Posted 2 days ago
Posted 2 days ago



there are no rules in college

Ten months, ten entire months have passed since I have made this post. I made this post while I was at college, I am now home. Moreover, some meme loving fuck, at some time today, I don’t know when, silently left a box of kid cuisine on my doorstep. You bothered to somehow find out where I live, which is quite far from my university by several hundred miles, pay money for a frozen children’s meal, and drive out to where I live, just to meme on me. I can’t believe this is real.

Posted 2 days ago




Wait a minute…

I have been laughing at this for hours now…

So, true story. The woman in this photo is Kendra Kaplan. Her husband was in Iraq for twelve months but the military has this thing called leave. Some of us may recognize the concept from old episodes of Star Trek. In this photo she is five months pregnant after conceiving her second child during her husband’s leave. That envelope in her hand is the ultrasound results. She waited for him to come home to find out if it was a girl or a boy.

There’s been several articles about it.The photo resulted in this woman receiving so much hate mail, from both internet cut-ups and the actual media, that she even took a paternity test and provided proof of her husband’s leave schedule. Her real life friends have stopped talking to her over these rumors.  

Oh, and by the way, that baby bump is a two year old by now. People are still shitting on this woman over a nasty internet meme two years later.

So in short, you’re mocking a faithful wife for something that isn’t any of our damn business anyway and has long since been disproven. 

Good job Internet.

(Source: itscalledfashionlookitup)

Posted 2 days ago


Watch: One woman’s badass athletic achievement is silencing sexists across the Web 

Will American Ninja Warrior crown its first female champion at the top of Mount Midoriyama?

Kacy Catanzaro became the first woman ever to complete a city finals course, in Dallas, and the first woman to ever make it to the finals in Las Vegas. If she manages to conquer Mount Midoriyama she could win the $500,000 prize and the title of American Ninja Warrior.

Watch the full video | Follow micdotcom

Posted 2 days ago


Fantaisy Digital Paintings by Cyril Rolando

artist on tumblr

A clinical psychologist by day, Cyril Rolando (aka AquaSixio) spends his free time creating beautifully surreal, digital artwork that portray fantastic scenes and worlds.

Posted 2 days ago
Posted 2 days ago









I would pay to see this.

I would watch the shit out of that.

That expression of delight on dragon Maleficent’s face tho




I would pay top dollar to see this movie.

Posted 2 days ago



some of the pictures i got at ancient city con! everybody’s cosplays were so amazing!!
sadly i didn’t get any of their tumblrs but if you see yourself let me know and ill tag you owo

dave (me)
terezi (1st picture) -
john -
jade (3rd picture) -
dave (3rd picture) -
cecil -
carlos -
roxy -
jade (7th picture) -
gamzee -
eridan -
terezi (last picture) -

I’m the Terezi in the first photo!

Posted 2 days ago


As soon as I learned Nicki Minaj voiced Sugilite, I had to

Posted 2 days ago



The regular girl couldn’t make it, so I’m here.

miss claudette has a special place in my heart. 

miss claudette over everything 

(Source: quatres)

Posted 2 days ago
Posted 2 days ago

It’s been awhile since that boy even cracked a smile.

Posted 2 days ago




…So I completely forgot about these and let them sit in my askbox for two and a half months. Oops.

I’m just going to put a gif and maybe that’ll make things better.

do it anyway pleb

Posted 2 days ago

Proving a point to my mother- reblog if you are not a pedophile.






If everyone doesn’t reblog this, I’m unfollowing all of you.


Posting for two reasons 1. ^^^
2. Martin freeman

that made me realize that is martin freeman 

(Source: demons-do-exist)

Posted 2 days ago

The Awful Thing We Did to Eliza


Dad said a man was coming from the city to photograph us tomorrow. I never had a photograph taken of me before. My parents had one, taken with James when he was a baby. Eliza and I weren’t born yet.

The picture sits over our mantle, embroidered in a gold frame. Dad always promised he’d have one taken of all of us when he had the money. He’d say we’d have one of our whole family, together. Now he says it’s better late than never.

James and I are in the living room, drawing. Mom and Dad are seated at the kitchen table, drinking water and tea leaves. Mom is crying quietly.

"Catherine…" Dad says, "we can’t let this kill us. It’s the best we could do."

"We could have done better," Mom mumbles, "a better doctor, something…" She trails off.

"There isn’t anything we could have done differently," Dad says. "We did what we could with the time we had. The Lord needed her back." Mom lets out a moan.

Upstairs, Eliza is in her best Sunday dress. My mother made her look very pretty. Like she’s sleeping.

Dr. Coffett came to visit a few days ago. Eliza was moaning for hours before. My mother had come in to take care of her, and I was to move to James’ room. All night I heard her wretching.

When Dr. Coffett was leaving the next day, I asked him what was wrong with her.

"Well, sweetheart, your little sister is very sick, but I promise you I’ll do everything I can." He smiled a lazy smile at me. I counted two gold teeth.

After he leaves, mother tells me Eliza has a bad fever. She tells me I can go up and see her if I like, but not to wake her. The stairs creak as I climb. It’s dark upstairs, and very still.

I reached our room and quietly opened the door. The two windows on the other side of the room had the shades drawn, blocking out almost all of the sun, even though our room was facing it. Tiny rays fell at the foot of Eliza’s bed where she lay, hidden except for her face. Her forehead was red, and wet, her dark hair matted against it. I touched it. It was so hot. She was breathing quickly.

The man from the city is downstairs. He and dad talk about how much a “daguerreotype photograph” costs. Mother and I are in Eliza’s and my room. She is brushing Eliza’s hair. I put the flowers we picked today around her. I don’t like looking at her.

I’ve seen a dead person before. I was at my Uncle Jed’s burial. He was killed by two men who robbed his house. He ran after them and they shot him dead. But even with those little holes in his cheek and the black circles under his eyes, I could tell there was something certain, definite about him. Eliza didn’t have that. She very well could have been alive, except for that stillness.

It was stillness which scared me. All the signs of her sleeping were there, save for the gentle up-down of her chest, the light whistle of air from her nostrils. When you see a behavior so many times, you begin to expect all the signs to be present. Seeing such a vital few missing was disconcerting. My mind tries to make sense of it, but the effort brings on a slow, tired, nauseous feeling. I want to leave the room.

"Catherine, are you ready?" Dad’s voice echoes from downstairs.

"We are." Mom’s voice breaks and doesn’t carry.

"Yes, Dad," I finish.

Footsteps begin on the stairs. Dad enters follower by the man with the camera. James slips in behind them, looking as though he didn’t think he should be here or didn’t want to be here, I couldn’t tell which.

The man with the camera is very tall, like Dad, with dark hair and a thick dark beard. His face could have been whittled from wood, it was so lined. He looks from me to Eliza, and steps over to the bed to examine her.

"If, as you say," he says in a thick German accent, gesturing to my father, "you would like to make this a picture of the family rather than a memorial, I will need to decorate the girl to make her appear alive." He takes a small paintset from his pocket. "I will decorate her eyes, to make them appear open, if this is acceptable." My father looks to my mother, who, holding a tissue to her eyes, nods.

Turning, he descends to one knee beside Eliza’s bed. His back is to us.

A few minutes later, he stands up and says, “I believe she is ready.”

We look behind him at Eliza. The man had painted a set of eyes onto her eyelids. Thin black paint outlined the shape, in the middle of which sat a brown iris around jet black pupils. He had also drawn thin flecks over the eyes for eyelashes.

They weren’t grotesque or frightening. They were just…off. Eliza’s eyes were blue, not brown, but that wasn’t it.

Mom once said between life and death was a barrier, a wall which we cross over only once. The eyes on Eliza seemed to bring her back over that wall, even if the eyes were a little abnormal. I felt a mix of hope and uneasiness.

The man asks if we’re ready.

As we group together around Eliza’s bed, the man, now behind the camera, says, “One more thing. The exposure will take forty to fifty seconds, so, if you will, please remain as still as possible in order to minimize any blurriness.”

I supposed Eliza’s face would come out crystal clear.

"On the count of three."

Eliza was buried the next day.

We held a funeral for her at Saint Catherine’s church, and buried her in the graveyard next to it. Mom howled when the casket was closed. I guess it’s because that’s when she knew she wouldn’t ever see Eliza again.

The tiny coffin looked very odd to me. James, my dad, and two men I didn’t know carried her outside. I could tell James was struggling with the back corner, but he still did all right. A lot of people came out, all wearing black. Eliza was in white. They washed the paint off her eyes before they put her in. She still made me uncomfortable. I didn’t know why.

We put the photograph in its own gold frame. It was put right in the middle of the mantle. It was always nice to walk by and look at. It was helpful to remember what she looked like. You stop seeing a person and for some reason, their face begins to fade. You can’t quite remember what they looked like, or the specific features that made them, them.

A few weeks later, I was looking at the photograph again. I did it less often now, but I still stopped from time to time. I was looking at Eliza, but I was also looking at myself. I liked seeing my face. I knew what I looked like, but somehow seeing my face in the photograph was different from looking in a mirror, or seeing your reflection in a pond.

I also felt badly, because I knew Eliza would never see a picture of herself. She would never know what she looked like when she was younger. She would never watch herself grow up. Hot tears burn in my eyes as I look at her. Painted eyes behind the gray of the picture. A look on her face, an almost sad…

I stopped.

I didn’t know what it was, but I could feel a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I started to feel cold. Something was out of place. Something was wrong.

I stared at Eliza’s face, just above the blankets, looking for the thing that had registered growing dread in my subconscious, but which I couldn’t readily focus on. It was something instinctual I felt, I knew fear, but I didn’t know why.

I squinted at the photograph, at her thin cheeks even more apparent in the light from the camera, at her pursed lips and her fake eyes, I knew I was looking right at it, but I couldn’t see it. I felt as if I were lost in the woods at night, knowing there was something just beyond my eyesight, something monstrous and heinous, glaring back at me, grinning as I frantically searched for it, knowing I can’t find it. As I stared at the photograph, my fear turned slowly to dark, clammy terror, nausea rolled over me, my hands quivered, and for my own life I did not know what was wrong!

And then I saw it.

I saw it because I remembered what the man with the camera had said that day, what I had thought, and that fact slid slowly into place in the forefront of my mind like a heavy gray stone, and clicked solidly with my fear of something terribly unnatural, terribly wrong, and my primal fear was suddenly explained. The room spun as I realized, as numb, raw shock crashed into me, as I wondered how I couldn’t have noticed it before, as I thought how many weeks it’s been since the burial and how tired or drunk Dr. Coffett had looked the last time he came by, as wrenching disbelief crept up my spine, and every nerve in my body fired blank terror.

She was blurry.