fold table

👊 5 👊
  • ~~
  • *the morgue*
  • Sherlock: *high as fuck* I slept with one of your sisters...
  • John: ...
  • Sherlock: *sheepish* and I can't remember which sister.
  • John: ...
  • Sherlock: *points vaguely* One of them. There. The women.
  • John: *looks at Harry*
  • Harry: *shrugs awkwardly*
  • Sherlock: *concentrating* Hillary, Hilda...Hannah! It's, it was Hannah, wasn't it? Something like that. You *points at the morgue fridges*
  • Harry: *swallows* John-
  • John: *furious* You slept with my sister?
  • Sherlock: *nods* Yeeeeeeep. I don't remember much, she kept her coat on-
  • John: *punches him*
  • Sherlock: *staggers, holding his jaw* It's okay, I didn't ask-
  • John: *punches him harder*
  • Sherlock: *pointing* Lab coat! It was a lab coat. Your doctor sister.
  • John: *enraged* I ONLY HAVE ONE SISTER, YOU-
  • Harry: *quickly* Molly! He slept with Molly.
  • -they all turn to look at Molly, who'd been hiding at the back of the room-
  • Molly: *blushing* Oh, yeah. That happened.

If you had strolled one Saturday afternoon through the Park Plaza neighborhood in Fridley, Minn., you might have thought you were at just another block party. The residents were milling around a picnic buffet on folding tables on the street in front of their houses and the American flag. Kids were tossing beanbags and shouting. Neighbors were delivering Jell-O and marshmallow salad, and a pot of pork, cilantro and beans.

But this was not an ordinary picnic. Residents were celebrating the fifth anniversary of a major achievement that could inspire similar communities across the country: The day they began to take more control of their lives.

Park Plaza is a mobile home park, or what industry calls a manufactured housing community. Five years ago, the residents banded together, formed a nonprofit co-op and bought their entire neighborhood from the company that owned it. Today, these residents exert democratic control over almost 9 acres of prime suburbs, with 80 manufactured houses sited on them.

“It’s pretty wild,” says Carleton Dahl, one of the resident-owners, as he eats a hot dog. “Been a big change around here.”

Picture a mobile home community, and your image might look like Park Plaza. Most homes are white, brown or gray rectangles, with aluminum siding and pickup trucks parked in front. Some homes are bordered with flowers. Others have piles of junk.

There are no precise figures, but the U.S. Census Bureau estimates there are more than 8 million manufactured houses across the country. Housing specialists say they’re an important source of affordable housing.

“Where else could you live close to a city for this kind of money?” asks Natividad Seefeld, the elected (and unpaid) president of Park Plaza.

When Residents Take Ownership, A Mobile Home Community Thrives

This story is the second in a two-part report on conditions at mobile home parks in the U.S. Read part one here.

Photos: Bridget Bennett for NPR

anaxiphilia (pt. 12)

previously, she fell in love with the devil, badboy!yoongi au
genre: this chapter is angst as hell

previous | masterlist | next (coming soon)

I stared at the two individuals sitting in front of me, particularly the woman. Burrowing through my memories, I struggled to compare the girl in front of me to the woman my brother was engaged to. It was merely two years ago that Jihyun was whom every girl envied; beauty brains and in love.

The Jihyun seated in front of me was barely a shell of that woman. Her hair was cut short, bleached blonde and heavily damaged. Her face had sunken in, the restaurants uniform too big on her small frame. The bright eyes that dazzled and charmed everyone had dimmed, revealing that she was empty, an empty shell of the woman she used to be.

Yoongi’s eyes stayed down casted not meeting Jihyun’s or mine. His hands firmly intertwined and folded on the table. Unable to take the silence any longer, I cleared my throat offering my hand to Jihyun.

“We never really officially met, I’m [Y/N]. Seokjin’s younger sister,” I said, a small tight smile present on my lips. Jihyun looked down at my hand and then at me, raising an eyebrow. My eyes drifted between her and Yoongi. I gulped as I felt my chest constrict at the distance between the two.

I really should’ve let him move to sit next to me…

Suddenly Jihyun let out a loud laugh causing my eyes to dart back to her, just in time to catch her shaking her head.

“I didn’t sleep with him,” She said, pointing her thumb at Yoongi. I felt the air rush out of my lungs as relief flooded my system. I retrieved my hand, resting it on top of my lap.

“I didn’t ask-“

“You didn’t have to, your expression clearly screams your hatred for me. It could be because I broke your brother’s heart. But you look like you’re about ready to come over here and rip my head off for sitting next to Yoongi.” Jihyun laughed, crossing her arms. I stared at Yoongi and narrowed my eyes when I noticed the corner of his lips curved into small smirk. His eyes glanced up to meet mine for a brief second before looking away once again attempting to hid the full blown smile that spread across his face. 

“Why couldn’t you have told my brother that?” I said, turning my gaze to meet hers. She stiffed, her smile disappearing from her face. She glanced towards Yoongi and lets out a snicker.

“You’re really a man of your word, aren’t you?” She said incredulously, Yoongi clenched his jaw, his smile disappearing instantaneously, and his grip tightening on his intertwined hands. She stared at him for a moment longer than turned her head to me, her gaze meeting mine steadily.

“I’m a con-artist,” she shrugged, leaning back in her chair.

“A con artist?” I repeated, dubviously.

“A con-artist,” Jihyon voiced back. She leaned forward in her chair and crossed her arms, “Jin was one of my assignments. He’s rich and handsome, almost vain at times. Getting him wrapped around my finger was a piece of cake. It usually is with rich boys that are trained to take over businesses, languages, arts but never experience true affection from a woman.”

“I don’t understand where Yoongi comes in,” I said, furrowing my brows.

“Yoongi was equivalent to the other woman in my relationship with Jin. I needed him out of the picture to get Jin’s complete trust.” Jihyun said, her voice emotionless. 

“However Yoongi is much smarter than he lets on, aren’t you kid?” Jihyun said, punching him in the arm. “He found out about my actual profession and threatened to tell Jin unless I told him myself.”

Jihyun chuckled, “I was already a step ahead of him back then, I had told Jin that Yoongi kept trying to seduce me previously. Jin, of course, didn’t believe his best friend could do that to him. All he needed was some visual evidence, the night my car ‘broke down’ right in front of Yoongi’s house. Jin got the proof he needed.”

“The fact that Yoongi even gave me his clothes to wear that day because mine were wet, was a nice touch-“ Without any self control, I launched myself forward, my hand slapping her cheek hard enough to leave a stinging sensation on my palm. The noise of my slap seemed to echo in the almost empty restaurant. She grinned, reaching up to stroke her own cheek.

“You psychotic bitch,” I spat at her, this seemed to fuel her amusement. She started laughing, obnoxiously loud. I glared at her as she calmed herself down. I felt the chair next to me move backwards and someone settle into it. I glanced over my shoulder to see that it was Yoongi, his large hand engulfed the one I had used to slap Jihyun, my body relaxing as he caressed my hand.

“Ah, it’s been a while since I laughed that hard, thank you.” Jihyun said. I felt the anger return to my system and my fists clenched on their own accord. Yoongi unclenched my fist and intertwined our hands.

“I still don’t understand, what did you achieve from this? Jin broke up with you soon after and look at you, you’re completely ruined.”

“This is the result of a flaw that I didn’t prepare for. Jin broke it off with me because he figured; sooner or later I would go to Yoongi or someone else, he thought he wasn’t good enough for me or for anyone.” Jihyun shrugged.

“So, you broke my brother for a wad of cash that you didn’t even get because you failed,” I seethed, unable to control my anger again.

“Yes,” Jihyun said, meeting my glare steadily. I distinctly remember how affectionately Jin would speak of Jihyun, like she was his most prized possession, how in love he was. It was hard to believe that Jin would break up with her. He loved her too dearly; he even left his best friend for her.. It just wasn’t adding up. As I searched her eyes for answers, I caught a brief hesitation cross Jihyun’s face.

“You’re lying,” I said boldly, Jihyun eyes widened at my unexpected response.

“I’m not-“

“You broke up with him,” I said surprising both Jihyun and myself. Jihyun blink at me, and then lowered her gaze to hands.

“You fell in love with him, didn’t you?” I asked, tighten my grip on Yoongi’s hand. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jihyun said, rising to her feet, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go the restaurant is closed-“

“There you go, you’re running again,” I said, launching myself out of my as Jihyun was about to leave. I grabbed her wrist stopping her escape.

“It doesn’t make sense for Jin to still be angry with Yoongi if he blamed himself for the whole incident. Unless he thinks that you left him for Yoongi when really you broke up with him because you couldn’t take the chance of him finding out your feelings for him had started out as a lie.” Jihyun turned around slowly; her eyes were brimming with tears.

“I just didn’t want to hurt him anymore.” Jihyun said, her entire body trembling as sobs escaped her. I awkwardly put an arm around her small frame, holding her as she cried. Naturally, I felt an hatred towards her for what she had done to my brother but she was equally as broken as Jin. 

“Jihyun, if you thought my brother wouldn’t have forgiven you or taken you back as you were, you really didn’t get to know him properly,” I said, patting her shoulder soothingly.

“I knew he would have. Even when Yoongi came and found me as soon as I left Jin and told me to go back to him, I knew Jin would take me back. But I don’t deserve him, he needs someone better than me,” Jihyun sobbed, shaking her head.

“But he wanted you and when you left he needed you.” I replied.

“You didn’t want to hurt him but leaving him hurt him more than anything else. He lost his fiancée and his best friend, and he’s under the illusion that he lost his fiancée to his best friend.. you truly broke him and yourself.”

“It’s too late now, I’m leaving soon enough,” Jihyun leaned away from me, silencing her sobs. She wiped away her tears and smiled at me. “I should’ve left this place when I had the chance, I just couldn’t leave him completely. Just catching a glimpse of him now and again was good enough for me.” 

“Jihyun… I think you need to see him again,” I spoke. Jihyun shook her head furiously.  

“You have satisfied your selfishness by staying behind and watching him from the shadows for the last few years while Jin mourns your loss… He deserves a proper goodbye. Give him that at least.”

A/N: that took an unexpected turn even for me, lmao. what did you guys think? of it?

You Ever Get That Feeling?
  • Harry is sitting at the head of the table, checks his watch. 5 minutes till the meeting. Eggsy shuffles into the room, looking disgruntled as only someone ridiculously uncomfortable could be, and plops onto chair next to Harry clutching his head.
  • Eggsy: Urrgh...
  • Harry: Good afternoon, Eggsy.
  • Eggsy: s'not.
  • Harry: Feeling under the weather?
  • Eggsy: If by under the weather, you mean having my head be savaged by an invisible poltergeist, then yeh Harry, I'm under it. I'm 20 thousand leagues under it. How'd you know?
  • Harry: You're in Merlin's chair.
  • Eggsy: *groans and buries his face in his folded arms on the table*
  • Eggsy: ....Fuck, why do bloody headaches gotta be so bad?
  • Harry: *tuts with concern* are you sure it isn't a migraine?
  • Eggsy: I dunno...does a migraine try to push your eyeballs outta your skull every time you inhale?
  • Harry: Ah. That sounds like a tension headache.
  • Eggsy: *peeks over his forearm with a squint* Izzat a good thing?
  • Harry: Well, as a matter of fact...*stands up and begins taking off his suit jacket, folding it over his chair* is.
  • Eggsy: Why're you stripping? Not complaining, or anything, but the others are on their way.
  • Harry: The good thing about having a tension headache, Eggsy, is that you can relieve the tension, and therefore the headache. Sit up.
  • Eggsy: *sits up slowly with a wince*
  • Harry: Now just relax.
  • Harry starts giving Eggsy a scalp massage. Takes a while, but Eggsy slowly relaxes into the seat, his head resting against Harry's stomach a little from the tension leaving his neck. He looks much younger than his 25 years now that he's not scowling, though still so tired. His mouth is even opening a little from how relaxed he is, which makes Harry smile.
  • Merlin comes into the room but stops short, observing them unnoticed at the door for a while, before closing the door quietly behind him. He sends a meeting re-time to the Kingsmen, just because.

anonymous asked:

I can't remember if I've shared this story yet or not, but I had a lady in my line the other night who was a straight up saint. She told me that, upon coming in, she noticed that someone had messed up a whole fold table of men's shirts. So she went over, set her stuff down, and fixed it. Refolded everything, sized it, made it look neat. On top of that, she neatly stacked whatever didn't belong on the corner of the table for us to find later. God bless that woman!!!!!

My High School Had a Second Basement

by @alltheprompts (personal: @fbis-most-unwanted )

           I grew up in a small town in New Jersey and attended the local public high school. It was senior year, and my friend Jack was in charge of setting up chairs for an assembly later that day. I got roped into helping him, but it wasn’t too bad because I got to skip my fifth-period math class.

           We eventually ran out of chairs, and one of the janitors gave us a big ring of keys and told us to get the rest out of the basement. Ever since I was a kid, I marveled at those rings with dozens of keys jangling together. They could take you anywhere. Jack made the mistake of letting me carry the keys down to the basement. While I was walking over to a stack of chairs, my foot hooked around the leg of a folding table, and I fell flat on my stomach onto the hard concrete, knocking the wind out of me. The keys skirted across the room and disappeared into the behind the row of metal folding chairs.

           “Shit!” I groaned, bringing myself to my knees and hoping I would be able to breathe correctly again soon.

           “You better find the keys,” Jack warned from behind an armful of folding chairs. “I’m going to take these upstairs. I’ll be back in a minute.”

           Turning on the flashlight on my phone, I crawled around on my hands and knees on the dirty floor. Nothing. With a heavy sigh, I began to move some of the chairs out of the way to search along the edge of the wall. The keys were nowhere to be found. Just when I was about to give up, I saw a hole in the floor about the size of two fists behind where a group of chairs had been.

           Not wanting to stick my hand into a filthy, strange hole in my school’s basement, I set my phone on top of it and took a picture. The angle was awful, but in the corner of the frame I could make out part of the keyring, which had caught on something jutting out from one side of the hole. Begrudgingly, I stuck my hand inside and fumbled around for a little bit until my fingers wrapped around the keys. As I was bringing my hand back up, I felt a stinging pain on the side of my thumb. I quickly pulled the keys up and wiped my hand off on my jeans. Coating the keys and my hand was a thick gray mucus. I gagged and made a mental note to have Jack return the keys. I discovered that the pain I felt was from a thin, inch-long scratch running up the length of my thumb.

           I went to delete the picture on my phone when I noticed a blurry object resting at the edge of the photo. It seemed to be a tiny, hand-like structure with a small palm branching off into three bony fingers capped with razor-sharp claws.

           I figured I would take one more picture to prove that my eyes were playing tricks on me, but when I saw the image, it took everything I had to refrain from sprinting upstairs and going home for the day.

           My phone screen displayed an image of the hole leading into a small tunnel which soon opened into a good sized room below the basement. There were no doors or windows that I could see, and as far as I could guess, the only way in or out of that room was through the hole in the floor. Hundreds of what appeared to be needles poked out from the walls and ceiling. A few reached up into the hole, which is how I must have cut my hand.

           Just as I was trying to think of a place I could go to get about six tetanus shots, I noticed that the large mass on the floor covered with that gray slime was actually composed of hundreds, maybe thousands, of tiny creatures. They were the same color as the gray mucus and had two stubby arms and three spindly legs that looked more like tendrils. Each one had a wide mouth full of rows of teeth that bore an unsettling resemblance to the needles coming out of the walls.

           I showed Jack when he came back down, and we grabbed more chairs than was safe to carry up a flight of stairs and hauled ass out of that basement. We showed our friends the picture, which was then circulated throughout most of the school, and rumors about the room beneath the basement ran wild in the halls.

           For weeks, I was plagued with recurring nightmares about the hole in the floor. It was always the same: I would find myself in that room of the basement, having lost the keys. It played out almost exactly the same as it did in real life, except, when I reached into the hole for the keyring, my hand was yanked inside. I was laying on the concrete, shoulder-deep into the room beneath the basement, screaming as millions of needle teeth gnashed the flesh on my arm, ripping muscle and skin roughly from the bone. The nightmare was horrifying, but on the nights when it seemed the most real, I often awoke to find small needle marks on my body.

           I had this dream for months, and it was really starting to get to me. I began to see more holes in various places in the school. The needles in these reached almost to the mouth of the opening, and I didn’t need to look inside to know that I would find another sea of those writhing monsters within.

           Graduation couldn’t come fast enough. While I was packing for college, I found one of those holes in the wall of my closet. I covered it with a whole roll of duct tape and nailed a piece of plywood over it for good measure.

           I went to college in St. Louis, and moving halfway across the country helped a lot to put my mind at ease. When I visited home during Christmas break my freshman year, the hole in my closet had been plastered shut and painted over, leading me to believe it was just a normal hole my frightened mind had convinced me was something more.

           I live in St. Louis now and have been adjusting to life in the “real world” pretty well. I just got a job I really enjoy and seem to be succeeding at, and I’m planning on proposing to my girlfriend soon.

           I had chalked up the holes to stress and paranoia. I’ve had several new phones since then, and I haven’t been able to find that picture again. Maybe my mind had exaggerated the whole thing. I was comfortable believing that the whole ordeal could be explained by nightmares and anxiety, but when I was walking downtown today, I passed through an alley on my way home from a restaurant. There was something peeking out from behind a dumpster.

           It was a hole leaking gray mucus, big enough for me to crawl into. The hole, on the side of an abandoned building in the older part of the city, went down into the ground. Long, shiny needles peeked out from inside and shone in the moonlight.

           I sprinted all the way home. Leaning on the wall to catch my breath, I felt something sharp poke into my back. To my horror, I found a small hole beginning to form on the wall of my kitchen.

Apron strings

Part of my job at a shelter for women includes doing laundry which includes bedding and kitchen towels and kitchen aprons. I don’t mind this at all, it’s actually my favorite way to serve others -  behind the scenes serving. 

One night I took the aprons out of the dryer and brought them to the table to fold. The thing is with these aprons is that they get all sorts of tangled up while they do their time in the dryer. And, for a woman of little patience like myself, this can cause quite the headache. As I began to try to untangle them, I let the frustration start to get the best of me.

“Jesus, pleeeeease untangle these for me!”

I prayed this mighty lofty prayer and continued to tug at the apron strings. I realized that if I just focused on one string at a time, it all went so much more smoothly. Instead of rushing and grabbing at the giant knot, if I just focused on unraveling the one string, it would fall out of the knot ever so gently. 
I realized that the God of the universe was speaking to me at 3:41am and using apron strings to do so.

”Just work on one issue at a time. Don’t worry about the knot, don’t worry about everything else going on, just pick one string and focus on that”

Isn’t it amazing how God can use literally a n y t h i n g to speak to us? Isn’t it amazing how He can teach us through e v e r y t h i n g we do? The key here, is to simply listen.

- 31Women (Emma)

anonymous asked:

Ahh yes, it makes perfect sense to haphazardly throw a jacket across a 4-way rack, rather than putting it back on the fold table it came from TWO FEET AWAY. Customer logic is so wonderful.

I’m pretty on board with pta sans like honestly this is the best au that the ut fandom has produced, but it’s kind of too high-key most of the time. You know how sans would actually fight back against a shitty pta mom? Jokes. Constantly cutting in with the goofiest pun then deftly changing the subject JUUUST as linda was about to open her mouth and rant about something awful. Cutting the tension and sucking all the wind from her sails so her passive aggressive remarks just whiff on thin air most of the time.

Like oh man, give me sans being at all the fundraising events but no one knowing what he’s actually doing because he’s also bought a couple members of the monster fam to do the actual work, just sort of nebulously sitting a folding table with a cash box or taking tickets or whatever, and most of the pta just… kinda… adjusts him somehow doing like three menial tasks at once and goofing off to chat at the same time.

Linda’s always making barbed comments and stuff, most of which sans shrugs off with a joke or a “hey that’s not cool” type of reply if other people are around, or slightly more sarcasm if they aren’t, but ONE FUCKIN’ TIME she just takes it to far and says something really shitty about frisk or toriel, and sans ‘shortcut’s her out to the parking lot and full-on goes do you wanna have a bad time on her.

She tries to tell like literally everyone else onthe pta that sans is menacing af but NO ONE BELIEVES HERRRRRR.

Originally posted by your-harry-potter-imagines

(Kinda) requested by anon<3 since I have this already written I thought I’d post it for now, and the other request later, haha…

Prompt: 22.“I don’t blame you.”


“I don’t blame you, you know”

His eyes shot from his butterbeer cup to your form, catching a few snowflakes still tangled in your (colour) hair. You weren’t facing him – you gazed somewhere out the window, hands neatly folded on the small table which was the only distance between you two.

Draco’s face was still stoic as he exhaled a breath of warm air, unsure of what to say.

“I just wish…” You bit your lip, your eyes meeting his. You rewarded him with a timid smile and a soft rosy glow on your cheeks “You’d tell me more…About the things you like” you tilted your head to the side – an action he found absolutely adorable “the things you hate…” your eyes drifted to scan the café and the chatting couples all around you “Most of all,” You met his eyes, narrowing your slightly “what’s bothering you.”

“It’s none of your concern.” He grumbled, taking a sip of his drink. You frowned, immediately leaning in.

“None of my concern?!” You hissed “Draco, I am your girlfriend! And you cursed a Gryffindor last week!” He glared at you, whispering something about keeping your voice down. You looked around, sighing softly when no one noticed your outburst. Getting back into a comfortable position, you continued “-My point is. I won’t blame you for doing anything you have to do. But I will ask…Is it really necessary?”

“Yes.” He blurred. You nodded, slowly, albeit disappointed.

“Then you don’t need to carry this burden alone,” You hand found his, intertwining “Please trust me, Draco. I’m the only one you can.”

anonymous asked:

Positive story! I was off the last two days, and didn't have to come in until 5 today. I didn't want to come in though because I felt like Hell, and didn't think I could make it through the evening. So I'm standing there, working on this fold table that had been wrecked, trying to fix it. I was about halfway finished, in the process of folding another shirt, when this old man walks up. He looked at the table, then at me, took on a huge grin, and says "That looks really nice!" MADE MY NIGHT. 😊

I want everyone to take a note from this. Make a compliment when and where it arises. Even if it’s not in the customer service world, even when you’re a “civilian”.  It’s always wonderful to make someone’s day even when they’re having a crappy one. And honestly we’d all be better off if this was routine instead of the rare exception. I want to see stories like this more! Granted it would be difficult to pull off with sour people, but if you see an opportunity with someone who isn’t giving off negative vibes then go for it! We can support one another in this way  because, at some point, we’re all in the customer role eventually. Take your knowledge and heart then make sure you use it. :) -Abby

By the time Tim saw the window, he knew something was wrong. He’d left it unlatched — that’s how he snuck in and out for patrol— but it was open now, intentionally cracked. He wasn’t sure what that meant, so he came in quietly, holding his staff in front of him. His TV was on. That meant he was safe, right? Assassins didn’t watch the Food Network while they waited for their target to come home.
Tim rounded the corner into his living room and sighed. Yeah, apparently some of them did— Jason was standing over his coffee table, folding a stack of laundry.
“Oh hey,” he said, dropping another shirt on his pile. “You’re home.”
For a few seconds, Tim could only stare. Yes? He was home? His home. Definitely not Jason’s. It was four in the morning.
“What are you doing here?”
“My dryer broke.”
Tim held open his apartment door. “Leave.”

Tim wasn’t sure why his apartment smelled like baking bread, until he walked into his kitchen. The kitchen was a mess. There were ingredients lying across his counters, flour on his floor, pots in the sink, and an idiot in a leather jacket standing in front of his oven. Jason barely looked up from his mixing bowl when the door swung open.
“I… wanted cornbread?” Jason shrugged. “Sometimes this just happens.” He emptied his bowl into a cast-iron skillet and pulled open the oven.
“How did you get in here?”
“Fire escape.”
“Great,” Tim sighed. He pushed a jug of milk, a carton of eggs, and a can of salt aside so he could sit on the counter. “There’s no way anybody heard that.” Did he even have eggs? He was pretty sure he’d finished his eggs last week. Did Jason bring his own? Would he get to keep the extras?
“Yeah, the girl in 3C thinks your floor is haunted. I heard her say so when I was climbing past her blacony.”
“If only.”
“You are being haunted,” Jason reminded him. “I’m a ghost.”
Tim emptied a handful of salt into his hand and threw it across the kitchen. “Then get your ghostly ass out of my kitchen.”

Tim wasn’t totally surprised to find Jason in his dining room (sitting at the table, doing a crossword), but he was curious.
“I locked all my windows.”
“I came in through the basement.” Jason took his pen out of his mouth and pointed it at Tim. “Nice lair, by the way.”
“You broke through the laser grid?”
“Entered a 21 digit code.”
“And said a randomly generated phrase,” Tim finished, “in an exact imitation of my voice?”
“Actually, I phoned a friend.” Jason gestured vaguely behind him, and at that precise moment, Tim noticed a pair of green boots poking over the back of his couch.
“Drake,” said the voice behind them.
“Oh god.” Tim turned back to Jason. “So you taught Damian how to break into my apartment.”
“In my defense, we both know that he can and probably has done it by himself.”
“Wednesday,” Damian confirmed. “The manor ran out of bagels.”
Tim ducked into the kitchen to check what had been his bagel supply, but was now an empty cabinet. “Out!” he yelled. “Both of you.”

Tim was bleeding, splattering red over his windowsill and his carpet. He could barely walk— the bullet in his knee was making it hard. The bullet in his side wasn’t helping either. He staggered over the window frame and fell, colliding with a wall on his way down.
“Shit.” His vision was starting to spin, but he could make out a figure coming down his hallway. Jason? Yeah. Jason was frozen in his doorway, staring at him with wide eyes.
“Are you just gonna stand there??” Tim pulled his face away from the floor. “Help?”
He didn’t remember much after that.

Tim didn’t like sunrises. They were pretty, sure, but they meant he’d stayed out too late. He climbed through his window, yawning, and turned to collapse on his bed, only to find that there was already someone in it.
“Are you serious?” he muttered. It was Jason. Again.
“Whatever,” he decided. Tim pulled a spare key from his drawer and tucked it into Jason’s discarded jacket. If he was going to show up at all hours, he might as well use the door. Anyway, Tim was tired of upgrading his security every week.
He grabbed a blanket from the bottom of the bed and went to crash on the couch.

for anon :)

DAY 2 OF 30

30-day studyblr challenge taken from here.

Prompt: “A photo of your study space”

Since our house is so small, I only have a mini folding table on my bed for a study space! I try my best to make the space a little more appealing with small prints of my digital art.

Scattered all over are some hastily-made notes and my bullet journal
Why Art Matters to America
The National Endowment for the Arts invests in the intelligence and curiosity of our citizens. FEB. 22, 2017
By Thomas P. Campbell

Four years ago, in a small warehouse in central China, a team of Chinese archaeologists showed me objects that they had unearthed from a nearby ancient tomb. Laid out on a folding table was an exquisite array of vases, ritual vessels and a set of heart-stoppingly beautiful silver gilt tigers and dragons that fit in the palm of my hand, perhaps part of a long-forgotten regal board game.

These finds were a keyhole through which we could glimpse the sophistication of the Han dynasty rulers, who, 2,000 years ago, conquered and united the enormous region that was to become modern-day China.

This week, curators and conservators from the Metropolitan Museum of Art are in Beijing working with Chinese colleagues to pack these and other objects for transportation to New York, where they will be featured in an exhibition this spring. Supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts, the exhibition, “Age of Empires,” will teach our visitors about the origins of China, the superpower that is now playing a major role in the balance of world power and trade.

Although the N.E.A. grant was a small part of the exhibition’s overall budget, it was crucial in persuading others to add their support. Similar grants have helped the Met mount exhibitions on the art of Jerusalem, India, Korea, Islam, Africa and Afghanistan.

Sadly, it has become clear that the N.E.A. is, once again, under threat of being abolished, along with the National Endowment for the Humanities. The purported reason is cost savings.

All too often, art is seen as a “soft” subject, the first thing to be cut, whether by local school boards or the federal government, when money is tight. But looked at purely in dollars, it is a false saving. The N.E.A.’s budget is comparatively minuscule — $148 million last year, or 0.004 percent of annual federal discretionary expenditures — while the arts sector it supports employs millions of Americans and generates billions each year in revenue and tax dollars.

The United States has no ministry of culture. In this vacuum, the N.E.A., founded in 1965, serves three critical functions: It promotes the arts; it distributes and stimulates funding; and it administers a program that minimizes the costs of insuring arts exhibitions through indemnity agreements backed by the government. This last, perhaps least-known responsibility, is crucial. This fall, the Met will host a major exhibition on Michelangelo that will bring together masterpieces from across the world. The insurance valuation is a whopping $2.4 billion — not even our museum, the largest art museum in the nation, could come close to paying the premium for such coverage without the federal indemnity the N.E.A. makes possible.

The grants, of course, receive the most attention, if not as much as they deserve. Thousands are distributed in all 50 states, reaching every congressional district, urban and rural, rich and poor. The N.E.A. leverages its tiny budget by giving out grants that require recipients to raise matching funds from other donors. Grants average $26,000 and require a one-to-one match for every federal dollar.

While this may sound small, it reflects the shoestring budgets on which many local organizations depend. These grants sustain the arts in areas where people don’t have access to major institutions like the Met. They support live theater for schools; music, dance and jazz festivals; poetry and literary events; arts programs for war veterans; and, of course, museum exhibitions.

Claiming that N.E.A. cuts are purely for cost savings conceals a deeper, more partisan agenda. The last time the N.E.A. was this under fire was during the 1990s, when funding was challenged for artists and institutions that refused to conform to a narrow definition of propriety. Cincinnati’s Contemporary Arts Center, which showed Robert Mapplethorpe’s photographs, and its director were even charged with obscenity.

I fear that this current call to abolish the N.E.A. is the beginning of a new assault on artistic activity. Arts and cultural programming challenges, provokes and entertains; it enhances our lives. Eliminating the N.E.A. would in essence eliminate investment by the American government in the curiosity and intelligence of its citizens. As the planet becomes at once smaller and more complex, the public needs a vital arts scene, one that will inspire us to understand who we are and how we got here — and one that will help us to see other countries, like China, not as enemies in a mercenary trade war but as partners in a complicated world.

In six weeks, dignitaries from nations around the world will gather at the Met for the opening of “Age of Empires.” And then, thousands of visitors will file into the museum, and they, too, will experience the thrill I had four years ago on that muddy flat in rural China. Even better, they will see these treasures in a historical and artistic context, so that when they leave they will have that much more understanding of China, from its ancient origins to its modern power.

Thanks, in part, to N.E.A. support.

Thomas P. Campbell is the director and chief executive of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

tagged by @cabloom

tagging @nerd-of-the-world @ewburnthatshit @donttouchjbuckybarnes and idk whoever else wants

5 things you’ll find in my bag

1. Notebook
2. Protein bars
3. Spare headphones
4. The lip balm my gay disaster neighbour gave me
5. The Preacher comic I’m continually trying to finish

5 things you’ll find in my bedroom

1. Shitty folding table
2. Hot water bottle with purple stag jumper on it
3. Trans pride flag and fairy lights
4. Lots of nail polish
5. Rock rainbow

5 things I’m currently into

1. Mr Robot
2. Hamilton
3. Cooking
4. Aesop Rock
5. Photography, borrowed a camera from a bae and getting back into it

5 things on my to-do list

1. Renew my lease
2. Book leave at work
3. Find a better job
4. Take out the trash and get groceries 
5. Write some fucking fic I stg

5 things people may not know about me

1. I used to be really good at drawing and then fell out of practice, would like to pick it up again.
2. I’m technically a middle child of three brothers, but my older brother (who’s 13 years my senior) didn’t grow up with us so we’re both kind of big brothers.
3. I have really vivid dreams which take the form of very structured narratives, usually like horror movies. They’re not actually scary, just vivid.
4. I live opposite a Yates Wine Lodge - which for those of you not familiar is a dreadful chain bar full of middle aged drunk people screaming at each other. My phone tries to get me to check in there every time I get home. 
5. I used to be able to create stories in my head when I was a kid, shot like a movie, and be able to go back and replay/edit dialogue etc as much as I wanted. I lost the ability after I started writing but I remember it still. 

Dramione, Forbidden Love

for @sleepygrimm

A/n: omg I’m sorry for this angst…

“Draco?” she called, walking into the sitting room of the apartment they shared only rarely.  Tears gathered in the corner of her eyes as she walked through the small flat, the memories rich if sparse and far between.  Hermione knew it was the last time she’d be here.  

She couldn’t stand being a secret any longer.  She needed to let go so she could pursue something more healthy.  

Once she was certain it was empty, she left the folded parchment on a table by the fireplace. It was cowardly, yes, but she couldn’t bear to have this conversation with him face to face.  

She had closed the Floo connection before coming here, so she’d have to leave out the front door. She placed her hand on the knob, taking one moment to look around before pulling it open.

She gasped, coming face to face with the last person she wanted to see.  

“Granger?” Draco tilted his head.  “Are you crying?”