Aug/27/14
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ccheckov:

rosethevaliant:

kevinology:

this picture pisses me off so fucking much. THIS FUCKING PICTURE OF GOD DAMN COOKIE DOUGH. DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND THAT WHEN YOU BAKE FUCKING COOKIES, THEY SPREAD OUT AND ELONGATE. THESE COOKIES ARE PRACTICALLY TOUCHING EACHOTHER. THIS IS GONNA END UP BEING A DAMN COOKIE CAKE. ARE U SHITTING ME HAVE YOU NEVER BAKED COOKIES BEFORE. YOU CAN NOT BAKE 32 INDIVIDUAL COOKIES ON A PAN MADE FOR 16 MAXIMUM. motherfucker

shit gets real in the baking fandom

i guess you could say they were
baking bad

ccheckov:

rosethevaliant:

kevinology:

this picture pisses me off so fucking much. THIS FUCKING PICTURE OF GOD DAMN COOKIE DOUGH. DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND THAT WHEN YOU BAKE FUCKING COOKIES, THEY SPREAD OUT AND ELONGATE. THESE COOKIES ARE PRACTICALLY TOUCHING EACHOTHER. THIS IS GONNA END UP BEING A DAMN COOKIE CAKE. ARE U SHITTING ME HAVE YOU NEVER BAKED COOKIES BEFORE. YOU CAN NOT BAKE 32 INDIVIDUAL COOKIES ON A PAN MADE FOR 16 MAXIMUM. motherfucker

shit gets real in the baking fandom

i guess you could say they were

baking bad




Aug/27/14
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I keep seeing these videos with people in bathing suits and t-shirts, tank tops. For me personally, when I bring awarerness to a charity, I prefer a more formal setting, so excuse me…



Aug/27/14
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americachavez:

headcanon: tony has tried to buy rhode island and rename it rhodey island multiple times.




Aug/27/14
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bookshop:

solongasitswords:

nullbula:

thesylverlining:

what happened in roughly 1870 though
why was there temporary internet
with a few people searching for pokemon?

It’s a search of Google books, but the question still stands, what the Fuck happened in 1870

I CAN ANSWER THIS!!
In the Cornish dialect of English, Pokemon meant ‘clumsy’ (pure coincidence).
In the mid 1800s there was a surge of writing about the Cornish language and dialect in an attempt to preserve them with glossaries and dictionaries being written. I wrote about it HERE.


I just love that this post happened to find the ONE HUMAN ON THE INTERNET who had the answer to this question

bookshop:

solongasitswords:

nullbula:

thesylverlining:

what happened in roughly 1870 though

why was there temporary internet

with a few people searching for pokemon?

It’s a search of Google books, but the question still stands, what the Fuck happened in 1870

I CAN ANSWER THIS!!

In the Cornish dialect of English, Pokemon meant ‘clumsy’ (pure coincidence).

In the mid 1800s there was a surge of writing about the Cornish language and dialect in an attempt to preserve them with glossaries and dictionaries being written. I wrote about it HERE.

I just love that this post happened to find the ONE HUMAN ON THE INTERNET who had the answer to this question




Aug/27/14
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thatcurlyhurdgirl:

I will reblog this everyday




Aug/27/14
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thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure –
But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.
Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.
Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.
Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured – by their classmates –for having been born.
Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle – but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)
Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.
Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again – the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone – the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?
Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.
Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.
Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes – in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.
Imagine the ghosts.
Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield – it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)
Imagine the students unable to trust each other – everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.
Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.
Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.
Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.
Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.
Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.
Imagine the students who leave the wixen world – hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.
Imagine the students who never use magic again.
(Image source.)
(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure

But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.

Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.

Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.

Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured by their classmates for having been born.

Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)

Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.

Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?

Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.

Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.

Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.

Imagine the ghosts.

Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)

Imagine the students unable to trust each other everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.

Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.

Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.

Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.

Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.

Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.

Imagine the students who leave the wixen world hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.

Imagine the students who never use magic again.

(Image source.)

(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)




Aug/27/14
15,299 notes
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cinemagorgeous:

Images from Carrie Fisher’s private photo collection taken during the filming of Star Wars.








Aug/27/14
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hvit-ravn:

We are Groot

hvit-ravn:

We are Groot








Aug/27/14
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coffeecatsandcigarettes:

haveabowlofwhore:

don’t ever let this die

i just watched this 20 times in a row..


x werk


Aug/27/14
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eighttwotwopointthreethree:

shakespeare’s characters are more or less equally divided between “DO IT FOR THE VINE” and “YOU HAD ONE JOB”




Aug/27/14
129 notes
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godsradicaldaughter:

Don’t worry. No matter how hard is what you’re experiencing now, God is working on it. He can never resist a plea from his children. Don’t forget, your God is above and greater than what you’re going through. Yes, help is coming. It will come in a mighty and glorious way. God will show you how he loves you gloriously.