Games with English: insert the word “only” anywhere into the above sentence and consider how the placement changes meaning.
(via awwhawkeye)
(Source: diamonddogz, via renew-leverage)
Stand Like This for 2 Minutes Per Day
from http://jamesclear.com/body-language-how-to-be-confidentNo, for real, though—this is a thing. Not sure about the science behind it, but it makes me feel fancy and powerful regardless. I highly recommend it.
There actually is legit science behind this. In fact, here’s an entire TED Talk about the science behind it, and the confidence-related chemicals that your brain produces JUST BY YOU STANDING LIKE THIS.
standing like this forever now
(via cthulhu-with-a-fez)
except a racist person at the top of the comments calls aave like bae gibberish…
Also, although I understand Denis’ sentiment, they should censor slurs that don’t belong to them.
Hey, wasn’t it Time that woukdn’t put Laverne Cox on their cover even though everyone voted for her or something?
Oh shoot that’s a good point - i should have read this post more carefully - sorry about that i didn’t see it
(Source: michaxl, via cthulhu-with-a-fez)
the members of an orchestra
- violins I: we're the superstars fuck everyone else its all about us
- violins II: why do we always get the boring parts
- flutes: we're so lonely
- piccolo: lol fk your ears
- french horns: and im not even french hONHONHON BAGUETTE
- oboes: IM SORRY I TUNED BEFORE I SWEar
- violas: evERYONE ALWAYS FKUCING FRORGETS ABOUT US
- trumpets: wats 'p'
- trombones: wats quiet
- cellos: im either boring af or exciting af and there is no in between
- bassoons: im so posh but i really just honk like a truck
- clarinet: *squeaks*
- timpani: EVERYONE LOVES ME BOM BOM BOM BOM BOM BOM BOM
- bass clarinet: lol where am i
- tuba: *waits for a wagner piece to do something exciting*
- harp: im just a more sophisticated piano
- piano: FUCK YOU HARP I GET CONCERTOS WRITTEN FOR ME SCREW EVERYTHING WHO NEEDS AN ORCHESTRA WHEN YOU CAN PLAY EVERYTHING ON ME IM THE STAR OF EVERYTIHNG
- english horn: im literally only useful for dvorak's 9th like what am even i doing here
- basses: semibreves, tied to a semibreve, tied to a minim, tied to a crotchet, oh wait a quaver wow exciting ok back to semibreves
- cornets: trumpet wannabe
- cymbals: BOOM CRASH CRASH CRASH CRASH IM SRO HAPYP CRASH CRAHS
- saxophones: i never get a good part until a jazzy piece is performed which is never
- xylophones: am i meant to be here?
- triangles:
- bass drum: MY TIME TO SHINE FUCK YOU ALL
HERE’S THE THING THOUGH
I used to work for a call center and I was doing a political survey and I called this number that was randomly generated for me and the way our system worked was voice-activated so when the other person said hello you’d get connected to them, so I just launch right into my “Harvard University and NPR blah blah blah” thing and then there’s this long pause and I think the person’s hung up even though I didn’t hear a click
And then I hear “you shouldn’t be able to call this number.”
So I apologize and go into the preset spiel about because we aren’t selling anything, etc. etc. and the answer I get is
“No, I know that. What I mean is that it should be impossible for you to call this number, and I need to know how you got it.”
I explain that it’s randomly generated and I’m very sorry for bothering him, and go to hang up. And before I can click terminate, I hear:
“Ma’am, this is a matter of national security.”
I accidentally called the director of the FBI.
My job got investigated because a computer randomly spit out a number to the Pentagon.
This is my new favourite story.
When I was in college I got a job working for a company that manages major air-travel data. It was a temp gig working their out of date system while they moved over to a new one, since my knowing MS Dos apparently made me qualified.
There was no MS Dos involved. Instead, there was a proprietary type-based OS and an actually-uses-transistors refrigerator-sized computer with switches I had to trip at certain times during the night as I watched the data flow from six pm to six AM on Fridays and weekends. If things got stuck, I reset the server.
The company handled everything from low-end data (hotel and car reservations) to flight plans and tower information. I was weighed every time I came in to make sure it was me. Areas of the building had retina scanners on doors.
During training. they took us through all the procedures. Including the procedures for the red phone. There was, literally, a red phone on the shelf above my desk. “This is a holdover from the cold war.” They said. “It isn’t going to come up, but here’s the deal. In case of nuclear war or other nation-wide disaster, the phone will ring. Pick up the phone, state your name and station, and await instructions. Do whatever you are told.”
So my third night there, it’s around 2am and there’s a ringing sound.
I look up, slowly. The Red phone is ringing.
So I reach out, I pick up the phone. I give my name and station number. And I hear every station head in the building do the exact same. One after another, voices giving names and numbers. Then silence for the space of two breaths. Silence broken by…
“Uh… Is Shantavia there?”
It turns out that every toll free, 1-900 or priority number has a corresponding local number that it routs to at its actual destination. Some poor teenage girl was trying to dial a friend of hers, mixed up the numbers, and got the atomic attack alert line for a major air-travel corporation’s command center in the mid-west United States.
There’s another pause, and the guys over in the main data room are cracking up. The overnight site head is saying “I think you have the wrong number, ma’am.” and I’m standing there having faced the specter of nuclear annihilation before I was old enough to legally drink.
The red phone never rang again while I was there, so the people doing my training were only slightly wrong in their estimation of how often the doomsday phone would ring.
(Source: tastefullyoffensive, via cthulhu-with-a-fez)
"It takes years as a woman to unlearn what you have been taught to be sorry for."
— Amy Poehler, in Yes Please (via femme-and-furious)
(Source: t-fey, via cthulhu-with-a-fez)
"The first time he calls you holy,
you laugh it back so hard your sides hurt.
The second time,
you moan gospel around his fingers
between your teeth.
He has always surprised
you into surprising yourself.
Because he’s an angel hiding his halo
behind his back and
nothing has ever felt so filthy
as plucking the wings from his shoulders—
undressing his softness
one feather at a time.
God, if you’re out there,
if you’re listening,
he fucks like a seraphim,
and there’s no part of scripture
that ever prepared you for his hands.
Hands that map a communion
in the cradle of your hips.
Hands that kiss hymns up your sides.
He confesses how long he’s looked
for a place to worship and,
oh,
you put him on his knees.
When he sinks to the floor and moans
like he can’t help himself,
you wonder if the other angels
fell so sweet.
He says his prayers between your thighs
and you dig your heels into the base of his spine
until he blushes the color of your filthy tongue.
You will ruin him and he will thank you;
he will say please.
No damnation ever looked as cozy as this,
but you fit over his hips like they
were made for you.
You fit, you fit, you fit.
On top of him, you are an ancient god
that only he remembers and he
offers up his skin.
And you take it.
Who knew sacrifice was so profane?
And once you’ve taught him how to hold
your throat in one hand
and your heart in the other,
you will have forgotten every other word,
except his name."
you laugh it back so hard your sides hurt.
The second time,
you moan gospel around his fingers
between your teeth.
He has always surprised
you into surprising yourself.
Because he’s an angel hiding his halo
behind his back and
nothing has ever felt so filthy
as plucking the wings from his shoulders—
undressing his softness
one feather at a time.
God, if you’re out there,
if you’re listening,
he fucks like a seraphim,
and there’s no part of scripture
that ever prepared you for his hands.
Hands that map a communion
in the cradle of your hips.
Hands that kiss hymns up your sides.
He confesses how long he’s looked
for a place to worship and,
oh,
you put him on his knees.
When he sinks to the floor and moans
like he can’t help himself,
you wonder if the other angels
fell so sweet.
He says his prayers between your thighs
and you dig your heels into the base of his spine
until he blushes the color of your filthy tongue.
You will ruin him and he will thank you;
he will say please.
No damnation ever looked as cozy as this,
but you fit over his hips like they
were made for you.
You fit, you fit, you fit.
On top of him, you are an ancient god
that only he remembers and he
offers up his skin.
And you take it.
Who knew sacrifice was so profane?
And once you’ve taught him how to hold
your throat in one hand
and your heart in the other,
you will have forgotten every other word,
except his name."
— PROFANE, by Ashe Vernon (via whiskyandoldspice)
(Source: latenightcornerstore, via winjennster)
