In January of last year, when I started to really think about my overland trip home, when being fired most unceremoniously and for no good reason was yet to happen, I decided to apply for a new passport. I had seven pages left and realised I would need a few more than that for all the visas I would need. Of course, I then lost my job and had to drastically reduce the length of my trip and how many countries to take in. So I stopped applying for a new passport and decided to apply at some point when I got home.

Because I had started the application from Korea, and I had selected a jumbo passport, it cost a small fortune. I read the small print though, and thought that if I didn’t send my application in within three months, my money would be refunded and the application cancelled. They had stopped accepting applications via Hong Kong, and I would have had to send it all the way to Liverpool where they handle all overseas applications now. Turns out, I had read the small print entirely wrong, and that wasn’t the case at all. They had my money they told me, and so I might as well continue with the application, sending all the relevant information to my local passport office, including a proof of address change, so that they could send me my new passport to my house in London.

I found this all out in September, not long after I had returned home, and well before deciding to go to New Orleans. And because I am an excellent procrastinator when it comes to going to the post office, time escaped me and I never got around to it. Then I booked flights to New Orleans and around Christmas time, I checked entry requirements for the US as a British citizen. Turns out I need to have a passport issued after 26th October 2005. Mine was issued in June 2005. I started to panic. I sent off my application at the beginning of January and hoped for the best.

The day before yesterday, I called the passport office and an automated message told me that anyone applying for an adult renewal should allow three weeks. They really weren’t kidding. Yesterday, three weeks to the day since I sent everything off, I received my brand spanking new, jumbo, shiny, sparkly (well, okay, not exactly sparkly) passport. I cannot wait to start filling it with stamps and visas over the next ten years. And I applied for my ESTA, which was instantly approved as soon as I paid for it, and so I am definitely going to New Orleans in just under two weeks. As long as they let me in, of course.

Most couples just go out, sit in a fancy restaurant or a nice café and talk.

And then there’s us who just wake up, go to Jumbo and buy totally unnecessary things -such as tissues with 500E pattern on or a thing that make your hair blue. Oh and a puzzle portraying “Starry night” by Van Gogh. Aren’t we adorable?

Practicing some solo yoga this afternoon.
Relaxing but surprisingly challenging at the same time. Kind of like trying to get through the jumbo tub of popcorn at the movies - without the calories - but actually not like that at all.
#soloyoga #whataboutpopcorn #confused #yogapopcorn #downwarddog ##Flexibility #Corestrength #Balance by lizzy_rawdah http://instagram.com/p/yblNYuuTI0/

Conbini achievement unlocked
  • I walked down to my neighborhood conbini this afternoon to buy lunch and pay my insurance bills. (I got a pasta dish and a jumbo sausage.) As is customary, the cashier—who's a regular and has been selling me and my roommate stuff since day one of our residence in the area—asked me if I wanted my meal heated and then began bagging everything up. He reached automatically for a packet of ketchup and mustard and paused.
  • Him:Oh wait. You don't use these.
  • Me:Yes, that's right. I know I'm a little picky...
  • Him:[laughs] Actually... I like to leave the condiments off, too.
  • Me:Oh yeah? It's better that way, isn't it?
  • Him:Yes, it is!
  • Both:[laughing]

Ashton Imagine: Soulmate AU

Author: Rhine


You’ve met before.

When the skies were grey and the clouds let their tears fall; when the wind trickled through the droplets that fell in pellets from the heavens, the rainwater washing the grounds clean once more; for a new beginning, for a new day.

You’ve met before – in fact, you’ve met for the first time multiple times before – but it was always in the rain.

A different name, a different place, a different time.

A different life.

But always in the rain.

He’d run into you and he’d stutter out an apology with a sheepish smile with the deep dimples in his cheeks – that never changed, they were with him for every life he’s lived and every life he’ll ever live – and you’d smile and tell him it was alright, enchanted by his hazel eyes every single time.

You’re not sure what it is – or why it is – that you keep on finding yourself drawn to this particular boy; why it feels like you’re remembering him more than you are getting to know him.

Why his touch feels familiar, like an old friend’s greeting. Why the memory of his smile is bright in your mind as if you’ve seen it a million times, even though you’ve just met.

Why it feels like you know this boy before he even tells you his name.

You call it a coincidence that this boy in the rain feels so familiar to you, but there’s an echo in the crevices of your bones that tells you it’s fate.

Perhaps you’re just meant to be.


You’re not sure how the universe works – how it criss-crosses from this dimension to the next, how it weaves one moment to the next, how it connects one reality to another.

Some say the answers are in the stars, but others say it’s in the light of your soulmate’s eyes.


You’re not sure if such a thing exists – it seems too fanciful, much too similar to wishy-washy daydreams when you’re feeling lonely on a Sunday morning – but there’s something in his hazel eyes that makes your heart wonder if those daydreams are a reality that you live in.

A reality that you’ve lived in time and time again.

Because there’s something about the way his body curves perfectly with yours like you were one instead of two, how his hands feel like they’ve been melded with yours when you were created.

There’s something about the way his touch makes you feel as though he’s lit a fire in the depths of your bones; something about the way his words echo in your mind far after they’ve left his lips.

It’s strange how well you know him – how it feels like you’ve never been strangers, how you’ve always been more than friends from the moment you met – and you don’t know why he fits into your life like a puzzle piece you didn’t know you were missing.

Some say the answer is in the stars; hidden within the cosmos and the constellations if you look close enough.

Well, you think you see galaxies deep within the glimmer in his eyes, and you’d spend this life – and the next, even though you don’t know it yet – finding the answer.

You’d always spend your life finding him again.


You don’t know it, but you’ve met before.

You’ve already lived hundreds of lives with him – hundreds of first meetings with his hazel eyes and curly hair and sheepish grin – and you’ll live hundreds more with him by your side.

It’s a little different every time – you have a different name and a different life and so does he, but your smile never changes and neither does his when you meet for the first time.

His curly hair is always damp from the rain and he’s always piercing you with those hazel eyes and he’ll give you a different greeting every time with another name that you’ll soon carry for the rest of your life, but the warm flickers that spread through your skin when his hand touches yours stays the same every time.

You see, you’ve loved him when he was a writer in a shabby house in the city who liked his coffee with two sugars and forgot to shave every morning; bustling on his typewriter, collars upturned and sleeves rolled up haphazardly. You’ve loved him when he owned a farm in some new colony and you’d spend your days tending to the animals while he worked on the crops, skin tanned from the sun and sweat dampening his clothes; trying to harvest enough for you and your family to trade for the supplies you’d need for the winter.

You’ve loved him when there were kings and queens and they were searching for dragons while you and him were making ends meet in some shabby village. You’ve loved him when there were wars between countries, between neighbours – you were there to kiss him goodbye when they sent him off to fight and you’d be waiting for him to come back every time.

And perhaps you’ve loved him way back before presidents and governments and monarchies and kings and queens; back to when there was nothing but you and him and the whole world, the whole universe splayed out for you.

Made for you. Like you were made for each other.

You’re meant to love him, you’re meant to find him – perhaps your soul is entwined with his, perhaps there are some threads of fate that connects the two of you – but no matter what it is, no matter what theory any philosopher or mathematician or astronomer can give, you’ll always find your way back to him.

You’re meant to be.

You’re soulmates.

You’ve shared millions of kisses and billions of moments and even though you can’t remember them all, they’re buried deep within the universe, written in the stars that you look at every night.

And perhaps not every life was a happy ending – perhaps he didn’t come home after that war, perhaps one of you succumbed to a plague that spread, perhaps you were separated through some cruel hand of fate that tore you apart even though wanted to stay – but there was always that first meeting in the rain again.

There was always a sad goodbye –a goodbye on a hospital bed, a goodbye that was said too soon, too late, perhaps not at all – but there was always another hello.

Another life. Another chance encounter in the rain.

Another adventure with the boy that fate, that life would call your soulmate.

You’ve danced with him in balls; nothing but a veiled lady and a masked duke who danced the night away in some Renaissance ball; wide gowns and pressed ties sneaking away to the gardens.

You’ve sailed oceans with him; looking for a life anew somewhere at the end of the endless blue waves, his golden eyes and unruly curls steadying you through the stormy nights.

You’ve snuck out to meet in the dead of the night and you’ve sent calligraphy letters in ink to his home and you’ve rode carriages and trains and planes and automobiles and horses with hm.

You’ve lived through the timeline of the earth’s very existence with him.

Everything the earth has seen, you have as well – with him.

You don’t remember, but your eyes and his hazel ones have seen civilizations fall and kingdoms rise; cities and plagues spread and technology grow with knowledge.

You’ve seen people come and go but he always stays, he always comes back.

You always come back to each other.

And maybe some stories were a tragedy dotted with hardships while others were a fairytale that soared past your very eyes.

But there was no doubt that every story – every life – with him was one filled with love. Though fate brings you together, life throws its obstacles at you, but the two of you manage to get through every single one in every single life.

Your souls are entwined, and nothing – not life, not death, not fate, not luck – can stop the two of you from being together at the end of the night.


It was raining.

You were waiting at your bus stop, trying to keep your head down, wrapping yourself tighter with your jacket to stop the rain from seeping into your skin.

You glance up every few seconds, looking down the rain-sodden streets for your bus before peeking at your watch, tapping your soaked shoes onto the curb impatiently.

The bus was supposed to be here ten minutes ago, and you were drenched and irritated – at the bus for taking its sweet time and at yourself for forgetting to bring your umbrella.

You were wondering how much longer you had to be in the rain before catching pneumonia and dying before the week even ended when the rain suddenly stopped.

Well, it didn’t stop falling per se, it merely stopped falling on you, the absence of the pelting rain on your jacket a noticeable change, although t it continued to spatter onto the pavement road before you.

You look up and see the dark cover of an umbrella over your head, blocking you from the rain.

You turn to see a smiling boy standing next to you, his broad shoulders taking up most of the space under the umbrella, though you don’t mind the heat that radiates from his body that warms your shivering figure.

The moment your eyes meet his hazel ones, you feel a small shock run through your veins; unexpected and sudden, disappearing from your system as quickly as it came.

You would’ve thought you merely imagined it, if it weren’t for the curious look in this boy’s golden-flecked eyes that leaves you feeling confused and enthralled at the same time.

You’re not sure what it is about him – his long curly hair, the deep set of dimples on his cheeks, the soft fuzz underneath his chin – but you’re drawn to him.

It’s more than his broad shoulders and sparkling eyes – you take an appreciative glance of that, too – but there’s something about him – something you can’t put a finger on – that leaves you wondering more about this boy.

He’s staring at you the same way, eyes squinted slightly and head cocked to the side, lips pursed thoughtfully as he examines your face, trying to pinpoint what it is about this soaked, shivering girl in the rain that makes his veins flow with something electric.

He finally breaks the silence after a moment of silent staring, and even his voice feels so right, like the final touch to a masterpiece.

What’s a pretty girl like you doing in the rain?

You don’t know why his voice sounds so familiar in your ears – you know you would’ve remembered a boy like him with a voice like his – but you’re certain you’ve never met before, though a small whisper in the back of your head tries to tell you otherwise.

Waiting for a bus that should’ve been here ten minutes ago.

You manage a little half-smile, shrugging slightly, raindrops sliding down your face and dripping from your hair.

He thinks you’re beautiful, and he can’t stop staring at you, can’t figure out for his life why your bright eyes and upturned lips look so familiar; why your voice seems to unlock a puzzle piece he didn’t know existed.

Well, luckily enough, I happen to be waiting for a bus as well – and I happen to have a rather large umbrella I don’t mind sharing.

You beam up at him and he returns it with a dimpled grin, shifting a little closer to you to block out the raindrops that tried to reach you, the electricity in his veins buzzing faster when he nears you.

His presence feels familiar, and you can’t help but to feel oddly comfortable in this stranger’s company.

No – not a stranger – you’ve just met, but the familiarity that settles in your bones when you see this boy rules him out as a stranger despite the fact that you don’t have a name to match the face you feel like you knew so well.

I’m Ashton, by the way.

It’s like he can read your mind, and you try to hide your shock with a smile.

You give him your name and his beam widens, repeating your name after you say it; rolling it in his mouth and liking how your name tastes on his lips.

He’ll remember it, he knows.

Have we met before?

His question lingers in the rainy air, and it echoes in the space between you; the odd familiarity in the back of your heads that leaves the both of you curious and confused at the same time.

No, I don’t think so.

Oh, but if only you knew.


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Korrasami and Kids

So, there’s debate on whether Korra and Asami will ever have kids in their future and I decided to throw my two cents in on it.

Do I believe that Korra and Asami will have kids in the future? 

Yes, I do believe they will. At least one. Whether they have one via adoption or a biological child through some spiritual mumbo-jumbo though will be up to you (seriously, if this kind of thing can happen in their world:

I don’t see why same sex couples can’t have biological children in some way. Though two men would have to have a surrogate mother, or if you want to believe it exists in their world for your fantasy, mpreg).

Keep in mind, Asami is the owner of a multi-million (perhaps even multi-billion) yuan company, she’s going to need an heir to take over Future Industries when she either retires or passes on.

She probably never figured it would become an issue if she fell in love with a man, but she ended up falling in love with a woman instead (and the Avatar to boot!), so now she has to consider her options.

You don’t run a huge company like she does and not think about an heir to take it over.

Oh don’t get me wrong, she’ll probably love her child to death, she’s just that kind of person, but she does need an heir either way.

As for Korra… She loves kids, I don’t doubt she would want one, if nothing else for the sake of Asami.

Also keep in mind, Asami’s company is the only thing she has left of her father; it’s her legacy. I don’t think she’d want to hand it to just anyone.

Grief O'Clock

Spent last night with a very alive version of a two-years-dead friend.

My dreamscape—a European oddity store—was unfamiliar, but Hoffman’s hug-and-kiss greeting was exactly the opposite.

I awake with his voice in my ears and the sense of his fingers still imprinted on my arm. And in the rawness of early morning, when reality isn’t quite neatly sorted, I am unaware that Hoffman is dead. 

Which makes the slow, sleepy realization that he is all the more wrenching.

The denial isn’t unique to my dreams. It’s happened on my recent visits to downtown L.A., where a hundred Hoffman memories still hover in places like the Golden Gopher, MOCA, The Standard, Chinatown and Jumbo’s Clown Room.

On those L.A. trips, I’ve wondered if my grief is complicated by the fact that Hoffman was the man I kissed at the airport before flying to NYC for the business trip on which I met my future husband. He was also the man I drunk-dialed as a new widow and invited to Brazil for Christmas. The one I wondered about when I was gutted from grief, indulging in that game of irrational thinking that usually begins with ‘what if…?’

As in, ‘What if I’d chosen Hoffman instead of Alberto? Stayed in L.A.? Would I have outmaneuvered this cloud of grief?’

I got my answer two years later when 42-year-old Hoffman died. Also of a sudden heart attack.

(Two forks: same outcome.)

In my memoir, I wrote briefly about our decade of history—with admittedly less candor than in this post—but Hoffman remains a loss that I still can’t wrap my fucking head around. And I’m pretty sure why: I didn’t attend his April 2012 funeral, a paddle-out in Malibu where pals on surfboards spread his ashes and purple-orchid leis in the water.  

Two weeks before his service, I’d flown to L.A. for my aunt’s funeral and didn’t think I could swing the additional travel expense or time off. I’m a girl with a very short list of regrets, but not going to Tim Hoffman’s fucking funeral is in my Top Five. Mourning ceremonies are a vital part of my grieving process, and without that experience, his loss is a sting that I can push away. One I can bury, deny even. Except on mornings like this.

And this morning, my only close contacts who knew Hoffman like I did are an ex-BF who still ain’t keen on my connection to his buddy and a former bestie who’s presently off the grid. 

I can call neither of these people and so I come to the page, screen, keyboard for catharsis. My Tumblr was born and bred on posts like this one, but it has grown into a thing that’s happier, shinier, less messy. Good for it. I’m very happy for my self-actualized Tumblr. This morning, however, I’m just fucking relieved that the cursor still lets me curse and isn’t letting me get away with surface-skimming. 


Watch Jumbo Squid Speak by ‘Flashing’ Each Other

Scientists use Crittercams to spy on the aggressive predators “talking” to each other

by Jane J. Lee

Giant Humboldt squid, which can grow as big as a man, speak to each other in flashes of color, their whole bodies quickly changing from red to white and back again. But just what they’re communicating has long been a mystery to scientists.

Now, new video analysis is allowing marine biologists to begin cracking this jumbo squid’s code.

The new research is the first to track communications between free-swimming Humboldt squid, partly because the animals show no fear of human divers. They’ve been known to rip off a diver’s mask and to attack lighting and camera equipment. The predators sport suckers lined with sharp teeth, have a two-inch-long beak used to sever the spines of fish, and have no qualms about ripping apart and eating injured comrades…

(read more: National Geographic)

Travelling beyond the bounds~

[First things first, 2 new magic words to keep the drama away… heavy luggage in case of bulges and a tad chilly in case of nips.

With that out of the way… sup guys mod here, I played Zone of the Enders (HD collection) with a friend a few days ago and that put me in the mood to do a thing but since that thing would have been a bit of a pain in the ass to ponified… I humanized the thing instead. :3

Starring Rainbow Dash as Ken Marinaris and Big Macintosh as Dingo Egret, both from Z.O.E. 2. Btw my human version of Big Mac was mostly based on that character. And no, RD is not half naked… she’s wearing a super tight suit, like Mac… with WAY less mumbo jumbo on it.

Also a little personal headcanon (human version only). Dash loves to throw innuendos (and naughty jokes) at Big Mac, because those always pass flying right above his head and that’s something she finds pretty funny about him. He’s kinda bad at taking a hint. Oh and if this is the first time someone sees my humanized of these 2… yeah, I know Dash is quite short and Mac is ridiculously tall, no need to point that out. :)

Ok that would be all for now folks, see y’all!]

anonymous asked:

Prompt: Either Danny or Laura (or both!) comforting Carmilla after a panic attack.

Laura wasn’t a big drinker. Her idea of a good night generally consisted of some type of Netflix marathon and a jumbo sized pack of cookies. That didn’t mean that she didn’t like to party though, she had on occasion been to house parties and dances, and although it wasn’t her favourite thing to do, she did enjoy it.

Tonight was an exception.

They were supposed to be enjoying a carefree night of music and drinking courtesy of the Zetas, except for the fact that only a few hours in Carmilla, and Danny, had both disappeared without so much as a word. Or even a text.

“I swear to god, I can’t believe she would do this,” Laura said, more to herself than anyone else, as she stomped angrily through snow, her footprints leaving a trail behind her that the others struggled to follow.

“You know,” Lafontaine said, their breath wheezing out in front of them, “for someone so small she sure can walk fast.”

Perry nodded. “I think some of it is the rage.”

“And some of it is the alcohol,” Lafontaine added under their breath, not wanting to incur the wrath of the tiny girl. “I mean I thought, generally speaking, drunks were wobbling messes but…”

“I would not want to be Carmilla right now.”

Lafontaine raised an eyebrow at Perry. “When would you ever want to be Carmilla?”

Perry offered a small shrug but chose to remain silent. No one needed to know her thoughts on the merits of super speed in the battle against unhygienic conditions. At least, they didn’t need to know right now.

“Laura!” Lafontaine shouted “Where are you even going?”

“Do you think she went back to the dorm room?” Perry added as she quickened her pace to catch up with her friend. “Because that-” Her next thought was cut short as she saw Laura slam to a sudden stop, her feet almost slipping out from underneath her at the abrupt halt.

“Carmilla Karnstein, what the hell do you think you are doing?” Laura could barely believe her eyes, and with her hands on her hips she glared the short distance from the path they had been following to a bench that sat under one of the large oak trees in the quad. Her lips parted again, angry words forming on her tongue ready to launch themselves at the girl before she realised that there was a second person sitting with the vampire. “Danny?”

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