Tide Pods Quotes

Like, if you realize your kid just ate a Tide pod, you shouldn’t waste time feeling ashamed and guilty about leaving the container out.

In the winter four hundred whales were beaches in New Zealand — they couldn’t leave because they waited for each other. The smallest whales could have managed it, at high tide they could have swum away, but they stayed, never abandoned their parents, stayed with the pod, dying with the others instead.

Like, if you realize your kid just ate a Tide pod, you shouldn’t waste time feeling ashamed and guilty about leaving the container out. You regret it and immediately try to fix the situation. Regret can drive you to seek correction and change a behavior. But prolonged guilt and shame? They usually move you to hide and stall reparative action, thus perpetuating the cycle.

Last Night’s Moon," “When will we next walk together under last night’s moon?” - Tu Fu March aspens, mist forest. Green rain pins down the sea, early evening cyanotype. Silver saltlines, weedy toques of low tide, pillow lava’s black spill indelible in the sand. Unbroken broken sea. — Rain sharpens marsh-hair birth-green of the spring firs. In the bog where the dead never disappear, where river birch drown, the surface strewn with reflection. This is the acid-soaked moss that eats bones, keeps flesh; the fermented ground where time stops and doesn’t; dissolves the skull, preserves the brain, wrinkled pearl in black mud. — In the autumn that made love necessary, we stood in rubber boots on the sphagnum raft and learned love is soil–stronger than peat or sea– melting what it holds. The past is not our own. Mole’s ribbon of earth, termite house, soaked sponge. It rises, keloids of rain on wood; spreads, milkweed galaxy, broken pod scattering the debris of attention. Where you are while your body is here, remembering in the cold spring afternoon. The past is a long bone. — Time is like the painter’s lie, no line around apple or along thigh, though the apple aches to its sweet edge, strains to its skin, the seam of density. Invisible line closest to touch. Lines of wet grass on my arm, your tongue’s wet line across my back. All the history in the bone-embedded hills of your body. Everything your mouth remembers. Your hands manipullate in the darkness, silver bromide of desire darkening skin with light. — Disoriented at great depths, confused by the noise of shipping routes, whales hover, small eyes squinting as they consult the magnetic map of the ocean floor. They strain, a thousand miles through cold channels; clicking thrums of distant loneliness bounce off seamounts and abyssal plains. They look up from perpetual dusk to rods of sunlight, a solar forest at the surface. Transfixed in the dark summer kitchen: feet bare on humid linoleum, cilia listening. Feral as the infrared aura of the snake’s prey, the bees’ pointillism, the infrasonic hum of the desert heard by the birds. The nighthawk spans the ceiling; swoops. Hot kitchen air vibrates. I look up to the pattern of stars under its wings.

I love the way she laughs when she squishes a tide-pod, especially that one time it burst, and she couldn’t stop apologizing. I love her clinical obsession with every shade of pink and how incredible she looks in it. I love the glow of her skin in the morning, as if the sun recognizes her as equal. I love how her smile is too big for her face, how her cheeks flush pink when I compliment her, and how her pupils grow in her eyes when we speak. I love the sound of her voice, silvery and sunny, especially when she shares stories of her childhood or asks me about mine. I love her ambitions, her passions, her dedication, and devotion to her craft.” I steal in a breath when beads of tears appear at her waterline. “I love everything she fails to love about herself.

Mr. Winterborne, I should leave you to rest now--” “Talk to me.” She hesitated. “If you wish. What shall we talk about?” He wanted to ask her if he’d been permanently blinded. If anyone had said anything to him about it, he’d been too drugged to remember. But he couldn’t bring himself to give voice to the question. He was too afraid of the answer. And there was no way to stop thinking about it while he was alone in this quiet room. He needed distraction and comfort. He needed her. “Shall I tell you about orchids?” she asked in the silence. She continued without waiting for an answer, adjusting her position more comfortably. “The word comes from Greek mythology. Orchis was the son of a satyr and a nymph. During a feast to celebrate Bacchus, Orchis drank too much wine and tried to force his attentions on a priestess. Bacchus was very displeased, and reacted by having Orchis torn to pieces. The pieces were scattered far and wide, and wherever one landed, an orchid grew.” Pausing, she leaned away for a few seconds, reaching for something. Something soft and delicate touched his cracked lips…She was applying salve with a fingertip. “Most people don’t know that vanilla is the fruit of an orchid vine. We keep one in a glasshouse on the estate--it’s so long that it grows sideways on the wall. When one of the flowers is full grown, it opens in the morning, and if it isn’t pollinated, it closes in the evening, never to open again. The white blossoms, and the vanilla pods within them, have the sweetest scent in the world…” As her gentle voice continued, Rhys had the sensation of floating, the red tide of fever easing. How strange and lovely it was to lie here half dozing in her arms, possibly even better than fucking…but that thought led to the indecent question of what it might be like with her…how she might lie quietly beneath him while he devoured all that petal softness and vanilla sweetness…and slowly he fell asleep in Lady Helen’s arms.

Her hair was still done in its long pigtailed anime style with one side bright orange, the other bright blue. She kind of reminded me of a Tide Pod, which I didn’t realize until then due to the 2017 outbreak of kids challenging each other to eat them and broadcast their brilliance on social media as proof.