental metaphor used often in the chronic pain/chronic illness communities to explain to non-spoonies why life is harder for them. It’s super useful and we use that all the time.
But it has a corollary.
You know the phrase, “Stick a fork in me, I’m done,” right?
Well, Fork Theory is that one has a Fork Limit, that is, you can probably cope okay with one fork stuck in you, maybe two or three, but at some point you will lose your shit if one more fork happens.
A fork could range from being hungry or having to pee to getting a new bill or a new diagnosis of illness. There are lots of different sizes of forks, and volume vs. quantity means that the fork limit is not absolute. I might be able to deal with 20 tiny little escargot fork annoyances, such as a hangnail or slightly suboptimal pants, but not even one “you poked my trigger on purpose because you think it’s fun to see me melt down” pitchfork.
This is super relevant for neurodivergent folk. Like, you might be able to deal with your feet being cold or a tag, but not both. Hubby describes the situation as “It may seem weird that I just get up and leave the conversation to go to the bathroom, but you just dumped a new financial burden on me and I already had to pee, and going to the bathroom is the fork I can get rid of the fastest.”
I like this and also I like the low key point that you may be able to cope with bigger forks by finding little ones you can remove quickly. A combination of time, focus, and reduction to small stressors that can allow you to focus on the larger stressor in a constructive way.
!!!
Tags:
#that one post with the thing #I know there have been other fork metaphors out there but this is the one that’s stuck with me #the one that most resonated #language #this probably deserves some warning tag but I am not sure what #this post was queued because my to-reblog list is too long and I didn’t want to dump it on you all at once
Why did you give the last of your food to that poorly disguised mimic? You were finally at peace with letting go, but now this odd thing won’t leave you alone and is even turning itself into various items in an attempt to aid you.
The mimic is a young one, and you knew that from the moment you laid eyes on it. It was disguised as a crate, but the angles weren’t quite right. The corners were a little lopsided, and if you looked hard enough you could make out the creature’s mouth.
A sigh escapes you as you toss over the last of your rations, not even bothering to stand up as you do so. What’s the point? You think. I’ve been trapped in this cave for days, nobody is looking for me, and the monsters are closing in. Why should I bother even trying? I could just fall asleep now, and let this little mimic eat me too.
The thing is… it doesn’t. It eats your rations, but when you lay down and try to sleep, it doesn’t attack. You do hear it move closer, but you don’t open your eyes until you feel something nudge your hand. As you barely open your eyes, you can see that the mimic has morphed itself into a crude sword. You can’t help but chuckle.
“You’re cute, but I don’t have anything left to give you.” You don’t have anything left to give for yourself either, but you don’t say so.
The mimic doesn’t seem to take no for an answer. It becomes a dagger, then an axe, then a staff, as though it’s trying to determine what your preffered weapon is.
“Listen, I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but it’s not working. I’m not going to pick you up and take you into some other part of this stupid cave system. Nice try, though.”
You turn away from it and attempt to sleep again. As you do so, you find yourself shivering. You really wish, as you doze off, that you had a blanket.
When you wake, much later, you’re surprised to find yourself covered with the warmest blanket you’ve ever had. You quickly sit up, eagerly hoping that someone had cone for you, but the cave is empty. When you look at the blanket, you notice the imperfect edges and the janky seam across the middle.
“…why haven’t you eaten me yet?” You ask the little mimic that’s now laying on top of you. “What’s wrong with you?”
The mimic, still in the form of the blanket, slithers off of you, but it does not respond. Instead, it begins taking the form of weapons again. When it turns into a crooked staff, you reach out, despite yourself. Your fingers wrap around it and you use it to haul your aching, injured body to your feet. “I guess there are probably nicer places to die.”
You know you won’t get far. And you don’t. Especially not without light. The mimic doesn’t seem too bothered, though. When you collapse again, it scuttles off. Perhaps this was simply where it wanted you to take it. Perhaps now you can finally succumb to your exhaustion.
Then, a few minutes later, a misshapen clay cup bumps against your hand. It’s full of water, and there’s a crack in the middle like a jagged mouth. You pick up the cup and you drink, telling yourself it’s only out of desperation. When you set the cup down, that little cracked mouth seems to smile.
This goes on for what feels like days. The mimic helps you limp along through the tunnels, transforming into whatever you may need at any given time. Every time you fall asleep, you expect not to wake up. Yet, you do, usually with a mimic blanket wrapped around you. It brings you food and water when you can.
The biggest surprise comes when one morning, you find you’re pleased to have survived another night. You’re happy to have the mimic keeping you warm. It’s a new feeling, and a confusing one, but it’s not unpleasant.
The other monsters that you know are down here seem to leave you alone for the most part. You aren’t sure why. It crosses your mind that maybe it has something to do with the mimic. Then again, maybe they’re just waiting for you to die. Death is gradually beginning to sound less and less appealing.
The day you catch a glimpse of sunlight down a long and narrow tunnel is the first day you finally feel like your old self again. Your pace quickens, and you don’t need to lean on the mimic’s staff form quite so much. The illusion shatters when you reach the light’s source. A small gap, high above. You curl up on the floor and cry. When you finally have the strength to look up again, your mimic has become a ladder.
Getting up is hard, in your state. Climbing, even more so. But the ladder is the biggest and best transformation the mimic has done so far, and if it wants you to get out, then you can’t let it down.
You feel it push up under you when you reach the gap. It helps you squeeze through, and then… freedom. Fresh air, and sunlight. You lay on your back on the stone, and you pass out.
You wake up at sunset, with a blanket draoed over you. A blanket with a jagged seam down the middle.
Tags:
#D&D #storytime #adorable #death tw #this post was queued because my to-reblog list is too long and I didn’t want to dump it on you all at once
might start tagging all my shit posts as sexual content. somebody could be into this, you can’t prove to me they’re not
Tags:
#who among us has not been there tbh #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #sexuality and lack thereof #the wondrous variety of sapient life #this post was queued because my to-reblog list is too long and I didn’t want to dump it on you all at once
Brinens and Things 