nostalgic for the good times

He’s standing in front of the whiteboard, muttering to himself as he solves the equation, when suddenly he freezes, his animal brain sensing the danger of a predator standing right behind him. His skin pebbles in goosebumps, the hand holding the chalk frozen in mid-air. His heart rate spikes in pure fear and certitude that there is something keeping him in his sight that wants to eat him alive. A moment later, there’s a voice in his ear. “You’re having trouble finding the solutions?” Sherlock forces himself to gulp, and he turns. He takes stock of him at a glance, his brain flitting fast on adrenaline. Student, Irish from the lilt of his voice, well-dressed under his robes, his three-piece well-kept if a bit flamboyant. Curly hair, thin mouth, eyes dark brown and intense under a strong set of eyebrows, he is coming close with a slow and assured pace that speaks of a man who feels comfortable in his own skin. Sherlock offers him the chalk without saying a word — can’t bring himself, the feeling of being prey still coiling at his nape. His brain demands that he not let this man out of his sight, and doesn’t understand why — Sherlock observes him as he solves the quintic, and there is nothing off about him that Sherlock can see, nothing that would explain this feeling. It’s not until he turns to look Sherlock in the eye — dark and deep and unfathomable and Sherlock can’t help the frisson-feeling of danger that runs down his spine — and says the word ‘kleptomaniac’ that Sherlock starts to understand: this man has been watching, and he has noticed. He has noticed the pick-pocketing, and he notices when Sherlock quotes the Art of War, the white-flash of his sharp teeth as he laughs sending another thrill down Sherlock’s spine. And so James Moriarty — strong hands, solid grip, if a bit cold — drags Sherlock into his orbit, and Sherlock is powerless to stop him, the feeling of danger pooling behind his teeth too addictive to refuse. James clasps his arm and pulls him along, drags Sherlock to his room so he can get out of his school robes, murmurs “follow my lead” in front of a student club and Sherlock can’t help himself — follow he does, and with a smile, because it would be unfathomable doing anything else, the danger turning to excitement and then to exhilaration when James keeps noticing. James keeps looking at him with those dark eyes of his even in a room full of other people, sees through Sherlock until it feels like he could see down to his very soul if he looked at him for too long. It’s more than exhilarating — it’s electrifying.

He’s standing in front of the whiteboard, muttering to himself as he solves the equation, when suddenly he freezes, his animal brain sensing the danger of a predator standing right behind him. His skin pebbles in goosebumps, the hand holding the chalk frozen in mid-air. His heart rate spikes in pure fear and certitude that there is something keeping him in his sight that wants to eat him alive. A moment later, there’s a voice in his ear. “You’re having trouble finding the solutions?” Sherlock forces himself to gulp, and he turns. He takes stock of him at a glance, his brain flitting fast on adrenaline. Student, Irish from the lilt of his voice, well-dressed under his robes, his three-piece well-kept if a bit flamboyant. Curly hair, thin mouth, eyes dark brown and intense under a strong set of eyebrows, he is coming close with a slow and assured pace that speaks of a man who feels comfortable in his own skin. Sherlock offers him the chalk without saying a word — can’t bring himself, the feeling of being prey still coiling at his nape. His brain demands that he not let this man out of his sight, and doesn’t understand why — Sherlock observes him as he solves the quintic, and there is nothing off about him that Sherlock can see, nothing that would explain this feeling. It’s not until he turns to look Sherlock in the eye — dark and deep and unfathomable and Sherlock can’t help the frisson-feeling of danger that runs down his spine — and says the word ‘kleptomaniac’ that Sherlock starts to understand: this man has been watching, and he has noticed. He has noticed the pick-pocketing, and he notices when Sherlock quotes the Art of War, the white-flash of his sharp teeth as he laughs sending another thrill down Sherlock’s spine. And so James Moriarty — strong hands, solid grip, if a bit cold — drags Sherlock into his orbit, and Sherlock is powerless to stop him, the feeling of danger pooling behind his teeth too addictive to refuse. James clasps his arm and pulls him along, drags Sherlock to his room so he can get out of his school robes, murmurs “follow my lead” in front of a student club and Sherlock can’t help himself — follow he does, and with a smile, because it would be unfathomable doing anything else, the danger turning to excitement and then to exhilaration when James keeps noticing. James keeps looking at him with those dark eyes of his even in a room full of other people, sees through Sherlock until it feels like he could see down to his very soul if he looked at him for too long. It’s more than exhilarating — it’s electrifying.

You need Government.

STOP PROPOSING INDIVIDUAL SOLUTIONS TO COLLECTIVE PROBLEMS

[image description: the epic handshake meme. one arm is labelled gay people and the other is labelled lesbians. in the middle it says "fuck yeah bro". end id]

what the fuck is going on in this site's backend

(hopefully I’m not too late in posting this-)

i thought this would be funny

i tried to make a venn diagram but my migraine is ironically too bad for me to have the brain power to take the time to fix the proportions and then i locked one of the text layers and got pissed off and gave up. but i kind of like it all fucked up like this

curiouser and curiouser

It’s ridiculous, but NASA has a culture of “overengineer absolutely everything to do with human safety, and then design around it” which is actually pretty cool.

Has anyone said anything, would they bother publishing research if they did or would it be more of the same old “ wombs dont need science” bs?