Did I fall asleep?
»
169,767 notes
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underthenerdhood:

a little girl who grows up thinking all doors are automatic but actually she’s haunted by a really polite ghost

6,529 notes
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solthree:

my relationship with dw is weird, i don’t want to care but i feel sad that i don’t care, i say i don’t care but deep down i still care??? i don’t even know

81,585 notes
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http://deductionseduction.tumblr.com/post/97370072184/landmerbabe-sazquatch-the-huge-amount-of

landmerbabe:

sazquatch:

The huge amount of pressure on young girls to let their boyfriends get away with everything and not to stand up for themselves, lest they stop being a ‘chill girlfriend’ and instead become a horrible, controlling harpy is such bullshit.

Stop teaching young…

62,726 notes
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theawesomeadventurer:

straight white boy: what are you doing?

me: laying in bed 

straight white boy: anything else? ;) 

me: no 

straight white boy: are you sure? ;)

me:

image

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ninfia:

Do you ever have that moment when a kid is looking at you and you realize that they’re looking at you as a grown up? Then its like no child im a children too, dont. Im sorry my outward appearance confuses you.

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nympheline:

This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.
I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.
The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.
"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"
Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.
Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.
I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.
But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.
"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.
"No, I’m good," I said.
"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.
Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—
“Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.
Reader, I bought them all.

nympheline:

This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.

I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.

The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.

"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"

Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.

Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.

I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.

But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.

"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.

"No, I’m good," I said.

"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.

Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—

Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.

Reader, I bought them all.

97,695 notes
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warpedlamp:

When a plan goes off without a hitch when it shouldn’t have worked at all.

image

37,155 notes
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bullfinch:

the thing about “destroy all bronies” is you choose to be a brony

you’re not born a fucking brony

you choose to be associated with rape apologists, misogynists, racists, ableists, and homophobic dickhats

so if you label yourself as a brony i’m going to assume you’re a piece of shit, just like literally every other brony

like mlp? fine. call yourself a fan

if you call yourself a brony i’m 100% sure you’re a fucking trash wizard

338,873 notes
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jaclcfrost:

do u ever have a thought that’s so fuckin inappropriate that u feel like dumping a bucket of water on urself like. calm down, self. tone it down. think about jesus

303,772 notes
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sweetcatastrophex:

THIS IS IMPORTANT

(Source: goldenstories)

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thetrekkiehasthephonebox:

I like the idea of taking every woman joke from the last season, and turning them into Moffat jokes.

(Source: queerravenclaw)

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sageruto:

the fucking worst is when people are like “you hate people for having a different opinion than you!!!!” like im not shitting on this guy because he thinks pistachio ice cream is gross im shitting on him because he actually believes that i and people like me dont deserve basic human rights and respect and safety

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my-h-e-a-r-t-s-not-in-it:

hey sorry im late i didnt want to come

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yoshio-yoshida:

Oh my god youre straight? I had no idea. You seem normal to me. Did you know that Sara is straight to? You two should totally hook up. I cant believe youre straight. You could be my straight best friend. We could go to football games together. Itll be so much fun. So like how long have you been straight? Youre whole life!? No way.

48,544 notes
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shattterhearts:

ayoungkaos

shattterhearts:

ayoungkaos

(Source: moosekleenex)