It’s pretty unusual for my wife to be in the mood for bottoming, but it happens from time to time. While sadism or topping in general aren’t really my things, I like to make sure that all of her needs are met, so I oblige.
justin hofman photographs a southern right whale and her calf in the protected warm breeding and birthing waters off argentina’s peninsula valdez.
"i had the opportunity to dive with a few whales and it changed me forever," hofman said. "being in the water with a whale is the most humbling experience i’ve ever had underwater."
the whales are powerful, and hofman, weary of the mother becoming defensive around her calf, kept his distance. but as time went on, the whales, who are actually quite gentle and inquisitive, eventually approached him.
hofman notes that despite what many have assumed, the first image is a single photo and not a composite of two. (previously featured photos by justin hofman).
No, Nurse Joy, I didn’t come in to rest my Pokemon. I’m just here for your company.
Of course I want to rest my Pokemon!
some pictures of my chickens! uwu
a rhode island red and a black laced wyandotte
Being a writer is dedicating one’s own life to those words. It is nothing healthy, nor reassuring. It is scary, risky, extreme. I think over words way more than any regular human being should. It is disturbing, and overwhelming, but it amuses me. Writing is a game, a puzzle. It is playing with syntax, semantic, metaphors, assonances and rhymes. It is assembling the pieces together, it is choosing, cautiously. It is fighting with punctuation and little linking words, struggling with adjectives, repetitions and synonyms. It is stumbling over words that you invent. Being a writer is making people think and dream, and smile, and cry. That, all at the same time, possibly.
It is convincing, discussing a world you can barely understand yourself. It is living between lines and thoughts, blank pages of a Word document and those few notebooks you have received on each one of your birthdays for 21 years.
But being a writer is nothing of a choice, nothing of a career anyone has possibly decided to lead, nothing of a career I wish for anybody to have chosen. No one chooses to struggle over a slight fantasy, to hear inner voices of characters you have made up entirely, to constantly be writing even when you’re not and to be late to every meeting because you suddenly had a strike of inspiration. It is a passion, a need. Like music, or art, or sport. It wears you out, but brings you peace. Peace to the soul, peace you cherish, at all times.
Being a writer is a part of your identity, a part that defines the person you are now, a part of you that you could not do without. When I spend a few days without writing, my thoughts get messy, my heart resentful. Being a writer, is not knowing when your words will be heard, read. It is not being sure whether you can turn that fantasy into a career… it is believing luck will turn your way, it is believing every thought is relevant, it is believing in the reward of perseverance.
… So I think: what are all the writers in our world left with to do? Because I am not sure about you, but I surely can’t give up.