When I was nine, possibly ten, an author came to our school to talk about writing. His name was Hugh Scott, and I doubt he’s known outside of Scotland. And even then I haven’t seen him on many shelves in recent years in Scotland either. But he wrote wonderfully creepy children’s stories, where the supernatural was scary, but it was the mundane that was truly terrifying. At least to little ten year old me. It was Scooby Doo meets Paranormal Activity with a bonny braw Scottish-ness to it that I’d never experienced before.

I remember him as a gangling man with a wiry beard that made him look older than he probably was, and he carried a leather bag filled with paper. He had a pen too that was shaped like a carrot, and he used it to scribble down notes between answering our (frankly disinterested) questions. We had no idea who he was you see, no one had made an effort to introduce us to his books. We were simply told one morning, ‘class 1b, there is an author here to talk to you about writing’, and this you see was our introduction to creative writing. We’d surpassed finger painting and macaroni collages. It was time to attempt Words That Were Untrue.

You could tell from the look on Mrs M’s face she thought it was a waste of time. I remember her sitting off to one side marking papers while this tall man sat down on our ridiculously short chairs, and tried to talk to us about what it meant to tell a story. She wasn’t big on telling stories, Mrs M. She was also one of the teachers who used to take my books away from me because they were “too complicated” for me, despite the fact that I was reading them with both interest and ease. When dad found out he hit the roof. It’s the one and only time he ever showed up to the school when it wasn’t parents night or the school play. After that she just left me alone, but she made it clear to my parents that she resented the fact that a ten year old used words like ‘ubiquitous’ in their essays. Presumably because she had to look it up.

Anyway, Mr Scott, was doing his best to talk to us while Mrs M made scoffing noises from her corner every so often, and you could just tell he was deflating faster than a bouncy castle at a knife sharpening party, so when he asked if any of us had any further questions and no one put their hand up I felt awful. I knew this was not only insulting but also humiliating, even if we were only little children. So I did the only thing I could think of, put my hand up and said “Why do you write?”

I’d always read about characters blinking owlishly, but I’d never actually seen it before. But that’s what he did, peering down at me from behind his wire rim spectacles and dragging tired fingers through his curly beard. I don’t think he expected anyone to ask why he wrote stories. What he wrote about, and where he got his ideas from maybe, and certainly why he wrote about ghosts and other creepy things, but probably not why do you write. And I think he thought perhaps he could have got away with “because it’s fun, and learning is fun, right kids?!”, but part of me will always remember the way the world shifted ever so slightly as it does when something important is about to happen, and this tall streak of a man looked down at me, narrowed his eyes in an assessing manner and said, “Because people told me not to, and words are important.”

I nodded, very seriously in the way children do, and knew this to be a truth. In my limited experience at that point, I knew certain people (with a sidelong glance to Mrs M who was in turn looking at me as though she’d just known it’d be me that type of question) didn’t like fiction. At least certain types of fiction. I knew for instance that Mrs M liked to read Pride and Prejudice on her lunch break but only because it was sensible fiction, about people that could conceivably be real. The idea that one could not relate to a character simply because they had pointy ears or a jet pack had never occurred to me, and the fact that it’s now twenty years later and people are still arguing about the validity of genre fiction is beyond me, but right there in that little moment, I knew something important had just transpired, with my teacher glaring at me, and this man who told stories to live beginning to smile. After that the audience turned into a two person conversation, with gradually more and more of my classmates joining in because suddenly it was fun. Mrs M was pissed and this bedraggled looking man who might have been Santa after some serious dieting, was starting to enjoy himself. As it turned out we had all of his books in our tiny corner library, and in the words of my friend Andrew “hey there’s a giant spider fighting a ghost on this cover! neat!” and the presentation devolved into chaos as we all began reading different books at once and asking questions about each one. “Does she live?”— “What about the talking trees” —“is the ghost evil?” —“can I go to the bathroom, Miss?” —“Wow neat, more spiders!”

After that we were supposed to sit down, quietly (glare glare) and write a short story to show what we had learned from listening to Mr Scott. I wont pretend I wrote anything remotely good, I was ten and all I could come up with was a story about a magic carrot that made you see words in the dark, but Mr Scott seemed to like it. In fact he seemed to like all of them, probably because they were done with such vibrant enthusiasm in defiance of the people who didn’t want us to.

The following year, when I’d moved into Mrs H’s class—the kind of woman that didn’t take away books from children who loved to read and let them write nonsense in the back of their journals provided they got all their work done—a letter arrived to the school, carefully wedged between several copies of a book which was unheard of at the time, by a new author known as J.K. Rowling. Mrs H remarked that it was strange that an author would send copies of books that weren’t even his to a school, but I knew why he’d done it. I knew before Mrs H even read the letter.

Because words are important. Words are magical. They’re powerful. And that power ought to be shared. There’s no petty rivalry between story tellers, although there’s plenty who try to insinuate it. There’s plenty who try to say some words are more valuable than others, that somehow their meaning is more important because of when it was written and by whom. Those are the same people who laud Shakespeare from the heavens but refuse to acknowledge that the quote “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them“ is a dick joke.

And although Mr Scott seems to have faded from public literary consumption, I still think about him. I think about his stories, I think about how he recommended another author and sent copies of her books because he knew our school was a puritan shithole that fought against the Wrong Type of Wordes and would never buy them into the library otherwise. But mostly I think about how he looked at a ten year old like an equal and told her words and important, and people will try to keep you from writing them—so write them anyway.

Jughead's Flaws
  • Jughead: I have flaws. I think I'm just too cocky for my own good.
  • Archie: I don't think you're co-
  • Jughead: You could say, I'm ACE at being ARrOgant.
  • Archie: Well, I-
  • Jughead: I can also be a real savage.
  • Archie:
  • Jughead: I really burn people, I really pass that ACEtic acid AROund.
  • Archie: Wait, isn't that just vinegar-
  • Jughead: I eat way too much as well. I just stuff my fACE with macAROni all the time.
  • Archie: Why are you talking like-
  • Jughead: And brACE yourself when around me, Archie, because sometimes I just feel like I'm a human pAROdy of a tumblr blog.
  • Archie:
  • Jughead: Everyone should just call me "the disgrACE" instead.
  • Archie:
  • Jughead:
  • Archie: What the hell are you-
  • Jughead: I'm aroace.
Wynonna Earp 2x09 !SPOILERS!
  • Holy Shit that training scene with Waverly and Wynonna!!!
  • Don’t underestimate pregnant Wynonna!
  • Waverly calls Nicole “the devil” :(
  • TUcker burnnnneeeeedddd baby burnnnneeeeeed
  • Waverly is an angel to one of the widows!!!!!!
  • Jealous Nicole Alert!!!!!
  • Waverly still feels manipulated and controlled by Nicole :(
  • Doc tastes macaroni for the first time and he acts like he likes it 
  • Waverly bought a baby rattle for the Earp baby awwwwwwwww
  • Waverly is stress drinking….
  • Wynonna makes a dinner for Doc and puts twizzlers on his plate and says its all she had omggggggg
  • DAMNNNNNnnnnnnnn Waverly looks AMAAAAAaaaaazing in that bikini
  • Wynonna/Doc dinner gets a little heated…
  • Jeremy totally is totally gay and is totally gay for Dolls
  • Wynonna baby bumps Doc omg
  • Doc’s mom died of tuberculosis and he listened to her die by going under their house ;(
  • Rosita has 3 phds and she is smart af
  • Nicole keeps texting Waverly with “sorry”. She really misses her baby.
  • Waverly sends a really rude text to Nicole… OH GOD THERE GOES ANY HOPE FOR WAYHAUGHT THIS EPISODE
  • TUcker isn’t dead?
  • Tucker is an absolute freak!!!

Mozzarella Macaroni and Cheese

Total Time: 30 minutes
Yield: 4 servings

2 cups uncooked elbow macaroni
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon grated or very finely chopped garlic
2 cups milk
2 cups (8 oz) Miceli’s Mozzarella cheese
¼ cup chopped fresh basil leaves

1) Cook and drain macaroni as directed on package

2) In 10" skillet, melt butter over medium heat. Using whisk, stir in flour, salt, and garlic. Cook 2-3 minutes, or until mixture smells nutty and is lightly golden, stirring constantly with whisk.

3) Add milk. Continue to beat with whisk, scraping bottom of skillet until mixture heats to boiling. Mixture will thicken. Remove from heat; add cheese and basil. Stir with whisk until smooth. Stir in drained macaroni.

4) Serve with additional basil leaves if desired.

Original recipe and image courtesy of Betty Crocker

Hard To Handle - Danny x Reader - Chapter 5

Series Name: Hard to Handle

Chapter Name: Hanging by a Moment

Pairing: Danny x Reader

Word Count: 2076

Parts:  1 | 2 | 2.5 | 3 | 3.5 | 4 | (5) | 6 | 6.5 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

A/N: What do you mean Sunday isn’t the end of the week? pshhh. 

Read on AO3.

You held a dress in front of your body and posed dramatically.

“Too churchy.” CJ said, shutting down yet another one of your potential outfits. He snatched the dress from you and tossed it onto the ever-growing reject pile with a flourish. You reached for another outfit and posed, trying your best to look “fierce” but succeeding at looking very stressed out and kind of uncomfortable.

“Too raunchy. Girl, are we fucking on the first date?” CJ snatched the outfit from your hands and held it up in front of himself. He mimed cat claws at the mirror and growled, “Actually, I might have to borrow this from you.” You rolled your eyes and took the outfit back, throwing it onto the pile with the rest of your wardrobe.

“Your shoes cost more than that entire outfit, you can get your own.” CJ made some noise of protest, but re-focused on you when you held up a shirt and skirt combo.

Keep reading

astarose7  asked:

So my parents are away and as I said earlier I felt impulsive so I made macaroni for the first time and some of the noodles burned to the bottom of the pan and so I am currently having it sit, after finished cooking, in water , baking soda, and apple cider vinegar because I had no regular vinegar. But most of of the macaroni came out okay to eat.

next time put a lil salt in the pan w the water nd stir is for the first 2 mins