#wildly unimportant nonsense

[transmasc-miku]

[disclaimer I know full well I, a white man, will NEVER experience true discrimination on the basis of my hair, and I will not attempt to compare my struggles to those with textured hair.]

ive been like doing a lot of reflecting lately and i realized that like, something about having thick, slightly curly, frizzy* hair got me bullied so hard by my family and peers growing up.

People constantly calling it a forest, a bird's nest, one girl saying my hair scared her because she thought I was a witch, my mom constantly saying it needs brushed regaurdless of if I actually brushed it or not (especially after school like mf ive been around people all day and moving around AND in gym/marching band like am i meant to be a disney princess?) even at WORK some dude thought it was cool to make fun of my hair. and when i get upset it's all "it's just a joke!!! god why are you soooo sensitive!!" maybe you all should eat glass fucking shards for every meal of the day and dessert

*frizzy my whole life btw not just after i started dying it before somebody tries to get smart

[nicosraf]

hi there :) where did u get the inspiration to write rosier? i don’t come from a christian background so this may be a dumb q, but i went into a rabbit hole of looking up all the demons that appeared in the bible, and didn’t see him, which u can imagine my surprise bc he’s such a close friend of lucifer in abm!

xoxo

Hello! Agh Rosier. So my writing process is that I outline and then scrutinize my outline while I draft because it's inevitable that the execution of my initial ideas brings up better ideas, newer themes, and potential issues. Then, I go back to my outline, and I adjust some things for what's ahead. Initially, Rosier wasn't going to have such a close relationship with Lucifer.

I discovered Rosier's name in a demonology book from the library; he isn't in the Bible at all. I liked that about him. I wanted to include a demon who isn't important, who doesn't go onto become a household name, like Baal or Asmodeus. The original plan was for him to be a responsible figure in Lucifer's life but not a very close and kind one (the first scenes I imagined with him were the meeting-Lucifer scene and the fighting with Lucifer about his behavior scene).

Then, I wrote the first scenes with him and he immediately took on a life of his own, and I realized he was becoming a larger character than I expected. I immediately started seeing his relationship with both Asmodeus and Lucifer to be deeper than planned. About halfway through the book, I remember hesitating and wondering if I should change his name to Ashtoreth; I was thinking of the line in Judges 2:12-13 that reads, "They aroused the Lord's anger because they forsook him and served Baal and the Ashtoreths."

I also considered Abaddon, but Abaddon is a can of worms; namely, Revelation really seems to imply that Abaddon is just Satan, or at least someone very important and this conflicted with the original concept of Rosier — a demon so unknown that he's only in a few demonology books.

I did light research into Rosier, since I knew there was basically nothing out there except for demonology sites making things up (I mean no offense, angel sites also love to say random made-up things with authority). I noticed that he had a common association with tainted or doomed love, and I considered the development I had planned for him and Asmodeus. I also liked that his name was so wildly different in etymology from others — it lended itself into the more nonsensical aspect of angel society, like the weird mashup of cultures in their buildings.

So, I kept Rosier as Rosier. He's meant to be unimportant to the narrative of the Bible, and I think it provides a really nice contrast to such a big figure as Lucifer, who everyone and their mother knows. The concept of a demon so bad at being a demon that he isn't known at all was also on my mind, though I guess you will see a bit of that in the books to come :)

[whispsofkindness]

Giving Back

This is a wonderful true story. You will be glad that you read it, and I hope you will pass it on.

It happened every Friday evening, almost without fail, when the sun resembled a giant orange and was starting to dip into the blue ocean.

Old Ed came strolling along the beach to his favorite pier.

Clutched in his bony hand was a bucket of shrimp. Ed walks out to the end of the pier, where it seems he almost has the world to himself. The glow of the sun is a golden bronze now.

Everybody's gone, except for a few joggers on the beach. Standing out on the end of the pier, Ed is alone with his thoughts...and his bucket of shrimp.

Before long, however, he is no longer alone. Up in the sky a thousand white dots come screeching and squawking, winging their way toward that lanky frame standing there on the end of the pier.

Before long, dozens of seagulls have enveloped him, their wings fluttering and flapping wildly. Ed stands there tossing shrimp to the hungry birds. As he does, if you listen closely, you can hear him say with a smile, 'Thank you. Thank you.'

In a few short minutes the bucket is empty. But Ed doesn't leave. He stands there lost in thought, as though transported to another time and place .

When he finally turns around and begins to walk back toward the beach, a few of the birds hop along the pier with him until he gets to the stairs, and then they, too, fly away. And old Ed quietly makes his way down to the end of the beach and on home.

If you were sitting there on the pier with your fishing line in the water, Ed might seem like 'a funny old duck,' as my dad used to say. Or, to onlookers, he's just another old codger, lost in his own weird world, feeding the seagulls with a bucket full of shrimp.

To the onlooker, rituals can look either very strange or very empty. They can seem altogether unimportant .....maybe even a lot of nonsense.

Old folks often do strange things, at least in the eyes of Boomers and Millennials.

Most of them would probably write Old Ed off, down there in Florida ... That's too bad. They'd do well to know him better.

His full name: Eddie Rickenbacker. He was a famous hero in World War I, and then he was in WWII. On one of his flying missions across the Pacific, he and his seven-member crew went down. Miraculously, all of the men survived, crawled out of their plane, and climbed into a life raft.

Captain Rickenbacker and his crew floated for days on the rough waters of the Pacific. They fought the sun. They fought sharks. Most of all, they fought hunger and thirst. By the eighth day their rations ran out. No food. No water. They were hundreds of miles from land and no one knew where they were or even if they were alive.

Every day across America millions wondered and prayed that Eddie Rickenbacker might somehow be found alive.

The men adrift needed a miracle. That afternoon they had a simple devotional service and prayed for a miracle.

They tried to nap. Eddie leaned back and pulled his military cap over his nose. Time dragged on. All he could hear was the slap of the waves against the raft...suddenly Eddie felt something land on the top of his cap. It was a seagull!

Old Ed would later describe how he sat perfectly still, planning his next move. With a flash of his hand and a squawk from the gull, he managed to grab it and wring its neck. He tore the feathers off, and he and his starving crew made a meal of it - a very slight meal for eight men. Then they used the intestines for bait. With it, they caught fish, which gave them food and more bait....and the cycle continued. With that simple survival technique, they were able to endure the rigors of the sea until they were found and rescued after 24 days at sea.

Eddie Rickenbacker lived many years beyond that ordeal, but he never forgot the sacrifice of that first life-saving seagull... And he never stopped saying, 'Thank you.' That's why almost every Friday night he would walk to the end of the pier with a bucket full of shrimp and a heart full of gratitude.

Reference: (Max Lucado, "In The Eye of the Storm", pp...221, 225-226)

PS: Eddie Rickenbacker was the founder of Eastern Airlines. Before WWI he was race car driver. In WWI he was a pilot and became America's first ace. In WWII he was an instructor and military adviser, and he flew missions with the combat pilots. Eddie Rickenbacker is a true American hero. And now you know another story about the trials and sacrifices that brave men have endured for your freedom.

As you can see, I chose to pass this story along as it was passed to me from my father. It is a great story that many don't know...I think it exemplifies a couple of life's lessons to be remembered. You've got to be careful with old guys, you just never know what they have done during their lifetime. It also speaks to me about how we never know what we adversity we might face, but when we put our talent both mentally and physically together, we can overcome, but we must never forget what we learned and to remember to thank those that helped pull us through even if it was as something seemingly meaningless as a seagull and to pay it forward.

[inspirationalalley]

true story... You will be glad that you read it, and I hope you will pass it on.....

It happened every Friday evening, almost without fail, when the sun resembled a giant orange and was starting to dip into the blue ocean. Old Ed came strolling along the beach to his favorite pier. Clutched in his bony hand was a bucket of shrimp. Ed walks out to the end of the pier, where it seems he almost has the world to himself. The glow of the sun is a golden bronze now.

Everybody's gone, except for a few joggers on the beach. Standing out on the end of the pier, Ed is alone with his thoughts...and his bucket of shrimp. Before long, however, he is no longer alone. Up in the sky a thousand white dots come screeching and squawking, winging their way toward that lanky frame standing there on the end of the pier.

Before long, dozens of seagulls have enveloped him, their wings fluttering and flapping wildly. Ed stands there tossing shrimp to the hungry birds. As he does, if you listen closely, you can hear him say with a smile, 'Thank you. Thank you.'

In a few short minutes the bucket is empty. But Ed doesn't leave. He stands there lost in thought, as though transported to another time and place. Then he finally turns around and begins to walk back toward the beach, a few of the birds hop along the pier with him until he gets to the stairs, and then they, too, fly away. And old Ed quietly makes his way down to the end of the beach and on home.

If you were sitting there on the pier with your fishing line in the water, Ed might seem like 'a funny old duck,' as my dad used to say Or, to onlookers, he's just another old codger, lost in his own weird world, feeding the seagulls with a bucket full of shrimp. To the onlooker, rituals can look either very strange or very empty. They can seem altogether unimportant....maybe even a lot of nonsense.

His full name: Eddie Rickenbacker. He was a famous hero in World War I, and then he was in WWII.

On one of his flying missions across the Pacific, he and his seven-member crew went down. Miraculously, all of the men survived, crawled out of their plane, and climbed into a life raft.

Captain Rickenbacker and his crew floated for days on the rough waters of the Pacific. They fought the sun. They fought sharks. Most of all, they fought hunger and thirst.

By the eighth day their rations ran out. No food. No water. They were hundreds of miles from land and no one knew where they were or even if they were alive. Every day across America millions wondered and prayed that Eddie Rickenbacker might somehow be found alive.

The men adrift needed a miracle. That afternoon they had a simple devotional service and prayed for a miracle.

They tried to nap. Eddie leaned back and pulled his military cap over his nose. Time dragged on. All he could hear was the slap of the waves against the raft...suddenly Eddie felt something land on the top of his cap. It was a seagull! Old Ed would later describe how he sat perfectly still, planning his next move. With a flash of his hand and a squawk from the gull, he managed to grab it and wring its neck. He tore the feathers off, and he and his starving crew made a meal of it - a very slight meal for eight men. Then they used the intestines for bait. With it, they caught fish, which gave them food and more bait....and the cycle continued. With that simple survival technique, they were able to endure the rigors of the sea until they were found and rescued after 24 days at sea.

Eddie Rickenbacker lived many years beyond that ordeal, but he never forgot the sacrifice of that first life-saving seagull. And he never stopped saying, 'Thank you.' That's why almost every Friday night he would walk to the end of the pier with a bucket full of shrimp and a heart full of gratitude.

Reference: (Max Lucado, "In The Eye of the Storm", Chapter 24, pp..221, 225-226)

PS: Eddie Rickenbacker was the founder of Eastern Airlines. Before WWI he was race car driver. In WWI he was a pilot and became America 's first ace. In WWII he was an instructor and military adviser, and he flew missions with the combat pilots. Eddie Rickenbacker is a true American hero.

And now you know another story about the trials and sacrifices that brave men have endured for your freedom.

As you can see, I chose to pass it on. It is a great story that many don't know...

[neurotoxiicity]

Why I Don't Believe In The "Chell's Parents" Theory

This post will be semi-long, so buckle in.

Caveline isn't that big of a ship in the Portal community, but a lot of people theorize that it did result in a child- Chell. I disagree with this notion completely, as from a storytelling perspective this would make no sense and from a in-universe look, it'd be almost impossible. I will go point by point debunking the theory.

WARNING: PORTAL 2 SPOILERS

1. Probability

It wouldn't make sense for Cave and Caroline to have a baby (accidentally or not) and still keep it. Nobody seems to have known they were romantically involved (whether they were actually in a relationship is unseen, but we can infer that there was some level of mutual respect and love, even if the former was slightly lacking for Cave.) Cave would have mentioned something in his recordings when he was near death about a child. He wasn't planning on living, and the person he would have supposedly had it with was going to "die" with him- he'd have nothing left to lose by mentioning Chell. Yet he still doesn't. Cave also seems to be somewhat unhinged from the moon rocks he ingested, although this could just be a more extreme side of him showing due to his inevitable and close death. But, if he was truly mentally unwell, secrets would most likely slip.

2. In-Universe

Not only is this theory improbable, but it's also impossible. Some versions of this theory suggest the potato that Chell grew during Bring Your Daughter To Work Day grew large because Cave gave her a plant-growing hormone to impress others with his daughter's agricultural abilities. This doesn't really make sense, since Cave would have most likely been dead when GLaDOS powered up. Still, if we want to say Chell was adopted by a scientist and still was their child, this would also be a lazy attempt at rationalizing something that is not rational at all. I'll be picking apart the two explanations for the "adoption" side of this theory.

Scientist: this side of the theory suggests that Caroline and Cave had Chell, adopted her out, and then she was adopted by a Aperture scientist coincidentally. Or, she was adopted out to a scientist friend of theirs. This doesn't really make sense since Cave established he thinks of his workers as people lower than him (bean counters, lab boys) that are dispensable and unimportant for anything but work. Even then, he sometimes doesn't like their work. Cave wouldn't allow Caroline to give their child to a person he likely doesn't know and dislikes. Even if Chell was unknowingly adopted by a scientist, this is a one in a million chance and EXTREMELY convenient.

Rattman: This proposes that Rattman was given Chell by Cave/Caroline to raise her. Like the scientist section above, this is improbable and nonsensical, blah blah blah. It's slightly more implausible though due to the fact in Lab Rat that Rattman never mentions that Chell is his daughter or even related to her. Yes, he is a unhinged schizophrenic, but schizophrenia does not cause memory loss, merely delusions. He even takes medication at one point and is shown to be in his right mind for awhile, but there is no mention of any relation to Chell.

As a sidenote, I'd like to mention that GLaDOS never says anything about Caroline and Chell being related, and also that Chell's ethnicity is different then Caroline's and Cave's. Cave and Caroline are both Caucasian, while Chell is modeled after a Brazilian/Japanese woman.

3. Storytelling

While this section will be significantly shorter than the others, I still do want to make a point. The idea of Chell being related to Caroline/Cave/Rattman is just generally lazy narrative fodder that adds nothing to the story. This would make Rattman choosing Chell as the top test subject not a hunch that was wildly correct, but a selfish decision to put his kin before others who would most likely be better suited, at least statistically.

Conclusion

Chell is just most likely related to a random dead scientist. Who her parents are really isn't a critical part of the story. (p/)

[mieczyhale]

aright

so

i've always tried to avoid anti nonsense and general fandom negativity, no matter what fandom it is, it makes things less stressful and more fun. but when i’m sitting in my dumpster and happen upon some bullshit its uhh difficult for me to not say something

so lemme fuckin tell y'all

i am not here for any anti-dave / anti-klave commentary ever. i dont want to see even a hint of it and so running into it, while reading the comments on a klave post bc i like to read other peoples love for their love, is so fucking annoying. now i guess it was partially my bad for reading comments in the first place BUT given my tua fandom experiences thus far i had no reason to expect such bullshit. so.. i was reading a short post about them staying together and then there were shitty replies and reblogs and a fight and im just like ????? with plenty of instant irritation. 

nobody - NOBODY - cares that you think klaus continuing his relationship with ghost!dave would be "unhealthy" (which.. no*) or that you want klaus to get closure and move on OR that fuck dave klaus should just get a new boyfriend. if that's how you feel make your own post, keep it in your own negative space, i dont wanna fucking see it. nor do i wanna have any interaction with you AT ALL if im being honest

*y'all really be overusing words AND y'all be doing so wildly and incorrectly. no i will not expand on that, i will not explain to you why it's wrong (at least not right now because lord knows i'll probably get drunk later and decide to word vomit my feelings about klave again)

like... okay. listen. there's enough negativity around here and enough stories where happiness doesnt last - especially for gay characters - and i just want them to be allowed to have that happiness no matter how unique or improbable the situation. if heteros can get shit like that then why cant we?? the love at first sight and soulmates and 'you're the only one for me' and the happy ending. beating all the odds to be together! if anyone deserves it it's klaus - all on his own, he's suffered enough thanks - but also with dave - he's the love of klaus's life, who treated him with all the love and kindness and respect he hadn't experienced before, who made klaus genuinely happy and who made him want to be better - not by forcing him or guilting him but by loving him like.. fuck off if you dont think that's the best otp shit

for those whose issue is the lack of dave in s1:: yeah the show may not have given us a lot of info on dave, which sucks, but cody ray thompson provided AND ALSO there's all of the fic writers in this fandom who write klave - who have fleshed dave out to be a real and deep character (god bless each and every one of you. you're doing the lord's work) enough so that there are a lot of consistencies across the board, things that stay the same from writer to writer. he's a whole real character! the shows lack of a backstory for him doesnt make dave unimportant or disposable or less valid as a love interest. especially not when the fandom got hold of him

*insert that meme 'i took the liberty of sprucing up your boy' here*

anyway.. thats kind of an off place to stop ranting but ive already wasted too much time on this, trying to get out my thoughts at all let alone in a way that sort of made sense, and now im a lil stressed and a lil sleepy lmao 

so!! my ask & messages are open to anyone who wants to come say words about anything, it doesnt have to be tua but that is a quality topic. i might defend klaus and dave like an absolute banana but i swear i dont bite

[spideyxchelle]

I know you've been taking a break from headcanons so please feel free to ignore this. Michelle and Peter decide to be mature adults and break up before college only they're doing it wrong. They should probably stop texting all the time, maybe notice when someone is trying to flirt with you, and they should definitely stop sleeping together. This is not what breaking up looks like.

hey friends, i have been taking a break from headcanons but this one spoke to my angsty ass. i did go a little off the rails with the prompt here. it just went in  a different direction. sorry! here, have some angsty angst with some feelings. 

there is something haunting about seeing Harvard and MIT acceptance letters in bold next to each other. its in ink that peter and mj won’t be in the same place for school. sure, its they’re both in Cambridge and TECHNICALLY they could make it work, their relationship, but their paths are diverging. they can’t deny that. they will have two different peer groups, new friends, a new place that is devoid of the other.

peter is the one that suggests they let each other go. its the mature thing to do, he reasons. and the ice pick driving through michelle’s heart numbs her enough to agree. 

they spend the last summer before they go off to college making the most of a summer romance. every moment and every kiss burned into the wasteful memories of teenagers. 

and then, as swiftly as they embraced, they are tearing themselves apart, packing up for Cambridge and acting as good as strangers. 

the first month of school is a lot of stimuli. noises, smells, foods, one-night-stands. its the heady rush of college that everyone had warned them about. and for this first month they don’t talk or text or even think about each other. 

and then, facebook pops up a memory on peter’s feed. its a picture from September of his senior year of high school. michelle is burying a kiss in his neck and he’s smiling so broadly his lips look on the verge of splitting. 

he picks up his phone and texts her: u up? he watches his phone for thirty minutes before he tosses to the end of his bed. because this is dumb. he’s a mature adult now. and they made a deal. they promised each other. and he’s not gonna be the asshole making shit compli-

yea, she replies. he scribbles back a response, how’s school? and he feels so lame for making small talk. this is mj. and they are better friends than small talk. but its been a month without her. and he realizes he misses hearing about her day. 

so they start to talk that night. about school. catching each other up on all of the nonsense happening at their respective schools. they text and text and text until sunshine peaks his data acquisition class yawning like mad. he barely manages to be productive for the rest of the day.

which, of course, he has to text her that he blames her for. she sends him a picture of her own tired expression and the middle finger. he immediately saves the picture. 

that is how they get in the rhythm of texting. and even though they are only a train ride away from each other at best they keep their new text-friendship restricted to over the phone. 

peter goes to parties, he assumes she does as well. and he meets people. beautiful people. who think he’s smart and charming and take him home. after, he always texts mj and asks about her day. texting mj is always way more satisfying than the weird blips in random people’s beds. 

when they go back down to new york for thanksgiving break that is the first time he sees mj. and, fuck, she’s beautiful. it smacks him in the face. all of their high school friends gather together at Ned’s house for a catch-up party. and peter falls into his normal seat next to her. and the normal rhythm of his hand on her knee. if she’s bothered by it she doesn’t say. in fact, he even catches the quirk of a smile teasing at the corners of her mouth. 

after, he offers walking her home. cuz he’s a superhero and new york is a dangerous city. she rolls her eyes but lets him walk her home. and only when they are alone does it start to feel awkward. its been months, since august, since they’ve seen each other. and texting every day is not the same as in-person talking. 

mj speaks first. “i missed you.” he’s so startled he nearly trips down the sidewalk. “you do?” he asks. she nods and ducks her face to the left to avoid his eyes. “i, uh,” he tries, “missed you, too. miss you. present tense.” “present tense?” she drawls. he nods, “i don’t want you to think that i missed you for like a minute and then got over it once school started. like, no. i miss you, uh, every minute i’m not with you.” she licks her lips and her pupils are so dilated her eyes look almost black. his pants feel tight at the heat of her gaze. she grabs his hand and the flesh-to-flesh contact shocks him, but not as much as her next question, “you wanna get out of here?” he nods. because, fuck, he really, really does. 

they stumble into her parent’s apartment with laughter pressed between their kisses. he reaches for every inch of skin denied to him for months and she loses her mind. 

peter pulls out of their kiss enough to rest his forehead against hers. he pants, “what does this mean?” she smashes an impatient kiss against his lips, “less talking, parker.” he hoists her up around his waist and drops a nippy kiss on her neck, “i thought you liked when i talked to you during this.” “that’s different,” she runs her shaky hands through his hair. and that’s the last words exchanged between them. well, except the filthy words he growls in her ear. 

after, she silently dresses in his shirt and her jeans. an old tradition of theirs. a cute way to collect his clothes. and one he never fought much. her in his MIT shirt now though made his chest quake with worry. “Em,” he tries. but she shakes her head, “you decided you didn’t want to try, peter. and, honestly, it was a good call.” “a good call,” he repeats, hollow. 

like that, its over. back to the status quo. 

texting back at school. not seeing each other. and, for peter, missing her like a phantom pain. some nights after michelle goes to sleep, he rolls over in his wildly uncomfortable twin bed and curses his stupid self for thinking that he could cut her out of his life as easily as he had presumed. 

he sits up halfway through February and calls tony. his mentor grumbles into the line, “what is it, parker? the suit acting up?” peter tugs his knees into his chest, “no.” there is a long stretch of silence between them on the phone before tony asks, “are you okay?” “i’m sorry,” peter blurts out, “i don’t have anyone else to talk to or, well, you know, ben and my dad aren’t exactly around to talk to, i mean.” it costs peter something to admit to tony that he doesn’t have any other strong male figures in his life to talk to beyond him. its ridiculous. his father figure is a freakin’ superhero. and his problems are so minuscule next to saving the world. tony clears his throat, “what is it, kid?” and just like that peter tells him everything. about missing mj, feeling like he made a terrible mistake and being unsure of how to fix it. tony patiently listens and then gives him one line of advice, “some complaining to me and go and get your girl, parker.” 

he trips out of his bed at the speed he tries to get out the door. he is still pulling up his jeans as he hops down the hall. he runs to the train. its a ten minute train ride and the fact that she’s so close is not lost on him. he’s been so stupid. 

he knocks on her door and she opens it to great confusion. there is a beat, a gaze and then, a profound surge of feeling between them. peter steps forward and kisses her. she makes the softest, most profound noise at the back of her throat. 

he trails her back into her room. “peter,” she sighs, “peter, wait.” he shakes his head and clings to her forearms to steady his pounding heart. michelle guides his hands off of her arms and turns her back to him. he fights the urge to reach for her. “mj,” he shatters. “no,” she shakes her head, “you wanted this. you did this. i had no say. i had no-,” her voice breaks, “you don’t get to just decide you want me again. because what if you decide you don’t want me again? i-i don’t want to play this game. it’s painful.” 

“i’m a shit,” he steps toward her, “and so, so stupid. i thought i was making college easier for us. giving a chance to, i don’t know, try something new. but damn it, Em. i wake up every morning and think about you. i spend every night dreading when you inevitably fall asleep because then i can’t talk to anymore. what do you want me to do about that?” “live with it,” she snarls, “i had to.” “how can you even say that?” he exhales. “i’m not playing this game with you.” “this isn’t a game!” he roughs out. she shouts back, “then why do you get to make all the rules??” 

he stumbles backward two steps, “i shouldn’t have come.” “no,” she agrees, “you shouldn’t have.” her words cut him down. his heart bleeds for her and for them and for every moment he screwed them over. “Em-” he swallows.

she blinks back tears, “don’t call me that.” she brushes past him and throws open the door, waiting for him to walk out of it. he gives her once last lingering look, hoping, until he chokes on his pride and leaves. 

they don’t talk again until april. and every week that rushes past without her in it, for peter, is like a flash of unimportant moments. he gets uninspired and lazy during patrol. which is why he gets in a horrible, horrible accident. 

when he wakes up in the upstate facility, mj is there clinging to his hand. he blinks the pain away and tries to focus on his surroundings. he wonders, briefly, if he is dreaming her there. his voice is scratchy from the lack of use, “Em-?”

her head snaps up and he sees her cheeks wet with tears. “god damn you, peter parker,” is the first thing she says to him after three months of radio silence. it feels apt. “next time,” she plows on, “you decide to take on aliens without back-up….don’t.” “did i stop them?” he sniffs. she rolls her eyes, “you spectacular idiot.” she leans forward and presses the sweetest kiss to his dry mouth. 

his eyes widen in shock, “i-” she shushes him, “don’t speak. you need to drink some fluids and rest. we can talk about it later. we have time.” he shakes his head, “now.” she sucks in an impatient breath, “no. i’m making the rules this time. got it?” maybe its the concussion that is making him so confused and light-headed, but he grins, “this time? we get a this time?” she shrugs, “who else is gonna keep you from making stupid, rash decisions, superhero? you’re a full time job, peter parker.” 

he wants to tell her he loves her. he wants to grab her face and kiss her senseless. he wants so much to have a dazzling moment of getting back together. but the reality is so much less epic: him in a hospital bed, nursing a concussion and mj calling him an idiot. 

and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

[kpopfanfictrash]

any tips on how to be the best kpop writer in this whole site like you? thanks.

omg. GET OUT. Hahaha this is too much, I’m actually giving you a look through my screen. In case this was actually serious though, and you do want advice (LOL), I don’t know if I’m the one to tell it? I’m in no way a professional, have no formal training and just do what I want. Also, I happen to think advice is not a “one size fits all” kind of shoe. There are some ideas which really help writers that aren���t me, and vice versa. THAT SAID, I’ll tell you some of the things which I feel have helped me grow!

1. Shitty first drafts. This is actually a chapter in a book on writing, by Anne Lamott. It was a high school teacher of mine who introduced me, and it’s a lesson I’ve never forgotten. Sometimes when you write, the important thing is just to write. Even if it’s nothing. Even if it’s unimportant. Just start writing, typing nonsense and eventually something will make sense. Just get through the piece, and you can edit all you want later. 

2. Re-writing. I forget where I read this, but if you have a piece you love and want to be the best it can possibly be: re-write it. I don’t mean edit. I don’t mean re-read and change a few words. I mean print it out, have it by your keyboard and write it all over again. There will be things during the rewrite you’ll figure out in the last paragraph of the chapter. There will be things you decide to change, add in or highlight. If you really love something and want to give it it’s due - re-write. TIME CONSUMING, but the results are astounding.

3. Read. This might be obvious, but read other writing. Do you ever read another writer’s work and wonder how they knew just the perfect word to say at the perfect time? That’s because they read. Reading helps you understand word choice, dialogue, foreshadowing, plot structure in the context of a novel. It will become ingrained in you, to the point where you eventually won’t think so hard about those things the next time you write.

4. Practice. You are constantly improving. You are constantly getting better but the only way you can improve, is by trying. Only with practice, can you achieve your best efforts. And you will! That’s the beauty of humanity: the next thing you write will be better than your last. Just like the writing after will be even better than that. If you don’t practice though, writing is a skill like any other. You need to make sure your instrument is sharp to produce content.   

5. … contrary to this, don’t expect perfection. I know that might sound strange, but listen: there will always be things you can improve upon. I think it was John Green who said he never reads his own published novels. It’s because each person is their worst enemy, each writer is a perfectionist and you will always feel you can write something better. You can. But at some point, you need to let go. People will be less critical than you are, someone will enjoy your work, have faith in that fact.

6. Read out loud. Read your story as though reading to an audience. If it sounds weird saying it out loud, it probably sounds weird to the person reading it.

7. Think through details. Every character in your story is a person, every person is wildly complicated. Make sure you know their backstories and personalities. Why they do things, is just as important as how. 

8. Don’t overuse words/vocabulary. Okay, I’ll admit - this one is more personal preference. I know many love the Hawthorne/Faulkner style of writing, where one sentence goes on for twelve paragraphs and a sunrise lasts a chapter. For me though, a helpful piece of advice I one received was: be brutal with editing. Don’t be sentimental about what you write, and regard each sentence as a means to an end. Round 1: Write. Round 2: Ask yourself if each and every sentence needs to be there? Oftentimes, the answer is no. The same goes for descriptors. Too often, people will write about the ‘glittery, long, black, sequined, expensive-looking, possibly Chanel ballgown’ when honestly, it could have just been ‘long, black ballgown’ and the reader would have gotten the point. Show, don’t tell (another classic piece of writing advice). Use a separate paragraph, to mention how the dress glitters. Too many descriptors will make your point lose impact. 

9. Along these same lines, don’t underestimate your readers. They’re smart. Sometimes even smarter than you are. LOL don’t feel like you have to spell out everything. Foreshadowing is beautiful, unspoken themes are beautiful and readers appreciate when you don’t talk down to them.

10. Okay! I have a lot of other little tips in my On Writing tag, linked in my FAQ. I hope this helps you though, anon! Best of luck!  

[dontbethatshank]

Old vs New

Imagine: Before coming into the Glade, you were dating one of the boys. But when you enter you end up falling for another one of the boys. Your old boyfriend realizes this and tells his perspective. ((none reader POV)))

Alby(old): Newt(new) I can’t believe it.. I lost her. Here I am, sitting across the fire from them, drinking until my mind becomes fuzzy and my memory becomes blurred blobs. But no matter how much I drink, I can’t blur out the memory of her. I remember life before this. I remember kissing her and hearing the sound of a dog barking wildly as she laughed and squealed. i remember telling her that I would always love her and her telling me she would never forget what we have... but she forgot. Because now she’s with him; Newt. So not only is the love of my life completely oblivious to our relationship and love, but she is also in love with my best friend, my second in command. Tipping back the bottle in my hand I feel a burning sensation as cool liquid runs down my throat. My vision is getting blurry, but I still see those beautiful eyes and that wide bright smile. Everything around her is gone and faded... but I could never forget her. Brainwashed, drunk, dead, or any other instance - I would still remember her. But I don’t think she’ll ever remember me. Cheers, I hope Newt is more memorable than I was..

Newt(old): Gally(new) How could she? Sitting at the table, less than ten feet away, her arms around him. How could she forget? How? Our late night talks? Our hour long hugs? Our water fights? How? I don’t get it. As soon as I saw her, I remembered something. I saw the blurred image of a life I couldn’t recall before then... but she saw nothing. All she saw was Gally. She saw a strong, attractive guy and she looked at me and saw nothing. My food tastes bland, my water tastes like iron, my legs feel like pieces of lead, and my mind feels like it’s on auto pilot, all my responses delievered out of force. I don’t feel like I am living anymore. I’m breathing. I’m walking. I’m talking. But I’m not kissing her. I’m not holding her at night. I’m not the one she says ‘I love you’ too. And that feels wrong. it feels like an alternate Universe where nothing is rigth and everything is backwards. It feels empty and pointless... I see her, and I see her wide smile, the curve of her forever chapped lips and I hear the small snort that she tries to hide everytime she lets out a big laugh. I see, hear, and feel all these things... but I am just another guy in this bloody Glade who she has never seen before.. why doesn’t she remember?

Gally(old): Minho(new) I fucking hate him. And her. I hate her. I hate her so much. I hate how her lips twitch before she smiles. I hate how she only has one dimple and it shows even when she barely smiles. I hate that she lets out a gust of air before she starts to laugh. I hate that she grabs my arm whenever she has to ask me a question or forgets her next words. I hate her. I hate how much I love her. I hate that she didn’t love me enough to remember me. Instead, she grabbed Minho. The day she got her she’s been stuck to him like glue. Her fingers never leave his hair, her lips always press against his ear to whisper secrets, her eyes always dance over his stupid face. But she’s only talked to me out of necessity. She only knows me because I’m her Keeper. Not because I’m the boy who’s been in love with her all my life. Not because I love her and remember her even though I can’t even remember myself. But obviously, I loved her and she didn’t love me. And I hate that. I hate having to watch her talk to Minho as she finished up her sketches for our new proejcts. I hate how she kisses him before he goes to shower. I hate how she looks at me with  sheepish smile and glazed eyes once he leaves, to say she’s sorry but to also rub it in my face that she loves him. I hate her. I hate how beautiful she is. I hate that she constantly hums as she works and sings these random songs that I can’t remember to save my life as we work together. I hate that I wasn’t enough... but I hate myself most because I couldn’t make her love me enough to remember me. And that’s something I won’t ever get a chance to change.

Minho (old): Thomas(new) He’s been her three months. She hasn’t even been her a whole two months. So how did this happen? How did hejust swoop in and sweep her off her feet so quickly? How did he manage to make her lvoe him before I even had the chance to make her remember me? Doesn’t he care that he’s killing me? That he’s ripping my lungs from my body and my spirit from my soul? I love y/n... so much. She always curls a piece of hair around her finger as she thinks. She always looks up and bounces on the balls of her feet whenever she is figuring out a math problem or is trying to remember something. I could name all her quirks and I could write a book about the way she talks and walks.  But... she wouldn’t listen. I’m just her ‘boyfriend’s’ friend. I’m just a guy who she looks at with a smile and a poliet nod. I’m not Thomas. I’m not the one she looks at with stars dancing in her eyes. Or the one she nuzzles into during dinner and she’s struggling to stay awake. I’m not him. I’m not Thomas. I’m just a boyfriend from a lifetime forgotten. A guy that loved her so much... that not even a hell hole known asthe Glade could make me forget her. And that guy? He’s nothing special. I’m nothing special. Because I’m not Thomas.

Thomas(old): Alby(new) I don’t even know how it happened. Or when it happened. I’m thrown from a metal box into this giant field surronded by strangers.And the only person I remember has forgotten me completely. She looks at me with pity and sadness, her arm and hand wrapped around Alby’s as she looks at me, not knowing what to do. But she used to know. She used to know exactly what to say and do. She knew that yesterday. Because all I remember is her beautiful eyes crinkling up in a smile as she laughed at me, playing with my hair as she told me stories and unimportant nonsense. Yesterday, she kissed me with the heat of the sun and whispered in my ear that she loved me. Yesterday, she sat on my lap and showed me a drawing, asking me how it looked before crumpling it up and throwing it at my face before I could respond... but apparently yesterday was years ago. And apparently years ago she found Alby but she didn’t find a trace of a memory of me. When I look at her, I see home. I see scribbled drawings, messy food, messier beds, and a girl who made me go crazy with just a simle thought or mention of her name. But now, when I look at her and see all these things, I see that same girl wrapped up in Alby’s arms. Her crazy antics causing him to laugh. Her messy hair laying against his chest as she toys with his shirt or his fingers. I don’t see the girl who loved me.... I see the girl who forgot me.

[chuckker2000]

It happened every Friday evening, almost without fail, when the sun resembled a giant orange and was starting to dip into the blue ocean. Old Ed came strolling along the beach to his favorite pier. Clutched in his bony hand was a bucket of shrimp. Ed walks out to the end of the pier, where it seems he almost has the world to himself. The glow of the sun is a golden bronze now.   Everybody's gone, except for a few joggers on the beach. Standing out on the end of the pier, Ed is alone with his thoughts...and his bucket of shrimp.   Before long, however, he is no longer alone. Up in the sky a thousand white dots come screeching and squawking, winging their way toward that lanky frame standing there on the end of the pier. Before long, dozens of seagulls have enveloped him, their wings fluttering and flapping wildly. Ed stands there tossing shrimp to the hungry birds. As he does, if you listen closely, you can hear him say with a smile, 'Thank you. Thank you.’   In a few short minutes the bucket is empty. But Ed doesn't leave.   He stands there lost in thought, as though transported to another time and place. When he finally turns around and begins to walk back toward the beach, a few of the birds hop along the pier with him until he gets to the stairs, and then they, too, fly away.   And old Ed quietly makes his way down to the end of the beach and on home. If you were sitting there on the pier with your fishing line in the water, Ed might seem like 'a funny old duck,' as my dad used to say. Or, to onlookers, he's just another old codger, lost in his own weird world,   feeding the seagulls with a bucket full of shrimp.   To the onlooker, rituals can look either very strange or very empty.   They can seem altogether unimportant ... Maybe even a lot of nonsense.   Old folks often do strange things,   At least in the eyes of Boomers and Busters.   Most of them would probably write Old Ed off, down there in Florida. That's too bad. They'd do well to know him better. His full name: Eddie Rickenbacker. He was a famous hero in World War I, and then he was in WWII. On one of his flying missions across the Pacific, he and his seven-member crew went down Miraculously, all of the men survived, crawled out of their plane, and climbed into a life raft.   Captain Rickenbacker and his crew floated for days on the rough waters of the Pacific. They fought the sun. They fought sharks. Most of all, they fought hunger and thirst. By the eighth day their rations ran out. No food. No water. They were hundreds of miles from land and no one knew where they were or even if they were alive. Every day across America millions wondered and prayed that Eddie Rickenbacker might somehow be found alive.   The men adrift needed a miracle. That afternoon they had a simple devotional service and prayed for a miracle. They tried to nap. Eddie leaned back and pulled his military cap over his nose. Time dragged on. All he could hear was the slap of the waves against the raft... Suddenly, Eddie felt something land on the top of his cap.   It was a seagull! Old Ed would later describe how he sat perfectly still, planning his next move. With a flash of his hand and a squawk from the gull, he managed to grab it and wring its neck. He tore the feathers off, and he and his starving crew made a meal of it - a very slight meal for eight men. Then they used the intestines for bait. With it, they caught fish, which gave them food and more bait . . . And the cycle continued. With that simple survival technique, they were able to endure the rigors of the sea until they were found and rescued after 24 days at sea. Eddie Rickenbacker lived many years beyond that ordeal, but he never forgot the sacrifice of that first life-saving seagull... And he never stopped saying, 'Thank you.' That's why almost every Friday night he would walk to the end of the pier with a bucket full of shrimp and a heart full of gratitude. Reference: (Max Lucado, "In The Eye of the Storm", pp..221, 225-226) PS: Eddie Rickenbacker was the founder of Eastern Airlines. Before WWI he was race car driver. In WWI he was a pilot and became America 's first ace. In WWII he was an instructor and military adviser, and he flew missions with the combat pilots. Eddie Rickenbacker is a true American hero. And now you know another story about the trials and sacrifices that brave men have endured for your freedom. As you can see, I chose to pass it on. It is a great story that many don't know...You've got to be careful with old guys, You just never know what they have done during their lifetime.

[rjhamster]

It happened every Friday evening, almost without fail, when the sun resembled a giant orange and was starting to dip into the blue ocean. Old Ed came strolling along the beach to his favorite pier. Clutched in his bony hand was a bucket of shrimp. Ed walks out to the end of the pier, where it seems he almost has the world to himself. The glow of the sun is a golden bronze now.  Everybody's gone, except for a few joggers on the beach. Standing out on the end of the pier, Ed is alone with his thoughts...and his bucket of shrimp.  Before long, however, he is no longer alone. Up in the sky a thousand white dots come screeching and squawking, winging their way toward that lanky frame standing there on the end of the pier. Before long, dozens of seagulls have enveloped him, their wings fluttering and flapping wildly. Ed stands there tossing shrimp to the hungry birds. As he does, if you listen closely, you can hear him say with a smile, 'Thank you. Thank you.’  In a few short minutes the bucket is empty. But Ed doesn't leave.  He stands there lost in thought, as though transported to another time and place. When he finally turns around and begins to walk back toward the beach, a few of the birds hop along the pier with him until he gets to the stairs, and then they, too, fly away.  And old Ed quietly makes his way down to the end of the beach and on home.If you were sitting there on the pier with your fishing line in the water, Ed might seem like 'a funny old duck,' as my dad used to say. Or, to onlookers, he's just another old codger, lost in his own weird world,  feeding the seagulls with a bucket full of shrimp.  To the onlooker, rituals can look either very strange or very empty.  They can seem altogether unimportant ... Maybe even a lot of nonsense.  Old folks often do strange things,  At least in the eyes of Boomers and Busters.  Most of them would probably write Old Ed off, down there in Florida. That's too bad. They'd do well to know him better.  His full name: Eddie Rickenbacker. He was a famous hero in World War I, and then he was in WWII. On one of his flying missions across the Pacific, he and his seven-member crew went down. Miraculously, all of the men survived, crawled out of their plane, and climbed into a life raft.  Captain Rickenbacker and his crew floated for days on the rough waters of the Pacific. They fought the sun. They fought sharks. Most of all, they fought hunger and thirst. By the eighth day their rations ran out. No food. No water. They were hundreds of miles from land and no one knew where they were or even if they were alive. Every day across America millions wondered and prayed that Eddie Rickenbacker might somehow be found alive.  The men adrift needed a miracle. That afternoon they had a simple devotional service and prayed for a miracle. They tried to nap. Eddie leaned back and pulled his military cap over his nose. Time dragged on. All he could hear was the slap of the waves against the raft... Suddenly, Eddie felt something land on the top of his cap.  It was a seagull! Old Ed would later describe how he sat perfectly still, planning his next move. With a flash of his hand and a squawk from the gull, he managed to grab it and wring its neck. He tore the feathers off, and he and his starving crew made a meal of it - a very slight meal for eight men. Then they used the intestines for bait. With it, they caught fish, which gave them food and more bait . . . And the cycle continued. With that simple survival technique, they were able to endure the rigors of the sea until they were found and rescued after 24 days at sea. Eddie Rickenbacker lived many years beyond that ordeal, but he never forgot the sacrifice of that first life-saving seagull... And he never stopped saying, 'Thank you.' That's why almost every Friday night he would walk to the end of the pier with a bucket full of shrimp and a heart full of gratitude.Reference:  (Max Lucado, "In The Eye of the Storm", pp..221, 225-226) PS: Eddie Rickenbacker was the founder of Eastern Airlines. Before WWI he was race car driver. In WWI he was a pilot and became America 's first ace. In WWII he was an instructor and military adviser, and he flew missions with the combat pilots. Eddie Rickenbacker is a true American hero. And now you know another story about the trials and sacrifices that brave men have endured for your freedom.

[lifesgreatestfool]

Top 5 Albums of 2016 - E

5. Danny Brown: Atrocity Exhibition

Danny Brown earns a well-deserved spot in my top 5 albums of the year with his third and best release to date. Danny’s over-the-top, psychotic persona is sometimes difficult for me to digest or even appreciate, but it fits a little too perfectly in this context. For this project, Danny doesn’t hide the ball regarding the album’s mood. Rather, he quickly sets it with the opener Downward Spiral. Danny’s staple delivery accompanies a whirlwind of cacophonous and downright disturbing instrumentation, which doesn’t let up as much as it does mutate to fit the intended feel of each forthcoming track. Whether it be the infectiously catchy Really Doe featuring Kendrick Lamar, unrelenting bangers like Dance in the Water and Ain’t it Funny, or the hazy and enjoyable Get Hi, Atrocity Exhibition successfully manages to plunge its listener into the hellish depths of Danny’s apparently dark and drug-riddled world, with no promise of letting up until the close. 

4. Bon Iver: 22, A Million

Since its release, countless criticisms across the internet have been lobbed at 22, A Million, Justin Vernon’s third full-length album as Bon Iver. Yet, with each listen, the album effortlessly disproves the validity of such criticisms for me. Some dissenters focus on what they deem to be nonsensical song titles, overly complex cover art, a supposed lack of cohesion, or distracting experimentation. In my opinion, these are all critiques that are either unimportant of untrue. I’ll take ridiculous song titles and borderline pretentious cover art all day if the accompanying music is up to snuff. And in this case, I’m thrilled that it certainly is. 

With two stellar full-length albums already under Bon Iver’s belt, and an excruciating gap of silence thereafter, it was always going to be difficult for 22, A Million to live up to my expectations. While it may not have floored me to the extent that For Emma and Bon Iver did, this album has solidified itself as a more-than-worthy third act. For me, this collection of tracks represents an intuitive next step in Bon Iver’s artistic development. The exceptional songwriting is still there, often wonderfully complimented by sonic experimentation and vocal manipulation. 29 Strafford Apts rivals the beauty of Bon Iver’s best past-efforts, and is firmly one of my favorite songs of the 2016. Creeks is a pure emotional powerhouse (”GOD DAMN TURN AROUND” - so good). 22 (Over Soon) serves perfectly as the album’s stunningly unique opener, and 00000 Million closes the album out on a more straightforward but gorgeous note. 

Justin Vernon is still yet to let me down. 

3. David Bowie: Blackstar

There is no way to avoid the glaringly morbid appeal of Bowie’s final artistic offering. It is an appeal that is inextricably and likely intentionally linked with the album. Independent of Bowie’s death, the opening title-track is perhaps the most haunting piece of music I have heard in recent memory. Pair that with what has occurred since its recording, and the track takes on an emotional and psychological weight that is difficult to come by elsewhere. This absurd, almost divine quality intensifies with the track Lazarus, with which Bowie has essentially managed to bridge an otherwise impenetrable spiritual boundary between life and death. I’m not one to believe in lofty spiritual concepts, but leave it to David Bowie to make me second guess a belief of such magnitude. 

Tracks like Girl Loves Me, Dollar Days, and I Can’t Give Everything Away further solidly this album as a triumph. I must admit that one or two tracks feel a bit weaker and slightly out of place within this already concise album. However, Blackstar’s many high points are nothing short of transcendent. Now, we are left to stare at the cover art above. A black outline where an artistic star of unprecedented brightness once stood for decades. 

2. Frank Ocean: Blonde

Blonde is just so undeniably good. Frank Ocean’s long awaited sophomore LP is actually my first love affair with the man’s music. Admittedly, I never fully boarded the Channel Orange train and, to this day, I’m not all that familiar with the record. But, unlike Channel Orange, Blonde kept calling me back. Even from my first listen, I liked Blonde, but I didn’t think it would become one of favorite albums of the year. Yet, I listened again, and again, and the full potential of this album gradually but magnificently bloomed before my ears. Now that the year is over, I would estimate that this was my most listened to album of 2016. 

I don’t really feel the need to pick out and discuss particular tracks here, because I pretty much love them all. Mentioning some but not others would be a disservice. The consistently disarming melodies, dreamy and tender soundscapes, poignant lyrics, and occasionally jarring yet tasteful vocal experimentation all come together to form a cohesive, wildly successful record. 

1. Car Seat Headrest: Teens of Denial

On the surface, Teens of Denial doesn’t seem like it should be my album of the year. It’s a 70-minute onslaught of Will Toledo’s sarcastic, often monotone rambling accompanied by somewhat standard indie rock instrumentation. Yet, this album is everything that indie music fans needed at this point in time. 

First off, my above-mentioned summary of the album is not at all a fair representation of what Toledo has managed to accomplish with this record. The songs are smart, dynamic, funny, and sometimes complex. There are countless on-point guitar riffs, melodies, and passionate vocal explosions from Toledo that, dare I say, capture a level of earnestness comparable to that of Win Butler on Funeral.  The album’s opener, Fill in the Blank, has Toledo expressing his distaste with, well, _________ (everything). It’s a fiery tune that sets the tone for the rest to come. 

The song Vincent offers an excellent and challenging listen, with a long-winded, hypnotic instrumental intro and an overall dense song structure. Destroyed by Hippie Powers is insanely catchy, funny (the song title alone), and emotionally crushing (”WHAT HAPPENED TO THAT CHUBBY LITTLE KID/who smiled too much and loved the Beach Boys?). 

The accessibility of Fill in the Blank returns with Drunk Drivers/Killer Whales, an excellent lead single and mid-album sing-along relief. 1937 State Park lays on more devastating lyricism, recounting a run in with the cops and Toledo’s resolve to remain stoic throughout (”I didn’t want you to hear that shake in my voice/My pain is my own”). The picture painted is almost too vivid. 

Teens of Denial secures my number one spot with the absolutely stunning Ballad of Costa Concordia. This astounding tune meanders lyrically and musically throughout. It gradually ascends to a crushing mid-song climax, throughout which Toledo rattles off a a seemingly endless list of insecurities and admitted adulthood failures (”How was I supposed to know how to make dinner for myself? How was I supposed to steer this ship?). The song’s end brings no relief from this crisis as Toledo shouts into oblivion “I GIVE UP!” 

Rarely does an artist put as much on the table as Toledo does here. It’s all out there, delightfully swirling around in this captivating shit-show of a record.