i learned that in India, there is a species of giant squirrel that have multicoloured fur, with with varying shades of orange, maroon and purple. Their bodies measure 36in from head to tail – double the size of their grey relatives – and they can leap 20ft between trees (x)
Some more pictures of these funky dudes cause they’re so pretty
Oh, and they’re very cleverly called Indian giant squirrels or Malabar giant squirrels
Cinderella rewrite where Cinderella’s father is an unusually successful fisherman due to his secret friendships with the shy and mysterious mermaids, successful enough to attract a moderately wealthy and ambitious bride with two daughters. Once he dies, her stepmother, determined to make sure her daughters inherit the fishing business as dowries by marrying before Cinderella, forbids her from going out on the fishing boats or into town and makes sure she spends as much of her time as possible doing drudgework, hauling offal and cleaning fish. When the Prince’s ball comes around, an important occasion for young women to make good connections, the stepmother forbids her from going, telling her that she needs to get the latest salmon catch gutted and ready for sale instead.
Cinderella’s mermaid godmother calls upon her people to clean the fish and gifts her a dress and shoes of shimmering fish scales that wreathe her in rainbows under the moonlight. She makes an impression on the Prince at the ball so strong that he immediately falls in love with her, and when she’s forced to flee before her stepmother notices her (no masquerade mask or dancing rainbows will disguise her from her own family at close range), the Prince is left with only a delicate fish leather slipper left on the front steps to try to find her again.
He goes around the houses, seeking the owner of the slipper, but Cinderella is once again working in the fish sheds. He stepmother, desperate and determined and having found Cinderella’s other shoe that very morning, realises what has happened and takes a knife to the feet of her prettiest daughter, telling the prince that she suffered an injury that very morning but those are definitely her shoes, see, here’s the other one, and they still fit.
The daughter is pretty and witty and charming, and while the Prince doesn’t feel the same spark and instant sense of connection that he did at the party, he reasons that she’s overwhelmed and in pain and once she’s healed, all will be well. There are no birds to whisper of blood in the shoe – the Prince has seen the bandaged feet already – and the daughter slips on the shoes (the only shoes she has that will fit her, now,) and accompanies him to the palace.
But the stepmother is no doctor, and by the time the Prince gets her to the palace doctors, it’s too late – his beloved has contracted an infection in her feet from the shoe leather, made unclean in its travels. She will survive – it is an infection of a common filth of fish and birds, one that the doctors have potions for for the occasions where dangerously cooked food causes outbreaks – but in her raving, she confesses the whole scheme to the Prince who, furious, returns to the village to find the girl he truly fell in love with, the girl hidden from him.
“Oh, yeah, the fish cleaner,” the villagers shrug. “We don’t see her around very much, she’s probably in the sheds. Her family calls her Salmonella.”
one time a casual hockey fan tried to convey this experience to me from the other side as: “it’s like… okay, imagine that you like donuts, and you meet a guy who also likes donuts, and you’re like, hey, cool, we both like donuts! but this guy… he built his house out of donuts”
so now when I trip into a new fandom I’m like “oh shit I’m building this house out of donuts”
[Image ID: Tweet from @/ warnerbff on 22.03.23 reading: talking to someone with the same interests as you and realizing they’re a casual enjoyer while you’re deranged /End ID]
The trick is to not let people know how really weird you are until it’s too late for them to back out.
Absolutely the frak not, the trick is to immediately let people know how weird you are so you scare off the weak ones. The ones who stay because they like how weird you are? Those are the ones you want.
The really hilariously ill-conceived part of the Twitter rate limiting thing is that comments and retweets are the same kind of entity as tweets in the back-end database, they’re just “parented” to whatever tweet they’re commenting on or retweeting, and the rate limit they’ve placed on the API simply counts how many of those entities you’ve requested without checking a. whether they’re the children of another entity or not, nor b. whether you’ve already seen that particular entity today.
Thus, the limit isn’t really “600 tweets”. A tweet, each comment on that tweet, and each retweet of that tweet all count against the limit as you view them. For example, if a quote-retweet crosses your dashboard, the quote-retweet itself and the little preview of what it’s responding to that appears above it each count separately against the limit. Click into that quote-retweet to read the comments? They both get counted against your limit a second time, as does each individual comment you read – and heaven help you if any of those comments were themselves commented upon!
The upshot is that if your account isn’t verified, using Twitter in the manner that its own monetisation model assumes – and, indeed demands – it will be used can easily exhaust your entire daily allocation of tweet views in as little as a couple dozen engagements.
oooooo what a cool post my mutual just reblogged ! I think I will reblog it as well !!! oooooh who did they reblog it from ? That username seems familiar,,, hohoho it’s me ! from an hour ago !
