An “angel” is anything that carries out a mission for God. This includes forces of nature. […] Photosynthesis? That’s an angel. Gravity? An angel. Magnetism? Angel. The Midrash in Bereishis Rabbah (chapter 1) says than an angel only performs one job. That job doesn’t have to be destroying Sodom; it could be peristalsis, centripetal force or condensation. — Rabbi Jack Abramowitz, Angels (via torat-chesed-al-lashona)
Watching my toddler figure out how to language is fascinating. Yesterday we were stumped when he kept insisting there was a “Lego winner” behind his bookshelf - it turned out to be a little Lego trophy cup. Not knowing the word for “trophy”, he’d extrapolated a word for “thing you can win”. And then, just now, he held up his empty milk container and said, “Mummy? It’s not rubbish. It’s allowed to be a bottle.” - meaning, effectively, “I want this. Don’t throw it away.” But to an adult ear, there’s something quite lovely about “it’s allowed to be a bottle,” as if we’re acknowledging that the object is entitled to keep its title even in the absence of the original function.
Another good post to read for those writing small human characters.
DID YOU SEE THE PHOTO MISHA JUST TWEETED HOLY SHIT
Anonymous said:
UM did you see the World’s Greatest Dad mug in Misha’s tweet??? I’m remembering correctly that Chuck has a mug similar to that in at least one of your comics, right? are you secretly consulting on the show? if i’m remembering incorrectly pls ignore this message.
hi i’m scout and i’ll be your useless prophet for the evening
i was ringing up a winter hat for a man the other day and i said “oh, it’s so cute! i love the pom-pom on the top.” and he smiled and agreed and a few seconds later he picked the hat out of the bag and said “you called this a pom-pom?” and i said yes, that’s what i call them, and he explained that he was still learning english before he touched the hat again and said “pom-pom“ in a fascinated voice
uggghh cas is probably so into smells though. like he loves the way dean smells, of course, like grease and sweat and 8pm. and he’s curious about the way he smells now that he has human senses, because he still smells like the sky but there’s hints of gold and brown and something cinnamony.
gradually, he notices the way his and dean’s scents mingle, so that he can be picking up sandwiches for lunch and he’ll get a waft of something that smells like cold grass and dark blue and he turns around ready to say “hello, dean” but there’s nobody to say it to.
after sex cas likes to bury himself in their messed up sheets, in the sourness of sweat and the sharpness of orgasm, while dean tends to hop into the shower right away. dean comes back smelling clearer than ever, dark, rich, and lightning bugs and warm summer nights, all traces of castiel rubbed from his skin and sluiced down the drain.
and it’s okay, really. cas likes that too, because it just means he can roll over and drag his scent into dean’s skin all over again.
