#GIVES YOU THIS GIVES YOU THIS GIVES YOU THIS
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
sorry i'm still here i'm CRYINGGGG watching dan process what phil is saying when he "reveals" that he won that plushie for dan
#god if only this wasn't in the tiny facecam screen#ok i really need to log the fuck off now#see you all in five minutes when i give up again#dan and phil#phan
879 notes
·
View notes
Text
A whole new meaning to Gay Chicken.
(For: Anonymous raffle winner!)
#poorly drawn mdzs#mdzs#wei wuxian#lan wangji#This prompt was super cute! Thank you for donating to the raffle!#And thank you to everyone who also donated!#Okay full disclosure I am on very little sleep right now so these next thoughts may be incomprehensible.#(That hasn't stopped me before. Sometimes the voices of the hat man give me good ideas.)#I have been vibrating with excitement for when we finally get to the chicken scene.#Because I really want to draw chickens! I love chickens! They are so optimally shaped for maximal cuteness.#That's a creature that was designed to be fluffy and sit on things. What is there to *not* love!#I know there is more significance to the whole exchange but really...I think Lan Wangji deep down just wants to hold cute creatures.#His hands are big and gentle and not meant for swords! They are made to be filling rabbit hutches with fresh hay and petting chickens.#This is to say; Lan Wangji's problems could all have been avoided if he was a farmboy.#He can still be a farmer. The two of them could run off into the country and start something new.#"True love is possible only - in the next world - for new people” Is a disco elysium quote I think about for wangxian all the time.#Ah but that's a different tangent. Look forwards to more art tomorrow!
633 notes
·
View notes
Text
Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Christmas Ornament Making Party
514 notes
·
View notes
Text
Battinson as a parent: oh, I’m sorry that you fell , Jay. Yes, the ground shouldn’t have tripped you. Bad ground. Would you like an ice cream to feel better?
Thomas when Bruce jumped off the slide and broke his arm because some kid dared him to: Bet you won’t do that dumbass shit again, huh?
#monthly reminder I love mean dad Thomas with all my heart#bruce was the kid who grew up with the father you’re so afraid of but. always felt really protected by#Thomas Wayne’s house had a strict no bullshit policy and you were on your best behavior there#but that house is like the one sanctuary in Gotham that feels holy#AUGH#bruce wayne#thomas wayne#batdad#incorrect quotes#incorrect dc quotes#Wayne men giving Alfred grey hairs#that should be an ao3 tag
493 notes
·
View notes
Text
Oh my gosh is that stink from the legend of Elda??????
#legend of zelda#linked universe#funny#silly#lol idk what else to put here#lu time#ocarina of time#the legend of zelda#link ocarina#majoras mask#idk which link it is specifically but I think ocarina link#I want his hair#Link give me ur hair#We can share it tho cus you’d look ugly bald 😒👨🦲#Oh my gosh#shes bald#She’s bald and she’s torturing people who have hair#This is for Jes who says I’m a cool guy who makes funny shit and banger art once in a blue moon#This banger arts for you pookerson
465 notes
·
View notes
Text
Mrs. Claus opens "The Year Without a Santa Claus" by claiming the eponymous year took place "before you were born". Seeing as the movie was released in 1974, this means the year must have been before then.
Bounding this on the lower end is the presence of ice hockey - mentioned by Heat Miser - and the use of telephones. Ice hockey was invented in 1875, while Alexander Graham Bell built the telephone in 1876, meaning the year must post-date these. These figures give a range of approximately 100 years during which Santa may have taken his holiday.
Yet, narrowing this further is the presence of a December calendar counting the 1st to a Wednesday. Between 1876 and 1974, only the Decembers of 1880, 1886, 1897, 1909, 1915, 1920, 1926, 1937, 1943, 1948, 1954, 1965, and 1971 started on a Wednesday.
But still this can be narrowed further.
When Santa set out that Christmas Eve, we see what appears to be an almost full Moon in the sky. Within the years listed, only 1920 had a full Moon on Christmas.
Ergo, 1920 was the year without a Santa Claus.
17K notes
·
View notes
Text
Sometimes I think a lot about my mom's cat
My mom's cat is a common domestic shorthair we found on the side of the road as a kitten
Regular cat, not a maine coon or one of those massive breeds. His mom was smaller than a loaf of bread
But in a sort of a Clifford The Big Red Dog situation, he grew super fast, and really really big, and took a super long time to stop growing
Worried that she was overfeeding him, she eased back his portions, but he stayed a massive round baby
When he started having kidney problems, she took him to the vet.
The vet took a look at him and said, "holy fuck, what are you feeding him", checked the nutritional listings on his chow, and told her "Yeah, maybe he's reacting badly to the amount of grain in this, try a meatier diet"
So my mom wound up special-ordering this specific high-protein prescription cat food made of like. Kangaroo meat or some shit that cost like sixty bucks a bag
And, as typical act two in an episode of House, he somehow got worse on the fancy specialized stuff that was supposed to be Primo Athlete Olympic Feline Blend
Like. WAY worse. His guts were inflamed and his kidneys were shutting down and he was all sore and HE WAS STILL HUGE, just miserable and sad
So shetook him back to the vet, where they had to help him pee (he was apparently close to bursting and had some kind of blockage too) and went "Yeah no this is NOT normal and we don't know what's going on, we're gonna do some tests but in the meantime you should go back to what he was eating before, at least that wasn't actively killing him" so she did
And he still wasn't great, but he also improved
And so they take his blood and do an ultrasound and a couple g's later she gets a call back like "this is gonna sound crazy, but we want you to put him on a low-meat diet. Just the least amount of protein and iron and shit. We need you to find the grainiest, filler-iest dollar tree kibble available and give him some of that bad bad shit"
And my mother is a woman of science. So she did
And he GOT BETTER
His energy picked back up, inflammation went down, he started drinking normally again, got back to pissing like a fuckin champion
And so it turns out that out of all the random ass freeway bonus cats we possibly could have scooped out of a ditch, WE got the one-in-a-million freak of nature with a SPECIFIC genetic defect that means a paleo protein free range diet is essentially poison and he THRIVES on cheap ass garbage
Like. He medically NEEDS junk food
I dont really understand how that works, but i cant argue with results.
If we had four of him, they'd outweigh my mom. And he's FINE
Also blind, but that's unrelated
Im not using him as a symbol or a metaphor or anything. I just keep catching myself thinking about my mom's Big Fucking Cat
#I'm sorry#I feel like this is supposed to be some kind of message from the universe#Like maybe I'm the cat and the garbage food is. Something#But nope he just lives in my head rent free#The biggest fucking boy
17K notes
·
View notes
Text
Sham Sacrifice
(Hi it's time for my favorite headcanon)
...
Vlad Masters sat firm and proper on the Fenton Family couch, legs crossed, teacup pinched in his fingertips, fighting subtly against the sinkhole that came with the mistake of taking Jack’s usual spot on the couch. He appeared with all the same charm and delightfulness of an ant swarm rearranging your picnic.
Danny stood at the doorway, just-still-in-the-kitchen, just not inviting himself to join the adults in the living room where Jack boomed and rambled and Vlad sat so stiff and polite and nice that his tea in his hands was going cold.
“Oh, Danny you’ll love this story—Danny, you should join us—Danny this was, what, summer of ’84? When was that heatwave, Vladdy? The one where you—”
“There’s no need to bore Daniel with the mad ravings of two old kooks, Jack. Kids would rather be off at the mall or—some store, surely. No need to stick around Daniel on my behalf. I assure you I won’t be offended if you leave.”
“No worries, V-man. I’m good right here. I love hearing Dad’s stories." Danny met Vlad's challenge, speaking with more poisonous courtesy than Vlad had proffered first. "In fact I think he should tell a few more, if he’s got more in mind.”
“In fact I do have more in mind—” Jack answered.
Neither Danny nor Vlad were listening to Jack. They held eye-contact, Danny with a stern unblinkingness of a sheepdog on duty. A lot was said without words. A lot was understood when Vlad decided to visit through the front door. Vlad only used the front door when he wanted something.
And it was never good when Vlad wanted something.
“—the core reactor project, yeah? That summer? That was in the lab with no A/C. Top floor. We were sweating like pigs, all of us. And I dared you to eat the really moldy pizza from our fridge the night before and you ralphed right into—”
“—Surely you remember this more fondly than I do. Daniel, really, you can go.”
Not a chance.
“Actually,” Danny answered, brightening some as his opportunity struck. “I am interested in this. For science class I need to write a report on the invention of an important piece of technology. I was gonna ask Mom and Dad about the Ghost Portal. And now that you’re here, I can get the whole history.”
Jack made a giddy little noise. He leaned forward, words primed, but Vlad was quicker to the draw.
“Sorry to say, your faith in me is unfounded. I wasn’t the portal guy back in college—that was always your mother and father’s passion project. I was their skeptic.”
“Bet that’s got you feeling pretty foolish right now, doesn’t it V-man?” Jack chided, a quick jab to Vlad’s ribs that nearly unseated the teacup from his suspended saucer. “Considering the fully-functioning portal right beneath our toes.”
“I hardly feel foolish, Jack. Your calculation for the portal in college was never going to work.”
“What do you mean? Of course it did.” Jack thumped the ground with his foot. “It’s running the old girl right now.”
At this, Vlad’s eyes narrowed. For the first time he’d been shaken off whatever skeezy machinations had brought him in. His pride was being challenged, and by Jack no less.
“Absolutely not. With that calculation? Absolutely not.”
“Well forget the tea biscuits Vlad, because you’re going to be eating your words in a second. Mads, hold my spot,” Jack said, as if anyone was planning to take his spot. He bounced from the couch, scooted from the living room, and vanished into the dark maw of the lab stairs, leaving only the waning beat of his footsteps behind.
His absence filled only a swallowing few seconds. The footsteps returned, bounding upward, creaking with his heavy cadence, and Jack bounced back into the room in much the manner he left. A pad of yellow lined paper was clutched in his hand. When he dropped it on the coffee table, it revealed row after row of tight scribble, churning math, carrying down the page and occupying two entire pages more that Jack flipped through.
“Same baby I came up with in college. It just needed heavier dampening and higher voltage than what we made back then. The portal downstairs has that in spades. Well, in like two-thirds of a spade.” Jack tapped something on the last line. “The projection was still only hitting 70% of the threshold we calculated to reach dimension penetration. But it’s an art, not just a science. We fired it up anyway, and it took!”
Vlad grabbed the paper pad, agitated. His eyes ran over it. Then again. Until he settled on one line, a firmness overcoming his face. He tossed the pad back onto the coffee table, and Vlad leaned back into the couch, arms crossed.
“The lambda, Jack.”
“The lambda?”
“Check it again.”
Jack did, lips pursed, pad of paper nearly swallowed in his big meaty hand.
“What about--?”
“It squares. The units don’t balance otherwise. It originates from an integration step of λ*∂λ/∂t. It squares.”
Jack’s brow remained furrowed, firm, until delight cracked into his eyes, and he let out a laugh.
“Gods, my handwriting is gonna be the death of us. Mads,” he tapped something unseen on the second page. “That’s the genius of Vladdy. Cracked this puppy wide open with just a glance. I never noticed that in all my checking. That explains the missing 30%, at least. That explains how the portal took. Lucky for you Danny that Vlad was here—”
“Jack,” Maddie said.
“—your report can have the correct formula. It’ll be—”
“—Jack—”
“—A+ worthy—”
“—Jack,” Maddie said, curt. “Lambda is the ambient ecto-energy. It’s a few ten-thousandths of a unit.”
“It—huh.”
Maddie had surfaced a pen from her pocket. She sheared a few blank pages out from the back of the pad and started the formula fresh. She made quick work of copying it over, quicker work of solving it through – lambda-squared intact.
She hit the final line and hatched a pen mark beneath the number. Jack stared, confused.
“That can’t… no.”
He repeated the same. New pages torn loose. Formula copied over, processed, line by line by line—lambda squared—by line by line by line.
Jack settled on his answer. Same as Maddie’s.
Confusion made his face tense.
“So it’s not 70% of the way to the threshold… It’s 0.013% of the way to the threshold.”
He held the pen hard, his whole body holding firm and taut as the gears turned in his head. Jack’s eyes flickered across the formula, again and again and again. He looked to Maddie, like a dog issued a command he did not understand.
“But it worked,” he said, small. “But it worked.”
Jack stood, robotic almost, eyes lost in something far away. He disappeared into the lab almost as quickly as he had a few minutes before, but now he exited with a smoothness and a quietness so very uncharacteristic of him. It bothered Danny, somewhere deep in his gut.
Maddie followed, a possession matching Jack’s.
Danny’s fingers curled and uncurled. He’d succeeded. He’s successfully interrupted Vlad’s… whatever this was. But the disquiet infected him. He didn’t like it.
“So what does that mean?” Danny asked, perhaps to Vlad. “What’s wrong with the calculation?”
Vlad sipped on tea ice cold.
“Who knows?” Vlad lied.
…
The math didn’t work.
Maddie and Jack burned through paper, burned through pencils, burned through hours.
The math didn’t work.
Clothes stuck to skin. Sweat lingered fetid and stale in the cold basement air. Exhaustion beat like a slurry through their veins.
The math didn’t work.
The portal supervised all, placidly green, the light for their table, the light for their work when the lightbulb overhead burnt clean out and neither Jack nor Maddie could be pulled away to replace it. It stood, it watched, a testament of contradiction to everything they could not solve on paper, and yet everything they built directly into the fabric of reality.
And it should never have worked.
They threw every radical what-if they’d ever conceived over 20 years of ghost research.
The ecto-ether layer.
The latent activation stitches in space fabric.
The anti-ectomatter collision proposal.
The positive-feedback crystallization theory.
And still nothing worked.
All together, every crackpot theory in their favor taken for granted, racked them up to an activation energy 200x more potent than the calculation, and still just 2% of what would be needed to rip open, and hold open, a stable fissure between their reality and the ghost zone.
Maybe by pure luck, unfathomable luck, Fentonworks basement was directly situated atop a natural portal.
Maybe that would explain ripping it open. It did nothing to explain the stability. Natural portals were unstable by definition. There and gone in a few seconds. Not hours, days, weeks, months, a year, that the Fenton Portal had been open. Never so much as faltering.
It was late. 3am ticked away to 4am, and 4:30am. The discarded paper stacked higher than Jack and Maddie both. Calluses oozed from their hands at another attempt, and another, and another.
Maddie flipped through a folder’s worth of yellowed papers, aggressively thumbed over and over after two decades left untouched. And she settled on the one she’d passed over a few dozen times already, always seeking something else, something better.
This time she unsheathed it, and she placed it on the lab table.
“…If a mouse died. In the machine. If a mouse ran through the machine and accidentally bridged two live wires, and died of violent electrocution. 500 milliamps. Instantly melted into the circuitry.”
Maddie’s mouth was cotton-dry while she wrote. Ambient ecto-energy was low. Always very, very low.
Unless something very, very bad happened to something with the capacity to become a ghost.
The numbers wove. Maddie started the formula fresh, and it was pure muscle memory. A mouse. A big mouse, even. A 99th percentile beast of a mouse. And a wire that had been wired incorrectly. Something grounded that never actually grounded. An absolutely horrific amount of electricity.
0.37%, by pure numbers. If she included every permissive crackpot idea they had thrown on top, it topped out at 6% of the needed activation threshold.
Not a mouse.
“A cat,” Jack said, words gummy, tongue dry, face tired. “If we’ve got mice down here, maybe… a stray cat wandered in. Chased the mouse.”
Maddie nodded. It didn’t matter if it made sense.
She penned it in. A large cat. A devastating electrical short. Cats carried more ecto-potential than mice did. Ecto-potential did not necessarily go up with size. It went up with complexity. The things with the most ecto-potential were the things that most became ghosts.
1.45%, by pure numbers. 18% at absolute, absolute crackpot best.
“A dog,” Jack proposed with a shaky laugh. He swallowed. “A mouse… chased by a cat… chased by a dog… all electrocuted at once”
Maddie didn’t say the thing they both knew, which was that both of them would have noticed the evidence left behind by the electrically exploded pieces of a dog.
Maddie did it anyway. A mouse and a cat and a medium-sized dog, maybe just small enough to notice no evidence of, all together. All at once. All violently ripped apart, sacrificed to a machine still asleep in its wall.
Mice did not often make ghosts. Cats did not either. Dogs, occasionally. But infrequently. Very infrequently.
37%. At best.
“Jack.”
“Maddie, I know just—maybe something really smart—”
“—Jack—”
“—like an octopus—”
“Jack.”
“I hear, maybe, pigs are smart. If it was—”
Maddie was writing, already. Not for a pig. Not an octopus. Jack watched, and he knew what the numbers meant. The ecto-potential she penned gave her away. An ecto-potential that high.
65kg, an estimate
10,000 milliamps, a catastrophic accident, a death certificate.
A human’s amount of ecto-potential.
Maddie wrote.
And she wrote.
And she did not apply a single crackpot theory, not a single discredited proposal, not an ounce of exaggeration.
138%.
Threshold, and then some.
Comfortable, easily, then some.
For the first time, after all the hundreds of times she and Jack had penned this equation over the course of 2 decades, the number met her and Jack’s threshold.
A breakthrough.
A revelation.
A pure eureka moment.
Jack and Maddie were silent.
Alone in a humming basement. Alone with only the soft swirls of the portal for company, happy, stable, purring its contentment, singing to the cold air.
“It has to be something else,” Maddie said. And she said it weakly. And she said it childishly.
“You’re right. It can’t be this,” Jack echoed. “If someone died down here, we’d know. Dead bodies don’t walk away. We’d have seen it. O-or even if, if the body got stuck in the portal, we’d have heard of someone going missing.”
Maddie sat, quiet. A thought held her mind hostage.
“Unless they didn’t go missing,” Maddie said, and she said it barely audibly. “Unless the portal spit them right back out.”
“Then—that’s what I said—a dead body, on the floor, we’d have seen.”
“Not a dead body.”
“It had to be lethal, Mads—”
“I know Jack. But if they died, here, in the portal Jack, then their ghost did not get ripped away from the body and sent to the Ghost Zone. …They ripped the Ghost Zone here.” Palms slick with sweat smoothed over her notes. She pointed to one specific line and found her pen tip trembled no matter how badly she stabilized it. “The ecto-potential of a creature is how strong of a pull their ghost creates on the Ghost Zone. A strong enough pull means the ghost can reach the Ghost Zone and stabilize, like a fish reeling itself up, yeah? We agree on this Jack, yes?”
“Yes,” Jack answered.
“It’s what makes the math even work, Jack. Someone dying in the portal didn’t reel themselves to the boat. They reeled the boat in. Jack, they brought the Ghost Zone here…” Maddie wasn’t breathing right. She pulled sweat-soaked bangs away from her face. “Their ghost never left their body Jack. They died, Jack. And they walked back out.”
“…No. No,” Jack said. “No, they didn’t.”
“Then what?” Maddie asked.
Jack stared. He looked away. He didn’t like the expression on Maddie’s face.
“It—what about the ecto-ether theory?” Jack said, of the theory they’d tested and retested and tested all over, all night. He grabbed his pencil back up and pointed it aimlessly at Maddie’s piece of paper, pointed end out in self-defense. “If the ecto-ether is maybe… if it’s only 250-times stronger than we calculated. Then it could…”
Jack’s voice died. His pencil hung idle. Maddie’s paper remained unblemished.
“If it… was a pig,” Jack offered. “If it was a pig that died in the portal.”
“How, Jack? How would a pig get in? We lock all the doors at night, Jack. No one else can get in, Jack. It’s just us, Jack.”
Jack and Maddie were not there when the portal turned on.
Maddie’s statement carried two possibilities. Only two. Both felt like claws digging all the flesh right out of Jack’s heart.
“I want… I want to try the ecto-ether theory again,” Jack choked. “I think it’s the ecto-ether. I think it’ll work.”
Jack slid a piece of paper over, already covered in scribbles. In its single untouched corner, he started the equation for the several-thousandth time that night.
Above their head, birds were singing.
Sunrise hailed unseen from the windowless laboratory.
…
At 6am, Vlad answered his cell phone. The reception crackled, struggling through the layers of sheetrock above his head.
“Vlad?” Maddie’s voice crackled. “Sorry, did I wake you up?”
“Not at all my dear.” Vlad leaned his weight against the wall, playing with the singsong melody in his voice. “But you sound exhausted. Is anything the matter?”
“Yes. Well… Yes. Jack and I have—all night—trying to fix the equation.”
“Naturally.”
“We found something that maybe works.”
“Oh?” Vlad asked. He straightened, pacing now, cracklingly attentive. “And what might that—”
“If someone died. Activating the portal. We have an on-switch inside the portal’s interior. The trigger we use to press it is external to the portal, of course. But if someone went inside the portal, and they pressed it directly, and if they died, and pulled the Ghost Zone here—”
Vlad’s red eyes reflected pools of iridescent green. He twirled his free hand in the fringes of his cape, tongue working over the fanged edges of his teeth. He stared, consumed, forward.
“—and just, you, I was thinking, you’re the only other expert I’d trust to… maybe weigh in.”
“What does Jack think?”
“He denies it. He’s still. He’s trying other theories.”
“Well who knows, surely? The answer may lie somewhere you haven’t looked.”
“…I’ve looked everywhere, Vlad. That's the thing. There is no more ‘somewhere else’. I’ve looked.”
“You sound like your mind is made up.”
“I just… if maybe you have some idea.”
“Am I meant to talk you out of this idea?”
“Vlad.”
“Do you think I have some secret information you don’t? Sorry to say, I’m just your skeptic.” Some noise came through muffled from the other side. Vlad flashed a smile. “But…as your skeptic I will offer you this—It all sounds a bit absurd, doesn’t it? To kill someone and have them come back intact and… for you to never notice? Who would they be? How would they be? Surely not human anymore, surely. How would you never notice?”
Vlad paced forward, booted feet clicking along his laboratory floor.
“It would be ridiculous,” he continued, with a building crescendo, “so unfathomably self-centered surely, to not notice something like that befall someone so close to you, who died at the hands of your own invention? …If I’m correctly inferring who, in your household, you suspect of having activated the portal?” Vlad’s tongue lingered along his teeth.
Maddie’s line held, quiet. And the seconds of static drew long.
“Ah, apologies. I’ve overstepped,” Vlad continued. “I meant this as a vote of confidence in you. You and Jack both. Two people as attentive, caring, compassionate as yourselves. You would notice. I promise.”
“You’re… Okay, thank you, Vlad. I appreciate it.”
“Is there anything else, my dear?”
“No. No. Thank you, Vlad. I’ll think about this.”
Maddie’s line clicked dead. A chuckle built to Vlad’s lips and he let his head tip back with mirth. It lasted only a moment. He stowed his phone. And as if the interruption had never happened, Vlad reaffixed his attention on his own portal swirling in front of him. It bathed him, swimming green, purring contentment.
And Vlad vanished into his portal.
(Chapter 2)
#danny phantom#dp#dp fanfiction#GIVES YOU THIS GIVES YOU THIS GIVES YOU THIS#its my favorite headcanon so here you get a fic of it
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
“HOPE” spotted in Washington D.C.
#allegedly#luigi mangione#Brian Thompson#hope#united healthcare#uhc ceo#the claims adjuster#the adjuster#my boyfriend took this and he was like ayyy you didn’t even give me credit#but he doesn’t have tumblr so whatever
31K notes
·
View notes
Text
My biggest tip for fanfic writers is this: if you get a character's mannerisms and speech pattern down, you can make them do pretty much whatever you want and it'll feel in character.
Logic: Characters, just like real people, are mallable. There is typically very little that's so truly, heinously out of character that you absolutely cannot make it work under any circumstance. In addition, most fans are also willing to accept characterization stretches if it makes the fic work. Yeah, we all know the villain and the hero wouldn't cuddle for warmth in canon. But if they did do that, how would they do it?
What counts is often not so much 'would the character do this?' and more 'if the character did do this, how would they do it?' If you get 'how' part right, your readers will probably be willing to buy the rest, because it will still feel like their favourite character. But if it doesn't feel like the character anymore, why are they even reading the fic?
Worry less about whether a character would do something, and more about how they'd sound while doing it.
#I have a bit of a problem with giving everyone the same speech patterns but on god I try#Bc genuinely. This is the no. 1 most important thing while writing fanfic#If you can make a character sound like they would say that it doesn't matter if they actually would#My posts#Writing wise
35K notes
·
View notes
Text
some of my favourite sign fails <3
157K notes
·
View notes
Text
He might’ve been a little shit to everyone else, but he was a good papa (or as good as he could be) to her and for that, I think he’s not that bad.
Silco and his terror of a daughter
#arcane#silco#jinx#jinx and silco#daddy-daughter shit#he would (and to the best of his abilities) did give her the world#if they lived in a “normal’’ au#you can’t tell me they wouldn’t be even more attached at the hip#and yeah#i love their dynamic#and relationship#he tried his best
51K notes
·
View notes
Text
Dame Maggie Smith as Muriel Donnelly The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (2015)
#maggie smith#the second best exotic marigold hotel#muriel donnelly#movies#filmedit#filmgifs#moviegifs#i always loved this line#this movie and the one before are great#give it a watch if you havent#im so sad about this#mystuff#1k#5k#10k#20k
25K notes
·
View notes
Text
“these characters should be mentally healthy before they get together 😌” ummm no I actually think we should smash their mental illnesses together like clumps of play-doh and see what colors it makes
#they should live under each other’s skin in a way that’s weird to everyone else. actually.#also on a more serious note since this is getting notes mental illness does not preclude people from deserving love#or the ability to give and receive it#it also does not make you inherently toxic#sometimes people are just toxic anyways of course#and a lot of people enjoy a toxic ship and are relating that to this and that’s cool!#but like#if you believe that’s the only option you’re wrong buddy#people can be worse together but they can also be better#acting like a character or a person has to ‘fix’ their trauma or what have you to be worthy is. a fucking weird mindset.#but anyways!
39K notes
·
View notes
Text
Here’s my take on the whole audio books vs. reading:
Oral tradition of storytelling predates written ones by millennias, and honestly, which one you like is just a personal preference.
The actual difference is
when listening, you have no idea how to write characters’ names
when reading, you have no idea how to pronounce characters’ names
hope this helps!
#audio books vs reading#honestly this debate is just pineapple on pizza again#personally i like reading better#i’m a poor listener and since i read faster than people talk i get bored and my mind starts to wander#but who gives a shit#just do what works best for you#in the end we all get the same story#oh and this post is about stories in english#in finnish you rarely have either problem
30K notes
·
View notes