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My fiance is watching the last episode of Hemlock Grove.
I told him that I heard from people on Tumblr/Plurk that the last ep was way disappointing.
He keeps bursting in and out of the bedroom ranting about it.
“Oh god it hurts!”
“WHAT THE FUCK NETFLIX?!”
“I could piss a better ending into a snowbank.”
I don’t think I’m gonna watch this one…
> Well played
(Source: theamericankid, via midorieyes)
Blah BLAH Blah: jhameia: TRIGGER WARNING FOR SUICIDEAlso, here’s a link describing...
TRIGGER WARNING FOR SUICIDE Also, here’s a link describing what “bedroom tax” is for those of us not in the know: http://www.bromfordgroup.co.uk/welfare-reform/bedroom#u-tax/ Listen, I know tumblr only cares about American news, but this is really fucking tragic, and if this doesn’t get an coverage I will be incredibly angry. The conservative’s bedroom tax has actually led to a woman taking her own life. Let me repeat that for you; a peice of government legislation had had such a detrimental impact on someone’s life that they wrote letters, packed up their things, and walked into the M4 in front of a lorry. The bedroom tax has only be in place for the last 5 weeks. For those of you that don’t know, the bedroom tax isn’t technically a tax; if you’re living in a rented property, and have an extra bedroom, you’ll have to pay a certain amount of money back to the government. Children under the age of 12 are expected to share with all their siblings, children under 16 are expected to share with their siblings of the same gender. The government placed no limits on how many children could be expected to share a room. It would have saved the government £490 million a year; the UK loses £5.2 Billion a year in tax evasion alone. [citation] Stephanie Botrill, from Solihull, had lived in her house for 18 years, and her two children had, relatively recently moved into their own properties, one of them within the last year. She previously paid a rent of £320 a month, and bedroom tax would have meant she paid £400; she was having to starve herself to afford this. Let me reiterate that for you; a woman was having to go without food because of a cruel tory policy. The house the council offered her was nowhere near where she currently lived, and 30 minutes walk from the nearest bus station; she would have been nowhere near her family and friends. To make matters worse, the council said she’d have to pay for any damage to the house, which would have exceeded the £2000 she was given to move house. Stephanie had been saying since the policy came in how she couldn’t cope. She even went to the GP, but only got sleeping pills. In the end, it all got too much, and she wrote letters to her children, grandson, friends, and neighbors and walked into the M4, dying instantly. The Sunday People has photos of the letters, but I won’t post them because they broke my heart, but if you want to see them, they’re here As well as this, her family was struggling to pay for her funeral, so the Sunday People contributed. We live in a country where we can pay £10 million pounds for the funeral of a woman who called Nelson Mandela a terrorist, but someone’s grandmother kills herself because she can’t afford to live in the house she’d lived in for 18 years. I hope everyone feels thoroughly disgusted. The worst thing is, Stephanie’s story has a more extreme ending, but it’s fairly typical of a bedroom tax victim case. Although the tory’s policies targeted towards those on benefits claim to help to push people into work, and end a ‘something for nothing’ benefits system (and the whole thing reeks of deserving and undeserving poor) this is not the case at all. Take a guess at what percentage of the people receiving benefit in the UK are unemployed. Guess. I was way, way out. The actual breakdown is this 42.3% elderly, 20.8% low income, 18.4% families, 15.5% sick/disabled, 2.6% unemployed. Only 2.6% of those on benefits in this country are unemployed. In addition to this, the people most likely to have spare bedrooms are older people, who’s children have left home. They are not people living off the tax payer, whatever that means, they are people who have lived their lives in cheap rental property who’s children have left home, and so rely on their friends, like my Nana does, for company. And David Cameron and his tory cronies want to move these people away from their communities, their friends, the brick and mortar they’ve made their home, because they have the cheek to have a couple of spare bedrooms. I hope you’re angry, because I’m really fucking angry. You know who has got spare bedrooms? David Cameron, who got lucky enough to be born to a millionaire and the daughter of a Baronet, and his wife Samantha who’s father is also a Baronet. His personal wealth has been estimated at £30 million, inherited from off-shore tax havens. Like I said earlier, the UK loses £5.2 Billion a year from men like Cameron. To misquote Obama, Cameron’s not the solution, he’s the problem. Meanwhile, more people like Stephanie Botrill, hounded from the home she’d raised her children in, and the community where all her friends live, will probably walk in front of lorries. To cut a long story short, if you even think about voting Tory in 2015, I hope you think about Stephanie Botrill, and I hope you never sleep again. This is so unbelievably horrifying. “Children under the age of 12 are expected to share with all their siblings, children under 16 are expected to share with their siblings of the same gender. The government placed no limits on how many children could be expected to share a room.” (via maats-asp)
Couple has really awesome Batgirl/Nightwing wedding cause they’re awesome.
(source: http://imgur.com/a/XSADm)
*SHRIEKING IN GLEE* OMG DAT WEDDING PARTY!!! OMG DAT BOUQUET!!!
(via maats-asp)
Alchemyprime's Omniblog: Hello Omnibloggers, and welcome! This week, we’ll be doing things a...
Hello Omnibloggers, and welcome! This week, we’ll be doing things a little… differently. Namely, I’m opening up this contest to ALL OF TUMBLR! That’s right! I have a Steam copy of Cthulhu Saves the World that I want to give away, and I want to give it away to some lucky Tumblrino. So,…
Hyperbole and a Half posted again, and everyone needs to read it because:
- If you are depressed, it will resonate with you like whoa.
- If you are not depressed, it will clarify some stereotypes about depression that need to be said. An explanation like this has been needed for a LONG time.
- If you know someone who is depressed, you’ll be better at interacting with them after reading this.
Just… just go read it. Holy hell just go read it.
(via seer0ftime)
Stark Residence.
THE DESTRUCTION OF THIS HOUSE WAS THE SADDEST PART IN ALL OF IM3 TO ME OKAY?! D: MALIBU POINT NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!
(via zphal)
I remember my first eagle ceremony when I turned nine. The first eagle you get is always declawed, which I always thought was pretty inhumane, but it was a good way to ease into caring for the birds. My eagle (named Baldy, because I wasn’t a terribly clever child) was already quite old when I received him (he was a rescue eagle, luckily) but I did have him until I was 16. I don’t know if I was more excited about getting my drivers license that year, or my new eagle! You should have seen the party we had when I got him, too! Grilled hot dogs and fire works and lemonade…. obviously I named my beautiful new eagle Freedom. He’s too big to keep inside anymore, unfortunately, but we’ve got a pretty comfortable roost for him on our apartment’s balcony.
Ah, yes, the eagle ceremony! My Justice and I remember his quite well. (They had just come out with telepathic link transplants when I got him, which is how I know he remembers it.) Our celebration was quite modest, compared to Freedom’s—apple pie under a cloudless summer sky as we signed our Declaration of Interdependence. I still have the inked and talon-pierced document hanging on my wall.
what is this
Get out Canada
I was so scared during my pet eagle ceremony I almost threw up. But Stonewall Jackson and I have been best friends ever since. My dad and grandfather built a really massive roost behind the house for my eagle and my sisters’ eagles. Stonewall always waits for me when I get home from class since schools are getting so over protective and strict these days and won’t allow eagles indoors. Which just goes to show how much we’re bubble wrapping kids today. Back in the day, if you couldn’t handle a few stitches because you pissed off the wrong kid’s eagle, you had to just man up and learn your lesson!
Ooo, I never miss a chance to tell this story! I had a rather unusual first eagle ceremony. The traditional giant American flag that you wave around to summon your eagle had been severely damaged the week prior (a ceremony that had not gone according to plan, but the child only suffered minor talon wounds. The flag took the brunt of the attack). Anyway, I couldn’t use the normal flag so we had to search ALL OVER for one suitable for eagle summoning. Unfortunately the stripes weren’t the correct shade of patriotic red so everyone was worried an eagle wouldn’t show up at all. I had to stand in the middle of that wheat field, the wind creating amber waves out of it, shaking that flag in the air for over three hours. Everyone was just about to give up when suddenly Patriot appeared out of nowhere! He came to me so quickly it was like he was apologizing for being late. And we’ve been together ever since.
Some people think it’s excessive to have two eagles. But what can I say, I’m a two eagles kind of guy. Well, I can say, “You must be a terrorist to call me out over my excesses,” but I digress. We don’t have many open fields around here, so I got Liberty by waving my flag atop a decommissioned WWII aircraft carrier. I was kicking a couple of boxes of tea into the harbor for good measure, and there she was. I loved her so much I repeated the process a year later and got young Colbert here. It’s hard work, raising two eagles, but I have two shoulders, after all. Besides, I know that the secret to happy and healthy eagles is plenty of Bud Light.
Oh man, the eagle ceremony. I was a weird fucking kid, okay, so I was totally sure that the eagle ceremony wasn’t just going to net me my eagle and deepen the mystical bond between a citizen and their country, I thought I was going to get to turn into an eagle too. So me and my mom and my dad and my little brother are all standing in the old civil war battleground, surrounded by the ghosts of our fallen soldiers, and all and the problem here — it’s not usually a problem because I make sure to shave my beard off twice a day, three times on sundays — was that I am, actually, born on the fourth of July. So it wasn’t just one eagle that showed up, it was pretty much every big old patriotic warbird in Missouri, all flapping around confused and pissed off, their innate senses of direction completely fucked up by the way firecracker babies warp America’s natural system of ley lines. And I was six, so grabbed the flag and ran with it over my shoulders, rippling in the wind, thinking it was going to turn into wings for me and I would go be an eagle with all the other eagles. Instead I just got mobbed by a freaked-out mess of nationalistic avians who all weighed more than I did. I lost half my nose and my whole left arm and spent most of fourth grade in reconstructive surgery getting machine guns welded on to the shattered remains of my ulna. Completely missed my little brother’s eagle ceremony, which I will always regret, but it was all worth it to have met Columbia. I never did turn into an eagle on the outside, but I like to think those long hours in the hospital, feeding her rubbing alcohol and my own blood, have made me an eagle in my heart.
I remember my first eagle ceremony like it was yesterday, There was a huge storm that day and my parents tried to make me wait a few days until the storm subsided. But I was not waiting to get my eagle. So I stood out in the field closest to my house. Thunder rumbling, lightening cracking, and hurricane force winds, but I stood my ground. I was getting me eagle that day if it killed me. I raised the giant american flag as high in the air I could and began waving. The flag was hard to hold with all of the wind, and water the flag was soaking up. It was getting harder to hold by the minute and the storm was getting worse and worse. I was beginning to loose hope that my eagle would ever come. Then as the lightening flashed and the thunder boomed its loudest and its brightest, I saw Bravery flying towards me. So strong, young, and majestic. We both braved the storm to find each other and to this day we are best friends.
wait did I make a meme when did this happen
(Source: oliviahopeful, via midorieyes)
Yo, listen up. Here’s a story about a little guy that lives in a blue world…
(Source: starksglutenfreewaffles, via sciencebrofist)
HOLY NUGGETS I WON alchemyprime ‘s game giveaway this week! :D SWEEEET!
The strength of characterization in Sailor Moon is, in my opinion, what has made it such an enduring series. When we were children, we chose our favorite and used her to represent who we were and who we hoped to be. And there was such a diversity of choice—they’re tomboys, wannabe idols, obsessed with video games, brilliant students, lazy students, quiet, exuberant and everything in between. Today, when I reflect upon the cast, they feel like sisters—to each other, and to me. So I’m sitting here, beginning a series where I intend to focus on each senshi individually, facing the question of who to begin with. And suddenly, it’s obvious: Makoto.
Makoto is a wonderful symbol of what makes the characters of Sailor Moon so lasting—she fits no formula, she bucks gender conventions—but I don’t want to reduce her to that. In and of herself, Makoto is such a unique, emotionally resonant character. She’s a bundle of contrasts, but she never feels contrived, like her traits were carefully curated by a writer seeking to create a Quirky Girl Character. She’s organic—like a real person with a real, varied personality. She’s the bruiser of the team, with her penchant for hoisting enemies over her head only to slam them to the concrete. Her character design, with its long skirt and curly hair, hearkens back to the sukeban, or “delinquent” girl—and indeed, she is rumored to have been kicked out of her last few schools for fighting. Makoto is tall and tough and will finish a fight with her fists if she has to.
But Makoto is also a person who wears tiny pink rose stud earrings and has a story in the manga devoted to how she can’t stop buying cute shit for her apartment. Makoto is a person who swoons over romance novels and dreams of baking her husband meatloaf and wants to open a flower shop someday. She prepares lavish feasts for her friends and insists, blushingly, that it was nothing. She seeks to live a life as soft, romantic, and sweetly-scented as possible. And she’s never judged for it. She is never mocked as a shallow, frivolous airhead consumed by, as the scolder might sniff, the sort of superficial nonsense girls like. Nor are her more classically masculine traits denigrated as improper or embarrassing. She is, like her sisters-in-arms, a person in all the untidy, beautiful complexity that implies.
Moreover, Makoto is allowed to be weak. She is allowed to be an ass-kicking, flower-arranging, tea-sipping soldier of love and justice who maybe doesn’t feel so good about herself all the time. She occasionally regards her more boyish traits with embarrassment and panics at the sound of airplanes, scarred, as she is, from being orphaned by a plane crash. She doesn’t always look in the mirror and see someone who emerged triumphant from tremendous sorrow, someone who is only made more wonderful by her unconventionality. And that’s okay. The story honors her insecurities without validating them. No one has to swoop in and save her, nor are her moments of self-doubt used to diminish her. Her lapses in confidence, in fact, strengthen her—she roars out of them ready to fight anew, flushed with the knowledge that she is, as Mixx translated it back in the early 2000s, “butt-kicking Jupiter.”
Makoto is brawny. Makoto is delicate. Makoto is, at times, unsure of herself. And while, in the hands of a lesser author, she might have been a cringe-worthy joke of a character—OH MY GOD SHE’S SUPER TOUGH BUT SHE LIKES CUPCAKES WOW HOW WACKY!!!—in Sailor Moon, she is simply herself. And that’s beautiful.
(Part one in a series on the senshi.)
Makoto was my favourite growing up - at first just because she looked like me (brunette with a daily ponytail! woo!) but later as a child and especially now as an adult, I looked on her character and saw in her everything I wanted to be: elegant, sensitive, stubborn, traditionally feminine and romantic, keeping hobbies like cooking that required passion and skill to do well, eager to bring other people into her care and protection. Makoto was a romantic with a spine of steel when you pushed her too hard or knocked her friends around even little bit and she was the model against which many of my later childhood and grownup heroes were compared.
In conclusion: best senshi <3
(via dytabytes)
THIS FUCKING SCENE RUINED MY LIFE OMFG
OH MY FUCK I KNOW! THIS SHOW IS JUST LAUGHS AND LAUGHS AND LAUGHS AND THEN IT DOES SHIT LIKE THIS AND FREAKING GUTPUNCHES YOU WITH FEELS!
(Source: angryblackman, via dytabytes)
As the French press laughs (x).
(Source: iwantcupcakes, via overratedmusings)
Alchemyprime's Omniblog: Alchemyprime Gives You Games #1 - Cthulhu Saves The World
Okay folks, the first copy of Cthulhu Saves the World is up for grabs here. This one is going to be an Ask giveaway. You have to Ooooh! Giveaways!! :3
