forty sixty

can we please stop making the only LGBT+ narrative we see “i always knew?”

like, i didn’t always know i liked girls too. i wasn’t having crushes on them or kissing them on the playground when i was five years old like you see on tv or read in books. i didn’t know for sure that i’m bi until literally this year (i’m 17 as of writing this). a former friend of mine is a trans girl. she didn’t always know. she didn’t realize she was trans until she was nearly eighteen years old. some people don’t realize it until they’re twenty, or forty, or sixty.

some people do always know. good for them! but can we please please please make it known that you don’t have to have always known for your identity to be valid? it makes it so difficult for people who are figuring themselves out later in life, because it feeds into this idea of “why didn’t i know it before? is this even real? if i haven’t known i’ve felt this way all along, how do i know i feel it now?” and that’s only making worse what’s already such a difficult time in life

give me eighty year old women who are just figuring out they’re lesbians. give me middle aged accountants who realize they’re actually trans. give me a guy who doesn’t know until he’s twenty-eight that he’s actually into dudes. god just please give us some other narrative, so we can be reassured that even if it took us a while to get there, our identity is no less valid than that of a person who’s known they’re LGBT+ since elementary school. stop telling LGBT+ people that that’s the only way they’re really LGBT+

You know it’s never fifty-fifty in a marriage. It’s always seventy-thirty, or sixty-forty. Someone falls in love first. Someone puts someone else up on a pedestal. Someone works very hard to keep things rolling smoothly; someone else sails along for the ride.
—  Jodi Picoult, Mercy

“Hey, Barold?” 

“Yes, dear?”

“Are you dead?”

Barry’s head pokes into the dining room table, the Neverwinter Times folded into his hands. He looks down at himself, pokes his own nose. “I don’t think so? I don’t look dead.”

Lup looks him up and down, then says, “Yep, you really don’t.”

“Why?”

In response, Lup takes the package she’s been holding, grabs it by the ends, and turns it on its head. Letters - bundled into packs bound with black ropes, spare ones scratched on torn napkins, envelopes-within-envelopes written in deep dark ink - spill all over the table.

“What are these?”

“Consolation letters,” Lup says, grinning. She plucks the first one off the table, slits it with a brightly-painted red nail, and begins to read. “‘Dear Lup Taaco, my cult and I would like to express our condolences for your loss.’ Aww, that’s so sweet, they’re cult-bonding.”

Barry narrows his eyes. “Is that a necromantic cult or a religious one?”

“Dunno.” She tosses it aside, picks up another one. “‘Dear IPRE, sorry for your loss. We hope Barry feels better soon. We know most people don’t feel better after being dead but he’s done it before.’”

Barry drifts forward, looking at the stack in apprehension and slight awe. He picks one up at random, skims it, and turns white. “Why do these people think I’m dead?”

“Don’t know, but there’s definitely a consensus, babe,” Lup says. “Aww, someone sent a bunch of dead flowers! I’ll pass them onto Merle.”

“Lup, no, this is weird. This - this is weird.”

“Yeah, for sure,” she says, leafing through the next letters. The mound grows intimidatingly the more Barry looks at it. “What did you do?”

“I - I don’t know.”

“Huh. Maybe someone started a dumb rumor. You never know the kinda shit floating around Faerun these days.”

True? Okay. Okay, no, this is just another mystery. Maybe there are clues in the truly preposterous number of letters sitting on the table. Carefully, Barry picks the first one up, a letter wrapped in a satin ribbon and addressed in dark ink so black it almost looks tar. He tears it open gently and sets the envelope aside, then begins to read.

Dear Miss Lup,

I’m really really sorry your husband is dead. I want you to know that my mom and my dad love him too and that if you ever need someone to talk to because death is a really really bad thing then you can send us a letter any time. I’d give you my mom’s frequency but I don’t know it.

Love,

Carnila

Below is an address. It’s from the far east, a remote village that Barry only knows because he passed through there while hunting for Lup a couple of years into his search.

He’s not freaking out so much as very, very confused. He’s certain he’s alive. Pulse beating in his throat and everything. So why does everyone think he’s dead?

He goes through a couple more without finding any clues. Most are of the same vein - sorry for your loss, hope you’re doing better. A couple recommend Lup some therapists in Neverwinter. Two cite him as his inspiration for practicing necromancy. He’s gonna need to pay those fans a personal visit. Probably with his scythe.

“Barry?” Lup says after a little while. She’s set the letters down and is now looking at him strangely.

He opens another one. This one’s written in blue ink. All the others have been black. Really goes to show what kind of person picked Barold J. Bluejeans, lich and necromancer-turned-reaper extraordinaire, as their favorite of the seven birds. “Yes, dear?”

“When you died, you picked up your bodies, right?”

Barry freezes. He thinks back to those ten years on his own, dying repeatedly. He’d had a process - he’d freak out, flicker a little bit, and pull himself together - with admirable speed and courage, of course. Then he’d grab his jeans (can’t leave those behind), a couple hairs, a bunch of blood (which wasn’t typically too hard to collect), the coin, some supplies, and take off for Wave Echo Cave.

He’d leave the body, though. He didn’t need it.

“Barold J. Bluejeans,” she snaps, setting down her letter with a thwack on the table. “Did you leave your corpses strewn all around this continent?”

“I only needed a little blood to make a new body!” he yelps. “I was a lich, it wasn’t like I could pick up my body and carry it with me!”

“You managed to keep the same clothes for ten years!”

“I’ve had these jeans for a hundred years, they’re precious to me!”

“That’s fair,” Lup says, grinning too widely to be angry. “So you’re telling me, these people stumbled across your dead body and thought it was you?”

“Probably,” he replies sheepishly. “I mean, in my defense, I didn’t think anyone would find it. I kinda fell off a mountain range.”

“And you didn’t go collect them when you got an actual body?” she asks, gesturing toward him.

“I was a little busy creating your body.”

Lup sighs, exasperated. She throws an envelope at him. It drifts unimpressively down to the table. “This is it, Barold. This is what you get when you don’t show up at press conferences ever. People start to think you’re literally dead.”

“I hate them,” he mumbles. “Too many spotlights and reporters and questions. I get all sweaty.”

“You’re one of the seven birds, babe. People want to know your story.”

“They already do, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, but they want to hear it from you.” She glances over her shoulder at the Taako Time™ calendar hanging on their wall and grins. “Babe, there’s one tomorrow and you’re going.”

“I don’t wanna,” he whines. “Lup, they…they suck. All the reporters and the microphones and the spotlights….”

“No arguments, dear,” Lup says, standing and crossing her arms over his head to rest her cheek on his hair. “Lucretia hates them too and she goes.”

“She was the Director of the Bureau of Balance, she’s good at that shit now,” Barry grumbles. “Besides, Davenport doesn’t have to answer questions.”

“Davenport’s at sea, babe. Getting to interview him is like finding a Shiny.”

Barry groans, tugs on a strand of Lup’s hair. It’s dyed red toward the ends. “If you loved me you wouldn’t make me go.”

“I love you,” Lup affirms, “so I’m making you go.”

“Can I at least - ”

“No, you can’t wear your tuxedo T-shirt. You have to wear the sweater vest I bought you.”

Barry slumps his head toward the table. Lup slides down his neck to rest her chin on his shoulder. “Cycle forty or sixty-eight,” he asks, words muffled by the table.

“Forty,” she decides. “I won’t make you do sequins.”

“Thank the Queen.” He straightens. There’s ink on his forehead. Lup laughs, then licks a thumb and wipes it away. “Gross.”

The letters flare in the corner of his vision. Sighing, Barry tugs Lup onto his lap. She sits with a laugh, gleeful and teasing, and reaches reaching for a letter of her own. Leaning her temple against his, she slices open another letter, and begins to read.

“Wow, babe,” she says after a couple minutes. “You’re really an inspiration for some up-and-coming dark magic babies.”

“I know,” he sighs. She chuckles and ruffles his hair affectionately. “I’m gonna have to go talk to them.”

Lup’s counterproposal is cut off by her Stone of Farspeech buzzing against her collarbone. She picks up without looking and says “Heyo, Blupjeans household, whaddya want?”

Barold J. Bluejeans!” screeches her brother’s voice through the receiver. Barry jumps. “You wanna explain to me why my dining table is fuckin’ swamped with condolence letters?!

Lup and Barry turn to stare at each other in horror. Then, right on cue, Barry’s Stone rings. He checks it. It’s Magnus’s signal. They stare at it.

“Oh Gods,” Lup groans, and picks up.

Barry? Barry, are you okay?” comes Magnus’s voice. There are a couple of dogs barking in the background, as there always are when Magnus calls. “I heard you were dead, I know it sucks, like, serious ass to be without a body, I wanted to check in, and also tell you that I’ve got a ticket for Neverwinter on hold if you need me down there - ” he says.

Lup and Barry exchange glances. Barry begins to laugh.

Talking about age in Spanish

Here you have a list of terms used in Spanish to talk about different ages.

  • recién nacido/neonato. newborn (neonato is more formal).
  • estar en la edad del pavo: (literally, “to be on the turkey’s age). Used to talk about teenagers, especially when they do something stupid. “Siempre está enfadada con sus padres; está en la edad del pavo.” (She’s always angry with her parents; she’s on the turkey’s age)
  • veinteañero, treintañero, cuarentañero, cincuentañero, sesentañero, setentañero.

A ____ñero/a is a person who is in their twenties, thirties, forties, etc. It’s not used with 10, 80 or 90. “Los veinteañeros no suelen tener trabajos buenos” (People in their twenties normally don’t have good jobs).

  • estar en la treintena, estar en la cuarentena.

Used to talk about being in your thirties and your forties, but it has a negative meaning behind. “Una vez llegas a la cuarentena, la vida es muy aburrida” (Once you’re in your forties, life is very boring.)

  • ser mayor de edad/ser menor de edad. to be over 18 / to be under 18
  • estar en los treinta, cuarenta, cincuenta, sesenta…: Another way to say “to be in your thirties, forties…”. We rarely use it with 20.
  • tener ____ y pico años: to have over ____ years. Used to say is older than a certain age but the speaker does not want to make it clear. “¿Cuántos años tiene tu amiga? Treinta y pico.” (How old is your friend? Thirty something.) NOTE: Do not use “pico” in Chile, since it means “penis”. Also, we use it from twenty (veinte y pico) onwards. You can also use “veintipico”, but for 30, 40 and so on it’s better to write “NUMBER y pico”
  • palmarla. colloquial, “to die”.
  • ser un cuarentón/cincuentón/sesentón. to be in your forties/fifties/sixties. this form has a negative meaning and is used to talk about people between the ages of 40 and 69. For other ages, we use “veinteañero, treintañero, etc.

can u believe we’re gonna get 4 albums??? like just an entire album of just niall, an entire album of just harry, an entire album of just louis, an entire album of just liam??? anywhere from ten to maybe like fourteen or seventeen songs of just their individual voices with songs that they wrote!??? like that’s like fOUR HOURS worth of music!!!!!!! where we get to appreciate each individual’s sound and their own voice!!!!! like!!!!!!!!!!!!!! we’re gonna get anywhere from FORTY TO SIXTY EIGHT new songs that’s so mANY hoLY SHIT

"So I can't 'Mage Hand' them?"

Our party had just come across a wide ravine, while leading 17 small children (victims of human trafficking) into the wilderness towards a safe haven. The ravine -30 feet wide and 45 feet deep- created a challenge for the adventurers, who might be able to cross it on their own but not with children.

Bard (OOC): Hey, DM, how much do these children weigh on average?
DM: Well, all children weigh differently. But somewhere between forty and sixty pounds probably.
Bard (OOC): Oh… So I can’t just ‘Mage Hand’ them across?
DM: MAGE HAND ONLY CARRIES TEN POUNDS! HOW MUCH DID YOU EXPECT THESE CHILDREN TO WEIGH?

the “dear evan hansen 10 things i hate about you au” that literally nobody asked for

I thought I was alone but @arimarris apparently loves this au as much as I do so here we go

v long sorry it’s under the cut

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Boys vs. Men

Tumblr has a preoccupation with calling basically every male entity a “boy,” and I regularly see lots of younger trans kids who are self-described “trans boys” or “cute gay boys” or whatever have you. That’s all fine, but I just want to make it really clear:

Starting testosterone won’t make you into a pretty anime boy. It’ll make you into a hairy, sweaty, acne-covered man. You will smell like a man, your voice will drop like a man’s, and the people around you will perceive you as man, not a boy.

If you don’t actually have interest in becoming a man, then you might ask yourself about your motivations to transition. I encourage all of you to think beyond your twenties or thirties, and think about how you will feel about being a man in his forties, fifties, sixties…

There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be an attractive young man, but transition is a decision that can affect you for the rest of your life.

Sh-Boom
The Chords
"Sh-Boom" - The Chords (1954)

First recorded by The Chords on March 15th, 1954, the song
became their only hit song. It is sometimes considered to be
the first doo-wop or rock'n'roll record to reach the top ten on
the pop charts (as opposed to the R&B charts).

anonymous asked:

would a war axe actually be an effective weapon at all, or has it just been made flashy for appeal? how strong would you need to be to be able to use one if so?

I’m not certain which axe you’re thinking of, but axes have been used extensively in warfare, including specialized designs intended specifically for combat. These range from simple hatchets that function in roughly the same capacity as a dagger up through the Danish axe. It’s also worth remembering there are entire families of polearms that are, basically, very long axes.

I’ve mentioned axes a couple times when discussing historical sidearms. They were, frequently, used as backup weapons in medieval infantry. In part, because battleaxes were, generally, cheaper to produce than swords, and (in theory) easier to train on, so it was easier to arm infantry with battleaxes than swords.

Most combat tactics with the axe involve generating inertia, and then once the weapon is up to speed you connect. The examples I’ve seen were figure eight patterns, though I assume there are others.

Multiple cultures also developed axe variants for use as thrown weapons. We’re usually pretty critical of throwing knives as a combat skill, but historically, some warriors did carry extra axes to throw at foes.

As for strength, the axe is like nearly every other melee weapon. It’s useful, but anyone of roughly average strength should be able to use these things. Historical battleaxes weighed somewhere between one to six pounds, so we’re not talking about some massive Berserk style chunk of steel. And, yes, this includes two handed designs. Compared to swords, axes were lighter, (probably because there was less metal involved.) As with any weapon, training and experience is far more important than strength. Put another way, a battleaxe weighs less than your average housecat. Remember, axes were light enough to bring extras for sharing with the crowd.

I’ll harp on this a bit for a second, but it is worth remembering that most weapons are pretty light. There are outliers, but if you’re bringing a weapon to a battle, then you can expect to be swinging it all day. A heavy weapon would wear you out, and leave you vulnerable.

The weight is important for an axe, but the distribution is what matters. The weight behind the blade will do the work for you, when striking, you just need to get that weight moving, and then direct it into the target. To make this work, you don’t need a lot of weight, and the more you add, the harder it becomes to get the weapon moving and control it, so you’re looking for a sweet spot of mass and control. Historically that appears to have been somewhere around two or three pounds.

Ironically, if you’re looking for a weapon that actually required a lot of strength to use, that’s the longbow. Drawing one could require the archer to pull anywhere from forty to sixty pounds, (or more in some rare cases.) Or, in other words, your mental image of how medieval combatants looked is on its head, the front line infantry were (in some cases) scrawny little guys, and the archers were stacked.

-Starke

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His Name [5]

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8
Words: 7.6k
Genre: Angst, Multiple Personality!Au
Summary: Jeon Jungkook is a puzzle with too many missing pieces from his past and too many sides. Somehow, it’s become your job to solve him.
→ Inspired by the Korean Drama - Kill Me Heal Me
Warnings: Topics of mental health. Mentions of death, suicide and medical disorders.
Disclaimer: Although this piece of work required lots of in-depth research and was attempted to be as accurate as possible, at the end of the day, I am not a psychologist and this is fanfiction. Specific things may be altered or exaggerated for story-telling purposes. Please take all medical terminologies and procedures with a grain of salt.

Cr.

You’ve always hated the colour orange.

It reminds you of the eerie jack-o’-lanterns that haunted you as a child every Halloween. It reminds you of the sour citrus your mother used to give you, the carrots you used to dig out of your soup, your pet goldfish that you had to flush down the toilet once it died, the basketballs that hit your face and gave you a bleeding nose.

As an adult, you still hate the colour orange - especially because when he’s wearing it.

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Generation to Generation + Sam Holland

Summary: In which Sam joins you in you monthly trip to the downtown antique shops and he meets a woman who helps Sam in more ways than one.

Warnings: None. Just fluff fluff fluff.

Words: 1, 497

A/N: Here you go, here you go, here you go! I love this and I’m sure of it. Enjoy it my darlings.


“You’ll love this, I’m sure of it!” You exclaim as you swing your adjoined hands up and down as the two of you walk down the sidewalk towards the shops. Sam agreed to join you for your “antique weekend” because he knew how much you enjoyed glancing into the past that you adored so much. 

You were a history buff, and you had a knack for knowing every song from the forties, fifties, and sixties or for books from the early 1900′s or for jewelry from the roaring twenties. And these antique weekends were your way of appreciating the decades that you swore you should have been born in. Sam being the old-soul that you claim he is, held tightly to your hand as the oldie goldie classics played on the downtown strip. 

Your Aubrey Hepburn inspired look made your figure look even curvier than it usually did, the all black attire slimming you and hugging your waist. The black turtle neck, that was partially hid under that khaki colored coat, tucked into your pants snuggly, your hair in a ponytail that swung back and fourth as the two of you walked. You always dressed according to the occasion, and so was Sam, in his dark grey dress pants and sweater with a white collar peeking out from underneath, a blazer put on over the attire to keep the late autumn chill out.

Sam would be lying if he said he didn’t think that this was the most beautiful he’d ever seen you. Your serine face made you look like you were the most peaceful women in the world, your light pink lips in a small smile as you looked around at all the shops you had probably been in a thousand times before. He smiled at you lightly, letting go of your hand to grab at the camera that was across his body. You stopped and watched his actions, beginning to giggle nervously. 

“Sam! You can’t take my picture! I told you no more, remember how many you took a couple of weeks ago?!” You exclaimed as you covered your giggle with your hand, rolling your eyes at him as he prepped to take your picture with an amused smirk, “Seriously, Sam!” 

“Just this one, then no more after that!” He said as he held the camera back to his chest before holding it up to his eye once more. You rolled your eyes once more, before posing with a small smirk on your face as you peered at the camera through your eyelashes. Sam smiled and took the picture, letting you take his hand back in yours before walking into a store that was up ahead. Your eyes lit up as you pulled open the door, Sam holding it for you as you walked into your wonderland. 

Sam watched as you began to walk around quietly, peering at this and looking at their prices, picking up tea cups or children’s books. The elder lady at the register smiled softly at you, Sam walking towards the register and striking up a conversation with the woman.

“How are you?” He asked as he looked at the woman and then to you, watching as you looked at a case of jewelry.

“I’m doing well…Is she your girlfriend? She comes in here about once every month, and I’d hate for her to be alone.” The woman smiled up at Sam, looking at him and watching as his eyes lit up at the sound of you doing something you love.

“Yes. We’ve been together for a few months now,” He looked from you to the woman who had started counting the freckles on his cheeks, “She’s the most beautiful girl I know.” The woman’s face softened, a moment of realization hitting her, before opening the display cabinet built into the desk and searching it thoroughly.

Sam looked down at the objects in the glass case, looking through as the older woman did, then his eyes caught something bright. Tt was a ring, a dainty one that immediately reminded him of you. The three diamonds clustered together, with tinier ones surrounding the larger three, the dirty gold band glimmering in the light. Sam was mesmerized by it, watching as the stones sparkled in the low light, “What’s that, right there?”

His finger landed on the glass as he reached his hand to point the small object out, the woman looked up at him and a smiled landed on her lips. The woman knew exactly what he was asking for, her fingers grasping the ring and bringing it up for Sam’s brown eyes to examine it. The woman watched as she took it in his own hands, his pointer finger coming out to delicately touch the stones, “That’s a genuine, 18 karat gold, ring from the 1930′s. It was handed down from generation to generation, but I didn’t have a daughter of my own and my husband and I are divorced. A lovely man, but we both had our differences, but why keep the ring if you aren’t married to the man who gave it to you?”

She looked up at Sam as he kept looking at the ring, his eyes widening at her words. She winked at him before pulling the case open once again and grabbing a Kelly green velvet ring box. She handed it to him and nodded towards you, “Here. She’ll definitely say yes.” 

Sam finally looked at the woman, his eyes widening, “Oh! I-I-We aren’t looking to get married yet, w-we’re only 18.” A blush was already creeping up onto his cheeks as he looked at the ring box in the ladies hand, the green velvet looking smooth and contrasting from the pink in his cheeks. 

The woman chuckled as she shook her head, smiling slyly up at him before lifting her finger, “Ah, that is the key, ‘yet’. I’m not saying get married right now, but I’ll let you in on a little secret - months ago she walked into this shop, and stared at this ring for, well, I don’t remember how long. But finally she looked up at me with that smile that you know I’m talking about and said When I find the one, he’ll find this ring and he’ll marry me with it. I swear it’ll happen, you watch

“I laughed because I thought she was just being silly, but months later here you come strolling into this store, looking at that ring like you look at her. And, well good Lord, I just had that feeling.” 

Sam was flabbergasted by her words, his eyes slowly moving to land on your body as you looked from side to side at the aisle and aisle of antiques. Your hand landed on a small ornate tea cup, with golden pink’s and green’s and navy’s painting along the cup. You picked up the saucer and looked at the price, smiling as you kept hold of them in your hand. Sam looked towards the lady, who in turn looked at him and further stretched out her arm to hand him the ring box, “How much?”

“Free of charge.”

“Now you know I can’t do th-”

“She’s about to head this way, so if you don’t take it nowyou never will.” And with that she opened the box, letting Sam place it inside before snapping it closed and letting the woman place it in his hand a ‘thank you’ leaving his mouth quickly and quiet as he shoved the box into his back pocket, and just in time as you walked up with the cup and saucer in hand. 

“Just these, darling?” The woman smile charmingly, winking up at Sam as you nodded and reached for your purse. Sam placed a hand on your arm, pausing your actions. 

“Let me get it, love.” You furrowed your eyebrows and shook your head lightly as he began to pull out his wallet, “You don’t have to do that, Sam.” Sam only smiled as he handed over the money, and taking the bag and giving it to you, leaning over and leaving a long kiss on the top of your head.

“I don’t have to, but I want to. And that makes all the difference.” He smiled down at you as his hand cupped your cheek. You leaned into his larger hand, smiling lightly before taking your bag and thanking the woman. She only smiled and expressed her admiration for the two of you. It was Sam’s turn to wink now, looking at the woman sweetly and happily as she spoke. 

After the woman’s words, you said a quick good-bye to her and began to walk out. Sam leaned over to the woman and kissed her cheek lightly, “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that, I’ll repay you someday.”

“I didn’t have to, but I wanted to. And that makes all the difference.” She winked at him, watching as the two walked off with their hands tightly held together.

Bloodsucker: Tom Holland x vampire!Reader (part I)

Tom has a girlfriend and they have some very big problems. (they might have to do with her…condition)

2k words // tom masterlist // my other masterlist  // a spooky playlist 

A lot of things were troubling for Tom. And most of them had to do with the fact that his girlfriend was a vampire. Okay, well, all of them had to do with her being a blood-sucking, night crawling, child of the night.

Tom was no longer worried about what she had often called “the little stuff”. Stuff like: could he hide her from the paparazzi? Or could he arrange his sleep schedule to work where they could spent more than just a few hours together?

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lesson: Memrise (free on App Store)

Time of Day      

  • den = day
  • ráno = morning
  • poledne = noon
  • odpoledne = afternoon
  • večer = evening
  • noc = night
  • sekunda = second
  • minuta = minute
  • hodina = hour
  • půlnoc = midnight
  • týden = week
  • víkend = weekend
  • měsíc = month
  • rok = year
Week      
  • pondělí = Monday
  • úterý = Tuesday
  • středa = Wednesday
  • čtvrtek = Thursday
  • pátek = Friday
  • sobota = Saturday
  • neděle = Sunday
  • dneska = today
  • včera = yesterday
  • zítra = tomorrow
  • pozítří = the day after tomorrow
Numbers (1 - 10)      
  • číslo = number
  • jeden = one
  • dva = two
  • tři = three
  • čtyři = four
  • pět = five
  • šest = six
  • sedm = seven
  • osm = eight
  • devět = nine
  • deset = ten
Numbers (11 - 20)      
  • jedenáct = eleven
  • dvanáct = twelve
  • třináct = thirteen
  • čtrnáct = fourteen
  • patnáct = fifteen
  • šestnáct = sixteen
  • sedmnáct = seventeen
  • osmnáct = eighteen
  • devatenáct = nineteen
  • dvanáct = twenty
Numbers (21 - ……)      
  • dvacet jedna = twenty one
  • dvacet pět = twenty five
  • třicet = thirty
  • čtyřicet = forty
  • padesát = fifty
  • šedesát = sixty
  • sedmdesát = seventy
  • osmdesát = eighty
  • devadesát = ninety
  • sto = hundred
  • tisíc = thousand
  • milion = million
  • miliarda = billion
  • bilion = trillion
Months      
  • leden = January
  • únor = February
  • březen = March
  • duben = April
  • květen = May
  • červen = June
  • červenec = July
  • srpen = August
  • září = September
  • říjen = October
  • listopad = November
  • prosinec = December
Colors      
  • červená = Red
  • modrá = Blue
  • žlutá = Yellow
  • oranžová = Orange
  • růžová = Pink
  • fialová = Purple
  • hnědá = Brown
  • bílá = White
  • černá = Black
  • sedá = Grey
  • stříbrná = Silver
  • zlatá = Gold
Family      
  • syn = Son
  • otec = Father
  • matka = Mother
  • dcera = Daughter
  • dědeček = Grandfather
  • babička = Grandmother
  • sestra = Sister
  • bratr = Brother
  • jméno = Name
  • příjmení = Surname
Questions      
  • kdy = When?
  • kde = Where?
  • jak = How?
  • proč = Why?
  • co = What?
  • kdo = Who?
  • jaký = What kind of?
  • který = Which?
  • čí = Whose?
  • kolik = How much?
Imagine An Eight Second Conversation....

Every time you wanted to open a door. You approach the door, explain to the person in charge of it that you need to enter, they unlock the door, and you go through it. Every door. Every time.

When you board a bus, it’s a thirty second conversation. You tell the driver you need to board, where you will sit, and where you will be getting off. 

Stairs are a nightmare as it takes a forty-five to sixty-second explanation to go up or down.

Restaurants are agonizing as you talk your way through narrow passageways of people otherwise already engaged in conversation, speaking apologetically for two or three seconds to each person as you move to your table. 

What if there’s no one to talk to? What if there’s no one minding the stairs, or the bus driver can’t understand you, or the doorman is on his lunch break? What then? Then, you sit there awkwardly conversing with passers by that, as helpful as they may want to be they are not the person you need to talk to. They’ll smile, nod, and maybe even take a second or two to lament the utter lack of available doormen or stair-attendants in a vain attempt to amplify your still-unheard voice.

This is what it is like to be disabled and have to navigate through a world that is not designed for you. You’re constantly having to explain yourself in terms of both needs and existence in order to complete the most basic of tasks. This is why real accessibility is so important. Without it, we spend all our time speaking about our most basic needs instead of using our voices to talk about the things that truly matter. 

anonymous asked:

61: "Why don't they just kiss already?" With Jackcrutchie ??

61. Why don’t they just kiss already?

Les didn’t understand a lot of things. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He understood a lot of things, he just didn’t understand teenagers. They made things so complicated all the time. They had feelings, then they didn’t, it was so confusing. He thought he understood though, when he saw the way Jack looked at Crutchie. It was clear to see that those weren’t brotherly feelings and Crutchie looked at Jack the exact same way. They had to be dating or something. He asked Davey one night, on their way home after a night of cards at the lodging house.

“Davey, since when is Jack datin’ Crutchie?” Les asked, clinging to his hand as they walked.

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