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Stop me if you think you've heard this one before.

@scribblerextraordinaire / scribblerextraordinaire.tumblr.com

Greetings. Leah's the name. I am the resident Irish fangirl at your service.
Constantine fan. I am an admirer of various books, television programmes, films and rugby to boot. I am a self-confessed music addict and political buff.
A lover of caffeine and words alike. Wannabe psychogeographer.
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'All the years, all the times I was in trouble you never left my side, you never ran. If you're dying, I'm dying with you.'
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'We're going nowhere
But nowhere, nowhere's on our way.'

yea I'm a fan of all the stories that go "noo loving people isn't a weakness it's a ~strength~ actually" but black sails' "loving someone makes you vulnerable and you will make terrible choices but there will seem no other choices" goes fucking hard like

If randall didn't love his cat if teach didn't love vane if vane didn't love eleanor and jack if gates didn't love flint if rogers didn't love eleanor if flint didn't love silver if silver didn't love madi

My “favourite” moment with the doctor today was being asked had I lost weight, and having to explain that we do not have scales in the house so I have no idea, BUT THEN remembering the bloody offhanded unsolicited comment of “oh you’re so skinny” from the fella from last month (which I did not, for obvious reasons, relay to the doctor)

      My father was a tailor in Leeds, as was his father and his father’s father. Time was if a man on the Avondale Road asked where he might find the finest clothes in northern England, he was pointed toward the shop of a man named Rackham. Then the men who sell wool decide they’d prefer not to compete with the men who imported fine cotton, and as the men who sell wool have the ears of the men who make laws, an embargo is enacted to increase profits and calico disappears.       And my father’s business that he inherited from his father and his father’s father begins to wither and die. And my father suffers the compound shame of financial ruin seen through the eyes of his son and descended into drink. I’d sit beside him as a boy at the Sunday service as he shouted at the pastor, at the altar - at anyone who’d listen, really - at the injustice of it all. And I’d put my arm over his shoulder as the insults began, help carry him out of the church. God the insults. At his funeral, our neighbors were kind enough to whisper them rather than call them out loud.       So, I set out to work, determined to rebuild what had been taken away. I was 13 years old, but I was determined…until a man arrived at my door claiming to hold debts belonging to my father, debts accumulated as my father drank, debts he claimed that now belonged to me, debts I could not possibly have hoped to repay, debts over which this man would have seen me imprisoned - imprisoned in a place where the debts would have been discharged only through hard labor, hard labor with no wages, working at - wait for it - the production of textiles.       “You people, incapable of accepting the world as it is” says the man to whom the world handed everything. If no Anne, if no rescue, if this is defeat for me, then know this: you and I were neck and neck in this race right till the end, but, Jesus, did I make up a lot of ground to catch you.

Rolling Stone’s review of the album at the time was positive. “12 Bar Blues isn’t really a rock album, or even a pop album,” it said. “Weiland, out on his own, has simply made an honest album – honest in its confusion, ambition, and indulgence. It was worth the risk.” In 2015, shortly before his death, Weiland looked back on 12 Bar Blues and his second solo album, “Happy” in Goloshes, as therapeutic for him, in a Rolling Stone interview. “Those were exploratory art albums,” he said. “I took artistic license to make those records because that’s what I needed to do after being in rock bands.”