Left Sock / Right Sock
-
-
-
-
-
just because you love a character doesn’t mean they’re not a little shit
Hell, sometimes you love them ...
“Because you’re all so lovely to Martin. And you’re all really nice. You all seem very intelligent, funny, and talented girls. Seeing some of the artwork and some of the stuff that was being written. It’s so good. Martin’s very very very very private—freakishly private, which is a good thing. I love that he is. But I just wanted to say thank you on his behalf and say hi and I fully support what you’re doing. It’s fine! And I’m not one of those girlfriends or wives who goes, “Those bitches!” I’m not like that at all, and I just wanted to say, you’re doing a fabulous job, because you are. I think it’s lovely how much you love Martin, and I love it. I genuinely love it.”—
- Amanda Abbington on what made her interact with the fandom and the fans.
Someone told her that most of us adore her to bits, right? Good. Carry on.
Students in Quebec were asked to send their march route to cops and sent them this.
Gotta love Canada.
(via tuulikki)
So, in the wake of reading this terrifying shit, Postcard and I started chatting, as you do, about the zombie apocalypse. Here are some things Postcard and I enjoy: zombie media, common sense, and YELLING ABOUT STUFF. Thus, for your reading pleasure, please enjoy our simple twenty-step guide to NOT DYING in the unlikely event that a zombie apocalypse ravages humanity. Read More
… And here I was, thinking that common sense had become extinct.
LET ME LOVE YOU, GUYS
#B: In Sarasvatin hiekkaa by Risto Isomäki the apocalypse comes in the form of the glaciers melting and giant tsunamis which cover most of the world in water. Afterwards, people loot book stores to find guides to farming, technology, etc. This is the only story where I’ve seen this happen. The only one. What.
#E: YES YES YES. Fire needs air, and there are other ways to cut off the air supply, so to speak, than water. Soil. Mud. Even heavy blankets in some cases, provided that the material isn’t too flammable and the fire going isn’t too strong yet.
#F Because. YES. What the heck would you need that shit for, anyway? Cut it off. It’s reasonable to expect lice to make a come-back à la Middle Ages, too, so short-cropped hair will prevent nasty little shits making home in your scalp.
#J: Carrying toilet paper (or newspapers, whatever works - BUT NOT BOOKS, BOOKS ARE SACRED) around might seem a little silly, but see Gyzym and Postcard’s #E. You’ll need that water for other purposes, like not dying. And for God’s sake, don’t shit in water supplies like RIVERS because they’re, you know. Water supplies.
#K&L: True enough. You may need a truck to get out of town to less populated areas (I own The Zombie Survival Guide, shut up, it’s actually pretty sensible considering), but in the long run a bike is more useful; mainly for the reasons G&P discussed in the original post.
#M: Always, ALWAYS be armed. Don’t count on there being a safe space where zombies can’t get so you won’t need your weapon. THERE IS NO SAFE SPACE.
#N: Stock up on canned food. If there’s a remote location you’re reasonably sure won’t be infested with zombies in half a year, bury a bunch of cans there in case you run out of supplies and can’t find any. THIS IS YOUR LAST RESORT, though, since it could become infested by zombies. Going back your tracks is always a risk.
#O: UNDERSTOOD? GOOD. I’d even say, don’t necessarily trust people you don’t know REAL FUCKING WELL because zombie apocalypses have the tendency to bring out the worst in people, and you never know who’s going to lose their nerve and run off, dead certain - pun intended - that their parents have survived and are just waiting for them to come home.
#P: WHAT THEY SAID. There’s no remedy. There’s no “Maybe they’ll think of a cure within the next 24 hours.” There’s no “Maybe it didn’t bite deep enough.” You can’t take that risk because the odds aren’t in your favour, and then you’ll all be dead. The kindest thing you can do is help your friend / ally / companion prepare for what comes next - that is, your shooting them before they turn into a flesh-eating monster.
#Q: This is the common sense I want to see more of. Don’t enter a building if you don’t know how to get out. Scout it. Keep an eye on it for a while to see if there’s any unusual activity. DON’T JUST BARGE IN AND MAKE HOME, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE. Like G&P says, alone you can’t keep a whole building secure. Sorry, but that’s the truth.
Unless it’s a concrete bunker with only one exit, in which case WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING THERE ANYWAY? You should never set up base in a building that has only one exit. If the exit is blocked by shambling zombies set on eating your brains, you’re fucked.
- What’s interesting is the additional point about leaving someone handcuffed to a roof to be eaten. I’ve seen that episode of Walking Dead and a couple subsequent ones, and while I do agree with leaving the guy behind, I don’t agree on merely leaving him handcuffed. Maybe I’m as much of an arse, but I wouldn’t leave a live enemy behind. (If his behaviour risks the well-being/survival of the group, he is an enemy. His unwillingness to work with the black guy and listen to orders just because he think he should lead risk the group.)
Also, TROPHIES, what the fuck.
Thank you, good night. Don’t let the zombies bite.
(via its-an-ear-hat-john)
![random-nexus:
thewoman76:
moriartysskull:
Benedict Cumberbatch at the Sherlock photocall
Fuck. Perfection.
Look at those lips. Just…GUH!
All of the above and a Yumf! from me.
I haven’t understood the phrase “lick into [someone’s] mouth” before, but now I know EXACTLY what to do with it. Him. That mouth.
… Oh god.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4slry2S8b1rnkjf6o1_500.png)
Benedict Cumberbatch at the Sherlock photocall
Fuck. Perfection.
Look at those lips. Just…GUH!
All of the above and a Yumf! from me.
I haven’t understood the phrase “lick into [someone’s] mouth” before, but now I know EXACTLY what to do with it. Him. That mouth.
… Oh god.
Andrew Scott backstage after winning the supporting actor BAFTA (x)
“Our BAFTA’s can face off.”
(via its-an-ear-hat-john)
We need to hear more stories like this in the news:
Julio Diaz has a daily routine. Every night, the 31-year-old social worker ends his hour-long subway commute to the Bronx one stop early, just so he can eat at his favorite diner.
But one night last month, as Diaz stepped off the No. 6 train and onto a nearly empty platform, his evening took an unexpected turn.
He was walking toward the stairs when a teenage boy approached and pulled out a knife.
“He wants my money, so I just gave him my wallet and told him, ‘Here you go,’” Diaz says.
As the teen began to walk away, Diaz told him, “Hey, wait a minute. You forgot something. If you’re going to be robbing people for the rest of the night, you might as well take my coat to keep you warm.”
The would-be robber looked at his would-be victim, “like what’s going on here?” Diaz says. “He asked me, ‘Why are you doing this?’”
Diaz replied: “If you’re willing to risk your freedom for a few dollars, then I guess you must really need the money. I mean, all I wanted to do was get dinner and if you really want to join me … hey, you’re more than welcome.
“You know, I just felt maybe he really needs help,” Diaz says.
Diaz says he and the teen went into the diner and sat in a booth.
“The manager comes by, the dishwashers come by, the waiters come by to say hi,” Diaz says. “The kid was like, ‘You know everybody here. Do you own this place?’”
“No, I just eat here a lot,” Diaz says he told the teen. “He says, ‘But you’re even nice to the dishwasher.’”
Diaz replied, “Well, haven’t you been taught you should be nice to everybody?”
“Yea, but I didn’t think people actually behaved that way,” the teen said.
Diaz asked him what he wanted out of life. “He just had almost a sad face,” Diaz says.
The teen couldn’t answer Diaz — or he didn’t want to.
When the bill arrived, Diaz told the teen, “Look, I guess you’re going to have to pay for this bill ‘cause you have my money and I can’t pay for this. So if you give me my wallet back, I’ll gladly treat you.”
The teen “didn’t even think about it” and returned the wallet, Diaz says. “I gave him $20 … I figure maybe it’ll help him. I don’t know.”
Diaz says he asked for something in return — the teen’s knife — “and he gave it to me.”
Afterward, when Diaz told his mother what happened, she said, “You’re the type of kid that if someone asked you for the time, you gave them your watch.”
“I figure, you know, if you treat people right, you can only hope that they treat you right. It’s as simple as it gets in this complicated world.”
What the meme says. I’ll come back to this later when I lose my faith again.
(via tuulikki)
Please draw me what your brain looks like (plz be creative)? ;D
being creative took a while.welcome to my brain.
OMG SOMEONE DRAW WHATS INSIDE MY BRAIN
(via geothebio)
legendofaconsultinghoneybadger:
If you see me reading and you ask me, “What are you reading?” I will not answer you. Instead, I will hold my book at you, spine facing outward, and wait the amount of seconds necessary for you to read the title before I can continue my story.
If you see me reading and you ask me, “What’s that book about?” I will either A) remove the dust jacket (if it happens to be a hardcover book) and hand it to you so you may read the plot summary yourself or B) give you a one-sentence description of what I’ve read so far.
If you see me reading and you ask me, “Have you seen the movie?” I will either say Yes or No, as would any other person, and that will be the end of my reply. This is not the time to ask me what I thought about the movie or how it compares to the book.
If you see me reading and you ask me, “Why don’t you buy a Kindle/Nook/some other e-reader instead? You won’t have to carry heavy books/waste bag space!” I will simply say I don’t want to. This is not meant to diminish the role e-readers play in spreading the written word; the straightforward answer is that I simply prefer paper books. Furthermore, a person who asks this question is typically not openminded enough to accept my preference without trying to convince me their method is better.
If you see me reading and you ask me, “Can I borrow that when you’re done with it?” you need to ask yourself three questions first:
1. Have I been to your place of residence?
2. Do we talk on a daily basis?
3. Have you lent/bought me books previously?If you answered No to all three questions, then you may not borrow any of my books.
If you answered Yes to all three questions, then you knew better than to ask me to borrow a book while I was still reading it in the first place.
If you see me reading and you ask me, “How can you read with all this noise/talking around you?” I will tell you that I do not hear it because it is not directed at me like your question is.
In short, if you see me reading, don’t ask me anything.
^THIS times a-million.
… I know people who do this.
(via everythingsamanthajones)
To: Subconscious
RE: Last night (again)
… Subconscious, just, WHAT.
#1: I’m one of four strangely connected prodigy kids who go on world-saving adventures until they get bored of it and decide to get real jobs; Kumar goes to med school and becomes a doctor, I have a go at law school. I can’t remember what became of the others. While I’m trying to finish my studies, I suddenly lose all the memories of my time with them.
There are only vague images left: us, rushing from one place to another; talk about a gene that gives us our powers; and me trying to locate a girl who was supposed to be one of us to make it work. That one ends well. (No, really. I convince her to become one of us, we eat loads of differently coloured mushrooms and seal the deal with some very enthusiastic snogging.)
I contact the others to try and figure out why I’m unable to remember more than that, but it turns out that either they don’t remember either, or they just don’t want to because they’re happy with their new, successful, normal lives. From there, I go on to track down some old contacts - including the Groke from The Moomin Family - but they all seem to have settled down, too.
(For the curious, the Groke had a nice little house by a river where he had decided to live out her days; apparently he was that old. I know it’s a she in the books but I didn’t know that when I was a kid, and apparently my subconscious is yet to integrate the correction.)
#2: the Groke theme continues. Me and several other people are staying/hiding at my parents’ house because the Groke is after us. We eventually manage to figure out why he is trying to get to us - he needed help with something, wasn’t actually malicious at all - and the kid with us somehow figures out the answer to his problem.
The Groke wants to thank her but can’t touch her as it would turn her into ice, so he gives the air above her a kiss instead; it is an icy mark in the air until the ice crumbles off, leaving a ghost of a kiss - sort of like a blessing - floating in the air.
The little girl apparently decides she doesn’t have to worry about dying and glomps the Groke, who then (of course) melts and can go on to live a normal life because people don’t freeze to death the instant he comes too close.
#3: I’m a female university student pretending to be a guy for… reasons. (It might have had something to do with the first dream.) There was a whole shelf for vampire literature, and apparently several seasons of Downton Abbey and the like available for loan on DVD, with guide books to the respective time periods included.
The whole episode revolved around my going to the bathroom, disapproving of a girl who was smoking there, and then trying to convince a fellow student to leave the loo so I could take a piss without giving away my secret.
The dreams during my nap earlier yesterday were much more fun. (I had a whole bunch of plants in the flat, and I could fly, semi-lucid. Weightlessness is such an amazing feeling.) More of those, please.
Carefully edging away from you,
Me
—
… And this is me OFF my meds.
On Monday, he dresses himself with stilted movements, cold sweat coating his forehead. The withdrawal symptoms have left him groggy and he craves a hit already, always, but there is no reason to indulge when a man’s life hangs in balance.
He heads off to St. Barts. Time is of the essence, and he almost doesn’t stop on his way to the morgue when Mike Stamford asks how he’s doing.
Almost.
Stamford flashes him an awkward smile. “Come now, I’m sure someone will have you,” he says and sounds like he believes his own words. Sherlock doesn’t begrudge him his naivete.
“We’ll start with the riding crop,” he informs Molly in a firm tone, hoping she will understand that he doesn’t need her presence for the experiment; it’s a distraction at best. If he concentrates on the still body on the metal gurney, he can shut out Molly’s fawning over him and focus on obtaining the information that he needs.
Namely, the pattern of the bruising.
The email he sends Mycroft is curt and to the point - anything else would be viewed with great suspicision and possibly prompt a response, something he tries to avoid since he prefers to communicate with his brother as little as possible. Lestrade remains stubbornly silent on the matter of the phony suicides, which means that the only thing he can do is be bored out of his mind while he waits for the killer to make a mistake, or for a case to miraculously fall into his lap.
“Use mine,” says a man about a phone one minute and forty-two seconds later.
Stamford smiles like he has done a particularly brilliant job of finding him a flat mate, so Sherlock refrains from telling him that his father is dying of lung cancer. The man will find out soon enough, judging by the way his mother has been calling him at work every so often for the past two weeks; clearly building up the courage to tell her son.
“Problem?” he asks. He has worked through all the possible outcomes and nothing, absolutely nothing that he can say will change them. It would be a waste of time to think otherwise, to try and change the inevitable.
When he lifts the pill to his mouth, he silently curses his hubris but cannot stop himself - he needs to know for sure. The cabbie looks gleeful until the impact from the bullet throws him down.
Sometimes, he thinks when he studies the pattern of lights flashing on John Watson’s remarkably calm face with a shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders, sometimes we ought to make the time to waste.
He lets the blanket fall and goes to see the case that miraculously fell into his lap.
Pork in sweet thai sauce with green beans, onion and garlic. Side dish: sliced carrots and red bell-peppers fried in olive oil and seasoned with herb salt and cumin. Salad: lettuce, grapes, plum tomatoes, brie and pepitas.
