Reblog and tag: where you live, primary language, and what you call theseâŚ
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oozey mess
hello vonnie

Janaina Medeiros
DEAR READER

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titsay
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Product Placement

Andulka
$LAYYYTER

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ellievsbear
will byers stan first human second
Jules of Nature
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
styofa doing anything
Today's Document

JVL

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@eiramyma
Reblog and tag: where you live, primary language, and what you call theseâŚ

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Normally Iâm very good at suspension of disbelief but I cannot get over the sisters and nurses of Call the Midwife somehow knitting what is clearly a crocheted baby blanket.
These are the kind of call-out posts Iâm looking for.
I also noticed this. Love the show though!
iâm living for these set photos but the one with barton and nat broke my heart in like 18 different places
I miss you so damn much
a hypothetical d&d party
The bard is mute.
Itâs not the first thing people notice about her, usually. The first thing is generally that sheâs young, and female, and lovelyâthe first thing people notice about their entire party is that theyâre all young, and female, and lovely, and thatâs gotten more than one would-be thief or mugger in far over their head when they havenât noticed the the paladinâs hammer or the rangerâs axe. It comes up rather quickly though, often enough. Whoever heard of a bard who canât sing?
She plays a lute, mostly, or a lap-harp made of shell and sinew, string instruments she can pluck while she smiles in secret and watches everyone around her. She dances quick, except when sheâs tired, when sheâs scared, when she forgets to remember the feet at the ends of her legs.
She doesnât tell her story to strangers, but enough of the other girls have learned to sign by now, and itâs easy enough to sketch out the outlines of the old bargain: the voice, the prince, the witch, the thousand shards of glass she walked upon on her way up the beach, the look in her sea-green eyes when they travel too near water. The thousand shards of glass she walked upon when she left the palace, and turned back towards the sea to throw herself upon the rocks, and then made her way up the road inland, and kept walking.
.
The warlock is beautiful and mild and self-effacing and shy, is tidy and generous and charming. Sheâs small with herself in exactly the right way to shout abuse to the half of her party who knows how to recognize that same look in the mirror in the morning. The bird on her shoulder is too small, too bright, too sweet for a real warlockâs familiar. The knife at her belt is sharp enough for anything that needs doing, though, cooking or otherwise.
Her fae patron visits sometimes, in the quiet hours between dusk and midnight, a sweetly old godmother made of moonlight and shadow. Sheâs kind to the whole lot of them in her own chaotic way, free-handed with transmutations and illusions that break halfway through the evening, for better or worse. She once spent three hours around their campfire drinking brandy and gossipping outrageously about the Feywild and teasing the wizard into fits of laughter.
Sheâs never told the story of how she met the warlockâs mother, or what debt was owed there, and the warlock doesnât know herself. It was never meant to be a debt paid in power and violence and the deft will-sapping enchantments the warlock weaves now, but, well. The prince wasnât meant to be cruel, the warlock says. The palace was meant to be warmer than the fireplace cinders in her stepmotherâs house. The faerie was meant to be saving her from her lot, not throwing her into something worse. The powerâs an apology of sorts.
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The wizard is awkward and joyful and nervous. She has no fear of heights or small places, which just stands to be expected, she says, after all those years in that little tower, and sheâs got no skill at lying or even edging around the truth at all, which is why she isnât in the tower any more in the first place. She says too much or too little or the wrong thing entirely, always, but the most well-socialized member of the whole party is the ranger who walks around with a dire wolf at her hip, or maybe their mute bard, so who are any of them to judge.
There was nothing to do in that tower but read, and brush her hair, and sort through the witchâs endless stockpile of dried herbs and potions ingredients, and watch out the window as woodcutters and hunters and princes rode by, and dream. The reading was more interesting than the dreaming, most of the time, and the witch didnât mind it as much when she talked about it. She never bothered to actually use any of the magic in the witchâs books until the thing with the prince and the haircut and the desert, which sheâs told them all about in all the detail they could ever ask for, but most of the girls get uncomfortable when she starts talking about princes. Itâs a little easier if she just starts rambling about conjuration and abjuration and illusion theory, about the 400-year-old history of a city that doesnât exist any more, about the proper grammatical structure of Celestial, until maybe one of the quiet ones finally answers back.
Her hair is too short. She keeps an illusion up over it whenever she can, while it grows back slowly, tickling the side of her face and the back of her neck and leaving her head too light and unbalanced. Â
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The ranger doesnât care about princes, which makes one of them at least. Then again, the ranger doesnât trust anyone, really, prince or no, not wolves or monsters or the men who kill them. She more or less trusts the rest of them by now, mostly, when the wind blows in the right direction.
She wears bright red in the middle of the woods and it shouldnât help her slip into the shadows half as easily as it does, but most beasts canât see color and redâs just another shade of gray if the lightâs low enough. She never uses her axe against trees. She doesnât need to. She can find a path through any brush without it. She picks flowers when she finds them, and tucks them into the other girlsâ hair.
Her wolfâs mother killed the man who taught her to use the axe, and the man who taught her to use the axe killed that wolfâs mate before that, and the mate had an old womanâs blood on his teeth when it happened. The rangerâs blade found the wolfâs motherâs throat. The rangerâs mother sent her out into the woods in the first place. Itâs not as though anywhere is really safe, cottage or forest, axe or teeth. One of these days maybe her wolf will turn and go for her in return, and maybe one of these days her axe will be faster and maybe it wonât. In the mean time, thereâs flowers and berries and pastries and enough game to keep everyone sated, for a little while.
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The paladinâs hair is raven black and her skin is chalky as a corpse. Sheâs not undead, mostly. The undead are her job. She knows that much.
She was sweet, once (they were all sweet, once) but apples are bitter now and so is she, and thereâs judgment to lay out in the world. Her grip on her warhammerâs all wrongâshe holds it like a mining hammer, but it hits as hard as it needs to. Her armorâs all dwarven make, and her shieldâs black and red and white like snow.
She was sweet once, and frightened, and when she says it quietly around the campfire in the night when none of them can quite make out the glimmer of understanding on each othersâ faces, everyone still nods. She took a bite of poison and somebody left her a full year in a glass coffin of Gentle Repose, dangling on the edge of the Raven Queenâs domain while all the other newly-arrived dead passed by and faded away. She woke up to somebodyâs lips and hands and skin on her lips and her hands and her skin. She doesnât like princes. She doesnât like necromancers.
She likes sunlight, and summer, and colors that arenât black and white and red. She likes the way the bard grins when she whirls into a dance, and the look in the warlockâs eye when she sets her feet to say no, and the wizardâs laughter on high with a Fly spell, and the rangerâs gentle fingers braiding flowers into everything she can touch. Â
this is BEAUTIFUL

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I donât understand...
... how you could say you loved me, and that you still love me ...
... how you could do so many thoughtful things, like buy various coffees and creamers for me when you donât even like coffee...
... how you could remember little things, like buying lactose free milk ...
... how you could say that me and your other friend are the only ones who really matter...
... how you could talk about the future, and marriage, and even kids...
... how you could have been in love with me, and fantasized about me for years...
... how you could have gone so above and beyond in helping me set up my new life...
... how you could act like you wanted me so much...
... how you could do all this, and more, and still decide that despite it all that you arenât ready for a relationship
I love you so much. You are my best friend. And Iâm glad weâre still best friends. But my heart hurts so much. Itâs been almost two months, and still hurts. I still cry myself to sleep occasionally (though no everyday, so I guess thatâs an improvement?). I have almost nightly dreams about you changing your mind though.
via Pinterest
If I ever got another tattoo, something like this would be awesome
I love these comics by Nathan W. Pyle.
Here are some more good ones
LET ME ABS O R B
@diseonfire here have some more
Perhaps I prefer fewer revolutions and more minerals is a mood
@thefingerfuckingfemalefury there is more
THEY CRAVE THOSE MINERALS
Also the next time we watch a horror movie I am totally going to say to my gf âI hope these beings make correct strategic decisionsâŚyet I know they will notâ
âImagine pleasant nonsenseâ is actually good advice
Itâs the BEST advice! :D
Captain Marvel is awesome!
I just watched Captain Marvel and I really liked it. I love super hero movies and it didnât disappoint. I liked the humor and the girl-power stuff- overall just a wonderful movie.
And the 90âs setting really got me thinking about technology, and how things that would have been so high tech as to be unbelieveable 30 years ago are now common place.
Cell phones for one. They can do so many things; my phone can do more, and faster, than the desktop computer in the movie. I used it to buy my movie ticket, and I used my fingerprint to access the phone itself as well as my method of payment.
I drove to the movie in my car that locks, unlocks, and starts with just a touch of my finger- I never have to take my key out of my purse. And it âtalksâ to my smartphone, as well as satellites to determine its location, and tells me how to get to my destination. And it can do all these things using voice recognition.
And at the theater, I donât have to stand in line and get a paper ticket- I just go straight to my seat and show my digital ticket. Even the bathrooms are high-tech; soap, water, and paper towels all work with motion sensors.
And letâs not forget my smart watch. Every time I use, even after several years, it I still get a feeling of using some kind of sci-fi communicator.
It really just made me think how awesome and kinda crazy technology is.
6yo: I have 10 dollars and 5 dollars at daddyâs house. Thatâs 15 dollars!
Me: yep
6yo: and (friend) gave me 20 dollars! How many dollars is that?
Me: 35
6yo: 35 dollars?!? Iâm rich!!
(then proceeds to go around singing âIâm rich, Iâm rich!â)

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I prefer the term Plague Enthusiasts
Heâs willing to stop pretending he doesnât have emotions just long enough to call Bones ugly
God I love that man
Friendly reminder.
ADHD culture is saying âwhat?â when you heard the question someone asked you but⌠It didnât fucking⌠Register⌠In the brain? And then you hear the question before they ask again and interrupt them when theyâre talking because now youâre An Asshole⢠who understands
Someone: Hey what time is it?
Me: What?
Someone: Wha-
Me: Itâs 3:20
This is actually a thing, while visual info takes 0.1 seconds to process, auditory infor can take 3 to 4 seconds to process, which is why you ask, and then actually hear the question because your brains only just processed it
My husband has ADHD and does this, and I hate repeating myself constantly. One thing that I feel has saved us from so much stress in our marriage is that Iâve just stopped repeating myself. After a while he caught onto what I was doing and stopped saying âwhatâ over and over when I didnât respond. Now occasionally heâll ask me âwhat?â when I said something because he actually didnât hear me, and I will happily repeat myself for him, but most of the time I just say silent and let his brain compute what I said. So now our conversations go one of two ways:Â
Me: Hey hon, where is the tv remote? Him: What?? Me: *silence* Him: I left it on the couch.Â
OrÂ
Me: Hey hon, where is the tv remote? Him: What? Me: *silence* Him: Ok, I really didnât hear you that time, what did you say? Me: *repeats question*
Even if you donât have ADHD, I mean, auditory delay happens with a lot of people, not just ADHD folk. If you deal with it, try this approach with your friends and loved ones. It has helped us so much.Â
I jokingly suggested something similar to my gf called the â3 second ruleâ. If i donât respond in 3s, assume I really didnât hear you. Tho Im p good at just masking the processing time with UUhhhhHhHhh
Also pro tip for communicating with ADHD people: say the name of the person you want to talk to before you share your thought and wait for them to acknowledge you. That way if we are distracted or otherwise occupied you know can be sure are listening. We very well may still need to process, but it will greatly cut down on the number of times we genuinely didnât hear a word you just said.
THAT LAST NOTE
PLEASE
I AM BEGGING
Getting asked a question randomly requires a person to switch out of the focus theyâre currently in, which (like switching computer tabs) causes lag. But someoneâs name is a special-status-flag that makes the brain jump faster. Which is weird to say, but an actual thing- psychologists have expressed concern that our brain reacts to vibrating/chiming phones like it does to our name, creating an attention-grabbing-flag that goes off all the time.
I DO THIS ALL THE TIME!!!!!
Not adhd, but I have an issue with this for sure. Sucks as a teacher, because it can look like I donât know what Iâm talking about, when really Iâm just processing what was said. Usually doesnât happen if itâs on topic though, but if a kid asks me something totally off topic it can happen. But then I can just say something like, well, thatâs off topic, then either insert answer or say thatâs a question for another day.
Jurassic Park, when the survivors are jumping on the Dino skeletons to escape the velociraptors.
6yo: Uhh... is that safe?
Me: Probably not
*2 seconds later the skeletons start falling apart*
6yo: Yup, not safe.

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Watching the original Jurassic park movie with the kiddos. We reach the part where Nedry is taunting the dinosaur âyou want food?â
6yo: You ARE the food!
Lol, couldnât have said it better kid
âWhy canât people just be happy for us? â âBecause they just donât see the truth. Itâs alright, darling. You love me and I love you and thatâs all that matters.â
After announcing their engagement, Sherlock is a bit miffed that people seem you be giving Molly a lot of âadviceâ to think it over properlyâŚ