moderngalahad  asked:

[[I always felt secretly guilty about shipping Jetko because my friend was so zutara she'd shove it down your throat and I'm secretly reading fics of her baby fucking Jet, but in a way, that made it even better because I was so sick of her aggressive shipping. Yes more gay porn.]]

You know I was kind of in a similar thing? All my friends were sitting arguing over ships with Katara and I was just sitting in the corner
“Okay but honor freedom and gay”

moderngalahad  asked:

[[Imagine Steve Rogers being asked (basically forced) to sing the anthem for a game and he's like "no no you really don't want me to" but they get him up there anyways with a mike and he apologizes to everyone before proceeding to sing HORRIBLY OUT OF TUNE because Steve can't carry a fucking note to save his life.]]

Cap can’t carry a tune in a bucket but we love him anyway
This is beautiful god bless America

anonymous asked:

This is Thes. Mom is watching Thor 2, and I'm upset again about the fact that the last thing Loki ever told Frigga was that she wasn't his mother, and he will never ever forget that.

This was on the list of things you needed to not


Finally downloaded the photos from my camera, so here’s the bookmark that I made for faunacanzona

It’s been years since I cross-stitched, and this is one of the first things I made when I picked it up again. Turns out sewing is a lot more fun when I’m not working with vintage country style patterns. I used the book Star Trek Cross-Stitch for the sampler templates, then altered them to create my own design.


I forgot to post photos! Here’s what your lovely chicken and biscuits should look like if you use my mom’s recipe.

That second one is with the butter brushed on top.

(the soup mix underneath looks thin, but it actually has a wonderful creamy consistency, and this is using the healthy low-fat cream of chicken soup. We’ve since switched to regular. It’s richer, and our family prefers it.)

There are teens who like to hang out outside the library by the water tower (because the cops can’t see them as they drive by), and there’s also a tree out there in the field. It’s beautiful right now, all covered in white flowers. The kids like to hang out underneath it sometimes, although they aren’t always kind to it.

Today I looked out the window while cleaning and saw a pair of shoes under the tree, laying there like they’d been tossed or kicked off. No one in sight. Not a soul.

And my very first thought was “Did the tree eat him?” Of all the things that could have come to mind, that’s what I wondered first. “Did the tree eat him? I bet he deserved it. I bet it was that one kid who broke a branch off the tree a few months ago, and the tree was leaking sap all day. The tree remembered him.”

People walked by over the next few hours, sometimes stopping and standing near one of the shoes while they adjusted their bags, then kept going. Like it wasn’t strange at all. It wasn’t until the last fifteen minutes when I looked out again and saw a man with grocery bags walk up, stick the shoes in his bag, and walk off. I don’t think they were his.

I wonder what sort of subgenre of gothic this fits under.


I woke up to my mom asking where the camera was. She said there were turkeys in the backyard; they’d hopped the fence. I dragged myself out of bed, grabbed my nice camera, and came over to the back door (where our dog was growling) to find over a dozen giant birds wandering around. I took a few shots, then ran back to my room, got the telephoto lens, and very carefully opened the door to get better shots.

They wandered around, one bigger than the others–probably the mother–leading the group and keeping an eye out while the others pecked around. They made themselves right at home for about half an hour before they decided to use the love-seat down in the corner to hop up on the fence and be on their way. But they left a present.


Halloween 2011 - Killjoy

After the corporation wars ended and the glittering skeleton of Battery City began to grow and take on flesh, I was tempted. I won’t deny it. All I wanted was to sleep eight hours without fear, and to know the man living next door for more than a couple weeks. But I couldn’t do it. I had lost my innocence and my trust somewhere out in the desert. Some nights, I imagine finding them again, bouncing along on the breeze like tumbleweeds. All that I am left with is faith. Faith in the pistols I picked off a dead man, which I named Calamity and Kiss. Faith in a clean shot through a latex mask.