Does Wearing Glasses Make You Look Smarter?

It’s often believed they do.  Just look at what former Gov. Rick Perry did after his monumental collapse in the 2012 presidential debates.  He looked like the biggest political goofball in modern history, but for his remake, he got himself a pair of big black-framed glasses.  Same dim mind, but instant boost to his IQ.  And now he’s about to run the Dept of Energy which is in charge of the nation’s nuclear energy program.  Look for Homer Simpson to be his deputy.  

Anyway, I digress.  IMHO, glasses don’t make you look smarter, but they make you look more serious.  Evidence that you read a lot (maybe with dim lighting…), and you’ll continue past the point where your eyes are screaming to be shut.  Or maybe it’s just evidence that your vision is genetically compromised, or you’re scared of using contacts.   I don’t know.  I’ve never needed glasses.  But I do find them kind of sexy, in the right situation.  And that definitely has absolutely nothing to do with Rick Perry.

A Crown of Cinder

When the dragon queen came to Westeros, it was rumored she stayed at Dragonstone and let her vast army alone, without the aid of her dragons, take the south for her.


Perhaps she stopped at Dragonstone first, but she did not stay. Soon enough, the jawing of one queen provoked the force of the other. Wise coin would have bet on the lioness, gods knew she was vindictive enough to prevail, and one might argue that she had. In the end, it was not the honor of armies that defeated the capital, but instead the cheat of dragons and the catalyst of rage.

There were a few differences between dragon fire and wildfire, aside from the color. Where one was extinguishable by water, the other required sand, not something in abundance at King’s Landing. Where one burned hotter and longer, the other was by far more easily replenished. Both queens driven mad, cackled at each other amidst the flames, great monuments collapsing to ruin in a dance of orange and green light.

When fire touched Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen, and her skin did not blister, Qyburn warned his queen that they lacked any precaution that would mirror the ability. The self-proclaimed queen of the seven kingdoms dismissed her fallen maester for losing his faith in her cause. Petyr heard that when his body burned, it was not only rapid but that there was an almost purple tinge to the flame. He wondered if that was a result of the many years spent in his dark laboratory, his condemning experiments splashing up on him, giving him a much more flammable quality.

He laughed to himself, this was the thought of a small child. Too often, Petyr allowed himself such private amusement. He looked around what had been the throne room, staring at the broken trunks of the great pillars formerly used to brace the heavy ceiling. The same painted ceiling he would glance at whenever the person in front of him burdened his ears with their idiocy.

The iron throne remained, the swords only better fused, once they’d cooled again. Petyr pulled the crown from a pile of ash that had at once been Cersei Lannister’s skull. He blew the dust from the battered metal before he placed it on his head. The maesters would be arguing this for decades to come, who defeated whom. Petyr adjusted the crown, and leaned back in his seat. To him the answer was simple, I did.

Cersei burned alive in a mix of dragon and wildfire, her screams swallowed by the sound of the roof collapsing over her. That would have been a satisfying ending to anyone. Yet the kingdom sits unsettled. The Targaryen queen had armies and dragons at her disposal, but she too did not survive the war. Daenerys had the force but Cersei had the vehemence, and did not go out without dealing her final blow.

When both queens squared off in the throne room as it reduced to rubble, Daenerys stood proud in the heat, knowing she could withstand the fire as she had so many times before. Where Qyburn was correct in his declaration that Cersei could not live in the flames, he did not anticipate that there was someone at her disposal who could, for a while anyway.

The Mountain.

Petyr looked at the ground by his feet. The custom helm made for Qyburn’s notorious creature, sat on its side, blackened with a pile of ash inside. Petyr smirked at the knowledge that he was doing his queen’s bidding till the very end. Daenerys lifeless body darkened with soot sprawled out on the ground next to it. She didn’t burn, not even in death.

Petyr stared down at her breasts and deemed them unimpressive. He considered her castrated army and decided that perhaps she’d picked the best followers suited to her endowments. The inhuman way her neck was twisted and turned, proved the Mountain’s effectiveness at strangulation, as if there was any question.

Cersei must have known he would have a resistance no normal man would possess when she sent her brother away and demanded the undead Clegane stay with her in his stead. That wasn’t to say that the Mountain wasn’t affected at all, just that it seemed to take much longer to incapacitate and finish him. It was Daenerys that insisted the doors be locked to keep Cersei from escaping. In the end, it was she that could not break free from the very crushing grip of death.

A familiar voice pulled Petyr from his thoughts, “I didn’t mean literally.”

He looked up to see his oldest opponent approaching, in the very room they so often sparred in. “Varys.” He sifted through their many conversations in his mind, trying to determine his meaning. It hit him all at once, King of the Ashes. It wasn’t words Varys had spoken to him directly, though words he’d known Petyr learned of regardless. He made a point of looking around him as he grinned, “Ironic isn’t it?”

“Mm.” Varys brought his hands together, tucking them in his long sleeves as he tended to do. He raised his eyebrows at the crown Petyr wore. “Quite a feminine look for you.”

“I’m quite confident in my masculinity, Varys. Sorry you can’t say the same.” He let his gaze drop to where Varys’ legs met as he quipped, revelling in the nostalgia of their relationship.

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

Petyr waved his hand. “A performance. My queen would never kill me.”

“Ah, Sansa.” Varys glanced around. “Where is Lady Stark? Sorry, Bolton. No, wait, Tyrion’s still alive. Lady Lannister.”

“Queen Sansa is in Dragonstone, playing her part. She’ll send for me when it’s time.” Petyr saw no purpose in dishonesty in that moment.

Varys shook his head, “You won’t make to Dragonstone. Daenerys’ army is still strong, and quite loyal to Jon, both her soulmate and the last true Targaryen.”

“Guess who else Jon is,” Petyr’s cheek dimpled.

Varys’s expression remained neutral as he answered, “His love for Daenerys is stronger than his love for a mere cousin.”

“Is it?” Petyr took the crown from his head, twirling it in his fingers as he toyed with him. “She’s family. He may be Rhaegar Targaryen’s progeny, but he was raised by Ned Stark. He will do as she bids.”

“And what exactly is that, may I ask?”

“You may ask,” Petyr smirked.

Varys sighed in the silence that followed.

Petyr snickered at the inconvenience of it and then chose to explain. “Sansa will convince him to ride Drogon for her as she unites the kingdoms.” He tilted his head a little as he added, “In Daenerys’ memory, of course.”

“How thoughtful,” Varys lips thinned.

Petyr took such pleasure in his old friend’s discomfort. “I will spare your life, Varys. Your skills are useful to me. If you bend the knee to my queen, that is.”

Cynicism poisoned Varys’ reply, “So it truly has come to this. Simpering and bowing before you.”

“Well, you do still have your head,” Petyr teased.

Varys shook his head, “This is madness.”

“Oh Varys! You’ve always looked quite darling on your knees, what does it matter who’s in front of you?” Petyr rose from his seat on the iron throne.

“I did what I did, for the good of the realm.”

Not missing the chance to twist the proverbial blade, Petyr smiled. “The realm. Do you know what the realm is?”

Varys stood silent.

“I’ll show you.” Petyr raised his hand to better emphasize the point he took such joy in making. “If I am the King of the Ashes, then it is only fitting I have an army of my own, isn’t it?”

Varys continued his vow of silence.

Seize him,” Petyr called out to the ashes.

Varys chuckled, feeling safe and secure in the uninhabited wreckage.

That was, he did until the sound of feet crunching through the ash and grit sounded in his ears. Tattered and worn men of all ages shapes and sizes climbed out from behind the debris and closed in on him.

“It wasn’t just Robert that blessed my girls with bastards. How many baby boys do you think they bore faithful clients over the years? I’ve fostered them all, knowing they’d be of use later. My little army of bastards, waiting for my return to the capital, ever loyal to their surrogate.” Petyr roared with laughter as they captured Varys and forced him to the ground. Ashes blackening the knees of his fine purple robe.

Panic set in as Varys struggled against them, scratching and clawing at the nameless brunette bastards that held him in place. Petyr strolled in front of him, “Repeat after me: Sansa of the House Stark, first of her name, Queen of the Andals of the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms–”

“Long may she reign!” Varys quickly proclaimed, the instinct to survive took over.

Petyr’s cheek twitched in pleasure before he agreed, “Yes, long may she reign.”

Balzac was the first to speak of the ruins of the bourgeoisie. But it was Surrealism that first opened our eyes to them. The development of the forces of production shattered the wish symbols of the previous century, even before the monuments representing them had collapsed. In the nineteenth century this development worked to emancipate the forms of construction from art, just as in the sixteenth century the sciences freed themselves from philosophy. A start is made with architecture as engineered construction. Then comes the reproduction of nature as photography. The creation of fantasy prepares to become practical as commercial art. Literature submits to montage in the feuilleton. All these products are on the point of entering the market as commodities. But they linger on the threshold. From this epoch derive the arcades and interieurs, the exhibition halls and panoramas. They are residues of a dream world. The realization of dream elements, in the course of waking up, is the paradigm of dialectical thinking. Thus, dialectical thinking is the organ of historical awakening. Every epoch, in fact, not only dreams the one to follow but, in dreaming, precipitates its awakening. It bears its end within itself and unfolds it - as Hegel already noticed - by cunning. With the destabilizing of the market economy, we begin to recognize the monuments of the bourgeoisie as ruins even before they have crumbled.
—  Walter Benjamin, “Paris, Capital of the Nineteenth Century”, trans. H. Eiland.
-199387062373213542599493807777207997205533596336. class art

at the corner of a blue square
backed up against a sea of red
littered with more yellow dots
the architecture swings and groans
a monumental misunderstanding

when colors collapse we’ll fall into green
orange bleeding out across the sky
our purple hearts resounding one last time
the lines that divide us do not define us
yet here we are, sitting primary and afraid
preferring to die than let a rainbow breathe


 The scraping of metal on metal and the quiet pitter patter of foot prints echoed around in the valley as a lone figure climbed to the top of a twisting, rusting, collapsed monument of the days of old.
        Below her in the shadow of the monument lay the ruins of an ancient city. Creeping in the shadows of the over grown city beasts of mans creation and arrogance patrol the overgrown city ready to catch any unwary prey off gaurd.
        Despite the horrors below her, the girl stared at the sunrise coming over the desolate city with hope. In the light she was safe, in the light she didnt have to fear the creations of man.
        The sound of claws scrapping on rusted steel stirred her from her thoughts. She quickly readied her bow and nocked an arrow and aimed at the crest of the mound of twisted steel behind her. She stedied her shallow breathing ready for anything.
        A gentle mewing came from the other side as a small cats head popped up. It quickly scampered over to her, and rubbed its self up against the girls leg purring quietly.
       She scooped the cat up into her arms holding it close, it was underfed and very young but it wasnt mutated and was soft. Perhaps this small kitten was a sign of good things to come. “I’ll call you hope” the girl quietly whisperd as she stroked its head between the ears.

-_~÷☆line break☆÷~_-
Just a small story i did while taking some things to the dump hope yall enjoy it
@takashi0 can i have a small boost please?

I don’t understand. Why do people find it so easy to give up on me while I hold them like precious stones in my hand? Maybe because I’m a “rock” and they are “gems” — I can easily be replaced while they are treasures to keep. Maybe I did not leave an impact. Maybe I’m just a drizzle whereas they are like the storm, a force to be reckoned with.

I wish I can do the same.. to give up so easily. But I can’t.

I built a monument for them in my heart and plant them a garden. I can’t just let the monument to collapse and for the flowers to withered and die. I can’t just let something I worked hard for and put my heart and soul into to be destroyed. I can’t just give up on people.. my people.
—  journal entry (102/365)

[Live Video - Full Set] Monuments Collapse - Bottom of the Hill 07.15.2013

Just in case anyone was wondering how stupid the leafs have been for the past few seasons im here to break it down for you

  • they fired Brian Burke (GM) and Ron Wilson (Coach) who rebuilt the team
  • they replaced them with Dave Nonis (GM) and Randy Carlyle (Coach)
  • in Carlyles first full season (lockout-shortened) the team made the playoffs but they were terribly outshot the whole season
  • also James Reimer was Jesus
  • they brought the Boston Bruins to game 7 then had a MONUMENTAL GAME 7 COLLAPSE #itwas4-1
  • over the summer they signed David Clarkson to a 5.25 million dollar contract for 7 years (he had 1 30 GOAL SEASON IN HIS CAREER WHAT THE FUCK EVEN)
  • they also traded for Jonathan Bernier who is Jesus #2
  • so the leafs had 2 starting goalies yay (NOT YAY)
  • anyways
  • up until February the leafs were doing pretty good 
  • their defense was atrocious and they were getting outshot by 10-20 shots each night and their top 2 lines were the only ones scoring but still pretty good
  • and thats when it all went down
  • NONE
  • NADA
  • The fact that Carlyle only ever played 3 lines was catching up to him as the whole team was fucking exhausted
  • The defense sunk to a whole new level of shit
  • oh and Mr. 5.25 million SCORED 11 POINTS IN 60 GAMES
  • So the leafs suck 
  • but there was some hope because they brought in a new president YAY WOO BRENDAN SHANAHAN PARTY FUN CHANGE 
  • everyone thought he was going to be good and happy and make the team good again
  • but
  • but
  • but
  • his very first decision as the president was to GIVE RANDY CARLYLE A 2 YEAR CONTRACT EXTENSION