shout out to the mutuals ive never spoken to. i am sitting in the same room as you doing my arts and craft while you read your book. we are vibing and chilling.
Okay, don’t get me wrong here. I LOVE Jurassic Park. I love seeing their dinosaurs. But after watching Prehistoric Planet, and going back to look at this…
And then looking at this…
Notice how much healthier the second set looks? Their lips cover their teeth, they actually have fat on their bodies, their skin doesn’t wrinkle like they’re dehydrated. You can’t see every single tendon and muscle move because you aren’t supposed to. Dinosaurs are animals, not reptilian body-builders.
THIS is the kind of change I want to see in how we create realistic depictions of not only dinosaurs, but all prehistoric creatures. Paleoart has always had a huge issue with shrink-wrapping and making these animals look terrifying instead of making them look like, well, animals.
Well done, BBC.
STOP BACKYARD BREEDING YOUR DINOSAURS
Get your Tyrannosaurs from responsible, DKC registered breeders! Anyone who says your rex should be skinny or ‘thats just how they are’ is lying to you.
She hated pink. She had told him this the first day they had met, with the kind of vindication that belied how much of her personality hinged on that one fact. It was a conscious decision, a wilful distaste that she’d acquired, enjoyed, and could now savour with ever the chosen object came up.
It wasn’t so much the colour as the connotations. The association with femininity, with softness, with all the pink and cute and stereotypes that were as negative as they came. Pink was for little girls, the little girls society shoved down your throats, rather than the little girls that existed. Pink was why women were paid less. Pink was why gender dysphoria existed.
He’d taken his time with the ties, made sure they weren’t only tight but solid, the kind that wouldn’t let her wiggle, let alone slide free. Her whole body became a single cylinder, one long line that he could fold and manipulate. The white was new, but she didn’t think all that much of it. She just slipped into that beautiful space between consciousness and un, let herself get carried on the wave of his actions.
And he carried her. Through the bedroom, past the living room. Into the spare room, transformed into pink. A distillation of the colour, splashed on the walls, covering the floor. A conversion into that putrid, hateful colour, until she felt like she was in some kind of focus-grouped womb. She squirmed. Tried to wriggle free. But the binds were too tight, too well made, and as he set her down on the floor, the smile on his face was too sadistic and far too resolute for her to try to appeal to his better nature.
The tape over her mouth didn’t help all that much, either.
He stepped back, saw the pleading in her eyes, and closed the door behind him. She was left in her own pink nightmare, plush and petrifying.
I joked heading into my last relationship that it was either going to be great or I’d be able to relate to Taylor Swift’s rerecorded Red album on another level
In the Pick-A-Fatty vote, y’all voted overwhelmingly for a nice’n plumped Leona, so here’s a big fat Kingscholar burping his ass off for y’all. Enjoy! :P
