Curiosity killed the cat
Satisfaction brought it back.

What a curious world we live in.

Ask me anything  
Reblogged from astratos-deactivated20131217
Reblogged from brooklynmutt

@ChuckWendig: Facebook will not remove rape culture photo from its site as it doesn’t qualify as “hate speech.” 
 via @EverydaySexism

Facebook bans an NY Times comic showing nipples (i.e. dots) on a woman, but doesn’t ban a post about rape. WTFsigh.


@ChuckWendig: Facebook will not remove rape culture photo from its site as it doesn’t qualify as “hate speech.”

 via @EverydaySexism

Facebook bans an NY Times comic showing nipples (i.e. dots) on a woman, but doesn’t ban a post about rape. WTFsigh.

(via brooklynmutt)

Reblogged from victimize
You want to travel with them. You want to see what they’re like going through airport security, on planes, in strange countries. You want to meet their families and charm them to pieces. You want to nestle into their childhood beds and look around in the dark at all their old posters. You want to see all the embarrassing photos of them with braces and socks pulled up mid-calf. You want to hear all the stories about their drunken nights under the bleachers and their best friend’s jokes. You want to read all their journals, see how they took notes in high school. Did they use pen or pencil? What color highlighter? You want to work with them, just to see them work. You want to go out with them. You want to make out with them in the bathroom. You always want to touch them; you want them to always want to touch you.
You find reasons to disentangle yourself from them; it’s only going to hurt later, you can tell already. You stay up way past your bedtime for them. You look at the clock and know their schedule. You neglect other people and other things, and beat yourself up about it. But it’s like they have a hold of your hands and your voice, and you don’t mind. It’s like you’re trapped in an hourglass; you know your lungs might fill with sand, but there’s something sensual and comforting about the grains sliding down glass walls and pooling around your ankles, your knees, your waist.
You like things about their appearance that the rest of the world may cringe at and call strange, less than perfect. Their broken, reshaped noses; their little teeth or the gaps in between them; the way they pull their hair; their narrow hips; their wide shoulders; the depth of their pores. You can laugh when funny things happen in bed. You usually want to be in bed with them.
You think they’re smarter, better, friendlier, fitter, happier, more productive than you are. You strive to be as much as they are, as good as they are. You try to cheat and figure out what it is they’re going to teach you, if they’re going to fall from grace, if you’re going to play a part for them that you never thought you’d play before. You try and pull patterns and threads of meaning from the conversation or the way they looked at you the first time you met; what they did, what they offered. An apple stolen from the bar. Notes from a guitar. Pitchers of free beer. Pieces of bark with writing on them.
You cherish snippets of them; paste them up in your memories like old faded scrapbooks clutched to chests for generations. Their skin glows black and white in your head. They star in the little short films of your life that sneak up on you when you’re not looking. Like the walk to the South End for dinner on a quiet corner. The feel of the sun beating down on you both at an outdoor concert. The way they ordered wine on your first date. The slow swing of a hammock near a lake. The back seat of their car.
You can see yourself with them in the future you can’t quite see. You build apartments outfitted with all the right kitchen supplies and the perfect bed with two nightstands, each piled with books and magazines. You wait for them patiently while they chase their dreams; they wait for you patiently as you chase yours. You sit in bed eating dinner late at night, drinking tea and wine and whiskey as you tell each other all about the chasing. You create adopted dogs and cats; you have awkward conversations about money; you put up with each other’s crap. You see what they look like standing at the end of a candle-lit aisle in your grassy front yard and wonder if you’ll make it to the other end to meet them or if they’ll just end up in the scrapbook clutched to your chest or flickering on the screen in your brain.
How You Know - Talia Ralph (via thesecretdiaryofjake)

(Source: victimize, via cubone)

Reblogged from brooklynmutt
Reblogged from awritersruminations
We are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one day not be at all.

Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

(via awritersruminations)

(via psychotherapy)

Reblogged from astratos-deactivated20131217
Reblogged from bobbycaputo
Reblogged from ladyknightrps

Ultimate Writing Resource List



a massively extended version of ruthlesscalculus’ post

General Tips

Character Development

Female Characters

Male Characters

Read More

I’m confused as to why female characters get so much attention compared to the one article about male characters. Is it really that hard for male writers to think of female characters as just another character? OMG, MY CHARACTER HAS A VAGINA. SHIT JUST GOT COMPLICATED. I’ll make her a walking sex object that repeatedly gets kidnapped. There. Fixed it.

Also, this is a great resource.

(Source: ladyknightrps, via vulpix)

Reblogged from whatshouldwecallgradschool



Patrick Stewart

credit: Jason

THIS. Also, Patrick Stewart’s expression warrants a reblog all on its own.

Reblogged from evanfleischer
Reblogged from politicalmachine

Two other women, also breast cancer survivors, said their husbands left them after they were diagnosed. Both had to have mastectomies (in case anyone doesn’t know, this is the surgical operation to remove one or both breasts).

The first woman said her husband told her that he would rather see her dead than see her lose her breasts. The second woman had her operation and waited all day to be picked up by her husband, who never arrived. By nightfall, one of the nurses offered to give her a ride, and she came home to find the house empty.

Obviously, these are extreme cases of a man’s reaction to his wife’s breast cancer, but this is what I see when I see the “I ♥ Boobies” bracelets. I see love of the body parts, not the person being treated—not the patient, not the victim, not the survivor.

My Beef with the “I Love Boobies” Bracelets  (via faithinwonderland)

(Source: politicalmachine, via cubone)