Photo
classicsmatters:

Happletea
Photo
katarakarate:

definitelynotsatan:

seerofsarcasm:

oliviatheelf:

The saddest thing is that most people will find this humorous instead of serious. We’re standing right beside one another, and yet we text others instead of actually speaking to each other. Have you ever sat down and thought about how uncomfortable we now are around one another that it’s so bad that we literally pretend to be texting someone when we’re not, just so it’s less awkward to stand beside people? What’s supposed to strengthen our bonds has taken away from it. It’s time to take our faces out of our phones and notice the world, give a kind gesture to someone, and go SEE your friends instead of just texting them.
I’m going to let that sink in.

Ah yes let me just up and leave school right in between my classes so I can go see the friend 40 miles away that i’m currently texting instead of making idle chit chat with the people around me that I don’t particularly care for.Fuck your pretentious shit.


"whines evil technology is making people antisocial its not real communication if its not face to face and im a pretentious self righteous shitbaby that asks random people on the street for the time and feels good about it"

katarakarate:

definitelynotsatan:

seerofsarcasm:

oliviatheelf:

The saddest thing is that most people will find this humorous instead of serious. We’re standing right beside one another, and yet we text others instead of actually speaking to each other. Have you ever sat down and thought about how uncomfortable we now are around one another that it’s so bad that we literally pretend to be texting someone when we’re not, just so it’s less awkward to stand beside people? What’s supposed to strengthen our bonds has taken away from it. It’s time to take our faces out of our phones and notice the world, give a kind gesture to someone, and go SEE your friends instead of just texting them.

I’m going to let that sink in.

Ah yes let me just up and leave school right in between my classes so I can go see the friend 40 miles away that i’m currently texting instead of making idle chit chat with the people around me that I don’t particularly care for.

Fuck your pretentious shit.

image

"whines evil technology is making people antisocial its not real communication if its not face to face and im a pretentious self righteous shitbaby that asks random people on the street for the time and feels good about it"

(via robaemea)

Photo

The gods have always smiled on brave women.

The gods have always smiled on brave women.

(Source: eros-turannos, via 148km)

Photoset

“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” 

(Source: queenofdale, via loathlylady)

Tags: LotR
Text

The Emperor’s New Clothes (The Myth of Moffat’s Scriptwriting ‘Genius’) by Claudia Boleyn

claudiaboleyn:

Today I read an article about Steven Moffat’s Doctor Who in the Arts and Books section of the Independent on Sunday. In this article, by Stephen Kelly, Moffat is criticised for his inability to write women, to complete his plots, to write the Doctor as a likeable and trustworthy figure, and to keep his audience entertained. Yet one line in this frankly scathing (and almost painfully truthful) review reads: ‘When on form, Steven Moffat is the best writer working in television today’.

Having read said article, and written rather a lot of Moffat critique myself, the statement baffled me. Kelly’s entire article is lamenting the current state of Doctor Who at the hands of this man, and yet Moffat is still gifted with glowing praise.

It’s a common theme. I see it often when people are asked to review Moffat’s work. It seems people are almost afraid of criticising him, seeing as he has been lauded one of Britain’s most brilliant television writers.

It’s like the Emperor’s New Clothes. The Myth of Moffat’s Scriptwriting ‘Genius’. It’s a lie we’ve all absorbed and now just assume to be true. Sherlock himself would be frankly appalled by the entire thing. We are seeing, but we apparently do not observe.

Fellow Sherlock watchers will know what I mean (although many will probably not agree) when I equate Moffat’s writing to the empty houses of Leinster Gardens. An empty façade. It looks great from the outside, but when you step closer, you realise it’s just a whopping great train station with some drugged up self-proclaimed sociopath lurking in it.

 Let’s examine this case a little closer, shall we?

Read More

(via stfu-moffat)

Text

mccoydarling said: Please talk forever about Helen and ancient greek you are so enpoint

professorfangirl:

elucipher:

in the iliad helen speaks the last lament for hector. the only man in troy who showed her kindness is slain—and now, helen says, πάντες δέ με πεφρίκασιν, all men shudder at me. she doesn’t speak in the iliiad again.

homer isn’t cruel to helen; her story is cruel enough. in the conjectured era of the trojan war, women are mothers by twelve, grandmothers by twenty-four, and buried by thirty. the lineage of mycenaean families passes through daughters: royal women are kingmakers, and command a little power, but they are bartered like jewels (the iliad speaks again and again of helen and all her wealth). helen is the most beautiful woman in the world, golden with kharis, the seductive grace that arouses desire. she is coveted by men beyond all reason. after she is seized by paris and compelled by aphrodite to love him against her will—in other writings of the myth, she loves him freely—she is never out of danger.

the helen of the iliad is clever and powerful and capricious and kind and melancholy: full of fury toward paris and aphrodite, longing for sparta and its women, fear for her own life. she condemns herself before others can. in book vi, as war blazes and roars below them, helen tells hector, on us the gods have set an evil destiny: that we should be a singer’s theme for generations to come—as if she knows that, in the centuries after, men will rarely write of paris’ vanity and hubris and lust, his violation of the sacred guest-pact, his refusal to relent and avoid war with the achaeans. instead they’ll write and paint the beautiful, perfidious, ruinous woman whose hands are red with the blood of men, and call her not queen of sparta but helen of troy: a forced marriage to the city that desired and hated her. she is an eidolon made of want and rapture and dread and resentment.

homer doesn’t condemn helen—and in the odyssey she’s seen reconciled with menelaus. she’s worshipped in sparta as a symbol of sexual power for centuries, until the end of roman rule: pausanias writes that pilgrims come to see the remains of her birth-egg, hung from the roof of a temple in the spartan acropolis; spartan girls dance and sing songs praising one another’s beauty and strength as part of rites of passage, leading them from parthenos to nýmphē, virgin to bride. cults of helen appear across greece, italy, turkey—as far as palestine—celebrating her shining beauty; they sacrifice to her as if she were a goddess. much of this is quickly forgotten. 

every age finds new words to hate helen, but they are old ways of hating: deceiver and scandal and insatiate whore. she is euripides’ bitchwhore and hesiod’s kalon kakon (“beautiful evil”) and clement of alexandria’s adulterous beauty and whore and shakespeare’s strumpet and proctor’s trull and flurt of whoredom and schiller’s pricktease and levin’s adulterous witch. her lusts damned a golden world to die, they say. pandora’s box lies between a woman’s thighs. helen is a symbol of how men’s desire for women becomes the evidence by which women are condemned, abused, reviled.  

but no cage of words can hold her fast. she is elusive; she yields nothing. she has outlasted civilisations, and is beautiful still. before troy is ash and ruin she has already heard all the slander of the centuries; and at last she turns her face away—as if to say: i am not for you

holy fuck

Photo
pembroke:

quick drawing of my favorite son percy weasley on this his 38th birthday
i would’ve drawn more but my head has been spinning all afternoon i’m bed

pembroke:

quick drawing of my favorite son percy weasley on this his 38th birthday

i would’ve drawn more but my head has been spinning all afternoon i’m bed

(via facingthenorthwind)

Photo
cosmictuesdays:

nadiacreek:

coelasquid:

deformutilated:

Fudge recipe on a headstone

I feel like I should make this just to be able to say a dead person taught me how to make it. Maybe I’ll do it for Halloween.

I desperately hope that she spent her entire life telling people that they could have her fudge recipe “over my dead body.”

That last comment is absolutely worth reblogging.

cosmictuesdays:

nadiacreek:

coelasquid:

deformutilated:

Fudge recipe on a headstone

I feel like I should make this just to be able to say a dead person taught me how to make it. Maybe I’ll do it for Halloween.

I desperately hope that she spent her entire life telling people that they could have her fudge recipe “over my dead body.”

That last comment is absolutely worth reblogging.

(via odysseiarex)

Photoset

Before the play even starts, we know they’re to die. It’s in the title! They’re walking dead men, unaware of their fictional nature and the course their story must run; the futility of their actions is written in the Player’s words, "We’re Tragedians, you see. We follow directions—there’s no chance involved."

(Source: wolfofwaluigi, via reginalds)

Quote
"What is disaster pornography? Africans define it as the Western media’s habit of blacking out Africa’s stock markets, cell phones, heart surgeries, soaring literacy and increasing democratization, while gleefully parading its genocides, armed conflicts, child soldiers, foreign debts, hunger, disease and backwardness."

— Gbemisola Olujobi, Nigerian journalist (Via the December 2007 issue of Ebony magazine)  (via the-cat-inside)

(via mollydruwho)