Pictures of cute girls doing cute things, in anime-style wallpaper form.
Snoopy may come here to muse or simply to show off his toys and his incredibly cute self.
Hello fellow redditors! We all end up wasting hours of our miserable lives trying to find that perfect wallpaper for your phone or PC. And, if you're like me, you want to show it to every single person you know to see how cute, clever, funny, or straight up stunning it looks. Now you can! Screenshot your amazing backgrounds and showcase it to every other weirdo passing by, because we all know you want to.
Shortly after Mom's tumble down the basement stairs, a stranger appeared at her door. Said he was collecting donations for an animal shelter and demanded to speak with the homeowner.
Karima, my mother’s care worker, only started the job three days earlier. But that was long enough to know the elderly lady she worked for turned the garden hose on both missionaries and canvassers alike.
Imagine her surprise when Mom came hobbling down the hall on metal crutches, insisting
the gentleman come in.
At hospital, after Mumsie’s ankle got reset, I broke the news that—due to her ‘advanced’ age—the doctors wouldn’t discharge her without an adequate care plan. She lived on a remote street, just a narrow dirt lane overrun with weeds and bramble really. No friendly neighbours, nobody to help with chores.
Despite the morphine, she sat up in bed spitting raw fury.
“I can’t support you alone,” I whimpered. “I’m in London next week with work. Plus, Abbie’s such a handful.”
The incensed retiree made six nurses and one security guard cry before finally relenting.
After Mom’s visitor departed, I stopped by with some painkillers. Straight away Karima pulled me into the kitchen. A real no-nonsense type in her late-twenties, Karima had a brown ponytail and thick eyebrows.
She said, “Sharon spent all afternoon in the lounge with a guy called Carl. He acted like they’d never met, but he knew his way around. He got angry at one point. Your mom said he’s gonna come back to fix the ceiling fan in the basement. She sounded a little upset, though.”
Strange. Why would the thrifty woman who reused tea bags pry open her purse for charity?
Karima said Carl was a big guy, bigger than me even, and old enough to collect a pension, although “you could tell he looked after himself”. Think porcelain teeth and an even, bronze tan.
This news hoisted a red flag alright. What motivated this guy to cosy up to an ill-tempered old bat who half the neighbourhood kids believed would abduct them while they slept if they didn’t finish their broccoli and wash behind their ears? There’d be no point grooming her for the house—her hovel was all stale air, sun-bleached wallpaper, and carpets so filthy you couldn’t make out the floral patterns.
As she limped through the door, I asked about her new companion.
“Mind your own business,” she hissed. Her eyes flicked toward Karima. “And tell the warden it’s rude to snoop.”
From that day on, a permanent sickly feeling lined my stomach. I compulsively checked my mother’s cash allowance, which depleted faster than expected. Karima insisted that, on their weekly shopping trips, Mom only ever bought discounted groceries and Vitamin D supplements. “Maybe she’s snacking at night?”
That weekend, Mom summoned me for our Sunday roast, a fortnightly ritual. In a thick winter coat, I spooned unsalted mashed potatoes into my mouth. Because unless snow lay on the ground, turning the heating on was a cardinal sin in Mom’s house, and since the basement door sat right beside the fridge, the kitchen got blasted by these relentless, chilly drafts.
It took me twenty minutes to muster up the nerve to ask Mom how such a rail-thin lady could rack up such a giant food bill. “I’ve seen you eat mouldy peaches instead of throwing them away. Where’s this money going? Did Carl charge you to fix that fan?”
“Carl does these repairs as a favour I’ll have you know,” she said. Her voice sounded odd, though. Like the killer instinct had bled out.
There was a short, uncomfortable silence. Between chews, Mom mentioned the council planned to build a shelter for truant youths nearby, which meant she needed to sell up before hordes of wild, feral teens began prowling the area.
My fork paused in mid-air. “Let me guess, did Carl tell you this? Are you sure he isn’t a conman?”
Prominent neck veins bulged along her gaunt neck, the same way they did anytime younger me broke a plate or spilled juice. Whenever those tendons appeared, Mom would clamp my ear with her sharp, yellow nails and yank me into my bedroom. That was her solution to everything—imprison you until her temper cooled off. Involuntarily, my head jerked to one side. A spasm.
“I just wanna make sure you’re not getting scammed,” I said, earlobe throbbing.
She slammed the table with her fist. “I’m selling, and that’s that.”
Unable to meet that powerful gaze, I wolfed down more tasteless food.
“I swear. If I’d known kids were this much trouble, I would have done things differently,” Mom muttered.
Back home, I splashed cold water across my face and stared down my reflection in the bathroom mirror. At times, I resented my green eyes and sharp nose—features I shared with my mother. They made me feel contaminated. Dirty.
My daughter, Abbie, had just turned six. After I read her the latest Dogman and tucked her into bed, I joined my wife in the front room, where she commented on my twitch. I explained Carl’s arrival brought my childhood tics storming back.
She said, “I’m not trying to sound insensitive here, but who cares if Angela gets cheated out of a crappy house? It’d serve her right for everything she put you through.”
Years earlier, news about my wife’s pregnancy broke two weeks before
our wedding day. Mom’s unsavoury name calling led to an hours-long screaming match between the pair, and time had not thawed their frosty relationship. I maintained a degree of sympathy, because Mom grew up a preacher’s daughter, and her stern lectures gave me the occasional glimpse into adolescence under Grandpa’s watchful eye. “If father caught ME smoking, he’d have locked me in the prayer closet until midnight.” “The one time I rolled my eyes at MY father, he took away my pillow for three days.”
In her late teens Mom once ran away with a male friend, a move which got her permanently ousted from the church, but extracting the details was tougher than chewing through a bowl of salt.
Still, my wife made a great point—that house needed serious work. Plumbing renovations alone would set you back £15k, easy. As a child I’d lain awake at night, surrounded by groaning metal. Thuds, bangs. Even had nightmares about a poltergeist named Pipes who rattled the water fixtures. I hated being incarcerated there.
If Mom became homeless, though, she would have needed to move in with us, which meant Abbie might develop the same self-esteem issues as me.
In the morning, I asked Karima to call me the next time Carl appeared so I could speak with him, man-to-man. When she did, I heard only angry, muffled voices in the background. The nurse moved into a different room and said Mom ordered her out of the lounge.
Furious, I climbed in my Volvo and sped across town.
As I pulled up the dusty driveway, Karima appeared at the door and said, “You just missed them. Carl took Angela to the garden centre.”
I slammed the dashboard in frustration.
In the kitchen, I sat by the table, my legs bouncing up and down, impatient. Minutes ticked away on the grandfather clock down the hall.
Karima came in to wipe down the counters. I said, “What’s Carl been up to lately? Still fixing things?”
She nodded. “Last week he spent a whole afternoon in the basement. Said he was laying rat traps.”
Huh. I’d never seen any droppings or scratch marks. The basement door refused to budge, as usual, so I went upstairs into the spare room where I rummaged through Mom’s antique cabinet. In the bottom drawer there sat a ring of endless keys, but before I could find one that looked large enough and old enough to fit the lock, car wheels came crunching along the driveway. I slipped everything back in its place and then rushed downstairs.
Outside, Mom waved off a silver Aston Martin. In her right hand, she had a bouquet of carnations: one red, one yellow, one blue. In the old days, she always received birthday flowers, but since any man who so much as complimented her purse caught an eyeful of pepper spray, the idea she had a secret admirer struck me as ridiculous. Now, though, I wasn’t so sure.
“Why’s your boyfriend in such a hurry?” I asked.
“Never you mind.”
As I followed her around the ground floor, she shouted down the different ways I begged her to explain her relationship with this man before finally shooting me another patented death glare. “Enough.”
The protest dissolved on my tongue.
Seeing no other option, I contacted a private investigator and gave him Carl’s license plate. Six days later, we met in a coffee shop. “Carl Richardson, age 64.” The sleuth slid a file across the table. “Widower with three kids, two sons and a daughter, each grown with children of their own. Started a construction company in the 70s and sold up before the crash in ’08. Owns a villa in Madrid, and he’s an elder at the Willowfield Presbyterian Church. From what I hear, he’s hosted so many fundraisers they named an auditorium after him.”
“Wait, if this pricks so minted why’s he cosying up to my mom? Her shacks one big bad wolf away from blowing over.”
“She lives just outside Bohill forest, right? If you bulldozed a few hundred trees, you could probably put up a block of flats. Deal like that might be worth a brave chunk of change.”
“Where’s this asshole live?” I asked.
“Maryville. Fair warning though, he’s not the friendliest of blokes. I watched him explode over a petrol station parking space. Took six guys to hold him back.”
I sped over there.
Iron fenceposts surrounded a sprawling, four-story townhouse. Younger me always wished he lived in a place like that, surrounded by brothers and sisters, along with a dad who came home at the end of every day. Hell, even just a
I pressed the buzzer. Through the speaker, a housekeeper told me Mr. Richardson wasn’t home, despite the Aston Martin parked in the driveway.
I said, “Just tell the prick he better stay the hell away from my mom.”
Halfway home, the she-devil herself called, rhyming off all the different ways I’d embarrassed her since birth. Through tears, I told her I didn’t want Abbie’s grandmother dying penniless on the street.
She ended the debate by screaming, “I’ll do whatever I like.”
Reduced to a trembling mess, I pulled into the layby. My relationship with my mother, I’d come to realize, was a scab. With this conflict, we’d picked away the crust. Now bad blood had come gushing out. This needed to end.
I texted Karima: Think you can find out what Carl’s doing in the basement for me? Sure thing
From there, I mostly ignored Mom. Until her birthday reared its ugly head. Although she insisted we let these milestones pass without much fanfare, I at least swung by for dinner.
Imagine my surprise when my key didn’t fit the lock. I rapped the letterbox for twenty minutes before Mom creaked the door open, far as the chain would allow.
“What the hell is this?” I asked.
Through the narrow gap, she said, “You can’t be too careful these days. Theres dope addicts running about.”
“Was this Carl’s idea?”
She broke eye contact. My mother, the most stubborn woman on planet Earth, actually broke eye contact.
“Does Karima at least have a spare?”
“No. I fired her.”
“I caught her stealing jewellery. Besides, the cast came off. You can’t keep me imprisoned forever.”
Rather than kick in the door, I fought the temptation and grabbed my phone. “Karima isn’t answering,” I said, as I texted her to call me back.
“Hardly surprising, she’s a fugitive now. And to think, you were worried about Carl. Anyway, I’m tried and not in the mood for celebrating. Goodbye.”
The door slammed in my face.
There was now zero doubt her suitor had groomed her. What should I have done, though, notified the police? And said what exactly—that Mommy wouldn’t let me into my childhood home?
Well, if she’d set her heart on getting dumped in a cheap care home staffed by workers who got paid minimum wage, so be it.
That night, I rolled around in bed, unable to redirect my memory from childhood. Until now, those formative years had been a distant afterthought, but with this situation sloshing around my brain, they lurked around every corner, uncomfortably close.
I jerked awake. Beside the bed, Abbie rubbed her red, puffed-out eyes. “I had a bad dream.”
I carried her into her room and read from a storybook about princesses. As she lay beside me, head rested against my shoulder, a giant lump rose in my throat. Mom never comforted me after a nightmare. Or ever. In fact, she’d uttered the phrase ‘stop whining or I’ll GIVE you something to cry about’ so many times it became her unofficial catchphrase.
What the hell was wrong with me? Despite being a grown man—a father, no less—I’d acted like a panicky child. What did Carl want with the house? Why this fixation on the basement?
I drove over there, parked my car at the bottom of the lane, unlatched a downstairs window with a coat hanger, and climbed inside. One upside to life under an authoritarian regime are the tricks you pick-up…
The grandfather clock ticked away while, upstairs, my mother snored louder than a jackhammer. The creaky staircase threatened to betray my arrival, so I slowly crept up into the spare room where I snatched the keys from the cabinet.
I shuffled back downstairs. However, right as my foot landed on the bottom step, the clock announced the arrival of midnight. In the sleepy house, those chimes blared louder than a fire alarm. Startled, I slipped and collapsed onto the wooden floor.
A lamp flicked on up in Mom’s room, then footsteps shuffled around. I heard her voice, high and frightened. Most likely she’d grabbed the bedside phone.
“Mom, it’s me,” I shouted.
Dressed in a pink nightgown and fuzzy slippers, she appeared at the landing. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She stormed down the steps, boiling mad. It took some nerve to invade someone’s privacy like that, what gave me the right? For a moment, I hung my head in shame—a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
Until I remembered what brought me there in the first place. I’d had enough of the manipulation. Of the unanswered questions. I needed, no, deserved
“What gives me
the right?” I shouted. “What gives you
the right to treat me like the shit stuck on your shoe? All I’m trying to do is keep a roof over your head, and this
is the thanks I get?”
Those green eyes grew huge, the mouth drooping open. Maybe my outburst had shocked her into understanding the error of her wicked ways? Were we moments away from a tearful hug?
No such luck. Instead, the furious woman reached for the keys. I snatched them away.
“Don’t you dare disobey me.”
“…Because…” She fumbled for a reason. “…I’m your mother.”
From deep in the house, the came a low thump. I glanced around.
“Do as I say. Now.”
My body almost obeyed this request on pure instinct. Her word was a royal decree, unquestionable, absolute. But then beats of sweat ran down her forehead, filtering along the wrinkled grooves. For the first time, cracks appeared in my mother’s impenetrable outer shell.
I walked into the kitchen. As my hands rummaged for a key large enough to fit the basement door, I said, “Are you gonna tell me what Carl’s been doing down there?”
She tugged at my arm, her hands coarse and cool, like reptile claws. “Nothing. He hasn’t been doing anything.”
The door opened at a push. I pulled a cord hanging alongside my skull only to illuminate rickety stairs and a filthy, cramped utility room. There was a slit window halfway down the steps, a washer pushed up against the far wall, shelving units crammed with paint and washing powder and ancient records, and musty cardboard boxes scattered around, here and there.
Those groaning steps sagged beneath my weight. Mom followed me along, her hands clinging to the rail. “See? Now enough of this nonsense, come upstairs.”
She followed me into the centre of the space, all jutting nerves. What had her so anxious?
Filled with raw courage, I kicked over a box. Newspapers spilled across the concrete floor and moths fluttered in every direction. I rummaged through hampers, tossed aside rotted furniture infested with woodlice. This was getting me nowhere. You could spend an entire month excavating that mess and barely scrap away the first layer of grime.
Wait. If Mom could stare me into a confession, maybe I could do the same with her? I went and stood facing her, her nose inches from mine. “What’s your secret?”
At first, she only returned fire. But then those emotionless eyes flicked toward the shelving unit.
When I glanced at it, she burst into tears. “You’re right. I’m a terrible mother. Go sit in the lounge, I’ll make you a cup of tea.” The crying unnerved me more than her fury, honestly.
Beneath the shelve, an arch had been ground into the concrete as though somebody dragged a heavy weight back and forth. I grabbed the unit, shimmied it off the wall. With considerable effort, the right side swung out, inch by slow inch, revealing a hidden metal door embedded within the brickwork.
“What the FUCK is this?” I yelled. “Have you got a fucking bomb shelter down here?”
Her icy talon caressed my cheek. “Please, come upstairs. I love you. Your father, he didn’t want it to be this way. But you were so beautiful. With your green eyes and cute button nose. I couldn’t do it. Not to you. Come upstairs. Please.”
“My…father?” I said, breathless.
“His family, they couldn’t know. And the church, oh the things they would have said. He wanted to bulldoze the house and destroy the evidence. He says we’re too old to keep up the charade. It was my accident, George. It scared him. He said we nearly got exposed.”
Above our heads, lights flashed across the wall as a car sped past the window and screeched to a halt. Hysterical now, Mom choked out a feeble, “He’ll be furious.”
Unable to get these events straight in my mind, I twisted the metal handle while she rushed upstairs, wailing.
The door opened onto a windowless tunnel colder than a cave, musty-smelling and choked in darkness. An ungodly stench wafted out; stale air intermixed with sour sweat.
As I retched, chains rattled up ahead.
There came tiny cries.
My trembling hands grabbed my phone and switched on the torch. Then, on unsteady legs, I crept forward.
Halfway down the tunnel gaping doorways opened on either side: one contained a toilet and a sink, the other a brief kitchen area. Metal rails ran along the walls at waist height.
The tunnel carried me into a box room, roughly ten feet long and ten feet deep. And as I cast the light in a wide arc, my pulse shot up between my ears.
Sitting on filthy, stained mattresses, frail figures shielded their eyes. On my right, there lay a man and a woman, both made from skin and bones. They wore grey jumpsuits and leather collars attached to the rails by metal chains.
In a stilted accent, the lady said, "Please help us before mother and father realize you are here."
The room shifted on its axis. “…Mother and father?”
"George," another figure cried. My light whipped toward the far wall, where Karima also sat fastened to the rail, her face purple-black with cuts and bruises. Before my mind could process this discovery, footsteps charged along the entryway. I spun around.
A giant man with sharp brown eyes stepped into the confined space, baseball bat in hand, his head almost scraping the low roof. My mother arrived right after him, shrieking, “CARL, STOP, PLEASE STOP!”
I stood there, feet rooted on the spot, until the old fella took a swing at me.
At the very last second, I jumped away. The bat found my phone, which spun out of my hand. Now only ambient light from the basement splashed across the room.
In a wild fury, Carl swung again and again. I sidestepped, ducked, scrambled away.
Next time the club whistled through the air, inches from my face, I threw myself at Carl, and our hands wrestled for control of the weapon.
Round and round we went, a little foxtrot. Once it became obvious his iron grip wouldn’t let up, I drove my forehead into his nose, hard. The bat fell onto the floor, and then my fists reigned down blows, seemingly by themselves. My crappy childhood, all those missed birthdays and cutting remarks and countless hours spent caged inside my room, got channelled into each and every strike.
Although my attacker had thirty years on me, he was stronger than an ox on steroids. He answered every fifth punch with one of his own. Around us, a chorus of "Stop him, please stop him!" went up, like Romans chanting for gladiators.
Soon Carl’s breaths became laboured. Difficult. A hand shot up against his chest. My aggressor couldn’t maintain this pace—I had him.
But then, from a side-angle, Mom flew at me. Sharp, yellow fingernails rake across my face, again and again.
“FOUL DISOBEDIENT CHILD,” she shrieked, as an arthritic finger slice my left eye.
Furious, I clamped my hand over her mouth and shoved her away. From the cathartic sound her body made toppling onto the concrete floor, she’d need a full body cast after this.
Before I could react, Carl tackled me in the chest, driving me backwards until my skull hit the rear wall. A pair of steel hands closed around my windpipe, tighter than a python, and as I fought for air, warm blood trickled down my neck. A vision of my corpse rotting away down there flashed before my eyes. If Mom kept my body hidden, Abbie would grow up believing her dad abandoned her.
But then, with a quick rattle of chains, Karima vaulted onto Carl’s back and bit his ear. Pressure around my throat eased. I pushed myself off the wall and dragged stale air into my lungs.
As Carl backstepped, Karima’s bonds snapped tight. She got yanked backwards as if attached to a bungee cord.
I grabbed the baseball bat and planted my feet and swung. It connected with a resonate thud. Carl spat blood and teeth across the sidewall. Suddenly on Bambi legs, he collapsed sideways and fell into the gloom. Then, a sputter went up.
My hand fumbled along the floor for the light.
Those pale figures hunched over the old man with the stained, red jaw, their chains wrapped tight around his throat, biting deep into the flesh.
Carl pawed at the air, eyes bulging from their sockets. When both arms fell limp and his head slumped over one shoulder, the figures released their chains and looked at my feet, beside which Mom lay on one side taking slow, watery inhales.
From behind, Karima placed a hand on my shoulder. I flinched. I looked from her to the figures and back again. “What the FUCK is going on?”
Gently, she said, “You might want to sit down for this.”
The pair stood, their chains rattling. Four pairs of eyes, brown eyes, studied me closely.
Karima said, “It’s okay. Your mother and Carl, they locked me down here because I found out about this place. The two of them, they’d secretly been together for years, but they kept it secret because Carl had a family. Then when your mom got pregnant, they knew they couldn’t let anybody find out, so they...well…there’d no easy way to say this, but George...”
The nurse took a slow, steady breath. “…meet your brother and sister.”
I met my best friend on snapchat 10 months ago. For the past month, she has taken a break from social media, but we have talked to each other almost every single days for the past 9 months before this. I made a list of many of the things she says/does that could be taken as a sign that she likes me, but I want to get perspectives on this other than my own. Maybe I am delusional idk.
-she calls me her soulmate & bestie
-she wants us to be roommates
-regularly tells me she loves me (I think she means it as a friend kind of way, but still)
-before taking her social media break, she said "don't you dare get into a relationship while I'm gone"
-told me I "won her heart"
-she said we are meant for each other
-she wants to go on vacations with me
-said we are like Shrek & Fiona (kinda random lol)
-she always talks about how excited she is to dance with me someday
-she wants to spend Christmas with me in the future
-she wanted to watch a movie with me over Zoom
-she sends me videos that could probably be interpreted as couples videos and says "U+me"
-she joked about marrying me multiple times in the past
-she called me her "djungelskog" (it's a plush bear thing, look it up)
-sends me lots of compliments (says I have beautiful eyes, perfect hair, a really handsome face, called me cute, etc.)
-said she sees Jesus in me
-sent me a nice letter on my birthday about how I am the sweetest boy she has ever met and how I am the greatest gift from god and other stuff
-I sent her a letter telling her how much she means to me, she made it her phone wallpaper and it has been like that for months
-seemed jealous when I mentioned I had another friend on snapchat I regularly talk to, she asked if they were a boy or girl and she didn't really want me to talk to them
-after breaking up with her last bf months ago, she said she would only date someone who is her best friend, yet she always tells me I am her best friend
-she always calls me a "high value man"
-sent me a "cutie award" pic
-sent me a pic that said, " I fell in love with his soul before I got to touch his skin"
-said she wants to hold me in her arms
-she asks me to send pictures of my eyes because she loves them (she loves blue eyes a lot apparently)
-she sends me workout videos and wants to have a "glow up" with me
-she sends me pics of her and asks me to rate her face
-got embarrassed when we video called because she said she could not stop smiling when talking to me
-she is excited to one day meet each other's families
-asks about my family a lot, refers to them as "our" family - asks how's "our" family is doing
-she tried to prank me before by telling me her friend wanted to talk to me and has a crush on me, she wanted to see my reaction
Well that is everything I can think of. Sorry this is so long. I basically just want to know if this could mean she likes me or if she is just super nice. I will be deleting this soon. Thanks for listening.
Can you add stuff to the cellar? Like wallpaper, flooring, furniture, etc.? Or is it just for casks? Cause the house isn't big enough by itself for a cute house and I was gonna make the cellar and bedroom if I could
Ok, after a few days of just enjoying all the characters, I had one that keeps sticking out above the rest, and it's Pachacco! I did not expect that, but the fact he's chubby but also athletic really appeals to me... a chubby but athletic person, lol! I also love how he topples over sometimes, indicating that while he's athletic, he's also a bit clumsy, which is adorable and relatable. Also Ice-cream! I like the color schemes, too as he's often shown in blue and greens even though... I think his original shirt is red? At first I kinda dismissed him as a Snoopy knock-off but I feel bad for that now considering how dynamic he seems to be!
I've been trolling for merch and sad since there needs to be more variety. I'm very anxious about chemicals in cloth so I want a large Pachacco plush but I haven't been able to find an official one yet that's on the bigger side. I also really really want some figures or something that show him with bandaids or bandages! I think that rough and tumble side is so cute.
Any other fans of him here? Do you have merch? Can you show it off? :D What's your favorite thing about him and why did you start to like him?