Bilbo Baggins is 111.

Yet his epigenetic age is only 50.

He’s aging at an annual rate of 0.00, like butter scraped over too much bread, outpacing Dave Pascoe.

Here’s a breakdown of his biohacking protocol (it costs WAY less than you think):

We’re currently fostering the world’s most criminal cat and this is a thread of his various exploits over the last month.

So the sun is disappearing. Some people call that an eclipse. In Washington, we call that November to April.

Unicorn Hunt as an Allegory of the Incarnation, ink drawing on calfskin.

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Happy Easter! ✨

Christ is risen! Alleluia!

Guess what finally got restocked in the store!

As though the dead were beginning to raise their heads, and watch for something coming.

The Harrowing of Hell by Joakim Skovgaard, 1890s.

Getting in a mock fight with a ragdoll is like being very gently mauled by an affectionate teddy bear.

Helena Bibowa, the oldest and only surviving native speaker of a tiny language called Wymysiöeryś is turning 102 today.
In honor of that, let me take you along on the story of Wymysiöeryś.
It's of death and resurrection, and a hefty deal of random, but I promise it's a happy one.

The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood--
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

All preorder rewards are now in the mail!

EXCEPT: if your name is Serenity S, please DM me! The second half of your address didn’t come through, so I can’t send you anything. 😟

RIP bozo

Are they goats or are they sheep? Geep? Shoats? 🤔

I was aiming for goats, but the most important thing is that they turned out cute.

I drew St. Patrick in the style of 6-9th century Northumbro-Irish art, surrounded by decorative knotwork, lacertine animals, geometric patterns and rune-like lettering. He wears a mitre and holds a cloverleaf representing the Holy Trinity. The lettering reads Sanctus Patricius.

As we approach the feast of the Annunciation, I’ve been thinking about what Christ would’ve looked like in His very first moments — in the earliest stages of development in Mary’s womb, when our Lord was a zygote no bigger than a mustard seed.

Today I attempted to depict that: