People keep saying, “what if men did what you did to ghostbusters but the other way around!!!!!” but 1) You can’t. There isn’t one major blockbuster from the past 30 years with enough girls to do that with, and 2) Don’t assume that I wouldn’t completely support an all male cheetah girls reboot
Um. All Male Josie and the Pussycats. Can you imagine?
All-male Charlie’s Angels including the slow sexy upward pans of the camera, pointlessly open shirts, and skintight catsuits. Our heroes must pose as masseuses, belly dancers, and more to seduce female CEOs, senators, and heads of security while constantly proving their loyalty to Charlie who is voiced by Lucy Liu.
Yes to all of these.
all-male Mean Girls with absolutely no plot deviance. Just a big muscley guy explaining that on Wednesdays, they wear pink.
I would pay to see all of them.
All male Pride & Prejudice.
Miss Darcy and her ten thousand a year! The innocent Master James Bennett and his headstrong brother, Master Ezra Bennett!
The notorious gamester, Miss Wickham, and her improper courtship of Master Lewis Bennett!
I recently saw a post where someone commented that the incredibly charged issue they were arguing about followed them home, and they couldn’t escape it. And it reminded me why this pattern I see of people (especially young people) where the majority of their downtime is spent on tumblr, and their tumblr is mostly some form of activism, from thought out long posts to clicking reblog on a petition, is so worrying to me.
Various forms of oppression are background noise to a lot of people’s lives. Fixing that is not likely to occur within your generation. It might get better, but the chances of it completely vanishing are minuscule. Some activists go home after dealing with bigotry all day at work, and talk about oppression on tumblr. And if they sit down and watch a TV show, they think about how it’s bigoted. If they have a musician they love, they feel obliged to think about how they’re problematic.
This is awful for you, your metal health, and the people around you. You burn out, you start blowing up at people for tiny things because you’re so tired of it. It makes you miserable and unpersuasive, it’s emotionally exhausting.
And this isn’t just me saying this. When my grandpa was training to do work with the labour party, he was told that you had to have a hobby to be good at it. Because otherwise it destroys you. You have to have something in your life that is totally disconnected from the horrific things you are seeing everyday.
If you can’t find TV shows to watch because you can’t switch off the social justice analysis part of your brain, do something else your activism can’t creep into. Take up knitting. Build shit out of cans. Play the recorder. Lock yourself in your bedroom and play minecraft. Whatever you do, please, please don’t let activism and fighting oppression take over every aspect of your life.
Have a separate activism tumblr and a cat pics/memes tumblr. Or blacklist activist things on your tumblr. Set aside some time where you don’t think about how shit the world is.
You have a right and an obligation to look after yourself. Please don’t drive yourself into the ground for the sake of social justice. You can’t fight all the time, and you’ll be no good at it if you can’t take a break.
Activists (irl activists) are told to clearly separate their two main tasks which are providing help and making demands. You cannot help anyone in an environment where you are also making demands. You cannot help anyone in an environment where you are also complaining about systematic oppression or asking for change.
Tumblr completely conflates the two. The result of this is:
> Tumblr transgender activists, for instance, tell transgender people they are valid and important, then in the same breath, in the same post and on the same blogs, remind transgender people that they are unloved and unwelcome by society, along with factual proof of transphobic violence.
This is incredibly destructive. I don’t think I even need to explain why. It’s the best way to crush transgender people’s self-esteem, bar none. The message it carries is, “even those on your side know the whole world hates you”. It’s just plain dangerous.
> In so-called LGBT safe spaces on tumblr, for instance, there is near-constant bickering about straight passing privilege versus monosexual privilege versus allosexual privilege. It often escalates to absurd levels of aggressiveness (because it’s the internet, duh) and occurs nearly everywhere, making safe spaces unsafe. The solution tumblr found is to build tiny, microscopic safe spaces for each minority within the LGBT.
Because segregation fixes everything. Spoiler alert: it only makes people more afraid of each other and breeds wariness, misunderstanding and conflict.
When you want to help a marginalized community, you either provide help to individuals, OR you raise awareness about their struggles and make demands for social change. You can have a blog for each, and if you do irl activism you most likely have a separate schedule for each.
The most basic rule for helping minorities is that shelters, help lines and safe spaces should never host debates. The most basic rule of safe spaces is: everyone fitting the requirements to enter is equally welcome, no questions asked, no debate allowed on anyone’s legitimacy or identity or privilege.
Safe spaces, shelters and help lines must be happy, uplifting places where people feel welcome, loved, and important. Otherwise they’re unsafe and toxic. If you can’t provide acceptance and compassion for all members in equal measure regardless of their background, privilege or opinion, you’re not fit for the job, stay away from administrating safe spaces.
Raising awareness and making demands is something tumblr does very well an OP explains well how compassion fatigue works and how destructive activism can be, so I’m not going to dwell on it.
Just remember that not everyone has the emotional strength for it, including those in the community you’re trying to help. Most men who have sex with men, for instance, don’t want to hear about how their community makes up 40% of the french population tested positive for aids. We know, and we also know that nearly 20% of that population has aids, but we also need to think about something less dreadful from time to time. It’s a matter of survival. Also, when you’re staring at your or someone else’s misery 24/7, you become so bitter you lose the ability to help anyone. Self-preservation makes us more useful, as activists.
(Apparently a lot of tumblr activists missed the point of OP’s post, which was compassion fatigue, by a few hundred miles; and assimilated it with something like “hahaha I’m so privileged I can afford not to think about discrimination evar”. I’m not surprised.)
Great posts. I really liked the discussion of safe spaces by the second poster, since there’s an LGBTQ muslim group that I go to and recently we had a facilitator who was very debatey, and at one point cited an academic paper in response to someone’s story.
And it was weird.
Because while I definitely agree that some debate is required (especially behind the scenes) in order to make safe spaces safer for everybody, the way it was done made me feel like I was constantly being tested for how problematic I was, and that the facilitator was assuming I was problematic until proven otherwise—in part because of the contrast between their gentleness with the friends they’d invited to the space (and whose opinions they therefore already knew) and their manner with the rest of us.
Which—I’m happy to question and rethink my assumptions, but I don’t want to go to a safe space and feel like the facilitator is automatically assuming bad faith or unkindness on my part, or that I need to be carefully watched so that I don’t make the space unsafe for other participants. I mean, I’m a woman-liking-woman who wears the hijab; people make those assumptions about me (that I’m a danger to other LGBT people) all the time, even when they know my orientation. I don’t want to also face that in a safe space that’s supposed to be specifically for people like me.
This made me think a lot about safe spaces, communities like tumblr, and the sheer fact that we are all human and aren’t always going to get it rght first time round.
I just drove my uncle and myself to the hardware store, and he said to me “Molly, I want you to know that being Catholic doesn’t change anything. If you someday get married, your wife will be welcome in this family. Don’t ever think otherwise.”
That is really nice, but I am not gay???
I’M LAUGHING SO HARD. SPOILER ALERT 2012 ME; YOU’RE SUPER FRICKING GAY.
Me: *trips over table* *jumps through window* *crashes through door* *heavy breathing* dO YOU HAVE A MOMENT TO TALK ABOUT OUR LORD AND SAVIOR JILLIAN HOLTZMANN
I am so in love with your Mutant!Les Amis, it's incredible. I didn't think I'd like any power Grantaire was giving and then you went and made it the most perfect power! I'm quite emotional right now. If you every chose to write more that would be a very cool thing!
Aw,
I’m so glad you liked it, it was a lot of fun!
Here, this is kind of ADHD and random but it’s KIND OF plot, right, so
yeah. Also OH MY GOD this got grim,
Christ, this is just sads, I don’t…I don’t have a defense for this, except that
I was kind of consumed by my feelings about Feuilly in this universe and things
got away from me.
Okay so Mutant
Registration, right? And the rise of the
Cure. That’s what we’re dealing with
here. The Cure is in development, there’s
discussion of forced administration to mutants who are a hazard to self or
others, and the mutant population is terrified, angry, desperate, Les Amis as
much as any of them. They’ve been at
least tangentially involved in at least one protest a week for months, and it’s
gotten to the point where they’re recognized on the news.
They have moments of
uncertainty, sure, like anyone who’s spent years being told how unnatural they
are. Even Enjolras, who is so aflame
with his defense of his people that he burns like a white-hot star even in
bright sunlight, has his moments where he wonders—just a little—if it would be
better after all to be normal. Those of
them with obvious mutations, or mutations with nasty backlash, have worse
moments, more moments, and they all objectively know that, but somehow it’s still a surprise when Feuilly, steady
and smiling and gentle, wavers.
They’re all a bit
drunk—it’s a Friday, they’re exhausted and safely ensconced in the back room of
the Musain and Madame Huchloupe can read minds, so if there’s ever been a safe
place for a rather motley crew of mutant activists to get drunk, this is
probably it. Musichetta is there, very
solemnly drawing daisies up Jehan’s right arm in Sharpie while Grantaire sketches
roses up his left and the honeysuckle braided into his hair twines itself into
a crown—Jehan almost always has a few cuttings of his plants in his hair,
living off his power. Cosette is
watching Eponine set off tiny crackling fireworks that dance over her fingers,
delighted, and Marius is staring like Cosette’s glee is the most incredible
thing he’s ever seen. Even Enjolras and
Grantaire are getting along (this is before they get together), having an entirely
cordial conversation about the details of their last protest.
And Feuilly, who
usually sweeps into rooms like a light going on, warm and friendly, slips in silently,
staring at the floor, with Bahorel radiating fury on his heels.
“Feuilly?” Courfeyrac
says, turning immediately, his hands already out toward the dark blotch of
Feuilly’s emotions. Bahorel hovers
behind Feuilly’s shoulder like he’s planning a murder, downright thunderous,
and then Feuilly raises his head and the room goes very quiet indeed.
He has a black eye
starting and an ugly mess on his cheek, like someone ripped at the scales against
the grain, pulling them out at the roots.
The places where the skin on his arms—littered with bruises—blends into
black snakeskin is raw and abraded. His
lip is cut and bleeding, his black-on-steel snake eyes damp, and his shirt is
stained red at the nape of his neck, where his scales scraped against something
rough, like stone. He holds himself like
his ribs hurt, like he might have broken bones, and stands crookedly, all his
weight on one leg.
There’s a long beat,
because no matter how many times one of their number appears bruised and
hurting, it never becomes normal. Feuilly
and Grantaire always get the worst of it, because no matter how obvious
pyrokinetics are no one wants to mess with them, but this is the most damage
any of them have walked in with.
“Oh,” Jehan says,
soft and grief-stricken, and he shrugs Grantaire and Musichetta away to walk
forward. He reaches out and rests his
hand on Feuilly’s arm, seeking permission, and Feuilly blinks at him for a
moment before he sighs and leans his head on Jehan’s shoulder, his ruined cheek
turned away. Jehan hugs him, cautious of
his injuries, and Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre close behind him, is the
next to reach them.
“What happened?”
Enjolras asks, unusually soft.
Feuilly closes his
eyes and doesn’t answer, and they can see his flinch when a tear streaks down
to the mess on his cheek, salt water in the wound.
“They caught him on
his way from work,” Bahorel half-snarls, because Bahorel is a buoyant and glad
soul right up until his friends—or Feuilly, whose position is somewhat
indeterminate even to the other Amis—are threatened. “Seven guys—big guys, too.” Enjolras nods, because Feuilly can take care
of himself, but one on seven are nasty odds at the best of times. “I don’t know what they used on his face,” Bahorel
continues as Jehan steers Feuilly over to a chair and pushes him down. “I got there and ran them off.” He smiles grimly, all teeth, and says, “Remind
me to pick up some more krav maga.”
“Feuilly, let me look
at your chest,” Joly says, limping over—it’s due to rain tonight, his leg is
troubling him, but he’s discarded his cane in his hurry. Feuilly doesn’t say anything, lets Joly
unbutton his shirt and doesn’t react to his hiss at the red and purple mottling
that spans one side of his ribs. “Someone
get me some—thanks,” he says, taking the glass of water Bousset holds out and a
napkin from the table. Feuilly closes
his eyes, as if he can’t stand to watch the others watching him—Feuilly’s
proud, but right now he just looks tired, as if it’s too much to bear. Joly starts to dab at the blood on Feuilly’s
face and the room falls quiet again, except for the shuddering sound of shadows
stirring over the floor and the quiet crackle of sparks showering through
Eponine’s long hair.
Once Feuilly’s face
is clean, the damage looks even worse, the beds of scales raw and seeping
blood. Joly cradles his cheek in one
hand and closes his own eyes to focus, and the damage begins to vanish, new
scales pushing through the skin and settling flat against each other. The black eye sinks away, the bruises and
scrapes evaporating like a dream. Once
it’s done, Joly brushes a thumb over the repaired scales on Feuilly’s cheek and
they slide like water, black and sleek.
Joly lets Bousset wrap an arm around his waist and support him as he
retreats from Feuilly, and Bousset clasps a hand briefly around Feuilly’s
wrist, fingers pressing against the sweep of scales over the pulse point. There’s a faint crackle, as if of ozone, and
Bousset pulls away. Feuilly opens his
eyes briefly and offers a wan smile, then closes them again and raises a hand,
pressing the heel of it into the socket of one eye.
Grantaire is the one
who sits down next to him and grips his arm firmly, and Feuilly leans to the
side, like a strong tree toppling under a gale, to lean against him. Grantaire’s all-black eyes half-lid, and he
rests his hand between Feuilly’s shoulders instead, his shadows still for the
moment so as not to disturb his friend.
“I don’t want to do
this anymore,” Feuilly whispers into Grantaire’s shoulder, and it’s the first
thing he’s said since he arrived.
“I know,” Grantaire
says, heavy and tired, and Cosette and Eponine exchange a look, drifting over
to the table themselves. Cosette’s wings
are pulled tight around her shoulders, as if she’s retreating into them, and
Eponine’s flaming eyes are shaded by her lashes—freaks among freaks, the ones
who can’t hide.
New rule, non muslims can’t say the word jihad. Until you stop conflating a word that means personal struggle with faith and temptation with terrorism youre just not allowed to say it.
I’m not a Muslim but I just thought I would reblog this because I think it’s definitely worth listening to.
It’s totally okay for non muslims to reblog this, and i encourage it. Im just glad you’re listening.
Oh god, finally someone said it. Every time I see words like “jihadist” I want to scream, but I’m not Muslim, so I wasn’t sure I should say anything.
Jihad means struggle. It doesn’t mean holy war or anything like it. In fact, there is no word in Islam for holy war, because the nature of Islam does not leave room for holy war. Islam has a juridical system, not a Pope who can just say “Go wage holy war.” Conflating the personal nature of jihad with violence is so very gross and it needs to stop. Period.
Actually, there’s another word non-muslims in the media shouldn’t use:
Allahu Akbar. It’s not a statement of terrorism. It means “god is great”. It’s something we say to praise our lord. It’s what we say when we pray. It’s not a statement of terrorism. Allahu Akbar doesn’t mean terrorism stop using it as one
i actually… love people who double or triple or infinity text … what are you excited about because i’m excited too! message me seven times please i’m glad you have a lot to say and i am willing to listen!!
It takes some sort of privilege to sit back and not vote in November just because Bernie can’t run. Get that ‘Bernie or Bust’ foolishness out of my face. Your silence is a vote for Trump. Your silence is hurting people. Unify the Party. Vote Hillary.
Splitting the vote between Gore and Nader gave us 8 fucking years of W. Bush. Ideological purity is fine, up to a point. But this election is too important to pull that shit.
Last night after Ghostbusters, I stopped to talk to one of the young men about my age. (We had previously established that we both had an interest in film, and he was a relatively well-mannered individual who gave me some recommendations for research websites.) We were both enthusiastic about the film and its quality, but suddenly he stopped and frowned.
“I’m just not sure about Kevin,” he said in confusion. “He’s kind of pointless, isn’t he? Why did they need a character like that? I’ve never seen anything like it before…”
I gaped at him briefly. “Haven’t you ever heard about the Dumb Blonde Trope?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, but isn’t that typically for…” His eyes got wide, and he looked at me in absolute terror. “Oh.”
Let me tell you about one of my high school friends’ old Dungeons and Dragons PCs.
Olaf Olafson was your pretty straightforward Northman Barbarian type. Huge, strong, pale, red-haired and with a tremendous beard. What made Olaf special was the little things.
Despite living in a world with clerical magic, demons, and other powerful alignment-based Outsiders, Olaf was an atheist. This was because his people believed the last world had already ended and the gods went with it (basically post-Ragnarok). All that was left were ‘spirits’. Powerful spirits. Who could grant deific magic. But they weren’t gods, and you didn’t have to worship them- in fact you shouldn’t, because it would just inflate their already swollen egos.
Despite being an enormous, frightening, powerful man with dubious hygeine and a propensity for going literally berserk in combat, Olaf was a gentle fellow in towns and villages, had a deep fondness for small fluffy animals and children, and was a generous tipper.
Olaf liked to drink. Not mead, but wine. He liked to sip it. It made him feel ‘civilized’. He never drank it quickly enough to get drunk. His meals almost invariably consisted of “Wine. Meat. Cheese.” Which was what he would order in literally every tavern. They’d ask him to clarify, what sort of wine? What sort of meat? What sort of- Olaf would raise a hand and repeat, slowly, as if to a fool: “Wine. Meat. Cheese.”
Olaf spoke broken common, more or less Hulk-speak, referred to himself in the third person almost exclusively, all that fun stuff. Then we had a story arc where I sent them up to Olaf’s homeland, where everyone spoke ‘Northman’ or whatever the hell I called it. While up there, he was incredibly fluent. Even poetic. “My brothers! I have returned from the decadent lands of the south, bearing riches and glory, and tales of great deeds!” The other players caught on and talked like a pack of movie Frankensteins, barely able to communicate in the foreign tongue.
For a long time, Olaf was the most financially stable member of the party. Because he bought a tavern in their home-base-town, hired the senior barmaid/waitress lady to be the manager, and funneled the profits back into the business. He kept his adventuring money and his tavern money separate, except when he would sometimes spend adventuring money to expand the tavern.
There’s not a lot to do in 3rd edition with skill ranks when you’re a barbarian, so eventually Olaf sank a point into Healing on a lark. A few sessions later, they captured an important enemy NPC, but he’d lost an arm in the fighting and was about to die. Their cleric had been captured and their NPC paladin wasn’t around, either. There was no magical healing available, and no one else had any ranks in healing. The dude was about to die, and take with him the knowledge of where their friends had been taken. Olaf- with a single rank in Healing I remind you -offered to save his life in exchange for the location, and the guy agreed. Olaf then stuck a sword in the fire, said “Olaf see this once,” and cauterized the wound.
It worked, of course. I didn’t even make him roll. I was too busy trying not to piss myself laughing. “Olaf see this once.” Jesus Christ.
My mom has just said she doesn’t believe asexuals can be in a happy non-sexual relationship/marriage because sex is an important part of a relationship.
So Reblog if you think asexuals can be in a happy non-sexual relationship. And if you are a asexual in a happy non-sexual relationship, please let me know so I can tell her that it is possible.
I would say that intimacy is an important part of a relationship, physical as well as emotional, but there are plenty of ways to be physically intimate that aren’t sex, what the fuck.
I was talking to my parents about how many of my friends are already getting job offers, internships, and study abroad experiences as rising college juniors.
I said, “It feels like my life is buffering, like when you get that spinning pinwheel thing on your laptop.”
My dad responded, “Yeah, but when it finally loads, it’ll be HD quality.”
So I thought I’d share that bit with you all. If you’re feeling the same way, support your friends, but keep your head down, work hard, and wait for it–your time will come. :)
If you have trouble getting to the polls physically, or can’t take the day off, YOU CAN DO AN ABSENTEE BALLOT, you can usually mail your vote in advance! https://www.vote.org/absentee-ballot/
U.S. READERS REGISTER TO VOTE HERE AND PLEASE SHARE!
gay has become an umbrella term for the lgbt community therefore it is perfectly okay for bi/pan people to call themselves gay, especially when they are referring to their same gender attraction why are we even having this discourse jfc
it’s ninety-nine degrees outside, four fuck-thousand percent humidity, and my husband was like, “i’m gonna go for a bike ride.” and i was like “why. no. why. don’t put us on the news like that. local fool collapses on unnecessary journey. don’t do it.” so he says he doesn’t want to “hide in the house” because the sun is shining. bruh. honeybruh. “the sun is shining” does not cover it. its hot outside. its motherfucking hot as fuck outside. our outdoor plants have been crying into their hands all week. whole cars are melting into the sewer. our fucking patio umbrella developed sentience to ask me for lemonade this morning
@robotmango, you need to work for the weather forecast - this was both hilarious and so vivid it made me stand up and get some iced tea.
this is a great idea, thank you. here goes. my audition tape for the weather channel. dearly beloved. we are gathered here today to have a fucking funeral for the outdoors. it had a good run, with all its creeks and clouds and shit. pretty great. now it’s ten-thirty at night but still ninety-two asshole-sweating degrees and humid as fuck. everything is hot and slimy, like being a “borrower” that got trapped inside a bottle of shampoo and then accidentally microwaved. you can see on my doppler radar that nothing is moving around out there because everything is probably dead. the only alive thing is the mosquito currently trying to drill a hole in my leg. no surprise that all the shitbag mosquitos are fine, since the thermostat of hell is always at the devil’s preferred temperature. this forecast has gotten away from me a little, but in conclusion fuck the sun
i had a moment today while watching a whiny shitlord complain about the injustice of new sci-fi media having more female leads, i suddenly felt the strangest sense of déjà vu. i couldn’t pintpoint it at first but then out of nowhere, it fucking dawned on me
This is the single greatest meme in the history of the Internet everyone can stop making memes now we don’t need any more ever again
I think I’ve already reblogged this but I don’t care it’s just pure gospel
Imagine Jaylah at the Starfleet academy after Star Trek Beyond.
-Like the first day she gets there and is settling into her room Scotty is there to help her move in. And he’s just so happy she’s going to the engineering part of the academy but is also scared to death that she’s going to become a red shirt.
-Her roommate isn’t that fond of Jaylah’s taste in music and hates the banging and loudness of it all.
-In her first few classes she doesn’t even pay attention due to knowing all the material.
-the only class she actually listens in is language and communications class.
-Uhara is happy to hear the girl is taking an interest in communications though she knows Jaylah will always stick with engineering.
-she video chats with the enterprise crew quite often and they usually help her with her course work.
-Uhara with communications of course.
-Sulu with the mandatory pilot classes that all cadets have to take.
-Chekov helps her with learning the constellations that she forces herself to learn in case she ever gets lost.
-Kirk is just her chatting buddy and they’ll discuss classical music together along with other things.
-Usually Bones is the one to call her. He does this when Jim has pissed him off or something idiotic has happened and he needs to rant it to someone.
-Spock is the one who listens to her troubles with classes and helps by suggesting things that may help.
-Scotty is the one she always calls when she’s excited about something that happened in class. He feels like a proud father whenever he hears about what she built that day.
-No one at the academy believes Jaylah when she says she knows the famous enterprise crew. Even the teachers scoff at the possibility.
-Everyone jokes about how she’s making up knowing the crew until they show up one day.
-the Enterprise had docked and the crew had practically a month of shore leave so the first thing they did was head to the academy.
- they burst into the room in the middle of one of her history of Starfleet classes. They’re all beaming while the Class and teacher just stare shocked and confused at the sight of the crew.
-Scotty’s the one to yell, “Lassie!” When he sees her.
-Jaylah’s up in a heartbeat and runs over to the crew hugging Scotty first.
- She moves to hug the entire crew after that saying hello to each of them.
- “How you doing Jay?” Kirk asks her.
- “As well as I can James T.” She answers grinning.
-Kirk chuckles and the crew drag the girl out of class.
-No one really sees Jaylah for the rest of the month outside of classes. They’re even shocked when she stops coming to a few of them.
- When she finally does appear again she’s bombarded with people wanting to know how she knows the crew of the enterprise.
-She just grins and answers, “They made my home fly.”
-After that everyone knows not to mess with Jaylah, not only in fear of getting their butts kicked by the woman herself but by the crew that stands behind her as well.
-A few years later at her class’s graduation no one is surprised at all when she’s assigned to the Enterprise or when the entire crew showed up to the ceremony.
I love when small children identify all quadripedal animals as “doggy!”
It always reminds me of the time Plato offered the definition of a human as any “featherless biped” and Diogenes busted into the Academy with a plucked chicken screaming, “BEHOLD A MAN!”
i love the implication you were there when it happened. good times right
Request from @littlestartopaz for Harry/Corlath from the Blue Sword on the music meme.
I got Bleeding Out by Imagine Dragons, so…yeah…that happened. ALL RIGHT HERE WE MOTHERFUCKING GO, goddamn but I love these books.
Corlath
had known what it was to be king since his father’s death when he was a young
man, only just eighteen. He had known he
would fight a war for even longer, since before his kelar came to him—maybe he’d known it forever, maybe it was what
his mother sang to him at his birth and whispered to him when he was wakeful at
night. The first time he tasted the
Meeldtar, it snatched him away from himself and brought him visions of Thurra
and his fierce white stallion, streaked with blood and battle rage. When he came back, he dropped the leather
pouch as if his hands were suddenly as weak as a sickly child’s, and he wept
for the terror that was not his and the battle he had seen, and his father had
soothed him with a gentle hand and quiet voice.
It
was not until he was on the field before the Bledfi Gap, his soldiers holding
well against the mere trickle of Northerners coming through, and he felt the
prickle of his kelar stirring, that
he understood that old vision. It was
not his battle, no—but it was his terror.
do you really think it’s a good idea to take military advice from the French
REBLOGGING BECAUSE OF EVERYTHING OMFG
Historically the “style” died in 1914 because the French would wear bright blue and red uniforms and the British said “that’s a bad idea” and the French said “we look great” then they got sniped.
I visited a WWI battlefield a few years ago and Canadian soldiers used to wear these metal plates on their backs to show that they weren’t German but they reflected sunlight really well so when they tried to hide they were p much as bright as a goddamn lighthouse
“Doug and I had this idea of this love token of Uhura’s coming back later in the film to help them find out where she was located. So we had this idea of a radioactive mineral. We saw the humor that Spock is basically keeping track of her! But we didn’t have a name for it, so we reached out to the guys who created Memory Alpha, which is this Star Trek Wikipedia. It was an exhaustive, invaluable resource for Doug and I since we would fact-check everything, like what’s inside of a frozen torpedo or what year the first annex vessel made its maiden voyage. And we wrote to the guys and we said “Look, we have this thing and it needs a name, and we’d like you to be part of this movie and have your name in the credits, can you name it for us?” and they came back in about two hours with a really detailed, etymological breakdown of the word VULCYA in its syllabic structure, where it was from, what part of Vulcan, how it had evolved, etc. It just goes to show how awesome Star Trek fans can be. We just wanted a name, but fine, we’ll take this encyclopedia of the word and use it in the film. It was a nice way to include the fans in this 50th Anniversary. If it weren’t for the fans, the show would’ve been cancelled in its third season. It’s been kept alive by those people.”—Simon Pegg about Uhura’s necklace from star trek beyond (via spockuhuralove)
The entire purpose of a bayonet is to bring a knife to a gun fight.
Redoubt 9, Battle of Yorktown. AKA that one time Alexander Hamilton led an entire battalion of soldiers with nothing but bayonets against the fully armed British. He had half the casualties as any of the battalions attacking with guns.
can we take a second to ponder on the fact that a kids movie did lady armor better than the entire film and comic industry
guess who i’m talking about
did you guess? Well you’re fucking WRONG because it’s Susan goddamn Pevensie
They gave her light armor, appropriate for a small archer:chainmail, an arm brace, chest plate, and a light skirt she can easily run around murderizing dudes in the face in
her hair is also only loose in the promo pictures because Susan is fucking busy not dying because her hair was flying into her eyeballs so she braids that shit back
her mail shirt is also loose enough that it doesn’t impede her arm movements it’s almost like she’s dressed for a fight wow
I like the pinks and purples under her bitchin as hell leather armor here, because you don’t have to be masculine to shoot someone in the goddamn face
I feel it’s a worrying statement about the state of media when a movie set in a universe where wardrobes can literally be trans-dimensional portals for the sake of narrative convenience has one of the better examples of making fantasyfemale armor that is styled around something other than sex appeal.
Because while one could, if really determined, pick out all the points by which this armor is not “really functional” the fact is that it does convey a sense of readiness and being larger than life… without resorting to the usual tropes.
if Broadway doesn’t want bootlegs floating around then they need to get their act together and make legal recordings. you can say all you want that theater is meant to be enjoyed live, but the fact of the matter is not everybody can get to NYC to go to a Broadway show. not everybody can afford to take the time off of work and buy a plane ticket to NYC and buy a night in a hotel AND get the ticket to the show. people want to see the shows, that’s why there’s a bootleg market in the first place, but it’s unreasonable to expect that everyone has the time, money, and ability to make it out to the one place in the world to see something on Broadway, especially if it’s a limited engagement. so record that shit, slap some subtitles on it, and sell it so we can buy it legally.
Reblogging this every time I see it. Copyright is important for creators but it should not support cultural elitism. Affordability and accessibility of cultural content is key unless we want to live in a very divided society.
♫ Billy/Colin (it didn't say it couldn't be one of YOUR ships)
You
are correct, I did not say that. But you realize that now I have to
EXPLAIN this shit, right?
Okay,
so, Billy Johr and Colin Ramsey are from my novel Falls the Shadow, which is
the 350 page monstrosity I wrote during sophomore year and which I am now
editing to be sent out to an agent. Short version: Sam Lightworth, their
pseudo-adopted daughter (they’re the two Witnesses), is the Antichrist and
Horseman of Death, and her brother Oz, their pseudo-adopted son, is the
Horseman of Pestilence. War and Famine are kicking around too, but they
don’t really matter as much here. The POINT is that Billy and Colin
accidentally raised an Antichrist and the world barely missed ending.
That’s it, that’s the book. And then…well. Billy and Colin.
They are canonically in love, and have been since they hunted together as
twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings. Billy, now sixty-three and no
longer spry enough to hunt himself, is an archivist and weaponeer for every
hunter of supernatural things. And the now-sixty Colin…well, Colin’s a
Catholic priest…so…they’re not together and they never will be. And
Adler is never going to forgive me for that. I’m sorry. Please
don’t hunt me with torches.
I put
my music on shuffle and got I’m So Sorry by Imagine Dragons and…um…yeah,
actually, this is a snippet from while the Almostpocalypse was happening. I’m…so sorry.
“Preacher,” Billy said quietly, and Colin didn’t look at him,
still standing at the edge of the porch and staring down the road. He didn’t need to look to know that Billy
would step forward, stand next to him until their shoulders pressed together,
the once-red hair steely in the corner of his vision. Billy was a broad, solid warmth at his side,
half a head taller and steady as ages, and Colin let their shoulders bump
together, acknowledgement that he was there.
“Did you hear it?” he asked, barely more than a murmur, and
Billy nodded slowly beside him, looking out in the same direction—south, to
Nevada, to where the Horsemen were, miles and hours away. The scream had come from nowhere, from
everywhere, like standing directly beneath a roll of thunder, but the voice had
been Sam’s. “The others,” Colin said,
almost blank.
