You just have to understand you’re on the Internet. You’re literally on Tumblr dot com. This is not a random sample of the US population. You are not a one-person think tank. Polls on here are only useful if you are trying to create a recipe for a cake primarily made of vanilla extract.
DONATING TO THE THRIFT STORE PSA!!!!! that i can’t believe i even have to say
if you would not buy it in the state it’s in, don’t fucking donate it!!
maybe if there’s a button missing or little holes or stains, but stop using thrift stores as your garbage. the amount of actual trash we get donated at my job is ridiculous. one man’s trash is another man’s treasure like 20% of the time. but chances are if you didn’t want to fix it yourself, neither will anyone else.
quality too. if you would not buy shein from the thrift store yourself, don’t donate your “cute summer shein hauls :33” that you don’t wear anymore because the trend ended. nobody buys shein second-hand, and it sits on our shelves until we have to throw it out.
“but i don’t have money to not shop at shein 🥺” idc. cope. thrift. maybe if the thrift stores weren’t full of plastic cancer clothes from last months aesthetic you’d be able to find more good quality items. but alas
ITS STILL YOUR CONSUMPTION WASTE, even if you give it to us. clothes don’t just disappear once you donate.
TREAT YOUR THRIFT STORES WITH RESPECT
OP is right and just to make it extra extra clear because people think this is the case: Goodwill and other secondhand stores DO NOT WASH DONATIONS. if you donate it dirty, they WILL have to throw it away! and the workers will have to touch it! it’s disgusting!
This goes for charity clothing closets, too. Don’t donate your painted “grandma’s garden is growing!” handprint apron.
Famous director John Ford’s film The Scarlet Drop, lost for more than 100 years, has been discovered nearly in its entirety in Chile.
Released in 1918, The Scarlet Drop was one of 26 westerns that Ford made with actor Harry Carey, the most prolific partnership of the six-time Academy Award-winning director’s storied career.
Described at the time as the “most supreme hit of Harry Carey’s career”, the film has been missing since its initial release. About 30 minutes of footage from the film exists in the Getty Archive, with no full cut of the film thought to remain intact.
The movie was rediscovered by the owner of a warehouse in Santiago, a day before it was set to be demolished. While reviewing the building’s contents, the owner discovered a trove of films that were once owned by a local collector, left untouched for 40 years after his death.
at a typical visit to a sit down restaurant where the service is just normal, not terrible but not noteworthy
This is one of those situations where I know people are just lying because the average tumblr user acts like someone who would leave a penny instead of not tipping just to let the server know it was intentional
This month is the one year anniversary of posting my poem “Condolences” to TikTok and Instagram, where it amassed millions of likes and tens of thousands of comments.
Since, people have used the poem for adaptive art pieces, short plays, books, and class work. For your piece of art to be transformed into another…it’s difficult to describe.
After several rejections from poetry publications a decade ago, I decided to post my work online instead. The responses were overwhelming. I realized that an official publication doesn’t make you a poet. Writing poetry does, and bonus points if you manage to resonate with just one other soul who needed to hear what you needed to say.
I was utterly taken aback by the response to this piece. People have asked me many times to explain it, but from the response it was clear that the meaning can be explicated with a little time.
Some people who didn’t understand it until it was explained were angry when it came together. It wasn’t written for them.
I’m only grateful that it reached the people who needed it.
I feel that the imagery is part of the piece, but I know not everyone can or cares to listen to a video. Here is the poem:
———————
They buried a girl in my hometown today.
“A young woman, gone too soon, in the prime of her life,” they all said.
My friends and I all knew her. We grew up together.
We were in all the same classes and hobbies and we made up games together at recess.
But none of us went to her funeral. We weren’t invited, because the people planning it didn’t think we’d understand. They said it wasn’t our loss.
So we got together for drinks. We laughed all morning and played card games all day.
At 4 o’clock, we heard the church bells. We saw that long, sad procession of cars stretch like a creek through town, up the cemetery hill.
We heard strange rumors that night, that the casket was empty. That they put it hollow in the ground.
So we went to the plot first thing in the morning. They buried her empty box next to her dad, down the row from an estranged aunt she never really knew all that well.
There wouldn’t be a stone for months, but the little placard had my name on it. But not the one I go by these days.
“How strange,” we all said. “What a waste of good crying.”
All of this mourning for me, and I was down the street the whole time, laughing and drinking.
But some people will never understand. They’d rather plan a funeral than learn a new name.
My friend said she felt sorry for them, in some small way.
What a sad notion—to lose a daughter who never lived—
amhrancas 