My Better is Better than Your Better.

Hello there, friend. Female. 20. Portland, OR. Whatever it is, I'd rather be reading. Fucking dorky, anime/manga nerd, artist that is going blind. I post about things I like and/or find interesting. A lot of it is NSFW. I also enjoy really bad jokes and puns.





smilestoinspire:

This is the greatest tweet in the history of tweets

smilestoinspire:

This is the greatest tweet in the history of tweets

(via ehm8)



rabbivole:

ahahagerman:

made a small mistake on his German exam.

oh my god
i learned something today

rabbivole:

ahahagerman:

made a small mistake on his German exam.

oh my god

i learned something today

(via ehm8)


dactro:

conigliomannaro:

dyamirityofthelord:

lucisensitivesatan:

trategos:

boyfriend or girlfriend requirements:

  • you have to kill the spider

but spiders are cute and innocent! it should be:

  • you have to catch the spider and release it in the garden

okay

boyfriend or girlfriend requirements:

  • just get that spider away from me i don’t care if you send it to italy just get it away

DO NOT SEND THE SPIDER TO ITALY

you’re right

we will send it to france

image

(Source: beastector, via ehm8)





stop-and-smell-the-dogroseflower:

STOP. SCROLLING. NOWWWWWWWWW.
The eraser on top is the Paper Mate Union Eraser.
I thought it wouldn’t work much, but… It erases ink.
And NOT JUST ballpoint pen ink, India Ink too.
If you make a mistake, this eraser can erase the whole thing and leave no trace AT ALL, although you do need to erase quite vigorously.
It’s only about 1-2 dollars.

The eraser pencil on the bottom is just that. It is an eraser that you can SHARPEN like a regular pencil. The brush on top is so that you don’t smear your art when you try to push off eraser crumbs. You sweep them off with the brush.
Even if you’re not an artist, signal boost please?
It’s a very cheap way to get around life.

stop-and-smell-the-dogroseflower:

STOP. SCROLLING. NOWWWWWWWWW.

The eraser on top is the Paper Mate Union Eraser.

I thought it wouldn’t work much, but… It erases ink.

And NOT JUST ballpoint pen ink, India Ink too.

If you make a mistake, this eraser can erase the whole thing and leave no trace AT ALL, although you do need to erase quite vigorously.

It’s only about 1-2 dollars.

image

The eraser pencil on the bottom is just that. It is an eraser that you can SHARPEN like a regular pencil. The brush on top is so that you don’t smear your art when you try to push off eraser crumbs. You sweep them off with the brush.

Even if you’re not an artist, signal boost please?

It’s a very cheap way to get around life.

(via ehm8)



fadeintocase:

gundamdick:

ALRIGHT LISTEN UP IMMA TELL YOU SOME SERIOUS GENDER MARKETING BULLSHIT THAT WENT DOWN TODAY
Today a woman came in to get her 13 year old son’s black iPhone fixed. This thing was totally fucking busted. She was already kind of being bitchy so I’m just trying to reassure her that everything will be fine and shuffle through the paper work so shes on her way. She leaves, I put her phone away till I have time to fix it.
Well come to find out that we were completely out of black screens until next week’s shipment. So I put on a white screen for now and reassure her that when we do get black screens in that I will call her and we’ll put the new screen on for free. Better to have a temporary mixed match phone then a broken one right?
This woman proceeds to flip her shit. “WE CAME HERE TO GET WHAT WE HAD FIXED!” I calmly explain to her that there is nothing I can do about the color for the time being. The son is totally fine with this and obviously embarrassed by his mother’s outburst. The woman snatches the phone, sneers at it, and then shoves it back into my hands and says “NOW IT LOOKS LIKE A GIRL’S PHONE! I AM NOT GIVING THIS TO MY SON!”
At this moment I turn to her and say. “I don’t undersand? How is it a girl’s phone now?”
"Well it was BLACK and now its WHITE!!" She gestured dramatically at the screen like I couldn’t fucking see it.
"How is white a feminine color?"
She huffs and explains that she refuses to take the phone until the color is changed. The 13 is now rapid fire “its fine its fine” cause he just wants his phone back. But she keeps refusing but I finally tell her again that we will change the phone for free when we get black screens and that shes not allowed to keep it here. The point of the matter is that this woman almost refused to even take back the phone BECAUSE OF ITS COLOR. Mind you its not even anything like pink or purple. ITS. WHITE.
A SUBURBAN WHITE WOMAN TURNED RED IN THE FACE WITH ANGER BEAUSE SHE THOUGHT WHITE WAS TOO GIRLY FOR HER SON.

the fuck is up with moms policing their sons’ masculinity

fadeintocase:

gundamdick:

ALRIGHT LISTEN UP IMMA TELL YOU SOME SERIOUS GENDER MARKETING BULLSHIT THAT WENT DOWN TODAY

Today a woman came in to get her 13 year old son’s black iPhone fixed. This thing was totally fucking busted. She was already kind of being bitchy so I’m just trying to reassure her that everything will be fine and shuffle through the paper work so shes on her way. She leaves, I put her phone away till I have time to fix it.

Well come to find out that we were completely out of black screens until next week’s shipment. So I put on a white screen for now and reassure her that when we do get black screens in that I will call her and we’ll put the new screen on for free. Better to have a temporary mixed match phone then a broken one right?

This woman proceeds to flip her shit. “WE CAME HERE TO GET WHAT WE HAD FIXED!” I calmly explain to her that there is nothing I can do about the color for the time being. The son is totally fine with this and obviously embarrassed by his mother’s outburst. The woman snatches the phone, sneers at it, and then shoves it back into my hands and says “NOW IT LOOKS LIKE A GIRL’S PHONE! I AM NOT GIVING THIS TO MY SON!”

At this moment I turn to her and say. “I don’t undersand? How is it a girl’s phone now?”

"Well it was BLACK and now its WHITE!!" She gestured dramatically at the screen like I couldn’t fucking see it.

"How is white a feminine color?"

She huffs and explains that she refuses to take the phone until the color is changed. The 13 is now rapid fire “its fine its fine” cause he just wants his phone back. But she keeps refusing but I finally tell her again that we will change the phone for free when we get black screens and that shes not allowed to keep it here.

The point of the matter is that this woman almost refused to even take back the phone BECAUSE OF ITS COLOR. Mind you its not even anything like pink or purple. ITS. WHITE.

A SUBURBAN WHITE WOMAN TURNED RED IN THE FACE WITH ANGER BEAUSE SHE THOUGHT WHITE WAS TOO GIRLY FOR HER SON.

the fuck is up with moms policing their sons’ masculinity

(via ehm8)




daytwamuslim:

The man in the picture is Rachid Nekkaz, a French-Algerian businessman living in France.

He heard about the niqab ban in France. Then he announced that he will pay all fines for women who wear the niqab - not just in France but “in any country in the world that bans women from doing so”.

He opened a fund of € 1 million. Then he said, “My sister, go out free wherever you want and I will pay the fine for you”

(via redrosesforthedevilswhore)



(Source: parks-and-recreation-department, via redrosesforthedevilswhore)



funnyordie:

via Cop v. Black Guy

(via lazyassed-wizard)



LotR + Blades

(Source: isildur-elessar, via redrosesforthedevilswhore)



“August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.”

Sylvia Plath (via introspectivepoet)

(Source: goodreads.com, via cumberrbitchh)

lannistershavethephonebox:

icebergshanti:

romulusxeatsxremus:

cozyqueen:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 13

Where is 12?

fuck 12

image

(via mariuspoutmercy)






ayyitsryanv:

timothydelaghetto:

Been sayin this for years, man. God and I have a personal relationship, but RELIGION is man made and corrupt. 

🙏

(Source: augenss, via cumberrbitchh)



danadelions:

so. I visited my cousin’s apartment today

I would have never left. I would have died in that room.

(via ehm8)


paperprayers:

Wood burn

paperprayers:

Wood burn

(via the-fullmonty)



lavenderpatil:

holy—watershed:

lavenderpatil:

last-snowfall:

deducecanoe:

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

I think… I could be wrong… but everyone Prof Trwylany (sp) said would die at the beginning of every term DID die in the battle of hogwarts? BUt yeah. The year after that was probably filled with grand speeches about those who sacrificed their lives, and how they would rebuild hogwarts, etc. meanwhile… the kids knew. They were there. They knew what it was really like. And the incoming first years probably had a very different relationship with the older kids, who’d seen shit, than in years past. I think there’d be a long year of seriousness and severity… or everyone would try to put on a happy face and pretend that Colin Kreevy wasn’t working on the school paper any more because he was dead. Stiff upper lip. But with a very subdued attitude.

Imagine the seventh years who came back. Because nobody finished their seventh year. That year was a loss. But the ones it really mattered for were them. Imagine the older kids who are up in the night because they can’t sleep for bad dreams hearing the crying from the lower dorms and finding that little girl who can’t make pincushions but can make Fiendfyre hugging her knees, and saying, “You know what, bring your pillow up, you can sleep on my bed while I read.” Imagine the new first years, the ones who hear the story on the train, who’re eleven and still young, seeing an older student sitting alone staring blankly and going over to them and saying, “D’you want some of my chocolate frogs?” because they can’t think of anything else to do. Imagine one finding someone who’s sitting staring at nothing one day and asking in a quiet voice, “Do you need a hug?” and then staying for an hour while the older student cries and cries and hugs them, because some eleven year olds are really smart (and some eleven year olds already came to the school from Bad Shit) and know that sometimes it helps to hold someone you could look after. Imagine the older students who look at these younger ones coming in, all new and safe and bright, and swearing on Merlin’s grave that nothing will ever, *ever* hurt these kids. Imagine the alumni of Dumbledore’s Army, who refused to let the fucking Death Eaters win when they were here and kicking and sure as she won’t let them now, finding things to do on weekends, organizing things, refusing to have it so that people just stay there alone being sad. Fuck the third-year rule: *everyone* can go to Hogsmeade, you just buddy up the young kids with the older kids and I mean, fuck, *who’s going to be a threat to the older kids now*?Imagine them making up insulting nicknames for their old enemies, taking Voldemort and the Carrows and Lestrange and metaphorically spitting on them every time they use them. Imagine Ron volunteering to take on the Boggart that takes up residence in the one class cupboard because no, look, the stupid thing *still looks like a bloody spider* and look it’s fucking hilarious when you take its legs off and tie it up with a bow. And the class laughs. Imagine Harry staying at the school for a couple years, even when he’s done, because once people understand how the charm worked - how because he let Voldemort kill him it meant that nothing Voldemort could do could hurt any of them anymore - everyone just feels *better* when he’s there. Imagine the nights where everyone leaves the common rooms and camps out in the Great Hall and drinks Butterbeer and tells stories and cries and sometimes there are shouting matches because people get so raw, but in the end everyone falls asleep in a pile together. Imagine all the really, truly inappropriate jokes the survivors make, the ones that make their parents’ eyes fill with tears and terrify the first years, because actually when you’ve been dragged face-first through Hell the *worst shit* becomes fucking funny. Imagine how the owls don’t have to be kept in the owlry anymore, because every kid needs the animal they brought with them; imagine that for the kids that lost theirs, or never had one, their friends finding them some, buying them some. Imagine the girl who knows the Cruciatus Curse breaking down crying because she can’t believe she did that, she can’t ever believe she would and she knows she’s wrong and evil and tainted, and Ginny holding her while she cries and when she calms down, Hermione tells her the story of Regulus Black, and about how just because you made shit choices once that doesn’t mean you can’t make better ones now. Imagine that people have been dealing with this kind of horrible shit all through human history, and people are out there dealing with it today, and yes it absolutely sucks and it’s horrible and the scars it leaves are real and heartbreaking and sometimes people are too badly hurt to go on, but also former child-soldiers play team games and laugh at funny stories and refugee kids with horrible stories love colouring books with bright colours and play games with the friends they’ve made in the camps. And these are kids who fought. Who fought like little demons. Who *chose* to fight. So yeah, it could be awful. It could be nothing but bleak from beginning to end, a year (a decade) of sternness and unhappiness. But it doesn’t have to be; it isn’t guaranteed. (and as @tygermama notes, we Muggles have been figuring out this shit: we give it names and throw our best guesses at it, and some of them are good. So there’s help there, too.)

This is my favourite response to this ficlet so far, oh my goodness, thank you.

Also, imagine the professors who fought alongside the students. The people who watched as their students who they watched grow from children were cut down just as they were about to become the brilliant wizards they were destined to be. Imagine these professors reliving those moments every time they meet a new class; their eyes welling up as they imagine the sacrifices that were made so these first years can sit where they are sitting today. And the professors keep teaching, because they know that each time a new child can make a quill levitate, or block a curse with the flick of their wand; the war was worth fighting.

lavenderpatil:

holy—watershed:

lavenderpatil:

last-snowfall:

deducecanoe:

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

I think… I could be wrong… but everyone Prof Trwylany (sp) said would die at the beginning of every term DID die in the battle of hogwarts? BUt yeah. The year after that was probably filled with grand speeches about those who sacrificed their lives, and how they would rebuild hogwarts, etc. meanwhile… the kids knew. They were there. They knew what it was really like. And the incoming first years probably had a very different relationship with the older kids, who’d seen shit, than in years past. I think there’d be a long year of seriousness and severity… or everyone would try to put on a happy face and pretend that Colin Kreevy wasn’t working on the school paper any more because he was dead. Stiff upper lip. But with a very subdued attitude.

Imagine the seventh years who came back. Because nobody finished their seventh year. That year was a loss. But the ones it really mattered for were them.

Imagine the older kids who are up in the night because they can’t sleep for bad dreams hearing the crying from the lower dorms and finding that little girl who can’t make pincushions but can make Fiendfyre hugging her knees, and saying, “You know what, bring your pillow up, you can sleep on my bed while I read.”

Imagine the new first years, the ones who hear the story on the train, who’re eleven and still young, seeing an older student sitting alone staring blankly and going over to them and saying, “D’you want some of my chocolate frogs?” because they can’t think of anything else to do.

Imagine one finding someone who’s sitting staring at nothing one day and asking in a quiet voice, “Do you need a hug?” and then staying for an hour while the older student cries and cries and hugs them, because some eleven year olds are really smart (and some eleven year olds already came to the school from Bad Shit) and know that sometimes it helps to hold someone you could look after.

Imagine the older students who look at these younger ones coming in, all new and safe and bright, and swearing on Merlin’s grave that nothing will ever, *ever* hurt these kids.

Imagine the alumni of Dumbledore’s Army, who refused to let the fucking Death Eaters win when they were here and kicking and sure as she won’t let them now, finding things to do on weekends, organizing things, refusing to have it so that people just stay there alone being sad. Fuck the third-year rule: *everyone* can go to Hogsmeade, you just buddy up the young kids with the older kids and I mean, fuck, *who’s going to be a threat to the older kids now*?

Imagine them making up insulting nicknames for their old enemies, taking Voldemort and the Carrows and Lestrange and metaphorically spitting on them every time they use them.

Imagine Ron volunteering to take on the Boggart that takes up residence in the one class cupboard because no, look, the stupid thing *still looks like a bloody spider* and look it’s fucking hilarious when you take its legs off and tie it up with a bow. And the class laughs.

Imagine Harry staying at the school for a couple years, even when he’s done, because once people understand how the charm worked - how because he let Voldemort kill him it meant that nothing Voldemort could do could hurt any of them anymore - everyone just feels *better* when he’s there.

Imagine the nights where everyone leaves the common rooms and camps out in the Great Hall and drinks Butterbeer and tells stories and cries and sometimes there are shouting matches because people get so raw, but in the end everyone falls asleep in a pile together.

Imagine all the really, truly inappropriate jokes the survivors make, the ones that make their parents’ eyes fill with tears and terrify the first years, because actually when you’ve been dragged face-first through Hell the *worst shit* becomes fucking funny.

Imagine how the owls don’t have to be kept in the owlry anymore, because every kid needs the animal they brought with them; imagine that for the kids that lost theirs, or never had one, their friends finding them some, buying them some.

Imagine the girl who knows the Cruciatus Curse breaking down crying because she can’t believe she did that, she can’t ever believe she would and she knows she’s wrong and evil and tainted, and Ginny holding her while she cries and when she calms down, Hermione tells her the story of Regulus Black, and about how just because you made shit choices once that doesn’t mean you can’t make better ones now.

Imagine that people have been dealing with this kind of horrible shit all through human history, and people are out there dealing with it today, and yes it absolutely sucks and it’s horrible and the scars it leaves are real and heartbreaking and sometimes people are too badly hurt to go on, but also former child-soldiers play team games and laugh at funny stories and refugee kids with horrible stories love colouring books with bright colours and play games with the friends they’ve made in the camps.

And these are kids who fought. Who fought like little demons. Who *chose* to fight. So yeah, it could be awful. It could be nothing but bleak from beginning to end, a year (a decade) of sternness and unhappiness. But it doesn’t have to be; it isn’t guaranteed.


(and as @tygermama notes, we Muggles have been figuring out this shit: we give it names and throw our best guesses at it, and some of them are good. So there’s help there, too.)

This is my favourite response to this ficlet so far, oh my goodness, thank you.

Also, imagine the professors who fought alongside the students. The people who watched as their students who they watched grow from children were cut down just as they were about to become the brilliant wizards they were destined to be. Imagine these professors reliving those moments every time they meet a new class; their eyes welling up as they imagine the sacrifices that were made so these first years can sit where they are sitting today. And the professors keep teaching, because they know that each time a new child can make a quill levitate, or block a curse with the flick of their wand; the war was worth fighting.

(via everythingisstatic)