This is the also the myth of the creation of the dildo. And in some versions of the myth, Prosymnus’ soul was so overjoyed, that he was transferred to Elysium. That’s right, Dionysus rode Prosymnus’ pseudo-dick so good that he was moved to the Blessed AfterlifeTM
dionysus: can’t believe prosymnus died before I could keep my promise to let him bone me the nymphs: you don’t have to, you know dionysus, oiling up the world’s first dildo: no I’m gonna
Prosymnus’ soul literally ascended
Dionysus:What do you desire as payment brave psychopomp? I will give anything in my power as a god. How about a lyre that plays itself? Or a font of endless wine?
Prosymnus, who has been sweating with barely contained horny for the entire boat ride:
…And people ask me what good mythology is. :))))))
thinking about stede reinventing his original trauma as he frees himself from his old life… thinking about the symbology of blood representing death but also birth (in this case rebirth)… thinking about how, wherever you go, there you are
and as she lay in bed, she sighs, the tear streaks on her cheeks have long since dried and her pillow case is still somewhat damp.
what did she do?
what did she miss?
these past couple of years she slowly felt herself distancing from her siblings, the actual reason being long since forgotten.
“you’re too focused on the past,” she said, “we were only kids, it’s time to grow up,” she said.
was she too hard on them?
too selfish to indulge them even once in the games they used to play in their youth that they still seemed attached to?
little did she know they wouldn’t grow very old those three, that their lives would be taken from them in a mere fraction of a second, whatever future plans they’d had insignificant to their fate.
death didn’t care for their plans, it didn’t care who they were.
they were ravenous and hungry, ready to sink their teeth and indulge their unquenchable thirst for the unique taste that was fresh plucked souls.
death was greedy, they eagerly collected and crushed the souls from the smallest of mice to the most powerful of humans in their tight grip, especially the ones who boasted that not even death was as mighty as they.
oh the satisfaction and pleasure death received when it was finally able to pick the souls of those who despised and feared him most, those who masked their fear with too much pride enough to seem arrogant, as those were always the sweetest to swallow.
to death, souls were disposable, replaceable even.
but to susan pevensie, who still lay in bed with her mascara running and her lipstick smudged, they weren’t.
once she closed her eyes to try another futile attempt to fall asleep, unaware of the dark shadow that loomed over her, susan realized that she probably lost her siblings long before they took their last breath on the train.
with curious eyes, the figure regarded the broken excuse of a human in front of them.
Hypothetically, if a grumpus mugs another grumpus, or threatens them with a knife or something else like that, would it be goofier for them to replace explicit language with variants of “grump” like how they talk in game, or if they didn’t?
Cause like, on one hand you have someone being extremely hostile and pointing a weapon at someone else but then they’re all like “listen squeeb no more grumping around! I’m being grumping serious!! Gimme the grumpin wallet! >:((”
On the other hand, this cutesy sesame street walrus adjacent looking creature named mooble glitterhappy is talking to you like “YOU FUCKING BITCH GIVE ME YOUR WALLET OR I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU”
I asked this on my Instagram story but I’m curious what bugsnax Tumblr’s opinion is on my conundrum
“Ms Gemma? Ms Gemma, I’m sorry, please? Let me out?”
Gemma heard faint taps against the bathroom door. It was odd how the pet was soft and quiet, even in despair. Gemma knew she was desperate.
No. Not ‘she’. It. It, the pet. Ira wasn’t a person, Ira was a discarded toy, and Gemma had needed her - no, it - for a while.
She didn’t any longer.
It hurt a little, admittedly. She’d allowed the pet to grow close to her, to become a part of her life. She felt good when the pet smiled at her, felt safe in its arms, comforted by its love. She’d lost herself in its touch.
me, reaching into my dresser drawer for black pants: I hope this isn’t the pair with big holes worn in the inner thighs
Marie Kondo, gently over my shoulder: why is a pair of pants you find unwearable still in your dresser drawer
me: oh shit that’s right!! The dresser is for clothes that under some circumstance I might conceivably wear!!
Marie Kondo, beaming proudly: Yes, that’s correct!!Thesepants must have been your favorites. How wonderful that they were so comfortable and practical that you wore them out. But now since they no longer function as pants, you should move them from the drawer where you keep your functioning pants!
me: Yes thanks I got it they’re in the fabric basket now
Marie Kondo, fading back into the darkness: I love what you’ve done with the kitchen!!
The notion of KonMari as some creepy semi-embodied but entirely benevolent spirit, like a well-intentioned Bloody Mary, is so perfect and wonderful.
Marie Kondo has the same powers but the exact opposite energy of the Duolingo Owl.
YES.
Marie Kondo: Your room isn’t very clean, but that’s okay, I love mess! Does this spark joy?
Duolingo Owl: I wrote the ransom note in Spanish, and if you have to use Google Translate to read it, your kid gets it. You broke your streak. I’ll break your neck.
Marie Kondo holding your child, while standing on the remains of the Duolingo Owl : The Bird did not spark joy
