August182014
2PM

stormbornvalkyrie:

  “Do you know what it is like to be sold, squire? I do. My brother sold me to Khal Drogo for the promise of a golden crown. Well, Drogo crowned him in gold, though not as he had wished, and I…my sun-and-stars made a queen of me, but if he had been a different man, it might have been much otherwise. Do you think I have forgotten how it felt to be afraid?”

(via fydaenerystargaryen)

2PM

If they don’t reply to your texts — they’re not interested in you.

If they don’t call you — they’re not interested in you.

If they forget your birthday — they’re not interested in you.

If they’re hung up on their ex — they’re not interested in you.

If they’re obsessed with being single — they’re not interested in you.

If they don’t want to meet your friends — they’re not interested in you.

If they don’t want you to meet their friends — they’re not interested in you.

If they don’t ask questions about your life — they’re not interested in you.

If they don’t tell you things about their life — they’re not interested in you.

If they only speak to you when they want to have sex with you — they’re not interested in you.

If they only have sex with you when they’re drunk — they’re not interested in you.

If they say “should we just keep this between us?’ after you have sex with them — they’re not interested in you.

If they don’t have sex with you — they’re not interested in you.

If they can always find a psychobabble rationale about who “I am” or “you are” or “we are” as reason why you can’t be together — they’re not interested in you.

If they have said for more than six months that they would like to be with you “BUT” — they’re not interested in you.

And if you still need convincing — think of it this way. Think of what the real day-to-day of life is taken up by. Life is birthday parties at terrible pubs. Life is losing your credit card and the annual Melbourne Cup sweepstake in the office. Life is hen’s nights, bucks’ nights, sitting on the phone for three hours to get U2 tickets and not getting them, the apartment upstairs flooding your house, interval training, calorie counting, cancer scares, illegal mini cabs, Secret Santa, rail replacement buses and Dido albums. Dogs die, cars crash, bin liners break, contracts end, curtain rails collapse, trains get delayed, football teams lose. Divorce happens and so do earthquakes and so does An Audience With Michael Bublé. Landlords put rent up, phones get stolen and the supermarket often completely runs out of hummus.

Now, taking all of the above into account — you look me dead in the eye and tell me the truth. Do you really have enough spare energy to pursue someone who isn’t interested in you? Do you really want to waste any more time on top of all of that? No. Me neither. So give it up, my friend. It’s a loser’s game. Delete their number. Don’t go on any more dates with them. Stop lurking their Facebook page. Feels good, doesn’t it?

Dolly Alderton (via gaslightgoodbye)

I love this but asexual people don’t want to have sex and just because they don’t want to have sex with you doesn’t mean they aren’t interested in you

and honestly if they aren’t asexual some people choose to be abstinent and sex isn’t the determining factor if they are interested or not 

(via thewatchbreaker)

(via dan-aykrxyd)

2PM
misandry-mermaid:

stfueverything:

kanaya-maryammm-or-fmmm:

many of the things wrong with the world can be summed up in this comment

how do people still find this joke funny? 

Sandwich jokes are a product of men feeling intimidated by women who are smarter, stronger, or more successful than they are.

misandry-mermaid:

stfueverything:

kanaya-maryammm-or-fmmm:

many of the things wrong with the world can be summed up in this comment

how do people still find this joke funny? 

Sandwich jokes are a product of men feeling intimidated by women who are smarter, stronger, or more successful than they are.

(via dan-aykrxyd)

2PM
tocifer:

thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure –
But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.
Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.
Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.
Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured – by their classmates –for having been born.
Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle – but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)
Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.
Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again – the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone – the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?
Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.
Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.
Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes – in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.
Imagine the ghosts.
Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield – it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)
Imagine the students unable to trust each other – everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.
Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.
Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.
Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.
Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.
Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.
Imagine the students who leave the wixen world – hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.
Imagine the students who never use magic again.
(Image source.)
(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

and furthermore, imagine all the hate this will breed for the years to come after, the chain reactions it will cause for the future, and possible revenge and war it will spark, the new generation of dark wizards

tocifer:

thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure

But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.

Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.

Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.

Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured by their classmates for having been born.

Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)

Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.

Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?

Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.

Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.

Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.

Imagine the ghosts.

Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)

Imagine the students unable to trust each other everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.

Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.

Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.

Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.

Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.

Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.

Imagine the students who leave the wixen world hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.

Imagine the students who never use magic again.

(Image source.)

(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

and furthermore, imagine all the hate this will breed for the years to come after, the chain reactions it will cause for the future, and possible revenge and war it will spark, the new generation of dark wizards

(via lovelyhudderpudder)

2PM

Tom Hiddleston is the latest victim to take up the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge (and we’d like to thank Nathan Fillion for providing him with the opportunity).

(Source: entertainingtheidea, via lokihiddleston)

1PM
1PM

colby-jeeze-cosplay:

chauvinistsushi:

meepitperson:

Rape isn’t about uncontrollable sexual desire. You only have to listen in on a Call of Duty game to see that. When that kid crows, “I raped you!”, he’s not calling the other guy sexy; he’s saying he defeated him, dominated him, humiliated him. That’s what rape is about, and that should scare you.

gonna reblog this till I stop tumbling

forever reblog.

(Source: the-church-of-saint-aubergine, via fangirlrae)

1PM
  • Brother: I wonder what Satan looks like..
  • Me: Well, first off his name is Lucifer and he's a fallen angel. According to the bible he was suppose to be super gorgeous.
  • Brother: Really?
  • Me: Yeah. I guess you could say he was....
  • Brother:
  • Me:
  • Brother: ???
  • Me: ... fine as hell.
1PM
stormbornvalkyrie:

Of all those at the high table, only Sansa Stark was not smiling. He could have loved her for that, but if truth be told the Stark girl’s eyes were far away, as if she had not even seen the ludicrous riders loping toward her.

stormbornvalkyrie:

Of all those at the high table, only Sansa Stark was not smiling. He could have loved her for that, but if truth be told the Stark girl’s eyes were far away, as if she had not even seen the ludicrous riders loping toward her.

(via gameofthronesdaily)

1PM

out-in-the-open:

Demon Dean is basically normal Dean who is indulging in the things he normally enjoys in excess. The only difference is his little brother not being in the picture (x).

(via fangirlrae)

1PM

queenofthebeasties:

rumbleroars:

avengenerds-assemble:

freakinmi:

I love Marvel movies. 

THIS WHOLE FANDOM IS ON DRUGS

OMG I CAN’T STOP LAUGHING

Why do I hear a squeaky cleaning noise in my head while I look at this?

(via fangirlrae)

1PM
laughhard:

In a video game there would definitely be something hidden behind this wall

laughhard:

In a video game there would definitely be something hidden behind this wall

(via fangirlrae)

1PM

raindrops-of-the-insane:

girl-in-nike:

tonytobar:

What if verbal abuse left the same scars as physical abuse? Would it be taken more seriously? That’s what photographer Richard Johnson hopes to accomplish with his new photo project, “Weapons of Choice.”

The series uses a makeup artist to put bruises and scars on photo subjects. Embedded in these violent marks are some hateful words typically associated with abuse, such as “Stupid,” “Dumb,” “Trash” and others that are much, much worse.

What if verbal abuse left the same scars as physical abuse

They do. It’s just that the scars are invisbale

(via fangirlrae)

1PM

spncastdaily:

Osric Chau Ice Bucket Challenge (Part 1)

(via feelsonthefloor)

← Older entries Page 1 of 582