nixpunk:

i’m not like other girls. actually, i’m nothing like other girls. and that girl u saw get on the bus earlier isn’t like other girls either. it’s surprising, really. it’s almost as if everybody is different from each other. holy shit

(via allons-y-said-he)


the-q-meister:

rustboro-city:

svviggle:

kastortheunlockable:

stunningpicture:

My 7 year old son was shot down by his 1st grade teacher

The american public education system in a nutshell tho

My third grade teacher actually had a conversation with my mom that I was reading to well and told her to stop having me read at home

My first grade teacher said that it was problematic that I was reading ahead of the rest of the kids in my grade and asked my parents to stop letting me read Harry Potter.
My fourth grade teacher thought it was wrong for my dad to be teaching me complex math because it fascinated me.
My elementary school music teacher hated the way my piano teacher taught me, and how I was more advanced than many of her students, and so told me, in front of my peers and my mother, that I was not good enough to participate in the state solo festival. She would not give me the form. We had to procure it from the district instead. She also hated how I excelled at reading and playing music for the recorder, and so she refused to give me my “belts” (colored beads to signify our level) and humiliated me in front of the class repeatedly.
My eighth grade algebra teacher used to fail me on take home tests because I didn’t solve problems exactly the way she showed us in class; I used methods that we had learned for other types of problems that also applied to these. She took points off my tests because I didn’t bring a calculator even though I got 100% without it, because I was able to do it by hand. I had to call my father, who is an engineer, down to the school to shout her down and give me back my A in the class.
My 10th grade Spanish teacher yelled at me in front of the class numerous times because she didn’t like the way I took notes; she thought that since I didn’t write every word off the slide, I wasn’t getting it all down. I had to explain to her that people who have taken advanced courses, like AP or IB classes, know that in a fast-paced learning environment you need to take quick shorthand notes that contain the necessary information rather than wasting time writing every word. She almost gave me detention.
My 11th grade English teacher gave me a poor mark on my first short essay because she believed that I was looking up unnecessarily complex words in a thesaurus to try and get better marks. The phrases in question: “laced with expletives” and “bombarded”. She wouldn’t hear any defense from me.
My 11th grade history teacher failed me on an essay about the 1950s because I misread the prompt. Except the prompt wasn’t words; it was a political cartoon. One of the figures was clearly president Eisenhower, but the other I couldn’t place. My teacher would not tell us who it was. I labelled him as the governor of Little Rock Arkansas during the integration period, and wrote an essay about that subject. My teacher said that no, it was Joseph McCarthy, and that there was a small picture of the man in our textbook and therefore I should have recognized him instantly. Half the class, apparently, did not.
The American school system is not here to educate us or to encourage us to learn; it’s here to keep us in line and silent. It’s here to keep us from deviating and being our own people and forming our own ideas. Don’t let it win.

My teachers told us this all throughout second grade, that we were not allowed to write in cursive until third grade. I don’t know what it is about cursive that intimidates these teachers, but goddamn, if a student is ahead, do not bash them for that. And the person above me? I went through the same as them, and can verify that this is actual stuff that happens in the American public school system.

the-q-meister:

rustboro-city:

svviggle:

kastortheunlockable:

stunningpicture:

My 7 year old son was shot down by his 1st grade teacher

The american public education system in a nutshell tho

My third grade teacher actually had a conversation with my mom that I was reading to well and told her to stop having me read at home

My first grade teacher said that it was problematic that I was reading ahead of the rest of the kids in my grade and asked my parents to stop letting me read Harry Potter.

My fourth grade teacher thought it was wrong for my dad to be teaching me complex math because it fascinated me.

My elementary school music teacher hated the way my piano teacher taught me, and how I was more advanced than many of her students, and so told me, in front of my peers and my mother, that I was not good enough to participate in the state solo festival. She would not give me the form. We had to procure it from the district instead. She also hated how I excelled at reading and playing music for the recorder, and so she refused to give me my “belts” (colored beads to signify our level) and humiliated me in front of the class repeatedly.

My eighth grade algebra teacher used to fail me on take home tests because I didn’t solve problems exactly the way she showed us in class; I used methods that we had learned for other types of problems that also applied to these. She took points off my tests because I didn’t bring a calculator even though I got 100% without it, because I was able to do it by hand. I had to call my father, who is an engineer, down to the school to shout her down and give me back my A in the class.

My 10th grade Spanish teacher yelled at me in front of the class numerous times because she didn’t like the way I took notes; she thought that since I didn’t write every word off the slide, I wasn’t getting it all down. I had to explain to her that people who have taken advanced courses, like AP or IB classes, know that in a fast-paced learning environment you need to take quick shorthand notes that contain the necessary information rather than wasting time writing every word. She almost gave me detention.

My 11th grade English teacher gave me a poor mark on my first short essay because she believed that I was looking up unnecessarily complex words in a thesaurus to try and get better marks. The phrases in question: “laced with expletives” and “bombarded”. She wouldn’t hear any defense from me.

My 11th grade history teacher failed me on an essay about the 1950s because I misread the prompt. Except the prompt wasn’t words; it was a political cartoon. One of the figures was clearly president Eisenhower, but the other I couldn’t place. My teacher would not tell us who it was. I labelled him as the governor of Little Rock Arkansas during the integration period, and wrote an essay about that subject. My teacher said that no, it was Joseph McCarthy, and that there was a small picture of the man in our textbook and therefore I should have recognized him instantly. Half the class, apparently, did not.

The American school system is not here to educate us or to encourage us to learn; it’s here to keep us in line and silent. It’s here to keep us from deviating and being our own people and forming our own ideas. Don’t let it win.

My teachers told us this all throughout second grade, that we were not allowed to write in cursive until third grade. I don’t know what it is about cursive that intimidates these teachers, but goddamn, if a student is ahead, do not bash them for that. And the person above me? I went through the same as them, and can verify that this is actual stuff that happens in the American public school system.

(via allons-y-said-he)


pangeasplits:

luciddrugs:

SOMEONE WRITE IT! Charles and Erik had a minor collision and fucking pan suggested its because its a soul bond thing and they realize its each other and then Charles’ bag of art supplies flies and he climbs out from his vespa wanting to pick it up and then proceed to scold the man off but then
yes and also making out right there on the cobbled ground.

They always said that finding your soulmate was never a concrete thing, that it could happen anywhere at any given time no matter what else was going on, that probability indicated that you could circle your soulmate in the same small town for a lifetime and never feel the sharp snap of the bond forming with the sweet song of finding your perfect other half sliding into place where they were always meant to be if you were never both in the exact right place at the exact right time.
Charles never paid much attention to the stories or the epic blockbusters regarding soulbonds, because it would either happen or it wouldn’t and he has much bigger things to be worrying about anyway, such as getting across town in time for his art class as he’s already running late and by now his students will be wondering.
At least, he’d held this belief right up until he takes a turn on his Vespa too fast right as a car is turning the same direction and he glances up in time to meet startled, gunmetal grey eyes and feels a sharp twinge that runs through his whole body before he promptly loses control of the bike and keels over, skidding several feet across the cobblestone.
The next few moments are disorientating and blurry, a wild mix of spinning sky and hey, those are his best colored pencils scattered everywhere from where his worn satchel has been upended, a few of his recent sketches fluttering in the breeze, but all of that diminishes instantly in importance as soon as running footsteps approach and two broad, long-fingered hands grip him by the shoulders, pulling his helmet off and then that same pair of eyes are peering into his.
“It’s you,” Charles says faintly, and is surprised.  That’s not what he meant to say at all.
“I—yes,” is the answer, somewhat stunned, “it’s me.  It’s you.”
They stare at each other, then, even where they sit in the middle of the intersection, all the rest of the traffic and people utterly forgotten.  They should probably move.  They should probably do something.  But all Charles can do is look.  This is him.  This is his soulmate.  Their bond hums between them, practically visible in this new closeness, alive and strong.
“We almost just killed each other,” Charles says, because that seems like the next most logical thing to say.
A snort.  “I would have been fine.  You, on the other hand.”  The hands on his shoulders tighten a little, as if making sure he’s still actually there, unharmed and well.  “I’m glad you were wearing a helmet.”
Charles laughs.  “Me too.”  Then he adds, “I’m Charles.”
“Erik,” his soulmate replies, eyes going a little soft around the edges, and he reaches up gently with one hand to trace the side of Charles’ face.  Charles leans into the touch and it feels like coming home.  “I’m glad to meet you, Charles.”
“And I you,” Charles whispers, and then curls his fingers through Erik’s short, soft hair and pulls him down into a kiss, only the first of many still to come.

pangeasplits:

luciddrugs:

SOMEONE WRITE IT! Charles and Erik had a minor collision and fucking pan suggested its because its a soul bond thing and they realize its each other and then Charles’ bag of art supplies flies and he climbs out from his vespa wanting to pick it up and then proceed to scold the man off but then

yes and also making out right there on the cobbled ground.

They always said that finding your soulmate was never a concrete thing, that it could happen anywhere at any given time no matter what else was going on, that probability indicated that you could circle your soulmate in the same small town for a lifetime and never feel the sharp snap of the bond forming with the sweet song of finding your perfect other half sliding into place where they were always meant to be if you were never both in the exact right place at the exact right time.

Charles never paid much attention to the stories or the epic blockbusters regarding soulbonds, because it would either happen or it wouldn’t and he has much bigger things to be worrying about anyway, such as getting across town in time for his art class as he’s already running late and by now his students will be wondering.

At least, he’d held this belief right up until he takes a turn on his Vespa too fast right as a car is turning the same direction and he glances up in time to meet startled, gunmetal grey eyes and feels a sharp twinge that runs through his whole body before he promptly loses control of the bike and keels over, skidding several feet across the cobblestone.

The next few moments are disorientating and blurry, a wild mix of spinning sky and hey, those are his best colored pencils scattered everywhere from where his worn satchel has been upended, a few of his recent sketches fluttering in the breeze, but all of that diminishes instantly in importance as soon as running footsteps approach and two broad, long-fingered hands grip him by the shoulders, pulling his helmet off and then that same pair of eyes are peering into his.

“It’s you,” Charles says faintly, and is surprised.  That’s not what he meant to say at all.

“I—yes,” is the answer, somewhat stunned, “it’s me.  It’s you.”

They stare at each other, then, even where they sit in the middle of the intersection, all the rest of the traffic and people utterly forgotten.  They should probably move.  They should probably do something.  But all Charles can do is look.  This is him.  This is his soulmate.  Their bond hums between them, practically visible in this new closeness, alive and strong.

“We almost just killed each other,” Charles says, because that seems like the next most logical thing to say.

A snort.  “I would have been fine.  You, on the other hand.”  The hands on his shoulders tighten a little, as if making sure he’s still actually there, unharmed and well.  “I’m glad you were wearing a helmet.”

Charles laughs.  “Me too.”  Then he adds, “I’m Charles.”

“Erik,” his soulmate replies, eyes going a little soft around the edges, and he reaches up gently with one hand to trace the side of Charles’ face.  Charles leans into the touch and it feels like coming home.  “I’m glad to meet you, Charles.”

“And I you,” Charles whispers, and then curls his fingers through Erik’s short, soft hair and pulls him down into a kiss, only the first of many still to come.

(via bea-lullaby)


super-who-locked-in:

cashemoji:

the—fandom—has—claimed—me:

ropunzel:

brigwife:

borrowed-blue-box:

REALLY, AGAIN? THE FUCKING REBLOG BUTTON WASRIGHTTHEREJESUS CRUST

jesus crust


this post is a mess

That is a tortilla. Tortillas do not have crusts.


What happened to you people? Who hurt you?

super-who-locked-in:

cashemoji:

the—fandom—has—claimed—me:

ropunzel:

brigwife:

borrowed-blue-box:

REALLY, AGAIN? THE FUCKING REBLOG BUTTON WAS
RIGHT
THERE
JESUS CRUST

jesus crust

image

this post is a mess

That is a tortilla. Tortillas do not have crusts.

What happened to you people? Who hurt you?

(via allons-y-said-he)


bea-lullaby:

paperseverywhere:

image

image

image

image

image

image

And then I find out the fanfic hasn’t updated for over a year.

omg this is me ALL THE TIME. ALL THE TIME. ;-;


sealfie:

today at school it was very quiet and suddenly this guy’s Siri speaks out of nowhere and says “excuse me Sargent hugecock my internet is not working”

(via iknewiwouldregretthis)


illusionalities:

speightbrigade:

nicolascageforthirteenthdoctor:

samuel-vimes:

misbeliefs:

british boys: hey babe, how are you? you look lovely today

american boys: whaddup shawty you lookin hella fine winna winna chicken dinna hellz yeah lets get naked

you’ve never met a british boy have you

oi m8 i fink ur fine as tits

thaats more like it.

'I'd shag u and ya mam'

(via malum-lupum)


(via radiobee)


constancecream:

Anyone still deducing the meaning of this photoshoot?

My dash has all the answers.

constancecream:

Anyone still deducing the meaning of this photoshoot?

My dash has all the answers.

(via radiobee)


WHEN ONE IS EXPECTING

imyourdestinymotherfucker:

Today, I bought this book (for my sister, lets clarify that now ‘cause the only way I’m going anywhere near sperm is if I fall into a vat of it):

image

BUT WAIT

THIS:

image

IS:

image

SOME:

image

OF THE BRILLIANT:

image

STUFF IT HAS IN IT:

image

(via radiobee)