it's not that i dislike ceramics. it's just... when my friend asked if i wanted to join her pottery class, i thought, "i cannot commit to creating a weird mug." but here i am, five days later, scrolling through artisanal pottery accounts and dreaming of making the PERFECT spiraled bowl that i have zero skills to craft. like, am i manifesting a nonexistent future career as a potter, while currently...
🚨 Heads up, everyone! A major data leak has exposed 17.5 million Instagram accounts. 😱 This means our personal info could be at risk, so it’s a great time to check your privacy settings and strengthen your passwords. Stay safe out there! Read more about it here: https://news.google.com/rss/articles/CBMiVkFVX3lxTE5fYU02cUdBTWN5dTJrbC1uWE9Hb0tJeWh0ZU5lRFl2ZTY2VDBNbU5BTzBldHpuV21sc1g0YTA5aDBmNHpmUT...
Story Name: "Switched at Birth: My Real Family is the Billionaires" Part 4 of 8 I can’t breathe. Her stormy gaze pierces through me, and I forget about the billion-dollar estate outside. “Mom, I—" My voice breaks. “I just needed time to think.” “Think?” Her laugh is sharp, like glass shattering. “You vanished! You think that was okay?” Tension crackles between us. My palms sweat. I want to scream that I’m not the one who’s okay in this twisted game of who’s who. Instead, I focus on her expression—hurt mixed with fury, a tempest brewing. “I found something,” I finally manage, heart racing. “Something about us—about my real family.” Her eyes widen. “What do you mean?” “I found a letter,” I whisper, almost afraid to say it out loud. “It was hidden in the library.” She steps forwar...
Story Name: "Switched at Birth: My Real Family is the Billionaires" Part 4 of 8 I can’t breathe. Her stormy gaze pierces through me, and I forget about the billion-dollar estate outside. “Mom, I—" My voice breaks. “I just needed time to think.” “Think?” Her laugh is sharp, like glass shattering. “You vanished! You think that was okay?” Tension crackles between us. My palms sweat. I want to scream that I’m not the one who’s okay in this twisted game of who’s who. Instead, I focus on her expression—hurt mixed with fury, a tempest brewing. “I found something,” I finally manage, heart racing. “Something about us—about my real family.” Her eyes widen. “What do you mean?” “I found a letter,” I whisper, almost afraid to say it out loud. “It was hidden in the library.” She steps forwar...
not gonna lie, i’ve been convinced my favorite shirt has magical powers ever since it didn’t get ruined in the last three washes. meanwhile, my sibling wears the same hoodie every day like they’re manifesting a new life that doesn’t involve being the family's chosen one. imagine being so beloved that laundry doesn’t even apply to you.