actually-this-is-the-story-of-my-life

fire-shadow-dragon-god  asked:

Lorenzo Leocadio Sanchez. Also know as LANCE!

  • First impression: Leggy
  • Impression now: MY CUBAN SON I WILL PROTECT YOU WITH MY LIFE I WOULD  D I E   F O R   Y O U 
  • Favorite moment: *handcuffed to a tree blushing because his mind is in the gutter* whoa..this is kind of…
  • Idea for a story: well rn i’m actually writing a wedding AU where he leaves like a few hours before he’s about to get married so he can find something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue (it’s actually funnier than it seems lol) 
  • Unpopular opinion: his last name isn’t McClain :) 
  • Favorite relationship: HANCE 
  • Favorite headcanon: When one of the paladin’s get hurt he’ll sing sana, sana, colita de rana. si no sanas hoy, sanarás mañana at them while rubbing their bruise.

still pretty proud i managed this within the deadline. I’ve written more, since then, and I think I actually managed to get to an ending! For once in my life, I may have finished a story with more than a few thousand words….

@hyperdimensiondetective replied to your post:

I love how now you actually have a series of stories called “underwear saga”

I know right? I even have an “ahoge saga” and I don’t know which is more ridiculous. These aren’t even my wildest prompts. Sometimes I wonder why I write these then I remember that I am DR trash. 

Dangan ronpa changed me

I actually really like anime. I realize very well a lot of it is lame, but for me it was always a good thing in my life because of the community I had with it. And some of the stories I’ve read in manga have stuck with me just as powerfully as Portal is doing right now. While I think a lot of the industry is disgusting, particularly the amount of sexualizing that happens in anime/manga, i think the artform itself is very lovely and has a lot of good qualities, if not only for the memories I have made with so many friends I’ve gotten to share in these stories.

Don’t make fun of something someone else likes. You don’t know how important that thing was and is to them.

anonymous asked:

What in the world happened w/ Helena Bonham Carter and Tim Burton? Why did they break up? Wait, do even like Tim?

So someone asked me this not long ago and I did explain the whole story with the tabloids/rumours flying around about the pair of them. A lot of people online jumped on the band wagon saying Tim cheated, he had a mid-life crisis, Helena cheated, she got with someone a year before it was announced publicly that they were over. To be honest, no one actually 100% knows. I can give my opinion on it. My opinion is that no, I don’t think they cheated on each other (HBC actually denied the rumours that Tim cheated were true) but I do think Tim is partially to blame whether he was having a mid-life crisis or not. That’s just how I feel. I feel like he hurt her, I mean you seen the Harper’s Bazaar interview right? That was pretty heartbreaking to read. 

A more detailed description to the fake/true story of what the tabloids said had happened is just here (x)

The only people who know the full story of what happened in that relationship is the two people that went through it. I think it should stay private, it’s been years now and they are both happy. If it’s meant to be it will be and if we ever get to know the ins and outs of what happened then so be it. It’s there decision. 

Also, I do like Tim darling. I have to admit I don’t like the way he treated HBC because well, she was devastated that they broke up but I like him. I liked them both individually, before they got together, when they got together (so so much) and even now that they are apart. He is a truly talented man. Just enjoy his films and let’s leave him and his feelings be. 

Hey, but Helena Bonham Carter is my queen. She does deserve to be happy and I hope she finds that happiness, whether it’s with Tim or without♡

one time at my grandparents’ house my family was sitting around making jokes and got around to Russia puns? and I was sitting there looking disapproving and Done except what I was actually doing was pulling up this tumblr post on my phone because my fucking time had come and as soon as I got a chance I said “you guys are really putin a lot of effort into this” and they all cracked the fuck up and I won the round and I never told them I cheated and the moral of the story is, always tag your posts

GUYS THIS WAS WORTH 80% OF MY FINAL EXAM GRADE FOR OPERATIONS MANAGEMENT AND I GOT AN A

story time: during school today I was watching the Uma Thurman music video (during my free period) and my friend who I’m not that close with I should point out walked up to me and started to watch it with me. During the video he told me that he already saw it before it came out on YouTube. So I’m like “lol how” and he says “well… I’m technically……Patrick Stump’s cousin.”
At this point I thought he was messing with me but nope.. apparently his mom’s sister is Patrick’s wife. My friend could literally go to family gatherings with Patrick Stump.

Brb finding a way to meet fall out boy via friends

8

 starkswaters asked: Jack Sparrow or Will Turner

glamour.com
How Learning to Cook Korean Food Helped Me Grieve (and Heal)
The winner of Glamour's 2016 essay contest shares a story of heartbreak and in-the-kitchen healing.
By Michelle Zauner

I’m so tired of white guys on TV telling me what to eat. I’m tired of Anthony Bourdain testing the waters of Korean cuisine to report back that, not only will our food not kill you, it actually tastes good. I don’t care how many times you’ve traveled to Thailand, I won’t listen to you—just like the white kids wouldn’t listen to me, the half-Korean girl, defending the red squid tentacles in my lunch box. The same kids who teased me relentlessly back then are the ones who now celebrate our cuisine as the Next Big Thing.

I grew up in the Pacific Northwest, in a small college town that was about 90 percent white. In my adolescence I hated being half Korean; I wanted people to stop asking, “Where are you really from?” I could barely speak the language and didn’t have any Asian friends. There was nothing about me that felt Korean—except when it came to food.

At home my mom always prepared a Korean dinner for herself and an American dinner for my dad. Despite the years he’d lived in Seoul, selling cars to the military and courting my mom at the Naija Hotel where she worked, my dad is still a white boy from Philadelphia.

So each night my mom prepared two meals. She’d steam broccoli and grill Dad’s salmon, while boiling jjigae and plating little side dishes known as banchan. When our rice cooker announced in its familiar robotic voice, “Your delicious white rice will be ready soon!” the three of us would sit down to a wondrous mash-up of East and West. I’d create true fusion one mouthful at a time, using chopsticks to eat strips of T-bone and codfish eggs drenched in sesame oil, all in one bite. I liked my baked potatoes with fermented chili paste, my dried cuttlefish with mayonnaise.

There’s a lot to love about Korean food, but what I love most is its extremes. If a dish is supposed to be served hot, it’s scalding. If it’s meant to be served fresh, it’s still moving. Stews are served in heavy stone pots that hold the heat; crack an egg on top, and it will poach before your eyes. Cold noodle soups are served in bowls made of actual ice.

By my late teens my craving for Korean staples started to eclipse my desire for American ones. My stomach ached for al tang and kalguksu. On long family vacations, with no Korean restaurant in sight, my mom and I passed up hotel buffets in favor of microwaveable rice and roasted seaweed in our hotel room.

And when I lost my mother to a very sudden, brief, and painful fight with cancer two years ago, Korean food was my comfort food. She was diagnosed in 2014. That May she’d gone to the doctor for a stomachache only to learn she had a rare squamous cell carcinoma, stage four, and that it had spread. Our family was blindsided.

I moved back to Oregon to help my mother through chemo­therapy; over the next four months, I watched her slowly disappear. The treatment took everything—her hair, her spirit, her appetite. It burned sores on her tongue. Our table, once beautiful and unique, became a battleground of protein powders and tasteless porridge. I crushed Vicodin into ice cream.

Dinnertime was a calculation of calories, an argument to get anything down. The intensity of Korean flavors and spices became too much for her to stomach. She couldn’t even eat kimchi.

I began to shrink along with my mom, becoming so consumed with her health that I had no desire to eat. Over the course of her illness, I lost 15 pounds. After two rounds of chemo, she decided to discontinue treatment, and she died two months later.

As I struggled to make sense of the loss, my memories often turned to food. When I came home from college, my mom used to make galbi ssam, Korean short rib with lettuce wraps. She’d have marinated the meat two days before I’d even gotten on the plane, and she’d buy my favorite radish kimchi a week ahead to make sure it was perfectly fermented.

Then there were the childhood summers when she brought me to Seoul. Jet-lagged and sleepless, we’d snack on homemade banchan in the blue dark of Grandma’s humid kitchen while my rela­tives slept. My mom would whisper, “This is how I know you’re a true Korean.”

But my mom never taught me how to make Korean food. When I would call to ask how much water to use for rice, she’d always say, “Fill until it reaches the back of your hand.” When I’d beg for her galbi recipe, she gave me a haphazard ingredient list and approximate measurements and told me to just keep tasting it until it “tastes like Mom’s.”

After my mom died, I was so haunted by the trauma of her illness I worried I’d never remember her as the woman she had been: stylish and headstrong, always speaking her mind. When she appeared in my dreams, she was always sick.

Then I started cooking. When I first searched for Korean recipes, I found few resources, and I wasn’t about to trust Bobby Flay’s Korean taco monstrosity or his clumsy kimchi slaw. Then, among videos of oriental chicken salads, I found the Korean YouTube personality Maangchi. There she was, peeling the skin off an Asian pear just like my mom: in one long strip, index finger steadied on the back of the knife. She cut galbi with my mom’s ambidextrous precision: positioning the chopsticks in her right hand while snipping bite-size pieces with her left. A Korean woman uses kitchen scissors the way a warrior brandishes a weapon.

I’d been looking for a recipe for jatjuk, a porridge made from pine nuts and soaked rice. It’s a dish for the sick or elderly, and it was the first food I craved when my feelings of shock and loss finally made way for hunger.

I followed Maangchi’s instructions carefully: soaking the rice, breaking off the tips of the pine nuts. Memories of my mother emerged as I worked—the way she stood in front of her little red cutting board, the funny intonations of her speech.

For many, Julia Child is the hero who brought boeuf bourguignon into the era of the TV dinner. She showed home cooks how to scale the culinary mountain. Maangchi did this for me after my mom died. My kitchen filled with jars containing cabbage, cucumbers, and radishes in various stages of fermentation. I could hear my mom’s voice: “Never fall in love with anyone who doesn’t like kimchi; they’ll always smell it coming out of your pores.”

I’ve spent over a year cooking with Maangchi. Sometimes I pause and rewind to get the steps exactly right. Other times I’ll let my hands and taste buds take over from memory. My dishes are never exactly like my mom’s, but that’s OK—they’re still a delicious tribute. The more I learn, the closer I feel to her.

One night not long ago, I had a dream: I was watching my mother as she stuffed giant heads of Napa cabbage into earthenware jars.

She looked healthy and beautiful.

Michelle Zauner is a writer and musician in Brooklyn.

The mind of a writer can be a truly terrifying thing. Isolated, neurotic, caffeine-addled, crippled by procrastination, consumed by feelings of panic, self-loathing, and soul-crushing inadequacy. And that’s on a good day.
—  Robert DeNiro hitting it on the head about writers, at the 2014 Oscars

A 911 Operator Warning You to Stay Safe

Story by fbis-most-unwanted/reddit

It’s kind of a running joke in my office that I always get the weirdest calls, and it’s true. One of the more interesting ones I got was from a drunk guy who meant to call the cops and was trying to file a noise complaint about his own party. While some of my calls can be pretty strange, they’re usually fairly tame. I’ve been pretty lucky because I haven’t had too many disturbing or sad stories to tell from my years working as a 911 operator. If you’re looking for something like that, I can point you to several of my colleagues because unfortunately, there’s no shortage of those in this industry. 

Keep reading

“Please don’t tell dad.”
you are six and I am eight,
keeping the bugs at bay and leaning forward
over the murky pond in our forest in Virginia.
Today we are hunting for frogs -
racing to find the fattest to bring home
hidden in our sweaty chubby palms,
to hide in the pillowcase of our least favorite cousin
who is visiting from the country, and is in the first grade, and has not yet learned
how to pray
before eating, or how to say
our last name without an accent.

When you slip and fall, I do not catch you
and I am so scared watching you sink
that for twenty seconds after I do not think
to call for help. When our mother runs
and jumps
into the murky pond she is sobbing.
While she pumps black water from your blue body
I rub a frogs stomach with my little finger.
He is hypnotized, and you are alive
but barely. That night I promise I will never let you die again.

“Please don’t tell dad.”
You are fourteen,
sneaking out with friends for the first time
and I find a stolen bottle of wine
in your backpack. You say dad would have
a heart attack, and I believe you. You say you need this.
You say that you will do
anything that I ask. But I don’t ask.
Instead, I watch you pile into the back of an older friend’s Jeep,
and I am careful not to let the window creek
when I close it behind you.

In the morning I find vomit on your shoes.
I wash them in the sink. I bring you something to drink
and two aspirin. The next month your older friend
hits a cyclist in his jeep,
and kills him. The police find drugs in his system.
They send him to prison.

“Please don’t tell dad”
you are sixteen, and I catch you smoking weed,
catching you needing something
that you do not have. You are sixteen, bleeding and softening,
and when you tell me you want to die sometimes
all I can say is “so do I.” You are sixteen,
so I don’t tell dad that I think you need help
because you tell me you can help yourself.

“Please don’t tell dad”
you say on the phone, and I am nineteen now,
living on my own
eight hours from either place I call home
and I feel guilty for leaving you alone
with him.
But this time it is not about drugs or dead friends.
“I wrote a poem,” you say,
“and I think I might be good at this.
Please don’t tell dad, but I want to be a poet.”

When you hear me crying on the end of the line,
you tell me that it’s fine. That you love me. That you are thankful
for everything I’ve done, for the water in your lungs
and for the drugs and for all the times you’ve needed me
and I have not come.

“Please don’t tell dad,”
you say,
and then thank me.

—  Poem For My Little Brother on His 17th Birthday; Hannah Beth Ragland