your-naked-magic-oh-dear-lord:

teashoesandhair:

I actually love the ungrateful millennial trope, because I went to the V&A today and took a lot of photos of statues’ butts, and it tired me out, so I went to the café and had a cup of tea. In the V&A café, there’s a piano that customers can just use without asking, and a man sat down at it and started to play. I know nothing about music, but it sounded great to me.

At the table next to me was an old couple, probably in their late 60s, and the man kept tutting and sighing as the chap played, and I heard him mutter to his wife, “this is a [insert musty dead white composer here], there should be more MELODY,” and he just kept griping.

Now, to me, an ignorant and uncultured millennial, it just seemed super cool that we were essentially getting a free piano accompaniment to our Earl Grey, and so I stayed a while to listen, because this guy had some balls getting up there to play in front of us all, and I wanted him to feel appreciated. I also live tweeted it, and the old man kept glaring at me for being on the phone. I kid you not.

When he was done, we all (including the grumpy old man) applauded for him, and he looked really surprised. I thought I’d let him know how much I loved it, because I have terrible social anxiety and am trying to get out of my shell a bit, so I approached him and said “I know nothing about music, but I really enjoyed hearing you play,” and he BEAMED.

Turns out that he’s a concert pianist over from Toronto and we essentially got treated to a free preview of his concert tomorrow night. We chatted for a bit and then I left, and the old couple still looked really grouchy.

But hey. Ungrateful millennials!!

Trust me. Millennials have been so deprived, you can give them a free napkin and they will cry. Old people have been so spoiled that you can literally give them a free symphony and they will bitch about it. Nothing satisfies old people.

demonsoldiers:

holy-jinsus:

Article 13 got approved and that means the internet will be censored for all countries under the EU. If that happens, it’s likely bloggers from affected countries cannot post content anymore. I wouldn’t be able to post gifs, edits, icons, anything anymore. Even adding links to posts could cost money. You can get more information here and here or simply using google to find information from a source you trust. Please sign the petition here and here (everyone can sign this one apparently) to prevent this from happening. I don’t want to lose my blog.

Article 13 didn’t get approved yet. It’s voted on tomorrow, July 5. Signing a change.org petition won’t do much. What you have to do is go to saveyourinternet.eu, and from there e-mail/phone/tweet your country’s representatives in the European Parliament and ask them to vote against it tomorrow. 

zecurlyone:

harleybruce:

Loki stabbing Thor in Avengers when Thor was trying to reason with him is a lot less dramatic when you consider the little shit has been stabbing Thor for funsies since they were kids.

It’s basically Loki’s version of panicking and calling his brother a stupidhead 

grannythots:

odinoco:

grannythots:

dicapito:

weepingbouquettyphoon:

chauiee:

Feinstein: You’re a big, powerful man. Why didn’t you [gestures pushing motion]?

Crews: Senator, as a black man in America [sigh]…

Feinstein: Say it as it is. I think it’s important.

Crews: …you only have a few shots at success. You only have a few chances to make yourself a viable member of the community. I’m from Flint, Michigan. I have seen many many young black men who were provoked into violence, and they were imprisoned, or they were killed, and they’re not here. My wife for years prepared me. She said, “If you ever get goaded, if you ever get prodded, if you ever have anyone try to push you into any kind of situation, don’t do it. Don’t be violent.” And she trained me. I’ll be honest with you it was the strength of my wife who trained me and told me, “If this situation happens, let’s leave.” And the training worked because I did not go into my first reaction, I grabbed her hand, we left, but the next day I went right to the agency. I have texts, I have phone conversations, and I said, “This is unacceptable!” And I told them how -you know- I almost got violent, but I didn’t. And I said, “What are you going to do about this predator that you have roaming your hallways?” And -you know- I was told, “We are going to do everything in our power. We are going to handle this Terry. You’re right. It is unacceptable.” And then they disappeared. Nothing happened.

Look at the faces of the black men behind him it says it all.

This is real fucking infuriating. This shit isn’t funny. Fuck them and anyone who makes fun of Terry Crews speaking out and taking a stand.

for those who don’t know the context, this is Terry Crews testifying about being sexually assaulted by Adam Venit during a Senate hearing about a proposed bill called the Sexual Assault Survivors Bill of Rights. While I don’t like that Senator Feinstein said what she said, I think it opened the door for a great statement from Terry about WHY he didn’t fight back – since so many people respond to male victims with “oh well you’re bigger than your rapist, why didn’t you push him or her off of you? why didn’t you punch him or her? did you want it or something?” And they don’t listen. Maybe finally people will listen. 

This shows that anyone can be a victim of sexual assault, even a tall, strong, hulking guy like Terry Crews. And I hope him coming forward with his accusations convinces other victims to realize that it being a victim isn’t something to be ashamed of and to take down their attackers, and push the justice system to FINALLY take male rape and assault seriously. 

I think she asked him the question precisely for that

I just looked at her Twitter and she stated (well, implied haha) that yes you’re right, that was indeed why she phrased her question the way she did.  

lustfulpasiphae:

dateagirlwhosweird:

date a selkie, but don’t hide her cloak. let her go home and visit her family now and then, knowing that she’ll come back and hang her seal cloak in the closet like she always does. trust is important.

The first time she lets the redhead take her home, she’s diligent about hiding her cloak. She folds it carefully against tears and rips and abrasions, and hides it in a sea cave whose entrance is concealed by the tide.

She does the same, the second and third and fourth times, careful, wary, mindful of her mother’s lessons. Remembers the way her mother’s hands had chafed on her soft cheeks, rough with cooking and cleaning for her fisherman husband, the way her mother’s peat-dark eyes had been tense and harsh with the lesson.

“Mind me, Niahm. Never let them find your cloak.”

The way her mother’s mouth had curved, a sickle of dissatisfaction and relief and envy, as she had escaped into the waves.

So she minds her mother’s lesson, and she takes care with her cloak.

Would that she had taken as much care with her heart.

The fifth time, she wears the cloak to the girl’s door, clutched about her throat, dripping along the darkened lanes.

She enters the home, welcomed with soft kisses and gentle touches and kindling passion. She drapes the cloak, artful in her carelessness, across an old wooden chair, the one that creaks and tilts slightly if you don’t sit just right.

When she wakes, in the wee hours of the morning, even before her lover, the cloak still rests, supple and dappled by the sea, on the back of the chair.

She frowns into the softening dawn, dons the cloak, and returns to the sea.

And again, the sixth time. And the seventh.

The eighth time, she finally breaks, prickling and hurt with longing, gripping a handful of russet hair in her hand, firm with emphasis.

“Surely you know what I am,” she says to her lover, the cool froth of sea foam and the call of gulls curling around her voice.

“Of course,” her lover responds, soft and tender in the dawnlight, throat arched willingly, pale as the inner whorls of a shell. “You taste of the sea,” the girl whispers, reverently.

She shakes her lover’s head gently, fingers tangled still in russet locks. “Why?” she demands. “Why won’t you keep me?”

A long silence that waits and fills, like a tidepool, stretches between them. Cool as a current. Deep as the Channel.

Her lover’s eyes are dark and tender. “Must I trap you to keep you, my heart? Is that the shape of love that you desire?”

She sinks into the thought, struck and stymied, remembering her mother’s harsh hands, her cold eyes. Her hand eases into russet waves, caresses where her grip had punished. Her lips press cool and damp as the sea against the arching curve of her lover’s shoulder. “What shape of love will you give to me?”

The answer is easy, quick, certain. “Myself. Only myself, whenever you should wish it. Your cloak by the door, your body in my bed, and the freedom to go, whenever you must. As long as you wish.”

It’s not an answer a fisherman could ever give, nor would think to.

The ninth time, she hangs her cloak by the door, draped in careful dappled folds next to a drying oilskin jacket.