don beads

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“Chain Fountain: as the chain flows out of the glass under the pull of gravity the beads don’t simply roll over the edge but instead arc up upward like a fountain. As each link is pulled and tilted upward the adjacent link is tilted downward and pressed into the pile- by Newton’s 3rd law the pile presses back pushing each bead upward into the air.”

🎷🎺🎼Throw me 🍆💦cum-thing 💦💦💦daddy‼️‼️ 😜😩👑Mardi⚜Gras🎉is upon us, that means it’s time to get 👅💦wet🍻and 😫😩wild🎭Get out there and catch some anal 📿💎beads. Don’t forget to eat some 💦🍆cream filled 🍰🎂cake, but don’t end up with the baby🚼⚠️⚠️⚠🚸️Send this to all your phat hoes👯 this 2️⃣’s day 🃏who are getting turnt🍸🍹 If you get 1️⃣0️⃣ back you’re 🍑Queen✨✨ of the Krewe🎭de Dick🍆🌽🌭🍌🍍

things that never end well- a guy starting a conversation with “you know, I’m a GUY who KNITS and”

so i’m in the break room knitting and he comes up and starts explaining what I’m doing wrong. and he is literally wrong about everything

“you shouldn’t use two circular needles- you can knit a tube with one, and they look like different sizes” yeah that’s because I’m knitting a shawl on a circular needle and i need to change needle sizes for the lace repeats “

"you should watch out and be sure not to wrap your yarn around your finger like that, it’ll catch and mess with your tension” just because you’re too much of a scrub to knit continental doesn’t mean we all are

“are those beads? why don’t you just put them on once you’re done so you can see how it looks without them” what the fuck

like I got a degree in knitting. I got this, buddy

anonymous asked:

How many days did Ariana have those beads in her hair? I can't imagine keeping them in for a few hours let alone a few days.. must've been painful

2 days so far, haven’t seen her today. I don’t think the beads would be painful themselves- they’re just attached to the braid. The tight braid is probably the painful part. 

Not that I think Ariana has any nerves left in her head tbh

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Lots of beautiful new jewelry in my Etsy store. These are my favorite right now. Available in Rose Gold, Yellow Gold, and Silver colors.

Rose Gold Angel Aura Glass Captive Bead Ring

Please don’t remove caption. Thank you :)

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So now I’ve submerged the ‘Rusty Fohrok’ as someone called it… I do like ‘sunburst bohrok’ a bit better as a name, but anyway:

Made a mistake when removing the beads from the container they were in, and they got a bit dirty. Though it does have an interesting effect, textures the water a bit and makes it look a bit dusty - not unlike those wine bottles with preserved snakes inside them. Also adds the effect of being able to see the beads - they don’t fill up the entire space. Will have to experiment with food coloring next, not sure if it’s the best idea - if that may affect the plastic at all.

I see people talking about the humidity ruining the papers that dragons might write historical records on in the Labyrinth, and while this is true, and I hadn’t thought of that, I would also like to posit that paper is not the only recording method, and would like to put forth for your consideration, as an alternative to oral and paper records: Wampum-style bead records and clay tablets.

I could totally see Water Flight ancient history being recorded in beads because 1. It’s symbolic enough that of course only oracles would understand it 2. Beads don’t disintegrate under water 3. They have all the seashells. 

I got a prompt asking for Illya and Gaby to go to the opera on a mission! Just a little background here in case you didn’t know, Hitler and many Nazis were very big on Wagner and his operas, particularly the Ring Cycle. It had a lot to do with the Aryan race and Germanic mythology and blah blah blah horrible people. Also, apparently there was a performance of Lohengrin going on in Austria in 1963, so hey, that works.

Not exactly romance, but sassy Illya is best Illya

——


“Gaby, if I die tonight, tell them I died with my honor. I didn’t give in to the torture.”

For his trouble, the only reply Illya got was a very hard slap to the sternum with a beaded clutch. “Don’t be a baby, Kuryakin. There is absolutely nothing wrong with Lohengrin.”

“Still Wagner- ow!” And another clutch beating for the Russian. If this kept up, he was going to have a nice square bruise on his chest by midnight.

Of course, Gaby knew full well why they were more likely to find their Nazi targets at Wagner performance, especially one nestled right in Austria. Still, she couldn’t help her fondness for it. Her earliest memories- before she understood the war and before the Russians and the wall came down, before it all went shades of grey and fear- were colored with Wagner, her father playing his old records of the Ring cycle while she played dress up with her many pretty dolls. Dolls bought with Nazi money, she knew now, but she was still reluctant to tarnish those memories with blood and hate. They were the only good ones she had as a child.

Neither spy spoke again until they reached their private box for the evening. More practical that way, Waverly had said. Though they were in full view, they had a full view of the entire audience below and into the other boxes. Gaby took a moment to survey the crown silently filing in before she took her seat. There was Dr Gerber on the opposite side of the theater, target number one. And the wives of a particularly nasty group of Argentinian lawyers there on the floor. More fanatical than their ex Nazi husbands, or so the story went.

“This place is full of Nazis,” her partner grumbled, and he practically slammed into his seat with a hard lined frown.

“Yes,” she agreed, sitting with a little more grace, “and that is why we are here. To find them. It’s our job.” Gaby gave his cheek a little condescending pat, and pulled two pairs of opera glasses out of her clutch. Illya took one, but tucked it into his tuxedo jacket.

Gaby rolled her eyes, but said nothing about his behavior. He always got this way when there were Nazis around. Not that she could blame him, but sometimes….with her family history, she wondered if he didn’t feel a little of that resentment towards her as well.

But no time to dwell on feelings, they had a job to do. “You take the floor,” she said, pointing with her glasses down at the now full theatre floor. “I will take the balconies. You’re taller, anyway, you can see over the wall better.” Illya just shook his head and settled further into his chair. “No,” he disagreed, waving off her look of annoyance with one large hand, “I will take nap. Wake me for intermission. Then I can concentrate without this….screaming.”

Well. That felt personal.

“Fine. Arschloch.”

Gaby didn’t even bother to answer his confused and affronted snort, she just sat back and tried to enjoy their night of work.

Forty five minutes later, she felt hot breath against her neck. Gaby leaned away, shooting her partner a look that could possibly light his hair on fire. “What on earth are you doing?”

The Russian just shook his head, leaning in closer to whisper. “Gaby, I am sorry. For whatever I did to offend you.” It wasn’t too good as aplogies went, but it was an attempt. Gaby was ready to give him, just barely, but to her surprise he kept talking. “I understand you are German, but this is not….you. You understand?”

Oh. The man was more observant than she gave him credit for. That’s what she got for teaming up with the KGB’s best, she supposed.

After a moment of stunned silence, Gaby turned full around in her seat to face Illya, still a little angry. “My mother’s favorite opera was Lohengrin.” She spared a look at the stage, then back to the mountain of a man staring down at her. “It reminds me of her.” She didn’t particularly love it, but again, there’s something to be said for nostalgia.

At least Illya had enough shame to look slightly horrified with himself. She couldn’t tell in the dim light of the theatre, but she would almost say he blushed. “Oh. I.….I didn't…” He opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking remarkably like a goldfish out of water. “I understand.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” He relaxed then, no longer desperate for a way out of a trap of his own making. “I watch Swan Lake every year for my mother. Is not opera, but similar.”

“Yes,” Gaby agreed, trying desperately to squash the little smile creeping across her lips as she turned back to the stage, “I guess it is.”