I see many Winnie the Poohs at the hospital (aka Winnie aka Pooh aka Pooh Bear), as you may guess. Many look like this, a bit flat and with small wounds, designed to have a removable shirt:
They come for spas:
New hearts and stuffing:
And plumping up so they have a proper belly again:
Sometimes they look like this:
A bit more loved… or as his person said, in more “desperate condition”.
He also had a spa (not everyone does):
As you may’ve noticed, he needed a new nose and there were several options:
His heart had a pooh on it as well as some magic from a heffalump:
And after a bit of arm and smile surgery, soon he was healthy and ready to fly home:
His person wrote “He looks wonderful!”
The final Pooh I’m going to show you today just flew home yesterday. He is always called Pooh Bear. He is 14 years old and showed every year of hugs.
Here are the photos his person’s mom sent for diagnosis:
As you can see, Pooh Bear was a bit flat and a bit gray. He came in for a spa:
Got new stuffing and a magical Heffalump heart to preserve a bit of his original stuffing:
And finally was clean and plump and fluffy and ready to fly home:
He could even sit on his own! His people said his chubbiness was perfect and as I said, he flew home yesterday!
anyways we’ve been brainwashed into thinking aliens are gonna be violent because main stream sci fi is written by whites who project their own weird ass fantasies of European colonization into these stories about aliens where the aliens are the colonizers. I know aliens are gonna treat us right except the whites cuz I’m still snitchin on y’all to them
i just got out-gayed at my own university and i want my tuition back, right now.
h o w d i d t h a t e v e n happen ? you’re the gayest gay to ever gay
I was robbed let me paint you a little picture. So it’s fuckin bingo night and I’m losing every game. I’m feeling sad and I really want to win one of the snack basket prizes but I have a terrible sheet. I’m considering giving up after my roommate leaves but they announce that the final competition for the last snack basket will be a dance off. So I’m like fuck yeah, because I can dance to next tuesday no problem, but then he shows up.
My mans steps up to plate, they got this snazzy strut going, black high heel boots on and booty shorts no less.
The music starts and I’m shredding and all but my mans (after shredding quite a bit themselves) just LEAPS onto the center platform and does the thing where you look away from the audience and do the squat (you know the squat im talking about).
I swear they must have known, they learned about the dance off before everyone else and they knew about me and they planned out every little detail to get in my head and destroy me from the –inside-.
I felt obliterated halfway through the song and couldn’t dance anymore, they won the competition, and guess what, they had the audacity to joyfully kiss their SIGNIFICANT OTHER immediately after winning.
I have never been so humiliated in my entire life, you couldn’t even tell I was also gay. I was utterly out-gayed on bingo night in front of all my bingo pals.
Okay. But actually I just realized that a lot of the music done by this kid I kinda know and his band are actually PERFECT for capturing that driving aimlessly vibe. so if y’all wanna get an Idea of the vibe I’m gonna try to capture plz give Fishing In Japan a listen.
i saw this post earlier about therapists and it reminded me of my old therapist paul, who in my opinion is one of the greatest men alive and who did not put up with my bullshit for even one second
anyway i go in to see paul one week in the summer of 2016, and i’m doing my usual bullshit which consists of me talking shit about myself, and paul is staring at me, and then he cuts me off and says that he’s got a new tool for helping people recognize when they’re using negative language, and gets up and goes over to his desk
and i’m like alright hit me with that sweet sweet self-help article my man, because i’m a linguistic learner and whenever paul’s like here i have a tool for you to use it’s pretty much always an article or a book or something
paul opens a drawer, takes something out, and turns back around. i stare.
i say, paul.
is that a nerf gun.
yeah, says paul.
i say, are you gonna shoot me with a nerf gun in this professional setting.
he happily informs me that that’s really up to me, isn’t it. and sits back down. and gestures, like, go ahead, what were you saying?
and i squint suspiciously and start back up about how i’m having too much anxiety to leave the house to run errands, like it was a miracle to even get here, like i’ve forgone getting groceries for the past week and that’s so stupid, what a stupid issue, i’m an idiot, how could i–
a foam dart hits me in the leg.
i go, hey! because my therapist just shot me in the leg. paul blinks at me placidly and raises an eyebrow. i squint again.
i say, slowly, it’s– not a stupid issue, i’m not stupid, but it’s frustrating me and i don’t want it to be a problem i’m having.
no dart this time. okay. sweet.
so the rest of the hour passes with me intermittently getting nailed with tiny foam darts and then swearing and then fixing my language and, wouldn’t you know it, i start liking myself a little more by the end of the session, which is mildly infuriating because paul can tell and he’s very smug about it
anyway i leave his office and the lady having the next appointment walks in and i hear what’s all over the floor? and paul very seriously says cognitive behavioral therapy tools.
The “I won’t hesitate, bitch” vine but @ friends who don’t love themselves
Gay Hell 