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doomhamster:

 #the problem with becoming the kind of hero you needed yourself #is that it can’t change the fact #that nobody came for you                                                    

sofhtie:

i don’t think I’m ever going to get over this line
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my-favorite-aesthetics:

biggest-gaudiest-patronuses:

biggest-gaudiest-patronuses:

why are birds so cursed

A Non-Comprehensive List of Birds That Piss Me Off

1. Dracula Parrot. This thing pisses me off like, a bunch

2. King Vulture. the felted craft project equivalent of a haunted ventriloquist dummy

i will never not resent this bird 

 3. Jacana Bird. This is the most unnecessary cursed nonsense. i deserve an apology for having to look at this. I can feel its fingers stroking my ears

No it does not have SIX FREAKING LIMBS. it’s carrying its stupid creepy spawn under its wings. A+ parents but still, piss off. even the normal 2 legged version isn’t much better

put those AWAY.

4. The Shoebill, which i’m sure we’re all sick of hearing about. this thing is the epitome of a crappy photorealistic cgi disney villainy. i despise this bird.

also this is what they look like standing up. i just feel like i shouldn’t have to deal with that, i really do.

5. Inca Tern. truly, hipsters ruin everything

6. Tragopan. it looks like a star wars species, which i dislike on principle 

7. The Secretary Bird. it wears yoga pants.

also i’m uncomfortable with the length of its eyelashes

8. finally, i really dislike this one specific parakeet

in conclusion, these birds exist to haunt me and this knowledge is a burden. birds exist to observe our sin; always watching, they are filled with malice. flee from them

EXCUSE ME THESE ARE AMAZING BIRDS
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adampvrrish:

adampvrrish:

the only person that understands me is richard siken
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sashaforthewin:

nebula-cnidaria:

willmelon:

bigwordsandsharpedges:

You wouldn’t notice it on cobblestones, but horseshoes throw sparks on asphalt.

amish back to the future

Lil Nas X - Old Town Road ft. Ghost Rider

Grand Theft Equine
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thecollectibles:

Eurydice. Another story of Love by Anastasia Shevchenko
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liquidlyrium:

nedlittle:

i was tasked with creating a shakespeare scene/monologue using only lines from other plays + ended up getting a perfect 100 for this lmao

[profile] jeynegrey told me to post this so i had to comply

(annotations under the cut)

Keep reading

Holy fucking shit. What a masterpiece

[personal profile] elenothar
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dancinbutterfly:

severalowls:

justthesource:

tilthat:

TIL that Joseph Medicine Crow earned the title ‘War Chief’ by completing four tasks as a warrior during WWII: leading a successful war party on a raid, capturing an enemy’s weapon, touching an enemy without killing him, and stealing an enemy’s horse.

via reddit.com

source: https://www.military.com/army-birthday/badass-of-the-week-joe-medicine-crow.html

If like me you’re wondering how he successfully stole a fucking horse in WW2…

He didn’t… Just do that. He stole fifty thoroughbred racehorses from an SS officers’ camp. By sneaking in, mounting one bareback and corralling the rest while singing a traditional Crow war song.

Ok. I’m ready for his movie. 🍿
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manticoreimaginary:

shamrocked:

coiour-my-world:

Þrídrangaviti lighthouse, Westman Islands, Iceland | Photograph/ Árni Sæberg

omfg

Holy shit.

The remote lighthouse was built right before the dawn of World War II. Constructing this lonely lighthouse was no easy task, as helicopters had yet to take to the skies when the work began in 1938. Builders scaled the cliffs to reach the pillar’s pinnacle, laying out the groundwork by hand. They faced slick rocks, rain, and fervent winds knowing that one slip could send them plunging into the frigid North Atlantic Ocean that thrashed and splashed below. [x]
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jaradraws:

this was an assignment from a bit ago but i kept forgetting to scan it in >.>
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ex0skeletal:

The Severed Head of Medusa by artist Damien Hirst is made of a single piece of crystal glass that took three months to cool in an oven. This final product is the fifth attempt at molding the work from molten crystal; the first four cracked in the cooling process.
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luxroyalty:

@hamelin-born

Arydn….ish?

@charlottedabookworm @sparklecryptid
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theperidotshade:

“In [fairy tales], power is rarely the right tool for survival anyway. Rather the powerless thrive on alliances, often in the form of reciprocated acts of kindness - from beehives that were not raided, birds that were not killed but set free or fed, old women who were saluted with respect. Kindness sown among the meek is harvested in crisis”

— Rebecca Solnit, The Faraway Nearby. (via decadent-romanticism)
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soracities:

Euripides, from “Orestes”, An Oresteia (trans. Anne Carson)
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allthingslinguistic:

learninglinguist:

Linguistics alignment chart from Nathan Sanders on Twitter.

Linguistics takes on the alignment chart meme.
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blinkingkills:

obsessive-enthusiast:

mark-gently:

highly relevant to my polymer physics studies

@simple-pianist

this reminds me of @trufflesmushroom

@sparklecryptid @theotherguysride
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sartorialadventure:

Costumes by Eiko Ishioka for Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992) (click to enlarge)

@morgynleri

May I ask for your analysis?
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@kettish keeps poking me for Venge & Mara Jade fic
@deadcatwithaflamethrower you stirred some stuff last night with the snippets

“What do you think of my little pet project, my Apprentice?” Sidious asks, hated voice creeping like smoke across the ice-cold floor. “It was very difficult, you know. Who could have predicted Rhen’s would turn out to be so troublesome.”

The words don’t quite register. Venge stares at the holoimage, pure hatred curling like smoke in his lungs, in his mouth, his throat, stinging at his eyes and deafening him even to that voice.

“Well, my dear General? I may never have you, but this one is mine.”

Later, he thinks Sidious might have realised he’d gravely misstepped. Venge almost remembers that bond pulsing in Sidious’s vain attempt to throttle and stamp out a rising tide of his fury, but the attempt was too little, and far too late.

Venge is also not entirely sure what he did. Something destructive. Much of it was a blur, and the only thing he remembers with anything resembling clarity is the rage, grief, and desolation poured into the ruin of what was once his home. The carpets were red like rivers of iron-based blood, the walls were black and smooth, shining like Sidious’s lair. By the time Venge is through with it, there isn’t a brick of Imperial Center still lying in its place.

Venge comes back—painfully—to himself, feeling rather like he’d gone another few rounds of electrocution. Channeling that much raw power leaves him feeling like the top of his head’s peeled off, and his teeth are humming still. It feels like a damn spice trip without the instant allergic reaction—skin crawling, burning, and paper-thin, all of him hyperaware of the brush of air, of every sound, every hint of movement.

It’s distantly amusing to consider that Imperial building codes are barely up to par with Republic ones. Or maybe Imperial Center was built in a hurry.

Still. Venge is surrounded by wreckage that looks like the result of aerial bombardment. No building codes could withstand that.

He’s standing in the middle of a smoking slagheap, and there is a child in front of him, watching him with large, curious eyes, not even the least bit frightened.

One to call my own. The words float and twist in his mind, like everything else Sidious had ever touched. Sure enough, there it is. A bond, tethering this child to her Master—more slavemaster than teacher, but she wouldn’t know that at all, would she?

Emperor’s Hand, Venge thinks, and wonders why this four- or five-year-old red-haired child hasn’t run off, or maybe shot him with that blaster she hasn’t got hidden in her boot.

Venge hesitates, then crouches down to her eye-level.

She’s still. Not. Running.

“Hello there,” he says softly. Venge isn’t sure what moves him to do it, but he reaches out with one hand, palm up, and holds his breath.

He leaves the smoking ruin with the child in his arms, walks out into the incongruously brilliant Coruscant sunlight, and right into Vader, standing on the steps in an eerie mirror to the March on the Temple. The black suit that holds together what is left of his brother is completely still, and silent but for its breathing. A lightsaber lies in Vader’s hand, at the ready, but it is unlit. Venge stops, hesitates. The thought of leaving his brother behind, even like this, scrapes across raw and painful memories like sanded paper. Leaving him—it’s impossible.

But Venge stands between two impossible choices, and it won’t be long before the Emperor takes another body.

“Either come with me, or don’t get in my way,” Venge growls.

Vader stands silent and stock-still, and every ticking second drags longer. With a disgusted scoff, Venge shakes his head and steps forward, then again, again, and another time, until he walks past the sentinel of the Emperor’s slave, and keeps walking.

The laboured breathing of the suit does not grow any more distant, however, and heavy footfalls follow him down the many steps. Venge doesn’t quite believe it, until—

“I have a ship,” Vader says.

“Really.” Venge hadn’t given any thought to how he was going to leave here with this child in his arms. Not without stealing, or a hell of a lot of property damage. No way Venge was dragging Dex into this, either. The Besalisk was too valuable an ally. 

Venge threw a sideways glance at Vader as the massive, hulking black shape drew even with him. It was impossible to read the damn suit. But Anakin was in there, somewhere, and… 

“Lead the way.” 

…call it a tentative part 1?
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attic-goblin:

he melted the snow around him with sheer force of will 
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izzy-rp-hub:

drawing-prompt-s:

Draw the three banes of creativity; Perfectionism, procrastination, and self-doubt.

Perfectionism seduces its hapless victims, stringing them along for miles on end, feeding off their draining pursuit. Many have managed to untangle themselves from its curse and with it became free.

Procrastination is a liar, telling them how Time itself revolves around them, fooling them that tomorrow will never come, but tomorrow is exactly what’s coming, leaving their victims in ruin as the sands of time evaporate before their very eyes.

Self-doubt holds its victim’s hearts hostage. Pushing pins into the hearts of its many victims, it feeds of the joy they had, leaving them hollowed husks, paranoid and indecisive.
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princess-mint:

alarajrogers:

niambi:

I’m????

Oh my God this actually explains so much.

So there’s a known thing in the study of human psychology/sociology/what-have-you where men are known to, on average, rely entirely on their female romantic partner for emotional support. Bonding with other men is done at a more superficial level involving fun group activities and conversations about general subjects but rarely involves actually leaning on other men or being really honest about emotional problems. Men use alcohol to be able to lower their inhibitions enough to expose themselves emotionally to other men, but if you can’t get emotional support unless you’re drunk, you have a problem.

So men need to have a woman in their lives to have anyone they can share their emotional needs and vulnerabilities with. However, since women are not socialized to fear sharing these things, women’s friendships with other women are heavily based on emotional support. If you can’t lean on her when you’re weak, she’s not your friend. To women, what friendship is is someone who listens to all your problems and keeps you company.

So this disconnect men are suffering from is that they think that only a person who is having sex with you will share their emotions and expect support. That’s what a romantic partner does. But women think that’s what a friend does. So women do it for their romantic partners and their friends and expect a male friend to do it for them the same as a female friend would. This fools the male friend into thinking there must be something romantic there when there is not.

This here is an example of patriarchy hurting everyone. Women have a much healthier approach to emotional support – they don’t die when widowed at nearly the rate that widowers die and they don’t suffer emotionally from divorce nearly as much even though they suffer much more financially, and this is because women don’t put all their emotional needs on one person. Women have a support network of other women. But men are trained to never share their emotions except with their wife or girlfriend, because that isn’t manly. So when she dies or leaves them, they have no one to turn to to help with the grief, causing higher rates of death, depression, alcoholism and general awfulness upon losing a romantic partner. 

So men suffer terribly from being trained in this way. But women suffer in that they can’t reach out to male friends for basic friendship. I am not sure any man can comprehend how heartbreaking it is to realize that a guy you thought was your friend was really just trying to get into your pants. Friendship is real. It’s emotional, it’s important to us. We lean on our friends. Knowing that your friend was secretly seething with resentment when you were opening up to him and sharing your problems because he felt like he shouldn’t have to do that kind of emotional work for anyone not having sex with him, and he felt used by you for that reason, is horrible. And the fact that men can’t share emotional needs with other men means that lots of men who can’t get a girlfriend end up turning into horrible misogynistic people who think the world owes them the love of a woman, like it’s a commodity… because no one will die without sex. Masturbation exists. But people will die or suffer deep emotional trauma from having no one they can lean on emotionally. And men who are suffering deep emotional trauma, and have been trained to channel their personal trauma into rage because they can’t share it, become mass shooters, or rapists, or simply horrible misogynists.

The only way to fix this is to teach boys it’s okay to love your friends. It’s okay to share your needs and your problems with your friends. It’s okay to lean on your friends, to hug your friends, to be weak with your friends. Only if this is okay for boys to do with their male friends can this problem be resolved… so men, this one’s on you. Women can’t fix this for you; you don’t listen to us about matters of what it means to be a man. Fix your own shit and teach your brothers and sons and friends that this is okay, or everyone suffers.

The next time a guy says, “What? You don't want to be my friend?” I’ll text him this and then ask if he really wants to be friends or just have another potential girlfriend.

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