1. lierdumoa:

    iwatchforsasha:

    Fantastic Breasts and Where to Find Them

    That second to last panel is chilling.

    Reblogged from: atransparenteyeball
  2. whitepeoplesaidwhat:


everythingrhymeswithalcohol:

#Ferguson

THIS IS WHAT IM SAYIN!!! GON’ HEAD LADIES!!!-Holly

    whitepeoplesaidwhat:

    everythingrhymeswithalcohol:

    #Ferguson

    THIS IS WHAT IM SAYIN!!! GON’ HEAD LADIES!!!
    -Holly

    Reblogged from: atransparenteyeball
  3. He is taking a course on Marxist ideology.
    He says, “The only real solution is to smash the system and start again.”
    His thumb is caressing the most bourgeois copy of the communist manifesto that I have ever seen,
    He bought it at Barnes and Noble for twenty-nine U.S. American dollars and ninety-nine cents,
    Its hard cover shows a dark man with a scarved face
    Waving a gigantic red flag against a fictional smoky background.
    The matte finish is fucking gorgeous.
    He wants to be congratulated for paying Harvard sixty thousand dollars
    To teach him that the system is unfair.
    He pulls his iPhone from his imported Marino wool jacket, and leaves.

    What people can’t possibly tell from the footage on TV
    Is that the water cannon feels like getting whipped with a burning switch.
    Where I come from, they fill it with sewer water and hope that they get you in the face with your mouth open
    So that the hepatitis will keep you in bed for the next protest.
    What you can’t tell from Harvard square,
    Is that when the tear gas bursts from nowhere to everywhere all at once,
    It scrapes your insides like barbed wire, sawing at your lungs.
    Tear gas is such a benign term for it,
    If you have never breathed it in you would think it was a nostalgic experience.
    What you can’t learn at Barnes and Noble,
    Is that when they rush you, survival is to run,
    I am never as fast as when the police are chasing me.
    I know what happens to women in the holding cells down there and yet…
    We still do it.

    I inherited my communist manifesto,
    It has no cover—
    Because my mother ripped it off when she hid it in the dust jacket of “Don Quixote”
    The day before the soldiers destroyed her apartment,
    Looking for subversive propaganda.
    She burned the cover, could not bring herself to burn the pages,
    Hoped to God the soldiers couldn’t read,
    They never found it.
    So she was not killed for it, but her body bore the scars of the torture chamber,
    For wanting her children to have a better life than she did,
    Don’t talk to me about revolution.

    I know what the price of smashing the system really is, my people already tried that.
    The price of uprise is paid in blood,
    And not Harvard blood.
    The blood that ran through the streets of Santiago,
    The blood thrown alive from Argentine helicopters into the Atlantic.

    It is easy to say “revolution” from the comfort of a New England library.

    It is easy to offer flesh to the cause,
    When it is not yours to give.

    Catalina Ferro, “Manifesto” (via dialecticsof)
    Reblogged from: alskaichou
  4. ppyajunebug:

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.)

Reblogging this kickass post by the equally kickass
lavenderpatil
because everyone should read it

    ppyajunebug:

    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.)

    Reblogging this kickass post by the equally kickass
    lavenderpatil
    because everyone should read it
    Reblogged from: alskaichou
  5. Reblogged from: wickedmeta
  6. mvgl:

    The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air 2x09 - “Cased Up” (November 11, 1991)

    Reblogged from: brokenbutbright
  7. thatenglishmajorquestion:

    "what are you going to do with a degree in english?" carry around the longest book i’ve ever read in order to establish my position as the alpha scholar

    Reblogged from: shutupsirius
  8. theroguefeminist:

    i literally find every iteration of this meme HILARIOUS no matter what fandom it involves

    Reblogged from: hipsterdraco
  9. nerdgeekdorkyes:

briandanielwolf:

vixyish:

xixsem:

I DID THIS IM VERY PROUD OF IT YOU KNOW WHY
BECAUSE
WAIT FOR IT
LORDE OF THE RINGS

But every day’s like
Gold ring, greybeard, trippin’ on the mushrooms
Blood-mad Nazgul trashin’ the hotel room
We don’t care
We got to Rivendell across the stream

And everybody’s like
Mountains, dwarf mines, presents from the Elf Queen
Rowboats, rock paths, Gollum on a rope leash
We don’t care
Yeah we’re simply gonna walk in there

Cuz we’re going to Moooooordor
(Moooooordor)

Had to reblog this hah

    nerdgeekdorkyes:

    briandanielwolf:

    vixyish:

    xixsem:

    I DID THIS IM VERY PROUD OF IT YOU KNOW WHY

    BECAUSE

    WAIT FOR IT

    LORDE OF THE RINGS

    But every day’s like
    Gold ring, greybeard, trippin’ on the mushrooms
    Blood-mad Nazgul trashin’ the hotel room
    We don’t care
    We got to Rivendell across the stream
    And everybody’s like
    Mountains, dwarf mines, presents from the Elf Queen
    Rowboats, rock paths, Gollum on a rope leash
    We don’t care
    Yeah we’re simply gonna walk in there

    Cuz we’re going to Moooooordor

    (Moooooordor)

    Had to reblog this hah

    Reblogged from: superfuckingmoose
  10. All credit goes to the masterpost…posters. Because they’re great people.
    Cheer up and Relax
    Fun Stuff
    Mental Illness
    Self Harm
    Films
    General Self Help
    Everything
    In Case Of Emergency
    Others
    Reblogged from: sherlockisdying
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